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inkformyblood · 8 months

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i lose all but not him #4 (Codywan)

Written with CWW Prompt "This isn't what I signed up for" Ao3 link

Nowhere is ever truly quiet on a ship.

Cody waits for the medbay door to hiss closed behind him, the tang of bacta heavy on his tongue, before he turns away from the route to his quarters, heading for the training rooms. His thoughts crackle and pace, pressing against the steel walls of his mind and he can’t tell if they’re his own or emanating from the hollow that isn’t him but sits and watches regardless. His dreams have been heavier, forgotten the instant he wakes but something from them clings to him regardless, the claws burning pinpricks into his shoulders.

Back on Kamino, there had been a small crowd on one of the lower bays, hidden enough from the watchful cameras that different command groups could mix. Cody remembers a hand in his, Fox’s maybe or it could have been Rex, except the hair had been dark like his own, close-cropped and matching in every way. They’d been important to him, somehow, but the reason slips away from him, pulled away by a cloaked hand.

Answer: they’re not important. Focus on the mission.

The mission. What is his mission? On Kamino, Cody remembers stepping closer, saltwater clinging to his boots, wind cutting through his blacks, and there had been a body. His memory is fluid, stuttering and scrambling like he’s trying to tune a holovid to the correct frequency, the limbs changing from scales to skin, pale and dotted with freckles, fins fluttering to soaked red hair and back again. Cody blinks, breathes, and tugs on the threads of thoughts that aren’t his, reaching out and leaning against a support that he knows is rotting beneath his grasp but he can’t not. He’s no different to the fish that lies in front of him in his memory, choking down the hook that would eventually kill him.

There had been a parasite on the fish’s tongue.

No. It had been the fish’s tongue.

Legs had prised the mouth open from the inside, a head extending out, jaws clicking together and Cody had let go, reaching for his blaster instead because— because—

Answer: The mission. Focus Commander. You’re a good solider.

He is. He was. He will be.

CC-2224 straightens, his spine locking into place, and he reaches for his blaster.

Cody steps forward, catching himself on the exposed hollow of a pipe before he pitches forward. He swallows, teeth clenched and jaw locked, swallows again and again because they don’t have the rations spare for him to throw up resources, he’s a solider, he’s made for this. The moment passes with a shudder, nails raking down his spine and counting every divot, searching for the imperfection that would break him and coming up empty. For now.

Where had he been going? His memory is… not blank. Blank implies there had been something there that had been removed, a space where something had been that he could worry at until the scar bled and he knew the rough shape of it beneath his fingers. His memory of the last few moments never existed, a vidfeed set to not record, and it isn’t right.

Answer: you were going to the training room.

Cody starts walking to the training room. He had always been heading there, had stepped straight out of the medbay and turned down the corridor and hadn’t paused, hadn’t faltered. He passes by a huddled group of troopers, tucked into the carved out patch in the corridor. One of the troopers is stripped to his waist, his armour clutched in the arms of his brothers and one of them holds his helmet balanced on his hip, the visor focused out along the corridor in an ineffectual sentry. Cody doesn’t pause, keeps his gaze focused on his destination because if he doesn’t see it, then it isn’t his problem or his issue to write up in a report. He catches the network of scars over the other clone’s belly, the flat surface as pitted and ragged as the battlefield they had just emerged from. Contrasted against his skin, however, is a splash of colourful ink, the shape too abstract for Cody to make out out of the corner of his eye but it is bright and vibrant and everything they hadn’t been allowed to have and now grabbed on with both hands.

It’s such a shame it would be changing soon. Black is traditional, after all.

Wait. What?

It doesn’t matter. It matters so much because that wasn’t his thought, isn’t him and there’s something just beneath the surface, something rotting in his mind and he has never been more scared about anything because death is just him, this is so much more and— it doesn’t matter. It. Doesn’t. Matter.

It doesn’t matter.

The training room is expansive, carved deep into the belly of the ship when it had become clear that the war would be a slow and lumbering thing, not the flashfire that some of the politicians had hoped for in their cozy plush offices with their unconcerned drinks hovering next to their elbows. Fox hadn’t admitted to spitting in some of them, there were too many official channels between Cody and him now to whisper together while they waited in line, both alone and gravitating towards each other like two shattered planets in a decaying orbit, but he knows Fox. He knows what the slight pause between his sentences mean, the silence louder than anything he might have said openly. It isn’t the same as his communication with Rex, that is louder, brighter somehow. If Rex is a note folded into a palm and flicked over the length of a table then Fox is a drop-spot in a park that is unceremoniously blown up a few hours after use.

There is always a few troopers in attendance, somedays it felt like Cody would open a drawer and a trooper would tumble out of it following a handful of brother’s tendencies to sleep inside storage crates even back on Kamino, but Obi-Wan is a rarer sight to see. Cody doesn’t pause in the doorway, reassessing, recaluculating, adapting to the situation before his foot makes contact with the floor.

The Kaminoans likely never expected that their calculated perfect solider’s abilities would ever be used like this.

Obi-Wan stands in the middle of the room, orbited by a small detachment of troopers. The troopers are standard-build, one a few inches taller thanks to the crest of his hair and two have dyed their hair, one with patches of pink and the other with a dark regrowth at his roots to compliment the brass of the rest of his curls. Cody doesn’t immediately recognise them, a sensation which is quickly growing more familiar, pushed aside in the same instance. It had bothered him the first time he encountered a number he didn’t recognise listed next to a name he also didn’t recognise in a casualty report. What had it been? He can’t remember it, even now.

Turning his attention back to Obi-Wan, Cody breathes through the flutter in his chest, knowing that this would be enough, he could live like this. The Jedi stands, graceful even while stationary, his hands clasped behind his back. His tunic is fresh from the laundry, a faint scent of industrial strength cleaning solution permeating the usual tang of sweat and exertion that subsits throughout any training room if it’s designated as such for long enough. It doesn’t fit him like it once would, gaping slightly at the colour to reveal the jut of his collarbone, sinched in at the waist another notch than he had been using at the beginning of the war, any excess weight folded into muscle or it has been discarded. It is more noticeable on the Jedi than it ever would be on the clones, they had never been allowed to gain any softness to them while on Kamino and the war didn’t lend itself to any gentle touches.

Cody continues walking, raising his hand in greeting to Obi-Wan as the other man looks over. The grin he receives is achingly familiar, the same one that Cody will delude himself is just for him, and Cody returns it before he can think of stopping himself. He doesn’t join in the training session as the troopers step out once more, moving instead to the ladder to the observation room and beginning to climb. (They’re approaching it wrong regardless, needing to be further apart to exploit the Jedi’s blindspots and take advantage of the gaps in his guard. Soresu may be defensive but it isn’t perfect, especially when the attackers are men that Obi-Wan will care for. He would need to make them bleed and he would pause. They all would.)

“You’ve all done marvellously well,” Obi-Wan says. His voice doesn’t waver, that isn’t what catches Cody’s attention and makes him peer over his shoulder, tipping his chin to avoid the curve of his pauldron. There’s an odd note to Obi-Wan’s voice, something huge passing beneath the surface so all that is distinguishable is the swell it leaves in it’s wake, and Cody catches his tongue between his teeth before he continues to climb. The rungs leave a dull sensation on his hands, his gloves tucked into his belt and he forgets how cold things can be.

He forgets what the universe is like without the shell of his armour and the cover of his gloves and the span of his calluses.

But he knows Obi-Wan.

Something is wrong.

Up in the observation deck, Cody swipes his hand over the console and brings up the schedule for the room. Obi-Wan’s training is the only one booked, his time beginning from almost the moment they had returned to the ship and it lasts until the next day. The troopers, by all counts, shouldn’t be here. Looking down, the trooper with the pink patches in his hair lands on the ground in an uncoordinated sprawl. He makes to stand, rolling onto one side and drawing his legs close to his body but it doesn’t stop the another trooper from stumbling over him, effectively putting them both out of the fight. (Shoot him from the ground. He won’t notice if he thinks you’re out of the fight. Angle higher to account for the difference in elevation.)

“You’re all improving so much in such a short time,” Obi-Wan tells them, returning to his starting position. From this angle, Cody can see his hands clench and twist where they are clasped behind his back, a tremor rattling through his fingers like a speeder engine pushed to the brink and beginning to tear itself apart.

“Thank you, sir. Would we—”

“Clear out now, troopers.” Cody can’t remember thumbing the intercom button but he is, leaning forward to brace one hand on the console so the troopers can see him. One of them jumps, his head turning to the speaker system before he looks up at Cody, and he seems so young from up here. He’s unmodified, his armour unpainted and his hair has only just begun to curl over his ears where it has grown from the standard short cut on Kamino, and Cody can’t remember ever being that young, that soft. He’d been moulded into his armour since he had been pulled from the tube, had to be strong, had to be capable because if he wasn’t, if he faltered, then someone would die. It is a simple equation.

The troopers don’t argue, their salutes not as sharp as they could be, and Cody returns the gesture without pause. His shoulder aches, the muscle folding into an unconstrained shape from what he had been trained to hold, but it is only for a moment, and they leave. Cody drops his hand and taps the intercom once more when the door had closed behind them. “Would you like me to leave as well, sir?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head before Cody had finished speaking. “No, Cody. I’d like you to stay, if you can?”

It’s a question, a choice, and Cody knows that he could say no and there would be no repercussions, no punishment. Just an easy yes or no and it is Cody’s decision to make.

There’s a click somewhere in the back of his mind and Cody feels hands on his shoulders, long-fingered and cold, far colder than any human touch he had experienced before, and he cannot think of anything but the oceans on Kamino and of drowning. There’s foam in his lungs and he cannot breathe as he tastes salt on his lips, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the effort of trying to answer.

It would be easier to die.

It would hurt less to die.

He tries to speak and he can’t. Seawater pools in his mouth and something crawls over the blunt edges of his teeth, brushing against the inside of his cheek. He’s hollowed-out, long since decayed inside the shell of his armour that’s continued to move without him, march and follow orders (and love Obi-Wan), and he will continue to walk until the plastoid is torn away by something bigger, taller, hungrier trying to scrape any meat it can from him.

Query: what is happening to me?

Answer: nothing you weren’t made for.

That isn’t a comfort.

(Let him be alone, let him sink in the endless pools of his grief and his misery and let him Fall.)

No. That isn’t what Cody wants to do. He wants to stay, to make that choice for himself.

He’s made to be a good soldier. Jango signed them over to the Kaminoans for the payment of a single unaltered clone he could raise as his own and he did train them. He gave them the building blocks of what they could learn in the quiet shadows beneath the cameras where they passed tips on how to pass the regimented tests, the way of scuffing up their curls so one brother could stand in the place of another, the exact angle a sparking wire needed to be applied to the identification code in their arms so they could swap amongst the sims. They may have been made from the same genetics, but variations are as inevitable as a sunrise. Cody had toed the line for so long and he is tired of it. He’s made his own choices, he has chosen to love Obi-Wan, and he won’t give it up without a fight.

(Very well then. Some adjustment will be necessary for you, Commander.)

“I’d like to stay,” Cody says and something clicks, no, snaps in his head, a breaking of a chain link in a tether stretched long and taut and fraying. He forgets in the same moment, unimportant, unnecessary, because Obi-Wan is smiling at up him and everything else can wait.

Then Obi-Wan sags, his shoulders rolling forwards and his head dropping, chin to his chest, exhaustion clear in every line of his form, still delicate and graceful but closer to cracked glass now, a porthole threatening to buckle but still holding firm. Cody uncurls his fist and tips his palm to inspect the fresh indentations on his palm, perfectly evenly spaced, no flaws, no defects. How long could they both keep going like this, the clones and the Jedi facing a universe that feels too big for them to hold together? Cody would die on his feet, he knows this, but he hopes Obi-Wan has a softer death (a knife between his ribs perhaps, a poison consumed by two, too many variables, you know this too, Commander). He blinks away the sudden burst of pain, swallowing against the taste of salt and reaches for the comm again. “Shall I come down, sir, or–”

“No, no.” Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, breathing out slowly. His hair is cut short, the edges valiantly trying to curl and at any other time it would make Obi-Wan look like the cover of a cheap holo, especially now, as bare as he is, but with exhaustion staining beneath his eyes and the slight tremor in his limbs, he looks abandoned, uncared for.

It only lasts a moment before Obi-Wan straightens, squaring his shoulders as he pulls on the mantle of Jedi General once more, an armour that doesn’t give him the same protection as Cody’s does but removes him from the world all the same. If Cody touches him like he has before, a brush of the fingers, nothing more than that, would his skin feel cool like plastoid, a hard ridge over the sides of his palms where a seam should lie? Cody swallows against a burst of bile, presses his tongue between his teeth and bites until his jaw aches and the humming pain washes everything else away.

“May I come up, Cody?”

A question and one Cody can answer. “Yes, sir, Obi-Wan.”

A name for a name, a line drawn in chalk and scavenged paint that can be wiped away but it exists for the here and now, and Obi-Wan grins up at him once more, relief clear in his face. “Thank you, Cody.”

Cody steps away from the system, the light from the screen dimming with the movement, and Obi-Wan disappears from view. He turns his attention to the network that runs along the length of the door, terminating in a heavyset console that sits offset from the casing surrounding it. Makeshift and makedo. Ducking down, he runs his fingers over the seam, searching for the serial number and then, just below it. The paint is rough beneath his fingers and it would be roughly the same shade as the casing to better disguise it, but it’s still there. That brother would be remembered, not in any holo broadcast or news report, but in the deliberate sanctity of paint and metal. He had been here. He had done this.

Cody stands straighter as if that simple action of realignment, the remembered feeling of a hand pressed against the crown of his head that didn’t flinch from the sensation of his freshly cropped curls and another planted into the space between his shoulder blades, moulding him like he’s still soft and pliable from the tube. He remembers the touch, the rough cadence of the words as he tried not to squirm away, a penance to be bourne and accepted because if it wasn’t him then it would be another brother and CC-2224 wouldn’t be able to save them. He would be nothing, nobody, a number in a system, a piece in a machine.

He’s a Commander. He was made for this, for them, for him.

Cody keys a few commands into the door controls, locking the system down from the outside. It wouldn’t hold against an emergency override or Obi-Wan’s code but it would dissuade any other shinies from sneaking inside to bask in Obi-Wan’s presence. The hatch groans as it lifts as Cody turns to it, kneeling to draw the cover back. The handle strains beneath his grip, a screw beginning to work free and it is yet another thing that would need to be fixed after this war has drawn on for longer than anyone had predicted. This repair, as the handle is still attached and it is only just beginning to give way, falls somewhere below the strange noise that the engines keep making that coincide with a sudden jerk to the left that they’ve all grown accustomed to bracing for and above the cracked floor beneath one of the bunks that, until it starts growing mould or gets any bigger, will remain additional storage for the brother assigned to that bunk to barter.

Obi-Wan scrambles through with a grunt of effort, his hand warm in Cody’s, and the cover drops closed behind him. Cody hadn’t realised, hadn’t fully appreciated the size of the control room before now. The consoles on the wall press into the already limited floorspace and overhead, pipes interlock and disappear into the walls drawing them even closer. There’s enough room for them both to stand, and Obi-Wan draws Cody to his feet before he lets him go, taking the single step allotted to him to sink back against the disengaged console, his shoulders curling forwards.

“The younger troopers have a lot of energy,” Obi-Wan says, as if that is the sole reason for the dark stain beneath his eyes and the pale cast to his skin.

“They do.” Cody can remember being that young, the rotation of batches to groups to squads, emerging from one training simulation that had felt like he was drowning, saltwater in his lungs and he could still taste it despite it not being real, only to be thrown into another where the sun would burn lines into his skin that would only last until the power was turned off. He couldn’t ever remember being like them, however. He couldn’t remember turning to a batchmate and laughing with no care for the cameras or the line of command.

He thinks about Fox. The closest thing that he has to a batchmate anymore after the Kaminoans had reviewed the results and deemed only Cody as satisfactory. His memories are plastoid, stocky and built to last, but blunted. There’s a scar that runs along the edge of Fox’s hairline, bisecting his dark curls into a demarcation line of greys, and Cody can’t remember what it feels like beneath his fingers. He remembers the cause: a poorly maintained practice weapon, the padding coming away all at once as Cody had swung for a final hit, only just managing to turn the weapon in time. He’d gotten a commendation for it, a note added to his file as he had stood next to the limp body of his brother, his hands bloody for the first time in his life. He thought he’d killed him, that his first death wore his face.

He can’t remember touching Fox after that.

He can’t remember touching anyone.

Until Obi-Wan.

Rex had come close. The other battalion had only just departed the ship, and everything still felt too empty without the ringing chorus of voices in every available space and someone perched on every available space. It had been nice, similar to Kamino after the newest shinies were unbatched and their numbers swelled, and Cody had someone of a similar rank he could bunk with. What did they speak about? Cody tries to think back, draws the plans to his room in his mind from the cramped squeeze of his bunk and the single desk that is losing the war against the pile of flimsiwork and datapads on top of it. Rex had slept in the bunk, Cody folded along side him and wrapped in his own blankets to combat the busted heating system. They must have spoken but he can’t remember what about.

(It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You’re a good solider, focus on your mission.)

His mission. He has a mission?

There has been no briefing, no parameters laid out around a wireframe map of a battlefield or documented in triplicate for future referral when Cody stands in front of a High General to inform them that Skywaker’s plan that involved almost entirely demolitions was discussed beforehand. Something is wrong.

“I will confess, Cody,” Obi-Wan says and Cody’s attention snaps to him completely. “I wanted to stay here under some guise of usefulness.” He swings one of his legs out and stops the motion at the peak, rotating his leg to point his foot. It’s graceful, his leggings flush to his skin so the hitch of his knee as his leg locks into place, every motion deliberate. The bottom section of his leggings, mostly tucked beneath the worn-soft leather of his boots, is charred, the edge jagged and fraying in a rough dust of ash. He swings his leg back down and curls forward, addressing his clasped hands. “This is by no means my first conflict, or even my first war, but I feel a unique sense of helplessness with it. It may just be that I’m older now, or I’m in a position where I can influence matters in a way I couldn’t before, but—”

He breaks off, squeezing his eyes shut as if the dim light pains him. Cody steps forward, his leg bumping against Obi-Wan’s, feeling helpless himself, an itch beneath the solid welding of his knuckles and reaches out without a thought to how the action would end. He halts before he touches Obi-Wan’s arm, his fingers close enough to brush against the roughspun fabric and feel the latent heat of Obi-Wan’s skin. Choices piled upon choices and Cody knows he can retreat, he can retract his hand and nothing would be made of it. It would just be what it is.

Cody places his hand on Obi-Wan’s forearm, squeezing in what he hopes is comfort.

“I can’t help but think that I didn’t sign up for this, Cody. And if I didn’t sign up for this, then what does that mean for you and your brothers. You should have had a choice.”

(Pull away, step away, leave him. Let him Fall. This would be just a taster of the betrayal that he will face.)

Obi-Wan flinches, his arm twitching beneath Cody’s touch. Similar to applying a bacta patch, Cody thinks behind the rush of an ocean and the whispers of a part of himself that wants the world to burn because it has hurt him, hurt them, the initial shock of the application, the innate worry of further pain. Blinking, Obi-Wan raises his head, close, so close, like they had been at that first meeting when Obi-Wan had been dark and cool with rain but undeniably beautiful and Cody had chosen to love him, the first choice he had made entirely for himself and one he would continue to make again and again and again.

“Cody, what—”

“Obi-Wan.” Cody speaks past the intrusion of his heart lodged in his throat, the world growing ever more unstable beneath his feet because he’s going to die when he finishes speaking if he’s not already dead and this is some pretty scenario cooked up by a final few flashes of electricity in his mind. There’d been nothing in the simulations to cover what dying felt like, only pain so they would know better, do better the next time. This feels entirely different.

“We might not have had a choice then, any more of a choice than you did in any of this, but we do now. We make our own choices everyday and I will continue to choose to stay by your side, to stay in this war because I am needed here, and I will have choices after the war as well.”

Something snaps in the back of his mind, cold iron laid against the crown of his head, and Cody braces himself for pain. Nothing like Kamino had happened since they had left but waiting for the other boot to drop, the invisible blade hanging somewhere suspended above him is exhausting, so if he finds out now, here, then he will know. He still hopes that he’s wrong.

Obi-Wan’s face is pale, drawn tight by exhaustion and every burden he insists on carrying throughout the war, but his grin is still the same one that Cody knows, warm despite everything. “What would you do after the war, Cody?”

It feels wrong to admit that he’d been thinking about after the war. Cody is a solider, and he’s a good solider (the thought echoes, knocking against some obstacle that Cody has already forgotten). Obi-Wan is a General, his General. There should be no ‘after the war’ for either of them and yet, and yet…

Cody glances down and Obi-Wan is still wearing the socks that Cody had made him, the orange faded with time and dirt and there is a neatly darned hole in one of the mismatched cuffs in a brighter shade of gold. He had gotten a little better since then, the socks could generously be referred to as a pair now, but the second one still sits on the needles in his quarters, untouched for the past handful of weeks given the battle they’ve just emerged from.

It had given Cody time to think.

“I’d look after my brothers first.” It must be written somewhere in his file, listed beneath his measurements which are as average as they could be and his test scores, which had been carefully above but not too high to draw attention. He’s practical down to his bones and the sequence of his DNA, his brothers would come first.

Obi-Wan’s face softens. “Of course. I would expect you to do nothing less. But after them, what would you hope for?”

He could stop, back away from this edge at any time. Cody’s still holding Obi-Wan’s arm, the muscles clearly defined beneath the thin cover of fabric, and he feels the distant reverberation of Obi-Wan’s thumb working into the lines of his palm. “I’d like a home, something small that’s just mine. Somewhere I can have visitors.”

He can’t look at Obi-Wan as he speaks, addressing his words to the curve of Obi-Wan’s collarbone, the slouch of his tunic exposing a scattershot constellation of freckles.

“I’d imagine you wouldn’t be short of admirers to entertain.”

“There’d only be a few people that I’d want to see and only one person who’s admiration I’d care for.” Cody glances up despite himself, his stomach twisting just as it had when he had stepped onto the landing bay railing, slick with rain beneath his feet, and held his hand out into the unknown. Obi-Wan’s eyes are dark, fond with something lurking just beneath the undercurrent, a behemoth that Cody could only guess at the shape of with his limited hope.

Obi-Wan is close, closer still before he pauses, the slight inhalation as his mouth parts impossibly loud. “Cody, I—”

The room floods with a deep red light as the warning klaxon begins to sound and Obi-Wan jerks away with a curse. In the shifting light, his cheeks are dark but the colour only lasts for a moment before General Kenobi squares his shoulders with a sigh. “For the Force’s mercy. Cody, shall we? We will pick this up later.” Obi-Wan pauses, biting the inside of his cheek. Something in Cody’s chest catches, a thumb hovering over a trigger and he doesn’t know if the blaster is armed or not, a dull whine echoing in the spaces between the alarm.

“Please?”

A question. Needing an answer.

Cody nods. “Yes, Obi-Wan.”

He steps away from Obi-Wan, letting his hand drop, and they are resigned to their roles once more, the hissing possibility of what could have been coiling around them both.

#codywan #star wars #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #my writing #fanfic #cody x obi wan

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the-sex-havers-au · 6 months

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Welcome to the TSH blog !!

(My main MCYT blog is @the-cockroach-that-survived )

The TSH AU (aka The Sex Havers AU) is a DSMP band and college AU. It features the DSMP members (along with some other CCs occasionally) all as college students, and DTQK as a band called “The Sex Havers” (thus the AU name).

All characters featured are based on the CCs AND their Minecraft counterparts, so they’re not purely CC! Or C!

For the record, I do not actively support or watch every single CC included in this AU, however I do like MOST of them, and I keep a handful I don’t simply because I have been working on this AU a very long time and I am attached to how I’ve characterized them, and/or their character is kinda plot important so it’s hard to just entirely not include them.

I’ve been working on this AU since early-mid 2021, and it means a lot to me.

I haven’t worked on it actively in probably about a year atp so I’m kind of in the process of revamping everything (it is a forever WIP regardless, so pretty much everything about the characters and story is subject to change)

On this blog I will: post art and comics of the TSH characters, talk about the AU, take asks both in and out of character, and frankly whatever else I see fit related to the AU.

I hope you all enjoy this just as much as I have enjoyed making it for going on 3 years now !! :33

Tags:

Art: #tsh art

Story/lore: #tsh lore

Asks/ooc asks: #tsh asks/#ooc tsh asks

All characters also have their own tags in the format of #tsh!character

#tsh art #tsh lore #tsh asks #ooc tsh asks #dsmp #dsmp au #dsmpblr #tsh au #dsmp tsh au #the sex havers #the sex havers au #dtqk #dreamblr #404blr #pandablr #dream team #dtblr

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streamafterlaughter · 2 years

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Fundamental Differing

gif credit

Chapter I: Everybody Get Together

masterlist | playlist

summary: You meet with your record label, where they drop the news of a cross country tour in your lap. Your big break, finally, but with a huge catch.

tags: rockstar!eddie x rockstar!reader, gn!reader, estranged lovers, angst

a/n: i got so excited i wrote this in a little over two hours. don’t get used to the consistent updates just yet, but i’m so excited about this story! Please reblog to support the author!

Spring 1992 (present day)

Seattle

Your POV

The Sub Pop office is a small one, the walls covered floor to ceiling in magazine clippings, polaroids, and scribbled signatures of the label’s crowning achievements. When Death Dance Approximately was signed, you’d never freaked out so hard in your life. To be on the same label as Nirvana was something you never would have imagined, but now you’re here, with four of your closest friends, waiting for the executives to tell you the news.

“I told you, all I know is that they have a tour scheduled for us.” Steve looks at his planner as he leads you, Robin, Sylvie, and Lilith into the cozy board room. The four of you had harassed him all morning, begging to know what the meeting was for. “I have no idea who we’re going with, or when, and it’s starting to piss me off.” You’d hired Steve as your manager the second you were able to pay him. Selfishly, you’d missed having him around, and he was good at the job. He took care of you all, and loved you just as much.

“But why wouldn’t they tell you who we’re touring with? That doesn’t make sense. It makes me nervous.” You bite at one painted fingernail, an anxious habit you’ve been trying to break. You enter the meeting room early, the speakers playing Territorial Pissings at an insanely high volume. You huff as you plop yourself into an office chair, bouncing your leg as your band mates surround you.

“Welcome, Death Dance Approximately!” The double glass doors open, making way for label head Bruce Pavitt, a bald man in a flannel shirt and ripped jeans. He’s always been very hands on with his bands, making sure they have whatever they need before any performance. Part of you suspects it’s to keep his own reputation, but you appreciate it regardless. “I’m sure Steve’s told you why you’re all here today. We have set up your first ever cross country tour! You’ll be supporting Corroded Coffin on their Freak Show album tour. You’re not necessarily openers, but because they’re so big, you’ll be the second band on the bill …” Bruce’s words are lost on you after that, your vision blurring as every sound in the room becomes a jumble of noises and voices. Your mouth is dry, and you can’t breathe. Is this why you weren’t told? They knew of your history with Corroded Coffin, or worse, with Eddie? You haven’t seen him in years, and the thought of touring together makes your stomach flip.

“How long has this been planned?” You interrupt finally, attempting to keep your voice level. You feel everyone’s eyes on you, and chance a look at Steve, whose face has fallen with pity for you, and to Robin, who’s chewing her bottom lip feverishly as Lilith grips her hand. Sylvie drops their head in their hands, a sigh escaping their lips.

“We finalized with CC last week.” Bruce answers flatly, attempting to gauge your reaction to the news.

You nod curtly, and heave yourself out of your seat. The second you’re out of the office, you have a cigarette between your lips, and you’re struggling to light it with shaky hands. It isn’t long before Steve is beside you, offering his own lighter to the end of your cigarette.

“What the fuck?!” You look up at your best friend, and all he can do is shake his head. “Did you know about this? Tell me the truth.” Your voice is panicked, paranoid. Why wouldn’t they tell you sooner?

“No, I had no idea. I promise. I don’t think Eddie knows either.” You roll your eyes at his words. You don’t like remembering Steve and Eddie still talk, but it comforts you knowing he’ll be blindsided too.

“When do we leave?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks?!”

“The Freak Show tour tickets have been on sale for months. They didn’t invite us on officially until today, but it’s been a plan for awhile. But I didn’t know. Eddie never mentioned waiting for another band. I don’t get it.” Steve is defeated, knowing how pissed off this news has made you, how stressed out you’ll be for the next three months. “I’m so sorry, Y/n, if I had known-“

“You would’ve told me, yeah yeah, I know. But you didn’t know, so you couldn’t tell me. There’s no use beating yourself up over it. This will be good for us. CC is huge, and to be invited to tour with them is gonna launch us to another level. If I survive it.”

Steve wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a comforting hug which you return, sobbing freely into his chest. What the fuck are you gonna do?

Los Angeles

Eddie’s POV

Eddie kicks his feet up on the table of the Elektra Records meeting room, lighting his second cigarette in twenty minutes. He’s barely listening to the suits talk, discussing the details of the Freak Show tour. But something catches his attention when his manager mentions “that femme grunge band.”

“Death Dance?” Eddie looks up, the cig dangling from his lips. Jeff and Gareth send each other a look of worry that Eddie clocks, and he looks back to the executive at the head of the table.

The bald man nods. “They just signed on as your featured band. They’ll go on before you, after the openers. That okay with you, Mr. Munson?”

Eddie runs a hand through his curls, staring at the table like it’s the most fascinating piece of furniture in the world. Eddie’s not a drama queen. But he’s so close to losing his shit right now, trying to let the news sink in.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fine. Sounds good.” He inhales again, trying to soothe the anxiety that’s gathering in his chest. It’s been years since he’s seen you. He can’t imagine what this context will do to him. He drank himself silly when he saw you on MTV for the first time, your music video for Pretty Boy in regular rotation, causing him to fall into a months long depression he only clawed himself out of recently.

He picks at the skin around his fingers, peeling the calluses formed over years of performing. He can feel the nervous sweat on his brow, the chills on his arms. The conversation dies then, the room visibly more tense as people shuffle out, leaving their frontman to deal with the anvil that’s been dropped on his chest.

It’s nighttime when Eddie finally gets home. His house in LA isn’t special, a two story home with a big yard and a basement studio, but nothing extravagant. He practically punches the phone as he dials, not able to calm his nerves all day. The buzzing in his head has gotten louder, more persistent.

“Hello?” Steve picks up on the third ring, sounding exhausted.

“Hey, man.”

“Eddie, shit, man. I meant to call you. You hear already?”

“Oh, I heard. You know about this?” He accuses, bitter venom leaking from his tone.

“Why does everyone think I knew about this? Of course not, dude. I would have warned you. Both of you!”

Eddie sighs. “How’re they doing? How is—“

“Y/n? They’re freaked, Eddie.”

“You think I'm not? You think I’m super jazzed about this?”

Steve groans, and Eddie can practically hear him rubbing his face in frustration. “No, obviously not.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it now. Tour starts in two weeks. It’s not like we have any say over the labels.”

“You’ll be alright. It’s been, what? three years?”

“Two.”

“I thought you broke up in ‘89?”

Eddie bites his lip. “Yeah, officially. We stopped seeing each other in 90, though.” It was the worst six months of the relationship, sleeping together without any of the love, any of the passion you once harbored for each other. It broke Eddie’s heart more than he ever had thought possible. He’s still recovering from the final time you left him.

“Regardless,” Steve’s voice snaps him back to the present, “You’ll be alright. I got you. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I can’t believe, after all we’ve been through, you still feel comfortable saying those words. It’s like you want to get your shit rocked.” Eddie chuckles, and Steve laughs with him. “Thanks, man. Really. And check on Y/n for me, yeah? I still worry about them.”

“Of course. They’ll never admit it, but I know you’re on their mind too. Goodnight, dude. See you soon.”

“See ya, Harrington.”

Your POV

“Who was that?” You plop down on Steve’s couch, a joint between your lips. Robin makes grabby hands at you, and you pass the toke to her before reaching for the chips in Sylvie’s lap.

“Uh, Eddie, actually. He got told today, too.” Steve takes his spot next to you as Robin passes him the joint. “How’re you doing?”

You read the earnestness in Steve’s eyes, and you can’t bring yourself to lie. “I’m scared. Our album releases the first day of tour, I never would have thought he’d be around for it. What’s he gonna think? When he sees that cover, if he listens to it? I’m screwed!”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t believe that. Eddie’s never had a bad thing to say about you, all this time. Sure he’s hurt, you both are, but there’s no chance you’ll make him mad. I don’t think it’s possible.”

You roll your eyes. It’s almost a challenge. Maybe you want to piss him off, at least then you’ll know he’s hurting. Corroded Coffin has plenty of angry songs, but none of them sound like they’re about you. Maybe you’re clueless, though, missing what’s right in front of you.

“Hey,” Robin chimes in, scooting closer to you on the floor. “You have us, okay? You’re not going into this alone. We love you, we’ll make sure you’re okay the whole time.” Sylvie nods at her words, and Lilith reaches for your hand. You entwine your fingers with hers.

“I love you guys.” Your voice is barely a whisper, but it draws your friends into you, surrounding you in a group hug.

chapter II

taglist: @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @wiildflower-xxx @beebeerockknot @champagne-glamour @xxgothwhorexx @therensistance @chonkzombie @brxkenartt | send a message to be added🫶

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tiboron · 2 years

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MAY 14, 2022

Book After School Pick Up in NYC & LA!

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influencermagazineuk · 3 months

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Ed Sheeran Calls London "Sketchy" and "Dangerous"

Despite being a proud owner of 22 properties in London, Ed Sheeran, known for his hit song "Take Me Back to London," has recently voiced his concerns about the city’s safety. In a recent chat with US podcaster Theo Von, Sheeran described all areas of London as "sketchy" and "dangerous." Sheeran, who resides on a lavish £3.75m estate in Suffolk, rents out most of his London properties, which include flats in Battersea, apartments in Whitechapel, and properties in Covent Garden. However, his advice to anyone in the city is straightforward: avoid it if you don't want to get robbed. Harald Krichel, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons When asked about dangerous areas, Sheeran remarked, "I'd say every area of London. Literally, every area is sketchy. It's not like a segregated city. The nice areas are sketchy, the bad areas are sketchy, but you just have to not do stupid things. If you walk around with a Louis Vuitton bag and a 200 grand watch, you are going to get robbed. But just don't do that." Sheeran didn't just stop at safety concerns. He also criticized the Conservative Party's lack of support for the arts. He shared his frustrations about funding cuts that have impacted music, drama, and arts education in comprehensive schools. In response, Sheeran has been actively supporting music programs in high schools. "My old music teacher told me the government doesn't value the arts, and they cut all funding for comprehensive high schools. So I started funding my local high school, built a recording studio, provided proper instruments, and saw a huge improvement in the students' engagement with music. Now, we're expanding this support nationwide to more high schools that need music funding," Sheeran explained. Ed Sheeran's commitment to supporting arts education highlights his dedication to nurturing future talent, despite his critical view of London’s safety. Read the full article

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sublimeobservationarcade · 10 months

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Trump’s America

Any sane person watching on has concern enough to be worried about Trump’s America. The very fact that this guy is still the leading GOP candidate for the 2024 presidential election is a judgement on the American people. Despots and dictators don’t rise to power without the help of the people. Everybody knows that Donald J Trump is a liar and a cheat. I mean, the guy is compulsive in both these character failings. More concerning is that he has broken the law on numerous occasions and has managed to avoid prosecution or conviction. No one voting for Trump is truly unaware of who is and how he goes about business. #UNGA President Donald J. Trump by National Archives and Records Administration is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

MAGA & Trump

What this says about Americans is that they don’t care about the rule of law if breaking it gets them what they want. They don’t care about good character if the absence of it means their guy is going to win the race. Winning is everything, it seems, and anything else can go to hell. You have evangelical Christians, who claim the moral high ground, voting for Trump. Many of these Christian Nationalists have warped and distorted the tenets of Jesus to fit in with their aggressive stances on America and white supremacy. I have heard convenient excuses like that the immoral Donald Trump is their mercenary in service to God’s American plan. Well, if you study history plenty of mercenaries end up taking over things for their own purposes.

Toxic & Fragile Trumpian America

The USA is a privileged place in the recent historical scheme of things. A big, economically powerful nation, which has been running things on the global stage since WW2. They have hardly ever been attacked on their soil. To give you some comparison less than a million Americans died from events directly associated with WW2. The USSR conservatively lost around 33 million people during this global conflict and their territory hosted a lot of horrendous battles for years. American servicemen did great things in helping win this war and America made many of the munitions that made victory possible. However, the psyche of the nation has not been under siege from invading forces, which is why 9/11 was so shocking to Americans. Less than 5, 000 Americans died, but of course they were all unsuspecting civilians during a time of peace. Only in the Civil War, was America the battleground for years of war and they were killing each other to the tune of some 625, 000 souls in 1860-65. Photo by Polina Zimmerman on Pexels.com Trump’s Populism Trump’s America is soft and entitled. His populism is rooted in grievance. That all these Americans reckon they are entitled to a better deal and they blame Liberal elites. They also blame moderate Republicans like Bush and his ilk. The GOP has been taken over by radicals. According to political historian Cox Richardson, you cannot describe these folk as conservatives because they do not share the essential qualities of conservatism. Of course, where they apportion blame is irrelevant, as they follow Trump because he appears to listen and repeats their grievances during speeches at rallies. This is what populism is and how it mobilises mass support. The polarisation in American politics is like a war, in the mentality achieved by both sides. Hating and not listening to the other side. Demonising opponents and claiming the high ground for your side in arguments. “There’s no question that much of the focus on Trump supporters derives from the reality that media outlets like CNN (and The Washington Post) are centered in large metropolitan areas where right-wing, rural people are definitionally underrepresented. There was surprise, including from within Hillary Clinton’s 2016 campaign, that hostility to “elites” was as deep as Trump’s success indicated.” - (https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/2023/05/12/trump-supporters-cnn-townhall/) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jhhvIJr7lrM The Importance Of Appearing Powerful Americans are addicted to perceiving themselves and their country as powerful. They have grown up believing that they are better than anybody else. That their nation is wealthier and militarily more powerful than any other. Donald Trump is a loud braggart and this appeals to many Americans. It seems powerful. Trump is in your face and delivering put downs like an automatic weapon with a pouty expression. They call him the orange Jesus on capital hill. He never shuts up in person and on social media. He is like the overbearing, deranged father figure of the nation. At times of insecurity, and Americans are prone to feelings of anxiety, which some keep hidden. Their obsession with guns has to be an example of this. Someone, somewhere, is going to take something from them. Whether this is a deep ancestral guilt from stealing the land from the Native Americans or enslaving them and millions of Africans, I don’t know. The country has a troubled soul like many new world nations. Strongman Politics Americans want to stay on top, economically and militarily. The rise of China has freaked them out. All this talk of a new world order has some reaching for their automatic weapons. Mister Putin seems like a strong leader. Indeed, he may have bought Trump many years ago. Strongman politics has great appeal for insecure nations. White Americans want a return to the 1950’s, when they were confident that everyone new their place. In the south, they were still lynching blacks and running apartheid states. Democracy was for white folks, end of story. They despise progressives who have made room at the table for minorities like women, coloureds, and LGBTQIA (it seems like new letters get added all the time) folk. Conservative forces have stocked the highest court in the land, SCOTUS, with their judges bought and paid for with luxury holidays and largesse. Trump had a big role in facilitating this and the Federalist Society did the rest. The way things work in the US, it is their call, the final decision, when democracy has gone through its impotent motions. Abortion is no longer a federal right in America, thanks to SCOTUS. Now, it is a matter for state’s rights and has become illegal in most GOP controlled legislatures. Orion at White House for Made in America Product Showcase (NHQ201807230014) by NASA HQ PHOTO is licensed under CC-BY-NC-ND 2.0 GOP Right Wing Radicals The right wing radicals, the GOP, want to turn back the clock to a time when men were men and white men ruled the roost. Woke is a wakeup call for white American men. A warning bell about the decay of civilisation. Women are primarily walking wombs and their reproductive function is controlled by the state. Private wealth should be sacrosanct in America and no matter how wealthy one gets - paying tax should not be progressive. In fact, taxes are a socialist idea and should be treated as heretical. America is a land of opportunity if you are white and born into the right family. People who are different in their sexual preference, gender identity, religion, and racial profile should remain on the fringes of society, unless they have enough money to buy their way in. God, a white Christian God, made America to rule the world. God bless America. This is the America, MAGA style, that a Trump win in 2024 promises. International Allies Watching Closely Trump’s America is a frightening vision for its allies in Europe, Asia, Canada, Australia, and elsewhere. Isolationism, which was partly pursued in the 2016-20 Trump presidency will suit Russia and many of the other despotic regimes around the globe. Defunding NATO will suit Putin. If Trump wins office and establishes a dictatorship by circumventing the protocols of democratic government in America it will be a bad day for the world. Those supporting Trump in a mistaken belief that he will clean up the federal government will be in for a rude awakening. Ignorance about history and the constitutional design of the government will be no excuse when the shit hits the fan. Those Germans who voted for Adolf Hitler in the 1930’s thought they were doing the right thing by the country. Americans have had far more warning about Trump than Germans did about the Nazis and Hitler. Trump An Incompetent President Trump was incompetent in his handling of the Coronavirus pandemic. Nearly a million Americans died from the virus in one of the wealthiest nations on earth. The handling of the pandemic became a victim of right wing ideology. Trump made dozens of inane comments about dangerous ineffective treatments for the conditions caused by the virus. He was not a wise and dependable leader of the nation. Trump is a sociopath and a narcissist, according to those who know him well. This is not the kind of President America wants when times are tough or challenging. Global warming disasters are on the menu from now on and many predict things will get much worse very soon. Americans should stop wishing for a bygone age and buckle up for a bumpy ride. Survival and not comfort is going to be the overriding consideration. A pouting celebrity President is not going to get the job done. Reversing Globalisation I have not written about Joe Biden in this article because I wanted to write about the American people rather than comparing candidates. Biden has done some big things in terms of the legislation passed via the rebuilding programmes and the Inflation Reduction Act (IRA). America had been outsourcing its manufacturing for the last 30 years. It had been basking in its financial sector, feeding off the global dominance of the US dollar. The global pandemic hit and suddenly they became aware of how vulnerable and dependent upon China they were for all the stuff they no longer manufacture. They were not alone in this, as the globalisation mantra of the last few decades had all the factories located in developing nations so the corporations could pay peanuts for production. The dependency on global transport infrastructure was not properly perceived until the pandemic. Biden has begun the greatest investment in manufacturing on US soil for a very long time and probably ever. The green energy transition and high end semiconductor transistors are sectors being pumped up for mass production around the nation. All of this is happening and the pay off will be big down the track, but it takes time to reverse trends of the size and nature of globalisation. Photo by Edgar Colomba on Pexels.com America’s Neglect Of Its People Mark Blyth, the economist, has written about the delineation of red pro-Trump states in the US as all those heavily carbon dependent industry wise. Their economies are fossil fuel based and thus the people support a climate change denying GOP machine. Biden has messed with these somewhat by locating new mega-factories in states like Georgia and Arizona. Obviously, many people vote first and foremost for their own economic welfare and that of their families. Some commentators, like Marty Baron ex Washington Post editor-in- chief, have voiced their concern about the neglect of the people who live in these states as reason for their immersion in the Trump cult. That much of America was left behind by the movers and shakers and decision makers over many years. Industry leaders, corporation CEOs and CFOs, and neoliberal economists were those who made the call to send manufacturing offshore. They did it to make more money for shareholders and themselves. Governments oversaw this during the Clinton and Bush eras. This is the market taking care of business and small government butting out. The Trump GOP voters are illogical in their support for a party machine that ardently believes in neoliberal economic policies. That is the misguided faith of populism, however. Trump’s America wants to be rich and powerful. They buy into an old narrative that tells them that any spoils for African Americans and minorities is a redistribution of wealth from white folk. They have long been told that white people are the deserving citizens of the nation. That blacks and the rest are lazy good for nothings. This tale has been spun by populist politicians and their parties since time immemorial. It started with President Andrew Johnson during Reconstruction after the Civil War. It has been conflated over time with a fear of communism that the welfare state is a socialist plot to bring down America. The GOP has run this out in election campaigns, time after time. There never has been an evening up of the economic playing field for those who emerged out of slavery. Racism and the Black Codes, Jim Crow and the lynchings were perpetuated for decades in the 20C. Generational poverty has been institutionalised and embedded by state governments and the white power elite. It is fitting that the political divide in the US continues to be along the north south line. The confederacy vs the union. “What attracts people to Trump? What is their animus or driving force? The reasons are multiple and varied, but in my recent public-service book, Profile of a Nation, I have outlined two major emotional drives: narcissistic symbiosis and shared psychosis. Narcissistic symbiosis refers to the developmental wounds that make the leader-follower relationship magnetically attractive. The leader, hungry for adulation to compensate for an inner lack of self-worth, projects grandiose omnipotence—while the followers, rendered needy by societal stress or developmental injury, yearn for a parental figure. When such wounded individuals are given positions of power, they arouse similar pathology in the population that creates a “lock and key” relationship.” - (https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-shared-psychosis-of-donald-trump-and-his-loyalists/) Photo by Rosemary Ketchum on Pexels.com The January 6th attempted coup at the Capital has seen hundreds of violent men and women prosecuted and jailed. However, 3 years later Trump and his co-conspirators are still walking around free. The justice system in America is a joke, a bad joke. Money and power buys you anything in the USA. Presidential pardons mean that criminals can be set free. Promises can be made to buy silence. Nixon was pardoned by Ford. Steve Bannon was pardoned. Hundreds of individuals who broke the law have been pardoned by Trump. The rule of law in America is a sliding scale, if you are a top dog within the pollical system or have the right connections you walk free. Americans bang on about democracy but it isn’t really a democracy, it is a republic of vested interests. The proliferation of billionaires points to a failure in Abraham Lincoln’s stated aim of economic opportunity for all. The checks and balances have been removed from the system. The very wealthy control the levers of government and manipulate the economy to their benefit. Congress is bought and paid for by special interest groups and corporate America. Political narratives are run up the flag pole to capture the attention of the public but these are deflections from the main game. White supremacy inclinations are massaged from time to time to garner support. Keeping the n****** down, in the words of Randy Newman, still plays well in southern regional electorates. Every political cause has to have an ‘other’, a bad guy to blame, the Nazis had the Jews, white America has African Americans, the KKK hated blacks and Jews. Born in Tennessee and flourished in Indiana, they were all over the south in their hooded sheets. The first KKK were pretending to be the ghosts of dead Confederate soldiers come to wreak revenge on blacks and their supporters. This is terrorism. White Christian terrorism. Burning properties and human beings. It takes a special kind of person to get up to this kind of thing. A special kind of American. Those on the right like to assassinate their opponents via guns. Abraham Lincoln was shot from behind in the back of the head by a great southern gentleman, John Wilkes Booth. Some Americans think that shooting unarmed folk is a brave act, I don’t know why – guns and bombs are for cowards. Several presidents have been assassinated and none more famously than JFK. Martin Luther King Jnr was also gunned down by someone hiding behind the sights of a rifle hidden in the bushes. RFK was gunned down too. The list could go on for some time. The gun is an iconic American instrument of death and destruction. Most American movies revolve around shoot em up scenes in one form or another. These days, about once a week, there is a mass shooting event in the US, often, involving defenceless children. Again I do not know what the perpetrators and gun enthusiasts are proclaiming via their gutless acts but it is a decidedly American phenomenon. Gun rights are defended by the GOP and have increased over the recent decades via state rights. Photo by Aaron Kittredge on Pexels.com Perhaps, Trump’s America sees itself in Ayn Rand terms, as a place where the strong survive at the expense of the weak. Where white skinned Anglo Saxons use their superior intelligence to exploit the weaker races. This is all bunkum of course and what has really been going for centuries has been white privilege screwing those not favoured by those in power. Read the full article

#America #Biden #culturalidentity #GOP #MAGA #modernculture #modernthought #religion #Trump

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tastyguava · 2 years

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I hope you all had an amazing turkey day. And if you don't celebrate Thanksgiving, I still hope you've had a wonderful week! These are just a few channel updates along with me announcing my new podcast called TastyTalks. Lastly, I am also having a Black Friday sale using code BLCKFRIDAY at https://ift.tt/oQpj0tZ to save 40%! 💻 My Website & Socials - https://ift.tt/34Ead02 💖 SUPPORT THE CHANNEL ──────────── ⭐ Access videos before they release publicly, and view unlisted content! Memberships start at $0.99 (coming soon): https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCzMnPNvzaVMFRdMml-PdTyQ/join 💎 Get notified when new episodes release: https://youtube.com/TastyGuava?sub_confirmation=1 📩 JOIN MY DISCORD ──────────────── You can join my Discord through my website at https://tastyguava.com or by heading to https://ift.tt/knNgK8W 🎙️ CHECK OUT MY PODCAST ─────────── My TastyTalks podcast is available on all major platforms by visiting https://ift.tt/IDw74vo and https://youtube.com/@tastytalks 🎥 CHECK OUT MY LIVE STREAMS ──────── 📹 Twitch - https://ift.tt/bPl6hAC 📼 VODs - https://youtube.com/@GuavaLIVE 📺 OTHER CHANNELS ──────────────── 🎮 More Gaming - https://youtube.com/@MoreGuava 🕹️ Gaming Clips - https://youtube.com/@GuavaClips 🤳 IRL Vlogs - https://youtube.com/@GuavaVlogs 📼 YouTube Shorts - https://youtube.com/@GuavaShorts 😆 Reaction Videos - https://youtube.com/@GuavaReacts 🎤 ASMR - https://youtube.com/@GuavaASMR 📼 Extra Long Content - https://youtube.com/@GUAVAplus 📼 Extra Short Content - https://youtube.com/@GUAVAminus 🔮 I swear this isn't me - https://youtube.com/@NotGuava 🎵 MUSIC FEATURED ──────────────── 🎵 StreamBeats - https://ift.tt/4kxPOLq 🎵 PM Music - https://ift.tt/pO7JN6z 🎵 NoCopyrightSounds - https://ncs.io/music ⏰ TIME STAMPS ────────────────── 00:00 - Introduction 🖥️ TECHNICAL SPECIFICATIONS ───────── ⌨️ Keyboard - HyperX Alloy Origins Core TKL (Aqua Switches) 🖱️ Mouse - ROCCAT Kone Aimo (3200DPI 11% Sensitivity) 🎤 Microphone - AT2020USB+ 🎞️ Editing - VEGAS Pro 20.0 🎨 Thumbnails - Adobe Photoshop CC 2022 🔴 Recording - MEDAL & OBS Studio 🎮 Gameplay - Little Nightmares Find a complete list of parts and where to buy them on my website: https://ift.tt/Vw5lgz2 by TastyGuava

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frontkilop · 2 years

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For example, this script minimizes any active window to system tray with a keyboard shortcut, while this one converts your joystick to a three-button mouseĪlso, the guide provided by AutoHotkey is quite clear for beginners and also comprehensive for more experienced script writers. You may choose not to, but keep in mind there are many AutoHotkey scripts available on the web for various tasks. Assemble a party of champions and master the art of Formation Strategy. i dont have the time right now to write a proper AHK script to check pixels. The official subreddit for discussing Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms, a Dungeons & Dragons strategy video game that brings together D&D characters from novels, adventures, and multiple live streams into a single grand adventure.

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#IfWinNotActive WordPad is obvious, it means only execute the code if active window doesn't contain "Wordpad" in its title.Īt that point, you may be telling yourself "I'm not trying to be a programmer" and/or "I don't want to take time fiddling with this stuff". Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms > ltalnos tmk > Tma rszletei. With SetTitleMatchMode 2, we tell AutoHotkey to match window title if it contains the title string we'll provide. Community content is available under CC-BY-SA unless otherwise noted. more description or instructions if needed. Please note that Codename Entertainment does not officially support or condone scripting, so all players using scripts do so at their own risk. If you wanted this shortcut (Ctrl + Shift + 5) to not run when WordPad is open, the code would look like this: SetTitleMatchMode, 2 This is a place where players can share scripts they use with Idle Champions. When script is running, you'll see a "H" icon in the system tray and it'll be active until you close it by right clicking and clicking Exit. Re: Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms Completed. Activate the trainer options by checking boxes or setting values from 0 to 1.

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Chest Opening Scripts These scripts will open chests for you, one at a time, until they have opened N chests Open-N-Gold-Chests.ahk Open-N-Silver-Chests. Click the PC icon in Cheat Engine in order to select the game process.

When you double-click the script, it'll run. IdleDragons-ahk-Scripts A collection of AutoHotKey scripts for Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms. The official subreddit for discussing Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms, a Dungeons & Dragons strategy video game that brings together D&D characters from novels, adventures, and multiple live streams into a single grand adventure.

Copy and paste the above code to the end of the script, then save it.

To open the file for editing, right click on it and select Edit script.

Give the new file a name, be careful to not change. I dont know the science behind it, but you open remoteplay, then ps4macro with administrative, then disable the record on touch, and open the remapper window 'leave it open' then run the ahk script and it will work via remoteplay to the game.

Right click in a folder or desktop and click New > AutoHotkey Script.

Third line just says the AutoHotKey script ended. Second line means when you press Ctrl (^) Shift (+) 5 the Character Map application will run. This is how a script looks like: Run the Character Mapįirst line is a comment and does nothing other than explaining code to the user. Installing and using AutoHotkeyĪfter downloading and installing AutoHotkey, you need to create or use an existing script. Note: As AutoHotkey automates key presses, using it with multiplayer games may cause you to be flagged as a cheater. These scripts will open chests for you, one at a time. It's true AutoHotkey has its own scripting syntax which you'll need to learn, but it gives you ability to do many things from remapping existing keys to create simple hotkeys just in a few lines. A collection of AutoHotKey scripts for Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms. It allows to automate many things with keyboard shortcuts.ĪutoHotkey works with scripts and may look daunting at first, but it's easier once you get your hands into it.

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Sign-up for the official Idle Champions newsletter to unlock Hitch, earn free weekly chests, and get the latest game updates.You're not happy with keyboard shortcuts of your favorite program? Then, AutoHotkey is for you. You can get new combinations all over the place - from weekly emails, during community streams or podcasts, on official Idle Champions streams, and even physically at some live events! If you missed some of the combinations, below you can find a list with combinations that are currently available. Combinations are codes that are 12-16 characters long that can be input into the combinations dialog in the shop from the "unlock a locked chest" button to get free chests, buffs, or other in-game items including skins and even champions!

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simplymmorg · 2 years

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captain-lonagan · 3 years

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#tried to tune into the stream.#felt vageuly ill.#i think it’s gonna be a while before i can watch his streams without feeling bad #cause rn i just can’t like. have faith in him.#i do believe his twitlonger about never Knowingly supporting an abuser.#like he’s earned enough good faith from me for that. but like #the Two damage control streams have fucked up my perception of his streams so bad dude #like first of all you intentionally misled all your followers for months so that you could promote a random friend #then when a (albeit unethically sourced) background check shows his record you call us fucking gullible for not trusting a total stranger #and do TWO damage control streams. one on a server that matters a lot to both other cc’s and viewers #ugh. like i know we’re just an audience and we don’t know him i never felt like more than an audience member i don’t know him #but now it feels like he doesn’t view us as an audience he views us as tools #not necessarily maliciously just like. not real people. similar to how tommy says nothing feels real when he’s on camera.#except we are real. and it sucks to be treated like we’re not #anyway. gonna be a long while before i can watch his streams again (IF i can watch his streams)#critical #negative #discourse #manatreed situation

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harrie-cc · 2 years

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Clearing The Air

I really didn't want to have to write this & let those people know that they have gotten to me, but I think its time to set the record straight. This is probably going to be a long one as I ramble at the best of times, so maybe grab some refreshments for the ride. I’ll put all of this under the cut.

A few days ago this whole Patreon creator doxxing/tracking/leaking scandal came to my attention. Along with the rest of the community I was shocked at the lengths a group would go to in order to stop their content from leaking. It's obviously disgusting behaviour that I would never condone. Even as an early access creator my content is leaked, but I decided a long time ago that trying to stop those leaks would just be a waste of time. Those people downloading for free while its still in early access, are never going to support me as a creator anyway, so there is no point in focusing my attention on the issue. I am fortunate to have a large number of people that do support me monetarily, so that I get to have my dream job. But it still hurts to know how undervalued my hard work is to that particular group of people, that they can’t just wait till its out for free to everyone.

However, even with it being blatantly obvious why its not possible (at least to me), some members of this community have tried to throw my name into the ring as being involved. Having such a diverse community can be a real hindrance when these kind of issues arise, so I’m going list all the reason why this is a load of crap:

1. It is impossible for me to track who downloads my content as I have a Patron only download post available for all my early access content. That means one link FOR ALL. This WeTransfer link that is available during early access is also used for public access on both the Patreon post and on the House of Harlix website.

2. WeTransfer: Apparently using this platform to share my files instead of hosting directly on Patreon “looks shady”. WeTransfer is a highly safe and respectable file hosting website which I pay for yearly. By paying for this service I make sure people that use my content aren’t bombarded by ads & that whenever they click that download link it will work for them. This website does not ever have down time, so I know I won’t get messages from you guys saying the links don’t work! I also have chosen WeTransfer to host my files as I share my content across multiple platforms. Hosting in multiple places ie. directly on Patreon & WeTransfer just doesn’t make logical sense. I alsoI like being able to see how many people have downloaded my content, which I can do on WeTransfer, but not on Patreon. Its very helpful to see which sets are more popular than others when brainstorming for future sets.

3. HONEY, I AINT GOT TIME to create secret tracking information by personalising files! I am sitting here for sometimes over 12hrs a day creating my own original meshes. I don’t buy meshes online and convert them, I make them from scratch. If you look at my most recent work the only EA mesh you will discover are plants as I haven't got the skills yet to tackle such an item. If you look at the Harluxe collab that set didn’t even include a single EA mesh or texture. All of that was made from scratch by myself and Felix, who actually does have the skills to create plants from scratch!

4. I have a very small circle of close Simming friends. That would be Felixandre & Peacemaker as cc creators & then a handful of Simtubers as that's where I first started. I haven't communicated with any of those confirmed or suspected creators listed & it's highly unlikely our paths will ever cross as they are all alpha creators and I’m a MM creator. We don’t really have any design aesthetics in common.

Once again I just want to say that its actually really hurtful to have to post this statement and defend myself. I know the reddit & tumblr posts used the title “Big Creators”, so it may lead you to wonder who else may possibly have been involved, but just blurting out my name because I am a larger creator can be very damaging. Wait for the evidence, don’t just go spurting out all of your inner mind talk in a public forum where others can read and take as the gospel truth. Apparently nobody has time for critical thinking in these situations and it turns into a free for all with every Patreon creator put on trial because of a small group of bad apples. People are so quick to jump to the absolute worst conclusions even though I’ve been in the community providing content in many different forms consistently for the last 5 years. There is nothing worse than being accused of something you haven't done. You can take everything else away from me, but having my word means something. I will never give away. Most of the time I tend to deal with these things by saying nothing and not giving it more oxygen to die out quicker. But with this one I can’t keep silent, these are accusations of me actually committing a crime. They are huge allegations and I can’t afford to let them stand. Patreon is my full time job, it is my only source of income & I won’t let some random conspiracy Karen ruin it.

Please just take a breath and think before you go pointing the finger at innocent people. This kind of toxic behaviour doesn’t help anybody. I’m sure even after laying this all out there will still be some that won’t believe my words, they have their own agenda to prove, believing me doesn’t get them closer to that goal. To them I say delete my content from your mods folder, at least follow all the way through if you believe I’m such a terrible person.

Please do me a favour and reblog to spread the message. Just to let you know I won’t be responding to replies on this post whether good or bad as I’ve already poured way too much of my energy into this when I should just be doing what I love, creating custom content.

Harrie 💜

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