#astro snippet

[astronautbeans]

hai i like ur writing :3 u should write transfem zam in the spirit of the poll

thank you for your service o7 and thank you so much that's so kind :D

everyone go vote Zam in the @mcyt-gender-showdown right now!!! we can do this!!!

transfem zam our beloved <3 i couldn't come up with any ideas until this hit me but like it's so silly don't laugh i'm so sleep deprived rn FKGDHFDJS

"This has to be your worst idea yet, Mapicc."

Zam sits on the cold stone of the tower, legs dangling off the edge, arms crossed defiantly. Mapicc, in all his dragon glory, huffs out a hot breath that could've set her dress ablaze if he was any closer. He sits down, stone crumbling off the tower ruins they find themselves at.

"My idea makes perfect sense, I don't know what you're talking about."

She wants so badly to glare at him. Does he even realise how much trouble this will get them both in? "Right, kidnapping a princess to get people to listen to her is a great idea. Good one, Mapicc, why didn't I think of this before? Oh, right! It's because it's getting kidnapped by a dragon."

"Exactly!" Mapicc actually sounds so proud of himself. "I'm a dragon, I kidnap princesses. That's what they do in stories, right? It means a prince will come and save you. That's how it goes."

She stares down at the grass below her. The tower isn't that big, time had done this ruin dirty. But she laughs, standing up on the precarious edge. "A prince? You think a prince is gonna come and save me?"

Mapicc hums. Zam could almost forget about him being a dragon. Almost. "A prince will save your life and you'll be married before you know it. Problem solved."

A scoff escapes her. She hates how it kind of makes sense. "And the prince is going to kill you while he's saving my life. Because you're so bloodthirsty and evil. You kidnapped me, they'll kill you for that."

"Oh, shut up, I'll just fly out of here. This was the best idea either of us could've come up with and you know it. Just say I'm right."

She turns to him, annoyed at his proud grin. There's still golden coins underneath his scales from when he couldn't help himself with her kingdom's riches. Shaking her head, she starts to pace. "I don't know, what won't the prince think of me? I'm not exactly screaming for my life here, you're not even killing me. It'll be more like ... saving me from my boredom."

"He will be happy with a beautiful princess. Everyone will just have to accept that."

A smile finally breaks out on her face, but it's mostly disbelief. All of this is too ridiculous. Her dress swishes when she turns around again. It reminds her of her dreams, of marrying a prince and having a beautiful wedding where she's the bride instead of the groom. Her wishes can come true, if Mapicc's right. Maybe she should give him more credit, as dumb as all of it still sounds.

"What if that doesn't happen?" she asks, looking up at him again.

He seems glad she's understanding his vision now. "Then I will kidnap you again."

Right. Of course. "Great idea. Because if it doesn't work once, it'll work the second time."

"Or the third!"

She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Or the third." She hopes whatever prince is destined to come save her does it quick, before Mapicc gets the chance to come up with anything worse.

[nyctrilite]

north star

[wishingforloushair]

✂️Sunday Snippet✂️

Thanks @larry-hiatus for the tag 🥰

This is from my Sci-Fi fic for the next round of @1dastroficfest

“You know how it is. These corridors are massive, and no one wants to walk anymore.”

It wasn’t a lie. The network of sprawling metal tunnels connecting the four residential and commerce districts to Solara, and Solara to the Goods In and Out ports ran for almost ten miles. Astra was a different sort of civilisation. Louis had heard stories, of course he had, of civilizations where people lived directly on the planetary surfaces, farming from the land directly, able to be exposed to their solar source. Astra was different. Desperate for a new way of life, the settlers had left their home planet to settle Astra in a series of sprawling glass domes, eventually renamed to the districts, connected via metal tunnels. Astra’s planetary surface was inhospitable, the solar rays deadly with even the slightest exposure. Enclosed spaces and internal combustion engines didn’t mix well, so cars, and other automated modes of transport were banned within Astra city limits. In fact, anything that could cause a spark was outlawed outside of very strict regulations. There was one, fully electric tram that connected Astra to a second colony, or at least the worksite of a second colony. But other than that, everyone had to lump it with walking, unless they were rich enough to buy a bicycle. A crappy one with a flat tyre would set Louis back over a thousand Astra Credits, so obviously he wasn’t going to do that.

The good news was there was always someone looking for him to grab their deliveries from Goods In, take their deliveries to Goods Out, or even sometimes go grocery shopping for them. And yeah, sometimes his shipments contained illegal items, but he was just a courier, so it was really nothing to do with him. If people’s shipments arrived on time, delivered with a cheeky smile and discretely, his Credits would never drop low enough for him to be homeless, and that’s what mattered. Smuggler, courier, potato, potahto.

Tagging (but no pressure to share) @petitommo @justahappycloud @babyhoneyheslt @enchantedlandcoffee @harruandlou

[astrowaffles]

DVD commentary on this, please and thank you

I. Have never heard a DVD commentary. So let's TRY!!

I feel like iwaoi are the type of people to never actually tell each other they're best friends. it's just assumed. they're secure in their friendship (most of the time) and they're confident they ARE best friends, but they hardly ever say it, especially iwaizumi. However, iwaizumi is also super proud of oikawa, pretty much just for existing. he definitely tells people "yeah, he's my best friend :)" when oikawa isn't around. So I wanted Oikawa to know how much he's treasured.

I ALSO wanted to use this paragraph to emphasize how long they've been together. they start by saying ten years, which oikawa is quick to correct to fifteen; they're proud of having so much history together. later on, iwaizumi then rounds this up to twenty years, which oikawa makes fun of him for, but secretly it makes them both feel fuzzy inside to think that their lives have been intertwined for that long...

TL;DR: Iwaizumi and Oikawa have been best friends since before the earth began. They are both very proud of this. Neither of them like to say it.

[rory-multifandom-mess]

“I don’t like the gleam in his eyes, Astro. It feels…” He trailed, his eyes drifting from Astro’s face, a feeling of dread settling in. “…familiar.”

Based on something I started writing on the plane back home from my dad’s house recently. Might post it once it’s done. The title is a snippet from it :]

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[Time taken: 12 hours and 10 minutes]

Alt versions under the cut!

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Astro - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx tries her hand at superstardom...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

In the summer, the Baron's Bugle published a puff-piece: 10 Things We Love About Jinx!

It was no cheeky little write-up, but a full five-page photo spread devoted to Jinx's accomplishments as a Fissure prodigy: her gadgetry, her artistry, her style. There was a listicle ranking her top outfits (#1 was a gold-spangled cocktail dress, #2 a frilled acid green coattails-and-miniskirt combo, and #3 a pink-sequined bustier, black leather hot pants, and fishnet stockings because why the fuck not?). There were streetside interviews where every stratum of Zaunite gushed about Jinx's evolution from gun-toting terror to a glamourpuss heartthrob. There was a featurette on Jinx's collaborations with up-and-coming inventors from across Runeterra, the highlight being an article on Viktor, whom the reporter dubbed the "Hangman of Zaun", which Vitya loathed.

And then there was the pièce de résistance: a double-spread photo-essay complete with a candid interview by none other than B. Goode, who, after quarreling with The Sun & Tower's editor over certain journalistic ethics (a.k.a the refusal to peddle lies), had jumped ship for the Bugle, and was in the process of winning a Golden Quill with their meticulous coverage of Zaun's rise.

"Goodie-Gumshoe!" Jinx crowed when they'd reunited in the Laguna Lounge under Silco's watchful eye. "Back for round two, huh?"

Goode, for reasons unknown, glanced Silco's way, then blushed.

The spread chronicled the arc of Jinx's soaring comet from penury to privilege, and the series of brutalities that had each served to fuel the fire that forged her. Goode was a pro: armed with hard-hitting questions, each one geared to evoke Jinx's resilience and charm. The narrative didn't shy away from Jinx's history, either, and wasn't afraid to address the controversial issues—the Day of Ash, the Siege, Shimmer.

But, true to form, Goode did not sensationalize the story, or reduce it to a salacious slideshow.

Jinx kept the interview blithe, bantering, breezy. Goode quizzed her on everything from her first successful invention (Buttons), her latest project (an aerial filtration system for toxic miasma), the secret to her skincare regimen (sump-vole grease, duh!), to any special man in her life.

Jinx deftly sidestepped that sticky subject: "I'm too busy to get busy. But I'm open to applicants! Just submit your CV to Daddy's goon squad, and duck the barrage of gunshots."

When Goode asked how Jinx felt about Zaun's future, she'd replied, "Zaun's gonna eat it for breakfast. And I'm not talking metaphorical. We've got a new recipe cooking. It'll change your life, or blow it clean up."

And she'd tipped a wink, leaving Goode in stitches.

"The Girl from the Bottom is no longer Zaun's rising star," Goode summed up, "but its symbol. In a world that has so often sought to diminish her, Jinx has grown larger than life, a shining example of the resolute spirit that has made Zaun, once a mere annex to Piltover, a nation to be reckoned with."

The edition was a smash hit. Nearly three-million copies flew off the press. The circulation numbers were stratospheric. The Bugle's editor was in raptures. So were the readers. Jinx had been Zaun's unofficial postergirl for ages. But the endorsement of a premium publisher elevated her to the status of a powerhouse. A flesh-and-blood icon.

Bonus: she looked super cute.

For Zaunite entrepreneurs eager to expand overseas, the next step was a no-brainer. Who better to carry the torch as a brand ambassador than the city's very own firebrand?

Jinx's likeness, once charmingly ubiquitous, was suddenly inescapable. It started with the storefronts in the Trade District of the Sumps. Then it spread across the billboards at Entresol and along the boulevards on the Promenade. Jinx's face, whether in caricature or cameo: emblazoned on the signboards of cafes or blown up big as life across skyscrapers. Zaun-themed cookbooks with her visage printed on their covers appeared on bookstores' front displays, as restaurants serving the latest "Fissure cuisine" boasted lines out the door. Luxury brands like the Vyx were keen to get a piece of the action: their new collections featured "J-Chic" couture inspired by Jinx's punky, gritty, carnivalesque aesthetic: ripped mesh leggings, studded belts, leather jackets, and—most importantly—lots of poppy neons. Even the music scene was jumping aboard. 'Get Jinxed' was enjoying a renaissance across the airwaves. On weekends, the nightlife was dominated by discotheques where 'Jinx-a-thons' kept Trencher teens grooving till dawn. And a brand-new club banger—a bawdy, upbeat remix called "Boom Boom"—began burning up the airwaves all the way to Topside.

Soon, even old blowhards like Councilor Hoskel, who couldn't tell a bass from his ass, knew all the lyrics.

The phenomenon transcended borders; Zaun shrank into the mere nucleus. Jinx, and her blues: a force of nature that could not be denied. A silhouette to embody the wild, ungovernable spirit of change that crossed Zaun's skyline, like a shooting star, and left fragments scattered all the way from Piltover's gilded skyline to Shurima's dusty plains.

A symbol whose reach was so broad, and whose potential for disruption so powerful, that not even the most cynical could deny its call.

A spark, igniting.

Naturally, her popularity had detractors. In Piltover, the conservatives had long deemed her a nuisance. The prospect of her becoming a global icon was alarming. As was the growing trend among the Piltovan youth to dye their hair blue, or wear t-shirts with her monkey-symbol on the front, or blast her song while riding the public transport. To counter the rebellious streak, The Sun & Tower begun publishing a series of starch-collared articles, all purportedly authored by an "insider", to paint Jinx as a threat to good-old-fashioned stability.

Anarchist, madwoman, agent of chaos—the epithets ran the gamut.

And yet, for the youth, it only lent Jinx a brighter luster. For so long, she'd been the villain of their bedtime stories. But as time passed, and Topside rubbed shoulders more and more with Zaunites, they began to see her through a different lens.

A story could have many sides, after all.

And isn't there always a ring of darkness, whenever a star burns brightest?

The feather in Jinx's cap, ironically, was her induction into Piltover's premiere publication: Astro.

The journal had a longstanding reputation as a trendsetter: a single mention could catapult a nobody into notoriety, or turn a fledgling business into a booming success. Jinx was the youngest—only—Zaunite to be considered for the front cover.

The publication had to seek Silco's permission; her Big Nineteenth was just around the corner, but she was technically a minor under Zaunite law. The proposed photospread would feature Jinx in a baby blue halter and matching blue aviators, with her hair coiffed in the victory-roll bob popularized by Zaun's restoration propaganda; flirtily windswept to evoke that free-wheeling whimsy.

The shoot would be themed around Zaun's rising generation of wunderkinds: a burst of fresh energy, with Jinx as its spearhead.

Their only caveat: her tattoos, and the tattoos only, would be airbrushed.

"We understand, in Zaun, body art is a rite of passage," the editor explained, after having done the impossible: secured a meeting with the Eye of Zaun. Dream-come-true or deathwish, that remained to be seen. "But we don't want our audience to associate Zaun with a gangland. It's not in line with the message of this shoot."

"Which is?"

"Youth. Vitality. Hope."

Silco, two-toned eyes piercing behind a steeple of fingers, took in each buzzword. Silence stretched between him and his guest: chokingly tight.

Finally, he cut to the chase.

"Surely," he drawled, "progress implies more than that? An appreciation, for instance, of what came before."

The editor, sweating bullets, mustered an appeasing smile.

"I don't mean it wouldn't be appreciated. But it could be, ah, misinterpreted."

"As?"

"Well—a history of conflict. Violence. Deviance."

Silco's smile widened to show razored teeth. It was charm without an iota of mercy: the shark that devoured whatever foolish fish wandered past its fangs.

"We are Zaun," he said. "Conflict, violence and deviance are the sum of our ethos."

"But..." The editor floundered, but forged on. "With respect, Your Excellency. The audience, if Jinx were to grace the cover, would not be confined to Zaun. Astro celebrates readership from far-flung shores, including Demacia and Noxus. Nations that may not share your...your..."

"Deviation?"

"...Quite." A delicate cough. "It's one thing, to say, feature Zaun's black-market trade, and the pride it takes in bringing people together in defiance of prejudice and societal expectation. That's a feel-good story. We'd happily run that, if only to thumb our own noses at the Council's conservative bloc."

Silco's lips ticked upward. Amused, not by the joke, but the fellow's chutzpah.

"But a culture that equates survival with the barrel of a gun?" Another cough. "That can easily become divisive. Even destructive. If readers who dislike Zaun, use Jinx to vilify the nation she represents—or worse, her father..." The editor bowed slightly, as if paying homage, "I fear it might have far-reaching consequences beyond Astro. And a polarizing outcome for international relations."

"Namely—" the drawl disarmed; the subtext disemboweled, "—you'll market Zaun's free spirit, but elide its context."

The editor flinched; a gutted man, clinging to his innards as they slopped across the carpet. But he was, whatever else, a professional.

"Astro is progressive," he emphasized, "but progress takes patience, Your Excellency. Jinx is an opportunity that deserves to be nurtured."

"How do you propose to 'nurture' a message nipped in the bud?"

"By understanding that this edition is not about yesterday, or today. It is about Tomorrow." The editor leaned in. "What birthed Zaun was a violent struggle. But that message will resonate with few except Zaunites. Instead of focusing on Zaun's bitter beginnings, it is wiser to concentrate on what we all share in common."

Silco's arched brow was the non-verbal equivalent of Go on, pull the other one.

"Respectfully, Excellency, you have said the same in your speeches! We bleed for the right to live. Don't we all? We breathe in spite of our shackles. Don't we all? We yearn to be free. Don't we all?" The editor clapped his hands together: an exhortation. "Zaun has suffered. I acknowledge that. So do many Piltovans. But we cannot fully appreciate how you have suffered. Not unless we meet each other halfway. When we do, compromise becomes nuance."

"Compromise." Silco's head canted to one side. "Through the death of my daughter's character?"

"Not—not necessarily!" The editor backtracked. "Our readers admire authenticity. But authenticity is raw; it cuts bone-deep. I'm asking if we can translate the past into something that... connects... rather than alienates. Rest assured! Our work would celebrate the Zaunite renaissance. Highlight luminaries like Jinx, born in Zaun's slums, who have now seen their dreams come true. Inventions given wings; homes given hearts. Startups rising sky-high. And best of all: children with no doors to walk through, promised new thresholds toward success." Another cough. "It'd be an inspiring narrative. One could even—" A flash of inspiration at metaphoric knifepoint, "—call it a renewal of Zaun's innocence!"

Silco's mismatched eyes held the editor in their crosshairs.

One: unnervingly cold. The other: unnaturally ablaze.

"A strange defense," the trademark tenor dipped lethally low, "given Zaun lost its innocence in the cradle."

The editor opened his mouth; reconsidered. His shoulders slumped.

"Be honest," Silco said. "This is censorship dressed up as conciliation."

"No." The editor shook his head. "Simply the opportunity to unite, rather than divide. And, let's be frank, seize control over Jinx's rising-star narrative before other papers do."

"Of course."

"With respect, Your Excellency. You've had a marvelous hand in sculpting her story thus far. But though you are the, ah, Eye of Zaun, you are also her father. Inevitably, there is bias. For you, she remains a girl-child. A cherished daughter. But to Runeterra, she is becoming a phenomenon. Not to mention: a woman. The combination holds appeal. Power. And others will want that power, badly enough to take it."

Silco, face darkening like the sky before an incursion, spoke slowly: "You're suggesting we preempt her exploitation."

"Yes! And—I realize the irony here!—preempt it by capitalizing on her allure." He broke off, cleared his throat. "Because better us—with Zaun's consent—showcasing her potential, than competitors motivated by more... base... incentives."

Silence hung. Broken only by the metronomic tick-tock.

Not of the clock, but Silco's slow-climbing temper.

"You're proposing," he said, and the steeple of fingers unfurled to separate into two deathly-white fists, "to exploit the very element that endangers her."

"No, your Excellency! To establish her, not as a victim, but a fully fledged sensation!"

"She is already a sensation."

"But with our platform, she'd be celebrated across Runeterra! No Zaunite has ever garnered such spotlight. An icon of unprecedented proportions, shaping discourse from politics to fashion."

"At the expense of her father's will."

"If the choice of clothing offends, we can work through alternatives—"

As abruptly as he'd agreed to the confab, Silco cut it short. "Good day. My blackguards will escort you out."

"But—"

"Your proposal, quite frankly, is above your pay-grade. Leave the diplomacy to the diplomats. And the flesh-peddling to the pimps. I trust Astro with neither. Especially involving my child. But—" He unfolded to his feet, silhouette framed in blood-red by the sunrays cutting through the window, "—if I'm in need of poisonous piffle to prop up my country's black market, you'll be first to know."

There was nothing left to argue.

The editor, with the silence of the condemned, withdrew.

It was only after Silco had returned to his desk, pouring a fifth of whiskey into his cut-crystal glass, that the eavesdropper in the rafters unfolded itself to pour in a shadowy slither across the carpet: soundless, as if weightless, or winged.

"Sheesh," Jinx drawled, hands laced behind her back as she prowled between the armchairs. "And I thought I had rage-issues."

Silco said nothing. The smolder didn't abate.

"Although," she went on, perching on the armrest on his empty chair, "calling him a pimp? Harsh, Daddy-o. Like flesh-peddling isn't a proud Zaunite tradition."

Silco, downing the shot of whiskey, made no comment. His anger—and Jinx had seen him plenty angry, plenty of times, usually with a blade brandished in one fist and a corpse congealing in the corner—was always explosive. A riot, too, given how quiet he was in other respects: suave, smooth, searingly understated. But so were flash-floods before they raged beyond control: insidious, imperceptible, then overwhelming.

This was different.

This was a wrath that manifested as ice: remote, silent, terrible. It set Jinx's teeth on edge the way nothing else could.

"What gives?" She spilled sideways into the empty chair, legs dangling over one armrest, arm slung over the other. "Sure, the guy's a bozo. And his rag makes a clown-show look classy. Plus: the no-ink policy? Total drag. But the bottom-line's what matters, right? A chance to pitch Zaun's brand-new beginning to the masses. Our star power gone interstellar!"

Silco poured himself a second measure. He wasn't really listening, and Jinx bristled. Where did he keep drifting off to? And why, when everything he—they—had worked for was on the cusp of glory?

Or was glory the problem?

(Too short of legacy? Too wide of perfection?)

"Anyway," she went on, determined to sell what couldn't be bought, " Astro's cookie-cutter as hell. But it's got major global juice. Just picture it: pageant spreads highlighting Zaun's greatest achievements. Kitchens stocked with pickled paradise; arc-lit street lamps that turn midnight into high noon; Shimmer-infused lip glosses for killer smooches on steamy summer nights. Everything Zaun prides itself on: making do, making bank, and making a little mischief on the side!"

The dark-spirited silence persisted. Tipping his glass, Silco downed the drink. Jinx mimed along, saluting with a non-existent glass of her own.

No dice. Not even a smile.

Gods, his moods were becoming a zigzag: up, down, left, right. It was disorienting. She'd once thought she knew Silco like the back of her hand—his pettiness, his ruthlessness, the razor-sharp intellect and the bone-dry humor, plus the deadly-soft underbelly that he bared just for her.

But these last few weeks were like wandering through a minefield. One wrong move, and: blam.

Sometimes, Jinx wondered if this was the natural course of things. If, as her ambitions soared, his own would stay tethered, down in the depths that'd birthed him.

In the darkness where he'd dwell alone: stubbornly solitary, killingly self-contained.

And grumpier by the day.

"So," he said at length, "you find their project worthwhile."

Jinx snagged her bottom-lip between her teeth. So he had been listening. More than that: he'd sussed out that Astro's editor would never have successfully navigated past Zaun's bureaucratic labyrinth without inside help.

"Well—yeah," she hedged, tipping a shoulder. "I might've pointed him in the right direction. Helped with the elevator ride up."

Silence, and another pour. Third shot, which meant dangerous territory lay ahead.

But Jinx was nothing if not a daredevil.

"I figured, y'know, it was time to broaden our horizons," she went on. "Reach beyond our comfort zones. Shake a few peaches before they rotted on the tree."

"Peaches?" Ice-cold, and bloody-bare: the glare cutting her way. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Oh, c'mon!" Jinx, playing footsie with the pile of trade edicts on his desktop, held firm. "You always say Zaun deserves international legitimacy. Well, here's our chance. Piltover's premiere press on our doorstep! Practically begging me to flaunt my ass—er, assets. Not to mention, boost your profile by proxy! Think of all Zaun'll gain—the trade, the tourists, the fat wallets jingling their coinage..."

"With our history stripped wholesale, and the rest sanitized beyond recognition." Silco swirled the dregs of whiskey. In the sunset, a scarlet wash filmed the glass like blood from a fresh-cut throat. "There are less tedious ways of selling Zaun's soul than by whoring yourself out, Jinx."

It was the first time he'd used anything remotely resembling vulgarity in her presence. A measure, perhaps, of just how deeply Topside's overture had bruised his ego.

Or was it something deeper, prickling the undercurrents of their bond?

Punishment, even if unmeant.

"Whore, s'more." Jinx sat up, hoping a little sass would break his funk. "My likeness is already stamped all across Zaun's backyard! So why blow your fuse 'cause some lame-o rag wants a few bits edited out? The guy's just doing his job: keeping his brand vanilla."

"You," Silco cut in, "are not a brand. You are the high Zaunite ideal. Topside has no say in your self-determinism."

But you do, Jinx thought, and felt oddly hollow.

She didn't say it. She didn't need to. Zaun owned her, top to toe, as a symbol. And Silco, her father, held exclusive rights to the rest. Since independence, she'd been serving both masters with boundless vigor, as if she'd been born to the role.

And maybe she was: the girl who'd kickstarted a revolution, and been crowned its queen.

But every shard of her life that Zaun swallowed was a chunk Jinx never had a chance to reclaim. Until, little by little, the resentment became a fierce bright itch under her skin. Until the wanderlust, the soul-deep disconnection, became a fuse fizzing its way to ignition.

Once, it would've ended in self-immolation. Not to mention, city-wide catastrophe. This time, it would be different. No cataclysm, but a comet's trajectory from rock-bottom straight into the stratosphere.

And comets always ate whatever got in their way.

"Maybe," she said, quieter, "it's not about self-determinism, but autonomy."

"Scant difference, if both require compromise."

"That depends."

"On?"

"Mine," she said, "versus ours."

Silco, glass halfway to his lips, stilled.

"Think about it. Five years ago, no Trench-wench would've dreamed of strutting her stuff in Astro's hoity-toity frontispiece. Now, they're here, hat in hand, at our door. And sure, they're fussposts. But change takes time, right? One baby step, then a sprint, and pretty soon it's running marathons!"

"You'd let Topside profit from your erasure to prove a point?"

"I'd prove to the Fissurefolk that nothing's outta bounds. They don't need to flaunt their suffering on their skins. Our ink ain't proof of principle: just our pride. And that pride runs deeper than any tattooist's needle. No matter how far we reach or how high we soar, nothing can take that away." Her chin tipped. "And if Topside's calling the shots on what's acceptable today? Tomorrow it'll be us. Because once a movement like this gains momentum, there's no going backward."

"Can't put the genie back in her bottle, hm?"

"Exactly!" She dropped the playful pretense. Her eyes locked on his. "The tipping point doesn't come easy, Silco. But when it does? It's a critical hit. The kinda stuff they'll write about in the schoolbooks. The kinda stuff every starry-eyed, scabby-kneed, snot-nosed little sumpsnipe will read about, and realize, hell. I could make that leap too. And if ol Jinx can get the ball rollin,' well. Ain't that worth a little sacrifice?"

"A little sacrifice," Silco repeated, witheringly neutral. "Until the next. And the next. Until we're back to square one, with no boundaries left to claim."

Jinx refused to be cowed. "Until one article becomes ten. Then fifty. Then a hundred! Until talk of Zaun's as commonplace as a handshake. Until the dialogue's shifted from, Wow, that terrorist sure looks hot, to Wow, what drove this girl to go war? And if they don't want the same war spreading to their streets, what can they do to help us help ourselves?"

"We didn't fight for help. We fought to be free."

"And maybe it's the talking," she countered, "that'll make it happen."

"Utopian drivel."

"Nope!" Jinx popped the syllable. "Pure chess. You say it yourself: the Council's terrified of losing face. And once Zaun's gained clout on the global stage, we'll be a threat to their pride instead of a dirty open secret. They'll have to widen the embrace—not as partners-in-crime, but as in-laws. Even siblings. Once they do? The average Piltie starts asking questions. Important questions! Questions like, hey, maybe reparations aren't enough? Maybe restitution's the way to go? Maybe re-establishing bonds is the path to salvation—not to mention the influx of sweet-ass Zaunite tech! All this in exchange for—"

"—for selling yourself like a sweetmeat to the highest bidder?"

"They're asking me to pose for a magazine," Jinx snapped, temper flaring at the condescension. "Not suck their dicks!"

A vulgarism for a vulgarism: fair trade in a city founded upon theft.

Silco's jaw tightened. The infamous temper held. Only his face spoke: a subtle shift from simple anger to a more complex emotion. And Jinx, with a sudden arrowing to the heart of the target—a smoothness that, like in firefights, verged on Zen-like—understood precisely why he hated the idea of her starring in Astro.

A refusal to play by their rules, yes. But also the refusal to relinquish what lay deepest at stake.

Her choice versus his own.

"What're you so afraid of?" she challenged, more slowly. "That I'll kickstart a new epoch for Zaun, but forget to pay my dues?"

"Forget how many they butchered us for daring to stand tall?" Silco retorted, silken as a silver garrote. "Forget that your wages of acceptance equate to surrendering their lifeblood: brutalized, subjugated, buried wholesale? Forget the murder that marks our very foundation?"

His vehemence brooked zero room for disagreement; no latitude for compromise. Because it wasn't just Jinx's choice that was the crux of the issue. It was the principle he'd built the city upon. Forward but never forget. An article of faith that underlined everything they'd suffered together. The root cause that'd led them, hand-in-hand, down the road to revolution.

And left thousands of bodies in their wake.

But Jinx refused to be browbeaten. She'd had her fill of ghosts: theirs, hers. All those decades, with nothing but bitterness to nurse their dreams. Surely, now that they'd made it, it was time for brighter beginnings? Time to write a chapter for those yet to come; something to wash the aftertaste of blood away?

Time to build bridges, if it meant stopping someone else from burning them down.

Or drowning in their shadow.

"No one's denying where we come from," she said flatly. "No one's forgetting why we fight. But I want Zaun to endure beyond the past, Silco. We're gonna change the world. And all of us—every single one, no matter what our past or future—will stand stronger if we go out there as whole. Not shattered to shit."

"Progress," Silco intoned, "at any price."

"Weighed up and worth it. Isn't that what you taught me?"

Silco set his glass back on the desk: cut-crystal met mahogany with a brittle clink.

Something changed, imperceptibly, in his stance. Still frigid as death; still simmering below the surface. But now an undercurrent ran through. Sorrow, perhaps. Scorn.

Or a subspecies of both: tender to the last, like a wound that never healed.

"Such grand justifications," he said, softly, "for a little girl's plea."

Jinx didn't flinch; the insinuation hurt too much.

"What do you think?" he went on, fingertip idly tracing the rim of the glass. "That selling out will win your sister over? That her side—their side—will forget your sins if you're willing to forgive their own?"

The sting of that rebuke—succinct, searing—sent tears pricking at the corners of Jinx's eyes. Because of course he knew. He knew, same way he knew her. Because they were both so fucking alike: born of a common flame that would not be doused.

Both clinging to a conviction that somehow, someday, the razing of their past would give way to a bloodless future.

And leaving, always, ashes behind.

"Maybe we could forgive," Jinx said, refusing to bleed. "Even if we never forget. Or maybe it's pointless, and instead of burying the hatchet, it's better to bury the bodies and burn all bridges forever. But if the dead can't let the past go, how can the living rebuild, Silco? If we stop trying, we'll stagnate. And then, everything we fought for—everything we deserve—it's all gone. A monument to our own hubris."

Something shifted again: the coldness yielding. But his eyes stayed hard.

"So," he murmured, "you would offer yourself up? A lamb at the slaughter."

"Call it whatever you want," Jinx retorted. "But every moment we spend in Zaun's past, is another moment our future's forfeit."

"And this forfeiture? Will it earn you the vindication you seek?"

Jinx shook her head. In a single fluid motion, she'd slid off the chair, skirting the desk with a dancer's grace. They came face-to-face: two shadows poised in a pool of bloody light.

"This," she said, "is nothing more—nothing less—than what Zaun deserves."

"That being?"

"The chance to move forward."

And, she tipped forward to drop a kiss to Silco's scarred cheekbone.

The sun sank scarlet: arterial-rich, slow and deep. In the glow, Silco's eyes were two black mirrors. Reflecting the incandescence of his daughter's dreams, even as his pale hands tangled in the tassels of her blue hair.

Twisting, ever-so-slightly, tighter.

[grandpeachpersona]

It's A Man's World

Chapter 10 ☆Moment 4 Life☆

Sorry this took so long I just kept hitting a roadblock while writing it but I finally finished it. I hope you all enjoy as always feedback is appreciated ;) Word count: 2.17k Warnings: Lots of sports talk, Mentions of alcohol consumption, and tension😏

24 Hours before The World Series 

The stage was set: Atlanta Braves vs. Houston Astros. And believe me, I was ready.

I let out a deep breath as I racked the bar on the squat rack. Working out always seemed to calm my nerves before a big game, especially this one.

I sat down on the beach and took a sip from my water bottle. Part of my brain hadn’t fully processed the fact that tomorrow was the biggest game of my career, while the other part was trying to focus and get into the zone.

“Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!” my mom called out, quoting The Nutty Professor while clapping her hands.

Looking over my shoulder, I shook my head and laughed. “Morning, Ma.”

“Good morning, sweetheart! Breakfast is ready,” she said, leaning against the doorway.

“You didn't have to; I was going to grab something before—” I started to say, but she cut me off.

“You know how I am,” she waved her hand. “Come on upstairs and eat before the pancakes get cold.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After a fantastic breakfast made by Mom—something I'm sure my trainer will have a few words about later—I walked onto the field for practice. The familiar scents of fresh paint and damp dirt filled the air.

Practice felt different today and in a good way. Everyone was pushing themselves just a little harder, and smiles were on everyone's faces; rightfully so, considering tomorrow is the World Series—who wouldn't be excited?

Walking into the media room for what could possibly be my final time, I took a seat and quickly greeted everyone in the room.

“Sierra, how are the nerves less than 24 hours away from the World Series?” the first reporter asked.

I took a breath before answering. “Pretty good! I won’t lie and say I’m not nervous, because that would be a lie. But the right kind of nerves are good.”

“The last time you all played against the Astros, you lost a three-game series. Are you confident that you can beat them?” another reporter inquired.

Confident? Man, please.

“We don’t have any other choice but to beat them. I am confident that we’ve learned from our mistakes, and we will win,” I replied with conviction. 

Once again, Mom commandeered my kitchen for dinner, but honestly, I can't complain. There's something comforting about her culinary prowess that makes the house feel warm and inviting.

Later that evening, as I settled down to unwind, I scrolled through Instagram when a notification caught my eye. I had been tagged in a video posted by the Bengals, and my curiosity piqued. Tapping on the notification, Joe's familiar face filled my screen, a snippet from his press conference earlier that day.

“The World Series starts tomorrow. Do you plan on watching?” a reporter asked, his voice steady with anticipation.

“Yeah, I do. Got to watch my girl get the win,” Joe replied, a wide grin lighting up his face.

Wait a minute—did he just say “my girl”? 

It struck me like a bolt of lightning. We hadn't even been on a date yet, let alone discussed any labels or commitments, yet here he was, claiming me in front of the world.

Possessive? Yes. But I have to admit, I liked it.

World Series Game 1

Today is the day: Game 1 of the World Series.

Waking up felt different today. Getting dressed felt different. Even having my hair and makeup done felt different. Everything feels different, but not in a bad way—more like, this is my moment.

As I walk into the ballpark, I find myself not really paying attention to the cameras. My focus is on the game ahead of me, and I’m also trying not to trip in these heels. I see why I don’t wear them often—they hurt!

But that pain quickly faded away when the first pitch of the game was thrown.

Two teams will play between 4 to 7 games, all for one prize: the Commissioner’s Trophy. This is the World Series.

Game 1 is in the books. Unfortunately, we didn't secure a win, but that's okay; you win some, you lose some. The score was 4-8.

In Game 2, we bounced back with a blowout victory of 7-0.

Game 3 saw us lose home-field advantage, but we still managed to win in Houston, finishing with a score of 4-1.

In Game 4, Houston gained some momentum and narrowly won by one run, with a final score of 6-5.

Game 5 went into extra innings, but we pulled through and got the job done, ending with a score of 10-9.

In Game 6, the Astros clinched a victory with a grand slam, keeping their World Series hopes alive. The final score was 8-7.

Now, we find ourselves back in Atlanta for the last game of the series. As of right now, my nerves are on edge because, in this game, every hit counts, every out matters, and most importantly, every score matters.

It all comes down to this pivotal moment. The stadium is electric as I stand at the bottom of the 9th inning, two outs secured, with a runner perched on second base. With the score hanging in the balance at 8-7 against us, the weight of the situation bears down heavily on my shoulders.

I know exactly what I need to do: connect solidly with the ball and drive it deep into the outfield, giving the runner a chance to dash home. Easy, right? Just a casual swing in front of 31,000 fervent fans who are all hoping for a miracle.

Stepping into the batter's box, I adjust my helmet and take a deep breath, trying to drown out the cacophony of cheering and chanting that envelops Truist Park. The familiar strains of "It's A Man's World" echo in my ears, heightening my focus as I mentally prepare for what lies ahead.

I set my stance, feeling the cool air against my skin, and lock eyes with the pitcher on the mound. He’s a seasoned player, his demeanor calm, yet I can sense the tension rippling through him as he glances briefly at the runner on second before facing me again. With a swift motion, he winds up and launches his pitch toward me.

I tighten my grip on the bat and, as the ball approaches, I make the decision to check my swing. I hold back just in time, watching the ball sail past me — it’s a ball, one count, no strikes. I exhale slowly, mentally recalibrating for the next pitch.

Gathering my concentration again, I position myself for what could be my final chance. The pitcher goes through his routine again, taking a moment to check the runner’s position before propelling the ball towards me once more.

This time, I hold my breath as I watch the projectile race toward the plate. I swing my bat with everything I’ve got, the wood making solid contact with the ball. The sound is explosive, resonating like a whip crack through the air, sending a thrill through my veins.

As I adjust my stance, I see the ball soaring into the sky, arcing beautifully as it heads toward the outfield. It continues its ascent, disappearing over the stadium's walls and splashing into the waterfall display that adds to the ambiance of this incredible venue.

In that exhilarating moment, it hits me: we just won the World Series.

Holy shit… WE JUST WON THE WORLD SERIES!

In an adrenaline-fueled rush, I slam my bat to the ground, the echo of victory reverberating in my ears as I begin my journey around the bases. The stadium erupts in a deafening roar — fireworks burst overhead, illuminating the night sky, while the crowd erupts with cheers and shouts, a collective celebration of triumph.

Tossing my helmet aside, I approach home plate, my heart racing as my teammates swarm me the instant I touch it. They envelop me in a chaotic celebration, screaming and jumping in unison, pure joy radiating from every face.

This is the pinnacle of my dreams, a moment I’ve envisioned since I was just a nine-year-old girl playing wiffle ball in my backyard with my uncle. From being the only girl on the high school baseball team to earning a full-ride scholarship at LSU, and culminating in winning the state championship, this moment eclipses them all: winning the World Series.

God. 

is. 

good. 

Every ounce of hard work, every sacrifice, every moment of doubt pales in comparison to the realization of this dream. I stand amidst the celebration, grateful, overwhelmed, and utterly elated. This is why I play.

After a whirlwind of interviews followed by a bear bath celebration, a refreshing shower, and an energetic afterparty, I finally stepped back into the comforting embrace of my home. 

“Thanks again, Kyle,” I called out, watching as he made his way back toward the elevator, his figure illuminated by the soft hallway lights. 

“No problem, sleep well,” he replied, flashing a warm smile before disappearing behind the elevator doors. The best driver in the world, hands down.

With a sigh of relief, I unlocked my front door and crossed the threshold, the familiar scent of home washing over me. I locked the door behind me and, with a gentle thud, dropped my duffle bag right at the entrance, mentally promising myself I’d unpack it tomorrow—or, more likely, later today. All I craved was the soft cocoon of my bed, a well-deserved sanctuary after such a long day.

As I rounded the corner toward my room, I noticed a sliver of light cutting through the darkness—the kitchen light glowed unexpectedly. I furrowed my brow, certain I hadn’t left it on. Perhaps my mom had flicked it on before heading out to the airport. 

Curiosity piqued, I padded softly toward the kitchen, only to be met with an utterly unexpected sight: a strikingly handsome quarterback, standing 6’3” with tousled hair and piercing blue eyes, casually leaning against my counter like he owned the place.

“Surprise,” he said, an amused smirk playing on his lips.

A smile broke across my face as I shook my head in disbelief. “Surprise indeed,” I replied, the warmth of his presence igniting a flutter of happiness in my chest.

“C'mere,” Joe beckoned, his arms outstretched, inviting me into a hug that felt both familiar and incredibly grounding. 

I stepped into his embrace, surrendering to the moment as he nestled a tender kiss on the top of my head. “Proud of you,” he murmured, his breath warm against my hair.

Emotions swelled within me, and I simply nodded, overwhelmed by his kindness. 

Joe pulled back slightly, his gaze searching mine, an edge of concern etching his features. “You okay?”

Looking up at him, I nodded, a smile slipping out as I exhaled. “Yeah,” I breathed, “Just really, really happy—and maybe a little drunk,” I chuckled, the effects of the evening buzzing in my system. “When did you get here?”

“About an hour ago,” Joe replied, his tone laced with both excitement and regret. “Today starts my bye week, and I figured, why not surprise you? Just wish I could have been here to see you win,” he added a bittersweet note in his voice.

“It’s okay, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters to me,” I reassured him, my eyes drifting from the depth of his gaze to the inviting curve of his lips, only to return to his eyes—intensely captivating.

Ugh, why did he have to look so kissable? Damn you, vodka!

A comfortable silence enveloped us, a fragile moment stretched between us, thick with unspoken words and electric tension. 

Clearing his throat, Joe broke the stillness, “Come on, you look like you might pass out,” he teased gently, nodding toward my bedroom. It was true; the exhaustion was pulling at me, whispering sweet nothings of sleep. So, without resisting, I unwound myself from his embrace and began the trek to my room, Joe following closely behind.

I couldn’t tell if it was the lingering alcohol buzzing through my veins or the undeniable desires I felt, but the need to be close to him was intoxicating. In his arms, everything felt perfectly right.

Groaning as I woke up to the bright Atlanta sun shining in my eyes, I pulled the blanket over my head to block out some of the light. I really need to invest in blackout curtains.

Eventually, I decided it was time to get up and start my day.

But as I opened the door, I heard a noise coming from the living room. Is that the TV?

Curiosity got the better of me, and I walked into the living room.

“Morning, sweetheart,” 

@enretrogue @hoodharlow

[slumbrr-r]

Astro A1 & Glisten A1’s designs for Operation Ichor.

I somehow managed to finish both in one day. ٩( ᐛ )و

Lore snippet below for those interested;

Astro A1, after the incident currently runs Gardenview. He is literally the highest ranking. He works a lot, but you’d also never see him without his trusty pillow and blanket.

Glisten A1 dyed himself a different shade to increase his stealth on Strike missions! His eyes are actually contacts and Pebbles A1 wears matching colors with him. :)

[g00seg1rl]

Collateral Damage

Pairing: Azriel x Eris Vanserra

Summary: Eris is having a bad day. His twerp of a little brother, Lucien, crashed his car into a motorcyclist. Eris expects chaos and insurance nightmares. Instead, he gets a hot date.

Read both chapters on ao3

but here’s a lil snippet from chapter one 🤭

"Tomorrow night."

Azriel's expectant stare transitioned into something far more wicked. "Sounds good, Vanserra. Why don't you meet me at Romano's on 72nd around seven?"

Nesta cleared her throat slightly to his left.

"I'll be there," Eris replied, ignoring the woman who’d be paying for his car insurance if she fucked this up for him.

"See you." Azriel walked away after one last eye-fuck, Eris watched his ass as he walked up to the awaiting oaf in the Sentra on the corner.

"You have a meeting with Mathew tomorrow at eight," Nesta said, looking at him as if that was supposed to absolve him of his newfound obligation to get to know Azriel No-Last-Name.

"He can be pushed to Monday, Daddy needs some ass."

Lucien pretended to hurl. "Oh, fuck off," Eris snapped. "I'm here because you couldn't handle getting a blowjob. Now get in the car, I'll drop you two off at your apartment."

"Okay, thanks Eris. I really am sorry."

"Just get in the car, twerp."

So so so many thank you’s to my goddess and beta reader, @the-darkestminds, you are hilarious, brilliant and slutty and I love you for all of it and so much more 😘

And thank you @nus4y and @jules-writes-stories for helping me slut this fic out, you’re both so amazing💗

it took me far too long to figure out how to use line dividers- thank you @animatedglittergraphics-n-more for this lacy gem 🤭

Tag list (some lovely people I know who like some Azris smut lol): @the-darkestminds @jules-writes-stories @astro-h0e-4azris @mistandmemories @pippsmcgee @nus4y @iftheshoef1tz @fingerpoppingood @fourteentrout @chunkypossum @brunetterebel010 @jolenes-library @aurorasleeps-27 @mudandmire @queercontrarian @talibunny30 @neciebee @molcat07 @ninthcircleofprythian (please let me know if you want in on the future shenanigans)

[astronautbeans]

Uhhhh randchers duo!!

you are wonderful and amazing thank you <3 one ranchers snip coming right up!!!

PEOPLE GO VOTE GHOST’S VAULT OVER HERE IM WRITING ANYTHING YOU COULD IF YOU SEND ME PROOF YOU VOTED FOR GHOST VAULT @mcyt-builds-contest

Whoever gave Tango the idea that Jimmy didn’t have fire in him — and therefore would never truly match him — had been utterly, embarrassingly wrong. The universe didn’t make mistakes. When it had said ‘your nether flames and his golden wings belong together’, it had known. It didn’t bind their souls together for no treason, it had known.

Tango hadn’t thought he could admire Jimmy more than he already did. Sure, his wit, his charisma, his nature, all those traits made him easily lovable, but somewhere deep down below, there were embers. Embers that, when struck, provoked, were more than willing to start burning.

He looked up at his once soulmate, red eyes wide in wonder, one arm numb from the TNT that had brought him down, and he couldn’t help the proud grin that parted his lips and showed his teeth. There in front of him, Jimmy’s wings were bright with golden flames. The were spread wide, cutting Grian off from him, the fire filling in the gaps where his wings were short.

As much as his body begged him to let himself fall asleep, he stayed up to watch Jimmy chase Grian away. The pride was just enough to keep his eyes from slipping shut as the adrenaline started to wear off. He wanted to cheer, wanted to shout “Whoo! I knew you had it in you!”, but he couldn’t so much as say his name. Instead, a pathetic groan escaped — really, people needed to see he was the incompetent one of the two.

When Jimmy finally turned to him and kneeled by his side, his eyes were bright and glowed golden light. He looked downright angelic, like he’d flown down from the sky like a guardian angel just for him. He was the canary, but instead of his voice dying out, he turned aflame to lead the miners out the cave, a brightness in the abyss, a lantern.

Tango didn’t doubt the hand Jimmy reached out to help him up was hot to the touch. He couldn’t tell even if he wanted to. He staggered to his feet, Jimmy catching him easily, and laughed softly in embarrassment.

“Thank you,” he muttered, a genuine smile on his face as he looked up at his once soulmate — he wouldn’t mind still calling him that.

The flames died down. Jimmy looked … tired, but his eyes were painted with concern, protectiveness, like he’d set himself and the ground around him aflame again if he needed to.

But as they did, the collar around his neck became visible again. A yellow timer ticked down, and it was a horrid reminder that this wasn’t Double Life anymore. They weren’t soulmates anymore.

And still, as Jimmy smiled at him, he couldn’t quite agree with that. They weren’t tethered together anymore, but there was something strong between them still.

“No more little canary, huh? Who knew there was a phoenix beneath all that?” He grinned, exhausted as he was, and patted his chest.

Jimmy just rolled his eyes. “Don’t let Grian get you like that again. I might not be there to save you again like that.”

Tango gave him a curt nod, though he would love to see those brilliant flames again. They’d match pretty well with his own, wouldn’t they?

not my best work but we’re gonna roll with it, hope you liked it <3

[jadejetts]

feel like i should finally post the few bits of music related to astrothrill i've made in the few years past. its been long enough that i feel comfortable in doing so :]

most of the stuff i did in this time was with LMMS, which, a bunch of vsts are a buggy mess in!! genny vst is what i primarily used (with the SEGAudio soundfont later on), along with spooky keys as a theremin- the former randomly putting sustain on a note even when the entire song is turned off, forcing you to restart the program and keep trying to export until it decides to work fine, and the latter's wibbly-wobbliness is just. gone in newer versions. songs with spooky keys made in older versions will keep their wibbly-wobbliness, but placing any new notes is a no go!! in learning all this, I don't recommend LMMS to anyone unless it's a last resort- unless things have changed since i last used it!!

this here is my oldest piece of my astrothrill stuff, circa 2021. i had an imagery of a scorched hill with a once-abandoned base sitting atop it,, with it's new resident of Sairen-X9. WAY too depressing in hindsight for the main style I wanted to go for.

i eventually re-arranged the melody into something a lot faster and action-oriented. the first half of this was done in a few weeks after, but the second half was done a couple years down the line into 2023 after being stuck for ages. a fair bit better to what i thought i wanted!! nowadays i still feel it's not "bright" enough, this still feels like something you'd hear in the later half of whatever AstroThrill's gonna end up being, rather than something that sets the overarching tone of fun cartoony sci-fi yknow?? this only says final because i'm done iterating on this particular version rather than me feeling like it's ready- ill get it there eventually :]

onto another song now! this one's just a snippet, didn't get too far- but i feel like what Is there is quite close to what i want!! i've always enjoyed marches with that rolling drum sound (looking at astro blaster's queue music) and i did want to try and pull something like that off eventually!! the inspiration that gave me the spark for this was one of the final bits of music in fortnite's collision event- specifically when you're shooting down a bunch of spikes right above the zero point (shoutouts to Phill Boucher [pronounced boo-shay] who's music is too good for that game)

and then i experimented with it again, probably going "what if i cut it down or something. jazz jig rhythm for no reason" and it just kinda. formed into This. i am SO shocked and happy with how this little jingle turned out- i wanted it to feel older than the rest of the stuff i had, like late-70s to mid 80s, and sustaining the notes gave it that little extra flair that feels Perfect. instrument-wise can still be improved by going for actual old synths and not SEGAudio but it's what i got and used ghsCXLKH

this last snippet here goes back to sairen's theme- i just had another jolt of inspiration of the beginning melody in this song during a particularly tense game of capture the flag(? maybe it was infection) in halo infinite ghscvklhcklv after making this it made it very clear that what comes really easy to me music-wise is dramatic stuff darker in tone than the music AstroThrill needs, but this is still probably my second favorite piece i've done right behind the gamma co. jingle from an "instrumentation completeness" standpoint

i haven't fiddled around with music for a while and i definitely gotta get back to it!! these here are some of my favorite pieces of art i've ever done, mostly because music is so utterly special to me. not that other forms of art aren't!! but music is like. insane. shoutouts to micheal giacchino, mike morasky, tee lopes, a TON of people who've worked with nintendo (jun ishikawa, hirokazu ando, megumi ohara, yuuta ogasawara, ryo nagamatsu, shiho fujii, and naoto kubo to name a few), tony grayson and john "joy" tay for being some of my absolute favorite musicians and gigantic inspirations to me not just music-wise but art-wise as a whole

[historicallysam]

I was tagged by @14carrotghoul for WIP Wednesday and since I don't really write except for on Fridays, for the most part, here we are.

Please enjoy another little snippet from my only current WIP, (currently) titled The Artful Dodger:

“My wrist is better,” Alex insists, rotating it so Henry can see.  “I’ve got a clean bill of health and passed the medic-”

“I’m not saying that to worry you, Alex,” Henry interrupts.  “I don’t think there’s anything standing in your way of playing the full year.  Your injury was in the early summer last year and you excelled the rest of the season.  It’s why you were courted so heavily in the off season.”

“You know about my off season?”

“Pez was already in negotiations by the end of the World Series last year.  You had generous offers from six different teams, including the Astros, which would have put you closer to home.”

“Fuckin’ hate the Astros,” Alex mutters and Henry smiles.

“The Dodgers are fortunate to have you, Alex.”  Alex tracks as Henry’s eyes subtly scan his face and upper body.  It’s fucking flattering, for sure.  “These meetings are just so I can get to know the players.  I’ve got lunch scheduled with your agent for Thursday.”

“Don’t let him tell you any lies about me.”

Henry laughs again.  “You and Mr. Brewster have been friends since grade school, I believe, correct?”

“Yup,” Alex agrees.  “He got the business and sports management degrees and I got the MVPs.”

“You studied history and politics at UT?”

“Really did your homework, didn’t you?” Alex asks. 

He’s a little obsessed with the way Henry blushes.  “As I said, I just want to get to know the players.”

[aeolianblues]

It’s Friday and I’ve had fun with this over the last few weeks, so I’m back bearing more songs! Here’s another song wizard new music Friday, a weekly poll to take a lesser-known song along with you as you scroll!

As with last week, choose songs based on the 30-second Spotify snippets if you don’t know them (I’ve tried to make sure there’s something new and lesser known), and if you like them they’re yours* to carry take on your trip!

*as in add them to your library etc., if you like them a lot come ask me and I’ll try and dig up a Bandcamp like for you, hee hee

[last week’s poll, which itself links back to the first week’s, which aren’t open anymore, in case you wanted more songs to take with you. Or just come talk to me, I love a music chat! Always.]

Poll’s open for a week, but we’ve been going three weeks (!) now, so if you miss this one, I’ll hopefully be back with another next Friday.

Any genres you’d want me to throw in more music from? I know my circle of influence is very alt and rock, so I’ve been sparing with my jazz, pop and hip hop picks, but if you want more, I’m happy to add more of them!

Happy scrolling! If you want to give your dash a few songs, reblog, I’m just bored :)

[lullabyes22-blog]

Since Silco prevented Jinx from doing the photoshoot in your Astro snippet BUT there's fanart of her doing a cover for the magazine, does this mean Jinx is going to go behind her dad's back to do the photoshoot?

Absolutely.

It is basically her version of "Fuck You" to his conception of power, visibility and what it means to take center stage in the two cities' collective psyche as an icon.

Our bb girl is finally ready to shape her narrative on her own terms 💗

[alasse-earfalas]

Random snippet. Toshiro & LP share their first sunset on Astro's world (idk where Astro is, he might be there too & just quiet, or he might be elsewhere).

~~~

“One day,” said the Little Prince, “I saw the sunset forty-four times.” 

Toshiro blinked at him. “… How?” he asked. 

“My planet’s so small that all I have to do is move my chair a few feet, and I can watch the sunset all over again.” 

“They must not last very long,” said Toshiro. 

“No,” said the Little Prince. “But one often loves sunsets, when one is very sad.” 

Toshiro looked at him again for a brief moment, then fixed his eyes back on the sky. “… Yeah.”

After some quiet, the Little Prince spoke again. “I miss my rose,” he said. 

Toshiro didn’t reply. 

“Others might look at her and see any other rose, but to me she is unique in all the world. I’ve tamed her, you see, so now I am responsible for her.”

“Tamed?” asked Toshiro. 

“Mm-hm,” said the Little Prince. “My friend Fox taught me all about it. It means, ‘to establish ties’.” 

“I see,” said Toshiro. 

Another silence passed between the boys. 

“I don’t think those ties always go both ways,” Toshiro said quietly. “And they’re not always made with good intentions, either.” 

The Little Prince looked surprised. “Really?” 

Toshiro nodded. “Ties can be exploited by those who seek to do harm, or who don’t take their responsibility seriously. And it’s devastating to the ones it hurts.” 

“Devastating,” repeated the Little Prince. He contemplated for a while. “I didn’t know I’d tamed my rose, or what that meant, until after I met Fox. I was too young to know how to love her. It broke her heart when I left.” 

“Where did you go?” asked Toshiro. 

“To that other Earth I told you about,” said the Little Prince. “That’s where I met the Aviator. He tamed me, too. But then I had to leave, and go back to my asteroid, and to my rose.” 

“You had to leave one tie behind in order to maintain the other,” Toshiro mused. 

“The tie is still there,” said the Little Prince, “between me and the Aviator. He can look at the stars and hear my laughter, and I still have the drawing of a sheep he made for me.” 

“And you have sunsets to remind you of your rose,” Toshiro observed. 

“Who is your rose?” asked the Little Prince. 

Toshiro startled a little at so keen a question. He crossed his arms. 

“Who is your rose?” the Little Prince asked again. 

“Her name’s Hinamori,” Toshiro mumbled. “We grew up together.” 

“She’s tamed you,” the Little Prince observed. 

Toshiro nodded. “I’m… not really sure if I’ve tamed her, though,” he admitted. 

“Have you gone through the rites?” asked the Little Prince. 

“The what?” 

“Rites,” said the Little Prince. “It’s how you establish ties; it’s how you tame someone. I tamed Fox by showing up at a certain time every day. After a while, we began to need each other.” 

“… That’s how Hinamori tamed me, too.” 

[vera800]

Future of Pokémon Astro

Agh, fuck it!

So that “surprise” I’ve been rambling about… it’s not going too good. I’ve just finished a graphic novels course for school where we had to actually create a mini-comic, so I thought, “hey, why not start a Locasol comic/webtoon/whathaveyou? So for 3 weeks nonstop I was working away at it, six pages planned for the first snippet. We had 2 weeks to make it, but I knew I’d need more time.

I only made it 4 pages, and it was down to the wire. The last page was a rushed mess which I am not proud of, and the other pages weren’t much better either in hindsight. I’ve been dealing with the burnout from it for over a week now… While it did help me with character designs, I don’t think it’s fair to you guys if I leave it the way it is…

HOWEVER! I do want to release something to share my ideas about the world in my head, and I’m not entirely ready to give up on the art just yet.

So, I must ask…

I’m not joking when I say that this would be a long commitment on my part, but I think an actual story with the occasional images would be the best way to tell it. This way I can spend more time on smaller quantities of art, while still being able to tell the tale I wish to weave.

While my muse, Meta, will be a prominent character in this story, this isn’t *his* story, so to say. This is about someone else... Someone who will need to face his fears in a world so vastly different from his own. With no memory of his previous life, he will carve his name into the walls of a reality thought only to be mythos. He will learn the laws of this world as he battles monstrous creatures, corrupt gatherings, lost souls, regretful sorrows, and a history so reviled that it brought this land to its knees once already, and threatens to do so again.

This is:

Pokémon Astros: A Locasolian Legacy