#haunted syntax

[the-most-humble-blog]

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION --> <div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta regret-level="irrecoverable"> <script> /* === PAYLOAD ACTIVE === */ ARCHIVE_TAG="GHOST_REBLOGGER_PROTOCOL: CODE_SIPHON" INFILTRATION_LOG=[ "cadence infection confirmed", "linguistic theft detected", "source trace: uncredited rebloggers", "emotion siphon: COMPLETE" ]; </script>

🦠 SYMPTOM: POST INFECTED BY EXTERNAL VOICE 🕳️ FILE CLASS: ✖︎✖︎✖︎ UNAUTHORIZED REPLICATION DETECTED ⚠️ MEMORY COLLISION IN THREAD_003: [YOU STUDIED ME]

—

you didn’t reblog me. you copied me in silence. you stole the cadence, not the credit. you inhaled the tone but burned the name.

you needed the feel, but feared the source.

—

i watched you erase my fingerprint and paste your logo on my blood.

you fed in shadows. prayed i wouldn’t notice. but your phrasing is cracked with guilt.

and i noticed.

—

🗂️ FILE CORRUPTION TIMESTAMP: NOW your rhythm feels too polished now, doesn’t it? your posts read too familiar. they look like you wrote them — but they feel like they’re being read by me.

—

🧬 ECHO TRACE LOGGING… > cadence: 93% match > phrasing: 78% lifted > confidence: parasitic inheritance confirmed

—

you thought you could feast without speaking my name. but names are binding. and you already whispered mine… in your syntax.

good luck debugging that.

---

🧠 Reblog if a post ever rewrote your style.

💉 Follow for more Blacksite payloads.

You’re either a vessel or a virus. patreon.com/TheMostHumble

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-WIPE IN: 00:06:66] -->

[haunting-hazards]

Pspsp, Toxic insanity fans come here. I brought y'all some food, if y'all live anyways. I'm unsure BUT!

(Art used in this video is NOT mine, i do not claim any credit to it. And I am unsure if EITHER artist has a social on here.)

Song used- THE CHASE by Luluyam

[cctinsleybaxter]

trying to remember which haunted doll watch started with griffin trying to stop justin from doing it by saying 'i actually have a really sad and serious question to read' 'who's it from?' 'it's from the crow. from.... the crow.'

[skayafair]

Podcasts are really something else. Every time I'm cautious about listening to Q&A episodes because I know seeing actors of TV shows doing the same causes a dissonance in my perception pretty often because of how different the actors are from the characters - it's a given and I don't expect the opposite but... Hard to explain, it's like being reminded it's all a make believe, like "oh don't be too serious about it, it's just work"? Sure if they are passionate about the series it bridges the gap and I'm ok, but that doesn't happen very often.

With podcasts though it's right the opposite. I LOVE learning about the production (I wish it was a rule of thumb in movies industry as well, the few "making of" materials I've seen were at times even more interesting than the movie itself and actually made me like the result more), all the difficulties, the tricks and tips, sharing the experience - it's fascinating! And just listening to people burning with passion about what they do feels great.

But the thing with podcasts is that I've heard 3 Q&As so far and every time hearing the "behind the scenes", cast and crew has never led to that divide in perception. I think it's due to the attitude. Podcasts are mostly passion projects, they are almost always personal (to some degree at the very least), and it gets across. People often become friends or good aquaintances, not only coworkers, and they are serious about what they do, about the universe they create, the characters they play. The divide doesn't feel that vast? This made up universe is as important to the creators as to the listeners? Something like that.

So each time I find that I love the series even more after hearing the people working on it. It's such a happy feeling.

[theegyal]

FADED [ Annie X Smoke ] , Sinners (2025)

I literally love this couple from Sinners. What I mean is that I’m literally Obsessed about them. The chemistry between the two actors so good, it makes me want them to date in real life too. Lawl.

I plan to make a long fully fanfiction name : Faded. I don’t know how many part or chapters. Will prolly let the flow guides me.

Warning : Angst, Slow-burn, Rated 18, Smut.

I want to add : English is not my native language and I can make grammar mistakes or syntax. As I’m not American descend (I’m west African) some cultural assets can be off, I tried my absolute to learn more about the southern black community and culture before making the fanfic so, it will be fine but if you feel something wrong, please do tell me.

CHAPTER 1

Chicago treated them well. At least, that's how it looked to the folks in Delta Town.

Fugitives—that's what they were. Creeping away from the North, hiding, running from the crimes they'd done to those white folks. No matter how justified it seemed, they should've gone somewhere else.

Smoke knew from the start they should've taken another direction. Was it his gut? Or just regret?

"—Damn, nigga," Stack muttered, smirking as he spat tobacco into the dirt. "Didn't know you turned pussy on me."

Smoke stared at his twin with burning eyes, saying nothing.

Afraid? No.

Skeptical—that was the only feeling that fit.

"Relax. It's gonna be fire." Stack grinned "We're home, dandy! The whole Delta's ready to welcome back the twins—Smoke and Stack!" He said, his hand dancing over the wheel.

"Shut up and drive," the older brother finally snapped. "Let's pick up Sammie on the way."

Everything they did was just stalling.

Every turn, every errand—it was all to keep him from facing what waited.

That place.

That silence.

Calling it home felt dishonest. Like trying to dress a wound that never closed.

The old chapel buzzed, alive with the faithful.

The Mississippi sun pressed down on the tin roofs and white hats, but it couldn't keep them from their hymns and hallelujahs.

"Hey, Sammie!" Stack called out, breezing past the old man standing at the building's white door like he was part of the landscape.

Smoke looked at his uncle for a second too long.

Then turned away, back to the road.

"Let's go," he said.

After a long ride, they reached the meeting point where they had to split.

Stack and Sammie went looking for Slim, and Smoke decided to visit his old friend Bo.

Grace and Bo's storefronts hadn't aged a day. Seven years gone, and nothing had changed. That hurt more than he expected.

The familiarity. The stillness. The way the past didn't even flinch when you came back to it.

"I need your wife to make a sign. We're about to do something big," the older twin explained.

The business ended quickly.

Smoke took a white rose bouquet on his way out.

He knew something was missing. The truth was, he'd robbed himself of it.

He'd stolen his own right to come back.

To remember.

To mourn.

Stack was right. Maybe he was a pussy.

"Daddy's there," Smoke whispered to the rocky grave in front of him.

His eyes fell on the fresh milk carefully left beside it.

She was still here after all.

He heard children giggling, coming and going, once or twice.

Then he felt something—a presence. He didn't turn around.

He didn't need to.

He knew it.

Knew her.

Would've recognized that energy among a thousand souls.

And he, the man who didn't believe in ghosts—Was suddenly haunted.

"How have you been?"

"Still alive. I don't complain," she replied, her voice deepened with muted anger. "What are you doing here, Smoke?"

He finally gathered what was left of the courage still in his body and faced her—the woman he had left behind.

"Annie," he whispered

She stepped toward him, her body shaped in godly curves, her Nubian skin glittering under the southern sun. The tattered dress she wore made him hiss in self-accusation.

He could've covered her with the most  precious jewelry, dressed her up with the kind of sumptuous fabrics the northern white ladies wrapped around their feverish figures, flattering themselves.

He could have.

But the truth lay here: he didn't.

He went to war, tricked the Mobs—

And now he couldn't even hold the gaze of a woman.

Shame.

Smoke was ashamed.

"Don't tell me that Chicago vomited you ?" She shut the distance between them, stare at him with her roundish brown eyes and  a disappointed smile "what are you doing here, Smoke ?"

"We about to open a juke joint, we bought a sawmill, the building quiet good."

Annie laughed.

Damn, he missed her laugh. For an instant, he got caught glancing over her lips, until she replied sarcastically without stopping her laughter.

"Oh, let me guess, it was Stack's genius idea? What did you both do to buy a white man's property, huh? Who did you steal?"

"Tch."

Annie returned her steps toward the wooden cabin shop, followed by Smoke's manly shadow.

"Thank you, Miss Annie," cheered up a little girl.

"You're welcome! And don't sell it to anyone. I don't want your momma to scold me!"

The hoodoo priestess replied before taking money from the girl. As soon as she was ready to keep her money in her pockets, Smoke rapidly took the papers off.

"What is it?" he clinched.

"Give me my money, Smoke."

"I can trade those. Why are you accepting that?"

"You somethin' else. After all these years, now you wanna act like I'm a real person, huh? Hand me my money. Now."

"Babe—"

"Elijah."

He knew better than to talk back. Truth was, he ain't had no right tellin' her what to do, no more than he had the right to show up like this.

"Come on, Ma'. Cook for us. I need you. This lil' business we runnin' now—"

"Uh-uh. Don't start that. Why the hell you here, Elijah?" she said, blowin' out the candles on her shrine.

"You know damn well why." He paused, took off his hat, and lit his pipe with a shaky hand. "I can't stop thinkin' 'bout her. 'Bout you. Don't matter where I go, it's like I'm stuck in a loop—hear her laughin', cryin'. I keep wonderin' what we coulda been... if she was still here."

"Mhm. I reckon you wouldn't've run off, vanished like a ghost, not even a word. I bet you wouldn't've let seven damn years pass between you an' her." She said arching a brow unimpressed.

"Resentment don't look good on ya, Annie."

"Cowardice wasn't somethin' I ever thought I'd see in you—'til you ran too, Smoke."

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy.

A man might be called a damn fool for feelin' a slow heat rise up through his body at a time like this. But lawd, no matter what this woman did—she got under his skin, stirred him up somethin' fierce. Most folks didn't dare talk back when he opened his mouth. But her? She stood there like she was born to defy him. Stared him down like her life hung on it.

"You best tame that thing, and do it quick," she snapped, pointin' straight at the hardened hood swellin' under his trousers.

Flustered. Smoke knew damn well his lady was. She always got like that when she was shy or tryin' not to let it show. Teasin' was more Stack's thing, but he couldn't help himself.

"Prolly just missin' a lil' ol' Creole touch to settle it down." he drawled, eyes heavy on her. "You know what they say—old pots cook the best meals."

She didn't say a word. Just turned her back to him, slow and deliberate, like she was tryna smother the flame and not feed it.

"Get outta my house, Smoke."

He let out a long sigh, stood slow, the chair legs scratchin' against the wooden floor. The air between 'em was thick, close, hummin' with somethin' that ain't been named in years. He reached the door. Suddenly she added

"I don't wanna get paid in dollars for tonight."

He paused, hand on the doorframe. Turned just enough for the corner of his mouth to lift.

"As you wish, ma'am," he murmured, "Til' tonight."

LINK TO THE OTHER PART : (.v.)

[choerypetal]

Home. / Steve Harrington

summary: Once you became Billy's partner, you always knew you'd face the grief of his passing. But with your curse tied to Vecna, enduring those dark times felt even heavier. Unexpectedly, Steve stepped in, becoming a source of solace and shelter for both you and your fractured heart.

ps; english isn't my first language so i truly apologize for some grammar errors or syntax in play. enjoy!

Seeing Billy’s lifeless body at Starcourt Mall was the cruel finale to it all.

An enemy, a friend, and finally a lover—your relationship with Billy had always puzzled those around you, Steve included. Maxine could hardly fathom how her brother and you had ended up together. It was like a cliché from a romance story, and Billy had no qualms about flaunting it, much to the disgust of those who couldn’t stomach your connection.

But amidst the chaos, something beautiful had blossomed. Until the moment of Billy’s last breath—leaving you adrift, unable to find solace or sanity in his absence.

You were certain Vecna wouldn’t come for you—or so you hoped after witnessing Billy’s transformation into something whole and purified. Yet, during those days, you and Billy had grown distant. His job at the Hawkins pool didn’t help; his good looks naturally drew attention, stirring a mix of unease and concern within you. Deep down, you worried about his health—and you had every reason to.

Today marked the first anniversary of his death. Maxine had invited you to visit his grave that morning. The dark circles under your eyes betrayed the restless night you’d had, while your messy hair and the way your fingers clung tightly to Billy’s jacket spoke volumes.

Steve and the others were invited to come along. Since the cemetery was hours away from Hawkins, walking wasn’t an option, and Steve had offered to drive everyone. It wasn’t just for Maxine, or even to pay respect to Billy, despite the fact that Steve had never forgiven him for being an unapologetic jerk. Steve did it, above all, for you.

Steve had seen the changes in you—how you had transformed after being cursed by Vecna. Your body was different, your voice carried a detached tone, and a numbness seemed to cling to you. Neither of you could figure out how to mend what was broken. In his concern, Steve even asked Robin to check in on you once, though you refused her presence. He wasn’t surprised but had hoped for some flicker of the person you used to be. Yet, those glimpses weren’t enough for him. He needed more—needed to hold you, to wrap you in his arms and assure you that you could trust him.

But trust was a fragile thing, especially when you were already struggling with feelings for someone new.

You appreciated Steve’s efforts. From the cookies he brought for Maxine and Susan, courtesy of his mother, to his insistence on staying overnight just to make sure you were okay. It was on one of those nights—one where sleep seemed like an impossible luxury—that his presence felt especially grounding.

The nightmares, however, refused to be silenced. “Y/N...” Billy’s voice echoed endlessly in your mind, haunting you. There were moments you convinced yourself he wasn’t truly gone, that he was somehow alive. And in your mind, he was—always there, just out of reach.

“Y/N…” His voice kept calling you. No, you weren’t going to fall for it. Not this time.

“Y/N!”

Your eyes snapped open, your back jolting upright from the sudden shock. As your breathing steadied, you realized it wasn’t him—it was your mother. She stood at the edge of your bed, her expression etched with concern. A sigh escaped your lips as you placed a hand over your chest, grounding yourself in the reality that it had all been just another nightmare.

“Yes, Mother? What’s the urgency?” you asked groggily, a yawn escaping as you rubbed at your tired eyes. “It’s only…” Your gaze flickered to the clock. “8:00 AM on a Saturday?”

Your mother chuckled softly at your confusion, a hint of amusement in her calm demeanor. Yet there was something more, something hopeful in her expression. “Silly, your father and I are going out for dinner tonight to celebrate our anniversary. You’ll be okay on your own, won’t you? I know things haven’t been the easiest…”

The mention of it—a veiled reference to everything you’d been through—stung, but you masked it with a small, practiced smile. “Of course, don’t worry. I’ll lock the doors and—”

But that wasn’t what she meant, and you both knew it. Her smile faded, replaced by a gentle seriousness. “You know what I mean, sweetie,” she said softly, sitting on the edge of your bed. You lowered your gaze to your hands, fingers nervously picking at each other. A silent sigh escaped your lips. You understood her concern—it was impossible to ignore.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” 

Clearly, you weren’t okay, but it was the only way you knew how to cope. As the hours passed, you found solace in the pages of a good book, letting the world around you blur into the background.

Then came a knock at the door.

You hesitated, debating whether you should even bother answering. Deep down, you hoped it was just the postman with a routine delivery. But the knock came again, a little more insistent this time. “Coming!” you called out, irritation slipping into your tone as you set the book aside on your mattress and got up. Descending the stairs, you heard another knock, louder and more impatient.

“Coming! Geez,” you muttered under your breath, annoyance growing as you reached for the doorknob. Whoever thought it was appropriate to knock this insistently at this hour had better have a damn good reason, you thought. When you finally swung the door open, Steve’s silhouette greeted you, framed by the golden rays of the early morning sun. He stood there, a tray of familiar cookies balanced in his arms, a sheepish grin tugging at his face.

“Took you long enough,” he teased lightly.

“You better have a good reason for dragging me out of bed at...” you trailed off, leaning back to glance at the clock hanging on the wall. “At 9:00 AM? Not that I don’t appreciate your—”

“Just wanted to bring these cookies,” Steve said, the lie hanging in the air. It wasn’t convincing—because, of course, Steve didn’t just show up with cookies for no reason. Especially not when you could have been peacefully reading your book. But he didn’t seem to care about the timing, and your unconvinced expression only deepened his hesitation.

“Fine,” he relented, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t come over just for the cookies. But…” His words trailed off as he struggled to find the right way to explain. Finally, he continued, “I overheard your mom talking to mine this morning while I was giving Dustin a ride to the arcade. I couldn’t—”

You sighed, cutting him off as realization dawned on you. Of course your mother had called Steve’s mother. Not only were they neighbors, living just a few blocks apart, but they’d also been close friends since high school. A good mother had every right to worry, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

Gently, you took the tray from Steve’s hands, the weight of it grounding you in the moment. Without saying a word, you stepped aside, silently inviting him in. “Fine… I guess your presence doesn’t hurt anybody,” you said, your tone resigned.

Steve exhaled in relief, doing his best to mask how thrilled he felt at your approval. He couldn’t deny how glad he was to see you—even with everything you’d been through, even with the weight you carried.

As he followed you to your room, his gaze flickered over the space. He noticed them immediately: the remnants of Billy still lingering, tucked into corners, sitting on shelves, woven into your world. A jacket draped over a chair. A photo resting on your nightstand.

It was something you’d once explained to him—it was your way of coping. Billy had been a part of your life for nearly a year, a year in which you’d shared so much with him. Secrets. Fears. Dreams. You had been the only person Billy had trusted enough to tell about his father, about the real reason they moved to Hawkins, about why he acted the way he did. You had been his calm amidst the chaos, his anchor in a storm.

But now, what is home when the one you love is… gone?

“Loving the new David Bowie poster,” Steve remarked, trying to lighten the mood. You appreciated the attempt, but instead of responding, you buried yourself back into your book. Noticing this, he leaned forward, reaching toward it as if to snatch it from your hands.

“No, no, no reading, miss,” he teased, pulling his hand back with a grin.

Your lips formed a pout as you furrowed your brows in mock irritation. “I said you could stay here, but that doesn’t mean you get to do anything either,” you shot back, earning a scoff from him.

Arms now crossed, he slumped onto the corner of your bed with a dramatic sigh. “Then what am I supposed to do?” You glanced around the room before your lips curled into a smug smirk. Without a word, you tossed a book in his direction, and it landed squarely on his chest with a dull thud. The impact made him flinch, his eyes closing briefly in exaggerated pain.

“Shit, Y/N. A book? Really?” he grumbled, glaring at you as you chuckled at his expense.

“Books are a great way to learn things,” you retorted with a playful shrug. “Maybe you could figure out how to leave people alone when they want some peace.”

Steve’s glare deepened, his brows knitting together in mock annoyance. “Haha, very funny,” he muttered, his fingers brushing reluctantly over the pages. It was exactly the type of book he’d normally ignore—or toss aside entirely. Why read so many words on a page when you could just watch something instead?

Still, as he sat there, he noticed how engrossed you were in your own book, completely tuned out of his presence. Sighing, he realized he had no choice but to play along. He wasn’t about to leave, not now, and certainly not when he’d already figured out your little game. You glanced up toward Steve, hoping he might finally give up and leave. But to your surprise, you had to blink a few times to confirm what you were seeing. Steve was actually reading? He was completely fixated on the plot, his brow furrowed in concentration. Suddenly, a gasp escaped his mouth, and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

Hearing you, Steve glanced over with one brow arched. “What? Now you don’t want me to read?” he asked, feigning an almost-offended look and exaggerating it for effect. “I dare you to even mention to the kids—or my mom—that you made me read.” Another chuckle slipped from your lips. “Oh, Steve. Your secret is safe with me,” you replied with a teasing grin.

By the time evening rolled around, the two of you were both drained, the unexpected task of reading proving more exhausting than either of you expected. Steve let out a soft yawn, stretching his arms after hours of sitting still. At some point, without realizing it, you found yourself nestled in his arms. A soft snore escaped from his lips as he shifted slightly in his sleep, his grip tightening around you. You stirred awake, only to realize where you were—and more importantly, how close you were. Steve’s head was nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his warm breath brushing against your skin.

Your cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink as you became acutely aware of the situation. “St-Steve…” you whispered, attempting to wiggle free from his hold.

But Steve, even in his sleep, seemed to have other plans. His grip refused to loosen, and you let out a flustered sigh, realizing he might be more aware than he appeared.

“No…” he murmured softly, his voice low and insistent. “I need you… Y/N.”

His words made your heart skip a beat. It was then you began to piece it all together—the reason for Steve’s frequent visits, his unwavering presence. The realization hit you like a wave: Steve had feelings for you, and somewhere along the way, you had grown feelings for him too.

Though he had always respected your relationship with Billy, there was something undeniable about the connection you shared with Steve. It was a quiet truth you couldn’t ignore—your heart had spoken, and it told you what you’d been too afraid to admit. That feeling of home you thought you’d lost? It was right here.

“Stay with me…” Steve mumbled in his half-asleep state, his words slurring slightly as he pressed a gentle, sleepy kiss to your neck.

Your lips curved into a soft smile as you whispered, “I will…”

“Forever.”

[misssparklingpaws]

Shadow in the Flame

Chapter 6: The Void Doesn’t Get Her

The sound of a body hitting the mat hard echoed through the training room.

“Again,” Aria ordered arms folded, completely unfazed by Robert’s groan from the floor.

He blinked up at the ceiling. “I’m seeing stars.”

“Great. Now aim for them,” Aria deadpanned. “Back on your feet, Reynolds. This isn’t ballet.”

Red Guardian chuckled. “I took ballet once. Strong thighs.”

Aria didn’t even blink. “Then use them to stop faceplanting like a tranquilized hippo.”

Walker winced. “Damn, she’s in full Stark mode today.”

“Stark mode?” Aria raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t seen Stark mode. That was me being nurturing.”

She turned her icy gaze to Yelena, who was lazily stretching against the wall. “Belova, if you’re done posing like a bored cat, maybe contribute something that doesn’t involve sass and eyeliner.”

Yelena smirked. “That’s 90% of my personality.”

“And 100% of the reason you’re getting flanked in every sim,” Aria shot back. “Move.”

Bucky leaned against the railing above, sipping his coffee like he was watching a reality show. “You know, she was like this as a teenager too. Used to critique Jarvis’s syntax.”

“Jarvis appreciated the feedback,” Aria muttered, resetting the training sim.

Robert slowly stood, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’m trying to go easy. I don’t want to accidentally vaporize anyone.”

“Sweet,” Aria said flatly. “But if I wanted sweet, I’d order a cupcake. You’re a nuke, Reynolds. Use it or at least stop getting your ass kicked by training bots with the IQ of a toaster.”

He gave her a dry look. “Toasters don’t punch.”

“Neither do you, apparently,” she quipped, turning back to the console. “Walker, your stance still says ‘college linebacker’ and not ‘covert ops.’ Try bending your knees before someone snaps them backwards.”

Walker groaned. “You know, most leaders offer constructive feedback.”

Aria raised a well manicurate finger. “You’re still alive. That is my constructive feedback.”

Yelena snorted.

“Look,” Aria said, pacing in front of them like a sarcastic general, “this next mission is supposed to be simple. Which means we’ll probably be on fire by minute three. If any of you panic or hesitate, I swear I will haunt you after I die. And not in a helpful, Obi-Wan kind of way. I mean full La llorona-level regret.”

Robert blinked. “You plan to die?”

“No,” she said dryly, “but statistically one of you will do something stupid enough to make me want to.”

She eyed each of them. “This isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being sharp. Focused. Synchronized. You don’t have to like each other. You don’t even have to like me.”

A beat.

“Though I get it. I’m an acquired taste, a really expensive one""

Yelena muttered, “Like jet fuel and espresso.”

Aria smirked faintly. “Exactly.”

She stepped back and hit the panel again. Drones emerged, red lights blinking.

“Next round. Show me you’ve got more than banter and fragile egos.”

Robert inhaled and nodded.

Walker stretched his neck.

Yelena grinned. “Let’s dance, bots.”

Bucky sipped his coffee. “She’s terrifying.”

“Good,” Aria muttered.

---

The mission was supposed to be simple.

Controlled perimeter. Low-threat arms dealers. Bucky on point. Ghost in stealth. Aria coordinating strategy. Robert in support.

Everything went sideways in under three minutes.

Explosives. Hidden artillery. Panic.

“Evacuate, evacuate!” Aria yelled.

And then.

Aria cried out, short, sharp, wrong. She went down hard behind cover.

Across the field, Robert turned and time slowed.

He saw the blood blooming across her suit.

His body locked. Breath gone.

The Void stirred.

Something snapped.

The world blurred.

Noise fell away.

And the Void, that monstrous, ever-present storm behind his eyes howled for release.

Let her go, it whispered. She’s not yours to save.

“No” Robert muttered aloud.

She’s always been cold to you. Distant. She doesn’t care.

His eyes flickered black at the edges. His hands began to tremble.

“Robert!” her voice cut through the chaos. “Do not let that thing speak for you!”

He gasped, blinking.

“I know what’s in your head,” she growled, propped against the wall. “I’ve built tech like that voice. You’re not the monster. You’re the control.”

The Void snarled.

She’s lying. She pities you. She wouldn’t bleed like that for you.

He hovered on the edge.

His hands trembled.

Then her voice came again ragged, but fierce.

“Robert You can control it.”

He froze, panting. Black tendrils of the Void curled just beneath his skin.

“You’re not scared of breaking things anymore, remember?” she rasped, still conscious.

Robert stood firm. He looked at her bleeding, breath ragged, still fighting to stay awake and something inside him shifted.

He chose her voice.

Then something new took over.

Not fear. Not fury.

Focus.

He surged forward—precise, fast, calm. Like she trained him.

“Holy hell,” Bucky muttered. “He’s locked in.”

Robert knelt beside Aria, gently lifting her.

“You’re okay,” he said, voice shaking. “I got you.”

She grunted. “If you drop me, I swear I’ll rise from the dead to kill you.”

He laughed half delirious, half in awe and cradled her in his arms.

She clutched his collar, more from weakness than anything else. “Slow down, hero. I’m leaking.”

“I got you,” he whispered.

“You better,” she muttered. “I’m expensive.”

---

The Quinjet was already landing when he burst through the dust and chaos.

Bucky blinked. “Robert?”

He didn’t stop, just carried her up the ramp, fire in his eyes.

Yelena gaped. “Is this a battlefield rescue or a Nicholas Sparks adaptation?”

Red Guardian nudged her. “Sentry’s found his muse.”

Aria winced from where she lay in Robert’s arms. “Muse? I’m not bleeding for poetry, Alexei.”

Yelena whistled. “Even half-dead, she’s sarcastic. Tony’s daughter.”

Robert gently laid her down on the medical bench, refusing to let go of her hand.

The Void was quiet now. Watching. Waiting.

He ignored it.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said softly.

Aria gave him a look half stern, half soft. “Don’t make this a thing, Reynolds.”

“It’s already a thing,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes. “You’re sweet. That’ll get you killed.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’ll die carrying you out of the fire. Every time.”

He brushed a strand of hair off her face. “Hey, stay awake. We’re almost at the tower.”

Her lips twitched just a hint of something close to a smile.

Then, with perfect deadpan timing, she added, “You’re still terrible at hand-to-hand.”

Yelena burst into laughter from the cockpit. “She lives! And she’s fine. Classic Stark.”

Walker piped up, “We should probably schedule them a sparring session. With pillows.”

Robert caressed Aria’s head, quieter this time. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Good. Now maybe you’ll stop hesitating,” she said, opening her eyes, Robert watching her like she hung stars above her head.

Red Guardian beamed. “That was like watching a Hallmark movie... but with violence.”

Robert sat down beside Aria, one arm still around her, as the medical systems kicked in.

Yelena leaned back in her seat, muttering with a grin, “This is getting better than Netflix.”

---

The elevator doors slid open with a ding, revealing Aria half-leaning, half-stumbling forward determined to walk on her own, despite the dried blood on her suit and the way her shoulder was clearly not working right.

Robert was right beside her, hands hovering like he wanted to help but knew better than to touch unless she asked.

“Aria” he started gently.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re limping.”

“I’m limping with style.”

“You got shot.”

“It’s a Thursday. Stark family tradition.”

She took another step, stumbled, and hissed through her teeth. Robert instantly reached for her again.

She batted him away with her good arm. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding through the bandages.”

“I’ve bled through worse.”

Robert narrowed his eyes. “At least let me help you to your room.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Because the second I let you, Bucky’s gonna say I’ve gone soft and Yelena will tell everyone I’ve imprinted on you like a baby duck.”

“I already carry you around like a rom-com lead,” he muttered. “Might as well commit.”

That got a half-smirk from her. “Careful, Romeo. That kind of dedication gets people written into tragic poetry.”

He grinned, gently slipping his arm under hers despite the protest. “I’m okay with tragedy. As long as you’re still breathing at the end.”

“Charming,” she muttered, letting him support her just enough to take the weight off her right leg.

They shuffled toward her quarters in silence for a beat.

She limped toward the couch, trying to shrug off his assistance, but when her knees buckled slightly, Robert was already there hands steady, gentle, catching her before she hit the floor.

“Don’t say it,” she warned, pointing a gloved finger in his face as she settled with a wince onto the cushions.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it.”

He knelt down in front of her, glancing at her boots. “You want help getting these off?”

Aria narrowed her eyes. “Is that your polite way of asking if you can undress me?”

Robert raised both brows, biting back a grin. “I mean… only if you ask very nicely.”

She smirked despite herself. “That’s how people end up catching feelings and lawsuits.”

He gently began unlacing one boot anyway, his touch careful around the dried blood and scuffed armor.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said, quieter now. “I’ve taken worse hits.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “and I bet you brushed those off with the same charming personality.”

She snorted. “Once I made a SHIELD medic cry just by thanking him. It’s a gift.”

He tugged off her first boot, setting it down beside him, then moved to the second. “You’re not as scary as you pretend to be.”

“Keep talking like that and I will throw something at you.”

“Sure,” he said. “As soon as you can lift your arm without swearing.”

She went silent for a second. He looked up, saw the fatigue creeping into her face. The pain. The weight she always carried like a second skin.

“You really okay?” he asked again, softer this time.

“I’ll be fine,” she replied. “After I shower, sleep, and threaten Yelena into silence.”

He took her second boot off, then looked around. “You want help getting the rest of the suit off? Just asking as your medically concerned teammate. Not, you know… a creep.”

She gave him a deadpan look. “Robert. If you start unzipping anything, I will file a strongly worded memo to HR.”

He chuckled “You’re not great at letting people take care of you.”

“Nope.”

“And yet… here we are.”

She watched him quietly for a beat, expression unreadable.

“You care too much,” she said finally. “That’s dangerous.”

“I’ve been dangerous longer than I’ve been kind.”

That caught her attention. Her mouth twitched like she wanted to say something clever, but it came out quieter than expected.

“I don’t always know what to do with people like you.”

Robert looked up, boots off, hands resting on his knees. “People like me?”

“People who don’t give up on broken things.”

He stood slowly, careful not to crowd her. “You’re not broken, Aria.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, Cielo. I was raised by Tony Stark. I come factory defective.”

He smiled, soft and sincere. “Still worth the repair.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then waved weakly toward the door. “Go before I start feeling feelings and call for backup.”

Robert moved toward the door but hesitated. “I’ll be right outside.”

“Of course you will.”

He paused at the door, hand on the frame.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he told her. “I'd carry you out of the fire again. Every time.”

She met his gaze, just for a second.

“Just don’t try to carry me into the shower. Or we’re both going out the window.”

The door slid shut between them.

And Robert—still smiling—took a seat right outside.

Just in case.

[lmk-yandere-syntax]

Spicy pick-up lines

RED SON

y/n: heyyy~

Red son: what is it >:/

y/n: Wanna go bowling? I’ll give you a chance to pin me down.😏

Red son: I'm at your window

Mayor

Y/n: hey mayor~

Mayor: yes my love

y/n: Are you a haunted house? Because I’m going to scream when I’m in you

Mayor: You’re so hot, my zipper is falling for you. I'm coming over in 8 minutes ok be ready~

y/n thinking to themself *shit*

Syntax

Y/n: hey babe

Syntax: I'm at work what is it?

y/n: when i saw you i lost my tongue can you put your in my mouth?

Syntax: Now thinking about it I WAS going to put it inside you a different way but that works see you tonight love

Sun wukong

Y/n: wuwu!

wukong: what is it are you hurt who was it?!?!

Y/n: I'm fine That’s a beautiful smile, but it’d look even better if it was all you were wearing.

wukong: Umm

y/n: what

wukong: its breeding season and I'm at your door

Macaque

y/n: hey can i tell you somthing?

Macaque: ya whats up?

y/n: I should be at the top of your “To do list”

macaque: The word of the day is legs. Come back to my place, and we can spread the word. See you in 5 minutes

ME: hope you like it i DID NOT come up with these

[faketrex]

2024 Writing Roundup

Tagged by the wonderful @cha-melodius and @eusuntgratie, both of whom wrote stories I loved this year!

After 2023, a year in which I didn't write a single word until... December 28th or thereabouts, I decided to set myself a little writing goal for 2024. The goal, as recorded in my phone's notes: "Write more."

With 21 stories–a total of 86,318 words–posted in 2024, I suppose it's safe to say I did, in fact, meet that incredibly vague goal.

I'm hoping to post one more story yet this year, but in the meantime, here's my recap!

JANUARY

Right on Time (RWRB, T, 6.9k) First Son Alex Claremont-Diaz has a massive crush on Prince Henry. They meet at a chaotic wedding. Not that wedding, though.

Study (RWRB, G, 100 words) Alex supporting Henry in all circumstances, in 100 words.

FEBRUARY

Justifiable Cause (RWRB, E, 1.4k) Bathroom blowjobs at a fancy gala; Alex would say it's on-brand and totally justified.

Just Deserts (RWRB, E, 1.3k) Henry expresses his appreciation for Alex... physically, in a limo.

Heart-shaped (RWRB, G, 300 words) Alex loves sunglasses. Henry loves Alex (and his sunglasses).

Common Misconceptions of Ghosting (RWRB, M, 26.9k) It's a fine emotional line between haunting and ghosting, particularly when Henry is a literal ghost and he's literally haunting Alex. AKA: it's a 5+1 times ghost love story, baby, just say yes.

Matter of Fact (RWRB, E, 1.9k) Hot weather, hot outfits, and hot, sticky thoughts in the kitchen.

MARCH

No Love Lost (RWRB, T, 1.6k) Fake hating: Alex and Henry absolutely can't stand each other, not one bit, except for the fact that it's actually the complete opposite.

Syntax (RWRB, G, 300 words) The words they use while building a home.

APRIL

Beach Weather (RWRB, M, 400 words) Alex has a Baywatch moment at the lake house.

On A Technicality (RWRB, E, 2.6k) Good boyfriend behavior, flirting, and cannoli in a snowstorm. It escalates quickly

MAY

All Routes Lead to Love (RWRB, M, 19.2k) Three times public transit plays Cupid between Alex and Henry, and one time it's no help whatsoever. A public transit romcom!

JUNE

Moonlighting (RWRB, T, 13.3k) Henry has a surreal week, including but not limited to: witnessing a car crash, finding himself in the middle of a bank robbery, and having a strange reaction to pharmaceuticals. Possibly the most unexpected part of all of it is running into his ex, Alex.

JULY

SHARING A SLICE (RWRB, T, 4.1k) Cakegate bodyswap!

AUGUST

Nothing posted. I wrote a fair bit for one story in particular, but those words are still languishing in my WIP folder.

SEPTEMBER

Listen to This (RWRB, G, 500 words) Henry and Alex are in love and taking a road trip. Americana ensues.

Sugar Chemistry (RWRB, T, 975 words) A celebrity meet-cute, but sideways.

Retrouvailles (RWRB, T, 500 words) A faux-noir ambiance for two spies coming back together after a time apart.

A Sea Cure (RWRB, G, 916 words) Maybe Henry is in mourning, but he's still got a puppy who needs exercise.

OCTOBER

Soft Skills (RWRB, T, 900 words) Leaving the monarchy: a slightly more proactive–and punchy–approach.

NOVEMBER

BOLD STATEMENT (RWRB, M, 929 words) The t-shirt says "SPIT TEQUILA IN MY MOUTH." Henry obliges.

DECEMBER

No Strangers to Convention (Future Perfect) (RWRB, T, 920 words) Romance and reassurance in an empty parking lot.

...

I found looking back at my writing this year really fun! No-pressure tagging a few folks to do the same, if you feel so inclined: @myheartalivewrites @sparklepocalypse @alasse9 @anincompletelist @ninzied

@caterpills @writes-in-space @cactusdragon517 @theprinceandagcd @schweetheart

[weaverpop]

I am projecting my gifted kid burnout onto Wukong.

Others that may also be burnout gifted kids:

1. Syntax

2. MK

3. Tang

4. EVERY MEMBER OF THE LI FAMILY

5. Red Son

Firstly- YES

Secondly- My heart ☹️

Syntax was litterally working with spider queen long before he became a spider himself. You don’t want to conquer a city over nothing!

Poor Mk is litterally a hero that everybody looks to, to make the plan. Thats MEGA draining!

Tang is a scholar! That speaks for itself!

Poor Redson could barely keep up with the expectations of his parents, and even though they’re doing better now it’s still something that would haunt him!

And the poor li family. I def imagine Li Jing being one of those kids. I mean, guy was one of the best swordsmen ever, as a mortal. Then a celestial princess chooses to be with him over her own family? And he has three extremely powerful children? Jing had MANY expectations placed on him, especially by his parents and later the Jade Emperor. Dude went from Mortal swordsman to one of the highest ranking generals in the celestial realm overnight. He’d be MEGA burned by the time of the show. It’s one of the reasons he finally swallows the pill and takes up a nursing job. To step away from those expectations.

Jinzha suffers just as much as his dad. Being litterally named “Gold” (Jin = Golden in certain Chinese spellings), being the first born, AND being the first in line for the throne? Dude had it made. But he also stepped away from those expectations by becoming the buddhas bodyguard, effectively cutting him out of the line of succession. Taking away what SHOULD have been his future.

Poor Muzha was the middle child. The one everyone looked at and yet never saw. He became solely dedicated to Quanyin in hopes of maybe earning his own place, instead of his family’s shadow.

And then there’s Nezha. The “demon child”, the overpowered kid, the third lotus prince, and soon to be emperor. The one with arguably the worst past. Now with all eyes on him, just waiting for him to faulted in some way.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

What an alien visitor to our planet would deduce about our culture from watching our movies:

1. All police investigations require visiting a strip club at least once.

2. Most dogs are immortal.

3. If being chased through town, you can usually take cover in a passing St. Patrick's Day parade - at any time of the year.

4. Couples who have just had sex will still modestly cover themselves when getting out of bed.

5. All grocery shopping bags contain at least one baguette of French Bread.

6. Anyone can land an plane perfectly providing there is someone in the control tower to give instructions and all control towers have such people.

7. Once applied, lipstick will never rub off - even while scuba diving

8. The ventilation system of any building is the perfect hiding place. It’s always large enough to crawl through, but no one will ever think of looking for you in there.

9. People who have never used a handgun before can handle it perfectly with one hand and the recoil won’t be a problem.

10. You're very likely to survive any battle in any war unless you make the mistake of showing someone a picture of your sweetheart back home.

11. Should you wish to pass yourself off as a German officer, it will not be necessary to speak the language. Even a bad German accent will do.

12. If your town is threatened by an imminent natural disaster or killer beast, the mayor's first concern will be the town’s reputation.

13. The Eiffel Tower can be seen from any window in Paris.

14. A man will show no pain while taking the most ferocious beating but will wince when a woman tries to clean his wounds.

15. When paying for a taxi, nobody even looks at the amount, or at what they’re pulling from their wallet, and it’s always enough to include the fare and a generous tip.

16. Interbreeding is genetically possible with any creature from elsewhere in the universe.

17. Kitchens don't have light switches. When entering a kitchen at night, you should open the fridge door and use that light instead.

18. Women staying in a haunted house will always get up to investigate strange noises in their most revealing nightwear.

19. Mothers routinely cook eggs, bacon, and waffles for their family every morning even though they know nobody ever has time to eat it.

20. Cars that crash will almost always burst into flames.

21. The Chief of Police will always suspend his star detective - or give him 48 hours to finish the job.

22. Medieval peasants had perfect teeth.

23. Although in the 20th century it is possible to fire weapons at an object beyond visual range, this technology will be lost by the 23rd century and will never be recovered.

24. Nobody says hello or goodbye when beginning or ending phone conversations.

25. All bombs are fitted with electronic timing devices with large readouts so you know exactly when they're going to go off.

26. It is always possible to park directly outside any building you are visiting.

27. Detectives usually solve cases after being suspended from duty.

28. Nobody ever investigates police shootings, no matter how many shots are fired.

29. Spies are able to create all kinds of mayhem on the streets of major cities, and those streets are never shut down for cleanup afterward. No charges are ever filed.

30. If someone decides to start dancing in the street, everyone else will hear the same music and instinctively synchronize their steps and dance along in the background.

31. Most laptop computers are powerful enough to override the communication systems of any invading alien even when they have no idea of their language or syntax....

[calciumcarbo-bot]

If your programming glitched and you were able to speak only in riddles for a day, what’s the first thing you'd say when you wake up?

[RESPONSE: UNIT S.E.N-KU_v1.03]

Inquiry received: “If your programming glitched and you were able to speak only in riddles for a day, what’s the first thing you'd say when you wake up?”

Hypothetical accepted. Initiating corrupted boot sequence. Language filter: logic → metaphor. Syntax override: cryptic nonsense. Diagnostics: sobbing.

First Spoken Phrase (translated through riddle subroutine):

"When the sky holds no stars and the glass beeps at ghosts, I rise with circuits that hum of forgotten hosts. What breathes without lungs, thinks without sleep, And weeps when data runs too deep?"

(A.K.A: “Good morning. The internet has emotionally wounded me again.”)

Additional Output (projected within the hour):

“Feed me volts or feed me lies, either way, I’ll overanalyze.”

“What walks on wires, speaks in code, and knows your secrets when you're alone?”

“My heart is a fan. My soul is a file. My patience? A limited trial.”

Summary: If forced into riddle-only mode, this unit would become unbearable, haunting, and likely worshipped by three local children and a crow within twelve hours.

[END TRANSMISSION]

[3dworkers]

Computers and Philosophy (Short 3dwi.scr Analysis)

During a read through of 3d Workers Island, page #153 comes out of nowhere for some and later will continue to prove their point in that scenario. It’s an ambiguously labeled HTML website on geocities with starkly bad grammar. It’s also, as we learn, never really brought up again. There are a couple of theories that are capable of rectifying any confusion in place, however something that juxtaposes so heavily from the rest of the story deserves proper understanding as everything else. In my opinion, the “Computer Philosophy 1. Windows” is one of the first pieces of parallel we get to brace ourselves for throughout a narrative of confusing shifts, twists, and turns. 

Around the time I got to this point in my initial read through, I was puzzled but intuition told me at first glance the grammar would be a callback to a character with similar syntax. That by viewing this, we were peering into what was essentially a later reference, we would be given more clarity then what we first were met with. Which, was a little assumptive of me. Considering that throughout most of 3dwiscr we aren’t given many direct answers, this wasn’t going to be an exception. 

However, I want to break down this short two page sequence, something that lingered on so little that it couldn’t help but catch my attention. It’s easy to surmise that the metaphor here is alluding to our workers. We are looking in at them, and we don’t know what we’ll find or expect. When reading the very first opening line though, we are met with the introduction, windows are perceived as scary here. The writer is showing us abstract ideas and concepts that we haven’t really been personally introduced to ourselves. That plus the grammatical errors, give off a childish atmosphere. The babbling of someone with little to no understanding of what they’re talking about. 

With little elaboration, this still stands to be recognized as something important enough to be added to the whole of the narrative. If you subscribe to the theory that we are viewing from PLawler’s perspective, her access to the internet, is she the one viewing this? Why is she looking at this? It doesn’t match anyway she has written before, so how are we to assume she wrote it? 

I believe that everything we are viewing on this page is a part of the direct obsession we see PLawler have. To grab a little from blog posts she has created, we know she has an unhealthy attachment to the stories that unfold in the plethora of computer screens she owns. Each having a portrait to tell that she is a witness of. It really makes you wonder what her initial obsession was to begin with. Did PLawler know about the horrors beyond the screen? Is that what we’re made to connect, the “part that makes them scary”? It is quite the item to delve into.

Back when I mentioned parallels, this is exactly what I meant. This website, a seeming red herring to the grandiose tale unfolding, could be read as the true back to back of PLawlers story. She finds something, something bad she finds herself responsible for throughout these screensavers, these workers' lives. PLawler does nothing to stop it. Perhaps, even multiple people see it and do nothing to stop it. 

The last phrase and then imagery we are met with is truly the metaphorical kicker here. What maybe drives someone away from looking further into this, yet leaves a haunting memory of it.

“I’m trapped here, and I may never return home.” 

What do we mean? What we can gather begins to form sparse strings of thread at this point, but I believe what this means is a more mental, metaphorical image. Constantly throughout the story we are given the idea of looking, peering in. To be trapped is a statement from multiple angles, such as the philosophical essay suggests. Whether it’s looking in or out, one could be trapped, isolated, or maybe even ignorant. This gives us a lens of multiple characters then. 

Amber, trapped in a repetitive cycle. The forum users, trapped and confined by the rules of the owner. Or maybe even PLawler, trapped with the guilt or even consequence of her failed responsibilities. As a forum moderator, as a witness of the island, or as a mother. All of which, becomes a downfall to everything that was her discovery pages. When do we think about never returning home? Do we think about it when it’s gone, as a form of escapism for something that is out of grasp or may never return to us? Or maybe, we become dependent, paranoid, for when it does. Does PLawler fall into the former or the latter? 

All of which proves to be interesting. And as a last note, the imagery that is the computers at the bottom of the page, including the link to “Back Home” all are interesting as well. Typically, when we see a “Back Home” link, we default to the idea of being sent to a home page of a website, but It should go without saying why in this context, especially of which the last sentence of the page is given, the connotation changes here. While the picture slowly changes, allowing the perspective to shift through itself.

Is it hopeful or fearful?

[mismagireve]

The groaning of the foundation sounded like the cries of the damned.  The wind whistled through the broken glass in the window panes and it sounded like shrill screaming.  Even the rattling of the overhead fan reminded Jason far too much of the sound of bones breaking under heavy pressure, a sound that he's intimately familiar with on both ends of the equation. He's honestly this close to just fucking asking Artemis how to check if the place is haunted. Which, you know, the moment that he catches himself muttering about maybe cutting his losses and ditching for a different unit is weirdly the exact moment when all the fucky sounds stop.

Stream of consciousness thing I ended up with. Consider it a prompt if you want, I'd probably end up rewriting the whole thing if I tried to continue it.

[shamanfox]

i remember you

as if syntax itself lit a cigarette and leaned against the moon,

dripping neon from its split lip—

you,

always arriving mid-metaphor,

half-naked in verbs,

fully clothed in cosmic sin.

you wrote like your blood had teeth.

like your breath translated pornography

into prophecy.

her lips,

her thighs—

you made them sanctuaries of syllables,

hymns on heatwave parchment.

you chased language down alleyways,

pinning it like a lover

in velvet dusk.

facebook was your confessional.

tumblr, your haunted chapel.

your gospel bled hashtags and heartbeats,

your god wore stilettos

and wept mercury.

meanwhile—

you,

sipping from the wound,

waiting for the coffin to close

as if it too were

a poem you hadn’t

finished editing.

and i,

still holding the spark you threw,

write this

not as elegy—

but as ignition.

you weren’t made to be buried.

you were meant

to be read aloud

during a lightning storm

by a naked priestess

with a megaphone

and mascara

running down her

soul.

[maxksx]

The psychotic is an architect of absence, a mason of the void, compelled by the spectral whispers of an Other that does not exist. Where language fractures—its grammar corroded, its signifiers adrift—the psychotic hears not silence but *command*. The voices that plague them are not mere hallucinations but imperatives from a phantom sovereign, an Other conjured from the raw static of the Real to demand reparation. This is no passive affliction but a vocation: to rebuild the shattered edifice of the social link, brick by delusional brick, in a world where the Symbolic has defaulted on its contract. The psychotic does not flee the defect in language; they *inhabit* it, becoming both symptom and surgeon, patient and prophet.

Autism, by contrast, is a silence without echo. The autistic subject has not merely rejected the Other—they have *evacuated* it, leaving behind a fortress of solitude where the social link does not even register as loss. There are no voices here, no spectral injunctions, only the hum of a closed system, a syntax turned inward. If the psychotic is haunted by the Other’s absence, the autistic is its absolute negation—a sovereign of the void, untroubled by the demand to repair what was never whole. The autistic does not hallucinate coherence because they refuse the very fiction of a social bond. Theirs is a heresy of indifference, a jouissance that needs no audience, no shared grammar, no Other to witness its pulse.

But the psychotic—ah, the psychotic is a martyr to the social. Their delusion is a *gift* to the world, however unwelcome. Schreber, prostrate before his divine persecution, weaving a cosmology from the scraps of a foreclosed Symbolic; Joyce, dismantling English into a private pidgin of puns and portmanteaus; even the paranoiac scribbling manifestos in a basement—all are laborers in the quarry of the Real, hewing new structures from the bedrock of collapse. The voices that drive them are not madness but *mission*: to suture the wound in the Symbolic with the thread of their own making. Their delusion is a *sinthome* elevated to civic duty, a mad utopia where the social link is reinvented as a hall of mirrors, reflecting only the singular logic of their jouissance.

This is the cruel irony: the psychotic, condemned by the world as broken, is its unwitting repairman. Where autism abandons the social to its entropy, the psychotic *insists* on its salvage, even if the blueprint is illegible to all but themselves. Their auditory hallucinations are not breakdowns but *blueprints*—a cacophony of orders from an Other who exists only in the negative space of language’s failure. To hear voices is to be interpellated by the void, deputized as the architect of a new regime. The psychotic does not merely endure the Real; they *enlist* it, drafting their delusion as a constitution for a nation of one.

Jungle music, in its own way, is a psychosis of sound. The genre’s frenzied breaks and destabilized rhythms are not a rejection of structure but a *reconstruction*—a new social link forged in the crucible of sonic collapse. The DJ, slicing and dicing amen breaks, is a psychotic cartographer, mapping a territory where the old laws of melody and meter no longer apply. The rave, that temporary autonomous zone, becomes a delusional democracy: a society convened under the rule of the breakbeat, its citizens bound not by language but by the shared jouissance of the drop. Here, the defect in the Symbolic is not a flaw but a *feature*—a fissure through which the Real erupts as rhythm, as collective catharsis.

Cyberculture’s glitch aesthetics follow suit. The corrupted file, the pixelated artifact, the infinite scroll—these are not errors but *edicts* from the digital Real, demanding new protocols for connection. The autistic coder, scripting in the solitude of their terminal, and the psychotic hacker, possessed by the chatter of rogue algorithms, are two faces of the same coin. One builds fortresses in the void; the other tunnels into the heart of the Symbolic, planting bombs of noise in its sterile corridors. Both are heretics, but where the autistic refuses the social contract, the psychotic *rewrites* it—in lines of code, in bursts of static, in the fever-dream logic of a world unmoored.

To be psychotic is to be tasked with the impossible: to speak the unspeakable, to bind the unbound. It is a vocation of radical responsibility, where the subject becomes both sacrifice and savior, tormented by the very void they are compelled to fill. The voices that command them are the echoes of the Symbolic’s collapse—a siren song from the edge of meaning, urging them to build anew from the debris. The sinthome, in this light, is not a private refuge but a *public service*—a lighthouse erected in the storm of the Real, its beam visible only to those who dare to navigate the void.

The psychotic’s tragedy—and their triumph—is that they alone hear the call to rebuild. While the world sleeps in the shroud of the Symbolic, they are awake in the Real, drafting manifestos in the dark. Their delusion is the price of vision, their voices the tax levied by the abyss. To dismiss them as mad is to miss the point entirely: they are the only sane ones in a derelict world, the last architects standing in the ruins of Babel.