#drum module

[addressnotfound]

Modulations and dotted quarters, the best combo.

Was messing around with my setup in preparation for my band releasing a new album soon. Sat down and jammed to test it, this came out.

[diymetalfabrication]

One of a Kind – Custom Roland TD-20 Drum Module Enclosure

Looking for a way to level up your electronic drum setup? Check out our custom-built metal enclosure for the Roland TD-20 drum module! This enclosure is designed to deliver durability, functionality, and bold style, making it the ultimate addition to any drummer’s gear. 🎥 Watch the full video here: One of a Kind – Custom Roland TD-20 Drum Module Enclosure Key Features: ✅ Heavy-Duty 14-Gauge…

[synthtv]

Big Punchy Kicks from BLAST with friends Hatz & Etna

[guitarbomb]

Mooer Prime P2: A Compact Powerhouse for Musicians on the Go

Mooer has raised the bar with the introduction of the new Mooer Prime P2. This cutting-edge addition is the next generation of the ultra-compact P1 audio interface and multi-effects unit. Mooer Prime P2 The Mooer Prime P2 effortlessly straddles multiple product categories, serving as both an audio interface and a multi-effects unit. What’s more, it offers seamless connectivity via Bluetooth for…

[gold-onthe-inside]

critical asset

n. def. a specific entity that is of such extraordinary importance that its incapacitation or destruction would have a very serious, debilitating effect on the ability of a nation to continue to function effectively.

who? spencer reid (s7) x analyst!reader summary: the one where you and spencer finally get closer, even if it's just because penelope's too busy. content warnings: pining spencer, r and penelope argue word count: 1.8k

It’s painful how much Spencer likes you, wishing he could just transfer to counter-intelligence and be around you all the time, especially these days. You don’t come downstairs as often anymore, not since they put away Doyle, and it makes him all the more restless. He pursed his lips, looking at the chess game he was playing out, his interest in it sapping the more aware he was of your absence.

A few weeks ago, you would have been sitting right across from him, contemplating your next move, toying with the bishop between your fingers, so focused on the game that he could stare at you as long as he liked. He liked watching your sharp eyes dart around the board, assessing threats to your victory, liked watching you chew your lip as you thought about what to do. He could notice the exact shift in your expression when you knew you were either going to win or lose.

“I see it in 4,” you said, running the tip of your tongue over your teeth, glancing up at him as his gaze shifted to the pieces, the litte furrow in his brow as he wet his lips, trying to see what you did.

“How?” he asked. He was so sure he hadn’t given you a way out… until he watched you arrange each move delicately and his lips pursed into a pout. “Rematch?” he would ask, noticing your smug smile.

“Maybe tomorrow,” you’d say, standing up and squeezing his shoulder before you’d walk away, and he’d sigh, like he’s doing right now, sweeping the pieces into the cloth drawstring bag and folding up the wooden board to put back in his desk.

He’d get one over you more often than not when playing chess at least. He couldn’t say the same for everything else. But if anyone would say yes to a meditation sci-fi film, he knows it’s you — you’re one of the rare few people in his life who has obscure interests like his.

“My Russian isn’t that good,” you said as he waited by your cubicle for an answer, watching you turn off your desktop, drumming his fingers on the top of your transparent divider.

“I can translate anything you don’t understand,” Spencer offered, able to sense that he was close to prying a ‘yes’ out of you.

“I’ve heard your Russian,” you replied, raising a brow at him as the two of you stroll to the elevatory. “Just cause you can memorise the language doesn’t make you fluent, Reid.”

“Well, how am I supposed to become fluent if I don’t immerse myself in the language?” he asked, knowing exactly how to modulate his voice to melt your resistance. He sees your nose twitch and he knows he’s got you.

“Fine, but you’re buying dinner,” you replied, pointing at him and he frowned at you.

“How’s that fair if I’ve bought your ticket too?” he asked, pressing the elevator button. “Plus paying for snacks, and you know those places charge extra than normal—”

“Ugh, fine, jeez,” you replied, leaning against the wall. “I’ll buy dinner.” He was content with that, waiting for you to get in the elevator before following you. A thought crosses his mind, unbidden, that he had never said anything about getting dinner together, and hope flares in his chest. Maybe you wanted this to be a date as much as he did.

It’s dashed when he overhears your argument with Penelope when he’s supposed to be asking her to track down gas stations close to their crime scene — “Well, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling left out if you weren’t constantly shutting me out!” you cried. “God, I mean, you didn’t even let me know you were going to work this early, but you seemed fine calling up Kevin to carpool with.”

“It’s… That’s… It’s just complicated, okay?” Penelope cried, already on the edge since they’d lost Emily.

“Yeah, a lot of things seem complicated with you lately,” you said, scoffing. “It’s kinda hard to support you when I don’t know what’s going on with you, Pen. You’re either working or you’re with Derek or you’re with Kevin—”

“Yeah, well, I could say the same about you!” Penelope shot back. “Been on any dates with Reid lately?” she asked and his breath stuttered where he stood, out of sight, behind the slightly ajar door.

“What else am I supposed to do when you’re always bringing Kevin home?” you demanded. “Seriously, it’s starting to feel like he’s a third roommate lately. He certainly eats like one.” His heart sinks at your words — were you only hanging out with him because you had nowhere to go? Spencer pressed himself back against the wall. “You know what, if he’s gonna hang around that much, you could at least get him to split the groceries,” you snapped at her, heading for the door.

“Yeah, well…” Penelope struggled to come up with a retort as fast as you did — she didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. Or at least, she wasn’t as quick with using it. “Well, if you’re gonna spend that much time with Reid, the least you could do is throw that boy a bone,” she called after you as you stormed out, slamming the door behind you and letting out an enraged huff as you stalked down the corridor, oblivious to Spencer.

He swallowed, watching your retreating figure and letting a beat pass before contemplating whether he should go to Penelope. Maybe he should just have Morgan talk to her instead. He turned on his heel, making his way back to the briefing room instead.

Spencer stared at the clock, watching the hands tick round until you would finally leave. All this week he had been trying to convince himself that you were avoiding him, but that was just his paranoia talking. You’d been avoiding everyone, really — him, Garcia, Morgan… your behaviour towards other people was almost exactly the same. Almost, but not quite. You had been colder to him specifically.

He just couldn’t help thinking you were upset with him.

“You okay?” he asked, catching up to you outside the building, a slight pant to his voice due to the short sprint he had to do to catch up to you in time. Your pace had slowed, and with your gaze to the floor, you let him fall in step beside you. Spencer tried not to pay too much attention to the distance you kept between the two of you.

He noticed everything about you. He couldn’t help it. He had noticed the stiffness in your shoulders, the rigid way you carried yourself.

"Fine," you replied half-heartedly, turning your keys over in your pocket. "I just hate taking the train home."

“Why not get an apartment that’s closer to here?” he suggested, stuffing his hands in his own pockets, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder as he fell into step beside you. He’d noticed you had been taking the metro a lot more than usual. He wondered if everything was okay with your roommate.

"I like living in DC," you replied, walking with him to the station. He hated driving as much as you hated the train.

He nodded, walking alongside you. He wished you’d look at him, though. He could never guess what was going on in your head — was everything okay? Had he done something wrong? You seemed colder to him these days. “What’s been going on with you?” he asked, his voice soft. “You’ve been a bit down lately, are you sure you’re alright?” You finally looked up at Spencer and he had to catch his breath — he’d never get used to your eyes, the sharp intelligence in them, the focus.

You sighed, looking ahead again. "Penelope's been... I dunno, things aren't great between us."

“Why’s that?” he asked, reminded of your argument again. The two of you were always together, you were inseparable. “Is everything okay?” He was about to reach out, touch your arm, but he second-guessed himself, not wanting you to push him away. He couldn’t take it if you did.

"I don't know," you confessed, your nose tinged red with the cold, still turning over the key in your pocket to keep yourself grounded. "She's working overtime, if she's not on a case, she's working on something with Derek that she won't tell me about, which is fine, I get it. If anyone understands classified projects, I do. And then she's always with Kevin and I just..." You let out a breath, like you haven't let all of it out in a while, and it fogs up a little, your eyes glassy. "You know, you see yourself as this central person in someone's life and then suddenly... all these other figures come in and you just... don't know where you fit in anymore."

The look in your eyes made him ache to comfort you and he had to look away to stop himself from being overwhelmed by what he saw there. “People get busy,” he said, softly. “It doesn’t mean she doesn’t value your friendship, or that she doesn’t want you around as much as you want to be.” His fingers twitched against his own palm as he spoke — he knew the feeling in your words all too well. He hated the idea that you were going through what he did on a daily basis.

You blinked the dampness in your eyes away, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. "It's whatever," you murmured, tucking hair behind your ear.

Spencer looked at your profile as you walked and he had to look away again. He was starting to lose count of how many times he’d stopped himself from reaching out to you. He wanted to, he wanted to so desperately… but he was also terrified of rejection from you. He didn’t have an endless well of confidence, and he couldn’t bear it if you pushed him away. So he settled with wishing he could help you more than he currently was.

"How are you doing?" you asked, glancing at him. "With Emily and everything."

Spencer cleared his throat as he walked beside you, staring at the ground in front of him. “I think I’m still in shock,” he said, softly. “I miss her a hell of a lot, I’ve never connected with someone so quickly.” He didn’t even hesitate before he added: “Except maybe with you.”

You huffed a little, smiling. "Nerds of a feather, right?"

He nodded, smiling. “Yeah, I suppose so.” He glanced over and met your gaze, and he couldn’t help the way a grin bloomed on his face, your eyes meeting his.

You smiled at him, your eyes lighting up in that way he loves — not just with amusement, but with warmth, and his chest started to ache, just a little. He could do this forever.

His heart skipped, and for a moment he could forget everything. For a moment, everything was perfect, just you and him.

[erosmutt]

　★　Captain Save A Hoe　⨟　H. Solo

PART ONE

﹙characters﹚︰Han Solo, Darth Vader, Wilhuff Tarkin, Thrawn

﹙pairing﹚︰Han x DARTH VADER'S APPRENTICE!reader

﹙synopsis﹚︰Master let his little apprentice go on a mission all by herself. It took some convincing from the Admirals, but she soon found herself on Tatooine, searching for a certain smuggler, and their run-in is far different than what she anticipated.

﹙content warnings﹚︰semi-public sex, bathroom sex, quickie, blowjob, face-fucking

﹙word count﹚︰2.0k

⠀★⠀⠀─⠀⠀WRITTEN BY EROSMUTT 25.01.14

Every time you step into the conference room, you absolutely dread what's to come.

Rebels this, rebels that. Stationed here, stationed there.

The only plus to this specific meeting was that for once, Tarkin was not the one doing the talking. It was Thrawn.

"This man is not to be underestimated."

You sit at the table, fingers drumming on the surface in a steady rhythm, the only sound other than the soft beeps and boops of the control module as Thrawn navigates it, although both are being drowned out by your Master's obnoxiously loud breathing.

Nobody is really paying attention, for that matter. Except Tarkin, as always, kissing the Empire's ass.

Your eyes, previously clouded and distant, suddenly focus as the Admiral's words lift your veil of contemplation. You look up at the flickering screen displaying a mugshot of a man who, at first glance, seems unremarkable. "The man in question," Thrawn begins, his voice echoing through the conference room, "is Han Solo."

An involuntary scoff leaves you, drawing the attention of every high-ranking officer present. You lean forward slightly, your demeanor a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Pardon the intrusion," you interject, your tone measured. "but, what exactly makes him so perilous? He looks utterly unexceptional."

Unfortunately, Tarkin is the one to speak this time. He scrutinizes you with an intensity in his narrowed eyes that can only be perceived as disapproval, which it is, because he does not approve of you. However, he tolerates you.

"His danger lies not in his outward appearance, but in the information he possesses, and the circles he keeps. He's a smuggler, one with a network of contacts that stretches across the Outer Rim and beyond." He takes a breath before continuing, eyes never leaving your face. "Solo has been known to associate with the likes of the Rebel Alliance's top leader. His ship, the Millennium Falcon, is used to ferry critical information and supplies to the Rebellion's strongholds."

Maker, what an earful.

Tarkin's gaze turns back to the mugshot, distaste clear on his face and in his voice. "Furthermore, he's been a thorn in the side of the Empire. He's evaded us for years, always slipping through our grasp at the last moment. In doing so, he's become a symbol of defiance, a beacon of hope for the discontented masses."

Is he done yet?

"Perhaps you'd like to aid in his capture, since you have such curiosity."

Of course not.

"Excuse me?"

The pale blue of Tarkin's eyes fall back on you, studying your expression. "I recommend you take personal charge of this mission to apprehend Solo. Your... unique skills and background may prove invaluable in navigating the underworld he inhabits."

A sound akin to a garbled scoff is heard from beside you. It's clear that Vader isn't happy with this new development. The Grand Moff, ever the antagonist, raises an eyebrow. "Do you disagree, Lord Vader?"

Yes, he does disagree. One thousand times over, absolutely. Yet for some reason, he can't find it in himself to argue with the Admiral today. A few moments of silence pass before Vader speaks.

"Very well."

That's how you found yourself on Tatooine.

Fate decided you would be dropped onto this podunk, backwater planet, and so here you are, feeling stranded on the desolate sands of Tatooine. The scorching heat of the binary suns above bears down upon you, your skimpy clothes given to you for the mission doing little to shield you from the temperature.

Vader had told you he had an inkling that the rogue would be lurking in one of the planet's countless cantinas. Sure enough, as you make your way inside of a particular dive bar, his intuition proved correct.

It's loud. Too loud.

The raucous noise of the patrons and music combined is an unwelcome and very stark contrast to the usual eerie, dead silence you've grown accustomed to in Imperial dwellings. It all grates on your ears, overwhelming you. As your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, they fall upon a familiar face across the room.

Han Solo. Just the man you want to see.

A warmth pools in your tummy as Han's piercing brown eyes meet yours, a cocky, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. Despite there being three girls at the table looking up at him like he hung the moon and stars just for them, you feel an inexplicable pull, a magnetic attraction drawing you towards him. Straightening your short skirt, the leather of it creaking a bit, you take a deep breath and make your way across the crowded cantina, weaving between the tables and assortment of patrons.

He sits at a sabacc table, boots kicked up onto it making no difference on the scratched up surface, his lips now fixed into a lazy smirk on the death stick between them as he plays the game with the ease of a seasoned gambler. As you approach the table, Han's eyes rake over your curves, a flicker of interest in his eyes. He leans back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat beside him, a silent invitation. The others present, a mix of humans, humanoids, and aliens, eye you warily, sensing your potential competition.

"Well well," Han drawls around the stick in his mouth, his voice like velvet and sin. "Join us, darlin'." He gestures to the seat beside him.

As you settle in, your hand finds his arm, once again making a heat pool in your stomach. You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his sleeve, the firmness of his bicep beneath your fingertips. You lean forward slightly, looking at his hand.

Leaning forward, you watch as Han takes a long drag of his death stick, the embers glowing bright in the dim light of the cantina. He exhales a plume of smoke, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a challenge in his gaze, a dare to match his audacity.

The cards laid out before him are just a jumble of patterns and numbers to your untrained eyes. You have zero idea who has the advantage, but you're not here to play sabacc. You're here for him.

You hesitate for a moment, your stomach fluttering nervously as you glance towards the cantina's entrance. The noise of the crowd fades into a distant murmur. Han's presence, his raw charisma, is utterly consuming.

Suddenly, you remember the reason you came here. To apprehend him. Why does he have your body warming with attraction? You stand up a bit abruptly. "Excuse me," you murmur, hoping he doesn't notice the slight tremor in your voice. "I'll be right back."

Once again, you weave your way through the ridiculously crowded cantina, your heart pounding in your chest as you make your way to the refresher. It's a welcome respite from the chaos, the air slightly cooler and less smoky. You stand at the sink, staring at your reflection. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes wide and bright. You look... excited, almost manic. You turn on the sink and splash some cool water on your face, trying to snap out of it and compose yourself.

As you dry your hands, another woman steps out of one of the stalls, approaching the sink and turning the water on. "Watch yourself with that one, sweetheart." She warns, tilting her head to the door, referring to Han. "He's trouble." She takes the towel from you, drying her hands. Just like that, she's gone.

The door swings right back open, revealing Han's imposing figure, the smell of smoke and whiskey brought with him. He strides in, each step eating up the distance between the two of you. At 6'2", his tall, muscular frame seems to dwarf the small bathroom, making you feel small and insignificant. Han leans against the sink, looming over you, his gaze boring into yours. A wolfish grin spreads across his face, and it takes every ounce of your willpower to not let out a whimper.

"You said 'right back,' didn't you?" His deep voice asks, sending a shiver down your spine. He hits a fresh pack of death sticks against his palm before tearing it open, tossing the paper onto the floor, and extracting one. With fluid motions he places the death stick between his lip and flicks open his lighter. Shielding the flame with his large hand, he ignites it, the embers glowing.

"Looks like the party's here now," Han sighs, flicking the lighter closed and setting it beside the pack on the counter. His eyes never leave your face. The air is growing thick with tension, the scent of smoke mingling with the lingering floral aroma of the hand soap and your own fear. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry, realizing the precarious situation you've gotten yourself in.

Thrawn was right. He is not to be underestimated.

"Loth-cat got your tongue, sweetheart?" He asks, growing agitated with your silence. "C'mon, darlin'. A pretty little thing like you, comin' here for a good time then runnin' away?" Han pushes off the sink, beginning to circle you. As he stops behind you, he stares with a heavy gaze, taking a long drag of his death stick. The smoke curls around his head like a sinister halo. "You know sweetheart," he taps the ash off the stick into the sink. His hand comes to rest on your hip, pulling you towards him, your back hitting his chest. "I could show you a real good time."

"A good time?" You question, laying your head back against his chest. "Mhm," he leans down and presses a kiss to your jawline, then to your neck, giving your pulse point a teasing flick with his tongue. "Turn back around f'me, sweet thing, face me." He murmurs, and you comply, now facing him. "On your knees."

"Yes Captain." Your voice in your ears is barely audible over the sound of your heart pounding in against your chest as you drop down to your knees. "You know what to do, sweetheart." Your hands find and undo his belt, the metal clasp falling open with a soft clink. Dragging down his zipper, you tug at the waistband of his pants, freeing his hardening cock. It springs out, thick and heavy, the musky scent filling your nostrils.

Tentatively, you wrap a hand around his velvety shaft, stroking it with a light touch. Han inhales sharply, his hips jerking forward slightly, seeking more contact. You lean in, flicking your tongue out to taste the pearlescent bead of precum glistening at the tip. The flavor spreads across your taste buds, salty and slightly bitter, but bearable.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, before taking Han's cock into your mouth. Inch by inch, you sink down, lips stretching around his girth. The head of it bumps against the back of your throat, making you gag reflexively. You fight the urge, determined to please him, to get him in Imperial custody as quick as possible.

Han groans, tangling a hand in your hair. "Kriff, hold still dollface," he mutters around the death stick before tangling his other hand in your hair, beginning to guide your movements. He sets a relentless pace, fucking your mouth with short, hard thrusts. Drool leaks from the corners of your mouth, hands on his hairy thighs. Your jaw aches, your neck strains, but still, you take him deeper, until the tip of his cock nestles in the tight clutch of your throat.

He grunts, grip tightening in your hair, holding you in place as he hilts inside your mouth. You shut your eyes, the tears that welled up in them finally spilling down your cheeks. With a deep, guttural moan, Han empties his balls down your throat. "Ohh, Maker," he drawls. "Swallow," he whispers hoarsely. You swallow, the hot, salty essence of his cum making you gag.

Finally, Han pulls out, his softening cock slipping from your used mouth with a wet pop. You gasp for air, strands of drool and semen connecting your lips to his crotch before they snap, decorating your chin with a sheen. You look up at him, eyes pleading and desperate. For what, exactly? You have no idea. Your dignity, perhaps.

Wait a minute. Aren't you on a mission right now?

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[transformers-future-au]

CYBERTRONIAN CULTURE AND GEOGRAPHY: an overview (01)

CULTURE - gender, arts & fashion

Cybertronian culture has many aspects to it that are rather fluid. The ideas of gender, race, religion and expression are very dynamic for them when compared to organic species but are made rigid only due to their current governing authority. The culture varies from colony to colony but there are many common uniting ideas.

One such is the idea of gender. Now, according to canon, mech is actually a gender-neutral term but it has been used as a masculine equivalent while a fanon term ‘femme’ exists for feminine. But these terms would not be sufficient to explain the elaborate idea of gender expression amongst the transformer kind. The idea of gender is a new one that emerged during the time of Nova Prime but it was one that most bots didn’t mind and actually thought was kind of cool. Until then, they sort of just existed in whatever they looked like. Cybertronians have their frames created randomly due to which the ratio of feminine looking and masculine appearing bots are near equal. But the idea of categorization and labels made it easier for bots to identify. There exists a spectrum of gender expression and the word bot is often used as a general term for Cybertronians. Until the Autobot-Decepticon war where the word ‘Bot’ was claimed by the Autobots, a term ‘mecha’ was introduced.

Moving on to solely Cybertron.

The planet is very diverse with different cities that have their own accents, styles, celebrations, fashion and lingo. The city of Iacon is the capital and hence considered the more refined out of the rest of Cybertron. The upper north of Cybertron is mainly filled with technologically advanced megacities that most of the upper class of Cybertron lives in. Cities like Iacon, Vos and Harmonex are located there. Meanwhile, down south, there exist industrial cities with mines, refineries and factories where the lower classes toil in for energon scraps. This is just a general overview. This does not imply that Iacon doesn’t have a population of lower-caste bots. They do. Iacon and Vos have docks that are staffed with dock-workers and delivery bots. After all, the grandeur of the upper class mecha are brought to life through the sufferings of the lower classes. However, most of these lower class bots in the fancy cities usually dwell in its outskirts.

These radically different living conditions produce radically different cultures amongst the different classes. The upper castes of Cybertron have easy access to the arts. Various theatres where plays are held along with massive stages for musicians to perform are all across Northern Cybertron, especially Harmonex which is somewhat of the cultural capital of Cybertron.

The lower castes have no easy access to any of the old traditional works that their predecessors have left for them so they resort to making their own art, their creativity is likited by means. Many contemporary art forms and new styles of literature exist among dock workers, manual labourers, service bots and miners— each with their own take and personality to it. Music is often sung in unison as the dock workers of Iacon load and unload cargo or the factory workers of Kaon hit their hammers against metal in a rhythmic pace. They have no other pleasantries in life. Workers use their equipment and bang on various surfaces with different densities, creating sounds akin to that of drums— music is often made this way. In the glassmaking factories, they use glass to make different tunes and pitches.

But many of the lower class aren’t built-in with language chips, especially after The Senate began mass producing mecha. There’s only so much metal to make chips and modules so an unfortunate consequence is that most are illiterate in the lowest castes, especially in the miner class (this is an important thing to note). Mostly the older models have better skills in things other than just mining.

This takes us to a different form of self-expression other than literature and music— fashion. Fashion amongst Cybertronians and most mechanical species revolves mainly around plating types, paints and accessories. Most of the lower-class mecha can’t afford the fancy accessories and paints but despite this, they make an effort to look good through servo-made accessories to hook on or stick on to their frame. Some use cheap dye to make their optics have different colours. Paints are usually stolen.

Meanwhile, the higher classes of bots go over the top with their sense of style. Fancy high tensile metal fibre mended into regal capes, plating with different textures that are coated in a variety of paints to make it really pop, accents and bioluminescent paints or dangling accessories to attack to their helm pieces; Cybertronians can be quite creative when it comes to modifying their frames fashionably, each revolving around individualistic style. There also exists plating textures where plating of a bot is made to look designer with different texture add ons, creating a new sensation when touched.

There are some unconventional styles in the realm of Cybertronian fashion that involve things like paints on their faceplates, it is a large part of Camien culture and religion though. Some are inspired from the sense of style in the colony worlds or foreign cultures, though it isn’t exactly encouraged and is generally looked down upon. Main-stream trends change depending on the cities.

Not to mention, different frame-classes often have different ways of accessorising due to the nature of their frame types and even different cultures.

However, most of Cybertron's rich fashion culture was wiped away when the war started. It was deemed to be impractical and as a show-off. It's one of Cybertron's many lost cultural aspects. However, remnants of this sense of style remain alive in colonies like Caminus and Eukaris.

2. GEOGRAPHY - cities -> part 1

The major cities of Cybertron include: Iacon, Harmonex, Kaon, Petrex, Tarn, Vos, Helex, Tesarus, Tetrahex, Praxus, Stanix, Polyhex, Nyon, Darkmount and Straxus. They are divided into North and South as stated before— Northern cities being mainly places of culture and scientific advancements and the cities down South being industrial factories that fuels and powers the scientific progress of Cybertron.

Northern cities include: Iacon, Harmonex, Polyhex, Stanix, Tetrahex, Vos, Petrex and Praxus.

Southern cities include: Tarn, Kaon, Helex, Straxus, Darkmount, Nyon and Tesarus.

Nyon lies in between the lines of North and South but is considered mainly an industrial city.

Each city is unique in its own right.

Iacon is the capital city, a cradle of scientific progress. It was once called Cyber City, a long, long time ago before the Primes. Iacon is the oldest city and where most of Cybertron’s politically and religiously important structures stand— such as the Senate building, the Primal Basillica and so on.

Vos is one of the most unique. Majority of its inhabitants are Seeker class warriors with the advantage of flight. This unique flight frame was developed because of the nature of Vossian terrain, high cliffs and steep mountains that go deep into chasms.

Darkmount is a military base, ground-based warrior frames set up their barracks. It was thriving during Nova’s conquests— docks and markets thriving with soldiers returning from their slaughter up in the stars. But after the era of conquest fell, it reverted to being nothing more than a military headquarters.

Kaon is the city of factories, it's the closest to Darkmount and during Nova’s expansion, it produced tons of weapons and ammunitions to Darkmount. It remains as the weapons production capitol of Cybertron.

Tarn is primarily energon rich lands filled with mines. Most of its inhabitants are usually miners or low ranking military foot-soldiers. Tarn is, in a way, the metaphorical spark of Cybertron— majority of the planet's fuel originates from this area.

There exist minor settlements and towns like Yuss or Kalis but they are often overlooked and are left unchecked. However, during the Autobot-Decepticon Civil War, they served as vital strategic points for supply lines. Most of the village and rural life on Cybertron was turned extinct by the war. Bots began moving to larger cities in mass for better protection and opportunities.

[crypt2niite]

who wants to read about optimus prime dissasociating and hallucinating about megatron/d-16 and orion pax for 3.3k words!

---

there are expectations, of a prime. of duty- servitude. protection, guidance. he imagines it ought to be stifling- orion pax would have thought it so. optimus wonders if he should find it so as well.

strength is not only his duty, but his birthright. his purpose. war- conflict. protection. battle. he was born into it. he will die amongst it, he assumes.

---

like this, lowered to the ground, hydraulics weakened, gear-locks disengaged- he can almost imagine himself a body the memories of which are abstract and unfamiliar. smaller- sweeter, perhaps.

orion pax was not one to kneel, either.

still, this is as close as he can get to his once self.

there is a ghost, at the edge of his processor, two, if he allows them. three, if he wishes. His beginnings, his eternity, and his enevitible end.

---

red morphs into orange into gold. end into eternity into beginning. into memories that belong not to him- but memories he clings to nontheless

soft optics and a aggrieved smile. optimus is a mech who was born haunted. A ghost of something someone he once knew once knew.

a hand, open and gentle, servos almost brushing against his cheek.

just oh so slightly to the left. a slight tilt of the helm is all it would take to shatter the illusion in front of him.

he refrains. permits himself imagine the hollow sound of metal tapping against metal. instead of silence, air brushing by his finials

---

'you look like him, like this. You know.'

'like orion.' (lies)

If he could reply. bring himself to online his voice module, respond to this haunting of his own mind- of orions spark. what would he say?

orion is dead. you killed him

'It was orions fault, though.'

'he got in the way.'

yeah.

---

knelt low, servos curled to his thighs,fans halted and processes slowed.

Like this, optimus could almost be mistaken for a statue. not particularly serene, but -

there is a tension to him. he arose to war. forged for battle. it is inate.

---

If it had been orion in his place-

---

blue optics stare at up him, bright and sweet.

optimus wants to hate him, hate him almost as much as he pities him.

one half of his beginning.

a spark that lays within his own. intertwined- smothered, protected, maybe. he wonders how much of him is orion. how much of orion was him.

slowly coaxing closed. he will smother what is left, eventually. it is not a relief.

---

he loved you. He wants to say it, wants to online his optics and his vocals and see this non-existent spectre that has been passed onto him by orion pax.

wants to shout at it this truth that he was born into. wants to profess the love of a mech that died for his birth for a mech that died for the same over and over again.

as if that truth couldve changed anything, couldve saved d-16 and orion pax. couldve stopped the spark that resides in his chest from curling and twisting into that of a prime. into himself.

---

back into orange into red.

"I love you I love you I love you I love you"

It beats in his chest like a drum

not only had orion left him his ghosts, he had left his love, and as orion died and so rose optimus, so did d-16 die, and so rose megaton.

was it so strange, then? that the love that orion pax held so dearly to his spark, died as well, and so rose for optimus prime, love. as well?

---

blue shutters into life. He turns his attention elsewhere. He remains a coward. does not want to view the nothing that he knows is there.

---

[tosomeonessomeone]

Maracatu

Brazil series

words・ 4.2k /pairings・ Jisung x reader / genres・fluff / warnings・ mdi, smut

Seoul, South Korea – 10:32 AM

The JYP Building towers like a temple of modern sound, its mirrored surface slicing the crisp autumn light into shards. You step out of the taxi, the scent of roasting *castanhas* from a street vendor clashing with the metallic tang of Seoul’s skyline. Jet lag claws at your eyelids—*24 hours from Rio to Incheon*—but your pulse thrums faster when your phone vibrates. A message glows: ��

*JYP Team:* *“Mr. Bang Chan is ready. 18th floor. Elevator 3.”*  

Inside, the elevator walls are a mosaic of K-pop legacy: TWICE’s candy-colored visuals, Rain’s smoldering stare, and Stray Kids’ graffiti-style logo. Your thumb traces the USB drive in your pocket—*your weapon*. The demos inside are a manifesto: *berimbau* twangs fused with *pansori* wails, *maracatu* drums under *gugak* strings. The doors part with a whisper.  

The room hums. Not just from the subwoofers—*everything* vibrates here. Neon LED strips clash with the warm glow of a salt lamp. Bang Chan swivels in his chair, headphones dangling like a pendant, his smile sharp and sunburn-bright. Behind him, a whiteboard bleeds ideas:  

- *“HAN’s verse → SAMBA STUTTER??”*  

- *“MV: SEOUL PALACE x FAVELA STAIRS”*  

- *“ASK BRAZIL PROD ABOUT CUÍCA vs. PIRI DUET”*  

The studio thrums with the low-frequency purr of subwoofers, air thick with the scent of burnt coffee and ozone from overworked synthesizers. Bang Chan swivels in his chair to face you, bare feet propped on a tower of tangled MIDI cables, hoodie sleeves shoved haphazardly to his elbows. Peeling studio tape clings to his fingertips like battle scars. His grin is all mischief, voice a collision of Sydney surf and Seoul grit: *“G’day, mate—heard you’ve got a death wish.”*  

He stabs a key on his laptop. The room explodes with sound—your demo track, *“Janggu vs. Tamborim,”* but warped. The Korean drum’s earthy *ddong-ddong* now tangoes with the Brazilian tamborim’s metallic chatter, Hyunjin’s dance practice footage glitching onscreen in time with the beat. *“Looped this during Hyunjin’s rehearsal,”* he says, eyes flashing. *“Kid backflipped into a speaker. *Still* claims it’s the best rhythm he’s ever moved to.”*  

You drop your bag onto a couch buried under a graveyard of half-dismembered synth modules and a fossilized bag of *yakgwa*. *“So JYP didn’t bring me here to play nice,”* you counter, toeing a rogue drum stick. The USB in your pocket feels nuclear. *“You want a revolution. Let’s torch the rulebook.”*  

Chan leans back, arms crossed, appraising you like a puzzle. *“Rulebook?”* He snorts. *“We’re writing a new one. Chapter one: *Stray Kids* eat trop-house for breakfast. Chapter two—”* He tosses you a cable. *“—we blow up the algorithm.”*  

The hum of machines sharpens. Somewhere, a coffee drip echoes like a countdown.

Three weeks. Three weeks of *nothing*.  

The studio walls, once electric with possibility, now feel like a prison. Stray Kids’ demos pile up like casualties: *“SAMBA GOD’S MENU (ABANDONED)”*, *“TAEYANG’S TANGO (CRINGE)”*, *“FELIX’S BOSSA NOVA NIGHTMARE (BURN THIS)”*. Bang Chan hasn’t slept in 52 hours. His hair resembles a electrocuted hedgehog, his hoodie stained with *gochujang* and regret. You watch him mutter over a synth pad, tweaking the same four bars of a *forró* beat until it sounds like a fax machine screaming.  

“Chan,” you say, prying a cold *bungeo-ppang* from his death-grip. “We’re stuck. You’re stuck. This studio’s cursed.”  

“No—*no*—I just need to layer this *piri* sample with a *cavaquinho*,” he rasps, eyes bloodshot. “Hyunjin’s *samba* rehearsal was *fine*—”  

“Hyunjin tripped into a timbalão and cried in three languages. *Fine* isn’t cutting it.”  

---  

JYP’s office smells like sandalwood and power. The man himself sits cross-legged on a velvet chaise, sipping *matcha* like a philosopher-king. You slam a USB drive on his desk—labeled *“EMERGENCY: BRAZIL OR BUST”*—and play a clip of your last demo: a tragic accordion-chaos hybrid that makes JYP’s eyebrow twitch.  

“He’s drowning,” you say. “Seoul’s killing his vibe. I’m taking him to Brazil. *Now.*”  

JYP steeples his fingers. “Bang Chan… on a plane? Voluntarily?”  

“Oh, he’ll fight. But you’ll handle the passport stuff, yeah?”  

A pause. Then, a smirk. “Tell him I’ll disband Stray Kids if he says no.”  

---  

Chan doesn’t go quietly.  

You find him under his studio desk, cocooned in a *Stray Kids* blanket, ranting in Korean-Aussie-*Portuñol*. “I’M FINE! I JUST NEED TO REVERSE THE PHASE ON THIS AFROBEAT—”  

“JYP’s orders,” you lie, tossing his sneakers at him. “He wants a ‘cultural immersion documentary.’ Also, he’s got your mom on speed-dial.”  

Chan freezes. “You’re evil.” ��

“And you’re boarding a flight to Rio in two hours. *Vamos.*”  

——

Chan spends the car ride Googling *“Can K-pop leaders get kidnapped?”* and *“Is Brazil’s WiFi good?”*. At security, he tries to bolt, claiming he left his “lucky MIDI controller” at the studio. You bribe a janitor to drag him through the gates.  

By takeoff, he’s sulking in first class, hoodie pulled over his face, muttering about “trust issues.” You slide a *caipirinha* into his hand. “Drink. Cry. Embrace the *saudade*.”  

He sniffs the lime. “Is this… alcohol?”  

“It’s *therapy*.”  

——

The moment Chan steps into Galeão Airport’s chaos, magic happens. A *bateria* from Mangueira samba school parades past, their *surdos* thundering. Chan’s eyes widen—he’s already Shazam-ing the rhythm. A vendor shoves a *pastel de queijo* into his hands; he takes a bite and moans like he’s rediscovered music.  

“This… this is a *triplet* feel!” he yells over the drums, sauce on his chin. “Why didn’t we *think* of this?!”  

You grin. “Because you were busy syncing *gayageum* to a metronome. *Burro.*”  

——

Copacabana at sunset. Chan’s barefoot in the sand, a *caipirinha* in one hand, a *berimbau* in the other. Local producers crowd around a bonfire, playing a *pagode* riff that’s 70% soul, 30% chaos. You shove a mic at him. “Freestyle. Now.”  

He hesitates—then spits a verse in Korean, voice raw and desperate, over the *cavaco*’s bounce. The crowd roars. A dancer named Thiago drags him into a *passinho* battle; Chan’s sneakers fill with sand, but his shoulders loosen, his laugh louder than the waves.  

Your phone buzzes. A text from JYP:  

*“Is he alive?”*  

You snap a photo of Chan crowd-surfing to a *funk ostentação* beat and hit send.  

*“He’s reborn.”*  

——

Next day

The rental car slices through the Serra do Mar mountains, dawn spilling molten gold over Rio’s vanishing coastline. Chan slumps in the passenger seat, sunglasses crooked, mouth agape—finally asleep after three days of studio-induced delirium. You crank the window down, flooding the cabin with the jungle’s wet-green breath.  

“*Acorda, dorminhoco,*” you bark, elbowing him as the highway plunges into a tunnel of *pau-brasil* trees and mist. “This isn’t scenery—it’s a *sermon*. Open your eyes.”  

He jerks awake, phone already filming the chaos: toucans diving through highway exhaust, a roadside shrine to *Nossa Senhora Aparecida* draped in trucker roses, a lone capybara judging humanity from a ditch. “Feels like… *FernGully* directed by Tarantino,” he mumbles.  

——

At a *lanchonete* plastered with peeling *Guaraná* ads, you force-feed him *pastel de carne* oozing grease and a mason jar of *caldo de cana*. Chan squints at the murky sugarcane juice. “This looks like swamp water.”  

“It’s São Paulo’s holy trinity: sugar, sweat, and regret.”  

He sips. His eyes flare. “*Fuck.* I could produce a mixtape on this.”  

——

The city erupts on the horizon—a concrete avalanche of Oscar Niemeyer curves and Brutalist spikes, helicopters swarming like coked-up dragonflies. Chan’s forehead smudges the window as you carve through Avenida Paulista’s bedlam: a *sambista* belting *“Aquarela Brasileira”* atop a dumpster, finance bros in *alfaiataria* suits vaping over spreadsheets, a drag queen in sequined *Carnaval* leftovers hailing an Uber Black.  

“This city’s… *violently* alive,” he breathes.  

“Wait till you see where I *live*.”  

——

Your loft isn’t just concrete and vinyl—it’s a *floresta vertical*. Every surface riots with green: monstera leaves fanning over the *Niemeyer* curves, *guiné* vines strangling the spiral staircase, *espada-de-são-jorge* swords guarding the record player like sentinels. The air hums with the musk of damp soil and *cafezinho*, humidity clinging to the glass walls like the city itself is trying to sweat its way inside.  

Chan freezes mid-step, a *jiboia* leaf brushing his cheek. “Is this… *legal*?” he whispers, as if the plants might arrest him.  

“Depends,” you say, plucking a dead leaf from a *costela-de-adão*. “If the police ask, they’re all *fake*.”  

He drifts deeper, fingers grazing a *pau d’água*’s serpentine roots. “This one’s crying,” he notes, pointing to droplets on a *tingui*’s spear-shaped leaves.  

“That’s *singing*,” you correct. “She’s a *dracaena*. Her sweat’s a samba.”  

“Your room,” you say, nudging open the guest bedroom door.  

The space is a temple to *brasilidade moderna*: a *Oscar Niemeyer*-inspired desk, a *Sergio Rodrigues* armchair, and a bed draped in crisp white linen under a canopy of *jiboia* vines. The walls breathe with a *Burle Marx* botanical print, ferns and palms frozen mid-sway. A vintage *Tropicália* lamp bathes the room in amber.  

Chan blinks at the *orquídea* dangling above the pillow. “Is that… a plant or a chandelier?”  

“Yes,” you say, tossing his bag onto the chair. “Shower’s through there. Towels are *azul marinho*. Don’t drown.”  

He hovers in the doorway, eyes glazed, fingers twitching like he’s still gripping a phantom MIDI controller. “I should… check the demos. Hyunjin sent a voice memo—”  

“*Não.*” You block his path, arms crossed. “You’re a corpse in *Air Jordans*. Shower. Sleep. *Now.*”  

“But—”  

“No ‘buts.’ JYP’s orders.” (A lie, but you’ll burn that bridge later.)  

He opens his mouth—to protest, to negotiate, to *work*—but a yawn cracks his jaw instead. Defeated, he slumps toward the bathroom.  

At 1:17 AM, you pause outside his door. The shower ran for 90 seconds—typical man—and now silence hums beneath the *jiboia* leaves. You crack the door.  

He’s sprawled facedown on the bed, one arm dangling over the edge, fingers grazing the *azulejo* floor. The sheets are a lost cause. His hoodie hangs off the *Burle Marx* frame, socks abandoned like roadkill. The *orquídea* sways above him, petals brushing his hair—a living lullaby.  

You kill the *Tropicália* lamp, leaving only the city’s neon heartbeat seeping through the blinds.  

——

São Paulo’s dawn bleeds through the *cobogó* bricks, fractaling the kitchen into a mosaic of gold and shadow. Chan slumps at the *azulejo* breakfast bar, fingers curled around a mug of *café com leite*, steam spiraling into the humid air. His eyelids are at half-mast, the adrenaline of deadlines and dance practices leaching from his bones like toxin.  

You move through the kitchen like a metronome—*chop-sizzle-sway*—dicing *manga* to the lilt of *Joyce Moreno’s* “Clareana.” The *jiboia* vines framing the window shiver in the breeze, their leaves brushing the glass like a guitarist’s strum.  

He watches, mute, as you crack eggs into a skillet. The yolks sizzle, their edges crisping in *manteiga de garrafa*, and something primal unknots in his chest.  

——

It’s the *textures*, he realizes.  

The way the *pão francês* crackles under his thumb, its crust a seismic map of flour and fire. The *mamão’s* flesh, slippery-sweet, a color Seoul’s neon can’t replicate. The radio’s hiss, a live wire between *bossa nova* chords and the growl of a garbage truck five floors down.  

You slide a plate toward him: *ovos mexidos*, *farofa*, a tangle of *couve* sautéed with garlic. “Eat,” you say, not a command but an *invitation*.  

He does. The first bite is a time machine—suddenly he’s eight years old, in Sydney’s Maroubra, eating scrambled eggs his mom made after night shifts. Salt and memory flood his throat.  

Outside, the city howls. Inside, the plants breathe.  

Chan’s phone buzzes—a KakaoTalk storm from Hyunjin, 17 missed calls from JYP. He flips it facedown, watching grease bloom across his plate like abstract art.  

“You know,” he says, voice sanded raw by sleep and *café*, “I thought this trip was about… *mining* Brazil. Sampling your drums, stealing your rhythms.” A pause. The *jiboia* leans closer. “But maybe… it’s about *this*.”  

He gestures to the kitchen—the knife scoring mango flesh, the sun pooling in the *tigela* of *açaí*, your bare feet tapping *samba* on terrazzo.  

You top up his coffee. “Your music’s all teeth, *ne?* Biting, biting. But teeth get tired.”  

He huffs a laugh. “Says the girl who made me sample a *cuíca* for three hours.”  

“Exactly. Even fangs need a jaw to rest in.”  

The metaphor lingers. Chan traces his mug’s rim, ceramic worn smooth by decades of mornings. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible:  

“I forgot… what quiet sounds like.”  

By the third cup, his shoulders have dropped below his ears for the first time in years. He’s sketching lyrics on a napkin—*“Mornings that taste of stolen time”*—when a *sabiá* lands on the windowsill, trilling its Technicolor song.  

You nod to the bird. “He’s your backup singer now.”  

Chan doesn’t reach for his phone. Doesn’t record it. Just *listens*, letting the notes dissolve into São Paulo’s humid breath.  

Time bends here. Mornings bleed into afternoons, afternoons dissolve into sunsets the color of *pitanga* pulp, and Chan’s Seoul-structured rigidity unravels thread by thread. He learns to walk barefoot on terrazzo, to curse in *paulistano* when the *mamão* slips his grip, to let the city’s chaos score his pulse instead of a metronome.  

7:00 AM: His alarm dies a quiet death. Dawn now wakes him—the *jiboia* tapping his window, the *pão francês* vendor’s whistle slicing through the favela’s basslines. He pads into the kitchen, hair a sleep-mussed riot, to find you already there, *cafézinho* brewing, *Elis Regina* spinning tales of saudade on the turntable.  

“*Bom dia, preguiçoso,*” you smirk, tossing him a knife. “Slice the *manga* before it rots.”  

He catches it midair, a reflex honed from years of idol reflexes. “You’re meaner than JYP before a weigh-in.”  

“And you chop like a *vovó* on Valium.”  

The rhythm is set: hips brushing past hips at the stove, elbows knocking over *guaraná* bottles, laughter buried under the hiss of garlic in *azeite*.  

Hyunjin FaceTimes during *almoço*, his face pixelated but pout pristine. “*CHANNNNN*, your abs better not be gone! Brazil’s *carbs* are a trap!”  

Chan holds up a *pastel de camarão*, grease dripping onto the *azulejo* table. “Better than your protein shakes.”  

Felix squirms into frame, freckles glowing. “Are you *eating*? You never eat! Who *are* you?!”  

“A god,” Chan says, mouth full. “A *pão de queijo* god.”  

You linger off-camera, chopping *cheiro-verde*, but catch Hyunjin’s narrowed eyes. “Who’s *laughing*?” he demands. “Is someone *there*?”  

Chan’s gaze flicks to you—quick, molten—before shrugging. “Just… the *jiboia*.”  

——

The bathroom is a cocoon of steam and the citrus-sharp scent of *murumuru* conditioner. You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub, hair twisted into a turbãn of curls damp from your own wash, when Chan lingers in the doorway. His mop of sleep-flattened waves hangs sheepishly over his brow, fingers worrying the hem of his *Cidade de Deus* graphic tee.  

“Can you…?” he starts, voice frayed at the edges. “I mean—*my* hair. It’s… *janggu* levels of chaos.”  

You pat the tile floor between your knees, a *Maria Bethânia* ballad humming from your phone. “Sit. Before I charge you.”  

He folds himself awkwardly onto the floor, back pressed to the tub, shoulders tense. You drape a towel over his collarbones, the fabric warm from the dryer. The first pour of water makes him flinch—cold droplets skidding down his neck—but then your fingers sink into his scalp, massaging *açaí oil* into the roots.  

“Dawm,” he hisses, head lolling back. “That’s… illegal in seventeen countries.”  

“Quiet,” you mock-scold, raking the conditioner through his waves. “You’ll scare the *cachorro-quente* guy outside.”  

He huffs a laugh, breath stirring the hem of your robe. The comb glides easier now, his hair softening under your hands, curls springing to life like secrets unraveling.  

Minutes blur. The comb clatters into the sink. Your palms skim his temples, thumbs brushing the shell of his ears, and suddenly the room is too small. Too *hot*.  

“Turn,” you murmur, voice fraying. “Let me check the back.”  

He shifts, knees bumping yours, until you’re face-to-face—your legs bracketing his hips, his hands braced on the tub’s edge. The *jiboia* outside the window drips rain onto the glass, each drop a metronome.  

“It’s… good?” he asks, but the question dies as his gaze flicks to your mouth.  

The world narrows:  

- The *dende oil* slick on your fingertips.  

- His breath, mint and *cafézinho*.  

- The way his throat bobs when you whisper, “*Perfeito.*”  

He leans in first—or maybe you do. The kiss is a slow fuse, softer than the *bossa nova* still murmuring from your phone. His hands find your waist, sticky with conditioner, and you taste the *goiabada* he stole from the fridge earlier, the salt of São Paulo still clinging to his skin.  

The city breathes outside. The *jiboia* sighs.  

When you pull back, his curls are a halo of chaos, your fingerprints glistening in the lamplight.  

“*That*,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, “wasn’t in the contract.”  

You thumb the conditioner smudged on his cheekbone. “Call it… *creative direction.*”  

The tension crackles between you as his hands slide up your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your fingers thread through his damp curls, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens with growing hunger.

"Creative direction needs proper guidance," you breathe against his lips, arching into him as his hands explore your body with increasing boldness. The rain continues its steady rhythm outside, masking the soft sounds of pleasure escaping you both.

His lips trail down your neck, tasting the salt of your skin mixed with the sweet dendê oil. When his teeth graze your pulse point, you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.

"Show me," he murmurs against your collarbone, "show me everything about Brazil..."

Chan's muscular frame presses against yours as passion builds, his hands exploring every inch of exposed skin.

You guide him to the bed, pushing him down and straddling his hips. His breath catches as you grind against him, feeling how hard he is beneath you.

"Want you so bad," he groans, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your waist. The isolation allows your moans to echo freely as desire takes over.

His lips find your neck, marking you as his while your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer.

Chan's hands roam your body hungrily as clothing falls away piece by piece. His lips trail down your neck while his fingers work to unclasp your bra, letting it join the growing pile on the floor.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, taking in the sight of your exposed breasts. When his mouth closes around a nipple, you arch into him with a gasp.

Your hands explore the defined muscles of his chest and abs as he continues his oral assault on your sensitive peaks. The friction builds as you grind against his hardening cock through his remaining clothes.

"Need you," you moan, reaching down to palm him through his pants.

Chan's hands slide down to remove your remaining clothes while his lips explore every newly exposed inch of skin. When you're fully naked, he takes a moment to drink in the sight of you before his mouth finds your wet pussy.

His tongue circles your clit as two fingers push inside you, making you arch off the bed with a loud moan. The dual stimulation has pleasure building quickly as he works you expertly.

"Please," you beg, tugging at his hair. "Need your cock inside me."

He strips off his remaining clothes, his hard length springing free. When he positions himself between your legs, you wrap them around his waist, pulling him closer.

Chan pushes his thick cock inside you slowly, stretching your tight pussy around his impressive length. When he bottoms out, you both moan at the perfect fullness.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he groans, starting a steady rhythm. His cock hits all the right spots as he picks up the pace, making you see stars.

Your nails drag down his back as pleasure builds, leaving marks that make him thrust harder. One of his hands slides between your bodies to rub your clit while he pounds into you.

"Gonna make you cum on my cock," he pants, his movements becoming more desperate as your walls start to clench around him.

Your orgasm hits hard as Chan continues pounding into your clenching pussy. Your back arches off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you, walls squeezing his thick cock rhythmically.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. His fingers dig into your hips as he chases his own release.

"Fill me up," you moan, wrapping your legs tighter around him. With a deep groan, he slams deep one final time, flooding your sensitive pussy with his hot cum.

He collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs. His cum leaks out of you when he slowly pulls out.

The *pão de queijo* burns. The *café* overflows. Neither of you care.  

—— 

The loft in São Paulo hummed with a new electricity. Chan’s laptop glowed with demos titled *“SAMBA-CODED”* and *“CARNAVAL IN 4/4,”* while your *berimbau* leaned against a stack of *Tim Maia* vinyls, its guttural cry now the backbone of his drops.  

One night, tangled in MIDI cables and each other’s limbs, you looped a *cuíca’s* rasp over Felix’s vocals. Chan watched, transfixed, as you twisted the pitch. “It sounds like the city’s heartbeat,” he murmured, fingers drumming your thigh.  

“Or its scream,” you countered, nipping his jaw.  

He dragged you into his lap, the chair groaning as his hands flew across the keyboard, improvising a melody that mirrored the hitch in your breath.  

——

Mornings bled into rituals. Chan learned to crack eggs one-handed while you diced *manga*, hips swaying to *Jorge Ben*’s *“Ponta de Lança Africano.”* His voice, rough with sleep, would harmonize with the sizzle of *pão de queijo* in the skillet.  

In the hammock strung between the *jiboia* and a concrete pillar, he traced the chords of your spine, humming melodies into the sweat-damp hollow of your neck.  

“This one’s called *‘Cafuné’*,” he whispered, lips grazing your shoulder blade.  

“Cheesy,” you laughed, but your voice cracked.  

He wrote it anyway.  

——

At the album’s Seoul premiere, JYP sipped *caipirinha* from a smuggled thermos, eyebrows climbing as *“TROPICALIA TRAUMA”* shook the speakers. “This is… a war crime against genre.”  

Chan’s thumb brushed yours under the table. “No,” he said. “It’s a peace treaty.”  

Years later, when a reporter asked about the magic behind the record, he didn’t hesitate.  

“Love’s the best producer. It samples silence, mixes truth… and never lets the track die.”  

You rolled your eyes. But your hand never left his.  

In São Paulo, the *jiboia* still hums their secrets.  

[serpentface]

I know you've already touched on this in a few places, but I'd be really interested in a post about Wardi musical traditions! What instruments exist, and how common are they? Is music a part of any religious rituals? Are there ballads (or narrative songs more generally) about any of the folktales or historical events you've posted about? Is written notation a thing?

I haven't developed specific names for any of these instruments but here's some.

A simply made but versatile instrument, and one of the most commonly used. Most musical bows here use the mouth as a resonator (rather than adding hollow structures to the instrument itself) to directly modulate the sound, especially given they are traditionally sung into while played. The string can be struck, plucked, or bowed like a fiddle, and specialized mallets for this instrument are made to be capable of all these functions.

Most fiddles here have one string, the tone of which is modulated by fingering. Variants made from horns or plant stalks are most common given the relative scarcity of appropriate timber. The variants here with a fingerboard are a more recent adoption, with this style being introduced via intensified trade with western Inner Seaway peoples. Variants with 2-3 strings are extant here, but not as common.

Handheld and seated lyres are very popular instruments with a fairly long history here. They tend to be regarded as specifically classy instruments associated with upper class beauty and leisure, in comparison to more common fiddles and bows.

Drums here are pretty diverse, though fall along these three main shapes (in addition to some smaller percussive instruments). Out of all musical instruments, they tend to get the most priority for use of wood. They have the most fundamental importance to music and dance here in general, which tends to be built around heavy percussive elements.

Drums have the most specific integration into religious practice, in which they produce a symbolic heartbeat to influence movement of spirit. Specifically made 'heartbeat drums' used by priests are large and worn at the side via a strap, though technically any drum shape can fulfill the core function (in non-priestly contexts it's less about the form of the drum itself and more how it's used).

Their priestly use is to influence the movement of God's spirit within and throughout a ritual space (for example the drumming that accompanies the kagnoma odo is considered the physical mechanism through which troops are blessed, it moves the Odomache Face of God's living spirit through a mass of people). They are functionally considered to be icons of God (usually made explicit with the drum head bearing direct iconography) and made with physical relics of God's body (the drumskin will be derived from the relevant sacrificial animal when possible, the drapes will include relevant skins/fur/feathers either way). As such, these drums are holy objects and have restrictions upon their use and strict requirements for care and cleansing.

Other heartbeat drums are used in medical contexts (and considered related but distinct objects from the ones used by priests), in which they are one facet of healing, attempting to correct the physical flow of blood/spirit through a person's body for perceived benefits. This is usually supplementary to baseline treatments of ailments (ingestable/wearable medicines, bloodletting, and hard material interventions like bonesetting and wound cleaning), with the drumming being intended to cement or intensify their effects.

Items similar to the 7-Faced God Faith's heartbeat drum predate this religion and are fairly widespread among peoples south of the Viper, used in similar capacities where it is perceived as influencing the movement of spirit(s) and having healing capabilities.

---

In addition to the things I've drawn here, there's also harps, flutes, whistles, horns (usually actual horns or shells), bells, and a few types of rattles. Bullroarers have a history here for long distance communication but very limited place in musical/religious practice.

---

Music has pretty central religious importance both in the contexts of priests and laymen, a substantial proportion of both public and private rites require at least some form of musical accompaniment. A core underlying philosophy here treats music and dance as an analogue to the movements and rhythms of the world (seasons, weather, animals, the body, birth, death) and having the capability of exerting influence over these matters when used in a targeted capacity. It is one of the mechanisms understood to help make rituals Work (not necessary to all rites, but important to many).

A type of sung prayer called a coullagri initiates essentially any act of communion with God, whether it be a daily prayer practiced in solitude or a major public rite witnessed by hundreds. This is a summoning prayer, it functions to symbolically call God into the ritual space and begin direct interaction. This is a bit of a complicated notion given that God is functionally regarded as always present to begin with, Its living spirit (when not inhibited) flows through all things. It can be understood through the general underlying body/blood(as spirit) model- a coullagri is like inflicting a small wound to draw a bead of blood from a specific part of the body. The blood is always there regardless, but now it's directly accessible, its interactive.

All members of society are considered equipped to perform a coullagri in of itself, though Specific forms of the song are more restricted. Male heads of a family have obligations to perform the hearth coullagri when their home's central fire is lit (you Can light a hearth without your family patriarch present but it doesn't confer its intended dimensions of spiritual protection), will lead the song for any prayers performed as a group, and are reserved the right to perform it during the formal naming ceremony of a child. All officiated sacrifices have a lengthy coullagri to call God into the animal, and are accompanied by heartbeat drum to direct the movement of spirit upon release (both of these performances are specifically reserved for priests).

There's no completely solid line between spiritual and secular music. You sing while plowing fields and planting seeds to help the crops grow, you also just do it to pass the time during the labor. Loud, crude ballads sung while traveling might frighten off evil spirits, you also just sing them for fun. Most music that Has spiritual dimensions is not a particularly special or solemn affair, it's just kind of a part of mundane life.

Funerary wails are their own distinct musical tradition. These are songs that instruct the dead on how to leave their bodies and complete their journey to the lunar land, repeated in a marathon of a vocal performance for the duration of a cremation. They are usually accompanied by a drumbeat to provide guidance, but they are sung intentionally harshly, often shrieked and wailed. The din attempts to frighten off malicious spirits that might plague the dead, and offers levels of physical catharsis for the griever.

Variants on the funerary wail also have a place in marriage practices. In some traditions, a bride's mother is responsible for leading a funerary wail as the bride is first led away from the family home. This journey (in most cases quite short, across a village or to an adjacent one) is symbolically likened to the journey of the dead to the afterlife- the girl is leaving girlhood and her father's household and protection, and will be reborn as a full woman in her husband's household. This also has some of the funerary wail's functions of attempting to dispel bad luck and frighten away evil spirits that may do the girl harm during this liminal period, and also potentially as a cathartic outlet for grief (this Is functionally the loss of your child, especially in cases where they're being moved more than a short distance away).

The epic poetry tradition here is designed to be sung and performed with musical accompaniment. The most standard and basic of this is soft drumming with the hand as a mallet, more elaborate performances tend to utilize lyres in addition to (rather than as a replacement for) drums. These poems have rhythmic schemes built into their structure but no codified notation/tunes, a major facet of their recital is how each individual bard puts their own spin on their delivery. Most major historical events have associated poems (and thus songs), some of which have been adapted into shorter folk songs.

I don't have any specific ballads/folk songs/etc worked out outside of very vague concepts (it's actually something I've been meaning to work on). The one area that's A Little fleshed out is herding songs. They have somewhat unique conventions, in that they serve in part to call your animals and communicate over long distances. They tend to be sung partly or wholly in falsetto and often lack the rhythmic bounding that tends to characterize most Wardi music. A lot of older herding songs have been adapted into more conventional ballads, particularly the humorous ones or the more romantic ones (focused on eventual returns home).

I have a little more info on the specific herding song traditions in the Highlands. These fall into two main variants- cattle calls/contact calls, and walking songs. The contact calls are performed in higher tones/falsetto to carry over long distances and have practical functions, in summoning your animals and establishing contact with villages downland/other herders (usually just as a signal that you're still alive, though sometimes to communicate more complex information over a distance). Walking songs are more conventional ballads and mostly serve to alleviate boredom. These are usually performed in a baritone and fairly quietly so as to Not attract attention. The ones that don't focus on cattle tend to fall into the basic thematic categories of 'I'm in wild spirit country and there's things up here with me (but I'm being so chill about it)' and 'I can't wait to get home and fuck my wife'.

[synthtv]

Shakmat Archer's Rig, a hihat synthesizer

[xsister-serpent]

Whispers Of Power

Chapter II

Summary: Y/N reunites with Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, joining him as a trusted advisor despite skepticism from the First Order. In private, Kylo confides his distrust and past betrayals, revealing his vulnerability.

Warnings: Past Betrayals/ Eventually this is have smut but it will be tagged as so/ Slowburn/

Info: Words 2382 / Chapter I / Playlist / Author's Note at end/

He gestured with his head for you to walk with him. The two of you exited the building into a downpour of rain. You pulled up the hood of your black cloak. His footsteps were silent yet commanding. You glanced at the shuttle as a low roll of thunder rumbled across the cloudy sky. This was your place now, a silent ghost following the shadow of The Supreme Leader. Except this time, you could mold him—this Kylo Ren.

Kylo stepped onto his ship, gesturing with a hand for you to follow. Most of the troopers simply stopped to stare at you, a mix of apprehension and awe on their faces. You kept your eyes ahead, following Kylo’s lead.

“No one is to disturb us,” he ordered firmly. He glanced at a tall captain clad in brilliant chrome armor. “Notify me only when we reach the Finalizer.”

“Sir,” she nodded curtly.

Kylo gestured for you to follow him as he headed to his quarters. You silently braced yourself for the private meeting, mentally preparing. You couldn’t help but notice that the chrome captain was the only one he directly addressed. With a hiss, his quarters’ doors opened, and you followed him inside.

“You may rest here until we arrive at the Finalizer,” he said through his metallic voice modulator, standing by the large red window of the command shuttle.

You nodded, lowering your hood. He stayed quiet, his expression unreadable, yet you could feel his mind racing with thoughts. There it was again, that thrumming pulse through the Force, growing louder and making you stiffen slightly.

“May I speak?” you asked, meeting his gaze.

Kylo nodded silently.

“The Reverend Mother said you requested me specifically,” you noted, clasping your hands behind your back. “That you refused to see other members of my sisterhood.”

He turned to look at you, his gaze scanning you from head to toe. “Yes. What of it?”

You held his gaze firmly. Even with his blackened mask, you sensed his thoughts reeling, his heartbeat quickening slightly. “Why?”

“Why does every ruler need an advisor?” he said sharply.

You could almost sense his lips pressing into a thin line beneath the mask. “Everyone around me betrays me. They do nothing but betray me. They lie to me. They use me. I need to ensure loyalty within the Order. I cannot trust anyone from that side of the galaxy. That’s why I came here.”

There was something hidden in his tone, as though he wanted to say more but chose not to. It did not escape your notice. It was like reading a book—he was the book, and you were the reader. Kylo’s fist clenched tightly, sensing your mind probing his thoughts. His heartbeat pounded in your head, like a rapid drum in your skull.

“Enough,” he said sharply, making you pause.

His breathing quickened momentarily before he exhaled slowly, trying to calm his rage. Kylo stepped back, his hands reaching for his helmet. With a sharp hiss, he removed it. You gaped as your eyes took in Kylo’s unmasked face. Ben had aged—he was more of a man now. Whatever softness his features once held had hardened. His longer, darker waves framed his face, his aquiline nose and sharp jawline. His deep-set eyes, however, did not.

“You’ve changed,” you observed softly, stepping closer to him.

“So have you,” he said, placing his helmet on the table beside him. He looked down at you, his brown eyes examining you. “It’s been a while, yet I can feel the Force within you. I can feel how strong you’ve become.”

Seeing you after all these years had unsettled him. You met his gaze, a million thoughts swirling in your mind, but you lost yourself in him.

“Do they know who I am to you?” you asked quietly.

“No. No one knows,” he said, his eyes scanning your face again. “Y/N, you’re the only one I trust now. The only person I can confide in, knowing you will give me your true word.”

You nodded distantly, glancing at the door and then back at him. It was like seeing a ghost—a fleeting glimpse of the boy you once shared a bond with.

“You will be protected. My word is law. The First Order will learn to accept you,” he said, pausing as his gaze lingered on you.

There was no doubt in his voice. Kylo extended his gloved hand, a silent offer of trust. You met his gaze, using your abilities to detect any hint of deception.

“You swear it?” you asked.

“You have my word,” he whispered, his voice gentle but determined. He wouldn’t let any harm come to you—not when he needed you by his side.

You took his forearm in your hand, feeling his muscles tighten under your palm. It was a token of trust, a gesture you had shared before your exile. Kylo seemed to soften under your touch, and in a way, so did you.

“Supreme Leader, we have successfully docked,” said the familiar voice of the chrome captain from the other side of the door.

Reluctantly, Kylo pulled his arm away from your grasp. He replaced his helmet, issuing the command for the door to open.

“Let’s go.”

Kylo walked with you out of his quarters as the doors closed behind you, marching toward the unlatch door of the ship. There, you were greeted by a red-headed general and the chrome-clad captain.

“Supreme Leader,” General Hux addressed him, his gaze shifting to you with a veiled glare. Suspicion was written plainly across his face.

You had anticipated skepticism—if not outright hostility—from some of them. It was no surprise. They didn’t understand your role, your part to play. How could they?

Kylo stepped closer to Hux, narrowing his eyes at him slightly.

“This is my advisor, Y/N of Bene Gesserit,” Kylo said firmly. “She is under my protection, General, from this day forward.”

“As you command, Supreme Leader,” Hux replied, though reluctance laced his words.

Your eyes locked with the General’s briefly. He was an open book to you, his faults and insecurities laid bare. Reluctance was just one of his many flaws. Almost in cowardice, his blue eyes darted away from yours. Kylo on the other hand, gave him one last glare before walking past him. Quietly, you followed Kylo, taking in the cold, metallic corridors illuminated by sparse lights. This sector was a far cry from what you were accustomed to.

“You didn’t tell them about your new advisor?” you asked Kylo. “You’re already adding fuel to the fire.”

“I am aware,” Kylo said curtly, his strides calm but purposeful. “I don’t trust anyone—not even my knights.”

He stopped in front of his quarters, his hand hovering over the door’s control panel as he entered a code. With a soft swoosh, the doors opened, and he motioned for you to step inside. You walked in, your eyes scanning the dark, spacious room with its minimalist design. You removed your coat and hung it on a nearby rack, your gaze drifting to the room down the hall—his bedroom.

No. You are here as an advisor, not his concubine.

The sound of his helmet being removed drew your attention. But an unspoken tension lingered in the air—a personal matter between you and him. You had been exiled from Luke and had never reached out to Kylo through the force. Despite his maturity, Kylo’s grudges were like a garden he meticulously tended. His reticence was palpable as he watched you, his question blaring in his mind: Why didn’t you come back to him?

“I’ll have the troopers deliver your luggage to your bedroom down the right hallway. You’ll be staying here,” Kylo said, standing in one smooth motion. “My private room is off-limits, but you’re free to go anywhere else in this space.”

You nodded silently, glancing around at the large, well-appointed quarters. It was more luxurious than the shared room you had in the sisterhood, and for that, you were somewhat grateful. His tone was stern, a clear signal that he wouldn’t indulge in reopening old wounds. That part of him hadn’t changed—his unparalleled grudges and spite.

Kylo moved toward the door.

“Before you go, I need to know one thing,” you said, halting him in his tracks. “How did it feel? To see the light vanish from Snoke’s eyes…”

Your question hung in the air, and you could feel the storm of emotions it unleashed within him.

You sensed his dread, rage, shock, guilt—and most of all, satisfaction.

His body remained rigid, his back still turned to you.

“It felt…liberating,” he finally said, his voice low and steady.

“Good. You deserved your vengeance.”

The silence between you and him settled into something resolute—a quiet, almost relieved stillness. Kylo turned to face you again, his gaze lingering for a moment before he gave you a small nod.

“You should rest. I can sense your exhaustion,” Kylo said, his voice softer now.

A sense of resolution washed over you. You were just as powerful as he was now. You could only imagine what it would have been like to see him standing in the throne room, triumphant over his fallen master. Now, here you were, offering him your guidance—to be his whisper of power.

Kylo nodded once more, picked up his helmet, and left the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Your mind reeled with possibilities, strategies, and the weight of what was to come.

It was alleged night on the Finalizer, and you had prepared yourself for bed. Your belongings were still in the cargo hold, but that was the least of your concerns. What kept you awake was Kylo’s restlessness. Even from across the corridor, you could sense his turmoil—his mind roiling with unease as he tossed and turned, punctuated by frustrated grunts.

With a quiet exhale, you rose from your bed and slipped out of your room, making your way down the dim hallway toward his quarters. Trepidation gripped you as your hand hovered inches from the door. You hesitated, wondering whether you would be welcomed or turned away.

No, you reminded yourself. He is still your friend…your ally. And if things escalated, you were confident you could defend yourself. But you hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

As if in answer to your thoughts, the door opened silently. His bedroom was spacious and dimly lit, with a large bed at its center draped in black silken sheets. Your eyes adjusted to the low light, and you spotted Kylo. His back was to you, the pale expanse of his skin on full display, every muscle taut with tension.

“I could sense your unease,” you said softly.

“Of course you did,” he replied with a sigh, straightening himself in bed. “That’s why I opened the door.”

The weight of his uncertainty hung heavy in the room. His calm gaze didn’t match the chaotic storm of his thoughts. His eyes stayed fixed on you for what felt like an eternity, and you debated whether to step closer.

“It’s fine,” he said, rubbing his temples. The blanket slipped slightly, revealing the broad expanse of his scarred chest. “I won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

He gestured to the chair beside his bed, and you took a seat.

“You still sleep with a light on?” you teased, glancing at the small orb of light glowing faintly on the far side of the room.

“Not everyone can adapt to the dark as you can,” he retorted lightly, surprising you with the quip. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve smashed my shins on the bed corners.”

The unexpected humor caught you off guard, a glimpse of something uncharacteristic yet nostalgic. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it reminded you of Ben. Even in the dim light, he could see your features clearly. His gaze lingered, studying you intently—your lips, your nose, your eyes. Every part of you seemed to fascinate him, and the emotions fluttering in his chest were ones he didn’t entirely understand.

“I need you…for something,” he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper.

His brown eyes locked with yours, and your heart skipped a beat. Your gaze flicked to the scars on his chest, the deep pink lines a testament to the battles he’d endured. You remained silent, wary of what he might ask but willing to listen. He sensed your uncertainty through the Force, mirroring his own inner turmoil.  He took a moment to speak again.

“Could you…find a memory of mine to lull me to sleep?” he asked. “I know you have the ability. I just need one good memory…I’ve had enough nightmares.”

He turned his head slightly to look at you. He looked so vulnerable to you, and it hurt that you were ordered to expose his weakness. A pang of empathy washed over you. Despite everything, he was still your friend. But the look in his eyes held something deeper—something unspoken.

“I’ll offer you one of mine,” you said softly.

You reached out, placing a hand gently on his scarred cheek, then on the side of his temple. His mind was a storm of distress, thrashing like a tempest at sea. Kylo closed his eyes, and for a brief moment, you felt him savor the warmth of your touch.

You delved into his mind and offered him a memory—a peaceful one. In it, you were in the desert, surrounded by golden dunes under a warm, gentle breeze. Kylo wandered through the sandy landscape, his breathing calm and measured.  It was a tranquil moment, serene and untouched by fear. This was a sanctuary, a stark contrast to the nightmares that plagued him.

When you withdrew your touch, you noticed the tension in his face had melted away. His body relaxed, sinking into the black silk sheets. His muscles eased, and he looked almost at peace. You brushed your fingers lightly over the scar on his face one last time before stepping away.

Tomorrow, you would be sworn back into the First Order. Tomorrow, you would step fully back into Kylo’s life.

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed it. Tags still open if you want to be tagged in fic lmk.

Banners by @targaryen-dynasty , photos are not mine found on pinterest

Tag: @paristheonewhoreads, @my-simp-space, @ssnapsaurus, @lm-lg-4ever, @noonee333

[thesparkinthefire]

Some more notes about the Inside Look footage of Murderbot

I can't stop thinking about this. I also love seeing everyone react to my theories with their own because it make me rethink my theories. Soooo, here we go.

1) PresAux being besties

I love them so so so so so much!!! Look at them! Their little painted habitat. Their colorful clothes. My little space hippies that I need to put in my pocket and keep them save.

Rattih playing his little space-ukulele. Pin-Lee on the drum block thing. I love them! Mensa and Bharadwaj going all out on their dance break. And Gurathin doing his little shimmy in the background - god, he is so awkward I deeply love him. I just know Murderbot is watching this thinking "humans are so fucking weird".

2) Free agent Murderbot

This is probably not a deep cut and kinda obvious but this seems to be the scene after Mensa buys Murderbot and it gets to join the Preservation team in the hotel!!

I loooove that this has been made into a team scene where they all sit together. Look at them all being happy!!! Look at sweet angel Arada bringing Murderbot its own set of Preservation clothes! God, I love them. I love them SO MUCH. Plus their style is chefs kiss!! The costume and concept department deserves the biggest raise. Also love Murderbots look here.

3) 'I sure hope a combat override module isnt making me feel this weird'

Okay, back to the more grim scenes:

Murderbot, it's not looking good. I think this is in the DeltFall habitat after Murderbot gets taken down by the evil SecUnits and Mense saved it. Mense is pulling Murderbot back to the hopper. Poor babygirl (gn) isn't looking too good here. Are those sparks coming from you, Murderbot? I am obsessed with this clip. Osessed with the lighting; Obsessed with Murderbots look; Obsessed with how overwhelming it looks. It seems they perfectly captured how the combar override module and shut-down make it feel.

4) Dr Mensa this is against...

We all know Mensa is a badass girlboss. At first look I thought it was Mensa helping Murderbot at DeltFall - it's in the book, it would make sense. But the more I look at it, especially the background, the more I feel like that's the Preservation habitat or hopper. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the lighting that's throwing me off (DF is cool tones and dark and blue. This shot is bright and warm thanks to the weapon fire). I'm curious what it ends up being 👀

5) Evil SecUnits!!

Look at these evil SecUnits and their black and blue armor and tell me that's not the sexiest thing you have ever seen! (I'm using sexy very loosely here. To me even a F1 qualifying lap can be sexy.) Incredible design. So so cool!!! And if you have seen my trailer breakdown, I theorized that they might make the evil survey units black as a visual contrast and I am so happy to see I was right!!! I love this design so much. So so much. Once again: The design & costume departments deserve a BIG raise!

Also looking at these screenshots, it seems they take place after this one👇, which means it could be the final confrontation between Evil Survey and Preservation!

6) More of murderbots systems

I love that we get to see some of Murderbots analysis and feed alerts. Attack detacted? Slay. That is so cool I love this visual representation of the data it's getting. So cool. I love this show. I can't wait to watch it. And I can't believe it's already May!!! It's Murderbot May!!! We are so close to getting this. Aaahhh!!!

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

This 1958 Chevrolet Corvette underwent a pro-street-style metamorphosis between 2008 and 2011. It is endowed with a 383 cubic inch stroker V8 engine, harmonized with a TH350 three-speed automatic transmission, and a narrowed rear axle featuring a limited-slip differential. The rear suspension has been upgraded with a ladder-bar configuration, adjustable coilovers, and the addition of a lift-off hood. The body, painted a striking red with white coves, comes with a detachable hardtop. Inside, a roll cage has been installed along with a B&M Pro Stick shifter, a shift light, aftermarket gauges, and black Procar bucket seats. The enhancements also include dual Edelbrock carburetors, Hooker headers, side-exit exhaust pipes, 15” alloy wheels, and front disc brakes. Acquired by the current dealer in February 2024, this modified C1 Corvette is now part of the Coffee Walk Corvette Collection in Wylie, Texas, and is offered without reserve, complete with build records and a clean Pennsylvania title.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The fiberglass exterior is adorned in red with white coves and includes a removable hardtop and a lift-off hood with an integrated air scoop. A Stewart-Warner fuel-pressure gauge is mounted on the cowl, and the right-rear corner features a battery cutoff switch and external terminals. The gallery reveals cracks in the weatherstripping, pitted chrome, and paint imperfections.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

Polished 15” alloy wheels are shod with 25.0×5.0” front and 29.5×11.5” rear Hoosier drag tires, installed in April 2024. A crossmember supports the rear suspension, which has been modified with ladder bars, a diagonal link, and adjustable coilovers. The braking system includes front disc brakes and rear drums.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The interior is equipped with a roll cage and Procar high-back bucket seats in black. Enhancements include a B&M Pro Stick shifter, an MSD shift light, rocker-switch controls, and fabricated metal door panels. The gallery displays flaking paint and wear on interior surfaces.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The three-spoke steering wheel is positioned in front of a 160-mph speedometer and auxiliary gauges. An AutoMeter pedestal tachometer is mounted atop the non-functional factory tachometer. Additional gauges for coolant temperature and oil pressure are located in the center console. The mechanical odometer is inoperative, and the total mileage remains unknown.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

A Harwood plastic fuel cell is mounted in the trunk, which has been tubbed with fabricated aluminum panels to accommodate the rear wheels.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The 350ci V8 engine block, bored and stroked to 383ci, features four-bolt main bearings. The build includes forged pistons, ARP fasteners, a polished Edelbrock intake manifold, dual Edelbrock carburetors, an MSD ignition module, and Hooker long-tube headers that flow into side-exit exhaust pipes.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

Power is transmitted to the rear wheels through a TH350 three-speed automatic transmission and a narrowed Dana 60 rear axle with a limited-slip differential.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

[backtothefanfiction]

Not That Easy | Mandalorian x Reader Imagine

Summary: When Din realised he was starting to have feelings for you, he got scared. Snuck away before sunrise and left you stranded on Nevarro. When you catch up to him on Tatooine, you have a few choice words for him.

Length: Short

Warnings: angst!

A/N: just a quick before bed drabble so I can have a nice fantasy to go to bed to. also I never write for Mando like I should and desperately needed an angst outlet. enjoy!

He had been gone for an hour, two tops. Just a quick stop in to the only person he trusted to work on the Razor Crest in these parts. Or so he had thought.

“Hey Peli?” He asked as he stepped back down from the ship towards her office, “How come my hyperspace drive-“ He didn’t get a chance to finish his question. It wasn’t Peli sitting behind the console in the office- it was you. Legs up on the console, the missing part needed to fix his hyperspace drive being used to play catch in your fingertips, as you pretended to ignore him.

“Shit.” You heard him mutter through the modulator in his helmet. You turned to see his gaze drop, head shaking, knowing he’d fucked up. He knew he shouldn’t have left you. He knew that you’d be pissed. But he didn’t realise you would be so pissed that you’d come all the way to Tatooine to wait him out and have it out with him.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” you huffed angrily as you stood, pushing past him and out of the door.

“Y/N- please, just hear me out.” He tried to say as he followed on your heels, but you were having none of it.

At first when you laid eyes on his shiny coat of beskar you had become angry, remembering the hurt of waking up to find him, the kid and the Rasor Crest gone. Not even a note left but a relayed message from Greef Karga of all people. ‘Something came up. He had to run. Wanted you to be safe and take a break.’ What utter Bantha crap.

If you were angry then, you were enraged now. Fed up of his excuses and hiding, you whirled on him, stopping him dead in his tracks. “NO! No more excuses. You- left- me!” You enunciated. “I trusted you- and you left me!” You screamed in his face. “Uhhhgggg!!! If you didn’t have that-stupid- helmet on, I’d really smack you across the face right now.” You settled for shoving him backwards. He rocked slightly, but barely moved. So you pushed at his chest again. And again. And again. Until you were just drumming your fists on his shiny metal chest, getting all of your frustration out, as you huffed and grunted and groaned in frustration.

When you finally ran out of steam, your palms hesitating, resting flat against his breast plate, unable to meet his visor, body heaving with both emotional and physical exhaustion, he tried to wrap his arms around you. To pull you into an embrace. Comfort you the way he had done all those times before he left. Shit, he knew he shouldn’t have left.

As you felt his arms began to tighten around you, your body growing tight. You may be exhausted, but you were still angry. “No.” You said, pushing him away.

When he looked into your eyes, he saw just how much damage he had done. If only you could see his, you would know how much damage you had done to him too.

It was only supposed to be the kid. He made a vow. It had been the only other living thing to really get under his skin. To make him feel… Make him care. But then there came you. The kid was so attached and you were fantastic with him. The way your giggles travelled around the Razor Crest. How could you not melt what was left of his carbonite frozen heart. Soon he found himself offloading things to you he hadn’t told anyone. He would return with wounds and you would patch them up without batting an eyelid. You looked at every place you travelled to together with wonder, and made him see those worlds in completely new ways too. How would that not scare him. Especially when his job was so dangerous. He couldn’t risk it anymore. Couldn’t risk you.

There was a faint coo from the doorway of the Razor Crest, the kid having stirred at the sound of your voice. You both turned your head to look at the kid, who tilted his head with a smile and babble in your direction; and it eased your heart.

Turning back to Mando, you said, “You didn’t think getting rid of me was going to be that easy? Did you?” You asked, as you heard the kid begin to climb down and begin to make his way to you.

“I’m sorry-“ he tried to say, before you cut him off.

“You will be.” You threatened, before turning away from him and back to your little green friend, picking him up from the ground and pulling him into your arms with the biggest smile, “Hello, little one.” You cooed loudly and sweetly- and just from the tone of your voice- Mando knew he wouldn’t be living this one down for a while.

“Hey-“ you quickly said, turning with the kid in your arms, back in his direction- his fingers rubbing at his brow over his helmet. You silently tossed him the part you had dismantled from his ship to stop him from trying to get away again. He quickly caught it, before it could reach the ground. “Put that thing back where it belongs and let’s get out of here.” You commanded. “I’m thinking somewhere nice,” you began to babble to the kid, carrying him back inside, “somewhere with sand- and crystal clear waters,” you say enthusiastically, laying it on thick so Mando can hear, just how you wanted him to make things up to you. You won’t catch-him- trying to run out on you in a hurry again.

[harrisonarchive]

Photo by Arnold Newman.

“[W]e built a little studio at home to save the drive up and down the M4. And the studio is really very nice — little plug for Eddie Veale of Audiotech because he did a fantastic job and it sounds really nice. You know, because most home studios have a lot of trouble, you know. And it’s not really practical in some cases for people to have a home studio.” - George Harrison, Capital Radio, 1974 “Of all the former ‘Fabs,’ to use his customary term, George Harrison has remained the greatest creative homebody. […] George has rolled out of bed and returned again and again to Friar Park Studios, Henley-on-Thames (or F.P.S.H.O.T., for short) to tinker, compose and do his formal recording. […] Besides 'Cloud Nine,’ George recorded the 'Dark Horse,’ '33 1/3’ and 'George Harrison’ albums in his F.P.S.H.O.T. atelier, located in what was formerly a ballroom of the house. 'The studio was installed round 1971 and there’s been a few updates, cause when I originally put the studio in it was a 16-track. In terms of the monitoring system, after all those years in the Abbey Road EMI Studios, I put in Altec speakers. My experience in Abbey Road was that whenever the Beatles worked there and we thought we had a great sound, we’d play it back on the Altecs and it sounded terrible — ordinary. So they’re very boring in a way — and this must sound strange — but they’re also accurate! See, the Altecs don’t flatter the sound; it’s not easy to get good bass and drum sounds with them. But when I built my studio I didn’t want hype. I wanted what I’m hearing to be what it is. That way, when you play it back anyplace else it sounds fantastic! […] I’ve since made F.P.S.H.O.T. into a 24-track board. […] I’m going to get a few different choice modules made soon, but I don’t really want to go for a brand new SSL board and all that. Automation is nice in some respects, but I got my first skills at Abbey Road, so I prefer the old components, and spending a friendly weekend getting the manual mix you want. Just as I much prefer my ancient Fender Strat.’” - Musician, November 1987 (x)