#adjunct-stories

[your-local-granny]

I would like to thank myself from a week ago for asking that my travel expenses be covered because my god it it took two emails and now I can afford food for the week

[suboficialflores]

Once upon a time I was a Spanish lecturer at a university. They trusted me with 100-300 level classes (lol wild)

Then I was pulled into a Title IX investigation that really had nothing to do with me, and like an idiot I did what I thought was the right thing

If a professor rapes a student and another professor asks you to testify on behalf of the student, you may get fired as retaliation (even though that’s illegal)

Last I knew, the accused professor is still tenured

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Linkrot

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

Here's an underrated cognitive virtue: "object permanence" – that is, remembering how you perceived something previously. As Riley Quinn often reminds us, the left is the ideology of object permanence – to be a leftist is to hate and mistrust the CIA even when they're tormenting Trump for a brief instant, or to remember that it was once possible for a working person to support their family with their wages:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/27/six-sells/#youre-holding-it-wrong

The thing is, object permanence is hard. Life comes at you quickly. It's very hard to remember facts, and the order in which those facts arrived – it's even harder to remember how you felt about those facts in the moment.

This is where blogging comes in – for me, at least. Back in 1997, Scott Edelman – editor of Science Fiction Age – asked me to take over the back page of the magazine by writing up ten links of interest for the nascent web. I wrote that column until the spring of 2000, then, in early 2001, Mark Frauenfelder asked me to guest-edit Boing Boing, whereupon the tempo of my web-logging went daily. I kept that up on Boing Boing for more than 19 years, writing about 54,000 posts. In February, 2020, I started Pluralistic.net, my solo project, a kind of blog/newsletter, and in the four-plus years since, I've written about 1,200 editions containing between one and twelve posts each.

This gigantic corpus of everything I ever considered to be noteworthy is immensely valuable to me. The act of taking notes in public is a powerful discipline: rather than jotting cryptic notes to myself in a commonplace book, I publish those notes for strangers. This imposes a rigor on the note-taking that makes those notes far more useful to me in years to come.

Better still: public note-taking is powerfully mnemonic. The things I've taken notes on form a kind of supersaturated solution of story ideas, essay ideas, speech ideas, and more, and periodically two or more of these fragments will glom together, nucleate, and a fully-formed work will crystallize out of the solution.

Then, the fact that all these fragments are also database entries – contained in the back-end of a WordPress installation that I can run complex queries on – comes into play, letting me swiftly and reliably confirm my memories of these long-gone phenomena. Inevitably, these queries turn up material that I've totally forgotten, and these make the result even richer, like adding homemade stock to a stew to bring out a rich and complicated flavor. Better still, many of these posts have been annotated by readers with supplemental materials or vigorous objections.

I call this all "The Memex Method" and it lets me write a lot (I wrote nine books during lockdown, as I used work to distract me from anxiety – something I stumbled into through a lifetime of chronic pain management):

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/09/the-memex-method/

Back in 2013, I started a new daily Boing Boing feature: "This Day In Blogging History," wherein I would look at the archive of posts for that day one, five and ten years previously:

https://boingboing.net/2013/06/24/this-day-in-blogging-history.html

With Pluralistic, I turned this into a daily newsletter feature, now stretching back to twenty, fifteen, ten, five and one year ago. Here's today's:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/21/noway-back-machine/#retro

This is a tremendous adjunct to the Memex Method. It's a structured way to review everything I've ever thought about, in five-year increments, every single day. I liken this to working dough, where there's stuff at the edges getting dried out and crumbly, and so your fold it all back into the middle. All these old fragments naturally slip out of your thoughts and understanding, but you can revive their centrality by briefly paying attention to them for a few minutes every day.

This structured daily review is a wonderful way to maintain object permanence, reviewing your attitudes and beliefs over time. It's also a way to understand the long-forgotten origins of issues that are central to you today. Yesterday, I was reminded that I started thinking about automotive Right to Repair 15 years ago:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2009/05/right-repair-law-pro

Given that we're still fighting over this, that's some important perspective, a reminder of the likely timescales involved in more recent issues where I feel like little progress is being made.

Remember when we all got pissed off because the mustache-twirling evil CEO of Warners, David Zaslav, was shredding highly anticipated TV shows and movies prior to their release to get a tax-credit? Turns out that we started getting angry about this stuff twenty years ago, when Michael Eisner did it to Michael Moore's "Fahrenheit 911":

https://www.nytimes.com/2004/05/05/us/disney-is-blocking-distribution-of-film-that-criticizes-bush.html

It's not just object permanence: this daily spelunk through my old records is also a way to continuously and methodically sound the web for linkrot: when old links go bad. Over the past five years, I've noticed a very sharp increase in linkrot, and even worse, in the odious practice of spammers taking over my dead friends' former blogs and turning them into AI spam-farms:

https://www.wired.com/story/confessions-of-an-ai-clickbait-kingpin/

The good people at the Pew Research Center have just released a careful, quantitative study of linkrot that confirms – and exceeds – my worst suspicions about the decay of the web:

https://www.pewresearch.org/data-labs/2024/05/17/when-online-content-disappears/

The headline finding from "When Online Content Disappears" is that 38% of the web of 2013 is gone today. Wikipedia references are especially hard-hit, with 23% of news links missing and 21% of government websites gone. The majority of Wikipedia entries have at least one broken link in their reference sections. Twitter is another industrial-scale oubliette: a fifth of English tweets disappear within a matter of months; for Turkish and Arabic tweets, it's 40%.

Thankfully, someone has plugged the web's memory-hole. Since 2001, the Internet Archive's Wayback Machine has allowed web users to see captures of web-pages, tracking their changes over time. I was at the Wayback Machine's launch party, and right away, I could see its value. Today, I make extensive use of Wayback Machine captures for my "This Day In History" posts, and when I find dead links on the web.

The Wayback Machine went public in 2001, but Archive founder Brewster Kahle started scraping the web in 1996. Today's post graphic – a modified Yahoo homepage from October 17, 1996 – is the oldest Yahoo capture on the Wayback Machine:

https://web.archive.org/web/19960501000000*/yahoo.com

Remember that the next time someone tells you that we must stamp out web-scraping for one reason or another. There are plenty of ugly ways to use scraping (looking at you, Clearview AI) that we should ban, but scraping itself is very good:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

And so is the Internet Archive, which makes the legal threats it faces today all the more frightening. Lawsuits brought by the Big Five publishers and Big Three labels will, if successful, snuff out the Internet Archive altogether, and with it, the Wayback Machine – the only record we have of our ephemeral internet:

https://blog.archive.org/2024/04/19/internet-archive-stands-firm-on-library-digital-rights-in-final-brief-of-hachette-v-internet-archive-lawsuit/

Libraries burn. The Internet Archive may seem like a sturdy and eternal repository for our collective object permanence about the internet, but it is very fragile, and could disappear like that.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/21/noway-back-machine/#pew-pew-pew

[au-roulette]

Happy June!

To celebrate the fact that we are now officially one month away from the start of AU Roulette, have a post detailing the 36 AUs included in this year's challenge -- or don't, if you'd rather be surprised.

This year's AUs have been curated to be intentionally broad, in the hopes that they will encourage unique takes on each prompt and the creativity of the authors participating. You are welcome to write anything that falls under the umbrella of your assigned AUs, whether it's an original universe, a fusion inspired by another fandom, or something else entirely.

(What's AU Roulette, some of you might be asking? An explanation can be found here, along with the link to sign-up!)

Without further ado -- the AU list, under a cut:

Roleswap - Maybe you want to switch two characters' places, do a class-swap for a D&D fandom, try your hand at an age-swap fic, or you have another idea.

Superhero -- Invent an original universe or do a fusion with one of the many popular big-screen superhero stories. Play it straight and give your favorite characters cool powers, or try a deconstruction of the genre. With great AUs comes great responsibility

Gothic Horror -- Castles. Ghosts. Vampires. Drama. Love that conquers Death. Take your inspiration from classic literature or a newer entry in the genre, like The Locked Tomb books. But be sure to make things spooky.

Post-Apocalypse -- Will the world end in fire or in ice? Or maybe economic collapse, war, zombies, or one of many other options? You write what happens next!

Fairy-Tale -- Pick a classic tale from the Grimms, Hans Christian Andersen, Asbjørnsen & Moe, Charles Perrault, or another favorite author to inspire your AU, try out a more modern re-telling, or use fairy-tale elements to craft your own story.

High Seas -- Including but not limited to Pirate AUs and other Age of Sail adventures. Try out something more historical, or throw in as many fantasy elements as you'd like -- or a bit of both.

Time Travel -- For fixing mistakes, making things worse, or time loops. Or maybe you want to write a fusion inspired by a piece of popular time travel media, like Doctor Who.

Western -- Another AU where writers are free to do their history research or to lean into more outlandish genre conventions. Cowboys, cowgirls, and cowpokes all welcome, of course.

Mythology -- Write a story inspired by your favorite myths and legends, from a whole host of different cultures. Or maybe you'd like to try your hand at writing some epic poetry?

Coffee Shop -- A classic everyone knows and has strong feelings about. Play it straight or add a twist, whichever suits your fancy! After all, no one said where the coffee shop has to be...

College/Academia -- Are the characters in your AU students? Professors? Weary adjuncts? Throwing hands at a conference? Some mix of the above?

Theater -- Put those characters on Broadway or cast them in a disaster of a community theater production. Or a school play! All that really matters is the show must go on.

Ghost/Cryptid Hunters -- Maybe you want to write a story starring the next Scooby-Doo crew, or maybe there really is something strange in the neighborhood. Or maybe it'll never be clear what really happened -- it's your choice!

Secret Agent -- Code words, code names, you name it. Write a story about spies, cryptographers, or any other clandestine operators. Take inspiration from history or from James Bond. Just don't spill your secrets too soon.

Detective -- Whether you're writing the world's greatest detective or someone who just can't get a clue, play up the mystery! Use a classic locale like 221B Baker Street or invent your own.

Cyberpunk -- Time to write cyborg identity crises and fight the machine (literally)! Take inspiration from classic media like Neuromancer or Blade Runner or make a totally new cyberpunk universe of your own creation.

High Fantasy -- Elves and dwarves and gnomes, oh my! This AU could encompass everything from Middle Earth to D&D AUs to your favorite high fantasy books you read over and over as a kid. Or maybe you have your own spell to weave.

Band/Musicians -- Whether you decide to make the characters in your AU famous pop stars, part of an orchestra, students at a conservatory, jamming together in their garage, or otherwise musically-inclined, have fun with it!

Reporter/Journalist -- For everything from local anchors and newspaper staff to big-league investigative reporters. Write characters who'll do anything to get a scoop or with a strong sense of justice -- it's your call!

Cosmic Horror -- You don't have to love Lovecraft to get creative with this AU. Make characters comprehend the incomprehensible, send them messages from beyond the stars, and get a little creepy.

Heist -- Will you write a story about master thieves? Vigilantes righting some wrong? What's being stolen and why? Try a Leverage AU or a caper of your own making.

Space Opera -- The genre encompassing works like The Expanse, Imperial Radch, Mass Effect, and Star Wars, brimming with galactic empires, alien species, and chivalric adventures. Write a fusion set in the universe of your favorite work in the genre, or invent a new one!

Sports/Athletics -- Pick a sport, any sport -- whether a team game like hockey, an individual one like archery, a paired one like figure skating, or something a little unconventional, like roller derby or HEMA. Then it's ready, set, write!

Historical Era -- An AU type absolutely bursting with potential, from medieval romances to 1920s Prohibition AUs, to ones inspired by historical fiction like Les Miserables. Whatever era of history strikes your fancy, you can write it.

Road Trip -- Pack your favorite characters in a car and don't forget the snacks. Or maybe the spaceship, or something else if you're feeling adventurous. Where are they headed and why? Only you know the answer!

Space Exploration -- Whether you want to write modern-day astronauts, a futuristic Star Trek AU, or something inspired by the space race, the sky isn't even the limit with this AU.

Urban Fantasy -- For all your modern-with-magic settings. Write an AU inspired by something like Teen Wolf, Artemis Fowl, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or much of Neil Gaiman's oeuvre, or invent your own world where witches and websites coexist.

Museum/Archives -- Have the characters in your AU working in the exhibits or behind the scenes, down in the collections or even as archaeologists or paleontologists. What secrets are waiting to be unearthed there?

Hospital -- A surprisingly flexible AU option -- are the characters working there, or the victims of some unfortunate accident? Or maybe it's a bit of both. Take it wherever you feel like.

Camping/Wilderness Survival -- Could be anything from a fun summer camp or camping trip to a nightmare survival scenario. Write everyone having s'mores around the campfire or something inspired by media like Yellowjackets, where they might be having... something else.

Steampunk -- A fantastic opportunity to get creative with your worldbuilding. Try your hand at some alternate history, or invent a world of airships and other flying machines of your very own.

Shapeshifter -- Can the characters in this AU turn into anything they want? Or maybe they're more limited, like selkies -- even unable to control their shapeshifting at all (can I get an "awoo" from the werewolf fans?)

Classic Literature -- An AU somewhat more dependent on fusion ideas, but still very flexible! Pick a favorite classic book or play and let it inspire your writing!

Dystopian -- Create your own awful society or let a favorite piece of media guide you, like writing a Hunger Games AU. Will the characters break the cycle, or end up trapped in it?

Renaissance Faire -- A recipe for chaos. Write a bunch or faire-goers or have the characters in your AU working at the faire! Adventures await.

Scientist/Mad Science -- Write characters as normal biologists, physicists, and chemists, the next Frankenstein, or as hapless experiments themselves!

[zahri-melitor]

So I read Batman 147 (on the basis that with how fast the conversation is moving right now I don't want to wait on DCUI Ultra delay), and I am having even more thoughts about how it as an issue positions the difference between Damian-as-Robin and Tim-as-Robin as characters adjunct to Bruce, and also in terms of both characters' long term storylines.

Because Damian as a character has always fought for attention and focus to be on him, and used various methods to gain that attention. He acts up as the youngest and reiterates his blood connection to Bruce and puts emphasis on being the Son Of The Bat because he wants acknowledgement, he wants to be special, he doesn't like that he arrived in Gotham and in Bruce's life and found that he wasn't the centre of Bruce's focus.

As a character Damian's most often written as part of an oppositional pair: his main titles have always been Batman & Robin and Super Sons, not Robin. He bounces off another character more than acts as a member of a team, whether that's working as Batman and Robin with Bruce or with Dick, or in stories where he's more in a bickering besties relationship with Colin Wilkes or with Maya Ducard or with Jon Kent. His team appearances frequently fall apart, because he starts trying to order people around.

So Damian says about his time with Dick as Batman and Robin "we were the best" and he says about himself and Bruce “Batman and Robin. Father and son. We don't need anyone else." It's about Damian's feelings of possession and entitlement and jealous ownership over the position as Robin. It's about how he has to regularly assert that his time with Dick as Batman and him as Robin, above and beyond anything else, was the best that Batman & Robin have ever been. It's his past need to prove himself and show himself as better than any previous Robin, about fighting them all, particularly Tim, to prove himself as the Worthy Best Robin.

And in 147 that's the Damian we get, one who has returned home to his father and is working on bonding with him again, and so he sees people doubting Batman and his back goes back up and returns to that Us Against The World mindset. Damian is following ZEA Batman’s orders because they make sense to him (yes they’re more violent but defending the Manor and Cave against Waller? There’s nothing in that which should raise alarm bells).

And Damian DOES clue in immediately on something more serious crossing his radar to what’s wrong with ‘Bruce’. As soon as ZEA trips up seriously, Damian notices it. This is actually a really good fallible Damian and he’s not actually being shown as holding the idiot ball here – he’s following on from the extended trust he was showing in Gotham War. ZEA Batman is in his blindspot over being the more violent Robin who does tend to want more physical solutions to how to fight crime. Also Damian’s immediate response being “I’ll kill you!” is so incredibly Damian. Still heightened violence.

And all of this level of possession, of 'all that is needed is Batman & Robin' nobody else, no other connections, is being contrasted by Zdarsky with the shape of Bruce and Tim's relationship as Batman & Robin.

Because Bruce and Tim, by contrast, view their partnership together through the frame that Tim is there to hold back the darkness and save Bruce from himself (a more classic depiction of Robin's role). Bruce is thinking about where to hide that ZEA Batman would not consider, and he thinks about his connections - he goes to Happy Harbour, and then he goes to a cabin that is about civilian family, and he thinks about Tim and about hard work because Tim IS the other character with a strong connection to Happy Harbour. And Tim comes to find where Bruce is hiding and feeds him and does the dishes (the caretaking! The reflections on how Bruce couldn't look after himself while Alfred was gone post Knightfall! Tim making Bruce dinner for Father's Day in Beechen's run!) and the first thing Tim says is “sounds like you need a partner”.

The focus and the conversation revolves around why Tim became Robin in the first place and saving Bruce from the dark via having connections. About having a reason to get up in the morning and for why Batman exists and why he has a partner and a family. It's answering "why is Tim Robin" with "Batman needs someone to haul him back when he overreaches".

It's the contrast between Damian, with his ‘natural, born and raised to be Robin’ conviction of his right to his position, compared to Tim, who “REALLY had to work at it”, and Bruce choosing that he needed to take inspiration from the goal make yourself great purely through your own hard work.

And it's meaty! juicy! these are their very different world views (where Damian has always fought for attention and focus from Batman to be on him, while Tim has pulled Bruce from being obsessed with himself/his grief).

I just want to roll around in it all.

[winonaparadise]

short story 💯

wrote a very quick story about a class i took in college. if you like my writing in my videos you may like this

Five years ago today I was clawing through state university. I had switched majors in an effort to come away with something more material from my college experience – but I was also trying to earn as many credits with as few courses to keep my schooling short and cheap.

I took a heavy weighted class in “media law.” A subject notoriously as intricate as it is absolutely fucking stupid. Anything you could learn, Disney will change tommorrow. The professor was an adjunct, splitting his time between the humble basement where boys with Pulp Fiction posters in their dorms fiddled with cameras and the actual law school where he was employed some miles down the road. I have never seen Pulp Fiction, but I’ve fiddled with enough cameras and enough of the boys who own them to have reviewed it twice. This is not a problem to me now.

Then I was stupid. Twenty. And basically friendless. I spent all my time trying to make something the same way the universe spent billions of years pouring hot soup into holes and hoping life would bubble out. I studied Japanese during quiet matches of PlayerUnknown’s Battlegrounds. I never got a win, and I never got an “A” in Japanese.

Weeks of school went by as I skimmed textbooks, got high, and thought about talking to literally anyone. Academic words danced around the edges of my brain like sand. I wrote essays on the same autopilot I write today. Feverish. Flowing. Fantasizing about what it would be like to go out with someone instead of texting a girl who now lived in Japan and making ramen noodles while listening for footsteps in a digital warzone.

I did all my work. I submitted it on something called “canvas” that the muscle memory in my fingers still types in search bars to this day. I never checked my grades. I knew they were bad.

Classes dragged me through the week on a bungee cord. I lived a block away from the bulk of them and found myself drifting in halls of buildings I’d never attended just to keep myself from meandering back home to draw a bad comic about a girl who lived in hell. 

I knew nobody. I went nowhere. I struggled to do classwork alone on outdoor benches dreaming of someone speaking to me. I needed to live in hell instead.

My media law professor was late the weekend after our first term essays were due. I don’t know what mode of transportation he took to get from one school to the other but today the Carolina sun had drenched him sweaty. We were chilly waiting for him to begin.

“Just about every single one of you failed.” He spat and chugged coffee through the entire period. “While I first was grading I thought I was the one who failed.”

He didn’t let the moment of respite last. “But I also did something I’ve never done before.” He paced like my father did when a restaurant was closed early. “I gave out my first perfect score. Which prevents me from grading on a curve.”

He huffed, he assigned a new reading, and he rushed out like he had lit dynamite. “Do better!” “What an asshole.” The girl who sat next to me in every class spoke as if she had been holding her breath. “Fuck him and fuck whoever got that hundred.”

“I know right!” I launched in on her anger, feeling it too. Back and forth we complained. We walked off campus together. She had long blonde hair and towered over me. I had felt ugly and mousey next to her, but today I felt like her equal. It felt good to bitch.

“I got a fucking 50. What about you?”

“It wasn’t pretty.” I recalled how I stayed up the night before the assignment was due. I milked bullshit into a puree. I got a rush of adrenaline from killing someone with a shotgun through a door in an abandoned house on the outskirts of Pochinki. I was probably close to being expelled. “This class is too fucking hard,” she smoked and shook her head by a bus stop on Tate Street. “I’m not about to lose my freetime over it.”

“Right.” I imagined her at parties. Black silhouettes against colored lights and deafening music. Like The Social Network. “We should be partners for the next assignment,” she got out her phone and passed it to me for my number. I typed it in. I waved her off on the bus. We did the assignment together. We texted each other about our studies. We joked about finding the guy who got the perfect score and beating him senseless. I thought about talking to her about my art or what we were making in other classes, but never did.

Towards the end of the semester I had to plan the next. A whirlpool churned in my stomach as I clicked on “grades” on my campus’ online portal. I had an A+ in a single course. 

Media Law.

My friend from class texted me that she was dreading the final. I texted her that if we failed I would kill Mr. Perfect Score. She texted “lol.”

She passed the course. I got my degree so I assume I did too. We stopped texting.

That professor emailed me asking me to take a course at the law school down the road. He said he would let me sit in and see if I wanted to change majors a third time. I never replied.

A law degree would just make Mr. Perfect Score a hundred times more punchable.

[writtenonreceipts]

Rowaelin Month Day Seven: All Dressed Up @rowaelinscourt

Month Masterlist // Part One // Part Two // AO3

Doesn’t fit in with today’s prompt, but, I did finish this story one year later so...I think that counts for something.

Warnings: nothing major, ~3.5k words

The Words We Share--Part Three

Rowan Whitethorn grew up on the stories of his homeland.  Little myths and legends that fueled his imagination since he was a child.  It hadn’t taken him long to learn how to create his own stories, how to twist tales and give a voice to his musings.  He just never thought it would get him to where he was now.

He stared at the projected numbers for his new release, already there had been two calls for reorders and the official publication date was still a month out.  It was set to be his biggest release yet.

And still he felt…unsettled.

If that was even the right word.  He could spin a villain’s origin story that could chill anyone’s blood.  He could paint the Scotland highlands with vivid accuracy and enchanting detail.  He’d won awards and been featured on dozens of sites and bestsellers lists.  He’d even been offered an adjunct professor position at the local state college to teach creative writing.  But he couldn’t put a name to this emotion roiling through his chest.

Nothing came.

His phone buzzed with an incoming text on the table beside him and Lorcan’s name flashed on the screen.

>>u see this?

A link to the comment section on a website followed.  Aelin’s website.

Rowan’s stomach dropped as his thumb hovered over the link.  He tried to imagine just what he was getting himself into.  He’d experienced his share of feedback in the form of book reviews and he’d seen plenty of other comments from other shows he’d been a part of.  But this…this felt different.

He clicked the link before he could second guess himself.  And he opened himself up to hell.

It ranged from the usual notes from his fans, those that kept up with his books and how he wrote.  And then he found the comments from Aelin’s fans.  Which was where he found the crazies.  The TikTokers, the influencers, the people who absolutely devoured any form of content with their theories, their headcanons, their passions.  Rowan never begrudged a person their hobby, in fact, he encouraged finding something that brought you joy.  But this…this…

xxgalaCREWfan99xx: ok but was no one going to tell me ROWAN WHITETHORN HAD A SEXY VOICE?? Do I have to change my reading habits now??

Readingbaebe: Does he write romance at all?? I refuse to read anything else.

TheMidnightBookClub: to much historyyyy YAWN

BOOKS4LIFE: but y wuz there banter so on point?? Talk about sxxxyy!

Letsreeeeead: @BOOKS4LIFE: I KNOW RIIIIGHT? Tlk abt meet cute??

Jdashbywriter: would love to hear more of your craft Rowan! Thanks for your books.

Some of the commentors were not as crazy as others.  There was a reason he refused to get a TikTok account no matter what Dorian tried to tell him it would do for his sales.  And there was a reason he’d hired an assistant so he didn’t have to deal with any of this.

He reached for his phone, fully prepared to call Aelin and see if she’d seen any of this.  He stopped himself.  He couldn’t let himself do that.  Not after everything that had happened.

Just as he pulled his hand back from his phone, the screen lit up.  His heart made an uncomfortable leap until he saw the name.

“What, Fen?” he demanded.

“Dude, I didn’t know you were dating Galathynius,” Fenrys said from the other line. “Congrats!”

Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stop reading random comments on the internet.”

“But they’re so entertaining!  Probably doing my job better than I can,” Fenrys replied.

Indeed, Rowan had made the remarkably stupid decision to let Fenrys be his media manager.  It wasn’t that Fenrys couldn’t do a job properly or was stupid himself (an idiot, sure, but that was different) he could.  It was only that Fenrys had a different vision for just about everything when it came to his books.

“Please don’t let the TikTok win,” Rowan said.

“It’s just TikTok,” Fenrys said.

Rowan cursed. “I hate you.”

“I’m just saying,” Fenrys continued, utterly unaffected by Rowan’s disdain, “you’re getting more hits on your recent Instagram reels and followers.  This whole thing will be good for you.”

Rowan wasn’t sure about that. “Is that the only reason you called?”

There was a pause from Fenrys and Rowan felt a distinct rise in dread.  Nothing good came from a silence like that.

“Remelle St. Moore wants you on her podcast,” Fenrys said, the words coming out in rapid fire.

“Oh for shits-sake,” Rowan muttered, “no.”

He remembered the last time he had interacted with the book influencer at a launch party for one of his fellow writers.  Between the alcohol and suggestive comments on her part, he’d barely made it out alive.  Really, it was because of that experience he preferred to keep to his own group of fans, or too himself.

“That’s what I thought you’d say, but she’s got a lot of viewers,” Fenrys said.

“Which is why I agreed to the podcast with Aelin,” Rowan groused, “at least she didn’t try and grope me at a party.”

“No, you just tried to play hero and save her from being stood up.” Rowan could practically hear the grin growing on his friend’s face. “Which must have worked out really good for you based on some of these comments.”

“I’m hanging up,” Rowan said, “no more podcasts.  Or interviews.”

“What if Aelin’s the one asking?”

He hung up before answering.

Leaning back in his office chair, he tried to ignore what Fenrys had said.  Especially the bits about him and Aelin.  He knew that nothing had happened between the two of them.  And nothing ever would.  He’d known it even before he stepped in to help Aelin save face after being stood up.  That hadn’t stopped him from stepping in though. 

He didn’t know what had come over him that night at the restaurant, only that he couldn’t believe someone had stood her up.  He hadn’t known it was her, at first.  Only that Lorcan and Fenrys were commenting on the fact a woman was dining alone and they were taking bets on what she would do.  When he had finally grown tired of their antics, he’d turned to find Aelin swirling a glass of water in her hand looking utterly dejected.

It was a far cry from the Aelin he’d gotten to know over the years.  Headstrong and stubborn, wild and untamed, charismatic and independent.  Something had shifted over the last eight months, though.  He’d been sure to keep his distance, relying on the illusion of finishing his book.  It was mostly a lie.  His book was going along well, remarkable even.  But then Aelin had gotten a boyfriend.  And from the sounds of it, it had been everything she’d wanted.

Pining after women had never been something Rowan did, but after Aelin and Sam had gotten together it felt like that was all anyone ever talked about at the office.  The only response Rowan could think was to take his work elsewhere.  He went back to Scotland to visit his mother, he travelled the continental U.S. He did everything in his power to put some much needed distance between him and Aelin Galathynius.

Which did absolutely nothing.

She had already wormed his way into his manuscript.  And like a fool, he’d insisted she read it.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised she never caught on to his rather blatant illusions.  She didn’t like him, made it clear.  Which was another reason his stepping in at the restaurant was psychotic. 

But she was Aelin and there was something about her that he couldn’t ignore or let go.  And seeing Sam stand her up?  Hell, it made him angry.  And Rowan didn’t even know Sam.

Rowan shook his head and shut down his computer.  He was being foolish.  On so many different levels.

He knew he wasn’t going to get any writing done.  Instead, he grabbed his jacket, keys, and wallet.  He needed to get out of his apartment even if he didn’t have a destination in mind.

.*.

The manuscript stared innocently up at her.  The Times New Roman font was evenly spaced, paper fresh and crisp from the office printer.  She’d used Dorian’s own code to print all these pages out so no one would trace the mass printing back to her.  Technically she shouldn’t have done this.  It was a lot of paper and she wasn’t even on the editorial team for this author.

But Aelin never did like listening to rules.

I thought it was obvious.

Rowan’s words from earlier that afternoon rang in her head.  They bounced around in a relentless beat and refused to be dismissed.  Because they meant one thing and one thing alone: she had missed something while reading his book.  And she didn’t miss things.

So, red pen in hand, fresh coffee on her desk, and a newly printed manuscript before her—Aelin set to work.

Just like with the first time reading Dead Man’s Game, she was drawn into the world immediately.  The setting, the characters, the subtle tones of magic all worked to create a plot that gripped her by the throat.

During this reread, Aelin focused more on Celaena.  Celaena who was reckless and selfish.  Celaena who put her life on the line too many times.  Celaena who loved fiercely and didn’t let anyone hold her back.  Celaena who killed witches and broke curses. 

She stopped reading somewhere around chapter five when something started to prick the back of her mind.  Something she’d tried desperately to stamp down all these years.  Even the past few months.

Though, it had been easier as of late because Rowan had disappeared into whatever writers’ nook he had.  That night at the restaurant had been one of the first times she’d seen him since learning about his new book.

She took a long drink of coffee before she fired a text off to Elide.  She needed someone to rant to about this because she had no idea what was going on or how to put into words what she was feeling.

When her phone rang a few minutes later, she picked it up on instinct. 

“Elide, did you see what I sent you?” she demanded, still staring at the cliff hanger of chapter five.

Unfortunately for her, it wasn’t her friend on the other line.  It was Sam.

“Aelin.”  He sounded relieved, which only made her blood pressure boil. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, baby.”

Aelin glanced at the Caller ID.  He must have gotten a burner phone and she’d been too distracted to make sure she knew the number.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said.  “I broke up with you, end of story.”

“You didn’t even let me explain—”

“Explain what, Sam?” Aelin demanded.  All the pent-up anger she’d been trying to ignore and push aside rose too quickly to the surface. “That you stood me up again without bothering to try and call, hell, even text me?  Instead, I was left alone. Again.”

The anger burned away the tears she might have shed.  He didn’t deserve her tears; he didn’t deserve anything from her.

“You’re blaming me?” Sam scoffed. “I have a job, Aelin.  I’m a lawyer, I don’t get to sit around all day reading books—”

“Lose my number, Sam,” she said, eyes squeezed shut, “or I swear I’ll give your lawyer ass something to work over.”

She ended the call before flinging her phone across her office where it clattered against the wall.  The pain that ripped through her chest was more than just anger, but sorrow and pain.  She’d wasted so much time over Sam that coming out of it she felt like she was drowning.  She was barely treading water, she was—

“Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

Aelin nearly jumped out of her skin at the deep, careful voice coming from the doorway.  She spun in her chair, nearly careening out of it at the force, and found Rowan standing there.  How much had he heard?  How would he laud this over her head?  Did he judge her at all for the things she’d said?

“Rowan,” she said, far softer than she meant to.  Her skin was blazing over the phone call with Sam and she felt the flush deep in her cheeks, horrified that she was actually on the verge of crying now.

He jerked his chin over to where she’d tossed her phone. “Bad call?”

Aelin huffed a breath. “Sure, if you wanna call it that.”

Rowan stepped into her office, slow and careful as though he expected her to toss him back out.  He was dressed far more casual than Aelin had ever seen him.  With a pair of dark washed jeans and gray sweater, plain leather jacket—he seemed relaxed and at ease.  Not at all how she’d imagined him on a regular week day.

And then, because he seemed to know her so well, he made another comment. “Your boyfriend really seems like a keeper.”

“Not my boyfriend, not anymore.” Aelin didn’t look at him as she grabbed her coffee.  It was shocking how good it felt saying the words, like a weight was lifted off her chest. “Just doing some late-night reading, right now.”

Rowan frowned glancing at the manuscript.  The title page was tossed to the side so it was obvious what book it was.

“You already gave me your edits,” he said.

“Yeah, but I thought I was missing something.”  She shrugged and set the coffee aside.  “What about you?  Why bother coming here?”

Rowan ran a hand through his hair, messing the easy style it had settled into.  He didn’t answer her question immediately, choosing instead to fall into one of the chairs before her desk.  The movement was so easy, as though he’d practiced it a hundred times, as though he belonged right in that chair.

“Did you see those comments on the podcast?”

Aelin’s brow furrowed.  Then, startling not just him, but her too—she laughed. “Oh, Whitethorn, you don’t actually read those comments.  Those people are insane.”

“A warning might have been nice,” he grumbled.

Another laugh tore through her, dispelling the sick feeling roiling in her gut. “Oh, poor little buzzard.  Are you traumatized?”

“Yes.”

Dissolving into another fit of giggles, Aelin clutched her stomach.  She couldn’t catch her breath as she kept laughing.  It didn’t help how affronted Rowan look, how confused.  It was…it was actually cute.  Not that she’d tell him that.

“What’s the madhouse got to say this time?” she asked once she’d gotten a hold of herself.  She also reached for one of her desk drawers and pulled out a bag of chocolate she only saved for rainy days.  She popped a truffle in her mouth and shook the bag at him.

Rowan declined the chocolate.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re blushing,” she said, leaning towards him. “Oh, I’ve got to see these.”

“I’m not—no—” he tried protesting but Aelin was already motivated to see what had gotten him so riled up.

It didn’t take long to get the gist of what he’d gotten so riled up over.

“Oh, these people need to touch some grass,” Aelin muttered.  Many of the insinuations and comments were…out there.  Far worse than when she’d interviewed an audiobook narrator known for his smut and spice scenes.  And that was saying something. 

“You deal with this a lot?” Rowan asked.

Aelin looked at him. “And you don’t?”

“Fenrys filters a lot of them,” Rowan said absently, he paused just a second. “You think I get a lot of these types of comments?”

“I—” Aelin only then realized what her comment sounded like. “You’re a famous author, the crazies exist everywhere.”

She fought down the heat rising in her cheeks while Rowan only smirked.

“That’s it?” she asked, tightly, “you wanted to compare notes on comments?  You could have called.”

“Seeing what you do to your phone, I don’t think the call would have gone through.”  He met her gaze, green eyes intent.

Hell.  He must have heard more of that phone call than she’d have liked.

“Yeah,” she said dryly, “I guess I don’t like phone calls.”

They sat in silence together for far longer than Aelin would have thought possible.  She couldn’t help but shake her head at the fact.  Drawing a finger over the last few lines she’d read of Rowan’s manuscript; she snatched another truffle.

“So,” she said, “can I ask you something?”

Rowan raised a brow. “As long as it’s not gonna make it on another podcast.”

She rolled her eyes. “No need to fear, buzzard.  This is off the record. It’s about Celaena.”

Rowan shifted in his chair. “Why?”

Was he annoyed?  She couldn’t quite tell.  He wore a frown, that charming shit-eating grin long gone.  It was replaced by something guarded.

Aelin drummed her fingers on the manuscript, wetting her dry lips. “She’s based on someone close to you.”

“Close enough,” he shrugged, but Aelin had long ago learned how to read people.  He was tense, worried. 

“Does she know?  The woman she’s based off of?” With far more bravado than she felt, Aelin rose from her chair and came around the table.  She leaned against the desk, facing him, and crossed her arms.

“Aelin—”

“Or is she just supposed to figure it out along the way?”

She wasn’t mad, really, she wasn’t.  More, shocked than anything.

“To whatever end,” Celaena said, pointing the sword to the horizon where the ship holding her captive lover could be seen retreating. “I will find you.”

And Aelin remembered the last time she’d reviewed Rowan’s book.  Where she’d told him to raise the stakes, to let his characters face the unspeakable, to let them be reckless, to let them love.  And here was Celaena.  It wasn’t just that, but Aelin had shared those exact words with Rowan. That had been eight months ago.

Romance, Whitethorn, should be consuming for a character.  Let them have a purpose, let them have a duty to fulfill, to whatever end.

“To whatever end, Rowan?” she asked.

“I’m not allowed to find inspiration in real things or people?” He was still sitting, looking up at her the almost perfect picture of innocence.

She nudged his foot with her own. “Rowan.”

“Why does it matter?” he insisted.  He rose from his chair and it struck Aelin then how big Rowan was.  He was practically a tree—broad shoulders, thick muscles, at least six feet, probably six-four.  Aelin had never really felt small before, delicate, or breakable.  But next to Rowan? 

She lifted her chin to meet his gaze.  She didn’t want to hedge around this question, this tension brewing between them anymore.  She would wait out his answer no matter how long it took.

Rowan leaned closer to her, close enough that Aelin could smell the pine and salt on his skin.  He was close enough that she could see the flecks of deeper green amid the light in his eyes.

Her heart rate picked up.  It would have been embarrassing if she thought about it a little more.  But now, all she wanted was for Rowan to answer her.

He shook his head, just barely, and muttered something under his breath.  It was something in Gaelic if she had to guess.

“You really don’t get it,” he said.

“I want to hear you say it,” she insisted.

“You really are impossible, you know?”

“So I’ve read.”

A small smile quirked his lips and before Aelin could say anything else, he reached out to run a thumb down her jaw.  A shiver ran down her spine with anticipation. 

“I like you, Aelin,” he said, thumb still tracing her skin, “and I have for a while.”

Something clicked in her mind at those words, an understanding of sorts and she furrowed her brow.

“Is that why you disappeared for seven months?  You were here practically every day and then you just weren’t—” she trailed off slowly as the pieces fit together. “Sam.”

Rowan shrugged as though her words had no effect on him, but she felt the barest hint of pressure as his fingers tightened along her jaw.

“I had a manuscript to finish,” he said, “didn’t help that you hated me and then you were happy with someone else.  So, yeah, I left.”

As if on instinct, Aelin reached out and fisted a hand in his sweater.  Somehow in the last twenty-four hours since the podcast, the last week since the pseudo-date—she’d gotten attached.  Which was both hilarious and terrifying.  But was she surprised?  No, no, she really wasn’t.

“I was going to tease you for writing romance into your book,” she began, head tilted to the side, “but I think being the brilliant inspiration behind Celaena will be a lot more fun to hold over you.”

Rowan cursed, shaking his head. “I’m never going to live it down, am I?”

“Nope.”

They moved at the same time, coming together in a kiss that Aelin would later describe as the best first kiss she’d ever had.  One of Rowan’s hands delved into her hair, the other dropping to her waist to pull her closer.  Aelin wrapped one hand around his neck, just as desperate to keep him close. 

His lips were hard, bruising against her own, but Aelin couldn't find it in herself to care. All she could think about was the fire burning within at the feel of him, the taste of him.

“You gonna take me on a date first, Whitethorn?” she gasped, breaking the kiss.  She shivered as on of his hands slid along the bare skin of her thigh. Wearing a skirt did seem to have its perks.

“Already did that,” he replied.

She gaped at him, ready to tell him off. He cut her off with another kiss, which Aelin supposed was just as well.

In the end, no one would get the real story about what really happened that night or how it happened.  But maybe, along the way, a future book would hold some of the details.

end.

[tragedycoded]

writing share tag!

Oh shit, @cowboybrunch left an open tag on that beautiful excerpt of babygirl Theo being an asshole. And I'm whittling away at this short story.

Yesterday I posted the first 3.1k words of "Among the Elements," which I am revising.

Today I'm offering up 1,930 words and content warnings for DIY surgery, first-person past-tense body horror, and general Mad Science in the name of self-impregnation. It's explicit. IDK how else to tag this. Be careful.

Week 12 Wednesday Most obvious answer has been in front of me the entire time. , Or, rather, adjacent to the experiment itself--it is within my own corpus.

Incubator biosynthetic for sake of fetus's health and safety--never designed with goal of implanation--odds of rejection significant--lower than odds of discovery if left exposed.

Will need to procure robotic assistance. Unable to perform procedure alone. Will require magnetic nerve block, suction, traction, cauterization, waste management if the procedure is successful…

Uncertain as to best incision site. If transverse, reduced risk of hernia and shorter recovery time--limited exposure to surgical site, challenging closure, risk of nerve damage.

Longitudinal…

Had I known I would be installing through a longitudinal incision I may have made different methodological decisions. Earlier installation for one. Will have to manually extract incubator at conclusion of gestation.

Worry about that later.

//

Completed risk assessment.

Incubator 49.5cm in length. Able to accommodate utilizing space in abdominal cavity.

Circumference presents concern. Material somewhat inflexible. Will have to rearrange cavity interior. Possible organ removal necessary.

//

Must be longitudinal incision. Large scar, slower recovery; fewer surgical complications due to open site, will be able to visualize organ migration.

Nothing more to consider. Prepping now. Will update after.

Thursday Glad I'm not two centimeters shorter.

//

Anti-rejectants performing admirably. No redness at site of incision. Pain persistent but tolerable--pharmaceutical intervention will cause unwanted mutations at this stage of gestation even if our systems are not enmeshed.

Acclimating to persistent feeling of fullness and the effect it is having on the gastrointestinal and urogenital systems. Unable to rest supinated--incubator weight occludes the inferior vena cava. Pressure on diaphragm also an unforeseen concern. Several pre-surgical consideration for future application of this prototype.

//

Awakened with realization that THIS IS A PROTOTYPE.

If this doesn't kill either myself or the fetus the implication of successful implantation is phenomenal.

Of course the probability of our both expiring is significant. Compared to this afternoon the fetus's vitals are stable and strong while father vitals are stable and show hypotension and hypoxemia. Lower limb elevation with compression and oxygen adjunct resolved.

I must proceed with caution.

Friday Limited space in hollow organs.

Have learned to vomit without use of abdominal muscles.

Longitudinal incision a terrible idea. That robot was a terrible idea. This was all a terrible idea. I am the king of terrible ideas.

//

Terrible Idea That Wasn't Terrible After All #18: program robot to feed cat in morning. Stay in bed.

She did join me, which was unforeseen. Cleaned her face for roughly an hour and then--purring--laid on my side. Desires the heat of the incubator, doubtless. Considered kicking her out of bed but felt unwell. Feel less unwell, now.

Saturday Fetal heartrate elevated today.

Corpus temperature 38.1C.

This may be how I die. I'd always hoped it would be an explosion that did it. Or an electrical mishap.

Adjusting anti-rejectant dosage.

Sunday Fetal heartrate returned to 110bpm. Corpus temperature reduced to 37.8C. All other systems nominal.

Would say it is easier to breathe but that would be both a colloquialism and a lie. Am however much improved compared to yesterday. Damned cat purred and refused to leave my side until I was able to remove her myself. Robot shuttled broth from the nutrient synthesizer to the bed--I've not taken in nutrients since Wednesday evening.

Thus far the onboard biometrics have reported no issues with the fetus's metabolism or gestation. Incubator nutrient system is unaffected by change in environmental conditions.

Too soon to celebrate.

Monday Cat insists on running in front of me as I'm walking.

Blood loss within acceptable limits--stitches holding--some internal shifting that resolved with external binding. Incubator switching from internal nutrition and filtration to transplacental--connecting its vascular system to mine--a strange sensation I'm unable to put into words, knowing how like and unalike a plumbing system, it can be.

Thinking of my body as a house. Must still be delirious. Back to bed.

Week 13 Wednesday Condition improving--post-operative pain and swelling have subsided significantly--am able to walk from one side of the apartment to the other and have attempted stairs--the incubator appears settled in the abdominal cavity.

One benefit of this arrangement is the incubator will not grow. It is sized for a 12-week-old infant. If I am careful I believe I will be able to keep the incubator hidden for the duration--either in my person, which is less than ideal, or upon returning to a secure laboratory where I can work uninterrupted to perform an extraction. Until such time, I suppose the fetus--

Continuing to refer to the experiment as "the fetus" is unideal. Will have to decide upon a more appropriate name.

Week 18 Friday Initial consideration of healing factor accelerant not entirely baseless--however, I've decided to allow the installation site to close on its own without interfering with placental growth factor. Elastic bandage ensured the incubator did not exert excess pressure on--quite a bit of in and ex in those two sentences for there being not a lot of either, until this stage of the experiment.

Five weeks to complete closure--I should say that's nominal healing, under the circumstances. My own biology may be resistant to the experiment but it continues to perform its essential functions. Equilibrium is returning.

Final and admittedly unthought-through stage of phase I complete.

The experiment is safe.

Week 19 Monday The temptation--the need, I would say, if I were inclined to enter hyperbole into scientific record at some point in the future. I don't need. I want to run scans on this experiment, and the frequency of that want is… overwhelming. Until this point, it would have been too early to scan. Yet that want reared its head near every week for the past month.

Today I was able to measure the fetus's development, and observed continued healthy growth and functionality. Fetus is in the 25th percentile for height and weight with no abnormalities. All vital organs and systems functioning within normal parameters. The incubator is effectively supporting fetal growth and well-being.

While the incubator itself is completely self-contained and able to produce its own hormones, mine has now joined the lymphatic and vascular systems in reducing the incubator's energy consumption.

Am uncertain what to make of this, and look forward to postpartum dissection of the incubator to determine what caused spontaneous integration.

[See supplemental data log for biometric data for week 19 fetal growth.]

//

The biometric scanner is capable of producing imagery of the fetus based on soundwaves.

I saw them. I saw them tonight. They're alive.

//

For the sake of transparency--yes. I was overcome with emotion. It would appear as though the incubator's presence within my abdominal cavity is also exerting bottom-up control over the corpus's endocrine system. I am drawn to think of abstract concepts such as embodiment and caregiving. Of how my corpus had not changed in the milliseconds before the biometric scanner produced an image of the experiment's face, but the experiment became the baby upon subjection to the observer effect. Whether that meant I, by extension, was changed. Whether I had inherited personhood with the death of my ignorance.

I was overcome. I now know everything there is to know about the baby.

I saw my child tonight.

Week 21 Monday The temptation to perform a scan more frequently than every four weeks is maddening. I have the incubator set to alert me if anything changes--not even to suboptimal levels; any change at all--I know when the heartbeat increases, when not enough nutrients are moving through the exchange--when the baby puts their thumb in their mouth.

The only metric I have not gathered concerns their sex. All I know is they are healthy, and I have to be patient.

That sad, I am finding it increasingly difficult to focus on other projects with earlier deadlines. This requires patience, and I keep daydreaming. Knowing months are left between myself and the conclusion of this experiment--for which I was unable to gather consent from the most important participant! Not quite six months, and the difference in how I think of this baby today compared to a series of CRISPR instructions… it may be the literal internalization of my role in the infant's development, or knowing that soon they could survive outside the incubator--so much time has passed, and yet it is not near soon enough to extract the unit.

Nothing to do between here and then but gather data--and, I suppose, as the child has ears, to read to them. Or sing.

Unable to recall if my parents sang to me, when I was only a possibility. Before they sent me away. I was an agreeable child, is my recollection. The Society came for me, and appealed to my parents. They could not give me the sort of education the Society was offering to pay for, and my parents wanted to give me everything. They did not want me to have to work the way they worked.

I wish I would have argued with them. It would have made no difference. But I wish I had told them I didn't want to go.

This child deserves a promise--not to be sent away, and not to be made to be agreeable, if we are not in agreement.

Now I understand why strangers ask if other strangers want to see pictures of their babies, the new ones, all the way up to teenagerhood. I want to show everyone I pass on the street that printout of the impression of this child, the unformed features of their face, and I want to tell them, I made this. This is the only important thing I'll ever do in my life.

Week 23 Neighborhood hot when I returned from the metro. Counted no fewer than four MIB per square kilometer. Uncertain whether they're looking for me--no reason why they ought to be. Simplest and most obvious answer is someone else in the area is drawing attention to themselves. See prev entry re: Omens. Foolish to think ignoring the presence of Technocrats reduces their interest in me, should their interest be above zero. Will proceed with caution.

Week 24 Weight increased substantially, though the incubator has not changed in size. Baby has been gaining 29 grams per week, and the placenta is keeping pace with their development. Anticipate accelerated growth as the trimester continues.

Plenty to discuss, and nothing at all of note. My impatience rears when I acknowledge it; and, in acknowledging it, I have to wonder if impatience doesn't serve as this child's mother, rather than Scientific inquiry.

Week 25 I'm certain other events occurred yesterday that are worth noting. Every other day I make a new discovery, or experience a breakthrough. Were I not frightened of it being entered into evidence, I would record much more of the child's development than I have been.

I am afraid--paranoid, even--and yet.

Every ounce of fear I've felt thus far was erased by a sensation I'd never felt before--never would have felt before--replaced by what can only be described as enlightenment.

I felt like a mortal man stealing fire from the divine. One who went up the mountain sightless and returned with fire. I was, for a moment, a god.

And in that moment I was aware of the presence of life growing within my own, housed within a structure that defies reason or sanity, and I was aware because I felt. I ought not to have been able to feel--I never programmed the biopolymers to transmit information--yet they have.

This is not referred mechanoreception.

I can feel my child move.

[kallie-den]

Renewable Energy

Ziratha, an intrepid young succubus researcher, finds the ultimate solution to the looking Succubus Energy Crisis: a device that brainwashes its subjects back into nourishing, delicious, easily-flustered virgins - even rough, experienced, punk trans girls like Vivi

This was a delightful commission from GrillFan65, one of my patrons, and features a very, very fun TF ;)

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

---

“Wow. This is a succubus’s lab?” The crust punk trans girl looked around Ziratha’s research laboratory and sniffed. “I would have expected more candles. Magic circles. Maybe a few jars of goat semen or something.”

Ziratha the succubus rolled her eyes as the punk laughed at her own bad joke. “That’s a stereotype. You’d think humans would know better now. We’ve been living amongst your kind for decades now, and-“

“And succubi are simply people just like us, living perfectly normal lives, except for the whole needing sex for subsistence thing,” the punk interrupted. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard the history lesson before.”

Ziratha had to suppress a groan. Alongside her PhD research, a full-time job in its own right, she worked part-time as an adjunct making minimum wage. She’d forgotten what a good night’s sleep felt like. Half her blood was coffee. She was way too tired for this.

Unfortunately for her, this punk girl - Vivi - was the best shot she was going to get at seeing her research reach fruition.

“Anyway,” Vivi piped up, “hurry up and tell me why I’m here already.”

“You’re here,” Ziratha replied tersely, “because I caught you breaking a window at the back of the lab. Probably looking for something to sell. And because if you help me out, I can delete the feed from the security camera. Got it?”

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” Vivi shot back. “HRT ain’t free, you know?”

Ziratha sighed. In truth, she didn’t hold the attempted theft against her. It was simply that the succubus really, really needed just one single research subject. One was surely all it would take to get the funding board to sit up and pay attention.

“So, c’mon,” Vivi insisted. “What do you need me to do?”

Ziratha took a very, very deep breath. “OK, let me explain. Firstly, what do you know about the SEC?”

Vivi sniffed. “Sounds familiar.

“The Succubus Energy Crisis,” Ziratha told her patiently. “We succubi depend on energy harvested from our sexual partners. You clearly know that much. However, what you may not know is that sexual energy isn’t a sustainable resource.”

“How’s that?” Vivi seemed more interested in scoping out Ziratha’s messy lab than in the answer.

“The amount of energy a succubus harvests from her partner is inversely proportional to their sexual experience,” Ziratha went on. Reciting this was practically automatic. She’d been over it a hundred times in class. “The potency of sexual energy declines after, well, sex. Especially sex with succubi. The more we take, the less they have to give. Sex with ‘well-used’ partners yields negligible energy - and furthermore, might actually kill the human.”

“OK.” Vivi laughed offhandedly. “So what? There will always be more virgins, right?”

“That’s what people used to say about coal and oil,” Ziratha pointed out. “As it turns out, no. Thanks to a declining birth rate, an increasingly sexualized culture, and a constant expansion of liberal sexual mores into untapped parts of the world, reserves are depleting faster than they can naturally refill. Humanity’s store of sexual energy is trending towards zero. Starvation for succubuskind.”

“Right…” Vivi said skeptically, before shrugging. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with me.”

“I was getting to that,” Ziratha retorted. “I’m working on a solution, OK? See, traditional succubic magiscience holds that the depletion of sexual energy following virginity loss is a spiritual-metaphysical phenomenon. In other words, completely and totally irreversible. But that’s bullshit!”

Vivi looked up sharply at the sudden outburst of passion from the succubus.

“Those idiots in the academy just don’t want to let go of their precious little doctrines!” Ziratha fumed. “They’d rather sink billions into pipe dreams than admit the textbooks could be wrong.  I mean, the SuperCharm Collider? Seriously? It’s a joke! But once I get my funding, I’ll be the one who’s laughing!”

She let out a loud, rich cackle worthy of her demonic forebears.

“See, my research indicates that the source of this problem is purely neural-psychological,” Ziratha ranted. “In other words: if you can turn back the clock on someone’s mind, you can completely refill their sexual energy. It’s a perfect solution. Renewable energy for all, forever. But the Institutional Review Board won’t give me the damn funding for a proper set of clinical trials.”

“Hold up,” Vivi broke in. “Are you about to tell me that I’m your guinea pig? And… you want to turn me back into a virgin?”

Ziratha grinned, her eyes flashing behind her nerdy glasses. “Exactly! Behold my Transcranial Magical Stimulation Unit. Which I expect to be known more widely as: the revirginization helmet!”

Reaching over to her workbench, she picked up something that looked halfway between an old VR headset and a military-issue tin foil hat.

Vivi folded her arms over her battle vest. “There’s no way I’m wearing that.”

“It’s safe!” Ziratha insisted defensively. “I made sure of it. If it wasn’t, this would kill my entire career.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Vivi replied, unconvinced. Then, she tilted her head to one side, and a crafty, dirty grin slowly spread across her face. “Hey. How about you and I go someplace comfortable and find a solution to a different kind of energy crisis?”

“Huh?” Ziratha blinked.

Vivi kept grinning and winked.

“Oh, I see.” Ziratha smiled wearily. “You want to have sex.”

Vivi giggled and nodded. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” the punk girl said, “but you look like you could do with a little top-off.”

Ziratha frowned. “Rude!”

In truth, though, she couldn’t be too offended. It had been a long time since Ziratha had fed properly, and it showed. Proper, nourishing partners weren’t easy to come by. Her deep red skin had taken on a slightly unhealthy pallor, her horns were nubs, and her tail was just a thin, dainty little thing. It was a far cry from the kind of overbearingly transhuman appearance succubi could have if they were permitted to glut themselves to their hearts’ content.

Admittedly, Ziratha wasn’t exactly playing to her own strengths. Instead of anything particularly alluring, she was dressed in the universal uniform of the overworked grad student: an old t-shirt, grey sweatpants and comfy sneakers, with a lab coat over top. Her hair was tied back in a hasty ponytail, her huge, round glasses made her look like exactly the nerd she was, and she hadn’t bothered with any makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

Beneath it all, though, she still had a killer body. She was still a succubus, after all.

“What do you say?” Vivi proposed. She glanced pointedly at Ziratha’s chest. “Wanna turn those C-cups into something bigger?”

Ziratha was surprised Vivi knew so much about how energy levels affected succubi. “You’ve slept with my kind before?”

“Sure have.” Vivi’s smirk was infuriatingly cocky. “A few times. And don’t worry - they were never disappointed. I know just how to treat a girl - mortal or demon.”

Ziratha rolled her eyes at the lewd comments, but she was smiling too. This made Vivi the ideal test subject. It was what Ziratha had been hoping for when she’d first laid eyes on her. Vivi was tall, hot, and confident, and while Ziratha knew better than to judge a book by its cover, Vivi did look like someone with a certain amount of ‘experience’.

She was pure punk, top to bottom. Vivi was wearing a battle vest covered in patches and spikes over a simple, loose-fitting top, and beneath the belt she had on a pleated skirt, some torn stockings, and an impressive pair of boots. A lot of the skin she was showing was covered in ink, and both sides of her head were shaven, leaving her with a messy streak of hair that was dyed neon blue.

Ziratha would have been pretty shocked if Vivi had told her she was a virgin.

“As attractive an offer as that is, I’ll have to decline.” Ziratha didn’t bother to conceal her weary sarcasm. “You’re a guinea pig.”

Vivi rolled her eyes. “Fine. I guess I can think of worse things than getting my ‘sexual energy’ replenished - whatever that’s gonna feel like.”

“Great. Great!” Ziratha immediately started ushering Vivi deeper into her lab before the punk could change her mind. “Take a seat, please.”

She gestured towards a chair that looked like it had been ripped out of a hospital examination room, with all kinds of wires and machines hooked up to it. Vivi glanced at the chair dubiously, but still moved to sit down.

“What’s all this, huh?” she asked, settling.

“Just monitoring equipment,” Ziratha explained. “Taking your vitals, measuring neural readings. That kind of stuff.”

“Nerd stuff, got it.” Vivi winked. “OK. I’m ready, I guess.”

Ziratha could barely contain her excitement. This was it. Her breakthrough. Her triumph. But the succubus was too much of a scientist to count her chickens before they hatched. “Here. Put this on.”

She handed Vivi the helmet she’d spent hundreds of hours designing and building. The punk looked at the strange, ramshackle device even more dubiously than she had at the chair, but she did as she was told. Once the helmet was properly adjusted, the screen mounted to it hung in front of Vivi’s face, obscuring most of her vision.

Ziratha tapped a few keys on her laptop and the screen came to life. A few lights and indicators on the helmet started to glow and flash, and the whole apparatus began to hum as the large capacitors mounted to it started to charge.

“Hey, so, how long is this going to take, anyway?” Vivi asked. The punk sounded a little less brash and a little more uncertain now. “Is this, like, some kind of long-ass meditation thing? Because I have places to be.”

“No, don’t worry,” Ziratha answered. “It’s much quicker than that.”

The succubus tapped a few more keys, checked a few readouts, and then hammered the space bar.

There was a huge, bright flash, like an old camera going off.

Vivi went still and stiff for a moment, and then groaned faintly.

“What the fuck?” she complained. “What… was that it?”

“That was it,” Ziratha confirmed. Her tail was very straight, and her voice was thick with anticipation. “How do you feel?”

“My head is throbbing.” Vivi slipped the helmet off her head and blinked as her eyes readjusted. “You could have given me some real warning, you know. So, did it work?”

Ziratha glanced at her laptop screen. “According to the diagnostics, it should have worked.”

“How’s my, uh, energy?” Vivi asked, a faintly mocking smile on her face. “Any of your fancy instruments tell you that?”

Ziratha simply returned the smile. “Oh, I don’t need any instruments for that at all.”

The succubus reached out and took Vivi’s hand, and let her demonic sixth sense for energy tell her everything she needed to know. Her smile immediately became a wide grin. Oh yes, it had worked. Succubi could always tell when someone would make a good meal. It was no different from any other predator’s sense of smell, although physical contact made it far more precise. Right now, Vivi had the scent of a ripe, untouched virgin.

This was it. The breakthrough Ziratha had long searched for. Her invention was about to change the world.

Despite such heady thoughts, though, Ziratha wasn’t celebrating. Something else had caught her attention. There was something very strange about the way Vivi was reacting.

The punk girl was trying not to let it show, but she kept squirming and shifting in her seat. A distinct pink blush was showing in her cheeks, and Ziratha could feel Vivi’s palm starting to turn hot and sweaty as they held hands.

The succubus tilted her head. Now this was very, very interesting.

“Vivi,” Ziratha said. “How do you feel now?”

Vivi couldn’t seem to meet her gaze. “I-I’m fine,” she blurted out in reply. “It’s nothing.”

Ziratha wasn’t buying that for an instant. She had a succubus’s instincts. She could tell when someone was seriously flustered. Experimentally, Ziratha lent in closer and squeezed Vivi’s hand.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Jeez!” Vivi’s voice was a little too strained. Under Ziratha’s watchful gaze, she twitched tellingly. “You’re just being kind of l-lewd.”

Lewd? Just by holding her hand? “Fascinating…” Ziratha murmured.

The succubus pulled away, allowing Vivi to breathe a sigh of relief, and inspected some of her equipment readouts more carefully.

“It clearly worked,” she said, as much to herself as to her test subject. “But there’s signs of something else, too… hey, Vivi. Remind me: you’ve had sex, right?”

In contrast to her earlier, cocksure attitude, Vivi now looked like a deer in headlights at the question. “W-w-well, yeah! Of c-course!”

“So your memory hasn’t been affected, just…” Ziratha murmured, before turning back to Vivi and clapping her hands. “I think I know what’s happened!”

“What?” Vivi demanded. “I mean, uh, nothing. Obviously. But what?”

“Just as I was hoping, my revirginizer helmet completely returned you to a virgin state regarding your reserve of sexual energy,” Ziratha explained. “But I theorize that it also affected some of your closely-related inhibitions, skills, and arousal responses.”

Vivi blinked. “And what does that mean? English please.”

“Well, do you remember being a blushing, nervous, inexperienced teenager, years ago? Remember how much ‘steam’ you had to blow off on a daily basis? Remember how it made you feel when a girl so much as looked at you?”

Vivi nodded, and waited for Ziratha to say something else. But when Ziratha just glanced at her significantly, the punk girl turned as white as a sheet.

“N-no way,” Vivi protested. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid so.” Ziratha giggled. “It’s all connected, it seems. Congratulations. In just about every way that counts, you’re a virgin again.”

Vivi turned from white back to red upon hearing the v-word said out loud. She made to stand up. “I-I can’t believe you did this to me. I gotta get out of here.”

“Wait, wait,” Ziratha urged. She moved to Vivi’s side and calmed her with a simple hand on her arm. “I should really run a few more tests. Just to make sure.”

The succubus’s nostrils flared. She was shocked at how potent Vivi’s energy now felt. It was palpable, even when they weren’t touching. She could sense it in the air. Clearly, she had to investigate further. All in the name of science, of course.

Vivi was back to looking flustered, but she still threw a mutinous glare at Ziratha. “Y-you’re crazy! I can’t believe I even…”

Ziratha swiftly decided that if the betterment of succubuskind wasn’t a good enough reason for Vivi, she’d have to resort to other forms of persuasion. She bent down at the waist, putting her face close to the punk’s, and made her eyes very big and alluring.

“Please?” she whispered, in a voice that was suddenly soft and intimate. “Won’t you stay with me?”

Vivi looked like her body temperature had just shot up ten degrees, and Ziratha noticed that she couldn’t seem to meet her gaze properly. The succubus was sure she wouldn’t have fallen for that five minutes ago, but now she was a total sucker. “S-s-sure,” Vivi managed, in a strained voice.

“Wonderful.” Ziratha licked her lips. The distinctive virgin-scent Vivi was starting to give off was just delicious. “These readings - and reactions - are extraordinary. And I’ve done nothing more than hold your hand.”

Vivi whimpered plaintively.

“I can’t help but wonder,” the succubus murmured, “what kind of yields you might produce with slightly more purposeful stimulation.”

Vivi’s eyes registered alarm but, before she could protest, Ziratha slipped closer and planted a kiss on the punk girl’s cheek.

Her reaction was as immediate as it was striking. Vivi let out a faint gasp and her back arched slightly, even though she was clearly trying as hard as possible not to show it. But even more striking was the intensified deer-in-headlights look in her eyes, like she was desperately struggling to figure out what this meant and what she should do about it, even as she was so devastatingly flustered she couldn’t even manage basic addition.

Ziratha’s nostrils flared again. This was amazing, and she was starting to become aware of just how long it had been since she’d had a real feeding.

“Wow,” she said teasingly, momentarily letting her instincts get the better of her. “Just from one little kiss, huh?”

Vivi whined indignantly. "I-it’s not… that’s… t-this is nothing!”

“Yeah?” Ziratha couldn’t resist a giggle. “It’s just so funny - you seemed so cocky before. So experienced.”

“I am experienced!” Vivi tried to insist. “I’ve f… um… fu… I mean, you know… I’ve had s-s-s-“

Ziratha’s grin just kept growing as she watched the previously fierce punk trail off, her blush growing steadily deeper as she struggled to bring herself to actually say it. The transformation was quite the sight to behold. She had to keep pushing Vivi further. She just had to. It was part of the experiment, somehow, she reasoned. The succubus took advantage of Vivi’s helpless spluttering to press closer still and put her lips right by her ear.

“Sex?” Ziratha breathed, pouring as much suggestion and seductive glee as she possibly could into that one, single word.

Vivi looked like she was about to explode.

“You see?” Ziratha drew back, smirking victoriously. “You’re not experienced. Not really. Not anymore. You can remember that you’ve had sex before - but that’s it. And you can barely even bring yourself to think about those memories, because you might get too worked up. Neither your mind nor your body knows how to handle it.” She giggled. “Typical virgin.”

“I-I’m not…!” For a moment she thought Vivi was about to start tearing up, but then the punk girl managed to rally herself. “Y-you’re just messing with me! That’s all! It’s your stupid little machine, making me all confused. T-that’s the only reason I can’t think straight right now. I’m not, um, w-worked up.”

“Yeah?” Ziratha challenged. “Then explain this for me, please.”

She reached down and rested her hand firmly on the big, unmistakable tent in Vivi’s skirt.

Immediately, Vivi went as white as a sheet. Clearly, until that moment, she hadn’t noticed the huge hard-on she was sporting. She attempted a protest, or perhaps an explanation, but all that came out was a few strangled, incoherent sounds.

“My, my.” Ziratha licked her lips again, without even realizing it. She was so very hungry. “You see? You’ve become so adorably excitable.”

Vivi whined as Ziratha started stroking her fingertips along the surface of her bulge. “Y-you can’t just… what the hell are you d-doing? This is harassment!”

“I’m a scientist, Vivi,” Ziratha chided, in a voice that made her sound anything but scientific. “After my experiment, it’s only natural for me to give you a nice, thorough examination.”

The punk girl let out another whimpered protest, seeming to sense Ziratha’s ulterior motive, but under the succubus’s ministrations that soon gave way to a weak, pitiful moan. The new virgin was like putty in Ziratha’s hands. The power, the energy, the scent - it was all intoxicating.

“In particular,” Ziratha decided, “I think it’s only proper that I get a reading on your, ah, endurance. I really think - I really do think - it could be very, very scientifically interesting.”

Science was increasingly slipping out of view. Ziratha’s gaze was set firmly on the huge tent in Vivi’s skirt, and it was getting harder and harder to think clearly. After a little teasing, that sweet, sweet virgin energy was coming off Vivi in waves. The laboratory was thick with its scent.

Vivi was still giving the succubus that achingly alluring deer-in-headlights look, but after a moment, her willpower started to wane. She nodded. Ziratha’s nostrils flared. That made sense too. What kind of virgin had the resolve to say ‘no’ to a succubus?

In exchange, Ziratha decided, maybe it was time to make good use of some of the inherent succubic talents she’d spent all of grad school neglecting.

Ziratha straightened up and, as Vivi watched, shrugged out of her heavy lab coat. As it fell to the ground, she reached up and removed her hair tie, shaking her head to make sure her hair cascaded down around her face. Vivi was all but hypnotized by the sight.

But that was only the beginning.

Next, Ziratha took her t-shirt by its hem and lifted it off over her head. She moved slowly, though, letting the helpless punk watching her savor the sight of her tummy and cleavage being revealed. The way she slipped out of her sweatpants was even more seductive. She made a dance of it, swinging her hips from side to side as she peeled them away from her body to expose her long, sculpted legs.

The striptease left Vivi with a little trail of drool escaping one corner of her mouth. She couldn’t seem to stop leering. Her eyes were shining like she couldn’t believe her luck, and the tent in her skirt was now marked with a growing spot of damp precum.

Underneath her clothes, Ziratha wasn’t wearing lingerie, merely a comfy sports bra and a matching pair of boxers. But that, she decided, was plenty to work with when it came to a virgin.

And from the look on Vivi’s face, she was right.

“Tell me,” Ziratha panted, “have you ever gotten a lap dance before?”

Vivi looked almost panicked as she shook her head.

“Great,” Ziratha purred. “Then I suppose this will be a genuine first.”

Effortlessly, the succubus eased her weight into the examination chair, and backed up inch by inch until her naturally huge, curvy ass was pressed right up against Vivi’s hard bulge.

Vivi squeaked like a mouse.

At this point, her every little noise and twitch was like a red rag to a bull. The newly-restored virgin’s scent was so thick in the air Ziratha could taste it. Her hunger was awakening instincts she’d never known she had. Moving to the sound of unheard music, she started grinding and gyrating like she’d been doing it all her life.

The effect the lap dance had on Vivi was nothing short of explosive.

The punk looked like every bit the virgin she now was. Her eyes were wide and practically bulging, and her mouth was contorted into a goofy, uneven shape halfway between an amazed grin and a look of desperate, anxious disbelief.

She looked like she was about to blow.

“C’mon,” Ziratha mocked, in a voice dripping with honey and brimstone. “You can do better than this, right, virgin?”

Her teasing elicited another strangled whimper that just made the succubus want to push Vivi further and further. She danced her way up the punk girl’s body and turned to face her, rolling her hips as she pushed her ass back out behind her to grind into her throbbing bulge.

“Be a good girl,” she teased. “Hold on a little longer for me.”

Vivi just nodded haplessly. Her eyes were scrunched up closed, and she was gripping the sides of the chair so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Ziratha could just imagine what was going on in her head. Baseball scores. Times tables. Whatever she needed to help not utterly humiliate herself.

“Let’s see if you can handle something a little more… direct.”

Ziratha arched her and straightened her tail, daring the virgin punk writhing beneath her to open her eyes and stare at her amazing tits. Then, she reached back and used her deft fingertips to unfasten Vivi’s skirt. Vivi let out a moan that was as much protest as eagerness, but it didn’t stop Ziratha from using the motion of her hips and thighs to slide the garment out of the way, and then pull aside her panties until her hard, leaking cock was completely exposed.

Zirath’s long, forked tongue lolled out of her mouth as she stared at it, dripping drool down onto Vivi.

She needed it.

“Good news, punk,” she breathed, shivering. “You’re about to get your cherry popped.”

“W-w-what?” Vivi exclaimed pitifully.

“It’s, uh, for the experiment,” Ziratha reasoned. She was frenzied as she tore off her bra and panties. “I need to sample, uh… and, well, get a reading on the volume of…” She rolled her eyes and licked her lips. “Actually, forget the science. I’m just hungry, and you’re ripe for the eating.”

“B-b-but!” the trans girl spluttered, as Ziratha positioned herself against her cock. “I-I don’t know if I’m ready yet!”

“Yeah?” Ziratha paused, bemused.

"I mean… uh…” A bashful look came over Vivi’s face. “It’s just… I maybe… I wanted it to be special. You know?”

“Oh my god.” Ziratha snorted a laugh, and grinned wickedly. “You are going to be just delicious.”

In a single motion, she dropped her hips and impaled herself on Vivi’s cock.

Immediately, Vivi’s voice shot up an octave, and she let out a girlish cry of absolute pleasure. Right after, Ziratha’s rich, gleeful moans joined the chorus. The succubus couldn’t believe how good the virgin’s cock felt. It wasn’t just the sensation. It was the sustenance. Merely being in Vivi’s presence for the last few minutes had made Ziratha fiercely hungry. Now, at last, that hunger was being sated.

Once she recovered from the initial hit, Ziratha started moving her hips and bouncing greedily on the end of Vivi’s shaft. With each bounce, the punk girl underneath her thrashed madly in a clumsy, instinctive attempt to meet Ziratha thrust for thrust.

She mostly failed. But the attempt, at least, was adorable.

As she rode the sensitive, inexperienced punk, Ziratha started howling with glee. She’d never had the pleasure before, but it was true what they said - there was nothing like milking a virgin. Her body was humming with energy, and every time she buried Vivi’s cock to the hilt inside her pussy, the sensation got sweeter and sweeter. Something about the flavor of a virgin’s energy was utterly transcendent, and it was made all more nourishing by what it represented.

Ziratha’s complete and total victory.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t long before Vivi’s moans started to peak, signaling that she was at the edge. Clearly, despite her memories, the virgin had absolutely no stamina. Ziratha wasn’t going to complain. The orgasm was the sweetest part of the meal.

“Go ahead!” Ziratha urged. “Blow your load already. We both know you can’t hold back anymore.”

With a cry of absolute, mortified bliss, Vivi exploded inside her.

Ziratha’s moans peaked too when she felt Vivi’s virile, nourishing cum paint her insides. It was better than anything she’d ever felt before. The power, the pleasure, the feeding - all of it. Ziratha could already feel her body priming itself to swell and change with the infusion of fresh energy.

The ecstatic rush of it made her greedy. She wanted more. She wanted it all. Ziratha squeezed down on Vivi and started riding her harder and faster than ever. Every bounce, every thrust, coaxed more and more sweet, sweet cum from the virgin’s cock, until Vivi was whining in blissful agony as she came down from the high of orgasm. Eventually, Vivi’s eyes rolled back  into her head and simply passed out, her mind overwhelmed past its limits by sheer pleasure.

Ziratha kept riding her all the same. The succubus didn’t stop until she’d milked her for every last drop.

Eventually, though, once her hunger was sated, she slumped down next to the punk girl, giggling intermittently in giddy, light-headed glee. The succubus’s head was already filling with daydreams of fame and wealth when Vivi came to and pulled her into a hesitant, needy embrace.

“Hey, u-um,” Vivi whispered earnestly, in a voice that was anything but punk. “W-was it good for you too?”

“Huh?” Ziratha roused herself. There was something strange about the way Vivi sounded. No; about the way she felt. Ziratha had expected her to start returning to something closer to her normal behavior.

“I-I-I just, uh…” Vivi was once again turning bright red. “I-I thought it was really special. You know? Like, um, maybe we really have a connection.”

Ziratha seized Vivi’s hand again and, as Vivi stared at her hopefully, paid close attention to what she could sense from the punk girl. When the penny dropped, she started cackling.

“Oh my god!” she howled. “I can’t believe it. You’re still the same way. As fresh as ever.”

“What do you mean?” Vivi sounded defensive.

“I’m definitely going to need to hold you for some… oversight observation. Just to make sure.” Ziratha licked her lips suggestively. “But I can already tell. It’s like your brain can’t adapt anymore. Not just your energy levels. Your social skills. Your inhibitions. Your stamina. Everything.”

“What?” Vivi pressed anxiously.

“It’s the revirginization,” Ziratha pronounced. “All of it. It’s permanent.”

***

Mere weeks later, it was a very different Ziratha that stood upon the stage to make her big pitch to a room packed full of succubus leaders and investors. It wasn’t just the confidence - although she had that in spades, now that her Nobel prize was apparently all but assured. Her body had changed too. She stood taller. Grander. She exuded power and presence, and all of her body’s assets had gone from merely ‘hot’ to inhumanly mouth-watering. Her horns were a massive, knotted crown upon her head, and her tail was as deft as a whip and as thick as an anaconda.

All thanks to her favorite little meal.

Vivi was standing a little way behind her on the stage, and while physically she was unchanged, she seemed to have shrunk just as Ziratha had grown. She exuded a fragile, nebbish submissiveness despite all tattoos and piercings. She wore a choker collar bearing Ziratha’s name around her neck, and she was wearing a dress.

Ziratha liked her that way. And Vivi was no longer able to argue with the succubus.

“So, as you can see from our data, our early clinical trials have borne out the most promising of my invention’s results,” Ziratha was saying, as she rounded off her speech. “The regression to maiden status is, both psychologically and metaphysically speaking, permanent. The process isn’t damaging, but the subject’s mind naturally sheds its ability to develop new sexual skills or comfort zones, physical or social. Accordingly, their energy levels remain at peak capacity and potency - forever.”

Ziratha paused for a beat, letting the crowd of succubi sitting in front of her drink that in.

“In short,” she concluded, “they’re helpless perma-virgins. Isn’t that right, Vivi?”

Vivi blushed an incredibly deep red and looked down at the floor, but nodded.

“So!” Ziratha clapped her hands. “It’s safe to say that we’re ready to move into pre-production. Soon enough, each and every one of you could have one of my devices in your very own hands - assuming you’re willing to provide me with funding, of course. What do you say, ladies? A future of infinite, renewable energy awaits us!”

As expected, the auditorium was immediately filled with thunderous applause.

The age of the Succubus Energy Crisis was over.

The age of perma-virgin mortals and succubus dominance was about to begin.

---

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[avayarising]

The Batfam Death Project Introduction

I’m working on a project to find and list every time each member of the Batfam has experienced death, either through dying or by visiting a world of the dead.

Why?

I was curious because I kept finding incidences of DC heroes dying and coming back to life, and the Batfam in particular (though maybe that’s just because that’s where I started looking), and I wanted to know how much there was of this. Jason’s death is the one everyone makes a fuss of, but there are plenty of others and I wanted to know just how many.

And, coming at it partially from the DPxDC side, I wanted to know exactly how liminal the Bats are.

And the answer is: very.

Scope

For this project I’m looking at all deaths of the core Batfamily: that’s Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Damian, and Alfred; I’m also including Steph, Barbara, Duke, and Kate. I’m not including more peripheral, associate or occasional bat-vigilantes such as Jean-Paul or Helena, nor other members of the Justice League, though I am aware of at least some deaths for many of them. (I could perhaps be persuaded to expand the project…)

The scope includes only the main universe (Prime Earth, New Earth, or Earth-0). It covers all eras from pre-Crisis to the present day, within the main timeline. It does not include elseworlds, imaginary stories, or alternative universes. For example, it does not include deaths and undeaths in DCeased, DC versus Vampires, or Injustice. It considers only comics, not movies, TV shows, radio plays, or other media. My goal is that it should at least be arguable, for any given character, that the same person has experienced all their death events in succession.

Definition of death experience

A character is considered dead if they are depicted or declared dead on panel (and this is not contradicted). They are also considered dead if they have no heartbeat, have no cerebral activity, or require CPR.

The death doesn’t have to be long to be included – brief flatlining counts. I’m including a note of the rough length of time the character is dead for each incident, at least in terms of order of magnitude (minutes, hours, days…).

I’m also including instances where a character is healed in a Lazarus Pit while dying or mortally wounded – in other words, where they would have died very shortly without the intervention of the Pit.

I debated whether or not to include instances of what the comics call ‘brain death’, where there is no cerebral activity, even if autonomous functions continue. In real life, my understanding is that a declaration of death for lack of brain activity requires brainstem death, where even autonomous functions are lost. But I decided in the end to include them, because in both cases where this occurs (both to Bruce) they are referred to on-panel as ‘clinical death’.

In addition to the above, I’m also separately keeping track of any visits to any afterlife or realm of the dead where the character doesn’t have to die to go there (summoning, portal, etc.).

Preliminary results

Bruce dies early and dies often. So far I have several dozen deaths for Bruce, in seventeen separate incidents.

His kids have a more reasonable 2–5 deaths each.

Duke is the only member of the Batfam (core or adjunct) whom I haven’t found any deaths for. Yet.

Deaths have been getting more frequent over the years, and they’re all getting pretty blasé about it.

Next steps

I’m going to write a post for each character listing and summarising their deaths, with volume and issue references. I’ll then dive into more detail in individual posts for some of the more interesting (to me) deaths and revivals. I’ll create a masterpost so you can keep track of them, and link it here.

Please send me asks!

Acknowledgements

Huge thanks are due to @lynzine and @zahri-melitor for helping and encouraging me with this project, letting me rant at them about this project and the comics I’ve read for it, and finding and suggesting deaths and potential deaths for me to look at. Without your encouragement I would have given up long ago.

The Batfam Death Project Masterpost

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

That ASL Protest I was a part of, in '91...

That I wrote about here:

May, 1991: I was one of a couple dozen students at my university protesting to keep ASL as an accepted fulfillment of foreign language study (I remember we were trying to meet with higher-ups in the Languages Department, but they kept changing their meeting location; we were basically chasing them around campus. It was a bit theater of the absurd, actually)

Actually made it into the following Sunday's New York Times. I found it online when I took a stab at an Internet Search to double-check my memory. NYT requires you to set up an account and choose a password to read anything... And they've had a transphobic bias in some of their editorials.

So I copied out the whole thing, so you can read it here without supporting them (besides, I was there). Enjoy this story of my reckless (?) youth:

Campus Life: SUNY, Stony Brook; Sign Language: Foreign Or Merely an Easy A?

(Unnamed Staff Writer, New York Times. Sunday, May 26, 1991, Section 1. Page 45)

Students at the State University of New York at Stony Brook do not have to speak to fulfill their undergraduate foreign language requirement.

Stony Brook currently accepts a one-year series of American Sign Language courses to satisfy its foreign language requirement, but some faculty members are questioning both the policy and the quality of the sign-language courses.

Thomas Kerth, chairman of the Germanic and Slavic languages department, provoked student protests this month when he recommended, on behalf of several foreign language department chairmen, that American Sign Language be removed as a course that fulfilled the undergraduate requirement.

In a memorandum earlier this month to the Foreign Language Proficiency Committee, a university advisory committee on student requirements, Professor Kerth wrote that American Sign Language did not "fulfill the purpose" of the foreign language requirement because it was not foreign. He also said the course was an "easy A," which had caused its enrollment to "grow out of all proportion" while enrollment had dropped sharply in other foreign language courses. 60% Receive A's, Critic Says

Professor Kerth said more than 60 percent of American Sign Language students received an A. "This has led some of us to believe that the popularity of sign language has but little to do with the commitment to the hearing-impaired," he wrote, "and a great deal to do with the grading pattern."

In response to the memo, more than 30 students held a protest earlier this month in front of the administration building and gathered more than 1,000 student signatures urging the university to continue accepting American Sign Language for the foreign language requirement.

[Jumping in here with an aside: If I recall correctly, us chasing the Language Dept.'s higher-ups was in an attempt to deliver that petition]

"The professor is afraid of losing his job," Dane Spirio, a junior English major from Old Bethpage, L.I., and organizer of the protest, said of Professor Kerth. "He's afraid fewer people will take his class because of sign language's popularity."

Prof. Roman de la Campa, chairman of the department of comparative literature, called for "controls" on the American Sign Language courses. He said he thought sign language should be allowed to fulfill the foreign language requirement, but not in its present form.

"When you have hundreds of people taking a course, and over 50 percent get A's, there is a question," Professor de la Campa said. He added that sign language courses "should have full-time faculty who have a scholarly investment." The courses are currently taught by adjunct professors who are hired course by course.

Lou Deutsch, chairwoman of the Hispanic language department, said American Sign Language was not a foreign language and condemned the frequency of high grades in the class.

But Mark Aronoff, chairman of the linguistics department, said, "The internal structure of the words is similar to Latin, Sanskrit, Navajo or Eskimo."

Lawrence Forestal, a sign language instructor, said Mr. Kerth's information on the number of students who received A's was "exaggerated."

Mr. Forestal, who is deaf, urged the the University Senate's Curriculum Committee, which determines student requirements, to allow sign language students and deaf people to address the committee before a decision was made. "How can the committee set such policies without real knowledge of sign language?" he asked.

Charles Franco, chairman of the Foreign Language Proficiency Committee, said: "I can see both sides of the argument." He said the committee would have a recommendation for the University Senate by the beginning of the fall semester.

###

For the record: I remember a lot of people in my ASL class (Taught by the same Mr. Lawrence Forestal quoted here) admitted to signing up for it because they thought it was going to be an "Easy A." I also remember them complaining: "This is hard!" and "I don't get it." So... Y'know....

Also, Mr. Forestal was not only Deaf, but his parents were Deaf, and all his siblings. So ASL was his native language. That complaint about needing to be a full-time faculty, in order to have a true "scholarly investment" is just classist B.S.

[solarpunkani]

this is a personal vent but its a somewhat anti-capitalist/anti-grind culture vent so its going here but like

I wish I could have one (1) hobby that just stays a hobby and remains a fun lil heehee hobby without one or both parents desperately trying to get me to monetize it.

Like I am JUST learning crochet. I have been crocheting for less than a MONTH. I have ONE finished project. And my mom is ALREADY sending me lil instagram reels like 'heehee this is how much I made from my ~crocheting business~ in the month of October' and sending me a bunch of eyes emojis and dollarsign eyes emojis like, first off my beloved mother that woman has been crocheting for YEARS maybe even DECADES and I just picked it up three tuesdays ago, but second of all I don't necessarily wanna just make a buncha shit and then sell it online!!! I wanna make stuff for me and maybe friends and family if they ask really nicely, but nooooo now mom wants me to Perfect the Craft so I can sell on etsy and instagram and whatever.

This would be a Mild Annoyance if this wasn't simply the first in a long string of 'what if you monetized this hobby.' Which, granted, sometimes I do it to myself, but I'm really trying to stop.

Oh you like gardening? What if you monetized it! Sell vegetables at the farmers market! Sell cut flowers at the farmers market! Start your own small business! What do you mean, you mostly do it for personal enjoyment and environmental reasons? Just grow a bigass plot of zinnias, forget about your other stuff, and sell sell sell!!!

Oh, you like creative writing? You like writing novels and short stories and fanfics?? Go be a copywriter! Go be an adjunct professor, because you're totally qualified! What? You don't wanna write manuals and advertisements? But you're such a good writer, go make money off of it!

Oh you wanna learn sewing?! Learn sewing!! Quickly!! Not for your own personal enjoyment of the craft, I'm gonna start a business selling bags and YOU"RE gonna help me!!! I'm not asking permission btw this is me telling you--

Don't even get me started on the absolute slog that has been trying to become an animator and selling art commissions because I like drawing and animating and how that's been going for me, or the fact that my mom seems to think Masters Degree in Animation = Qualified Graphic Designer, which is not the same thing.

It's just exhausting. I would like to be allowed to have one hobby that doesn't immediately read as dollar signs in my parents eyes, yknow?

anyways capitalism grind culture is a hell scape thank you for coming to my tedtalk.

[buttercupjosh]

Seasons of Love

(Gif credit to @youmustlovehim)

Word count: 2,772

Genres: strangers to lovers to exes, a little bittersweet

Warnings: none

A/N: I’ve had pieces of details of this fic in mind for a while and I started to slowly write it out over the past few months. This title comes from Seasons of Love from the musical RENT, although there’s nothing in the story connects to specific details from that. The story is not based off of anything specific, just a plot that had been simmering in me for some time. It’s not set at a specific moment in time (It’s taking place in a fictional future but you could also say that it’s set this season. However, the season is still ongoing at the moment and anything can happen or change). It’s written with a female reader in mind because I’m a female of color but the reader doesn’t specifically have to be a POC or a woman and there’s little dialogue. As always, I’m open to any and all feedback, comments or questions; just put them in my inbox or dm me. Thank you so much in advance for reading, I appreciate it😌

(P.S. I have other stories (linked here) that I have written for other players as well if you want to check it out)

““How do you measure a year in the life? How about love?” -Seasons of Love from the RENT musical soundtrack

Prologue

“Excuse me, is this a good book to read?” a deep accented voice asks you.

“Dune? For sure, it’s an epic story,” you reply.

“Do you think I could finish it in 4 days?” the voice asks.

“4 days? Unless you’re an Olympian at reading and processing complex storylines, I’d say it might take you close to 4 weeks or even 4 months to read it all,” you respond.

“Oh,” the voice says in defeat, “what do you recommend then?”

You list off some sci-fi recs for the towering cute man and he takes your suggestions into mind before deciding to get a copy of We, a novel written by his fellow countryman Yevgeny Zamyatin.

“I’ve never read that one,” you chimed.

“Should we start a book club then so you can read it?” the voice asks with a chuckle.

“Um, how can I start a book club with someone whose name I don’t even know?”

Slightly embarrassed, the voice introduces himself as Andrei and you introduce yourself to him as you shake hands. His hand in yours felt so comforting for someone you just met under an hour ago. Andrei was impressed that you knew so much about books. One of his New Year’s resolutions was to read more so that’s how he ended up at Barnes and Noble talking to you. You were at the store, just looking around for something new to read, and stumbled into the sci-fi section before checking out with your new copy of Happy Place by Emily Henry.

“So are we starting this book club then, Andrei?” you slyly ask.

Andrei wanted to have someone as a reading buddy to discuss reading with him (the other guys on the team weren’t as into reading as him) and it didn’t hurt that he had someone who knew a lot about literature right in front of him so he agreed to it.

“As long as you read “We” with me, please?” Andrei charmingly requested.

Although sci-fi wasn’t your thing at the moment, you couldn’t quite say no to the man with big brown doe eyes so you grabbed a copy off the shelf. Before going over the parameters of the newly formed book club, Andrei kindly paid for both of your books and you decided to discuss the rules in the cafe located inside of the store.

You and Andrei sat in a semi-secluded booth towards the back of the cafe and began sharing some of your backstories with each other over drinks and muffins. Andrei was again impressed by your educational background of holding an MFA in Creative Writing from NC State and your job as an adjunct English professor at Wake Tech Community College; it definitely explained your love of reading but your dream was to move to New York and become an author one day. You were working on a manuscript for a cute romance novel but still had a lot of things to do before it was ready to be presented to a publisher. The professor job was just a placeholder until you finished up your manuscript and saved up enough money to get a literary agent; you loved writing as much as you loved reading but getting your foot in the door in the writing industry was rough. You listened to Andrei as he told his story about his life and how he ended up in America through his hockey career. You and Andrei were both curious about each other and asked so many questions to each other for such a long time that you didn’t even notice that the store was going to close. Neither of you wanted your time together to end but you both had lives to get to outside of the store. You both laughed when you realized that you and Andrei spent so much time getting to know each other that not once throughout your conversation did you discuss the rules of the book club. Before leaving, you and Andrei exchanged numbers. You both agreed to read the first 50 pages and scheduled to meet up at a different cafe to discuss what you read so far in two weeks.

————————————————————

Winter

Within a year, the book club didn’t last long but it did lead to you and Andrei being in constant contact with each other. Due to both of your schedules, neither of you really had the time to sit down and have deep intellectual discussions about what you read; you both did end up finishing reading We but you finished it at different paces. Being the book lover you are, you completed the book first but Andrei finished reading the book while on the road and he wanted to discuss the ending with you so bad that he surprisingly FaceTime called you. That one FaceTime call with Andrei turned into a long series of texts, phone calls, and more FaceTime calls and eventually spending time together offline. You and Andrei considered each other to be just friends but that friendship eventually turned into you falling for each other.

Andrei was a hot commodity around Raleigh and in Russia with his DMs bursting at the seams but he only had eyes for you. He had never fallen in love with someone the way that he did for you; being with you was different than what he was used to but it worked in the best way. You knew the risks and chaos of being with a busy, famous athlete but Andrei was worth all of it. You blended and adjusted well into the hockey romantic partner lifestyle and Andrei even taught you how to ice skate. Despite the busyness of your lives, you and Andrei still showed up for and made time for each other, even if it was something as small as meeting up at your place for a post-afternoon game milkshake from The Shiny Diner or as big as taking Andrei as your date to your work holiday party. Whenever you had the time, you and Andrei created fun, everlasting memories together. A somewhat sweet memory that Andrei would always remember was when on one cold evening, you wanted to surprise your Russian boyfriend by attempting to make him borscht, a traditional Eastern European soup that was his favorite comfort food. The soup did not come well at all so you and Andrei ended up ordering Panera Bread to warm your bones. Although the soup you made tasted unpleasant, Andrei appreciated the fact that you took the time and effort to learn something from his culture and did that from your heart. The poetic thing about your relationship was that you patiently understood each other, despite the language and culture barrier; your relationship just worked like two puzzle pieces clicking together into place.

————————————————————

Spring

As the flowers bloomed around Raleigh, the school year for you ended on a good note and unsurprisingly, the Canes made playoffs. Deep into your manuscript writing, Andrei surprised you with a trip to New York after the Canes were eliminated from playoffs. You and Andrei were already spending the entire off-season together so this trip wasn’t a necessity but it was a nice thing to do.

Your time in New York was amazing and full of love, fun, and plenty of delicious food. While you were in the City, you took the opportunity to meet with some potential literary agents and publishers; although your manuscript was about 90 percent done, it didn’t hurt to check those things out. Andrei was supportive of you and your dreams but he selfishly wished that those dreams didn’t include moving to New York and that you would stay in Raleigh and have a life with him there. He had already known his future was tightly connected to the City of Oaks but you had a desire to create a future somewhere else. You knew these dreams of yours could possibly involve leaving the love of your life; neither of you tried not to dwell too hard on the stress and pressure that those dreams added to your relationship. You also knew the publishing industry was cutthroat and competitive and that there was no guarantee that your book would be picked up by a top publisher but those realities didn’t stop you from at least trying to take the steps towards that dream.

Outside of this pressure, you and Andrei still made the best of your time in NYC. You also loved musical theater so of course, you had to catch a Broadway show. Andrei, being the amazing boyfriend that he is, actually secured tickets for the two of you to see Hamilton at the Richard Rogers Theater. You had watched the live stage production on Disney+ and knew the entire soundtrack; Andrei went into the show blindly, only remembering bits and pieces from the songs that you played around him. Seeing Hamilton live on Broadway was a great experience that you both enjoyed. You and Andrei got to see New York City in a different light; you got to explore more of the city that you longed to call home and Andrei got to see more of the city as a true tourist. This entire trip was something that you both would forever cherish.

————————————————————

Summer

Not long after you left New York, you went to Russia for the first time to meet and spend time with his family and friends and to see the place that made Andrei into the man that you love. You learned more about Russian culture, Andrei’s childhood, and even was a guest at his cousin’s wedding. Andrei’s friends and family approved of you as a person and they liked you with him; they could all tell how truly in love you were with each other. You also spent some time together in Turkey and around Europe for some much-needed relaxation; you got to see the beautiful blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea in Greece, eat authentic handmade pasta in Italy, and kiss your lover in front of the Eiffel Tower in Paris.

Traveling around with Andrei made you feel like you were the protagonist of a great summer read. Speaking of reading, Andrei still maintained his goal of reading more books, reading just about anything and everything, and even started to recommend things for you to read. Before you would fall asleep at night, you would share with each other a fact or synopsis of something that you read that day.

While Andrei was occupied with his off-season training during the day, you applied for publishing jobs, presented your finally completed manuscript to several literary agents, and ended up securing one. It was relieving to officially have a literary agent to represent you but the next biggest hurdle was the painstaking editing process and waiting for your work to be picked up by the right publisher.

————————————————————

Fall

After the bliss of the off-season ended, it was time for the hustle and bustle of your teaching job and hockey season to return. About 2 weeks before preseason started, you and Andrei moved in together. It was exciting to get to live with your lover and spend even more time (whenever you could) with him. It was also nice that you got to add your style to the place and make it your own; having a home also meant that you could host your friends, Andrei’s teammates, and sometimes family for holidays and events and create more cherished memories together. Being a hopeless romantic who loved romance novels, you had always wondered who would be the man to sweep you off your feet but you sort of already knew that man was Andrei.

A fun memory that you made together was the Sunday before the season opener, you and Andrei took a trip to a local corn maze with a pumpkin patch to take cute couple photos together and to also check it out. These photos would be added into some of the new picture frames and a scrapbook of memories in your shared home. The photographer did an excellent job, capturing the love that flowed between you in still moments. For the rest of your time, you wandered around the corn maze, hand-in-hand, with your lovely boyfriend. The infamous oak trees in Raleigh began to shed their leaves and the year began inching closer and closer towards the end.

————————————————————

Winter part 2

One snowy morning, you got an email from McGraw Hill, offering you a job as an educational copy editor in their NYC office. You couldn’t believe it, you were on the path of working at a publisher and hopefully, one day getting your book published; all that you had been working so hard for was starting to pay off in tremendous ways. The only issue that was concerning you was breaking the news to Andrei. You knew he would be happy for you but you also knew what the next steps were. You tried to hold in your tears but after practice, Andrei came home to you crying. He immediately dropped his stuff and concerningly asked you what was wrong. You explained to Andrei that you were crying joyfully over the news you received. Words couldn’t describe how proud Andrei was for you so he picked you up and spun you around in happiness.

“I’m so proud of you, my love,” Andrei repeated as he peppered kisses around your face.

He was truly proud of you but the ecstasy of the good news came with the most painful come down. Andrei didn’t want you to move to New York but he had already known for a while that you wanted to leave. He did try to convince you to stay and he hoped for months that you would change your mind but you didn’t so he helped you pack some of your things. Andrei couldn’t help you move up there so he entrusted Nykki, Martin Necas’ girlfriend, to help you settle into your new home and life, more than 500 miles away from the address you once shared.

You and Andrei did try dating long distance but your relationship unfortunately didn’t last very long. Between the responsibilities of your new job, revising over your manuscript, trying to get your book published somewhere, and Andrei’s hectic hockey schedule, you began to drift apart from each other and the physical distance between you didn’t help either. You enjoyed living in New York and you did miss each other from time to time but Andrei knew it would be unfair to ask you to give up on your dreams to come back to Raleigh and be with him. Despite not dating anymore, you and Andrei talked occasionally but not as frequently as it was when you first met and still remained friends. It was okay that the relationship had run its course because it taught you both a lot about love. Andrei came into your life for a season and those seasons you shared together were full of so much undeniable light and love. The love that you shared was different from the romance novels you read but your relationship wrote its own beautiful story.

————————————————————

Epilogue

Before catching his flight to Miami for the NHL All-Star break, Andrei went into the bookstore at Raleigh-Durham International Airport to look for a book to read on his flight. In the book section, he spotted Seasons of Love, written by you with a New York Times Bestseller sticker on the cover. Over the years, Andrei had heard some things about your novel in passing but he purposely avoided reading the book because the breakup was a bit painful for him. After you achieved getting your book published, you wanted to send Andrei a signed copy but decided against it because you weren’t sure if he would actually read the story and didn’t want to come across as pretentious either. He debated back and forth about getting the book before finally asking a store employee about their opinion about it.

“I read that one. It’s a fictional story but I heard it’s loosely based on a true story about the author’s relationship with some cool guy. It’s a super good read if you like romance," said the store employee.

Hearing what the store employee said about your book made Andrei’s heart warm a little and he purchased it as his read for his trip. After returning back to Raleigh, conveniently, there was a book signing by a familiar author at a local Barnes and Noble that Andrei decided to attend. Although Andrei didn’t get his happy ending with you in real life, you sure gave him one with the words that you wrote on the page.

[betterthanapokeintheeye]

The Pratchett Project - Terry Pratchett at the Unseen University

[Event News]

The Pratchett Project - Terry Pratchett at the Unseen University

Location: Trinity Long Room Hub, College Green Dublin 2 Ireland

Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2023 18:00 - 22:00 IST

The Pratchett Project in Trinity College Dublin is an interdisciplinary platform for research into the life and works of Terry Pratchett. It builds on the comprehensive collection of Pratchett’s works and their translations into forty languages, held in the Trinity College Library, as well as Pratchett’s personal connection with the College, borne out of the adjunct professorship he held from 2010.

A further part of this endeavour is driven by Pratchett’s own life story and inclinations. In 2007, Pratchett publicly announced that he had a rare form of young-onset Alzheimer’s disease, called posterior cortical atrophy. He subsequently became a passionate campaigner who was determined to reduce the stigma of dementia. A docudrama on BBC followed the literary career and charitable work of the beloved author.

So, research into brain health is an important part of the Pratchett Project in Trinity College. The Pratchett Project are currently developing this strand of the project to find new ways in which the implications of breakthroughs in research can be “translated” for members of the public. They aim to bring people together from various backgrounds and fields to make new connections, to promote public understanding and awareness, to change perceptions and inspire people to support brain awareness campaigns and get involved.

This Culture Night, they will be joined by a wide range of speakers, each discussing their research, which is in some way connected to the life and/or work of Terry Pratchett.

THIS EVENT CAN BE ATTENDED BOTH ONLINE AND IN PERSON.

It will also be recorded and uploaded to their youtube channel.

Tickets are available through eventbrite.

[the-empress-7]

“People would rather believe in the most absurd conspiracy theories, than admit that a mother of three young children is alive and well.”

Is this the bullshit about the video being AI generated?

Bloody hell.

How old are these people?

The rest of us are just hoping our adjunct chemo isn’t too gruelling for Catherine and that she might be well enough to go to Wimbledon, because she loves it so much.

Also, she better bloody take her parents and Pippa! 🇬🇧

Unmask them all I say.

[voidmountain]

@piratedllama I can but you’re not going to like it!

Void’s guide to getting a job in conservation

My story

My educational credentials: BAs in philosophy and creative writing from a big cheap state school, and a PhD in English literature with a specialization in environmental humanities from a small private R1. Couple years as an adjunct professor.

I trained my entire life to be a literature professor. It’s all I ever wanted. By the time I was finishing my doctorate, I had a very limiting belief that I was either over- or underqualified for any job outside academia. I was wrong.

By the time I made the decision to leave academia, I had published 2.5 peer reviewed academic articles and several magazine pieces. I also had about 5ish years of part-time communications consulting under my belt from helping run the writing center at my institution. I got a part-time social media/SEO management gig, and then used a grant to fund a comms internship at a local environmental nonprofit. Then I straight up just applied to jobs at conservation orgs on LinkedIn at a rate or 5 per week for about 6 months. I was looking for jobs in communications and education. Landed a couple interviews then got a position as a comms manager. My islander heritage ended up being relevant too bc I have a cultural insight into the regions where the org works. I’ve worked here for about a year, mostly wfh desk stuff, but I like to tag along to projects so I can take pics/do interviews/help with fieldwork/coordinate community meetings & info sessions. I still have a publishing career on the side, with 2 new articles out and a book manuscript in the works.

I do not recommend doing it this way lol.

What I would do instead

Conservation orgs have room for people with all kinds of backgrounds and expertise. If your goal is to have a job similar to mine, get lots of writing and science communication experience. Be able to show that you’ve built impactful campaigns and learn your way around SEO and communications terminology. Start with internships/social media, try and get some experience working with journalists, and have a nice portfolio of campaigns (easy way to start is an awareness campaign for a particular policy or science issue). Other creative experience is a plus (photography/graphic design/web design/UI).

Fieldwork is not that hard to get into. You can get field experience as an undergrad by working in research labs or volunteering. From there, lots of conservation orgs in your area are probably looking for volunteers or part-time workers to do field monitoring. TBH you don’t really need a degree to get into fieldwork, but the ceiling is kind of low without one. With a BS you can work your way up through an org probably to a manager level position where you could lead a field team but not direct a program. Generally, without a MS or PhD, you won’t be designing programs—just carrying them out, which can be really rewarding. You can also make lateral moves towards things like project management—coordinating supplies, transportation, methods, and problem-solving stuff.

Other ways to get into the field: orgs often contract out conservation tech companies to carry out specialized operations, like aerial monitoring and bait distribution. Getting a license for like a heavy-lift drone, an ROV, or boat stuff can also get you in the thick of it.

If you want to design and direct conservation programs, unfortunately you probably need to go to grad school. I can write up a separate post about how to decide whether to pursue an advanced degree if people are interested, but my general advice is Never Enroll In A Masters Program. Either do it as a 4+1 with your undergrad or go straight for the PhD. That’s where you’ll get experience designing your own experiments and contributing to the sum of conservation knowledge.

Extremely important caveat

You do not have to do any of these things in any particular order. It’s totally cool to work in the field for a couple years before going back for the PhD. You also do not need to link your education to your job (god knows I didn’t). My side hobbies of wildlife photography and scuba diving made me a great candidate for the job I eventually got, and they didn’t have anything to do with my degree or original career path. There’s also a million other jobs that conservation orgs have that don’t involve having a science background at all—HR, finance, admin, philanthropy, consulting, & policy analysis are huge parts of this. So are other jobs that aren’t *within* conservation at all, like journalism & social organizing.

A lot of folks I meet out here in the conservation world are on their third or fourth careers. It’s very, very normal to switch it up, try many things, land somewhere, leave, and pick up somewhere else.

All this to say: the world is really, really big. Don’t feel pressured to take the shortest most linear possible path. There are a million ways to have a good life.