#fuzz writes

[primus-why]

Crack Idea - Prime Flirts Back

Megatron: Not to be a flirt, but sometimes I think I see Primus in you.

Optimus: Bold words, coming from an atheist.

Megatron: Agnostic. I can buy there's a large, well-meaning spark at the center of the planet, but being the biggest doesn't mean they automatically ought to be worshipped.

Optimus: Right, and their ability to create life and whole precognition thing... just a neat little party trick?

Megatron: Hm. Well, I can't be sure how accurate your internal "fortune teller" is, but I know of another way to create life. It's not so impressive.

Optimus: Oh? Is it not? That's too bad, my condolences.

Megatron: *snort* I assure you, I take care to excel in all that I set out to do.

Optimus: Perhaps, except when you cannot. I see now why you might be so concerned in regards to matters of "size". Primus is supposed to be perfect, after all...

Megatron: I take it back, you're as ruthless as the Unmaker. And I'm confident in my assets.

Optimus: Another bold declaration! Have you been drinking tonight?

Megatron: Not enough to say what I wish to say in front of decent company.

Optimus (leaning in): And what might that be?

Megatron: Ah ah ah! It will take more than pretty optics to loosen my tongue.

Optimus: Hmm... I know of another way to loosen one's tongue, if you're keen to try. I believe you'll find it quite impressive.

Megatron: Is that so? Then perhaps we ought to retire for the night.

Optimus (whispered): Let's find out how you'll sound with a little Primus in you...

[malcolmschmitz]

The Insider and Outsider Detectives

So there's a lot of discourse about detectives floating around, ever since 2020 shifted a lot of people's Views on the police. Everyone likes a good mystery story, but no one seems to know what to make of a detective protagonist- especially if they're a cop. And everyone who cares about this kind of thing likes to argue over whether detective stories hold up the existing order or subvert it. Are they inherently copaganda? Are they subversive commentary on the uselessness of the police?

I think they can be both. And I think there's a framework we can use to look at individual detectives, and their stories, that illuminates the space between "a show like LAPD straight-up exists to make the cops look good" and "Boy Detective is a gender to me, actually".

So. You can sort most detectives in fiction into two boxes, based on their role in society: the Insider Detective and the Outsider Detective.

The Insider Detective is a part of the society they're investigating in, and has access to at least some of the levers of power in that society. They can throw money at their problems, or call in reinforcements, and if they contact the authorities, those authorities will take them seriously. Even the people they're investigating usually treat them with respect. They're a nice normal person in a nice normal world, thank you very much; they're not particularly eccentric. You could describe them as "sensible". And crime is a threat to that normal world. It's an intrusion that they have to fight off. An Insider Detective solving a crime is restoring the way things ought to be.

Some clear-cut examples of Insider Detectives are the Hardy Boys (and their father Fenton), Soichiro "Light's Dad" Yagami, or Father Brown. Many police procedural detectives are Insider Detectives, though not all.

The Outsider Detective, in contrast, is not a part of the society they're investigating in. They're often a marginalized person- they're neurodivergent, or elderly, or foreign, or a woman in a historical setting, or a child. They don't have access to any of the levers of power in their world- the authorities may not believe them (and might harass them), the people they're investigating think they're a joke (and can often wave them off), and they're unlikely to have access to things like "a forensics lab". The Outsider Detective is not respectable, and not welcome here- and yet they persist and solve the crime anyway. A lot of the time, when an Outsider Detective solves a crime, it's less "restoring the world to its rightful state" and more "exposing the rot in the normal world, and forcing it to change."

Some clear-cut examples of Outsider Detectives are Dirk Gently, Philip Marlowe, Sammy Keyes, or Mello from Death Note.

Now, here's the catch: these aren't immutable categories, and they are almost never clear-cut. The same detective can be an Insider Detective in one setting and an Outsider Detective in another. A good writer will know this, and will balance the two to say something about power and society.

Tumblr's second-favourite detective Benoit Blanc is a great example of this. Theoretically, Mr. Blanc should be an Insider Detective- he's a world-famous detective, he collaborates with the police, he's odd but respectable. But because of the circumstances he's in- investigating the ultra-rich, who live in their own horrid little bubbles- he comes off as the Outsider Detective, exposing the rot and helping everyone get what they deserve. And that's deliberate. There is no world where a nice, slightly eccentric, mildly fruity, fairly privileged guy like Benoit Blanc should be an outsider. But the turbo-rich live in such an insular world, full of so much contempt for anyone who isn't Them, that even Benoit Blanc gets left out in the cold. It's a scathing political statement, if you think about it.

But even a writer who isn't trying to Say Something About The World will still often veer between making their detective an Insider Detective and an Outsider Detective, because you can tell different kinds of stories within those frameworks. Jessica Fletcher from Murder She Wrote is a really good example of this-- she's a respectable older lady, whose runaway success as a mystery novelist gives her access to some social cachet. Key word: some.

Within her hometown of Cabot Cove, Fletcher is an Insider Detective. She's good friends with the local sheriff, she's incredibly familiar with the town's social dynamics, she can call in a favour from basically anyone... but she's still a little old lady. The second she leaves town, she might run into someone who likes her books... but she's just as likely to run into a police officer who thinks she's crazy or a perp who thinks she's an easy target. She has the incredibly tenuous social power that belongs to a little old lady that everyone likes- and when that's gone, she's incredibly vulnerable.

This is also why a lot of Sherlock Holmes adaptations tend to be so... divisive. Holmes is all things to all people, and depending on which stories you choose to focus on, you can get a very different detective. If you focus on the stories where Holmes collaborates with the police, on the stories with that very special kind of Victorian racism, or the stories where Holmes is fighting Moriarty, you've got an Insider Detective. If you focus on the stories where Holmes is consulting for a Nice Young Lady, on the stories where Holmes' neurodivergence is most prominent, or on his addictions, you've got an Outsider Detective.

Finally, a lot of buddy detective stories have an Insider Detective and an Outsider Detective sharing the spotlight. Think Scully and Mulder, or Judy Hopps and Nick Wilde. This lets the writer play with both pieces of the thematic puzzle at the same time, without sacrificing the consistency of their detective's character.

Back to my original point: if you like detective fiction, you probably like one kind of story better than the other. I know I personally really prefer Outsider Detective Stories to Insider Detective Stories- and while I can enjoy a good Insider Detective (I'd argue that Brother Cadfael, my beloved, is one most of the time), I seek out detectives who don't quite fit into the world they live in more often than not.

And if that's the vibe you're looking for... you're not going to run into a lot of police stories. It's absolutely possible to make a story where a cop (or, even better, an FBI agent) is an Outsider Detective-- Nick Angel from Hot Fuzz was originally going to be one of my 'clear-cut examples' until I remembered that he is, in fact, legally a cop! But a cop who's an Outsider Detective is going to be spending a lot of time butting heads with local law enforcement, to the point where he doesn't particularly feel like one. He's probably going to get fired at some point, and even if his badge gets reinstated, he's going to struggle with his place in the world. And a lot of Outsider Detective stories where the detective is a cop or an FBI agent are intensely political, and not in a conservative way- they have Things To Say about small towns, clannishness, and the injustice that can happen when a Pillar Of The Community does something wrong and everyone looks the other way. (Think Twin Peaks or The Wicker Man.)

Does this mean Insider Detective Stories are Bad Copaganda and Outsider Detective Stories are Good Revolutionary Stories? No. If you take one thing away from this post, please make it that these categories are morally neutral. There are Outsider Detective stories about cops who are Outsiders because they really, really want an excuse to shoot people. There are Insider Detective stories about little old people who are trying to keep misapplied justice from hurting the kids in their community. Neither of these types of stories are good or bad on their own. They're different kinds of storytelling framework and they serve different purposes.

But, if you find yourself really gravitating to certain kinds of mysteries and really put off by other kinds, and you're trying to express why, this might be a framework that's useful for you. If your gender is Boy Detective, but you absolutely loathe cop stories? This might be why.

(PS: @anim-ttrpgs was posting about their game Eureka again, and that got me to make this post- thank them if you're happy to finally see it. Eureka is designed as an Outsider Detective simulator, and so the rules actively forbid you from playing as a cop- they're trying to make it so that you have limited resources and have to rely on your own competence. It's a fantastic looking game and I can't recommend it enough.)

(PPS: I'm probably going to come back to this once I finish Psycho-Pass with my partner, because they said I'd probably have Thoughts.)

(PPPS: Encyclopedia Brown is an Insider Detective, and that's why no one likes him. This is my most controversial detective take.)

[starry-bi-sky]

No.

No, no, no, no, NO!

He's shaking. His heart is burning in his chest, pounding like a jackhammer against his ribs, and there's a trembling, aching rage building beneath his tongue and pressing against his teeth.

In his hands, his fingers tense and wrists locked, the article reads in big, black font: JOKER LOCKED IN ARKHAM ASYLUM AGAIN!

Danny shouldn't feel so angry about this, this is a good thing. Gotham doesn't have to deal with him for another few months at the least. He should feel relieved, a little more at peace.

He is not.

He cannot swallow the fury thudding behind his eyes, the burning white heat searing a deeper hole in his chest. A searing green filling static in his ears in the way only the rage of the restless dead can have.

How is he going to kill him now?

Arkham may be the only asylum in America made entirely of tissue paper, but it's still an asylum. There are cameras, guards, other patients resting inside. Danny can think of a million different ways to sneak in and kill Joker, but someone will hear his screaming.

It'd have to be rushed.

He doesn't want it to be rushed.

It's a cruel thought. Cruel and cold and merciless, but Danny doesn't feel an ounce of shame, not an ounce of guilt, for it. He wants to be alone with the Joker when he kills him, that's all he wants. In Arkham, you are never alone.

He forces his anger to bubble back down into his chest, stuffing it between his heartstrings and his ribs like a blanket you're trying to bunch up into a corner. It sizzles and burbles. The static begins to fade out into a high-pitched ringing; it sounds like distant screaming.

Danny is still trembling, but he can think a little clearer now.

He can wait.

He can wait. He can wait. He can wait. He canwait. Hecanwait. Hecanwait.

He can wait.

He's waited five years for this. He can wait one more week. One more month. One more year. However long it takes for the Joker to break back out, Danny can wait.

And when the Joker does, inevitably, break out.

Danny uncrinkles his fingers around the edges of the newspaper, loosens his limbs just enough so he can pay for it.

He'll be waiting.

The dead, after all, have all the time in the world.

[headcanonsandmore]

Favourite random YouTube comment? "The Cornetto Trilogy is Edgar Wright's excuse for writing gay romances starring Simon Pegg and Nick Frost".

[lordgrimwing]

The Big 5-0-0

(Or, Glorfindel has a gift for his husband)

[for Glorfindel Week, hosted by @glorfindelweek, Day 7]

“Five hundred years!” Exclaimed the shocked tavern keeper.

Glorfindel shrugged as he helped the Man lift the roasted lamb from the cooking fire that also heated the dining room. “Five hundred years is not so long for elves.”

The Man scoffed, taking up a towel in one hand and pushing the steaming carcass from the spit. She wagged a finger at him. “For an Elf with a thousand years ahead of him, maybe, but any marriage that endures longer than kingdoms ought to be celebrated to the fullest.”

A thousand more years felt like pitifully little time to Glorfindel. He certainly would take every opportunity to celebrate every memory if he knew his time in Arda was so limited. How Men, who were lucky if they lived within a stone’s throw of one hundred, went their whole lives without bursting into song and dance in celebration of existence, he’d never understand. 

“I saw that horse you rode here on, so don’t bother saying you don’t have the means to throw a proper party.”

Asfaloth, being an Elvish steed, demanded a certain level of finary when he went out. The bells, however, were entirely Glorfindel’s idea.

“Erestor detests parties, and he says adorning a horse in gems and bells will get me killed—again!” 

She snorted at the jest, passing Glorfindel a platter for the meat he was stripping from the bones, unbothered by the heat that would burn her hands. “And in five hundred years, have you learned only what he dislikes and nothing of what he likes?”

He smiled softly. He knew much of what his beloved liked.

“Should I call all those men back in and ask them to recount tales of wives whose husbands didn’t bring them an anniversary gift?” The tavern keeper threatened. 

She’d cleared the dining room of local patrons until the meal was ready. The gleaming Elf-lord had garnered more raucous attention than she liked when it was her building, table, and chairs at risk, and it hadn’t felt right to ask him to wait in his room until everyone was distracted by good food. The other Men went willingly enough, though Glorfindel could still clearly hear them milling about outside.

“That won’t be necessary, good lady,” he said. “Duty brought me this way, but I made time to find something he will treasure.” He patted the purse tied to his belt.

She shot the purse a dubious look, doubtlessly skeptical that anything that fit in a small bag could adequately encompass the magnitude of a couple’s 500th wedding anniversary. 

“Well,” she settled on. “Don’t say no one warned you if he kicks you out on your ear.”

--

When Glorfindel finally arrived in Imladris, Erestor met him in the narrow pass leading down into the valley, too impatient to wait longer.

“My brightest night star!” Glorfindel said, alighting from Asfaloth’s saddle to sweep the loremaster into his arms. He planted a kiss on his forehead, thrilled by the absence of an audience to their reunion: Erestor disliked people kissing in public almost as much as he disliked parties. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

Erestor huffed but did not pull away. Reaching up, he pulled Glorfindel’s head down to return the kiss, leaving his husband blushing with excitement. 

“You took your time, Dandelion,” the black-haired Elf accused when they separated. “Elrond expected you back a fortnight ago.”

“I admit to tarrying longer than needed for the task he gave me,” Glorfindel said, leading the dusty stallion as the lovers continued down the path hand-in-hand. “But I promise it was not without reason.”

“It had better be a good reason, and not just that you had to climb some mountain to return one of Manwë’s foolish birds to its nest.”

Erestor was with him on that particular occasion, about fifty years before they married, though he had no interest in scaling the last cliffs to return the unfledged eagle to her home. Glorfindel insisted on it, knowing the young bird couldn’t survive the fast-approaching thunderstorm alone in the open and was too wild to keep in with them until the weather cleared. Trusting his skill and light step, Glorfindel climbed alone, the bird wrapped in a cloth to keep her wings and talons contained and secured in a sack over his shoulder, only her head poking out. The task wouldn’t have been challenging if not for the storm. He made it back to the sheltered test just fine, reassuring the flustered eagle parents with a song as he freed their lost eaglet. On the way down, however, his hands split on the rain-soaked stones and fell—only a few feet down to the next ledge, true, but it was enough to leave his heart pounding and senses ringing with the echos of dragon-thunder and flash of balrog-whips overlaying the storm. 

Erestor threatened to knock him out and tie him up the next time such madness came over him when he eventually made it back to safety, dripping wet and jumping at every clash of thunder that came too close. Glorfindel agreed to let him.

“Oh, no, you will find this delay was entirely to your liking,” he promised.

“A lofty claim, indeed,” Erestor said. “I will require proof.”

“When we are both safely home and done with our duties, I will show you.”

--

Glorfindel was sitting, comfortable and cozy, in bed with his embroidery when something hard bounced off his head and landed on the covers next to him.

“I cannot believe you!” 

Erestor’s sitting in an armchair by the window, using the last rays of the setting sun to inspect his gift—Or he had been. Currently, he was standing, slate tablet in one hand, the other still extended from slinging the little dog figurine from the side table at the golden-haired fool sitting in bed. His face was scrunched up, mouth pinched like he’d bitten into a lemon (except he usually had too much self-control to ever react to the unassuming citrus, but the comparison was good enough). 

“Where did you find this? How did you find this?” He brandished the old slate aggressively, for a moment looking as though he might throw it too.

Glorfindel set aside his project. “Is it not to your liking?” 

Perhaps he’d misjudged entirely and he would end up out on his ear just like the tavern keeper warned.

“Not to my liking? Not to my liking?” Erestor lifted the tablet high, gesturing to the small drawings on it with his other hand. “Sunflower, The elf who made these stories died four thousand years ago. How did you come by this?”

He sounded more shocked than angry, and Glorfindel relaxed. “Through much patience and the exchanging of many letters with various collectors of first age relics. I made a detour to collect that on the way back. That’s what delayed my return.”

“Did it not cost a small fortune? I spied no gems missing from your horse’s daft accoutrements.” 

A grin broke across Glorfindel’s face. “I dare say it is worth as much to you.”

Softness spread across his husband’s face and he touched the old slate now with tender, almost reverent fingers as he caressed the time-warn drawings. His eyes clouded with old memories of the past rarely recalled from the careful places he stored them in. “I laughed over this depiction of Lords Celegorm and Curufin when it was only days old! I helped Vekkawë hide his collection in our mattresses when Captain Crímainya came to destroy the ‘defaming misinformation’. I thought I’d never see one again after the Valar sank Beleriand.”

Eyes clearing, he brought the tablet, with its child-like depiction of long-gone beloved lords, to his chest and said, “This is a great treasure. No fortune can take it from me.”

Glorfindel laughed. “I’m glad the Dwarf I bought it from did not know the true value, then, for I am not sure I could have gotten it honestly for that price and would not have departed without it.”

Erestor snorted, muttering “Six pounds of that hideous tack you insist on dressing your horse in would have covered it, no doubt” as he turned away for a moment of privacy to wipe his eyes clear before he accidentally shed tears over the small remnant of his past.

“Asfaloth cannot be parted from his gems when he is afield.” 

Glorfindel opened his arms, and Erestor—after setting the tablet carefully on the side table like it was as fragile as a hollow dove egg and not slab or stone almost as old as the world itself that had survived devastations and travesties unnumbered—fell into his embrace. 

They spent the rest of the night in bed, though neither got much sleep.

[exaltedfuzz]

Dug up a poem about a character of mine from last year. I like it a lot, so I'm posting it here. Most of it is under the cut.

Albrecht Aurelian, five hundred years on,

Forgot the peal of the drums of war,

Forgot proud Verneau, for which he fought,

Forgot the faces of those which he knew

When he was Albrecht.

For five hundred years on, the wretched beast

Which bore his mask, the imitation

Though it was made of his skin, his bone

His flesh necrotic, which hung

From rib and spine betrayed

Carried no mind of the man,

And Albrecht Aurelian

He nothing was.

For, in birth, the boy was dead

And lived his life on time ill borrowed.

His poor mother, in desperate need

Made a plea, to a great God.

A God which she presumed Seelie,

(Yet in his hands worked subtle tricks)

6 darting eyes set in stony face

And body shrouded by mighty cloak

Sat upon the floor in his temple

Lamenting his pitiful status

Among the pantheon of the Eldritch.

Prayed to by only this small village

He deserved, he said, much more in life

Mighty Eldritch power crackled

From his voice upon his speech:

“Dame, with boy, rent asunder

Before his time, I full agree.

You visit me in need, I trust,

And I have for you a fair wager.”

He squinted full, with all 6 eyes,

And pressed a finger to the child

“If you trust me, and I know you ought to

I will give him life - life beyond life.

The only catch, I tell you in clearness

For I am no confidence trickster

Is that when I give him life

That life will ne’er be taken again.

I promise you, dame, come what may

Albrecht Aurelian will never die.”

With that speech, she lent the child

To the hands of her great patron.

Blessed with life and beset by light

Albrecht was bright, and opened his poor eyes,

Deep brown eyes in warm brown skin.

Health glowed forth from his small form

And his mother, full of joy, held her child.

All was bright in gold

At the true birth of Albrecht Aurelian.

His life was a gift

To Verneau, proud noble country

And rightfully so, Verneau did decorate

The genius knight that was Aurelian

His deeds were known as was his form

Equal both in their magnificence

Hyacinthine locks that fell around 

Golden armour full resplendent

Framed his face - a face

Oft imitated in golden maquette

And commemorated in statue form

Wise in prose and wise in art

Albrecht was perfect full and true

And upon his breast sat a tilting shield.

Quartered in blazon related thus:

First quarter, of Verneau, his proud noble land:

Argent a chevron azure 3 Rose gules

Second, Aurelian, his family name

Sable a lion Or wing-ed Argent

The third, of his army, the Truespun Defenders

Sable a chief Or a Rook Azure.

These three were familiar to all Verneau,

And only the fourth drew any confusion

For the last quarter upon

His besagew shield

Was that of his patron which gave to him life

Gules a bend Or 

No more, for he held but a simple crest.

He, as his mother, thought his God Seelie,

Considered himself most bless-ed by the fae

For hundreds of years as they passed and enriched him

Glorious hero of noble Verneau

So when his chest broadened and with it his shoulders

He thought only that his blessings had increased

And when he grew stronger and taller and cervine

In antleric protrusion and unguligrade leg

He chalked it all down to the fae’s intervention 

And thought full naive that he became fae

For faeries’ hind legs mirrored those of his

Though not quite as spindly or in such disrepair.

Aurelian found himself forc-ed

To don a death mask

To hide the cruel marks that donned his poor face

Opulent in gold

His ribs cracked their cage

As glorious wings sprouted forth

From his wide back

And fearful he set up to the temple

Of his dear God, his patron of life

Again his voice cracked with sinister power

And spoke he thus:

“Albrecht Aurelian, whom I have so blessed

See now how your body is that of mine?

Your legs as the deer’s and your back split by wing

How stunning you are in all your splendour

My son, to whom I have shown life to in full.

There are yet some changes that have not set upon you

And I anticipate them in another hundred years

For now, sweet Albrecht, whose death mask covers my gifts

Of sight beyond sight beyond sight

Four eyes more (as I do hold)

Hide not yourself nor your newfound power

And continue to fight for Verneau.

Grow stronger still

I am proud of you rightly and love you full well

My creature whom I pulled from Death’s cruel grip”

Years passed still and the face full of beauty

Rotted beneath the golden imitation

His skull bent its shape - cervine and ugly

And his mind spoke to him in cruel trickery

Spoke to him and changed his eyes

And made the world into his foe

And in his head, his brain did rot

His body strong and well-opposed 

To any being that dared cross his path

Now unpunctuated by any speech

The bright light with which he descended

Now extinguished, beset by red

And when the husk was emptied

Of Verneau’s great hero

Eldritch fingers pried open his poor mind

And slipped in

For as the vessel Albrecht grew strong 

His patron grew still weak

And the new body, cultivated full

Would become his new form

Albrecht Aurelian, five hundred years on

Forgot the peal of the drums of war

Forgot himself and forgot his mind

For no longer was it his.

[bearsinpotatosacks]

Benji takes Ethan to a family event, his first since he moved to the USA. His brother, Gary King, says he won't show to Nicholas Angel (Nicholas, Shaun and Tim are Gary and Benji's cousins in this).

Cut to Benji who's drilling Ethan on his family. His brother's Gary, they've got different names because Benji was born before their parents were married, Gary when they were. He’s an ex-addict who tried to kill himself so don't mention either.

His parents are divorced. His cousins are:

Tim Bisley, wife's name is Daisy, they have two kids, Leia and Luke. He’s an artist, she’s a "writer" who doesn’t write but don't tell her he said that

Shaun Riley, wife's name is Liz. There isn't much to say about them, they travel because Liz wants to, but go to the same pub because of Shaun.

Nicholas Angel. Constable of a rural police force, his fiancé's Danny Butterman, Sergeant of the same police force.

They get there, everyone's shocked he's there and are asking who is boyfriend is. Ethan puts on the MI3 charm of being so boring no one listens when talking about his work in the Department of Transport. Well, Nicholas's interested, yet Ethan doesn't crack and answers all his questions.

Then, a bad guy follows them. Their cover is blown and they're forced to fight them. Danny's amazed, Gary's laughing in the corner, Nicholas is trying his best after Benji tells him to get everyone out.

Now they're all much more interested in Benji's American boyfriend

[legobiwan]

Honestly, given Stan's criminal record (half of which is in his brother's name) and the fact he's legally dead, you have to figure they resorted to forgery to get around customs issues while traveling on the boat.

~~~~~

They’re about two days out from Oregon, if the weather holds and Customs decides to not run a secondary check on their documents. His brother has asserted time and again that Border Patrol can’t legally ban them from entering the country, given that they are both, on paper, American citizens. But this doesn’t mean the ocean fuzz won’t ship the two of them straight off to Clallum Bay if their less-than-factual passports don’t pass muster, despite five years of fooling agents in twenty-seven different countries, two principalities, and one unmapped, underwater kingdom.

[xbydefault]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49581268/chapters/160589587

Summary: Chapter 7. The inauguration and Sportacus is less than pleased. He’s not too pleased with Milford either.

[primus-why]

The Trouble With Time Capsules

Okay, real quick story idea-- what if the Pits of Kaon did a promotion waaayyy back in the day where fans could win a chance to place something inside a time capsule? For a decacycle after each match, a winner would be drawn from the attendees and they would go back stage to place their treasured item inside.

Of course, Orion Pax was one of those lucky winners. The organizers said the capsule would be opened in 6 vorns-- if things continued the way they were, then by Orion's calculations Megatronus would be a free mech in that time! He wanted to honor his dear friend's legacy as the longest reigning Champion, as well as all the work he did outside the ring. But try as he might, nothing seemed good enough, or able to capture all that Megatronus means to him... so Orion decided to put his feelings into a letter.

In time, Orion came to accept his letter was more akin to a love confession. That... could pose a problem. If it's read aloud and Megatronus doesn't return his feelings, things may be awkward between them. But then again, if he hasn't mustered the courage to formally ask Megatronus out by the time this letter is unearthed, he might as well let his past self shoot his shot. And if, Primus forbid, Megatronus should fall in battle before he ever hears this letter, Orion hopes that his words can serve as another reminder of all Megatronus has accomplished.

So he fortifies his resolve, wins the raffle, and ends up submitting his letter...

Fast forward to present day

The war is over, and the Cons and Bots have been hard at work rebuilding their planet. One day, a construction crew in Kaon stumbles upon... the time capsule!

How the hell it survived this whole time, no one will ever know. But news spreads quickly, and the city council decides to jump on the opportunity to turn the opening of the capsule into a whole event! The opening would be broadcasted across Cybertron and various segments would help to raise awareness for rebuilding efforts happening in Kaon. Then a live auction would take place where attendees can bid on their favorite items, and the funds collected would go towards those rebuilding efforts.

Optimus thinks it's a wonderful idea, and publicly supports the council's plan. Though, it's funny... something about this time capsule in Kaon is giving him deja vu... what does it remind him of...??

... Oh.

Oh no.

Cue Optimus scrambling for dear life to prevent that letter from being read aloud while trying not to tip off his co-ruler to the fact he used to have a massive crush on him back in his gladiatorial days... and still does.

Plot twist: Optimus is unable to retrieve the letter before it goes to auction, and he ends up losing it to... Megatron!! But in reality, upon learning Orion had placed something into the time capsule, Megatronus had Soundwave take it out and swap it with a fake so that he could keep Orion's treasured donation for himself. He of course hadn't expected the letter... which he has read and re-read countless times over the years. Megatron ends up having some alone time with Optimus later to discuss the letter and air out their feelings for one another.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: What I'd Like To Read By The End Of The Year.

I was feeling ~Whelmed~ over the weekend about all the things I still want to read, and I thought to myself, "Gee Why Is That??", so I pulled everything off my shelf and stacked it up basically in the order I'd like to read it and then went "....ah I see, carry on."

Now this stack WOULD be fine, except everything from ALWAYS COMING HOME down through HOUSE OF LEAVES is stuff I'd like to read adjacent to writing projects, namely: 1. IN BETWEEN (which I'm working on now but need to wrap up by the end of August) and then 2. NANO (which, y'know. Starts on November 1). So the sixteen (16) books between ACH and HOL are for the next three (3) months, and then I'll come back for the side-leaners during/after NaNo, I think.

(Not pictured in this stack is STARLING HOUSE, which I don't have in hand yet but will also be a NaNo Prep book!)

Basically my plan is to read down through this stack in this order and see how long it takes me! I finally got set up with my coworking space today, so hopefully I'll be writing late a couple nights a week starting. tomorrow. Which. will eat into reading time pretty significantly, hopefully.

But there's so much cool stuff I want to read! And write! And knit!! You see why I'm having A Time, huh.

[orewing]

I think being interested only in one character in any manga is fine especially when Windbreaker side cast isn't that great, their backstories and driven goals are too shallow and cliché " ex chika and endo :they are just obsessed one dimensional characters"

tumblr user jensaku I know that's you

[marlenacantswim]

why yes hot fuzz au where angelbutter becomes small animals sometimes. this is what i think about when i'm trying to fall asleep

[agaypanic]

my requests close tomorrow (4/25) so I thought id tell y'all again and also tell you what characters im writing for :3

Derry Girls: James Maguire, Michelle Mallon, Clare Devlin

That 70's Show: Steven Hyde, Eric Forman, Michael Kelso, Jackie Burkhart, Donna Pinciotti

iZombie: Ravi Chakrabarti, Liv Moore (LAST CHANCE TO REQUEST)

Lab Rats: Chase Davenport, Bree Davenport, Adam Davenport, Leo Dooley

Five Night's at Freddy's: Mike Schmidt

The Santa Clause: Bernard the Elf

Twilight: Charlie Swan, Carlisle Cullen, Emmett Cullen, Alice Cullen, Rosalie Hale, Poly w/ Charlie Swan and Carlisle Cullen, Poly w/ Emmett Cullen and Rosalie Hale

Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrick Heffley

Saltburn: Felix Catton, Oliver Quick, Farleigh Start (LAST CHANCE TO REQUEST)

Ghostbusters: Ray Stantz, Egon Spengler

Mean Girls: Regina George

Heathers: J.D., Veronica Sawyer, Poly w/ J.D. and Veronica Sawyer

Pitch Perfect: Bumper Allen, Beca Mitchell (LAST CHANCE TO REQUEST)

The End of the F***ing World: James, Alyssa Foley

What We Do in the Shadows: Nandor the Relentless, Laszlo Cravensworth, Nadja of Antipaxos, Guillermo de la Cruz, Poly w, Nandor the Relentless and Guillermo De La Cruz (MALE!READER ONLY), Poly w/ Laszlo Cravensworth and Nadja of Antipaxos, Poly w/ Nandor the Relentless, Laszlo Cravensworth, and Nadja of Antipaxos

Hot Fuzz: Nicholas Angel

Jurassic Park: Alan Grant, Ellie Sattler, Ian Malcolm

The Middle: Axl Heck, Sue Heck

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World: Gideon Graves, Roxie Richter

Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure: Bill S. Preston Esquire, Ted "Theodore" Logan

Harry Potter: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, George Weasley, Fred Weasley, Oliver Wood, Neville Longbottom, Remus Lupin, James Potter

ok that's it bye teehee

[phantasthesecond]

sometimes i remember being able to draw is like. i can do whatever i want here. who said i have to color. right to shading baby

[whoophoney]

WHUMPTOBER 2023 @xraylovers

"Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon."

His nose itches.

Fruitlessly, Nicholas' hand moves to scratch it– his muscle memory overpowering his knowledge that he can't. Taught rope scratches against his back, only serving to irritate already red raw skin.

He'd struggled a lot and paid the price.

The pain makes him inhale sharply, his eyes squeezing shut in an attempt to hold back his discomfort. Weeks, maybe months in this small room hasn't taken away his pride.

He pushes his tied wrists away from himself, the action inadvertently wrecking his balance, and making him flop further onto his front. He huffs in frustration, muffled by the mattress he's laying on, and the gag in his mouth.

At least they've given him some cushioning against the hard floor.

The stubble on his chin scratches against the fabric as he moves himself into a more comfortable position. They don't trust him enough to remove his restraints, or more appropriately, they understand a group of OAPs don't stand a chance against a furious, vengeful police officer.

Hence, he hasn't shaved, or washed, or changed clothes since he's been here. Half his clothes are missing anyway. Through struggles, fights, and a whole lot of kicking, he's been left in a dirtied, no-longer white shirt and his pants.

Despite the occasional visit from Frank, consisting of repeated attempts to convince Nicholas to consider 'The Greater Good', Skinner seems to be his appointed 'care-taker'.

He obviously takes great pleasure in the role, not missing a single opportunity to make Nicholas' unwilling stay even worse: pushing him around, beating him... He's contrastingly soft in the manner he admires the horrific bruises he paints onto Nicholas' skin.

But ultimately, he keeps him alive.

Nicholas is fed. He's mocked. He's left alone to stew in his thoughts. It's an endless cycle, and he doesn't know why he's a part of it; if they wanted him dead, they would've killed him by now.

He dreads to think what they have planned.