#and it feels so insincere and manufactured

[justsomeguycore]

i can’t even believe i voluntarily watched a will ferrell movie but i’m feeling lukewarm about him lately after like a lifetime of really disliking him for no reason i was ever able to verbalize

[dinneronvenus]

⭒ Shishiba x fem reader

⭒ tags: fluff for perverts • heavy petting • emotional foreplay • pda • exhibitionist Shishiba • reader is a “honeypot” spy • secret relationship • canonically disabled Shishiba • praise • pleasure d-m Shishiba • mild jealousy and possessiveness

⭒ umm I had no idea how to end this before it got too long lol my bad I may redo the ending but enjoy it for now. I did not proofread this either lol

Shishiba has a fierce set of ethics and rules about how he performs in his job. He doesn’t get upset when people close to him die because he knows that’s just the nature of the job. It’d be hypocritical to be upset at death when you kill people for a living. It’d be even more hypocritical to hate experiencing violence when you operate as violently as possible. Any feelings that conflicted with the nature of his work were deemed pointless, selfish, and ridiculous. He threw them away and fulfilled his duties without a shred of insincerity. Or he did before meeting you, anyway.

It’d been a few months since you’d turned him into a hypocrite. He still remembers your first meeting like it was yesterday. The way you sauntered into the Order’s dining room when the chairman gave his cue was burned into Shishiba’s mind. Your dress was pitch black and a perfect fit for your curvy body; accentuating all the right things. Your hair and makeup were flawless—he couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking to your glossy lips as the chairman introduced you.

“She’ll be gathering intelligence from extremely high profile targets that have a weakness for the flesh.”

Suddenly the unbelievable beauty made sense. You’d essentially be used as bait and work in tandem with at least one member of the Order to eliminate targets when you weren’t gathering information. At first he resigned himself to not being able to pursue you at all, but after two missions with you he started convincing himself that something strictly physical wouldn’t be a problem. How shortsighted and stupid of him.

You two have been working your latest target for the last month, a ceo that turned out to be the host of a human auction, and not a second went by where jealousy didn’t try to consume Shishiba whole. Due to his low casualty rate and high discretion you were paired up often and for long stretches of time. He couldn’t bring himself to be rude or cold with you for too long but God knows he tried so hard to resist you in the beginning.

He tried to write you off, figuring your sweet personality and elegant demeanor were manufactured for your job. The more time you spent with him, the more he saw that you were a true natural charmer. In fact, he noticed that the way you speak to your targets and the way you speak to him differed only slightly. You didn’t praise him or stroke his ego in any way and never tried to manipulate his feelings or thoughts. That last part didn’t change when the two of you started fucking either. You weren’t shy about letting him know you enjoyed his mouth when it was clamped around your pussy and would even tell him you thought of him when you took targets to bed. The problem was that you did it so matter-of-factly. As if it should be obvious enough to not need saying that you enjoyed him more than the scumbags. He was desperate for the emotional side of you, even if it was fake.

Every second you spent in the hands of someone else was sandpaper to his soul. Hearing the playback of your intelligence gathering sessions made him want to tear someone apart. Your voice dripped with a cocktail of lust, respect, and adoration made specifically for the target. Flirty giggles punctuated your responses and the subtle, almost chaste physical affections you’d give them to solidify the fantasy often force him to disable the visual feed.

You were never so intentionally emotional with him and he refused to let yet another despicable man enjoy his idea of heaven without experiencing it himself. You came back to the safe house after your latest session with the ceo. Shishiba noticed that your hair was in a different style and your lips were swollen. He couldn’t help but picture you suckling on the fingers and cock of the ceo and had to turn away to hide his reflexive grimace. Your heels clattered against the floor as you slipped them off with a relieved sigh.

“Welcome back,” Shishiba said without facing you, choosing instead to make it seem like he was searching in the near-bare fridge for something. “Anything to report?”

“In three days there will be another auction. Our goal should be to identify the guests—specifically the bidders—and eliminate our current target. If we can set up to probe or eliminate others, that’s a bonus.” Your voice sounded softer than normal with exhaustion leaking through.

“Excellent work. We should go out to eat and celebrate.” Shishiba closed the fridge after coming out empty handed. “There’s nothing to eat here anyway.”

“Sounds good to me. It’ll be nice to spend time with someone who doesn’t make my skin crawl.” You said the last part more to yourself than to him but he saw an opening and took it.

“Such high praise,” he said sarcastically as he walked towards you slowly. He held his left hand out to you—two sleek black prosthetic fingers reflected the soft light—an offering of gentle affection. A code between you two ever since you first came close enough to notice he wasn’t just wearing a half glove. Genuine curiosity and concern for him gave your voice a comforting quality. He didn’t feel weaker or defective under your gaze. You didn’t probe him about how he lost the fingers. He extended his hand and you took it wanting a better look, next thing he knew he was taking off your clothes. Now every night he’s blessed to be inside you begins this way.

He nuzzled his face into your neck while his left hand interlocked yours and his right snaked around your waist. Your scent flooded his nostrils, your perfume an intoxicating mixture of sandalwood, marshmallow, chocolate, and coffee. Bittersweet and sharp, the best way to describe it and it’s wearer. You whined softly as his lips moved over your neck, soft licks and bites peppered between kisses.

“If you keep this—mhm—up any longer, anywhere decent to eat will close.” You failed to stifle a moan as his hand gripped your ass in the middle of your protest. “Let me shower and we’ll go.” Your right hand had found its usual home in his hair and as you pulled away you cupped his face. He kissed your cheek and shooed you off to the bathroom.

Shishiba gripped your thigh as he drove through the foggy streets. Once you two arrived at the restaurant he was the perfect gentleman, opening doors and pulling out your chair. The change of pace in men was refreshing. Sure, he enjoyed your body but he wasn’t disgusting about it and he wasn’t irredeemable like the men you usually see on the other side of the table. In fact, he was so sweet in secret that he made sugar look like salt. You had decided to order some lily raspberry sake for yourself since you didn’t have to see the ceo again for a few days. Shishiba didn’t think you drank at all, so this made him curious.

“Is it good?” He asked as you lifted the cup from your lips.

“Very, I’ll have to pace myself.”

“Lightweight?”

You gave him a soft “mhm” as you took another sip. Maybe you’d become surprisingly honest and he could ask you to give him exactly what he wanted. You two continued to talk and laugh even on the walk back to the car. It felt like a real date to both of you, but you wouldn’t be the first to admit it. As he opened the car door so you could get in, you ran your index finger across his jaw and gently traced a small circle around his scar. He didn’t want to, but he pulled away from your touch and stared at you hard. The immediate pout you gave him nearly disarmed him though.

“Don’t look at me like that. Someone could see us.”

“Who cares who sees anything?” You locked eyes with him and watched his cheeks turn light pink.

“You’re drunk. Get in the car, please.” You pouted again but complied. He shut the door and got in the driver’s seat. He didn’t reach for the keys or anything—he just stared at the steering wheel for a second. You got nervous that pretending to be more intoxicated than you actually were was backfiring, so you went to tell him but he cut you off with a confession of his own.

“I… Will you talk to me the way you do your targets?” He blurted out but didn’t look at you. Now you feel like maybe you did drink too much.

“What do you mean?” You tiled your head in genuine curiosity and reached out to touch him so he’d look at you.

“You know. The way you talk to them with desire and passion…” He looked like he was asking you to do something so unspeakable. It made you giggle a bit.

“You want me to be sweet to you?” You had a fire building in the pit of your stomach, you let genuine desire coat your throat before you spoke again. “Oh, Shishiba… why didn’t you ask me sooner? You know I’ll do anything you ask me.” You let lust soak every last bit of your speech and his reaction was priceless.

“Yknow… you’re really dangerous.”

That’s all he could manage to say before his lips crashed against yours. Your tongues didn’t dare part before it was necessary. You slid across the bench seat to snuggle into his arm, making sure to gently press your breasts into him. He started the car and drove in the direction of the safe house. He had his right arm around your shoulders, occasionally ghosting his fingers over your neck—he knew that teasing touches really turned you on and the sake wasn’t helping at all.

“Shishiba,” you cooed up at him. “I can’t wait, will you pullover?”

His eyes flicked towards you and then back to the road. His silence was deafening and that intense look on his face made you squeeze your thighs together in hopes of getting some relief. His fingers brushed over your neck and ear again as the car peeled onto the gravel of the roadside. He cut the headlights off and then turned to face you completely. His expression was hard to read. The eyes were still lustful but his telltale smirk was nowhere to be found. You reached for him and he grabbed your hand only to set it down on the seat with his loosely in it. A sigh left him and you could feel rejection threatening to bubble up in you when he finally spoke again.

“You remember the rules we agreed to follow with each other? What’s gotten into you?” He wasn’t actually scolding you but it sure felt like it. You had two options now: answer him seriously or double down on his request.

“Nothing besides you,” you replied while looking at him through your lashes. “Maybe we should change the rules. Or just break them.” You let your fingers dance against the palm of his hand. Everything about you made it hard for him to think rationally. His eyes roved over your face and body with more feelings than he’d ever had before.

“Then let’s start with the one that keeps me from telling you,” In one fluid motion he had a grip on your chin and was running his thumb over your bottom lip. “How beautiful you look when you beg me not to stop.”

He kissed you before you could say anything else. Hands roamed your body hungrily and squeezed away as they traveled to your chest. His words made your entire body hotter than the sake did. You leaned against him and spread your legs more, hoping he’d read your mind. He laughed at your desperation for his touch. He gave you the relief you wanted, slipping his fingers past your panties and swiping them over your clit and folds.

“You’re soaked already. Did you miss me that much?” He chuckled lowly as you moaned in reply. Once he slipped his fingers inside, you knew it’d be a long time before you made it back to the safe house.

[lipslikethegardensofbabylon]

#ttpd analysis day three - My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

(i’m gonna preface this by saying this is one of my least fave tracks in the album but i very much agree with @cages-boxes-hunters-foxes in that it is necessary and integral for the narrative. i just rarely listen to it lol)

the opening of the track to me feels like you almost trip and fall into the song with the production. to fully appreciate the first verse it helps to have an idea of the long noted history of depression /blues (don't want no other shade of blue but you; if your cascade ocean wave blues come; catastrophic blues) etc etc, enter: oh, here we go again the voices in his head called the rain to end our days of wild. basically oh we were finally in a good patch! aaaand... we're back in the hole again.

the purchased at the mall is very shiny toy with a price you know that I bought it, and the following lyric rivulets descend my plastic smile is especially interesting because the narrator is basically saying that whether sad or happy, either way it's insincere and manufactured (plastic) and they are essentially choosing whichever mood helps to get played with at the time. it reminds me of mirrorball's i can change everything about me to fit in

the there was a litany of reasons why we could've played for keeps this time has two (or probably even more) meanings - the primary one is it fits the toy/play/game theme of the track, but the larger application goes back to the (assumed) history of the narrator and muse (baby let the games begin/cat and mouse for a month or two or three/all the pieces fall right into place/back when we were card sharks, playing games/no more keeping score/ checkmate, / couldn't lose). essentially, we've been playing games (or rather this one particular ongoing game) for years, we could have a truce and just be happy.

the he saw forever so he smashed it up / once I fix me he's gonna miss me to me tell the story that the narrator basically came with every accessory, tried every avenue to make it work, but the muse chose to take apart the pieces every time. the latter lyric is funny to me because it truly reminds me of children, and how they seem to suddenly want a toy especially when someone else starts playing with it

[painted-bees]

So, your energy about your OCs is the sort of energy I wish I could have - but I have a hard time talking about my work. Any thoughts? My work is completely original like yours and I want others to love my babies, but I'm too shy despite my OCs taking up approximately 99.457% of my brain 🙈

oh, I am not sure how to advise you on this, I am sorry Q vQ there is nothing planned or structured about how I draw, write, or post about these particular characters of mine. I just talk about them because I am super autistic and I can't keep it to myself, and so I am compelled to make it everyone's problem.

Try not to let shame or cringe get in the way of your excited ramblings and enthusiastic outbursts. However, if posting about the things you love and are excited about just doesn't come naturally to you as an impulse, I haven't a single clue how to remedy that in a way that won't make your posts feel insincere, manufactured, and market-y, and I am so sorry Q vQ♡

[fangirlshrewt97]

For RRR prompt

Dhruva and Daya as detectives in a 1940s, film-noir style setting

1940s Film Noir is a genre i don't know…anything about really. But based on my Google research, here's what I've got. (if some of the plot points appear similar to other movies, that's cause I am "borrowing" them)

We have: Dhruva, an ex-police office who grew tired of the rampant corruption within the department, and now works as a private detective, accepting whatever payment his clients can afford to spare. Daya, an inspector who uses the power of his position to benefit himself. He used to do it out of greed, until a case involving a sexually assaulted girl who would never get justice because her attackers had money. Now he's jaded, and gets the money not for its sake, but because it's the only way to survive.

One rainy evening, a man, a boy really, barely starting to grow a moustache, shows up at his office, shaking like a leaf. He looks like he's not had a proper meal in months, all skin and bones, with bags under his eyes, and hair laying limply on his head. The boy asks, pleads with Dhruva to help him find his older brother, who went missing 2 days ago. He explains that they are orphans and his brother is the only family he has. Explains how he works as a newspaper delivery boy and his brother works at the matchbox factory. Dhruva takes on the case, and decides to snoop at midnight, once the factory is empty. Except when he gets there, the place is guarded by police and he learns a body has been found. His heart wrenches at the thought of telling the boy, except it turns out the body is of the factory manager. What happened? Could the boy's brother have gotten into a fight? Could this have been an accident, or self-defense? Daya meanwhile is told to solve the murder quickly, that the culprit is a worker at the factory, a 22-year old who had stolen money from the factory and had a history of talking back. The crime scene also has footprints matching the shoes of the young man.

So we have our two heroes investigating two connected crimes from very different angles that eventually run into each other at the young man's hideout. The place has been ransacked, and Daya is certain Dhruva is to be blamed. Till someone tries to shoot them both. They manage to duck and return fire, Dhruva even clipping him on the shoulder. But by the time they reach the place their assassin had been hiding, he's gone. Daya is now pissed, because it is looking like this nosey private eye might be onto something, but more importantly someone just tried to kill him. He's still not willing to share information with Dhruva. But it doesn't matter because once they are at the station, Dhruva uses the few minutes he's left alone to look through what Daya has so far. He's disdainful but unsurprised by the lack of effort put into looking at any other suspects. It is, after all, easier to blame the poor man who isn't even present to defend himself. Clues from Daya's sparse notes lead Dhruva to the mansion of the factory owner, and he comes to know the son of the factory owner is home. Meeting with the son, Dhruva feels he is being insincere, hiding something. But it still feels like a dead end. Until Daya comes in and gets angry with Dhruva for interfering and kicks him out. Dhruva is fuming but he goes back to the office to find his client, the younger brother waiting with his brother's diary. Dhruva sends the boy away, telling him to keep his head down and to find him at the first sign of any trouble. As he reads the diary, Dhruva realises what's been happening. The factory owner has switched the chemicals used in the manufacturing of their products, and these chemicals are slowly causing the workers to fall sick. The elder brother has managed to obtain evidence of the danger from these chemicals. Plus the way he describes how he tracked down the evidence, it sounds like he had a partner. Or at least a person who could be a witness. A witness! They could be the key to finding his target. Dhruva re reads the diary, and realises the witness and his target weren't just working together but in love. Love …Another thing Dhruva had grown jaded of. As Dhruva thumbs through his notes, he runs down all the people in his investigation. There's only one person who could be the lover. The factory owner's son. Dhruva feels idiotic not having made the connection sooner. Except before he can go confront the young man again, he is ambushed and kidnapped. Daya, who had told Dhruva to meet him at the station the next day is annoyed when Dhruva doesn't show. He goes to Dhruva's office/home and finds the place throughly upturned with clear signs of struggle. Daya manages to retrieve Dhruva's notes where the man had hidden them and comes to the same conclusion. His own investigation had been pulling up all kinds of red flags or things that were too perfect to be real. Knowing Dhruva was running out of time, Daya makes a guess that this is all centering around the factory and gets there in time to hear the factory owner holding Dhruva and the boy he had been searching for on their knees, with guns to their heads. As per movie norms, here's where the big climax fight would happen and the bad guy would be arrested. The two brothers would be reunited, and Dhruva promises to keep the secret of the lovers. Daya says he can file death certificates for the son and the elder brother. The trio decide to leave the city and start anew elsewhere. And for Daya and Dhruva? For the lone wolf who is living just to survive, abd the jaded ex-officer of the law who wants to confront the whole world and make it bend? Well, they agree that they weren't half bad when they worked together. Crime doesn't stop, and just cause one rich man was arrested doesn't mean other will too. But who knows, with this pair working together, maybe some change can be made. And, some time down the line, a partnership founded on professional grounds could morph into the foundation for something more.

…I have no idea if this made much sense, and there are plot holes large enough to drive a plane through , but it's a tentative first draft plot? Was this anywhere close to what you wanted? I hope you liked it @yonderghostshistories

Let me know what you think!

[construingseacats]

Umireread: Turn of the Golden Witch - Chapter 5: Guest of Honor  

Sat, Oct 4 1986 - 10:45AM

The following contains spoilers for the entirety of Umineko. Please do not read if you are yet to finish it.

I think there’s something to be said about how childlike wonder is torn away from us as we grow. The world is a wonderful place - there’s a fantastic tumblr post that makes the rounds occasionally about how something as mundane as going to a shopping mall can be an unending source of wonder, if you cast away the veneer of normality and complacency that usually clouds us when we go. Maria has been handed a cheap, mass-manufactured sweet that is utterly inconsequential to most people. And yet to her, in her fantasy - in the bliss of her youth - it is the greatest sort of treasure. And because she believes in that, it becomes her reality.

To talk about myself again for a second - with occasional exceptions, I tend to split up my working day by going out almost every time for lunch. Working in town centre, there’s no shortage of places to grab a sandwich or something slightly more exotic. Of course, this is an expensive vice; I argue that, as I don’t drink alcohol or smoke, this is an acceptable money sink that would be comparable to either of those. However, nonetheless, it is a money sink. I would save a fairly substantial amount of money by preparing my own lunches, or foregoing them entirely.

And yet… I hadn’t really thought about it until now, but reflecting on this scene in particular, there’s a sense of whimsy to it that hasn’t eluded me even as I approach 30. Perhaps it’s because eating out was a special treat when I was younger - growing up relatively poor, we could only really afford to treat ourselves to a restaurant once a month or so - but there’s a sense of joy and elation there that hasn’t been eroded by routine. It’s the wonder that you can feel by attending a shopping mall, but we choose not to. That’s something that I, personally, can’t put a price on. And I’d encourage anyone reading to also find their own way to obtain the greatest sort of treasure from the most regular of scenarios.

Eva Ushiromiya sees her chance to be a horrible person, and she takes it. Well, I suppose the entire family likes to deal with their own unresolved problems by taking it out on each other, at the end of the day.

Even if it’s only temporary, it’s nice seeing the adults being interested in Maria’s specific knowledge. Sure, maybe it’s insincere on their behalf, but to the kid who can’t distinguish the reality from the fantasy, that’s the absolute best feeling in the world. Being able to teach adults something that even they didn’t know feels great.

Criminy, Episode 2 is not letting up on this. I suppose that’s to be expected from the “Rosa” Episode, but still.

Rosa trampling on the hearts of everyone reading this Episode, old and new.

Hilarious subversion of the rose incident from Episode 1. Does it still count as dramatic irony if you’re lying about the truth by saying what happened in the previous game? I think it’s also worth highlighting this moment as another notch for suggesting that you should always be wary of what people say if it hasn’t been witnessed personally - we know that Rosa’s not telling the truth here, so what other falsehoods have we been fed thus far?

News just in: resident tragedy enjoyer loves how sad this scene is, and how much it hurts. More at 11.

Very funny moment where Kanon goes “wait a second, I know how I can fix this for you.”

I’m constantly amused by how much Nanjo just doesn’t want to be in this novel at all. Does not enjoy going along with the family’s nonsense, doesn’t want to talk to any of them, does not want to get involved with the murders. I know Gohda is a community favourite for not really having anything important to contribute to the story, but I’m kind of digging Nanjo for similar reasons.

“Worthless” male pride, you say? Interesting commentary.

It’s almost like the people you surround yourself with could cause you to perceive the sky as grey instead of blue.

I don’t have an awful lot to add to these Maria-Rosa moments, but I can’t not acknowledge them. It’d be a crime to skim over such potent writing, even if there’s little for me to add that I haven’t said already.

An island detached from common sense and reality, you say? Sounds like the perfect setting for a new generation of fanfiction.

I don’t necessarily think this is a “with hindsight” moment because it’s still fairly clear what is going on here - you tell a child to close their eyes and then swap out the candy while they’re not looking. One of the oldest tricks in the book. What I do find interesting is how this parallels the final choice in Episode 8 - how do you approach this scene? Is this just a trick, because of course it is, or is this magic? Whatever you choose here, will you still hold the same opinion 6 episodes from now?

Obviously, this scene is noteworthy since you can read Rosa’s reactions as being uncomfortable with the blackmail forced upon her (using the term blackmail tenuously since she could arguably have been bought out without much threatening). But, with that in mind, I wonder when exactly she was roped into this? The adults at the guest house did say that she had been gone for quite a long time - we just assumed this was due to her being stuck with Maria, but did she actually visit the secret room with Yasu during this time?

I’m sure she knows the inside of the mansion better than anyone.

The scene where Yasu as Beatrice meets Kyrie is really good, and I kind of wish we saw more of this in Umineko? I love the fantasy scenes a lot, but when you’re being presented with partial truths (that lean closer to fact than fiction) that are only slightly adorned with fantasy, they’re a lot more interesting to read than the ones that are drenched in outright fabrications.

Also, Yasu was born 30 years too early, she’d have made an absolute killing as an online voice actor with the way she can go between all these different personas without being found out.

Hey! New portrait!

One day I’ll be joining the hordes of Umineko fans by getting a giant framed picture of Beatrice for my house. I was kind of hoping that they would have been offered as rewards from the Umineko Gold Kickstarter… But we all know how that’s gone.

And so the reunion with Kinzo is delayed because he locked himself up in an anti-magic bunker. Of course, what we’re probably seeing here is Yasu considering the study as a base of operations, before realising that could cause some complications given Kinzo has been the opposite of alive for quite some time, and deciding to set up in the guest room instead where she doesn’t need to worry about dealing with matters arising from Krauss/Natsuhi/Jessica’s additional knowledge regarding Kinzo’s current status.

End of chapter! I kind of wish we had a meta section here for the moment when Beatrice’s piece arrived on the gameboard? It feels odd that Battler wouldn’t immediately jump on that with a “hey wait a second”. Alas!

[keaalu]

Secondary Trines

Everyone thought the fallout from TC and Pulsar’s affair was dealt with, but it turns out Skywarp is not so easily satisfied. (And Pulsar has a big mouth – but everyone knew that.)

Set a few dozen orns after [How Long] . Nothing explicit, fade-to-black etc., but some element of mature discussion (plus lots of manufactured melodrama and authorial fiat, WOO).

Reminder: Pulsar is a bike. As a natural consequence of this, she has a big mouth, which often runs away from her and gets her into trouble.

As a natural consequence of Skywarp being Skywarp, this is a good thing; winding her up until she blurts out something embarrassing and/or incriminating is the usual end game.

Today, the trouble is associated with an interesting revelation.

Second little reminder: Pulsar is a little femme (like, just a smidge over half Skywarp’s height). ((What can I say; I like a bit of size difference.)) (((She is also unrepentant. The fact it makes her a useful projectile at times is just something she’s had to learn to deal with.)))

---------

Night had already secured a foothold in Deixar, dressing the house in deepening shades of indigo. Everyone else had already retired to their private suites, leaving just two residents to monopolise the furniture in the atrium.

Pulsar had been dozing comfortably on the couch, sprawled out with her head on Skywarp’s shoulder. Initially reading, while he watched something she’d seen a dozen times before, until her attention began to wane and the wafer slid from her fingers, disappearing out of reach… and she decided fetching it back was too much effort and she was just too comfortable, right now. She’d let her optics go dim, all her senses softening into idle mode, and a handful of dormancy protocols had begun to come online when-

A sharp sensation in the tip of one aerial startled her bolt awake.

“Stop that!”

Skywarp huffed but obediently took his lips off her antennae. “What did I do wrong this time?”

She noticed the entertainment system had all gone offline already, and wondered how long he’d been watching her snooze and waiting for her to wake up on her own. “There’s other ways to wake me up that don’t involve biting me-”

“Yeah, but they’re not so much fun.”

“-and I was comfortable!”

“You were offline.”

“That was the point!” She brushed a hand up over her antennae, checking for new kinks; finding none, she settled, trying but failing to find that cosy position again. “I was actually enjoying just snuggling up with you, for once.”

“Enjoying it so much, you couldn’t stay awake.” He raised his voice over her protests. “It’s fine, I get it. I’m boring, now.” He was quiet for several loaded seconds before asking, in a deceptively offhand tone; “was he better than me?”

It was Pulsar’s turn to be quiet for a second. “What?” She glanced up at him.

“Thundercracker. You’ve been in a funny mood since you two finally fessed up about fragging each other.” He was staring up at the stars, sprinkling the sky above the huge glass roof. “Got me wondering if you were just trying to save my feelings, by saying it was a fling and you didn’t think about it any more.”

“…the slag did that come from, Skywarp?” She propped herself on an elbow. “I was enjoying your company! How did you get from that to, oh, I bet she’s thinking about my best friend, now.”

Lips pursed, Skywarp let his gaze drift down to meet hers. He didn’t look particularly serious about it, though – no doubt his usual flavour of insincere windup – which succeeded in rankling her temper.

She squirmed out from under his arm. “It’s not a funny mood if I just want to be able to enjoy your company without slag like you biting my aerials. It wouldn’t kill you to be tender, every now and then.”

“Like Thundercracker would be, you mean.”

“Oh, shove off, Skywarp.��� She stood to face him, bad-tempered. “He’s got nothing to do with it.”

He sat up as well. “Musta been a good frag if it was twenty vorns ago and you’re still thinking about him.”

“Primus, what is your malfunction, this evening?” Pulsar threw up her hands. “I’m not thinking about him! And I’m not comparing you against him, either! Let alone based on how good a frag you think you are.” She glared, and added; “or think you aren’t, apparently.”

“Not denying that you do think he’s better than me, then.” Skywarp vented a melodramatic sigh. “Anyone else would wanna take the chance to prove me wrong.”

“Mercy!” She covered her face with one hand and growled something incoherently obscene. “You're both gorgeous and I'd have the pair of you at once in a heartbeat if I didn't think I'd lose both of you just by suggesting it-!”

She visibly stiffened at realising what she’d blurted out full volume, optics brightening to such a humiliated cyan-white it was a wonder they didn’t short out altogether.

They just stared at each other for several long seconds, with the words just… hanging there, between them.

Skywarp’s brows had come up in a very steep arch, but his expression otherwise remained inscrutable.

Pulsar let her head hang. “Guess I'll go make myself comfy in dorms.”

“Hey. No.” Skywarp caught her arm before she could disappear. “Just… run that past me again.”

“What? No!” She jerked backwards on her arm but couldn’t quite get enough co-ordination together to extract it from his grip. “Are you telling me you didn’t immediately commit every word to your long-term memory? I am not repeating myself.” Her field felt scorching hot. “Certainly not for your amusement. Now let me go.”

“Aw, but I thought you liked it when I embarrass you,” he teased, pulling her into the circle of his arms.

“That’s different.”

“Howso?”

She closed her fingers into fists against his armour. “I'm trying to be serious here.”

“Uh-huh, me too.” He strummed a thumb down over her antennae.

She sighed, frustrated, and let her helm bonk down on his chassis. “You’re an infuriating glitch, sometimes. Being annoyed with myself and not in the mood to play with you doesn’t mean it’s because I suddenly want to get intimate with your wingmate instead.”

“…again.”

“Will you just stop.” She gave him a thump. “That’s not fair. I know we hurt you and I’m sorry, but you were dead, when it happened. Please stop making me feel like you want me to choose between you.”

He gave her a look with the most theatrically hangdog expression she had ever seen. “You do love him still, then.”

“Of course I do. We went through a lot together. I’d have never got out of Egypt in one piece, without him. He’s one of my best friends. But it’s not the same sort of love that we have.” She huffed hot air in a frustrated snort. “For one, he doesn’t send me obscene images of what he wants to do to me, or find the most inappropriate time of day to do it.”

Skywarp didn’t quite manage to successfully swallow the little triumphant ha! that leaped unbidden to his vocaliser. He made an abortive attempt to cover it with a cough of static.

“And that wasn’t what I meant, anyway, you obnoxious fraghead. You know you’re the one who wriggled his way under my armour, for reasons I absolutely cannot fragging understand, right now. You know how important you are in my life. You changed my life in a million amazing ways and I wouldn’t change you for the universe, but Primus if you aren’t the most frustrating aft I have ever met at times as well.” She stepped back half a pace, leaning into his laced fingers. “Now are you going to get off me, or do I have to sock you properly.”

He offered an exaggeratedly woeful little sigh and let his arms drop to dangle at his sides. “Fine. You wanna go be melodramatic, don’t let me stop you.”

She stepped free of his grasp, and resumed her flounce to the door.

He called after her; “What you said before. About the… both at once part… Do you ever actually… you know. Imagine doing it?”

She hesitated near the doorway. The silence clung on for long enough that it gave all the answer anyone could have needed, but she finally spoke. “…occasionally.” She flashed him a glare, optics like icy chips of temper. “But it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a stupid fantasy. All right? It’s stupid. I’m stupid.” She barged the door open with her shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

Disappointed, he watched her go; the streetlights glittered against her neon chequers and turned her into an abstract little ghost in the gloom.

Clearly this was not the good sort of embarrassed. He’d have to fix that.

-----

Night had fully sunk its teeth into the district when the boring square outline of Central station finally loomed up in front of her. Pulsar stomped past the front desk and ignored the desk sergeant’s attempt at a friendly greeting, and ducked into the dormitory block, going straight to the registry to see what options were available.

…aaaand it looked like home for the night was going to be whichever spare chair she could find.

Again.

She sighed, turned away and trundled wearily down the empty corridor. Had this stupid fragup happened earlier, she could have stood a chance at one of the spare berths in dorms. Mid-shift, though, and everywhere was already occupied.

Next time, she’d just… deactivate her vocaliser altogether, she figured. Rather than get needled into losing her temper and letting her big mouth run away from her. Again.

The couch in the corner of the officer’s mess was thankfully empty. (She wasn’t sure where else she’d have gone, if not. She was absolutely not going to camp out behind the intake desk in custody. Or in an empty cell.)

She let her motors unwind, plopping heavily down on the reinforced foam with a low whoomph of air. As couches went, it was… well, comfortable enough. So long as you weren’t hoping for too much. Someone considerably senior to her (and evidently never having been forced to recharge here) had ‘generously’ got it reupholstered, as well, so the cushions were annoyingly harder than she remembered. Not beaten to yielding softness by vorns of abuse from her friends and colleagues.

She scrunched a foil around her shoulders and tucked up into the corner, setting up a proximity alert so if anyone sat on her she’d have proof it was intentional; then shut off her optics, and initiated the first of her recharge protocols.

The last thought that flashed through her awareness before she successfully managed to switch off was of two pairs of wings, turning away from both her and from each other, and of being completely incapable of working out which set she should follow.

-----

Thundercracker was first to rouse, when morning finally rolled around. Skywarp followed him down not long after – unexpectedly alone.

It was… unusual, to have an empty seat at the table, but perhaps Pulsar had been called in early. Thundercracker didn’t pay it much attention; wouldn’t be the first time. The quiet made a nice change of pace, anyway. He called up the news on his wafer and got comfortable to read.

He got halfway through the headlines before the silence grew a little too heavy. Skywarp was never normally this quiet unless something was on his mind.

Thundercracker glanced up, and found his wingmate watching him, unexpectedly; optics subtly narrowed, head propped on one hand, twiddling a cube on one of its points with the other. Said cube was still almost full so he was obviously preoccupied.

“Is everything all right?” Thundercracker prompted, warily. “What’s with the intense scrutiny, this morning.”

“Had a lot to think about, before I managed to get offline last night. Still working through it at the moment.”

Thundercracker put the news to one side. “Did you want to talk about it? Maybe I can help.”

“Depends. Maybe.”

It was apparently one of those mornings. “Well you obviously do, or you wouldn’t be looking at me like that.”

“Fine.” Skywarp let his cube drop flat against the tablet again. “I was just wondering, if I look at you long enough… I might be able to spot what it is that Squeaky sees in you.”

“What?” It took an instant to parse the words, but Thundercracker visibly drooped. “Aw, come on, Warp. I thought we were done talking about this? We told you, we separated long before you came back. We’re not interested in pursuing anything intimate.”

“That’s why she said she wanted to interface with you again, huh.” The challenge in Skywarp’s voice had grown more overt.

“Uh.” Thundercracker licked his lips, uneasily. “…she said that?”

“Last night. Uh-huh.”

Well, that would explain the empty chair, at least.

And yet in spite of being his usual belligerent self, Skywarp didn’t seem angry. Just sharp, and challenging, in that way he got when he was determined to get an answer out of someone.

That someone wasn’t usually Thundercracker, though.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Warp. I can’t speak for her, but it’s never come up in conversation since you first found out. There’s been no reason for it to? We were being honest when we said we hadn’t continued anything.” But the longer the teleport stared silently into him, with those pursed lips and narrowed optics, the more off-balance (and slightly cross) he felt. “This is ridiculous, Skywarp. It was vorns ago! You know we wouldn’t suddenly choose to go behind your wings now.”

“Not denying that you’d like to though, huh. Interesting.”

“What? Primus. How did you get there from what I just said?” Thundercracker put his hands up. “You know what, this conversation is over. I can’t speak for Pulsar, and I don’t know why she said that, or if you’ve just… misinterpreted her, again. But I’m not playing along and letting you box me into a corner about something I haven’t done. Or said. Or thought. All right? Now if you’ll excuse me,” he turned his attention back on his flask, “I’d like to finish this? Because some of us have work to go to.”

“Sure, sure.” Skywarp watched as he picked up the wafer and glared thoroughly at the headlines, just to make it clear how extra done he was with this conversation. “Okay, anyway, fine. Confession time.” The teleport leaned forwards onto his elbows, features softening just a tiny bit. “I might not have been completely honest with you.”

Thundercracker paused with his flask midway to his mouth. “…go on?”

“I was trying to get her a bit fired up, right? I guess I thought I was just teasing, and she’d be all, right, time to prove him wrong! And she kinda… came out with something I wasn’t expecting.”

“I will never understand your idea of foreplay, but fine. Situation normal. What turned that into… whatever this big drama is?”

“So, what she actually said. Was.” Skywarp studied his interlaced fingers, where they rested on the table. “I'd have both of you at once, if the option was there.”

Thundercracker promptly choked on his energon.

“And yeah so ok, she didn’t really say it, as much as just…” Skywarp wafted his hands. “Vomit the words out and instantly look like she wanted the planet to swallow her.”

“So why are you telling me?” Thundercracker finally wheezed, once he’d managed to cough the last few drops out of his air intakes.

“Beeecause… I guess…” Skywarp offered a see-sawing sort of shrug. “I wanted to see if you wanted to?”

Thundercracker stared at him for a very long time.

Eventually he came up with a very inadequate: “What?”

“I thought it was a pretty straightforward question.”

Thundercracker made sure he’d put his flask down, just in case of any other bombshells. “After that time we spilled our sparks to you, and absolutely put ourselves through the mill in the process… You’re asking me if I want to interface with her. With your permission??”

“Not my permission, mech. With me. Together.”

In spite of it being physiologically impossible, it still looked like Thundercracker had paled. “…what?”

“You sure you should be downstairs yet, mech?” Skywarp waved a hand in front of his wingmate’s face. “Not really woken up yet, by my reckoning.”

Thundercracker grabbed the distracting hand and pinned it against the table. “With me. I did hear you right, right? With me. As in, both of us. At the same time.”

Skywarp smiled disarmingly. “Right. Humans call it a threesome.”

“A three-…” Thundercracker opened and closed his mouth a few times but nothing adequate seemed to want to come out. He quietly sagged against the chair’s backrest. “We’ve been trine for millennia. Is-is this something you’ve thought about before? Like, are you only just now telling me… you’ve wanted to do this… all that time? And I’ve just… what. Missed it? Never spotted it? Not even a hint?”

“Naw.” Skywarp’s features creased in that silly smile that crinkled his nose (and Thundercracker knew usually got Pulsar swooning. It… was kinda attractive). “I’d have told you long before now if I had. I guess she just got me curious?”

“Curious.”

“Yeah? I mean, why not? I know we’re both gorgeous.” Skywarp flattened his hand against his cockpit, fingers splayed, and Thundercracker couldn’t help the little snort of laughter. “You’ve never been interested to see what it’d be like?”

“Well-… no, honestly? You’re trine, Warp. The idea of interfacing with you has not once ever crossed my processor.”

One brow came up in an arch as if to say oh really. Skywarp sipped (intentionally causally) at his cube.

“I mean it!” Why did he suddenly feel so flustered. “A-aside from maybe… once. Thousands of vorns ago. We weren’t trine then. And then a war got in the way. Remember that part?”

“Pssh. Plenty of romantic trines out there, even if we never did.” Skywarp paused for effect. “…yet.”

Thundercracker rested his head against his folded hands. “I can’t believe you’re actually genuinely trying to talk me into this.”

“Why not?” Skywarp shuffled his chair closer around the table, and claimed one of his wingmate’s hands with his own. “It’d be fun!”

Thundercracker gave him a flat look. “‘Fun’.”

“Yeah. You know. That thing neither you nor Screamer know how to do any more.”

Thundercracker gave him a shove.

“Seriously.” Skywarp scooted back, and closer, this time. “So what if we’re wingbros. This is a thing we like doing, and you’re our friend. Pulse might not have suggested it on purpose, but friends share nice things with each other, and I thought: yeah, okay.” They were almost nose-to-nose, by now. He dropped his voice an octave or so. “…and you really are pretty attractive, into the bargain.”

Thundercracker snorted a laugh. “Colours aside, we’re identical, you vain glitch.”

Skywarp snickered. “Yeah but I never normally see me from this angle.”

“Are you sure Pulsar is all right with it?”

This time Skywarp did look a little sheepish. “Well I, uh, kinda haven’t seen her since she got mad at me and stomped off last night. I think she stayed in dorms. I haven’t actually told her I was gonna talk to you, yet.”

“Only because she’d have told you not to,” Thundercracker growled. “And you better not be using me as a way to apologise to her, either.” He sighed and let his forehead come to rest against his wingmate’s. “…can I think about it?”

“Sure.” Skywarp kissed his nose, playfully. “I can wait.”

-----

When Pulsar was uncharacteristically late to the daily pre-shift briefing, their boss dispatched one of her siblings to go looking for her.

Following her private signal, the eternally-elegant Longbeam tracked her down in the canteen. Pulsar looked somewhat frazzled; antennae askew, optics not quite at full brightness, and still covered in yesterday’s scuffs, contemplating her energon as though hoping to glean the meaning of life from the depths of the flask.

Longbeam slid into the chair opposite. “What happened to you.”

“No spare dorms. Stayed on the couch.”

“And there was me thinking you had a massive house – and a bunch of pretty seekers to go with it – out in the nice part of the city.”

Pulsar glared up from under hooded brows. “Those ‘pretty seekers’ are why I ended up sleeping on the couch. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Oh-ho.” Longbeam’s optics twinkled. “Say no more, sister. I wondered why you still looked so tired.”

“And what exactly do you mean by that.”

“Nothin’.” The tall bike gestured airily with her long, slim hand. “Crash with me and Vecks, next time. If nothing else, our couch is infinitely superior. You can fantasise all you like and no-one will interrupt.”

Pulsar swatted her hand away, and her sister snickered. “Why are you even here, Beemer.”

“Because you’re late to work?”

…Well done. Go draw a bit more attention to yourself, why don’t you. Idiot. Pulsar vented a long sigh and let her head clonk down against the table.

“So preoccupied that you flat out forgot why they make us come to this dump on the regular, huh,” Longbeam drawled. “Need me to go make some excuses to Nightsun for you?”

“No.” Pulsar’s words came out muffled by the tabletop. “Pass me a lid for my flask…”

In reality, nobody paid the two bikes the slightest bit of attention as they navigated the busy corridors, but Pulsar’s imagination was already in overdrive, (un)happily assuming everyone was talking about her. Why’s she still so scruffy / didn’t take a bath / stayed here overnight / have they separated / what did she do to upset him / really hope I don’t miss out on the juicy gossip. She kept her shoulders round and avoided eye contact.

Nightsun pinged a quick greeting as Pulsar slunk in and found a seat at the back of the meeting area, but otherwise didn’t break his flow, assigning cases and talking through the orn’s operations. She appreciated the discretion.

When Thundercracker drifted past on the way to his office, looking… distant, and distracted, for reasons she strongly suspected she knew… she slumped all the way down on her chair until she could hide behind Longbeam, and quietly took her beacon right off the grid. Just while he was in the vicinity. Just to avoid any awkward conversations in public. Just until she’d squared things up in her own mind.

This is such a screwup.

Eventually Pulsar’s shift ended and she’d run out of data to upload and reports to write and there came a point where she couldn’t justify loitering purposelessly at work any longer. And Longbeam kept giving her funny, knowing looks, so it would only be a matter of time before Pulsar ended up giving her an incriminating punch in the head. She left the building the most circuitous way she could find and skulked home with her tail between her legs, rehearsing over and over in her head what she was going to say to Skywarp. She’d not heard from him all day and didn’t really know what that meant.

I love you and can we forget I said anything.

…You spent all day thinking about it and that was the best you could come up with?

She settled uncomfortably in their lounge, on the edge of the couch under the house-maple, trying to concentrate on her datapad. She’d never really been that bothered that her feet didn’t reach the floor until now, when it felt like it might impinge on her ability to make a quick exit.

Across the room, the news unexpectedly clicked on, making her jump. Footsteps approached.

…and it wasn’t Skywarp. She swallowed the curse before it could escape.

Thundercracker settled intentionally nearby. She tried to ignore his proximity – and the way he was watching her read – but there was something off about his manner that was making the back of her helm prickle with a sort of anxious anticipation.

It was when he shifted slightly to artfully prop his head against one hand, still watching her, that she realised the game was indeed up.

She looked up and met his gaze, and immediately deflated. “…he told you,” she said, flatly.

At least he was smiling – and not in a mocking way, but a small, affectionate smile. “He did.”

She muttered something quiet that Thundercracker didn’t manage to parse, but sensed was probably pretty vulgar. “I might kill him.”

“I might hold him down for you!” He chuckled. “After I figure out which bit of this ridiculousness surprises me more – the fact you thought he might not, or the fact you’re surprised he did.”

His fingers drifted down over her antennae, trailing imaginary sparks all the way, and her fans hitched. She jerked her head away, frustrated. “This wasn’t fun to start with but it’s definitely not fun now you’re both sucking my sump.” She slid off the chair and made a break for the exit. “I thought better of you.”

He put out a hand and blocked her way as she went to pass him. “Didn’t you only just get home?”

“Yeah.” She looked down and watched as his fingers came up to softly encircle her wrist. “If I go now, there might still be some spare berths left. I’m not spending the night on that nasty hard couch again. And definitely not going to crash with Beemer, who can’t wait to rub it in-”

He kept his grip gentle – made sure she knew she could have stepped away any second she wanted, if she genuinely wanted out – but didn’t let go. “Why?”

“Really?” She gave him a tired glare. “Come on. Warp gets me to blurt out stupid, embarrassing garbage, shares the worst of it with you, and you wonder why I feel like I can’t face you right now. The last I need is for you to join in with mocking me.”

“I’m not teasing. I promise.” His smile widened, just a touch. He gave her hand a very gentle tug and she sagged into his lap.

“Well this isn’t fair,” she said, flatly.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to apologise.” Her fans had already picked up speed. Her antennae prickled, like someone had connected them to a lightning rod and a thunderstorm was brewing outside. “I get it! I have a big mouth and no filter and I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Maybe.” Thundercracker lowered his voice to a particularly pleasant rumble. “But I’m glad you did.”

It felt like someone had stolen all the air from the room. “…what?”

Pulsar realised she’d wound her field so tightly around herself, she almost missed it when the third person joined the room. A bolt of electric alarm shot right up her back and she froze.

Skywarp sat down on his knees in front of the couch, caging Pulsar at the centre of a circle of arms. “So are we doing this, or what.”

She refused to meet either of their stares, shocked and stiff. “Doing what.”

“Well someone said something about having us both at once.”

Oh mercy. Pulsar covered her face with both hands; felt like her field was on fire. “You’re a teasing pair of glitches.” Her words came out strangled and staticky. “You shouldn’t say things like that unless you mean it.”

Thundercracker leaned down; let his helm bump gently against hers. “Who says we don’t?” he said, softly. “We know you want to.”

“Just because I want-… I-” She let her head turn subtly to the side, until she could just meet the muted garnet of his optics. “I don’t want to hurt you. It was a stupid, unguarded comment-”

“We’ve all said something stupid and unguarded at some point. But now it’s in the open, and we can do something about it.”

Skywarp was leaning in, as well, now. “You left me plenty of thinking time when you flounced last night. Me and TC discussed it…”

“…and that made for an interesting orn…” Thundercracker added, dryly.

“…and we decided, yeah. We’re both up for it. Let’s see what it would be like.” Skywarp pressed in closer “I think it’ll be fun.”

“But you can say no. That’s fine too.”

They were both so intoxicatingly close she could barely think straight. There was no way this could be real. Perhaps she was still offline, scrunched up and uncomfortable and stress-dreaming in the canteen. She scrambled for something that might bring back reality. “This can’t-.. I-I don’t want to hurt you. What if it makes things… awkward, or you fall out, or-… I would never forgive-”

“It won’t.” Thundercracker dipped his helm, until his lips were microns from hers, easily close enough to steal a kiss. “After forgiving all the slag we’ve done to each other during the war… why would an expression of love hurt us like that?”

She could feel the subtle movement of the air as he spoke. So close.

So close.

“But, if you really don’t-”

“Yes.” She dimmed her optics, and breathed the words against him. “I do. Please, Primus; yes.”

Skywarp snrk-ed, then leaned all the way in and tightened his grip on them both.

A sensation of cold and freefall and of being in two places at once-

-and suddenly the lounge was empty.

-----

The first subtle blues of early dawn streamed in through the crack in the blind, slicing the room into a collection of shadows. Pulsar was first to stir, nudged awake by an internal alarm, and the reluctant knowledge that she had a shift coming up. She allowed herself an indulgent few seconds of stillness, to figure out exactly where she was – and more importantly, with whom.

It hadn’t been a dream, then.

Sensation slowly came back to her tired processors, as each individual module booted reluctantly back up. She felt sore, and stiff, and… weirdly stretched… and completely powerless to move, sandwiched between two large, heavy, affectionate bodies.

And… she found she really didn’t care, actually? It was a good sore. It came with quiet and calm and contentment, all folded up in a soft nimbus of protection and affection.

Would be nice to stay like this forever, actually.

She called up her memory record, just soaking in the remembered pleasure, for a little while. Thinking about those careful, cautious little experimental touches, working out each other’s boundaries and individual hotspots… Of trying really hard to give as good as she got, but also of being trapped at the epicentre of a tornado, swept along, ultimately able to do nothing except surrender control and enjoy the ride.

Then, when she was too sore and exhausted to do anything more, just… laying to watch, and purr contentedly, enjoying vicariously as they explored each other, in ways that were simultaneously completely alien (those wings, oh Primus those wings), and also so unbelievably familiar she could almost feel it.

Yeah; mmh, that had been good, too. Particularly good. She shivered at the memory, filing it carefully away, wondering if she’d ever be able to get Warp making those same soft little noises of pleasure and need that he’d wrung from Thundercracker.

She turned her attention quietly to her berthmates.

Skywarp was an untidy sprawl, of course, because when wasn’t he. Limbs and wings at all angles, as though he’d just been dropped there from a great height. His cheek pressed heavily against the top of her helm, though, and the arm on which she lay was bent around just enough for his fingers to rest on her hip.

The smudge of blue on the other side, in the periphery of her vision, was a less familiar sight to wake up to, but… welcome. It also revealed the source of the weight resting on her shoulder. One big wing protruded into her field of view, like a shield against the world. Thundercracker’s free arm stretched all the way across both of them; possessive, protective.

She managed to wriggle one arm free, and stroked the pale cheek pressed against her shoulder.

It took several seconds for Thundercracker’s optics to respond, and they remained dim, but his features softened into a smile. “Good morning.” His voice was thick, and distorted, but comfortable – as though he’d quite happily let his mind slip back into idle and stay that way for the whole orn.

“Very good morning, from my perspective.” She kept her fingers against his cheek and purred quietly as he leaned into the touch. “I was worried I just dreamed it.”

He harmonised his purr with hers. “I’m glad you didn’t. Thanks for including me.”

“Thank you, for agreeing to come.”

Thundercracker gave an involuntary little snrk, and they shared a tired giggle.

“Those were some interesting noises he got you making last night,” Pulsar added.

A little flicker of mixed amusement and embarrassment danced through the blue seeker’s field. “All that practice he’s had with you probably helped.” He stretched his shoulders, subtly, looking for a slightly more comfortable position. “…and I guess I needed it. It’s been a while.”

She pressed a little kiss to his brow. “I’d like to think maybe this doesn’t need to have been a one-off,” she suggested, carefully. “If you’d be interested.”

He brought his own hand up, and coaxed her closer for a proper kiss; her fingers threaded between his, pulling tighter against him.

“Definitely interested,” he murmured, letting his lips linger close to hers when they finally parted. “And flattered that you’d like to share.”

Her words came out underlaid with a subtle static. “You’re absolutely worth it.”

He chuckled. “And how long have you been fantasising about Warp and me together?”

Pulsar smiled and glanced away, optics brightening. “I stand by my assessment. You look so good,” she husked, drawing little wispy fingertip lines against his helm. “But who wants to just watch. Being involved with the two people I love most in the universe is better.”

He hummed his amusement, and let his head come back down onto her shoulder, at just the right angle to encourage those pleasant little doodles to continue.

All too soon, a reflected beam of strengthening sunlight had found its way through the nearby buildings, and lanced straight into his optics. Thundercracker grimaced and flinched his face subtly out of its line of fire, then sighed. “This is probably fate’s way of saying I should be starting to think of going to work, about now.”

“Call in sick,” Skywarp said, muffled and distorted; Pulsar hadn’t even realised he was awake, and if his volume were anything to go by, he was only just.

“Thank you for the tip, but some of us are meant to be setting an example.” Thundercracker pushed himself partially upright, and grunted softly. “Oof. Even if they’d rather stay here all orn. Until all their cable tensions rebalance.” But he soon succumbed to gravity, sagging back to his elbows. “Primus, ow. I am amazed you two can ever walk, if this is what the two of you get up to on a regular basis.”

Pulsar felt her optics brighten, and audibly rebooted her vocaliser to cover the embarrassed giggle. “Practice, remember?”

“They’ll survive without you for half an orn, TC,” Skywarp added, sleepily. “You’re the boss. You write the rules.”

Thundercracker dithered for several very long seconds, under the expectant weight of his friends’ combined stare.

“Maybe just another couple of breems won’t hurt,” he accepted, tiredly reorganising his bulk so he wasn’t pinning them quite so completely – but keeping that possessive arm around them.

…by the end of the first breem, he was clearly dozing contentedly again, growing heavier as systems went dormant, and by breem two was completely offline again, fans cycling with a low, quiet purr of satisfaction.

“So much for setting an example,” Skywarp observed, quietly, voice still muzzy. “I guess he never said what sort of example.”

“Aw, leave him in peace. He deserves at least one morning off for once in his life.” Pulsar gave his nose a little flick. “What about us?”

“Stay here as well, I guess.” Skywarp grunted and after a little ineffectual squirming managed to fold her a little deeper into his arms. “Seeing as we can’t get up anyway, looks like we have the boss’s permission for a lay in.”

“Probably imprudent to go to work with paintstrikes in his colours, as well.” Pulsar examined a little azure scuff on the teleport’s obsidian enamel. “Would you take a bath with me?”

“Guess I can indulge you, this once.” Skywarp remained silent for several loaded seconds before speaking again. “And fine. You were right.”

“…What?”

“…He is a better frag than me.”

Pulsar tried unsuccessfully to smother him with a pillow.

---------------

If you need a soundtrack to this, I guess it’d be this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tSRYvYN1ayw (Górecki, by Lamb. One of my absolute favourites of all time)

(Yes OK I posted this to AO3 MONTHS ago. I’m still catching up with posting stuff here...)

[marxalittle]

The concept of overexposure, in terms of our devouring celebrity culture, deserves periodic revisiting. As in, every few years the culture machine eats a person, and it doesn't even always digest them completely. Sometimes it takes decades. The consequences of this mastication are never properly contextualized until and unless something terrible happens or the celebrity dies-- and not even then, always. Fault is typically found with the individual for "wanting to be famous," although they typically wanted to do the thing they are famous for, and never expected (one in ten thousands) to succeed so radically. There is no support for excess of success, by the way. Once famous, the human being becomes a kind of community property in celebrity culture, and then begins the overexposure, resulting in any number of strange oblique maladies, warping and fading.

It's only gotten worse, with social media and youtube driving video creators, influencers etc to cultivate that parasocial relationship delusion as part of the game. Glib pandering is part and parcel of particularly video-based marketing, one simply does not build a large audience without manufacturing a connection by means of artificial intimacy. This is dangerous, not just theoretically: violence has come from these warped, chimerical, one-way relationships which mimic intimacy and remain impersonal. It's bad for everyone involved and always feels a combination of disingenuous and desperate to me. I can't decide whether to sock the insincere idiot addressing their camera as "bestie" or watch to see if they blink out hostage messages in Morse code. Both, possibly. These people are strip-mined for "content" and their whole lives transformed into one long advertisement for someone else's products. It's inhuman and violent in a way that doesn't seem to bother enough people.

This is why I steadfastly refuse to know very much at all about the lives of the authors, musicians, and artists whose work I greatly enjoy. I've read my share of biographies, true, but these days I restrict myself to the dead, who can suffer no further indignity nor madness. Their work is public, their work is the field on which I can meet them, the thing with which I am entitled-- invited, even-- to engage.

Their personal life? Their life as a person (two different things)? I'm not interested. Unless someone is being harmed, I'm not looking. It's none of my business.

[argonianprince]

The difference between an actual apology and a fake, non-apology.

I'm thinking about the difference between the way my bio family treated me before I excised them from my life like a diseased limb, and the way my loved ones and I expect to be treated at this point in my life.

Fake "apology": feels manufactured, prepared, rehearsed, trite, from hundreds of other fake apologies in the past. Doesn't take responsibility (doesn't mention what actually happened or, instead of admitting they did something wrong, they pretend to only feel bad about the other person's perceived hurt. 'I'm sorry you feel that way, I'm sorry you took it wrong,' etc). Dismissing and not mentioning any confusion they have over what happened since they don't think they did anything wrong, so there isn't anything to understand. Refuses to consider not repeating the behavior (they didn't do anything wrong so why stop?). Has to be pestered by the other person or a third party into apologizing. Feel like they are the victim and deserve equal sympathy, since being asked to apologize is just as bad, or worse, than whatever they are pretending to apologize for. Treating an insincere apology like it is the end of the issue, forever, and if the hurt party brings it up again for any reason, they are overreacting and being ridiculous.

Real apology: feels genuine. Might not even be immediate because the person is actually giving it some thought, not just spewing out their usual get out of jail free card. Actually puts themselves in the other person's shoes. Denomstrates empathy and understanding. Asks clarifying questions if they don't understand the harm. If they say they won't repeat the harmful behavior, they mean it. Try their best to make amends if possible. Makes a real effort to change their behavior if the issue is ongoing or frequent.

[stomp-that-ho-regard]

mircallablue asked:

(Sorry to send you another ask, I kinda want to post this in the cr discourse tag but I'm too scared lol. And uuuuh, it might be a long one, sorry).

Just to throw in my two cents on the discussion about Dani and the character playlists - we know that Dani did help Travis with his Fjord playlist in campaign 2, since he's said so himself, and we know that she chose a very ship-centric song. Now, this might be surprising to hear from me of all people, but I don't actually have a problem with that, and I actually kind of appreciate that they were open about it.

In my opinion, the worst thing about how CR changed over time (and ultimately the reason I stopped watching) was how insincere it started to feel. To be clear, I'm not referring to all the ways that CR became more "corporate" over time - I'm referring specifically to the way that they pretend haven't become more corporate. It's insincere, and I just couldn't get passed that feeling - that feeling of dishonesty.

To a certain extent, I do believe that CRs decision to starting acting more like a conventional business was both inevitable and necessary. For instance, I absolutely think that the cast allowed themselves be to be far too accessible to the fans for far too long, in a way that wasn't healthy for anyone, and pulling back in the way that they have absolutely was the right move. They made a lot of missteps early on because of this (even hiring Dani in the first place was one such misstep, in my opinion).

When I'm watching, say, a movie or a TV show, I'm perfectly able to suspend my disbelief, because the work isn't trying to convince me that what I'm seeing is actually true. Even in a medium where the artist might pretend that what they're saying is true, such as stand-up comedy (This crazy thing totally happened to me on my way here tonight, you guys), there's still the inherent understanding that, no, this is a routine they've been curating and preforming for months. So you don't feel lied to.

This is where CR started to feel insincere, and it was the main reason I could enjoy BeauJester where Beau/Yasha just left a bad taste in my mouth. I'm sorry to anyone who might read this that loves Beau/Yasha, but - it was planned. From the moment Matt says "Hello Everyone" at the top of episode 100, every single person at that table knows that Beau and Yasha have to get together.

Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, I'm perfectly able to suspend my disbelief for other scripted/planned works. But CR genuinely was trying to convince it's audience that Beau/Yasha was happening naturally. And because I could see through it (because a lot of people could see through it) it felt insulting.

To bring this neatly back around to my original point - that's why I didn't mind them openly admitting that F/jorester shipper Dani chose the ship-centric song for Travis. It felt honest. Whereas, Beau and Yasha having songs that say "I want someone to hold me/Let me hold you" is so blatantly planned, the fact that CR is genuinely trying to convince me it was a coincidence is insulting.

The phrase I want to use is "manufactured consent". And yes, I understand the inherent ludicrousness of taking a term used in political theory to describe propaganda machines, and using it to analyse shipping discourse. But, that's why so many people looked at CRs new talk show and said "this feels over-produced" - that's not a bug, it's a feature. The after-show used to be a way of answering questions the fans had, but now it's more about controlling fandom narrative. The questions are more tightly curated, only one or two fan-questions get answered at all, Creative Director Marisha has a tighter grip on the reigns (honestly, at this point, I don't even think it was a coincidence that she was "randomly" chosen to host the first episode).

And again, the main issue I have here is the insincerity, not the actual action itself. Because I could see through all the blatant BS, I just genuinely couldn't enjoy the show anymore.

Sorry to bomb your inbox with an essay like this lol. Just to close off, I want to link the moment that the whole "manufactured consent" thing first entered my head. It was during the campaign 2 wrap-up episode. The cast obviously knew about the backlash to how they handled BeauJester/Beau-Yasha, and in the wrap-up episode, the cast are all asking each other questions that supposedly, they themselves want to know the answer to. Out of everyone, the person that asks the Beau/Yasha question is Laura, but critically, she gets the question wrong. Like, there's very clearly a specific question she has to ask, but she asks the wrong question, and Travis and Marisha both know it straight away, before she even finishes, and Sam actually corrects the question. And you can see when Laura realises she got the question wrong, she points as if to say "Thaaat's the question I meant to ask". Honestly, once you start to notice this stuff, you can't stop noticing it:

(Let's also not talk about the fact that in her answer Marisha calls Beau a pig for being attracted to Yasha).

[LINK]

“But CR genuinely was trying to convince it's audience that Beau/Yasha was happening naturally. And because I could see through it (because a lot of people could see through it) it felt insulting.” We were essentially, for lack of a better term, gaslit. It was fucking suffocating knowing I was being lied to but being told over and over that I wasn’t. The cast was doing it just by constantly throwing around the word ‘organic’ like it was going outta style, and the fandom was doing it by straight up calling us delusional and talking shit in our tag.

You know, before this, I never actually watched the wrap-up, I just skimmed the transcript. Seeing this clip, I agree with your analysis. But back when I had only read the transcript, my thought was that this moment was just another example of how the players were not fully paying attention at the table. Pre-hiatus, Laura was almost always doodling in her notebook. So there were many times when she was some level of distracted, but she would usually get back on track. Post-hiatus, everybody seemed not as into it, and not as focused as before. I called them scatterbrained. And they remained that way until the end. There were already so many things they had forgotten or twisted around. They no longer seemed too bothered about ‘getting things right’. 

What’s funny is, all throughout those last 41 episodes, BY shippers kept saying, “Laura loves BY so much! She’s BY’s biggest shipper!” And yet she couldn't get that one question right? So she’s supposed to be BY’s most emphatic supporter, but she can’t even remember who said what in what’s supposed to be the most important moment between them? Sure. 

Now that I think about it, this kind of adds to the idea of ‘manufactured consent’. 1) We have to push BY so a BY question HAS to be asked. 2) Have Laura do it, since she’s the “biggest shipper”. Laura was simply playing her ‘part’.

[kofubisha]

oh my GOD i was almost late but here is your @noragamisecretsanta gift @nyappytown!! i hope you like this ficlet <333

please send to good homes

Your name is Sekki. You are bright and sharp, nearly a slice of moonlight yourself. You have no memory of yourself. The first emotion you feel is gratitude.

You had been unhappy before; you didn’t know why, except that it had been such intolerable suffering that you could hardly imagine an existence outside of it. You are grateful that you no longer have to.

But you are different now. Sekki. A blade. You know you were unhappy once, but it already seems so distant, like it happened to someone else entirely. Someone else bore that suffering, and you arrived on the other side, clean and perfect.

Shortly you understand that all this must be because you are dead. It doesn’t bother you. It seems, even to your shadowy consciousness, that you had been anticipating death for quite some time.

: : :

“You like cats, huh?”

Yato asks this when he has to yank you bodily away from a battered flyer advertising six kittens: please send us to good homes!

You jerk your elbow out of his grip and mumble an affirmative.

“Why not a fish? Fish are cheap. And easy to replace.”

Yato has been making clumsily disguised efforts to echolocate a holiday gift idea for his shinki. Having been thoroughly shamed by Hiyori for not knowing more of your interests, he’s been becoming progressively more desperate as the days pass. Which, really, is enough of a gift on its own.

“Cats and fish aren’t historically a great combination,” you point out. Yato appears to struggle with this.

“I was thinking…just…a fish…”

He trails off at the innocent sparkle of hope in your eyes, which is entirely and unabashedly manufactured. If Hiyori were here, she might be able to sniff out your insincerity, but Yato has become hilariously susceptible to it.

Without another word, he gets out his phone and starts furiously tweeting. You roll your eyes, heading to the crosswalk without him.

You do not see him lingering to take a picture of the flyer. After the two of you arrive at Kofuku’s, you do not hear him on the phone in the other room.

: : :

When you are slain by the war god, you live again. You become blessed.

It is now, in the moment between one existence and the next, that you feel it again: that gratitude. You sense again some divine mercy that let you be free of the utter loneliness that accompanies dying. You had been saved by it. And now you will protect it in turn.

You are Sekki again. You are twin arcs of brilliance in the hands of your wielder, and you rend the night as one.

: : :

You wake up earlier than usual because someone is screaming downstairs. It’s only when you’re halfway into the room that you realize it isn’t due to an emergency.

“So cute, where did you get it?!”

“Shut up, Kofuku—!”

You walk in on Yato, drenched with rain and doubled over in the doorway, holding something approximately the size of a spitball very close to his chest.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” they both say.

“Everything…good?”

“Yeah!” Yato grins, stuffing the thing in his hands into an inner pocket of his tracksuit. There’s a distressed, reedy little noise, which Kofuku tries to cover up with a coughing fit. She stops coughing when you glare at her, and flees into the kitchen, where Daikoku and Hiyori are making something that smells pervasively of onions.

“What’s that?” you ask accusingly.

“Probably lunch.” Yato is looking at the kitchen with longing, and his stomach audibly rumbles.

His jacket squirms. You lunge.

The thing in Yato’s pocket reaches for you just as you reach for it. Five tiny daggers sink into your wrist, and you yank your hand away, howling. Something white and orange is still attached to it, and you now see it is an animal.

A kitten.

“She did that to me too,” Yato observes, not offering to help.

Hiyori’s head pokes through the door from the kitchen. “There’s a lot of shouting out here,” she begins reprovingly, before her eyes go wide.

“Yato, you didn’t…?”

“I did,” says Yato, looking very righteous and benevolent indeed.

“That thing’s going to live here, isn’t it?” calls Daikoku from the kitchen, resigned. “We have to pay for its fancy food and litter? I hope you’re telling Yukine to thank us.”

“He’s thanking me,” retorts Yato, “because I deserve it for finding the evil little thing in the first place.”

Your hand is definitely bleeding, but the pain is forgotten. You are holding a small, shaking creature that clings to your palm for dear life. The kitten blinks in the too-bright room; its teeth are tiny and very white. You cradle it against your chest, letting it burrow into the front of your jacket, seeking warmth.

: : :

You never dream of desolation: of a cold apartment or its miserable occupants. You never dream of a mother who smiles at you, vacantly, before disappearing. You never dream of a sister who promises you the sun, then leaves you in the snow. You never dream of unsent letters, empty bottles, locked doors.

: : :

You take the kitten to the upstairs room, where she slinks under the furniture and will not be coaxed out for the entire day. As it gets late, you leave two saucers out for her—one full of water, the other of broth—and go to sleep.

You wake up much later, and find her curled against you, and after a few moments you dare to reach out a finger. It’s so unbelievably small; her skull is barely the size of a walnut. You think she must have been the smallest of her litter. Undernourished, perhaps. Maybe she was overlooked by the mother.

The thought of this is so much more heartbreaking than you were prepared for that it shocks a sob from you. It’s barely audible, it doesn’t even wake the tiny animal tucked up against your sternum, so close to the irregularities of your breathing.

As you drift off to sleep again, you hear the door slide open, the creaking of boards under bare feet. Yato brings the smell of Daikoku’s cheap beer with him into the room, and your nose wrinkles. It isn’t uncommon for Yato to drink himself asleep at the table, then haul himself up to bed hours later smelling like a bar closet.

Rather than collapsing onto his futon immediately, Yato rustles across the room to check on you. You feign sleep—quite convincingly, since you were nearly there in earnest. You don’t see his expression. There is something in his face as he watches the two of you: both orphaned, both much smaller than you ought to be.

After several moments, he shuffles to the other side of the room and lies down on his own mat.

He doesn’t turn the light out. He never does.

[detectivedamian]

Following Damian getting friendzoned by Jon, Jon realizing he’s in love with Damian, Jon trying to court Damian, and Jon figuring out Damian’s in love with him, too; Jon becomes emboldened by the knowledge that it’s him, that Damian loves him.

He writes him a note in class and passes it to him. It’s all rather simple: Will you go out with me? -Jon

Damian is confused at the note, because that sounds like a date? Oh, Jon must want him to pass the note to somebody. Ouch, but he’ll do it to keep his cover. And then he looks up and sees a pretty girl with long eyelashes, and of course he thinks yeah, that’s Jon’s type and passes the note to her. The girl takes the note, and is very confused, looking back at Jon. And now Jon is miming “no” to her, shaking his head, body combusting with pure red. Damian watches Jon bury his head in his hands and wonders what he missed. Damian has to go to lunch ahead of him because Jon spends the first five minutes explaining that the note was not meant for her, please, oh god, don’t misunderstand.

---------------------------------

They’re flying home in one of the patented Bat-Planes with their fathers after a long, arduous mission that Damian didn’t want to call for help to close, but the mystery led Batman and Superman to them anyway. They’re in the back, snarking at each other, the way they always do, and Damian smiles. It’s everything in Jon not to kiss him, then. They’re silent for a moment, Damian drawing up a report on his pad, Jon watching the way the lights reflect on that perfect skin, on his long eyelashes, the emerald green of his eyes. Jon reaches over, slowly, to take Damian’s resting hand at the armrest, and he squeezes it. The words are on his lips: Damian, can I kiss you? Damian... I love you. Damian blinks at him and takes the hand away, instead patting his back. “You’re flushed,” Damian notes, “Is it possible for a Kryptonian to get motion sick?”

“Well sure,” Clark says from the front two seats with Bruce, before Jon can scream, “...usually it takes more than a smooth plane ride like this, though!” Bruce offers some antacids and ondansetron, because bats are always prepared for anything, and Damian is already standing and lifting one of the plane’s many compartments up to retrieve medication Jon does not need to sooth an infliction Jon does not suffer from. Damian returns a moment later, hiding concern under inconvenienced irritation. Jon’s eye twitches as he takes the bottle and mumbles a very insincere “thanks”.

---------------------------------

They have to go undercover for a mission, infiltrate this fancy little gala where their target will be attending with some blueprints to a world-ending machine-- Jon isn’t paying super close attention to the overly-complicated details but it sounds like a death ray of some sort. Very James Bond. Damian draws up a backstory and passes Jon the papers and a costume, some patchy plaid suit and glasses that are wider and thicker than what he usually wears, blond wig, too. He looks like a total dork. By the time Jon has figured out how to get this wig to look like normal human hair, he steps into the main room at their Fortress of Attitude and finds his heart is stopping.

Damian stands at the center in a dress, bright lime green with ruffles, small black mary-janes with white pantihoes, and it doesn’t even stop there. He’s got a blond wig on, too, and it’s big and wavy, and those curls frame his face and oh god he’s wearing this ruby red lipgloss. His eyelashes are coated in mascara and there’s green eyeshadow on his lids and Jon can feel his knees wobbling as Damian bats his eyelashes at him. Jon coughs and crosses the way as Damian slips on elbow-length white gloves, then gingerly sets a hand at his upper arm and squeezes. “So,” he says with a blush, “I guess we’re a couple of betrothed lovebirds for the night?”

Damian scowls and slaps the hand away. “No! Didn’t you read the mission biops? We’re brother and sister, genius! Nobody would buy an engagement at our age. This is Europe, Jon, not the Persian Gulf.”

Because of course. Of course that’s how Damian set them up. Damian is manufacturing their fake IDs and passports as he’s crossing his arms. The night is going to be long, and awkward, because he knows very well that the interest between himself and Damian is not that of a familial bond, and people are going to notice them staring lovingly at each other, right? “You really think people are going to buy that you and I are brother and sister?”

“Of course,” Damian glares at him. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“No reason,” Jon rolls his eyes.

---------------------------------

On another mission, the’re headed to Hawaii. They can go as themselves this time, of course, because the Wayne Foundation has a headquarters there, and it wouldn’t be suspicious if Damian Wayne just brought his friend along to a tourist hotspot. Damian assures him: “We’ll be right on the beach, a prime stakeout location if we’re going to spot Miss Spumoni in the open.” Jon nods along, but he’s staring at Damian again, thinking about having a romantic walk on the beach with him, sharing a coconut together, kissing him in front of the sunset...

“Our hotel is roughly a quarter of a mile away from the Wayne Foundation HQ stationed in Honolulu.” Jon’s face goes red-- a hotel.

“Are we sharing a room?”

Damian scoffs at him. “Of course. We never know when we could get ambushed. Separating while we sleep is one surefire way to find ourselves at a disadvantage.” A hotel room! Together! Sharing breakfast alone together! One bed! Cuddling! A soft first kiss in the glow of the sunrise! If Damian notices Jon melting on the spot, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

When they get to the hotel room, there are two beds. Because that’s what they’ve done every time before. Jon wants to die. Damian is puzzled by the way Jon buries his face in his hands and stews to himself silently.

---------------------------------

It’s later on this trip, after the mission is over and Spumoni is behind bars. Damian relents and tells Jon they have the hotel for a few more days-- may as well enjoy the rest of Hawaii.

They go surfing together. Jon falls off his board and Damian laughs at him.

They do actually share a coconut together, having lunch at a shack on the beach in the summer heat.

Damian falls asleep in the sun and wakes up buried in sand. He screams at Jon who is at this point at the other end of the beach, grabbing a popsicle. He hears Damian’s angry screeching. The vendor is confused about why this kid suddenly just starts breaking into side-splitting laughter.

Damian refuses to go into the water, and Jon, renewed in all of this sun he’s soaking up, lifts Damian easily over his shoulder and drags him to the water as Damian is screaming and hitting at his back.

There’s one night where there’s a luau, and Jon convinces Damian to hula dance with him. There’s even a slow song, and as Damian pauses in his loose dancing with Jon, he looks around to find couples holding each other close and dancing together. He’s a little jealous, not that he’ll show it. Jon’s probably jealous, too, he figures, for different reasons. Jon would probably love to be holding a pretty dainty girl in his arms, slow dancing (while he stands at the sidelines and watches his best friend fall in love). Jon is just a friend, after all, and it still hurts. He grows tense, and straightens his back as he brings his walls back up. But then Jon’s hand is on his shoulder, and as he turns his head to look up, Jon is pulling him into his chest, smiling at him, just like he did at the engagement party that one time. “There are cameras here,” Damian mutters.

“Your dad’s a playboy, I think his son could handle a scandal or two.”

And to his surprise, Jon rests their foreheads together and closes his eyes, wrapping both hands together at his lower back. It’s so romantic, and god help him, Jon is playing with his heart now, and he’s mad about it. He closes his eyes, too, and he wraps his arms around Jon’s neck, rubbing his nose against Jon’s and hoping he doesn’t notice. (Jon does). They’re like this for what feels like an eternity before Jon opens his eyes just a sliver. He’s leaning down, closer, and Damian stays still, eyes still shut. This is it, Jon knows. His lips brush against Damian’s--

-- but it’s not even a kiss because there’s an explosion in the distance that startles the luau, and both Jon and Damian are pulling away from each other, eyes wide, before they jump into battle mode.

They don’t talk about it at all afterwards. Damian has no idea there’s anything to talk about, he’s just soaking up what he thinks was an accidental brush on Jon’s part. Jon is fuming at the universe. In an almost hilarious shift, Damian is the one all sunshine and smiles on the ride back, while Jon is quietly stone-faced and twitching.

[writinglizards]

If You Love It, Let It Go

Summary: Yennefer isn’t the only one Geralt pushes away on the mountain. And well. Enemy of my enemy and all that.

Read on Ao3

Finding out about Geralt's djinn wish is like being gutted. Yennefer knows magic, knows how insincere it is, how cutting, how fake. Finding that this gentle feeling in her chest is manufactured, no different from a glamor or a charm, is world-shattering.

She lashes out, Geralt lashes out in turn. They both say things they know will hurt, will dig claws in, will bleed. When she storms away, angry tears streaking down her face, she has one plan: pack up the tent and portal out of here.

The shouting that follows mere moments later is...not surprising, exactly, but the bard that stumbles into camp, eyes rimmed red and looking lost is, just a little. Yennefer watches him out of the corner of her eye as she flicks her wrist, using magic to get the tent to fold down small enough to fit in her bag.

Jaskier stumbles over to the lean-to he and Geralt should have shared last night and kind of...stares. One of the dwarves is breaking their camp not too far away, gives a shout of greeting which seems to jolt Jaskier back to the task at hand. He starts packing his bag, slow and methodical, his expression blank and distant.

Something sits wrong with Yennefer about it. She hates the bard, hates the attention he gets from Geralt, the way Geralt can't shut up about him in that quiet way of his, hates him for the competition he presents, even if she'd been winning. But seeing him like this, blank and silent, it's obvious he's upset and he's hurting and she can guess whose fault that is. And well. Enemy of my enemy and all that.

"Bard," she calls, pausing in her packing.

He jolts again, eyes passing over her only to slide away, expression vacant. "Sorry Yennefer, I--" he pauses, licks his lips, still crouched over his open bag, "I'm not up to par right now, I'm afraid. Perhaps we can do this later?" And oh, that's...upsetting. She's upset on his behalf which is just--

"I don't want to argue with you, Jaskier," she says, biting back the impulse to call him something less flattering. It gets his attention at least. His gaze drifts back over to her, settles.

"What could you possibly want, then?" he asks, voice soft. It's so defeated it hurts to even hear. It's the only reason she makes the offer she does.

"I'm leaving. Come with me." She's expecting some grand, overblown reaction. Instead, she gets a long stare, a slow blink in response.

"Why?"

"Because--" because he hurt you too, because if anyone understands this it's you, because I can't be alone, "--Geralt won't expect it. And you need as much of a break from him as I do." It's the truth, if only partly.

He looks...blank. It's unnerving--the bard is not meant to be still, to be quiet. "Okay," he says after an extended pause, no fanfare. There's not even a token protest. "I'll go with you."

They pack quickly after that. Yennefer finishes magically putting away her tent. Jaskier finishes packing his bag. He glances briefly at Geralt's things, expression gone vacant again.

"Jaskier," his attention slides back to her, slowly, "ready to go?"

He works his throat for a moment, no sound. "Yeah," he eeks out, "I just--"

"You don't owe him anything," she hisses, watching his gaze drift back over to Geralt's things, "we don't owe him anything."

"You're right," he sighs, closes his eyes. He doesn't ask where they're going when she opens the portal and she doesn't tell him.

They step out into her modest estate in Vengerberg, in the courtyard. She expects that now they have arrived, Jaskier will ask where they are. He doesn't. He just...stands there, looking lost. It’s irritating.

"Well, here we are," she prompts. Jaskier simply hums in response and it's too familiar--she's too raw. She snaps. "Are you going to fucking say something or are you going to stand there like a marionette for Militile's sake?"

He stares, eyes wide. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know," she hisses, angry, "but if you're just going to mope you can leave." She doesn't care where the bard goes (except that maybe she does, just a little).

"Oh," he says, voice small. She sighs, forces herself to reign in her temper.

"Stay for the night, at least. If you're still--" she makes a vague gesture in his general direction that doesn't actually indicate anything, "--tomorrow, then you can go. But stay for today."

The silence is too thick. She thinks he'll reject her offer outright, but-- "okay," he says, nearly too quiet.

She sets him up in his own room, sends the house servants to check on him periodically, and tries to tell herself she doesn’t care whether he chooses to stay or go.

He's still there in the morning, looking a little more like himself, although his eyes are a little red again.

"Good morning, Yennefer, dear," he mumbles around a mouthful of sweet bread where he's perched at her dining table. She snorts.

"Sure," she huffs, stalking through to snatch the remaining sweet bread right from his plate. He frowns a little but doesn't argue it with her (not a good sign). They stare each other down as she nibbles delicately at the roll. "So--" she resents that he's making her ask, "--how are you doing?"

His expression doesn't shift from the pleasant blankness. "Fine."

"Bullshit, bard."

He sighs. "What do you want to hear, Yennefer?"

"The truth, for once," she tells him, point-blank. It feels a little like digging her nails into flesh, a little like picking at a raw wound. Whether she wants him to hurt or herself, she's not sure.

"What do you want me to say?"

"You love him," she accuses, angry. Those nails dig in a little deeper, draw blood, "and he'll never love you."

His expression doesn't shift, but his eyes look-- "yeah," he says, quiet, "I do." He doesn't dispute Geralt doesn't love him but doesn't acknowledge it, either.

"And he doesn't care," Yennefer continues, sweet bread forgotten. She wants to watch that blankness crack, "you love him and he doesn't return it, doesn't care, doesn't love you back. Why do you stay, Jaskier?"

"What else can I do?" he asks. It's infuriating.

"It hurts you, Jaskier. Why let him hurt you?" She finds she wants to understand. Love, the good kind, the kind she's always wanted, isn't supposed to hurt. Can't he understand?

The look he gives her is soft and sad. "You don't choose who you love, Yennefer. Sometimes--" he breaks off to stare at the empty plate before him, "--sometimes it doesn't last. Sometimes it never goes away."

"But it hurts you," she reiterates pointlessly, brow pinched in frustration.

"It does," he agrees, one hand pressed to his chest, "and we don't get to choose that, either." His smile is self-deprecating this time.

"Why does it have to hurt, Jaskier?" She's horrified to find fresh tears brimming in her eyes. She turns away, tries to tamp down on the surge of pain in her chest. Jaskier sits, silent. "I hate him," she whispers, "fuck, I hate him."

Behind her, the chair scrapes noisily across the flagstones as he pushes away from the table to cross the room, awkwardly pat at her shoulder. "It always hurts," he murmurs, "you get used to it."

------------------------------

They don't talk about Geralt after that, although he lingers in every conversation, unspoken. He loves Yennefer. He doesn't love Jaskier. Yennefer hates that her choice was taken from her, that she seems to love him anyway. Jaskier is resigned to scraps of affection, always no better than second best. All of it makes her righteously furious to think about, so she doesn't (except, of course, she does).

Jaskier doesn't ask about leaving and she doesn't ask him to go again, after the first afternoon. It's...good. To have someone around that understands. Because he does, even though they don't talk about it.

They establish a routine. Jaskier spends hours in her library, reading and composing and singing. She spends her day in the workroom. They meet in the kitchen for lunch, have an informal dinner in the dining room, spend evenings together around the hearth of her sitting room.

At some point, she stops thinking of him as insufferably annoying and only amusing, wonders if this is how Geralt thinks of him, wonders if he feels fond the way she does, sometimes, when Jaskier is more himself.

It would be easier if she loved him. Jaskier is so kind, so good, even when she doesn't deserve it. He gives as good as he gets, but he's never cruel, not the way she can be. How could Geralt have ever looked at him, held his heart in his hands, and turned him away? Jaskier deserves good, deserves better than Geralt, better than Yennefer. Destiny has been viciously unfair to the bard, setting him between the two of them, a willing target for their joint suffering, their joint pain.

And yet he smiles, he sings, he refuses to leave. Maybe she does understand Geralt, a little. And Jaskier, too, maybe. If you love it enough, you let it go. She needs to practice letting go.

------------------------------

It's really only a matter of time before Geralt shows up--he's been to Yennefer's Vengerberg estate before. The house servants let him in, leave him in her receiving room (not the library, not anymore. That's Jaskier's space).

"Geralt," she says, voice carefully void of emotion. She's angry, gods is she angry, but he looks...bad. The circles under his eyes, always prominent, are deep, dark bruises. He's a little too thin, a little too gaunt. He looks haunted.

"Yen," he says, voice rough, like he hasn't spoken for weeks (he likely hasn't).

"What do you want? You know I want nothing to do with you." She's not sure about that, really, but when she says it, it feels true. She doesn't want to see him, doesn't want anything to do with him. It's not that she loves him less, per se. She still feels whatever this is in her chest. She just...finds she doesn't quite trust it, doesn't want to indulge it. They've only ever hurt each other. She wants to stop hurting so, so badly.

"I know," he says, sounding tired, "Yen, I know, but--" he breaks off, sucks in a breath like he's steeling himself for a fight, "--I need your help."

She laughs.

"I know, I know. I don't deserve to even ask--"

"No, you don't," she says, voice like razor wire, vicious. He keeps going.

"--but I can't find him Yen. I've looked everywhere and I can't find him. I can't--" his voice breaks and he ducks his head, hides his face. She doesn't feel like laughing anymore. He soldiers on after a moment, voice wavering, "If he's gone and it's my fault, Yen, I--"

"Geralt." Her chest aches, painfully. This is what Jaskier's felt, for years, she thinks. This aching, creeping pain as she realizes that Geralt isn't here for her, despite his wish, despite how he’s tied them together. He's looking for Jaskier. Maybe she's had him wrong all this time.

"Please," he says, turns his eyes back towards her again. He looks hollowed out, like there's nothing behind that gaze. "I know I fucked up with you both, Yen. But please."

She thinks about lying. If Geralt doesn't believe Jaskier alive any longer, he'll leave the bard in peace, give him the opportunity to start to heal, to move on. Gods know Jaskier can't do that on his own. She wants to. The selfish part of her thinks if she can keep him long enough, Jaskier might love her that strongly, that fiercely, after a time.

She knows that's another lie, but she does entertain it, for a moment.

The other thing, of course, is choice. She's had her own choice of who to love ripped from her. Could she do that to Jaskier?

"Have a seat," she sighs, "I'll be back."

"Yen--"

"I said," she snaps, "I'll be back. Sit. Don't make me say it again." He sits. She leaves.

------------------------------

"He what?"

"He's worried you're dead, apparently," she says, feigning disinterest as she examines her nails.

"And you just--" he waves his arms about for emphasis, "didn't say anything and left?" His tone is incredulous.

She purses her lips and qirks an eyebrow--isn't that what I just said?

"Fuck. Yeah, yes, okay. Um."

"Breathe, Jaskier."

He takes a quick, shallow breath, something edging close to hyperventilating. "Fuck, okay, I'll talk to him."

"You don't have to," she says. Don't leave me she thinks.

"No, I do," he sighs, leans forward to catch her hand in his. A few months ago she would have turned him into a beetle for that. Now-- "Don't look so sad, Yen, darling."

"Shut up, bard." He's going to leave, like everyone else. Let go.

"I'm not going anywhere yet," he says, like he's the one who can read minds here.

"You don't have to stay," she shakes her head, pulls her hand back, too gentle.

"I know."

------------------------------

"Here," Yennefer waves behind herself dismissively as she reenters the room. Geralt sits up straighter. Behind her, Jaskier bounces a little anxiously on the balls of his feet.

"Fuck," he mumbles when he catches sight of Geralt over her shoulder, "you didn't say he looked so bad."

"Thought that was a given," she answers without looking. Geralt's gone very, very still.

"Yen--"

"He's been here since we left," she answers before he can ask. She can see him swallow from across the room. They’re eyeing each other, something in Geralt’s gaze she’s never seen before. It reaches into her chest and twists. "I'll leave you to it."

She leaves. No one stops her.

------------------------------

Jaskier is the one to come find her, after.

"He said you didn't want to see him again," he says as he settles into the chair opposite her. She's been--not hiding, she wouldn't call it hiding--in her study since she left them alone about an hour ago now.

"I don't," she agrees.

"You still love him, though," he says, soft and understanding. She puts the book she's been trying to distract herself with down, looks directly into his eyes.

"I do. I still don't know how real it is."

"Yen--"

"It doesn't matter. We're--" she cuts him off, shakes her head, "we're not good for each other, Jaskier."

"And he and I are any better?" he asks quietly. His words cut, draw blood. She's had the thought before herself.

"You deserve better," she tells him, eyes averted as she stares into the hearth fire.

"Aw, you do care," he coos, soft. Then, a lot more seriously, "you deserve better too, Yennefer."

She shrugs one shoulder, dismissive. "I do," she answers faintly. It isn't convincing even to her own ears.

"Yen--"

"I want someone to need me," she says, thinking back to what she told Geralt, on the mountain. Before things fell apart. "More than anything."

"That's why--" he trails off, doesn't finish. They both know what he means.

"Yes."

"You don't have to have a child to be needed, Yen. I've needed you, this whole time. You know that, don't you?"

"And now you don't," she says, trying not to sound bitter. He’s leaving, like everyone else. Found something better. They both are, this time. (It hurts, gods does it never stop hurting?)

"No," Jaskier shakes his head, gently, "just what I need is different."

"And what do you need now, bard?" She twists to face him fully, expression hard. She doesn't appreciate his lies.

"I need you to be there, when Geralt inevitably fucks up again. To listen. To talk to." It's not the same, but-- "I do love you, Yen."

"You're awful," she tells him, eyes downturned. There's a warm feeling surging in her chest, something tender and delighted, licking warmth melting the cold ice feeling of dread. He believes what he’s telling her--it’s the truth.

"I love you too," he smiles, eyes bright. "Are we good?"

She sucks in a deep breath. "We're good, bard." The smile that lights his face is radiant, perfect. In another universe, she might have loved him, the same way she might have loved Geralt, untainted by the djinn wish. The difference is that this is still clean, untouched by magic. It's not the deep, romantic love she's longed for since she was a child, but it's milder, truer. She believes him in a way she's never quite believed anyone else before.

If you love it, let it go. He may be leaving, but he'll be back.

[notepadsandtealeaves]

John Marston x GN!Reader in: Yours

From the van der Linde Boys, With Love 💌 || VDE 2021

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT || 18+ ONLY ||

|| ao3 version | event m.list | rdr tag | main blog ||

|| rdr vde (ladies) | batboys vde | bnha vde ||

If you’ve ever thought you saw me pinching myself, you probably did, haha. A little ridiculous, maybe, but can you blame me when everyday with you feels like some sort of waking dream? I don’t think so, I don’t think so at all…

His love for you is simple and honest, plain and true…

↠ Requested By: My burning desire to receive a love letter lol ↠ Reader Gender: Neutral ↠ Content Type: SFW fluff ((but my blog’s 18+ so if minors want to consume my sfw stuff while still respecting my wishes of them staying out of this space, they can head over to my AO3)) ↠ CWs: None ↠ Betas? Nah, we don’t do that here. ((tho we should, honestly)) ↠ Total WC: ~500

|| Yours

To my baby,

I’m gonna level with you here—I don’t know what an actual angel like you wants with an ornery ol’ bastard like me, but shit, if you’re not inclined to leave then I won’t make you.

I know that I’m not the easiest man to like most days, never mind love, but you manage to do both with what seems like very little effort. Seeing as how I myself have trouble with that from time to time you’re gonna have to teach me your secrets. But that’s all a bit darker and heavier than what I’m going for here, so I’ll move on.

It’s Valentine’s Day, aka Manufactured Love Day—can you tell it’s not my favorite holiday? There’s just something about the whole thing that rubs me the wrong way, but being with you makes the day a helluva lot more bearable. I know you said we don’t have to do anything, and I also know that you said that for my sake more than anything. You’re too good to me baby, way better than what I deserve honestly, and you shouldn’t have to always make concessions just because I’m, well me. Compromise works both ways, after all.

So in the spirit of loving you right and proper I’ve got a few things planned for the day. It’s nothing major, just a nice lunch in town, a gift, and this letter. Other than the lunch there’s no set plans so the day is ours to do with as we please. The time before and after can be spent however you want, but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have… ideas as to what we can do with it…

Like I said it’s not much, and I thought about doing more, but I didn’t want to come off as… insincere? I guess? I felt like trying too hard would send the wrong message, you know? I’m a simple man, always have been, always will be, and my affections run along the same lines. In a way I think that’s better because if nothing else you always know where you stand with me. That said, I don’t think I’ve properly told you that I love you yet, so–

____, I love you. So, so much. I don’t know if I say that enough, but I’ll be better about it in the future, I promise.

That’s what you do to me, you make me want to be better, and that’s a gift I’ll never be able to repay in full, I know, but that won’t stop me from trying every day. I know that you’ll tell me that my loving you in return is more than enough, and maybe it is, but that just means all my other efforts are all added bonuses and who doesn’t want more of a good thing?

Alright, this is starting to get long and I’ve said all that really needs saying so I’ll end things here.

Yours, John

© notepadsandtealeaves, 2021 || Please do not repost, translate, or otherwise alter or distribute my works without my express permission. And for the love of god keep it away from Youtube and TikTok lol…

[soulcluster-moved]

@delamuertes​​ / big boss John has never been good with this stuff, every attempt made always comes off as insincere despite his efforts. Every year, every holiday, it feels like the same old song he tries playing. The double whammy of Lara's birthday falling on a holiday just make it harder that he tends to pretend no holiday even exists. And this year he's settled on an (accurate) life sized replica of a velociraptor. Was it cheap? No. Did he just have it shipped straight to her mansion sans any attempt at a cute wrapping of this gigantic box? Yes absolutely. Is there a note? Yes, from the manufacturer wishing her a happy birthday on behalf of John. So here John stands, watching the box with only vague interest as Lara wanders about it trying to recall if she'd bought something. "No that was from me. To you."

It was Lara’s birthday! (2/14)

Lara has long accepted that John isn’t going to be extravagant at his gift giving. She doesn’t mind the Christmas rocks. In fact, she thinks they’re the best and has the whole collection in her office. He keeps her on her toes, in more way than one, and she loves him for him. It’s why she’s surprised, and yet, when she thinks about it, not really, that this giant, unmarked, plain box is from him. She can guess the reason why, even if he doesn’t say it.

With the confirmation out of the way, Lara began opening the box, pulling at the packaging until it revealed the truly unexpected gift: a life-size replica of a velociraptor. She had taken pictures of them in the lost valley and wondered if he had it specially made. Regardless, she was absolutely thrilled with it.

“It’s lovely,” she marveled, walking around the dinosaur with wide, excited eyes. Her fingertips ran across its skin, feeling the texture of the scales and the workmanship that went into it. It seemed it may come alive at any moment.

Lara walked over to John and boosted herself up to give him a long kiss. “Thank you.”

[spectrumed]

8. book

I decided to start writing a book. A novel, it’s going to be fiction. It’s a big project. I dread big projects. I don’t feel as if I am ever able to complete them. It’s going to be left unfinished, why do I even bother? So many projects that I’ve started and never finished. I get an idea, then I can’t make myself do the actual work to make it a reality. Why do I think I can write a book when I can barely read books without becoming distracted and doing something else instead? I give up too easily. But, then again, do I really have it in me to produce something that is good? That people would want to read? Insecurity creeps in, telling me that I will fail. I fear failure. Of course I do, who doesn’t? Whenever people say that their greatest fear is failure, all I wonder is who out there is not afraid of failure? Is there someone out there with so much confidence that they absolutely do not in any way fear failure? Even narcissists technically fear failure, it is what leads them to such ridiculous overcompensation, putting on the facade of bravado to mask their actual dire sense of insecurity. Do not fall for the scams, no person is truly without self-doubt. (Well, I guess maybe psychopaths, but there’s a whole lot of things amiss with them.)

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve entertained myself by coming up with stories, fictional universes that I would populate with characters of my own invention. When I was a kid, what I really wanted was to become a comic book writer and artist. Well, in between other gigs I imagined would suit me, including at one point wanting to be a “singing farmer,” as I put it. Still, I’ve always returned to fiction and storytelling. There’s something about creating a world that lets you so fully distract yourself from all the stressful daily hullabaloo that goes on around you. Escapism, it’s fun, it’s therapeutic, I think. There’s a reason why humans have been telling each other stories for millennia, since even before we lived in houses. Back when we were all huddled around the fire, wearing our best comfortable animal furs, sharing tales of the hunt. Your uncle who once took part in killing a mammoth, the impressive beast nearly gorging him with its big tusks. How clever he was when he noticed that the mammoth had one leg weaker than the others, and used that to his advantage. How the entire hunting party banded together to bring the behemoth down, getting all that meat to feed their families with for months! Stories make you feel good. Like as if you have something to celebrate, even when you might be starving due to the more recent hunts not having gone as well. Damn that saber-tooth tiger that killed your uncle…

Storytelling is linked to acting. Both with acting and with storytelling you have to commit. Whatever you are doing, whatever role you are performing, you have to sell it. You may be on stage talking about that time you went scuba diving with your future wife, and how you encountered an oyster with the most magnificent pearl inside, and how you made a ring for the pearl and used it when you proposed to her. You have to sell it. You have to get the audience laughing, gasping, crying, going “aww,” feeling as if they were there with you that day. Of course, they don’t know it is all just lies. You made it up. It’s all fiction. But you committed, so they won’t ever know. Storytelling is a gift to others, people will appreciate you if you tell good stories, but you’re also kinda deviant. Even if it’s technically based on a true story, you’ve certainly added your embellishments. You’re a trickster, a devious individual. No wonder actors have historically been seen as dubious folks. They come into town, romances all the young women and men, telling them big tales of their lives on the road, and they can’t possibly know if you are telling the truth or not. You may just be lying. You probably are lying. Let’s be honest, you’ve probably not told a single true thing in your life.

I am bad at the hustle. No, I can talk quite well, and I can keep people’s attention for a long while. But I can’t be a huckster. Going out there, putting myself on the line hoping people will swallow my bullshit. I can’t really avoid speaking from my heart when I do speak. Or when I write, as I happen to be doing now. This blog has so far been thoroughly candid in places, in such a way I may come across like I’m at a confessional. Not that I have much evil to confess, but I can’t help but be transparent. I can’t flip into different kinds of personalities, each with its own schemes and plots, being some master manipulator, someone who you can never figure out what they're truly up to, or what they truly want. No, what I am is clearly written on my face. I’ve got one self, and it is the one before you. He’s hairy, and tall, and a bit of a dork. I am happy to talk to you, to engage with you, but I won’t be anyone but myself. I am me. I hope that’ll do.

Of course you are familiar with all those pick-up artists that plagues the internet. Or well, not just the internet. Go into any old-fashioned bookstore (where they store books on paper, not in digital code,) and you are bound to find some sleazy book written by a sleazy guy about how to sleazily seduce women. Those books don’t want you acting like me. According to them, seduction is all about manipulation. To figure out the very right thing to say to get women to fawn all over you. They don’t want you to be sincere, telling the truth as you see it. Nah, you gotta keep that stuff bottled up, deep down inside your soul, because most likely, your true self is ugly. It’s interesting how you can get little details from these pick-up artists depending on the sort of things they say, the tips they provide. The fact that all of them seem to harbour this festering misogyny is no big surprise, but every so often, you get these little glimpses of these people’s true worldview, one where power is everything, true love is a fallacy, and happiness is a lie manufactured by Hollywood to make us all into docile consumers. No wonder the “red-pill” so often leads to people taking the “black-pill.” First hucksters will lure you in, telling you that they’ve got the secret as to how to be a success, then when they’ve got you isolated, they reveal to you how truly misanthropic and bleak their actual beliefs are.

I am fascinated with cults, for much of the same reason why I am fascinated with storytelling. What is a cult leader if not just a great storyteller? They’re something like the modern day shaman, capable of spellbinding people with their weird idiosyncratic way of speaking. High-functioning people with autism are often said to have an idiosyncratic way of speaking. No, I am not suggesting that cult leaders are all somewhere on the spectrum, though it wouldn’t surprise me if some famous cult leaders did turn out to have been on the spectrum. However, for an autistic person to become a cult leader, I think they would have to be a true believer, and not some fraud just looking to scam others. Ultimately, no autistic person would want to surround themselves with people unless they truly do believe it is essential, to like, save mankind from damnation or something. It’s the difference between sincerity and insincerity. It is difficult for autistic people to be insincere, as insincerity requires a lot of social skills that autistic people struggle with. Having to juggle all these balls in the air, making sure you keep the big lie going, that you remember to change your behaviour depending on who you are speaking to in order to keep them from figuring out that you’re a bullshitter. Hollow people are great at being insincere. People like L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of the highly profitable cult that is Scientology, was at his core a hollow individual. He had no problems twisting the minds of the people around him, because he never felt a need to be sincere. If an autistic person were to become a cult leader, I can guarantee you that it wouldn’t be a profitable cult. Nah, autistic people aren’t in it for the money, we’re all about keeping it real.

Being a sincere person, surely I should be able to write a novel and make it feel earnest. Like it was delivered with passion, because I wouldn’t be able to write anything that wasn’t true to myself. Well, I do hope so. Having something I’ve made be referred to as genuine is something I see as a great compliment. I’m a student of art history, I’ve made some “serious” art before, I know how terrible art can be when it is not delivered with good faith. Sure, some art is cynical, or ironic, but even then, it tends to come from a real place. Good artists, even when they’re fully armed with the dada mindset, must believe in what they are doing. Whether they are doing it for a laugh or not, that’s irrelevant. Even if all you wish is to be silly and make something that is comical, you have to believe in what you are creating. Or else people won’t bother engaging with it. Why look at a painting by someone who is just interested in making money? Insincere artists do exist, and they can end up becoming quite successful, but ultimately, history won’t be kind to them. Damien Hirst comes to mind, heard he's into NFTs now.

Sure, I don’t like insincere people. Does that make me a bigot? Like, it’s not as if they can help themselves. It’s just who they are, spineless maggots with no soul. It doesn’t mean we have to hate them. No, no, no... I am just generalising. Don’t go thinking there’s just two kinds of people in the world, the sincere and the insincere. It’s not a binary. Most people are both, just like with introverts and extroverts, humans are complex. But there are definitely those that decide to feed into their insincere side, realising that it is often the key to success. Through insincerity, you learn to let go of self-doubt, you stop worrying so much about what others think of you, because you are never truly yourself. If they hate you, then so what? They don’t actually hate you, they just hate a role that you are playing. So what if you seduced that woman, made her feel as if you were the perfect match, then you ghosted her and completely forgot about her? It’s her fault for falling for your tricks. You were clearly just playing the game, being a super-seducer, she should have known better. By embracing insincerity, it’s like gaining a superpower. No longer do you have to care about the impact you have on others, no longer do you have to worry about what it means to be a social human being making choices that affect the others around you. Because you’re not the person they think you are. Actually, you’re not quite sure you’re the person you think you are… Who are you?

I’ve got the plot all laid out in my head for the novel. It’s going to be based in the fantasy world that I’ve been working on for the last few years. I’ve been working on this world for almost half a decade now, come to think of it. Why do I keep feeling as if I am never able to keep to a project, when I’ve clearly been working on a massive project all this time? Sure, it’s all just in my head, but it’s not as if most people have the kind of patience to keep going back to a single big project, even if it is just in their head. Not once, while thinking about my fantasy world have I been distracted and started thinking about cute puppies, instead. And you know how difficult that is. Maybe I am too hard on myself. Maybe I will finish this book, and maybe people will want to read it. Maybe it will even get a minimal number of angry reviews, like, I may get a book published without some folks trying to harass me into committing suicide for daring to think I can write. Some people may even be enthusiastic, blowing up my ego with great praise. Maybe someone will come along and tell me that they want to buy the rights to make my book into a movie or a television series. Maybe I will get rich? Maybe I will get famous! Woo! Success here I come!

Well, no, here I go being insincere. That’s not what it’s about. I should be writing this book because I want to write it. Because I want to prove to myself that I am able to write it. Sure, it’s not as if there’s not a little brain goblin inside my mind whispering sweet nothings about how one day I might turn out a real respected author. One with real fans that gets to do big book tours talking about how brilliant I am, how brilliant my work is, and how brilliant things are going for me. I am not going to pretend I don’t have the same aspirations for success that others have. Inside of me you will find the same greedy piglet of an ego hungry for more adoration and more validation that you will find in any person. Humans don’t know when to quit, we always want more. But I am at least safe knowing that I will never debase myself, descending to the same depths as those inhabited by soulless grifters who go through life abusing the trust of others in order to get by. I’m sincere, in the end. I always turn out sincere, in the end. I am a good boy.

And I am also really sexy. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before on this blog, but I am really, REALLY, sexy. Like, you wouldn’t believe it. Oh, I am so hot. And if you follow and subscribe and hit that bell, I will teach you how you can be just as sexy as I am! And buy my book! And my merch! And my new single! And of course, my new cryptocurrency, by the name of “autism-coin.” It’s going to be a real success on 4chan, let me tell ya!