#how DNA replication works

[mehmetyildizmelbourne-blog]

What would you like to know about Klotho, FOXO3, SIRT1, APOE, & BRCA

These are known longevity genes covered in an important story by Dr Yildiz in my publication. Today Dr Mehmet Yildiz wrote an article titled Questions and Answers for Longevity Genes in an Important Story and submitted to my Health and Science publication on Medium.com. He is a regular contributor and he also mentors me for growing this publication now serving over 500 writers. In his own…

[the-worms-in-your-bones]

‘The timeless child means that river would have to be Amy and the doctors daughter’

Hey, hey come here, I have something to tell you. Ignore the hammer

[meteortrails]

there’s something very deeply fascinating to me about the way that people are constantly turned off of stem fields bc they feel like too much memorization, but people who actually study them rarely feel like there’s actually that much memorization they have to do. like there’s this base language and knowledge of every field that you have to learn to start doing anything else, and once you’ve really got into it you don’t need to go back and memorize every word bc most of it comes naturally and instinctually. but if you’ve only ever learned the basics of the language it’s hard to see how it becomes natural for ANYONE bc none of it makes sense you’re just repeating back what you’re told!!

[r0-boat]

Gooner!Belphegor magic pocket pussy Drabble

Cw: masturbation, dubcon.

Gn!reader (Even if you don't have the parts the reader can still feel it ✨magically✨

His pupils dilated holding the toy in his hand. It wasn't just an ordinary toy. He had waited months for this magical toy from Tartaros.

A pocket pussy that syncs It's opening to match any person he chooses. With manual excruciatingly using the little bits DNA from strands of hair that fell from your pretty little head the last time you slept in his bed and other bothersome labor setting the damn thing up so it binds to you, It's finally ready.

"This toy better be far worth the hassle I had to endure," Belphegor mutter does he pressed his finger against the slit of the toy. He truly hopes You could feel his fingers working you open from wherever you are. He licks his lips His eyes fluttering clothes as he runs his tongue across the silicone lips.

Meanwhile, You were tagging along with not only Satan but the rest of the kings for a meeting.

"So sad that Belphegor can't attended today..." Asmodeus smirks giving Satan a wink who's flipping him off in response.

"Good riddance I say, if I had to hear One more meeting of snoring I would have closed off his throat." Leviathan mumbled.

You smile as you sit in your usual seat kicking your feet, Even though you had nothing to do with these meetings The Kings were still nice enough to have you join each one.

It was a day like any other.

Until...

A wet warm feeling caresses your core. You gasp as you swallow a moan. Lucifer's sharp eyes catches your sharp noise "Everything all right?"

" Y-yeah." Was all you could muster.

feeling that's sweet familiar taste of human arousal on his tongue he shutters "Haaa-haha This thing can even replicate your taste. Now I know it's working..."

"fuck... No more waiting... I need it!"

Lazily pushing his robes off on revealing his hard cock He strokes his shaft with one hand maneuvering his tip till it pushes against the opening as he works it open. "Fuck! Replicating your tightness too... This might be my new favorite toy." Belphegor mumbles forcing his cock deeper inside the toy.

You felt something hard and warm fill somewhere between your legs You didn't even have time to process where and how before this mysterious feeling begin to move in and out.

There was no mistaking what this feeling was. Which was deeply confusing since you were in the middle of a meeting and not being fucked by any of the kings present. The size, girth, and even the speed of the thrusts were familiar, but you couldn't place your finger on where you had felt this before. Given how fast thrusting motions began to speed up, it was so hard to think. Before you knew it, you clenched your teeth, trying so hard not to scream out in the middle of the six other kings in the room.

Your hand balling your twitching fingers into a fist trying to stop yourself from going underneath your pants.

His breath shook as he finally took his cock out of the toy His tip rubbing circles around The stretched silicone slit. "Hehehe, rest up while you can ma sweet lil' toy cuz I'm not done with you yet~"

He wonders what you're doing. He knows that there's a meeting going on right now. He wonders if you're there.

"I wonder... I wonder you like getting fucked by me in front of all the other demons that want you."

Belphegor cummed his messy hair falling in front of his eyes as he grinded his shaft against the lips of the toy. "betcha do horny slut!"

Even though you weren't there to write him or suck him off till his balls burst, The idea of fucking you anywhere he wished made his cock twitch and drool with precum.

Belphegor hummed getting his other hand to swipe at the precum drooling from his head. He takes his two fingers and slides them inside. "Ya feel that? That's what you do to me."

You finally mustered all your strength when the thrusts start to slow You slammed your fist down on the table catching everyone's attention their eyes wide at the sudden outburst "I'M GOING TO THE BATHROOM!"

Shit, you did not need to yell that loud... Now, everyone looked worried, But you didn't care because if you had stayed a second longer, you would have come right then and there in your pants. While, everyone was watching. You've never run so fast out of the meeting room.

Slamming and locking your door to your bedroom Your nails dig into the sheets trying so hard to hold back any noise as you brace yourself as the thrusting begin again.

Belphegor His eyes will back as he pounds it over and over into the flashlight as fast as he could go. He could feel the toy work it's magic tightening and pulsating just like how a cunt would; now your cunt. He could feel you cum with every tight squeeeeze.

If he thought fucking you was addicting then treating you like a fleshlight was like drugs.

As much as he wanted to use this toy for hours and hours on end. Which believe him he would.

Use it and overfill your new cunt, make feels so full when you're in fact empty. Maybe he would even fill it up to the brim and make sure it holds It aaall in So you could feel full all day.

As a demon known for breaking his toys He had to hold back. Which realization made him click his tongue. But it was true, He didn't know how much a human could take this toy was made intended for devils after all. So might as well finish inside it and store it away for later.

As much as he wanted to keeps stroking his hand was getting tired. In a last ditch effort to cum He shuffled in his bed his hair silk robes and sheet sticking to a sweaty body. He put the pocket pussy in between two pillows. As much as he hated the hassle of actually doing sex. He needed to have you feel him fuck you.

His unrestrained moans feel his bedroom as he drills his cock deeper with each thrust into the toy. Making sure he stoled his hips as deep as he could before exploding. Making sure He failed the toy to the brim.

He was nowhere near satisfied, And he knew he'll be returning to the toy again for right now, exhaustion hit him all at once. He placed his toy upright on the nightstand. He smiled, knowing that you'll feel all his cum deep inside for a while before drifting off to sleep.

[randycider]

Thinking about Shockwave being a human in that mecha pilot Jazz au. (au of an au?? Sure)

I’m picturing an eyepatch, buzz-cut, sinister voice and even sinister unethical human experimentation— that drift technology had to come about from someone, right?

They call him Shockwave because he just showed up one day and revolutionized the mech field overnight. Or that’s just his name, who knows.

Very Doc-Ock from Spider-Man situation going on for him; he found Cybertronian or Quintesson tech and integrated it into himself, now he’s got mechanical arms and a gigantic gun for an arm or whatever, and he works as fast as possible to replicate it on other people, no matter how unethical or morally dubious, because if he could do it to himself, then he can do it to others for the sake of science. (Maybe someone else did the experimenting on him??)

Idk I just need the angry and violent and visceral Shockwave personality carrying over to him being the Top Guy on earth who is responsible for finding people to test new and developing drift technology on. Some of those first pilots probably died during the drift connection, and he just kept putting new people into the mecha over and over until something stuck

Maybe he’s responsible for sending out recruitment programs that test people’s DNA to see if they’re drift compatible and THEN they have to go through all that rigorous training and testing

[twilightkitkat]

Can we take a second to consider how Deadpool's regeneration works?? Like what the limits are? And what that means in the context of their weaknesses and scenarios for fanfiction?

Deadpool's regeneration is near infinite. He's come back from being exploded before by a single blood cell. As long as he isn't completely atomized, he can come back.

If you explain his healing as an extremely enhanced metabolism (similar to Peter Parker's healing) then this would mean all cell processes and chemical reactions in his body happen at a significantly faster pace than the average person. This would apply to digestion, healing, energy expenditure, but also death and aging.

The human body has a finite limit of cells that it will produce in its lifetime, so if it was simply enhanced metabolism he couldn't regenerate infinitely. Even "enhanced" healing would have its limits and a greater metabolism wouldn't account for regrowing limbs or parts of the body entirely.

This would imply that his ability is more than just "enhanced healing" but instead the ability to completely reconstruct his body. This insinuates that mutants would need different DNA that maps out the parts of the body and the instructions to generate it in their genetic code. This is similar to the regrowth of a lizard's tail or how the liver of a human body can regenerate.

However, healing capabilities aside, where does the matter and energy for this come from? Matter doesn't spontaneously come into existence; it can neither be created nor destroyed. He would need a source of energy and matter to rebuild his body.

Let's start with energy. Most humans utilize chemical energy from food to carry out bodily functions. However, Deadpool can regenerate from a single blood cell without eating anything. This implies that his body is either insanely energy efficient and has a different blueprint or that mutants draw their energy from another source. Can mutants tap into matter and antimatter as a source of energy where the human body hits its limit?

More than energy, let's consider the issue of matter. To regenerate, Deadpool would need to rebuild the organic matter of his body. If it were just an issue of reattaching limbs and reforging bonds between severed body parts or torn skin, it would be feasible. However, it's been shown that even when Deadpool's limbs or blood or corpse are beyond salvageable, he regrows them from scratch. An example of this was in Deadpool 1 where he cut off his hand and left it with Colossus, but it still regenerated on its own without it disappearing.

This implies that the lost matter from energies such as detached limbs, blood, and gore isn't reused in the regeneration process unless intentionally reattached. If he's capable of regenerating from scratch, he needs a way to get carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, and phosphorus, which are the key elements that compose the human body. He also needs a way to condense these into macromolecules and organic compounds.

Hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon, and oxygen exist in large quantities in the atmosphere. Could he potentially be absorbing elements and reintegrating them into his body? Would this imply that his skin needs to be more porous to absorb elements through the air into his body?

For him to reintegrate these elements, is his body somehow catalyzing the synthesis of macromolecules? This was studied in the Miller-Urey experiment, which simulated the early conditions of Earth's atmosphere and the available basic compounds to see if it was possible for elements to spontaneously synthesize together to create the macromolecules needed for human life. It was found that under pressure, heat, and electricity, it was in fact potentially possible for the building blocks of human life to originate this way. Are mutant bodies capable of perfectly replicating the conditions and forces needed to cause this to happen consistently and at near-instantaneous speeds?

If this were possible, would this mean that there are conspiracy theories that "mutant" forces could be responsible for life on Earth in the Marvel universe? (If matter and anti-matter play a role in mutant abilities, could they have contributed to the existence of mutants to begin with? To life on Earth?)

Aside from these elements, phosphorus would be needed to recreate DNA and the nuclei of cells. Phosphorus doesn't have an atmospheric phase in its geologic cycle—it's only found in rocks and compounds, not the air. Wade couldn't absorb it from the ground because he doesn't always regenerate in areas where phosphorus is present. Does this imply that phosphorus is present in the air in Marvel and that in their dimension, it does cycle atmospherically for regenerative mutants to exist?

Considering that regeneration is possible given all of the elements are present, how was Wade able to regenerate his rapidly suffocating cells when he was trapped in the airtight tank by Francis? If he was able to replace the oxygen in his cells, does this apply that he had access to matter that "wasn't there"? Does this tie into anti-matter being an active force in Marvel that exists within mutants? Does energy conservation work differently, wherein antimatter potentially eats up organic matter in another part of the Earth to preserve the balance while it supplies necessary elements to mutants? Or is it another force?

Wade's regenerative capabilities can largely be attributed to his cancer. It gives him the added effect of rapid cell repopulation, while his healing staves away the deadly effects until it's neutralized.

For Wade's entire body to regenerate from a single blood cell, this would imply that his entire body is composed of stem cells that are capable of differentiating into all of the different types of cells. And that mutants have an insanely high number of stem cells compared to the average person. This could be incredibly useful in stem cell transplant surgery to help recover from issues with bone marrow, blood cells, cancers, blood disorders, and autoimmune diseases.

Do mutant stem cells play a large part in the medical field with their rapid regeneration and near-infinite cell differentiation? Are there mutants held captive and experimented on just to obtain their stem cells? Could Wade be a target of this?

Speaking of farming, could Wade theoretically infinitely sell his organs on the black market for money? Considering he can regrow organs entirely without the preexisting one intact. Would they go for extra money because of enhanced durability and "better" mutant cells?

Most regeneration couldn't be entirely infinite, though. Eventually, if the regeneration was rapid enough, cells would reach the Hayflict limit. The Hayflick limit is the number of times a normal human cell can divide before it stops dividing. At the end of human chromosomes, there are telomeres which protect the integrity of DNA during cell division. As cells continue to divide, the telomeres keep shortening until eventually they run out and the DNA itself gets damaged if further replication occurs. The cells reach a state of senescence, wherein the cell stops dividing but functions normally until it dies permanently. This makes infinite replication from the same set of cells impossible.

However, Wade is the exception. His cancer cells would keep dividing because telomerase, an enzyme, keeps lengthening the telomere to allow for rapid and infinite regeneration. Therefore, the cell would never reach the Hayflick Limit and Wade's entire body could be regenerated even from a single cell.

This would imply that his healing factor wouldn't be nearly as strong and would, in fact, have more imposing limits without his cancer. His mutation encompassed a faster healing ability, but it originally would be finite if his cells were overloaded and regenerated enough to reach the Hayflick limit.

Additionally, this implies that Wade stopped aging not because of his healing factor, but because of his cancer. Aging occurs due to chromosome shortening, wherein the telomeres of cells slowly get shorter until the cells are no longer capable of safe replication. Eventually, the speed of cells dying outpaces the speed of reproduction as the majority of cells reach senescence.

Wade's cancer stopped him from aging. It took his healing from strong to nearly invincible. The same thing that causes him pain every day is the very reason he's as strong as he is.

This also implies that if he ever did find a way to cure his cancer while keeping his ability intact, he would sacrifice his immortality. He would begin aging, even if slowly, and he would lose the ability to come back from mere scraps. His healing would be more on par with Logan (who I'll make a separate analysis of later), wherein he would still age and take damage but with rapidly accelerated healing and cell reconstruction capabilities.

Wade's healing is stronger than Logan's. Wade can recover if there is even a piece of him left, while Logan's healing has greater limits. While Wolverine has more enhanced physical capabilities, Wade wins in the regeneration department.

This implies that if the two were tortured repeatedly in a similar manner, Logan's regeneration might slow down and eventually stop if he was bombarded constantly without sustenance, while Wade's would hold on for much longer (potentially forever). Wade would be the sole survivor if they got trapped or tortured, and would have to watch Logan slowly die as his healing fails and his cells hit their limit .

This is a painful reminder that Logan will age and eventually die. With his ability, Wade will not. The very cancer that led to him losing the life he wanted and becoming the monster he sees himself as is the reason Logan will leave him behind in the end when he dies. It's a curse he'll never escape from, no matter how far he runs.

Wade can heal from almost anything physically, but could he ever really heal from outliving Logan? From losing him?

[stellar-constellations]

Heart on the Market (ONGOING SERIES) Chapter 2

        

WARNING: This series will include; NSFW, dead dove, reader is a serial killer, black market possible inaccurate historical slang and fashion, gore, alcohol, toxic relationships that should NOT be replicated in real life, murder, yanderes, cursing, implications of misandry (male misogyny), perversive thoughts, nonconsensual drugging, gaslighting, possibly more to add.

Inaccurate canon-timeline and setting (Ashley doesn't exist). Modern AU.

Incest is not Wincest.

Andrew Graves x Old school! Serial killer! Fem! Reader

Wordcount: 6,600+ words

Chapters: Chapter 1, current chapter, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5 (in the works)

You grabbed rags from your closet and wet them, using soap and water as you scrubbed the apartment’s carpeted floors stained with blood.

        You occasionally kept an eye on Andrew’s apartment door, finding that he hasn’t stepped out of his apartment yet.

        He must’ve decided on not working tonight. You thought. 

        Good. It’ll make it easier to supervise him. He won’t blabber to an unsuspecting customer or call the police on the gas station’s phone and have a SWAT team break into your home.

        You couldn’t kill Andrew. The Manson Murderer has never directly targeted someone, so a murder inside of a random apartment complex would be extremely suspicious considering all of the murders were unsuspecting night folk outside.

        Having a crime scene inside of your home would be too suspicious, and it would prevent you from sneaking back into the apartments at 3 AM if there’s police stationed outside. If the murders noticeably decrease, the police will know that they’re hot on the murderer’s trail inside of the apartment complex, putting you at serious risk.

        So your best chance was seduction, but even you're not sure how long you can keep that up. It was absolutely nauseating kissing a guy you've barely known. Revolting having to shove your tongue down his throat knowing you're not his wife or even courting him. 

        You shivered and shook your head, getting goosebumps just as the thought of premarital intimacy, focusing your attention to dumping the rag in your bucket of water, wringing it out and scrubbing more of the blood off the carpet.

        Of course the bag rips… You thought, groaning. This new age cutting corners in production to save a few bucks.        

        You got up from the floor, looking at your handiwork. 

        It’s not the worst, but it’ll save you for now. Besides, it’s not like you’ll just have some random dude with a UV light wandering the halls spraying luminal on the ground to cause a chemiluminescence reaction once it detects hemoglobin found in a person’s DNA… Yeah, that would never happen. 

        Even still, hydrogen peroxide wouldn’t work on the carpet; not only would it stain the carpet and cause suspicion, but it’s really not guaranteed to 100% remove the DNA, only damage it a little. It’s not like that matters anyways, crime scene investigators don’t need blood to understand where exactly a crime scene happened or how it played out; it’s just a piece of evidence after all.

        Besides, with this new technology they’re developing, they’ll eventually be able to detect old DNA particles using eDNA machines that will extract the DNA from the air itself. Pretty spooky to know how far technology will come.

        Damn scientists and their new machines… You grimaced, annoyed as you walked back into your apartment with your bucket.

        But for now, that technology doesn’t exist, and your apartment has no cameras, so you'll simply just keep on killing. 

        You entered your apartment and rummaged through your bathroom cabinets, finding old containers of floss you got from the dentist. You stole the floss from the containers, tying them together to make a large string and grabbed a bell from your arts and crafts box inside your room. 

        You tied the bell on one end of the floss string, adding multiple knots to make sure it was secured, then walked out of your apartment, tying the other end of the floss string onto Andrew’s door knob. You walked back into your room and closed the door, placing the bell onto the floor. 

        If Andrew opens his door, the bell will move with the door and ring, signaling to you Andrew has left his apartment. That way, he can’t escape. 

        So far, you’ll just have to trust he hasn’t called the police. 

        You walked into your kitchen, grabbing ingredients out of your fridge. 

        It’ll be a quick meal, you don't want to leave Andrew alone for too long. You have plans after all.

        You grabbed butter and chicken breasts from your fridge. You placed the butter in a large saucepan and heated it, cutting up the chicken breasts into bite-sized pieces with a knife and cutting board. You cooked the chicken in the butter, adding a generous helping of Cajun seasoning.

        You grabbed a pot and filled it with water, adding a tablespoon of salt and letting it boil, before dumping some Alfredo noodles into the boiling water.

        You put the cooked chicken on a plate and set it to the side, grabbing heavy cream and an aged Parmesan from your fridge. You poured the bottle of heavy cream into the saucepan to start cooking, then you grated the cheese. You threw the cheese into the sauce a handful at time, waiting for it to melt before doing another handful.

        Once the sauce was ready, you placed the chicken back into the pan, adding a bit more Cajun seasoning. You grabbed the cooked noodles and strained them, adding them into the sauce. You grabbed two bowls and scooped some of the Chicken Alfredo into the bowls, and finished it with grated Parmesan on both.

        You grabbed a fork and put it on the right side of the bowl. Then you grabbed Rohypnol (a tasteless, odorless sleeping drug commonly used for date-rapes) from your medicine cabinet, grabbing a plastic bag and chopping it up into fine powder. 

        You grabbed a handful and dashed it on the bowl without a fork, letting the medicine blend in as cheese, then washed your hands good to get rid of any residue. You grabbed a fork and placed it on the left side of the bowl, grabbing your bowl in your right hand, and Andrew’s drugged bowl in your left hand.

        You carefully opened your front door, closing it behind you. You set the bowls down on the ground for a moment, grabbing a bobby pin from your hair.

        Your father taught you how to open just about any lock using a bobby pin, so you're rather good with it. It’s a nice skill to have to keep the family tradition alive. 

        You peeked into the room carefully, seeing all the lights were out, although there was a dim white light illuminating the living room.

        Silly boy. He thought he could turn off the lights and act like he wasn’t home! You smiled, stifling a giggle.

        You crept into the apartment and closed the door behind you, locking it.

        Not even a bullock on his door, or even a sliding lock at that. Shows how much he cares about security… You thought, mentally rolling your eyes as you placed the bowls of food on the nearby counter.

        The only useful technology that exists, and he doesn't even use it!

        You walked into the living room, appearing behind him and reaching for the lamp on his side table, flicking it on.

        “Ah!” Andrew yelped, startled.

        He whirled his head around to look at you, his eyes widened as he gulped, caught in the act. 

        There was a computer on his living room table, open with an article of the Manson Murderer. There was a notepad next to him, black ink messily scribbled writing notes to try and string the Manson Murderer to you. 

        Is he leaving notes for when he’s dead?

        “Oh! Now, now!” You smiled, snatching the notebook from him. “Good boys don’t snitch. I have a few friends that’ll stitch that big ol’ trap of yours if you don’t keep it shut.”

        “H-hey!” Andrew gasped, a blush spreading across his face, ignoring the pet name as he tried to reach for his notebook.

        “Hands to yourself, darling.” You hummed, taking a few steps away, grabbing a lighter from your purse and lighting the paper on fire.

        You placed the paper on the ground, ignoring Andrew's surprised face and watching as he stood up and ran into the kitchen for a cup of water.

        You smiled, shaking your head and giggling as he left. The notebook was small and already reduced into a pile of black burning ashes, a flame licking the top. You pressed your heel onto the small flame, denying the fire of oxygen as you smushed your foot left and right.

        “See? Small fires like these can easily just be stomped out, as long as you’re not wearing anything flammable that is.” You smiled, as if teaching a dog. “By the time you would’ve grabbed water, the unsupervised fire could’ve grown and the whole room would be set aflame!”

        “W-what… What are you doing here again?” Andrew questioned. “Have you come back to finish the job?”

        “Finish? Oh, I don’t look to finish you! Not in the way you’re thinking, at least.” You purred playfully, stepping over the pile of ashes and walking closer to Andrew.

        Andrew leaned back as you got into his space, your body leaning towards his. You smirked as he looked down at you, nervous before you glided past him.

        You picked up his laptop from his coffee table, going to his search history and deleting all the information he was trying to look up of you and the Manson Murderer.

        Your eyes paused at a few links an hour ago moments after your first visit, before you looked up at him and smirked.

        “Huh… ‘(Hair color) (eye color) porn actresses with soft lips?’ Rings a bell…” You teased, before placing the laptop back down onto the coffee table.

        “T-that’s not what you’re thinking of! That’s just coincidence!” Andrew blurted out, nervous as he snatched the laptop up, cradling it to his chest defensively.

        “I just meant that one famous actress.” You hummed. “Ya know, in every new movie now.”

        “Right…” Andrew muttered.

        “Of course, only in the movies cause they’re hot though.” You hummed. “Although, movies are so evil, don’t you think? I prefer seeing plays and reading books; there’s just no passion in money.” 

        “Uh, yeah…” Andrew nodded. 

        The last play he went to was his own kindergarten musical; his role was a tree.

        “It’s only looks that put you at the top. Like Rachel Welch.” You hummed. “Only in movies for sex appeal, but that’s every woman in Hollywood now.” You tutted, crossing your arms.

        Andrew looked away from you, feeling a bit called out.

        Sure, it’s nice to engage in some eye candy when it’s on the screen, but it’s pretty annoying if you’re not watching a romance or a slapstick/chickflick. 

        Modern examples of sex appeal would be Megan Fox or Jennifer Lopez; they’re pretty but man do they not bring anything else to the table.

        But hey, Hollywood is Hollywood. Everyone’s holly jolly with some money in their pockets. 

        “It must suck though, practically signing away their rights. Surrounded by paparazzi and the societal standards of what a good actor and celebrity is.” Andrew spoke thoughtfully.

        “Well, I suppose everything has consequences. It’s a matter of outweighing the pros and cons. Most enter that career wanting that attention and fame until they realize what it actually means; crazed fans with parasocial relationships and all...” You hummed. “But I didn’t come here to talk with you about that.”

        You smiled, walking back to the counter. You grabbed the bowls you left, holding your bowl with the fork on the right side. You held it and gave Andrew his drugged bowl.

        “Here. Dinner.” You spoke, not much of an offer as you shoved the bowl into his chest for him to take.

        “And how do I know this isn’t—“ 

        “Poisoned?” You questioned, cutting Andrew off. “Oh golly no! Are you really that afraid of me?”

        “Yes.” Andrew grumbled, looking at you unamused. “Considering you drug a dead man through the hallways and into my home.” 

        “Hm? Oh, I don’t recall.” You hummed, grabbing your fork and a piece of pasta.

        “Like Hell you don’t—“ You shoved your food into Andrew’s mouth, almost choking him as he shut up and chewed.

        “That’s not a nice word, you know. Can’t you show manners? Swallow down that attitude of yours.” You spoke, removing the fork from his mouth.

        He was going to argue, but the food wasn’t bad, so he shut up and kept chewing until he swallowed.

        “It’s… not bad…” Andrew muttered.

        “It better not! It’s rude to say so after I spent the time cooking it for you!” You huffed.

        “For me?” Andrew questioned, surprised as he looked at you with suspicion.

        “Consider it a truce.” You smiled, putting the same fork that was in Andrew’s mouth into your mouth.

        Andrew stared at you as you ate, watching before he sighed, picking up his fork and eating. 

        “So, you have a girlfriend?” You questioned. 

        “Excuse me?” Andrew questioned, looking up at you.

        “I assume not considering you watch a lot of X-rated videos.” You hummed.

        “Could you not while I’m eating?” Andrew groaned, embarrassed as his face turned pink.

        “So?” You questioned.

        “Why’s it matter to you?” Andrew grumbled. 

        “To see if you’re available.” You smiled.

        Andrew gulped, swallowing his meal nervously as he looked at you with hesitancy.

        “If it helps, I’m celibate.” You added. “Not for religion, but morals.” 

        “J-Jesus! I didn’t need to know that!” Andrew exclaimed, his blush worsening at your words, just thinking about it.

        A virgin? Possibly every man’s wet dream if he’s got a corruption kink.

        Something Andrew does indeed have. 

        “Now? Do you?” you questioned, scooting closer to him, their legs now touching.

    “Yeah, okay? I’m single…” Andrew grumbled, avoiding your eyes.

        It’s not like he hasn’t been pursued before, but he just never saw the interest in dating; at least not until after college. Middle and high school relationships end fast over stupid reasons, besides, it’s just fake dating. How can you date and not go out together outside of school?

        Besides, it’s all just hormones and horniness… a feeling Andrew often struggles with by himself.

        Andrew tried to scoot away, but you quickly followed and pressed yourself back against his side, repeating the process until he was flushed against the armrest and couldn’t move any further.

        “Come on, eat more! I made it for you after all. Don't be mean!” you spoke.

        “I can’t eat if you don’t give me space to raise my arm.” Andrew huffed, annoyed at you rushing him before he took another bite.

        “So, what do you feel about moving in with me?” you questioned.

        “No.” Andrew responded quickly.

        “Why not?” you frowned.

        “I’m not getting arrested for being an accessory to murder or a murder accomplice.” Andrew spoke.

        “But it’s not technically a murder accomplice if you don’t help me kill.” You pointed out.

        “However, I know that you’re a murderer and I didn’t tell the police therefore they’ll arrest me.” Andrew huffed.

        “I can stop whenever I want.” You hummed. “I can stop if you move in.”

        “Yeah, right.” Andrew scoffed, annoyed as he shoveled more food into his mouth.

        “Come on, I can be good!” you pleaded, placing your hand on his arm.

        “Stop that!” Andrew huffed.

        You wanted to try and convince him more with a kiss, but you were a bit worried if the Rohypnol would affect you if it’s in his mouth, so you didn’t risk it.

        “Can’t you just leave me alone?” Andrew questioned, irritated.

        “Let’s watch a movie instead!” you spoke, trying to distract him.

        “No!” Andrew hissed, watching as you grabbed his TV remote and turned the TV on. “Leave my apartment!”

        “No!” you huffed, using your arms to wrap around his arm, and wrapped your legs around his torso, clinging onto his side like a koala.

        “What’s with you? You’re like a damn koala!” Andrew hissed, trying to pry you off.

        “Just let me stay with you!” you whined, starting to get whiny and desperate to stay.

        All you have to do is buy enough time for that Rohypnol to kick in.

        Andrew heard your whines, his face feeling flushed as a pit of heat formed in his stomach. 

        “Jesus. Are you touch-starved? Lonely or something?” Andrew commented, annoyed.

        “If I say yes will you let me stay?” you questioned, looking up at him, resting your head on his shoulder.

        Andrew looked down your pleading face, the expression too much as he felt himself getting worked up. 

        “Only a movie…” he grumbled, adverting his gaze to the TV so he wouldn’t feel worse.

        He can't believe you're actually convincing him. He must be stupid or desperate for a good lay. 

        You smiled, proud as you placed your bowl on the coffee table, wrapping your arms around Andrew’s torso, forcing him to stay with you as you nuzzled your head against his chest.

        Andrew grimaced, before sighing, draping his arm around your shoulder half-heartedly. He watched as you put on some stupid movie of a boy who wants to be an artist. “A Dog of Flanders” or something like that… Some old movie.

        The movie was boring and he could feel himself falling asleep, but he didn’t want to sleep in case you tried to steal his kidney or whatever weird shit you're into.

        But he couldn’t help it as he slipped unconscious, his head falling to rest on his shoulder awkwardly. You felt his heartbeat soften as you rested on his chest, waiting until the sad part of the movie came. 

        You turned the movie off before something bad could happen to Patrasche (the boy’s dog in the movie). 

        You got up from the couch, looking at Andrew to make sure he was still asleep before you opened up his front door. You looked down the hallway to make sure nobody was coming, then opened your front door. You walked back and grabbed Andrew’s collar, dragging him off the couch and into your apartment.

        You left Andrew inside your living room, then shut the door. You let out a sigh, checking the time. 

        2 AM. 

        Good. Nobody should be walking down the apartments at anytime, so it should be fine for you to spend the next hour packing Andrew’s stuff and moving him in.

        You grabbed some rope from your secret drawer in your room, tying Andrew up in case he wakes up (though, you doubt it considering he was drugged, not passed out). 

        Andrew may be lonely, but you doubt he’s lonely enough to just live with a killer. Manipulation is best, but you just have to try and think of a good way to keep him under control.

        You could always use an accomplice… 

        Nonetheless, you brainstormed ideas as you moved Andrew’s clothes and small belongings into your home, starting to create your perfect scene. 

        A few tries of reorganizing furniture and stuffing his clothes into your closet and drawers to make it look like he’s always lived here and you succeeded. You added his bath products into your bathroom, along with his hairbrush and toothbrush. You snatched some foods from his pantry and added it to yours, hoping the sight of familiar foods would make it look more like home.

        Last, but not least, you fed your cat Georgia.

        What? It’s a cute name, and Georgia reminds you of peaches since it’s the state fruit, which is oddly cute…

        Georgia was a cat you adopted from the pet shelter you volunteer at. Originally, you only volunteered so you can maintain a good reputation in case of any suspicion against you (like that would ever happen though, you’re a professional). 

        A few months of volunteering at the shelter, you eventually grew an attachment to the brown ragamuffin cat. She had the sass of a gossipy Southern aunt, hence the name of the Southern state Georgia. 

        Georgia was an outside cat though, preferring to roam the streets and go on adventures rather than be cramped in a small room. You can’t blame her—it’s probably boring as a cat napping and shitting in litter all the time. 

        You kept your window open for Georgia to crawl in and get her food. Now onto more pressing matters…

        You grabbed some pajamas you took from Andrew’s wardrobe, a simple white T-shirt and grey sweatpants.

        You stripped him of his clothing, glancing over and making a mental note of his large, well-endowed package. 

        It’s a fact you’ll need to know later. You justified to yourself as you clothed him with his pajamas. 

        After dressing him to looking like he had been taking a planned slumber, you dragged him into your room and plopped him down on your king-sized bed (ah, the perks of being a middle-class citizen). 

        You tucked him in before smiling, satisfied with the perfect scene you’d set up for Andrew.

        Step one: completed.

        Now with that out of the way, you needed to focus on the dead body. You opened the body bag that still rested in your apartment, placing the man in the kitchen where the tile was. You picked him up (with a struggle) and got him onto your kitchen counter. Luckily, he didn’t bleed much thanks to the dried blood on his slit neck, but there were still blood splatters on your counter nonetheless. 

        First, you checked for any belongings. A phone to make sure there wasn’t a tracker, a wallet for identification (and money), and any valuable items such as a ring to not only see if he was married and someone would be looking for him, but to also sell.

        What? Money is money.

        After grabbing what you wanted, you maneuvered his body so that his head was hanging over the kitchen sink. You carefully, with delicacy and grace, proceeded to make incisions into the crow feet of the male’s skin, using a scalpel to unfold the layers of thin skin and muscle with ease.

        Once reaching the bone, you used a handheld bone saw and proceeded to carefully cut small triangles into the bone, making holes. You grabbed some forceps and your scalpel, cutting off the optic nerves and severing them from the eyeballs. 

        You tilted the dead man’s head forward, catching the squishy eyeballs and delicately placing them in a jar of UW solution so they could be preserved.

        Now with claiming your trophy, you had to get to business. You spent hours in the dead of night making careful incisions and cuts, grabbing organs, bone marrow, certain body parts; all valuable in the black market as you plucked them out like a bird would to a worm in the ground.

        Preserving all the organs inside different jars of UW liquid, you finally finished dissecting your little money-making machine. You grave your laptop and emailed some colleagues of yours, telling them of your new stock. You emailed your cleaner, setting up a time tomorrow to rid the body before it’ll start to decompose and smell. 

        You placed the rest of the dead male’s body in a bag, and another bag, and another bag; triple-bagging him like goods at a grocery store, making sure no leaks or spills would happen to the body. 

        You left him there in the living room, cleaning up your mess in the kitchen and storing the jars in boxes to package up later. You didn’t pack the jar of eyes though, oh no, that was your trophy.

        You went to your bedroom and placed the jar to join your collection. The door leading to a small closet in your room was filled with shelves of peering, preserved optic orbs instead of your favorite shirt. It was a collection of your kills, trophies you rightfully earned whilst purifying the world. 

        You shut the closet door and looked over at Andrew sleeping on your bed. You turned your eyes to look at the clock, letting out a sigh.

        6 A.M. 

        You haven’t even had any sleep yet. Being a serial killer is hard work, but you have bills to pay and dresses to buy.

        You grabbed Andrew’s laptop you stole, exiting out of the many porn tabs where the female actress looked like you. You opened his emails and wrote an email to your landlord, impersonating as Andrew and explaining that "he" will be moving in (Y/N)’s apartment and dropping the keys off at the lobby for them to pick up in the morning, so to put his apartment on sale and take his name off it. 

        You finished with the living situation and now it was time to shower for bed (finally). You grabbed one of Andrew’s sweatshirts and a pair of panties and pajama shorts, walking to the bathroom to shower.

        You rid yourself of all the blood from that dead man. The dirt from dragging him through it. Sweat from running around the diner and carrying limp bodies around. And tears from laughing at just how smart you were.

        Yet again, you got away with it. It’s to be expected, murdering people runs in your family after all. 

        You got dressed in your new sleepwear from now on. Usually you’ll wear a silk nightgown, but with Andrew here, it’s best to wear his clothes every now and then to establish a sense of familiarity between the two of you. 

        You put your hair in stay-in hair rollers to sleep in. You applied lotion on your face and body, brushing your teeth before calling it a night. 

        You walked into your bedroom, closing the bathroom door behind you. Turning off the lights, you climbed into bed with Andrew, burying your head into his chest and wrapping your arms around his unconscious body.

        You snatched his phone, scooting closer to him and propping his head onto your chest. You unlocked his phone with his thumb, taking a picture of the two of you and saving it as his phone screen.

        You put his phone on the charger, pushing him away from you before settling down to sleep.

        .        

        .

        You sat in a bathtub, the water pure red as you relaxed. You washed your skin and your hair, letting the crimson water soak into your body.

        Today was your special day. It was your wedding day.

        You were getting married to your high school sweetheart, Judah Mot. He was a dashing transfer student from Europe, with gorgeous tan skin, piercing blue eyes, and golden hair gifted from angels. His voice might as well been its own sacred hymn, and his body was one the Greeks used to carve into marble. 

        The epitome of the perfect man.

        Or so you thought.

        You sang a soft hum, enjoying the vinyl's soft static of your phonograph's needle softly scrapping against the disc's grooves, creating that peaceful static you could honestly listen to just by itself. You listened to Doris Shore's song "A Guy is a Guy,” humming as you rinsed the conditioner out of your hair.

        ”Little one?” your mother knocks on the door, “Will you be out soon? Your dress is ready, and all the bridesmaids are so excited to see you.” 

        ”Yes, mama.” You hummed. 

        “Make haste now, child. The groom is waiting.” Your mother spoke, before her heels clicked away.

        You got up from your red bath, smelling of roses from your bath bomb. You rinsed with the shower head to rid any debris of the bath bomb on you, then proceeded to dry off. 

        You grabbed a white bra and panties, putting them on before exiting the bathroom. Your mother and soon-to-be mother-in-law helped you put on the dress that your mother-in-law chose.

        It was beautiful. While it wasn’t completely your style, having an itchy top with no barrier to protect the lace from rubbing against your skin, it was tradition for the mother-in-law to choose the dress. You didn’t mind much, at least the tulle skirt was pretty and comfy, enough so you can walk without tripping. 

        You put on your dress, letting your five sisters put your hair into a braided bun. You put on the white high heels your mother-in-law provided, smiling as she gave you a necklace.

        ”I wore this necklace on my wedding day. I was going to give this to my daughter, but I was never blessed with one.” She explained. “Until now, that is.” She spoke, putting a lovely silver necklace onto your neck.

        “Thank you, mother.” You smiled. 

        Your sister tried to put blush on your face, but you stopped her. 

        “Oh, please. No makeup except the red lipstick. I know that it’ll get ruined later.” You spoke politely.

        “From crying of joy?” your sister giggled.

        ”Precisely.” You smiled.

        Your sister put on the lipstick you request, and then you were escorted with your family and mother-in-law to a white limousine. The limousine had red leather seats, black carpet, and some white grape juice (non-alcoholic, per your request). 

        You engaged in small conversation until the limousine stopped at your destination. Your sisters opened the door for you, your mother-in-law stepping out to help you out of the car. 

        You were faced with a walkway, wedding music playing as you looked around. There were folding chairs in aisles, leaving space for the walkway, the chairs filled with your family and groom’s family. There was a table with deserts that you will certainly be exploring later. And your father was here, smiling at you as he stood by the limousine door.

        He held out his arm, waiting for you to hook your arm, to which you did. You smiled, watching as your niece walked down the aisle with a basket of white petals, dropping them on the ground. They got seated, and it was your time to shine.

        You walked down the aisle with your father, feeling all the eyes on you, as all should on your special day. You locked eyes with Judah, happy as you walked to the groom.

        Your father took his seat next to your mother as you stood in front of Judah, smiling. Your brother, a priest, was the officiator for the wedding, holding the (L/N)’s family vows in his hand. He smiled at you, watching as you joined with the groom. 

        You gave vows, just short and sweet ones. Sickness and health, blah, blah, blah. Get on with it so you can get to the fun part.

        You exchanged vows and watched one of your little nephews come up with the rings, being the ring bearer as he held up his hands with the rings.

        You took the ring and put it on Judah’s right hand. He looked at you, confused. Why didn’t you put the ring on his left hand, closest to his heart? You gave a reassuring smile, saying to trust you. You held right hand up for him to put your ring on.

        “Do you, Judah Mot, take (Y/N) (L/N) to be your lawfully wedded wife?” your brother questioned.

        “I do.” Judah answered.

        ”And do you, (Y/N) (L/N), take Judah Mot to be your lawfully wedded husband?” your brother questioned.

        “I do not.” You smiled.

        Judah’s smile dropped, surprised. “W-what?” 

        “When you all came in today, you received a quiz of the bride and groom. It came with questions. 'What’s the bride’s favorite color?’ ‘What is the groom’s favorite TV show’ and one question: Who does the groom love?” you spoke.

        ”(Y/N), now is not the time to be talking about the wedding activities! You just rejected—“ 

        “It’s Delilah.” You answered. “Judah loves Delilah, my best friend.” 

        Some gasps played out in the audience, but your family members didn’t look surprised. It was if they knew, because you told them. You told them when you saw his eyes stop showing that love and compassion you fell in love with back in high school.

        His eyes held nothing now; but when they looked at her, they lit up. You could deal with a broken heart, you can deal with a breakup; but there’s no broken heart in infidelity. In fact, you felt glad.

        Glad to see Judah for what he really is, just another piece of meat that fell victim to you. Glad to see your best friend, one who had been with you since middle school and supporting your relationship since the beginning, was nothing more than a home-wrecking skank.

        Stay away from what doesn’t belong to you. 

        “For our first activity tonight, I’d like to begin the hunt.” You smiled. 

        This island was yours—your family’s. You had private jets to escort all of Judah’s family members for the trip out here. There was no cell service out here, not on a literal island. You told the private jets to accept no passengers in or out for 48 hours. Thanks to the private jets escorting Judah’s family out here, they have no idea where they are, so they were never able to tell anyone a location for where they’re heading; meaning they’ll just drop off the radar. Everyone was isolated, including you and your own family. 

        Perfect.

        “Every family member of the groom has one hour to find a place to hide, or try to run, before you die. The hunt will last for 48 hours.” You explained.

        He was the groom, but he was never your groom. 

        You walked to the desert table, picking up a delicious red raspberry macaroon, taking a bite. 

        “May the odds and your Gods ever be in your favor.” You smiled.

        Your father pulled out a chainsaw from under the dessert table, revving it to start the game. You lifted a silver lid to reveal a 9mm, shooting your husband in the head.

        Everyone panicked, getting down on the ground, rushing for cover, pushing each other to the ground, anything to hide from the stray bullets, the chainsaws, the machetes. 

        You smashed someone’s face in with your heel, watching as blood stained your dress. And you laughed. You laughed till you cried tears of joy, and thank God you didn’t wear a heavy amount of makeup to ruin your beaming face. 

        You smiled, making eye contact with Delilah as she hid behind a tree. She saw you and ran, but you smiled, holding up your gun and aiming, before shooting for the kill. 

        Oh, what a romantic day it was.

        .        

        .

        You had woken up first, you always wake up early, even if you go to bed late. It’s important to keep a routine, even if you’re a killer.

        You woke up at 10 AM, but stayed in bed till 12 PM, when Andrew finally woke up. You pretended to be sleeping, still buried in his chest. 

  When Andrew stirred, groggy and a bit woozy, still seeming to be affected by those drugs you gave him. He finally opened his eyes, confused on where he was and why he was here. 

        “The fuck…?” was the first thing he muttered, followed by him jumping, “(Y/N)?!”

        You pretended to wake up upon hearing him, letting out a tired moan before opening your eyes.

        “Mhm?” you hummed, your eyes glancing to Andrew before smiling. “Good morning, my love.”

        “What am… why am I—(Y/N)!” Andrew huffed, pissed off, confused, scared. “What the hell?”

        “Language.” You frowned. “What are you talking about, dear? Did you have another nightmare?”

        “I don’t have nightmares. I’m a man.” Andrew quickly retorted with a frown, before shaking his head, pushing you off his chest. “N-no! You’re distracting me! You killed that man!”

        ”We killed him.” You hummed, speaking as if it was natural.

        ”You did.” Andrew rebutted, frowning.

        “Dear, get up.” You sighed, sitting up.

        Andrew reluctantly got up, cautious as he stood near the door. You got up, Andrew taking notice of your attire.

        “Take off my shirt.” He huffed.

        “I’m not wearing anything underneath.” You quickly spoke. “Besides, I always wear it. What’s with you?”

        “You don’t always wear it! It’s mine.” Andrew huffed, before looking around the room.

        His poster of his favorite game was hung up. His pants and belt were on the floor, left lazily scattered on the ground like he owned the place. His shoes were by the bed. His wallet and phone were on his bed stand, unlocking it to reveal a photo of Andrew sleeping on your chest.

        “What?” Andrew questioned, confused. “What’d you do to my screen saver.” 

        “Jeez, hon…” you sighed, pretending to be tired with the conversation and “accusations” already. “Is this about your nightmares again?”

        “I already told you, I don’t have nightmares!” Andrew huffed. 

        “I mean the dreams, or memories, you get of when you were living alone. Without me.” You spoke, resting your head on your palm, watching his meltdown as he tried to decide if this was real or not.

        “You’re tricking me! You’re—“

        You shut him up with a kiss, pressing your lips onto his lips as you placed your hands onto his cheeks. 

        It was annoying having to kiss a man so damn much, and you almost felt repulsed having to kiss this damn-near stranger again and again; but you had to keep the act up. You couldn’t just let him run off.

        You have to drag him down with you.

        “W-what was that for?” Andrew inquired, confusion and a small tint of red visible on his face.

        “I can’t kiss my fiancé?” you tilted your head, smiling.

        “F-fiancé?” Andrew questioned, surprised. 

        “Duh.” You smiled, rolling your eyes. “You’re the one that proposed, dummy. We’re saving up for engagement rings though.” 

        Andrew frowned, looking at his finger. He didn’t have a ring, but it checks out considering you said they were saving money for rings.  

        “Now, come on.” You smiled. “Get up. We have work to do today!” 

        Andrew got up from the bed, hesitant as he looked at you. He sighed, getting up from the bed. You watched with a smile as he moved his way to the closet, opening it and letting out a short scream.

        “What the fuck?!” he shouted, his eyes meeting dozens of others entrapped in jars.

        “Love?” you questioned, feigning ignorance as you ‘wondered’ why he was frightened.

        “What is this shit?!” Andrew questioned, holding a jar up to show you, before quickly grimacing and putting it back down on the shelf when the eyes rolled to him. 

        “Um, my trophy collection?” you scoffed, offended, before quickly correcting yourself. “It’s our collection, duh?”

        “No, no. It’s not mine. I didn’t do any of it!” 

        “Andrew!” you huffed, standing up from the bed. “You know, I’m really not liking your attitude. I understand you have dreams and sometimes mix them with reality, but Andrew you need to stop acting crazy.”

        “Crazy?!” Andrew exclaimed, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Me?! Crazy? Woman, there are eyeballs in your closet!”  

        “And?” you retorted, crossing your arms. 

        “It’s gross! And immoral!” Andrew groaned.

        “Please, you’re not a saint yourself.” You rolled your eyes. “Andrew, you promised when you proposed that you’d join my family’s business. If you’re proposing to leaving me, or telling about the business, you’ll be another body bag in the morgue.” 

        “B-but—“ Andrew stammered, utterly confused and possibly even starting to doubt it.

        Did he really ask her for her hand? Did he really kill someone? Kill more than one? 

        “You better be dressed when you get into the kitchen. I’m going to get dressed and cook breakfast.” You chirped, a smile on your face before you walked to the bathroom to get your clothes inside of your walk-in closet.

        You wore a cute black and white polka dot dress, wearing some shorts underneath and pairing it with black Mary Jane flats. 

        You undid your hair curls, brushing out your hair to show your perfect curls. You applied hair spray to keep it in place, and put on your signature red lipstick. 

        You exited your bathroom to see Andrew sitting down on the bed, staring at you with a blank expression. He met your eyes and smiled, standing up.

        “So...dear?” he spoke, almost as if he was questioning it as he walked over to you. “Take off your clothes and prove it." He smirked, pinning you down to the mattress.

        ...What?

Chapters: Chapter 1, current chapter, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5 (in the works)

I don't really have anything important to say. My updates might be a little slow, I have some family issues going on and I just got a new job. We'll see what happens.

Want more Andrew Graves content? Check out the Andrew Graves masterlist!

Inbox is OPEN for questions about the story and new plotlines/ideas, not for requests!

[elexuscal]

Want to be a better writer? Read

Read Widely

An oft-repeated bit of advice for writers is "you gotta read". That said, I pretty often see people confused about what this means-- or arguing about a narrow set of what "counts" as reading for that advice.

This is my attempt to wrangle with my own perspective on how to execute on that advice, according to my own attempts over the last few years to live up to that. (And indeed, while this is primarily aimed at fiction writers, this'll probably be broadly applicable to writers across a wide variety of genres, formats, and even mediums. just move things a little to the left if they don't apply)

If you want to get better at writing, what should you read? More or less, everything. But to give some guidelines:

1. Read Widely Within Your Genre

Genres are more or less conversations composed of stories. They are built upon break out hits, popular tropes, emerging trends, current concerns, stylistic flourishes. You can't be part of the conversation if you don't know what's already been discussed. You don't want to bumble your way into a genre you barely know, talk a big game about "revolutionizing it", and end up writing a trite replication of a 50-year-old pillar of the genre.

2. Read Widely OUTSIDE Your Genre

At their best, genres are conversations. At their worst, they are the bland copying of other peoples' homework. You need to bring new conversational partners in (or, to mix metaphors, new DNA) to keep things fresh. I'm a spec fic person first and foremost, but I make sure I mix that diet up with other genres, from "literary" fiction, mysteries, romance, etc, because they'll teach you the elements your own preferred genre(s) might be missing.

3. Read Non-Fiction

Non-fiction are stories too, just stories about true facts. (Some of those stories are truer than others; some are more convincing; the two aren't necessarily the same). Learning how those narratives are built is vital. Not to mention, the information itself can inspire you— real life science, history, sociology, economics, etc, are fertile beds for world-building, characterization, and plot.

4. Read From Other Backgrounds and Cultures Besides Your Own

I'm hardly the first person to say that the publishing industry, like so many industries, primarily elevates certain voices— white, western, male, often privileged— over others. This is gonna give you a bit of a narrow perspective of how the world works. It is also likely to give you a narrow perspective of how stories are constructed. There are a LOT of pieces of writing advice that's treated like universal (the Three Act structure, the Hero's Journey, etc) that are really just extremely common in Western literature, and looking at pieces from outside it will expand your ideas of how to create stories.

5. Read From Other Time Periods

Honestly, this is sort of just a different take on the last one ('The Past Is A Different Country', or so they say), but it's different enough that I want to clarify it. Tropes and trends and story convention change over time. Read stories from 50 years ago; 200; 500; 2000. Plays, fairy tales, ballads, poems. Seriously, ancient mythological epics are SO cool to read because you truly feel connected to a storytelling tradition stretching back generations.

6. Read Books for Kids and Youth

The best kids books have stunning clarity of purpose. They have to be REALLY good at communicating their information. Learn from that.

7. Consume Other Mediums

I wish we had a better word for this, because 'consumption' does bring to mind someone just ploughing through food endlessly without thought or discernment, but we don't have another word for the breadth of ways we enjoy media. Watch television and movies and short films (and consider how those formats differ). Listen to podcasts and radio plays. Watch stage plays. Read the scripts of all the above. Read comics and graphic novels. Play video games. Watch the news. Listen to music. Go to art museums and galleries of all stripes. All of these have different strengths and weaknesses, different pacing, different styles. Learn from them.

8. Pay Attention to the Media You Might Not Even Think About As Media

Yes, we're taking the last one even further. I'm talking about the media often overlooked, either because it's often denigrated by society, or because frankly, it just blends in the background. In the first category, that's stuff like reality TV and social media posts and graffiti. In the second we have things like Facebook Marketplace posts or the backs of cereal boxes or the technical manual for your new air conditioner. (Advertisements live somewhere in the Venn diagram overlap between the two.) These all also have their own structure, styles, and merits.

9. Read Bad (and Simply Mediocre) Media

Recommendation lists will usually be filled with examples of good stories, because, well, they're good. But if you're reading in part to learn how to write, there's a lot to be gleamed by pieces that just... miss the mark. Whether it's clocks or cars or electronics, when things break you can gleam insights into how they're supposed to work; much is the same with the not-so-great media.

10. Read Indie Stuff

Pretty much every medium's industry has formal publishers who help distribute art, and in theory, vet for quality. They are, broadly, successful at that... but as I've discussed before, those same publishers can often act as gatekeepers, with an overly narrow view of what counts as "quality". Across mediums, the indie space is often where you'll find the most unique, experimental, and boundary-pushing art. It can be harder to navigate, but oh, is it worth it.

11. Read Fanfic

I'm sharing this on Tumblr, so I suspect I'm mostly preaching to the choir here, but nonetheless. In addition to the aforementioned benefits of indie media, fanfiction is capable of teaching you how to write transformative works. I'd argue transformative works have always been the bedrock of human storytelling, and that has not changed at all in the modern day. Mainstream media is choc-a-block with remakes, reboots, and adaptations, most of it bad. Why? Because they don't know what makes for a good transformative work. So open up AO3, my children, and read!

12. Read Other Writers' Thoughts About The Writing Process

Well, since you've gotten to the twelfth point, you've succeeded there.

Okay, but seriously, I put this so low on the list because I do think it can sometimes be overstated; it is very easy to get lost in the weeds of theory over simply just writing. But it is good to process and reflect on all the things you've been reading, and this is a good way to do so.

And above all else, as you explore the wide wealth of pieces people throughout time and cultures have created, to paraphrase my friend Artemis: be curious about it. Curiosity is where the cool things happen.

[faggotbeloved]

Cold Metal Biting Soft Flesh | Yandere!Curly x Captain!M!Reader

2: Blinking (A Good Thing) (~2k words)

Cw: Canon typical gore and body horror, manipulation, many short timeskips :(,

This work does not contain smut but is 18+. Minors and fem-aligned people, please do not interact. AN and taglist at the end.

Last time: You, the captain of a colonization ship, discovered the charred body of an ex-freighter captain. You, along with some of your other crewmates, set out to heal him as much as possible.

└───────────────────────┘

Curly has a remarkably strange pain tolerance–in blanket tests, his threshold is significantly higher than even the toughest member on board, but whenever he’s doing anything that you supervise–eating, talking, moving, the like, he gasps and winces and whimpers loudly and only seems to be soothed by your hands doing the task for him. You don’t blame him for unimaginable pain, but it makes it hard to do your captain's duties.

“Facial reconstruction is today,” you chirp as you enter the medbay. “We got a bunch of skin from your DNA. We should be able to at least repair your eyelids, add back your lips, recanalize your tear ducts, and see if we can get your other eye open and working,” you list, watching Curly read the captioning machine. “When we touch down on Earth, we can look at getting you an evaluation for a cochlear implant, but there’s not much we can do for your hearing right now.”

Curly nodded, his eye trained on you even when new people entered the room.

“You’ve met Rhodes, but this is Dr. Simmons; she used to be a plastic surgeon, but switched professions to come to this colony. She’s worked on a 3D model of your face and can replicate it pretty well, does that sound good?” You informed, to which Curly tore his eyes away and glanced at Simmons before looking back to you. He nodded, reaching out for you. “Yeah?” You questioned, coming closer. Curly pat the bed with his forearm nub, requesting your presence. “I’m here, don’t worry. I’ll be in the next room over, catching up on some work:”

──────────────────────

For a man with no arms or legs, you’re surprised at how good at violent behavior Curly is. His heart rate skyrocketed once you left, and he clashed teeth and bones with any doctor misfortunate enough to get near him. Soon, you were ushered back in, and you watched his erratic chest slow down into heavy gasps the second you entered.

“He got anxious, we think,” one of the colonists said. “He thinks of you as a safety net.”

“You’re talking about him like he’s not in the room. Let me see him,” you commanded, suiting up in scrubs.

You observe him on the operating table, uneasily glanced at the beeping monitors, and wrote something for him to read.

It’s okay. I’m here.

You flashed the whiteboard at him and he rested his arm on your knee. You smiled underneath your mask at his endearing clinginess.

Let’s get you knocked out so Simmons can start? :)

Curly glanced at the board, then you. He sighed and laid back, waiting for the mask to go on.

──────────────────────

It was strange. Not… repulsive, per se, but different than before. They’d reconstructed much of his eyes–plural, since the closed eye was half-blind but still worked–and had fixed his tear ducts, so now he could theoretically close his eyes and sleep. That is, if he could remember how. Actively months, but physically decades, without activating the nerves had nearly disintegrated them.

Either way, it was odd watching someone carry a conversation calmly through tapping morse code with his amputated arm (he’d forgotten about it until now) and eye-tracking devices (newly installed) while the same eyes watered and pooled with tears in a vain attempt to moisten it.

His face was even odder. You’d grown used to the single bulging eye, and now both were in use and constantly trained on you, the lids refusing to close for even a second. His face was a mess of bandages and temporary stitches holding together numerous skin grafts.

You spotted a trail of drool down the corners of his reconstructed lips and carefully swiped it off with a towel.

“You look better,” you determined, gazing intently at his face. It was a work in progress, trying to restore and heal the man who'd faced such horrors. “How do you feel, though?” You asked.

His eyes darted around a keyboard and spelled out, “Numbed 2 Hell. Am I Hot Again?”

You snorted. “Yeah. Give it time to heal–a few months until the bruising goes away, you'll be just as pretty as ever,” you assured with a crooked grin. “They say it's a wonder you can even see. Your good eye was so dry, they expected corneal ulcers, vision loss, stuff like that, but your eye was more or less okay.”

Curly nodded and stared at you for a long moment. He snapped out of it after the door to the medbay opened and looked over at the intruder, a passenger with a broken arm.

“Loud In Here. And Bright,” he typed quickly. ‘I wish I could recover somewhere more peaceful’ was what he meant to say, but he’d hoped you would come to that conclusion on your own.

As if on cue, you called for Rhodes. “Hey, do you think we could put Curly in a different room? Anywhere would be fine–hey, Curly, would you mind being put in my quarters? It's also keycard protected,” you suggested.

Curly nodded with what he hoped wasn't too much enthusiasm. “Well, it's settled. Let's move him to Captain’s Quarters.”

──────────────────────

Curly was comfortable in your quarters. You'd erected a curtain wall to give him some privacy against your nephew, but Curly preferred it open when you were busy at the computer. Your higher ups were intrigued to hear how Curly was doing—he and his crew never claimed their paycheck, so they were a missing persons case for years that nobody investigated. Every ten or so minutes, Curly would cough or make some sort of movement to bask in your attention for as long as possible until you went back to work.

“Capt. I’m Cold,” the eye tracker read. “Any Blankets?”

The only one you had on hand was a throw blanket on your bed, so you draped that over him and kept it as comfortable as possible for him, but as soon as your back was turned he raised the blanket to go over his face and inhaled.

──────────────────────

“Okay, that first one was a prototype. Proof of concept. Let's try this one,” you decided, fitting a better prosthetic hand on Curly. It was bionic, since you had all of the materials to splurge for the best, and as soon as the hand opened and closed, he used his eyelids to blink rapidly and used his new hand to wipe away the tears he felt.

“Hey, your eyelids work! And the hand! You know, your brain can actually trick you into feeling what your bionic hands feel,” you said excitedly, rubbing his shoulder gently. “Let's try the other one on,” you directed, attaching the bionic wrist to Curly’s forearm.

Once Curly got used to the arms and understood their strength, he hesitantly wrapped them around your neck and pulled you into a hug. “Thank you,” he rasped, voice heavy from disuse and of the same cadence of many hard of hearing people you'd met. You returned with your hands on his bandaged waist, gently holding him as well. “Of course, Curly.”

After a very… very long hug, Curly let out a sigh and laid back down. Once you brought the blanket to his chest, he stopped you there.

Curly typed up a quick message on the eye tracker, “Can I Try Keyboard? I Want To Type. New Hands.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Here, his wireless one’s hooked up to my laptop. I'll get my laptop up and running so you can get my attention when you need it.”

Curly nodded and began a coughing fit once he had the keyboard, but instead of using his hands he requested you to straw feed him water.

──────────────────────

Weeks passed, and with all of the medical supplies you could scrounge up, Curly looked significantly better. His prosthetics, when he chose to wear them, could easily support him and the vast majority of his skin grafts were settled. His facial reconstruction was far from healed; he still had a few months left, but he was actually more or less okay. Compared to how he came, at least.

You’d fallen into a comfortable routine: awake at 0800, and by 0900 eat breakfast with Curly and your nephew-slash-first-mate, Sealegs. Check on and mediate conflicts between settlers, and by 1000 ensure everyone is awake. Work until 1400, have a late lunch with the upper crew, and then work until 1900. Afterwards, watch some TV with Sealegs (and, by default, Curly), then sleep by 2100 if you didn’t stay up late flipping through the various health, robotics, and physical therapy textbooks you picked up on your noble quest to help this man.

You woke up, of course, multiple times a night to the emergency alert. Curly, the poor man, had somehow stopped breathing every few hours just until his heart rate skyrocketed. Upon questioning, Curly blamed a family history of night terrors and sleep apnea, because it’d be ludicrous to suggest such a kind and selfless hero like himself would choke himself just so you’d tend to him and sit by him until he fell back asleep.

──────────────────────

The first sign of healthy fat was celebrated. For too long, he lived on rations, mouthwash, and then himself. For a person so horribly harmed, it was amazing to feel a bounce back in his skin. Physical therapy, though marked by many celebrations, was far less exciting. It was like you were his crutch, but also his legs. He couldn't work with you, and he couldn't work without you.

“Come on, I want you to walk to the other side of the room,” you sighed. It had been an hour of this; he'd fumble a few steps, clumsily sign “HELP ME,” then collapse back onto the bed.

“Just ten steps, Curly. It'll be a good start,” you added hopefully, signing as well as talking into the voice to text machine. “If you make it to the painting, I’ll carry you back and we can end it for tonight.”

Curly furrowed his brows and took two steps, then three, then up to eight before he stopped to regain balance, and finally took two more steps towards you instead of the wall. He raised his arms expectantly, waiting for you to pluck him out of the prosthetic legs and carry him back to bed. “I WALK TEN, HELP ME,” he signed quickly. “THIRSTY. WATER?” Curly requested, a weak smile on his face.

Another sigh left your throat, but you couldn't stay mad at him, not when he clung to you so carefully as to not catch your skin with the prosthetic and he buried his face in your neck–out of reflex, you assumed. You laid him down on the cot, but as you stood back up he let out a protesting groan. “LAY WITH ME PLEASE,” Curly pleaded, making a spot for you in his bed, freshly cleaned from that morning. You hesitate, but the eyes he gives you makes you ignore the work you wanted to get ahead on and instead lie beside him, immediately being encased in metal arms that press you against Curly’s tachycardic heart. Soon, you fell asleep and, for the first time, slept through the night without being awoken by blaring alarms.

The next morning, Dr. Simmons woke you at 0928 for Curly’s next surgery–checking in on some bone they'd been growing for a nose surgery, then trying to compile a medical plan for when Dr. Simmons had to inevitably leave for the next colony. It took hours, but soon you had a lengthy calendar of healing times, surgery schedules, and more. Throughout all of this, you worked yourself to death keeping up with both Curly and the entire ship, trying your hardest to stick to your preferred schedule at all costs. Curly was happy to pick up for you whenever you fell asleep at your desk (he was happy to find the Captain’s duties were similar, even decades apart) and according to chat logs, he began a correspondence with your own boss to explain the situation and request to stay under your care as co-captain with Sealegs staying as First Mate. Once you awoke, you had a long talk about not using your computer with permission, but gave in to his request of co-captaining only if your boss allowed it. Which… was approved the same day.

Welcome, Grant Curly, the co-captain of the Astraeus.

┌───────────────────────┐

Thousand month hiatus for the most boring damn chapter I’ve ever made… ugh. I'm sorry, everyone who waited :(.

I took 2 years of ASL in high school; ASL, when written out, is in all capital letters, I usually see it without much punctuation, and it doesn't use filler words like ‘the’ and ‘of’, with grammar to the tune of time-topic-comment-verb, and while I'm by no means fluent, I still tried to keep it as accurate as possible for my HOH friends who are probably sick of italic English that ‘means’ ASL. Those who are more experienced and can point out flaws, by all means, do so, please.

Taglist:

@eaterof-concrete + @tfamidoingwithmylife + @onlyemb3rs (It HAS been a long time, no worries if you guys want to be removed ^^,)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hello! First of all, thank you for the wonderful content! It's a real joy, and an enrichment, food for both the brain and the heart! I was wondering if through your treasures, you could find some writing notes/words/concepts/vocabulary relating to genetic engineering? Like...creating a virus, and a vaccine for it, modifying the virus so it has certain specific effects.... Thank you in advance!

Writing Notes: Virus & Vaccine

References How Viruses Work; Replication Cycle; Mutation, Variants, Strains, Genetically Engineering Viruses; Writing Tips; Creating your Fictional Virus & Vaccine

Virus - an infectious microbe consisting of a segment of nucleic acid (either DNA or RNA) surrounded by a protein coat.

It is a tiny lifeform that is a collection of genes inside a protective shell. Viruses can invade body cells where they multiply, causing illnesses.

It cannot replicate alone; instead, it must infect cells and use components of the host cell to make copies of itself. Often, a virus ends up killing the host cell in the process, causing damage to the host organism.

Well-known examples of viruses causing human disease include AIDS, COVID-19, measles and smallpox. Examples of viruses:

Viruses are even smaller than bacteria and can invade living cells—including bacteria. They may interfere with the host genes, and when they move from host to host, they may take host genes with them.

Bacteriophages (also known as phages)—viruses that infect and kill bacteria.

Size differential between virus and bacterium

Viruses are measured in nanometers (nm).

They lack the cellular structure of bacteria, being just particles of protein and genetic material.

How Viruses Work

Viruses use an organism’s cells to survive and reproduce.

They travel from one organism to another.

Viruses can make themselves into a particle called a virion.

This allows the virus to survive temporarily outside of a host organism. When it enters the host, it attaches to a cell. A virus then takes over the cell’s reproductive mechanisms for its own use and creates more virions.

The virions destroy the cell as they burst out of it to infect more cells.

Viral shedding - when an infected person releases the virus into the environment by coughing, speaking, touching a surface, or shedding skin.

Viruses also can be shed through blood, feces, or bodily fluids.

Virus Replication Cycle

While the replication cycle of viruses can vary from virus to virus, there is a general pattern that can be described, consisting of 5 steps:

Attachment – the virion attaches to the correct host cell.

Penetration or Viral Entry – the virus or viral nucleic acid gains entrance into the cell.

Synthesis – the viral proteins and nucleic acid copies are manufactured by the cells’ machinery.

Assembly – viruses are produced from the viral components.

Release – newly formed virions are released from the cell.

Mutations, Variants, and Strains

Not all mutations cause variants and strains. Below are definitions that explain how mutations, variants, and strains differ.

Mutation - errors in the replication of the virus’s genetic code; can be beneficial to the virus, deleterious to the virus, or neutral

Variants - viruses with these mutations are called variants; the Delta and Omicron variants are examples of coronavirus mutations that cause different symptoms from the original infection

Strains - variants that have different physical properties are called strains; these strains may have different behaviors or mechanisms for infection or reproduction

Genetically Engineering Viruses

Using reverse genetics, the sequence of a viral genome can be identified, including that of its different strains and variants.

This enables scientists to identify sequences of the virus that enable it to bind to a receptor, as well as those regions that cause it to be so virulent.

Vaccine - a special preparation of substances that stimulate an immune response, used for inoculation

Vaccines & Fighting Viruses with Viruses

Common pathogenic viruses can be genetically modified to make them less pathogenic, such that their virulent properties are diminished but can still be recognized by the immune system to produce a robust immune response against. They are described as live attenuated.

This is the basis of many successful vaccines and is a better alternative than traditional vaccine development which typically includes heat-mediated disabling of viruses that tend to be poorer in terms of immunogenicity.

Viruses can also be genetically modified to ‘fight viruses’ by boosting immune cells to make more effective antibodies, especially where vaccines fail. Where vaccines fail, it is often due to the impaired antibody production by B-cells, even though antibodies can be raised against such viruses – including HIV, EBV, RSV & cold-viruses.

Related Articles: Modified virus used to kill cancer cells ⚜ Genetic Engineering ⚜ Engineering Bacterial Viruses ⚜ Benefits of Viruses

A Few Writing Tips

As more writers look to incorporate infectious diseases into their work, there are quite a few things writers should keep in mind:

Don’t anthropomorphize. Really easy to do, but scientifically wrong. Viruses don’t want to kill you; bacteria don’t want to infect you; parasites don’t want to make your blood curdle. None of these things are big enough to be sentient to want to do anything. They just do it (or don’t do it).

Personal protective equipment. This includes wearing gloves, lab coats, safety glasses, and tying your hair back if it’s long. It is the same as Edna Mode’s “no capes.” Flowing hair looks cool all the way to the explosive ball of flames that engulfs someone’s head.

Viruses are small. You can’t see viruses down a normal microscope—they need a special microscope called an electron microscope. These are highly specialized and take a long time to make the preparations to be able to see the virus. Normally viruses are detected by inference—measuring part of them using an assay that can amplify tiny amounts of material, for example PCR.

Viruses don’t really cause zombie apocalypses. 

Vaccines work. But they take time. The best vaccine in the world will still only prevent infections two weeks after it is given. Drugs are quicker, but still take some time. But the good news is an infection is not going to kill you (or turn you into a zombie) quickly, so they both have time to work.

Scientists use viruses as a vector to introduce healthy genes into a patient’s cells:

Your Fictional Virus & Vaccine

When creating your own fictional virus, research further on the topic and consider choosing a specific one as your basis/inspiration.

Here's one resource. For some of them, you'll need a subscription to access, but those that are available give you a good overview of the virus, as well as treatment options.

You can do the same for creating your fictional vaccine:

Here's one resource. And here's one on vaccine developments.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 ⚜ Writing Notes & References

Lastly, here's an interesting article on how science fiction can be a valuable tool to communicate widely around pandemic, whilst also acting as a creative space in which to anticipate how we may handle similar future events.

Thanks so much for your kind words, you're so lovely! Hope this helps with your writing. Would love to read your work if it does :)

[multiplicationdivision]

Boots and All

Eddie knew he shouldn’t have been so careless with his favorite pair of boots. He’d just shrugged them off like any day, unfortunate considering they’d been lost in the chaos of cleaning out his closet, probably having fallen or absent mindedly placed in one of the many boxes he’d brought to the local second hand store.

Now his own face stared back at him, the same complex mixture of expressions battling there like it probably did on his own. Surprise all the same, although his copy’s was tainted by something like shame or bashfulness, face grimacing in being caught in the act. Further complicated by the eyes shooting cautious glances up and down Eddie, drinking him in.

The shamelessness in the guy was quickly fading though. Eddie wasn’t really a shameful type.

Likely the guy was just some poor young man who’d tried on his old pair of boots and had his young DNA completely overwritten by Eddie’s complete load stored in that worn leather. It was a trend with anyone with too much contact with him, although no one had such a dosage. Mostly people just came away with a slight rugged charm or a strange new proclivity towards manual labor.

“Hey Handsome” his clone finally decided on, rougish and confident. The guy seemed to wallow in Eddie-ness and unfortunately for the original, was already ahead in merely his stance. It made his mind go places. “Didn’t expect to find Eddie 1.0 so soon, although I can’t say your memories are very up to date”, the other guy said, taking a step back to get a better view. Eddie would feel almost like he was being dissected by the guy’s view, but he’d done the same hungry analysis of his body in the mirror hundreds of times.

This was better than the mirror. 3D, showing off every curve and tight twist of clothing around hard fought muscle. A replication of his work clothes hung off the other guy, torn to shreds and likely very easy to tear away. They’d be able to make short work of it.

“I’d imagine I could be convinced to give you an update” Eddie thought of just how that would work, but if his sweat had done this transformation, he’s sure just a little more would perfect the job.

He wondered how deep they could make this replication. The guy already stood like him, crossed his arms like him. The voice and tone perfect, complete with the way he readjusted his dick unsubtly.

“I know you Eddie, got it all downloaded by your boots. Our boots now I guess. Can’t say you’ll need much convincing. We’ve dreamed of something like this for ages.” the other guy spoke, referencing years of past loves where they never seemed to get him, back before Eddie had been overpoweringly himself. Years of work on himself had wrought this oddity he guessed.

Eddie wondered who this other guy used to be. Probably less than an hour ago he’d been a completely different person. Had maybe strolled in the shop for cheap boots only to be reconfigured completely. It was an existentially troubling idea, but Eddie was never the moral type. Just curious.

“Because I can practically read your mind Eddie, you are an upgrade. Trust me, I was far from a catch” He said, closing the space. Shoving his hand into Eddie’s shorts in a way that would certainly not fly as public subtlety, as far as their probably guise as being impossibly similar identical twins would cut it. Calloused hands scratched his stomach before reach down into his pocket and thieving his car keys. “Went by Robbie, was something like a stoner college drop out. Not much else to say besides that, went into this shop to try at a construction job.”

“Do you want me to call you Rob then?” Eddie offered, mind trying to control his erection as the other guy jokingly knocked his tent, threatening Eddie’s control over not cumming so quick into a narcisistic fantasy.

“Fuck no, couldn’t stand being the guy. Hated every second of that life.” They stalked over to his (their?) truck, dodging onlookers in the parking lot as best as 2 horny 61/2 foot men could. Eddie’s soundness sneakers behind his clone’s heavy gait. His clone pulled himself into the driver’s seat, already pulling on Eddie’s sunglasses and revving the engine as if to enunciate further how easily he fit into his role.

Eddie agreed with the guy. His life was certainly better. Their life was going to be so much better.

Eddie leaned on the glove box as his duplicate effortlessly sped their boxy heavy duty truck out. Just to lightly touch his elbow to his clone’s. Watch the way the guy’s eyes twitched as whatever sweat he’d left on the stearing wheel from todays humid day poured Eddie’s white hot memories on whatever sad pile of Robbie remained. The other him appeared to glow with energy at every moment, accelerating and obviously glancing back at his original as he sped. Searching Eddie, hungry for something like approval.

Eddie would make sure the guy got a full dosage of his own enthusiasm when their truck rattled into their drive way. Eddie mind was already racing with the possibilities and if his DNA was working like it seemed to be, he was sure the other guy shared them all.

The future was going to be nebulous, but there were some certainties. Eddie would fuck the rest of the clearly unwanted alien bits of another man out of that extension of himself. They’d fall asleep after a day or so of that, just to make sure the job was good and done. They’d wake up and the clone would go to work, only so the next night they could see how much they could meld their memories together given the guy would now share his infectious DNA. Probably a lot more fucking after that. Maybe spend the weekend not completely lost to themselves, try out everything he loved as a pair. His life becoming domestic.

The uncertain bits were there, not yet decided but almost certain. Eddie had gone to trade school but he fancied himself a scientist. Experiments needed to be replicable, observations re-observed. Eddie seemed to be very replicable now himself and with now 2 Eddie’ worth of curiosity, he was sure they’d buckle to the temptation eventually.

Thrift stores could always use a quality pair of reliable boots and the world could certainly use a couple more quality men.

————————————————————

Inspired by the older man clone tf stories by @dante2045 highly recommend those if you haven’t read them.

[randomfoggytiger]

Mulder's Alien Baby Baby Trauma In-Depth (Part XXIII): Alien Babies, Shared Fears, and Hoped-For Escapes

Essence is chaotic and messy; but it also raises one or two intriguing points, as well as continues to establish Mulder's evolving dynamics with each character. It's a shoddy craft you have to cut around in order to refurbish; but it's salvageable-- at least, for this analysis.

Disclaimer: if you, like me, enjoy Season 8 up to a point-- and that point is midway through Essence-- I suggest you consider this post the end of the Alien Baby Baby Trauma series. Or at least skip over the next part when it's posted; and come back for the third and final addition. That way, Mulder and Scully run off into the night, together, and don't reappear until Existence's final five minutes.

Regardless, this part of the analysis marks the beginning of the end. There are a few loose threads the series strives to conclude-- or elucidate, for future (non-) exploration: namely, the mystery behind Per Manum's there-and-gone alien fertility clinic, the intrigue behind the hybrid alien replacements, and-- most importantly-- the mystery and happy ending for the Mulder-Scully family.

Now: let's tackle Mulder's slow descent into chaos.

ESSENCE AND EXISTENCE'S MAIN THEME

Mulder's monologue sets the tone for the finale two-parter:

"We call it the miracle of life. Conception: A union of perfect opposites-- essence transforming into existence-- an act without which mankind would not exist and humanity cease to exist. Or is this just nostalgia now? An act of biology commandeered by modern science and technology? Godlike, we extract, implant, inseminate... and we clone.

"But has our ingenuity rendered the miracle into a simple trick? In the artifice of replicating life can we become the creator? Then what of the soul? Can it, too, be replicated? Does it live in this matter we call DNA? Or is its placement the opposite of artifice, capable only by God.

"How did this child come to be? What set its heart beating? Is it the product of a union? Or the work of a divine hand? An answered prayer? A true miracle? Or is it a wonder of technology-- the intervention of other hands? What do I tell this child about to be born? What do I tell Scully? And what do I tell myself?"

The last three lines are the cornerstones of this finale two-parter: "What do I tell this child... what do I tell Scully... what do I tell myself?" And the order is important, too: Mulder knows this child will have questions-- how does he answer them? One layer deeper: he knows Scully harbors questions and doubts-- what can he say to her to assure them both? And at the center of these ponderings are his own fears and doubts: what does he believe, truly; and can he hold to that belief indefinitely.

The monologue is also a logorrheic oration of Mulder's struggle with his identity post-abduction: reborn to a life he'd at first assumed moved on without him, one with more questions than answers, still. And with these swirling questions looms his old skepticism with too-neatly tied bows on top of too-neatly provided miracles; and his new dominating PTSD. The triple combination is over-powering, and leads him to believe then question, believe then question throughout the latter end of Season 8-- and not just him, but Scully, too (as Essence's script notated, post here.)

If Essence through Existence had been well-written, it would've effected a succinct one-two-three masterstroke of Mulder and Scully's seven-year arc: finding the truth in themselves, turning "I want to believe" into "The truth we both know."

That aside, the monologue steers the remainder of Season 8: Mulder's mission, Scully's reactions, Mulder's and Scully's and Doggett's and Skinner's cumulative irrational actions. The problem, of course, comes down to execution.

THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL FRIENDSHIP

We pick up from Mulder's perspective the day after Scully's baby shower. He arrives at Doggett's door on a Saturday, ignoring the charms of the man's porch trellis (post here) and NASCAR ritual to wheedle him onto an open investigation.

From his demeanor, Mulder appears more at ease, parrying Doggett's "Agent Mulder" with a muted, "You can drop the 'Agent', Agent Doggett. It's just plain Fox Mulder now." His voice is wistful when referring to his former status; but not disheartened, nor uneasy. He's made progress towards peace-- would probably be more at peace if he wasn't bearing bad tidings.

Doggett nods neutrally, figuring out how to navigate that landmine; and decides to face it head on, changing gears a little too familiarly with an inviting, "Right. You want to come in, Fox? I was just watching a race."

His guest accepts with a double entente. "That's what I was doing. Slightly different race, though." Walking in and switching the channel, he then hooks Doggett's interest with the suspicious, recent burning of a fertility clinic-- a link to Scully that Mulder doesn't spell out but anticipates the other agent will connect independently.

Doggett follows along, helping Mulder access the crime scene through his credentials and even skillfully avoiding a fight between on-site investigator Agent Crane. The patience for Mulder's antics begins to thin when nothing suspicious turns up; and he's about to call it quits when Agent Excommunicado-- who is having a good time with Agent Doggett in tow--

--uncovers a professional association between the deceased victim and Scully's former obstetrician, Dr. Parenti. Connection firmly established, both X-Files men sneak over to Parenti's clinic.

Mulder blatantly ignores proper procedure-- as usual-- but thoroughly enjoys roping Doggett in as an accomplice; and the latter rewards this inclusion by unquestioningly having Mulder's back.

During their snooping around, the two split up. Doggett finds the stash of preserved fetuses while Mulder comes face-to-face with an incensed, mid-procedure Dr. Parenti. Catching a glimpse of the vulnerable woman sitting just behind the doctor, Mulder's face changes, angry himself over what he suspects is diabolical predation.

The intruders leave after a fruitless altercation; and, back at the crime scene, Mulder overhears Agent Crane's remarks and triangulates a confrontation between the third man, himself, and Doggett. Why, you ask? Because the X-Files exists-- as he told Agent Doggett earlier-- to make people angry in its pursuit of the truth. This moment is a test, measuring his replacement's backbone against friendly but oppositional forces.

The entire scene of dialogue discusses unidentifiable biological material-- possibly alien in origin-- that neither files man shrinks from observing out loud; and Mulder, addressing Crane directly at the end of their exchange, knows that the FBI team is listening in. Doggett knows, too; and doesn't attempt to save face, either-- which is exactly what Mulder wanted to see.

The second trip to Parenti's is not as profitable-- their suspect is dead; and Billy Miles knocks Mulder through a glass wall, leaving him unconscious on the floor (and Doggett barricaded in another room.) Still, there are brief glimmers of success: (e.g. Mulder trusting his not-partner to simultaneously wander off and cover his back; and the substantial link between possible conspiratorial forces and Scully's pregnancy.)

OUR CONCERNS ARE NOT SO DIFFERENT, YOU AND I

Back at Scully's apartment, Mulder submits to his partner's doctoring until she touches a particularly tender patch. Gently, he snatches her wrist away-- "Oh, Scully"-- acknowledging her quiet "Sorry" with a slightly lessened grimace.

Mulder being Mulder, he spots an opportunity for a quip. "I see why you gave up a career in medicine--"

"Mulder," Scully interjects, smiling disapprovingly: knowing, already, where this is going. (Perhaps an old joke between them?)

"--for the FBI, Scully. You've got manos de piedra."

She does not let this mischaracterization slide, picking up a cotton swab and unexpectedly booping his nose before returning to her work.

Mulder brushes at boffed dignity, had.

"Sorry," Scully adds, referring to her earlier mistake.

Off of a brewing thought, her partner mulls, "Imagine if he'd connected."

"Who?"

"Billy Miles."

"Billy Miles?" she repeats, straightening her spine to engage eye contact. "He did this?"

And out it comes: Mulder and Doggett's misadventures, Doggett's corroboration-- to a point-- and Mulder's theory: " Well, Billy Miles is a whole new deal. He's an alien abductee who was returned after hideous procedures were performed on him. And who miraculously returns to so-called perfect health when his body completely sheds its skin."

Scully presses her lips together ever so slightly; and Doggett voices what she and he are thinking: "Same thing happened to you."

"Same thing would've happened to me," Mulder insists, bluntly setting the record straight, " if I'd been left alone." Locking eyes with his partner, he spells out, " If Scully hadn't treated me."

Mulder, then, is laying the credit of his recovery completely at Scully's feet: not a surprise, but a sweet touch.

Scully turns the page away from unpleasant thoughts, piping up with an insistent, "And what were you doing there?" When he doesn't answer right away, her eyebrows shoot up momentarily, and she adds, "Mulder?"

And it all comes out.

"Listen, Scully, I'm sorry, but I just need to know that this baby of yours is going to be all right."

"My baby is fine, Mulder. I've had it checked over and over again with my new doctor that I trust implicitly."

Lizzie Gill momentarily interrupts their discussions-- "She's just helping me out here at my mother's insistence", Scully excuses, hiding the fact she'd warmed to the idea herself.

And Mulder-- never failing to grasp an opportunity-- uses the brief interlude to his benefit. "That's... that's all I'm trying to do. Just make sure nothing happens to you; that this baby you're carrying is born without any surprises."

A few noteworthy details here: Scully, as previously remarked, is not as sure about "her baby" as she pretends. The script mentions that she is "overcompensating" here; and that correlates with Scully's own confession in Existence's conclusion: ("From the moment I became pregnant, I feared the truth... about how... and why. And I know that you feared it, too.") Even though she works hard to be impenetrable, to embrace this chance with open arms, Mulder sees right through it-- said plainly that he's already seen through it in his opening monologue. "What do I tell Scully?" is answered in Existence's conclusion-- "I think what we feared were the possibilities. The truth we both know"-- but that's after the dust has settled and the day has been saved. What can he say now? That is why Mulder is running around: to give his family answers-- answers the Mulders never had (post here), if one wishes to extrapolate his motives farther.

(Side note: Is this the best writing? No. Is it the worst writing? Not yet. Is it, in its current form, serviceable. Yes-- if the "your baby" and "my baby" would be dropped, it would zip along rather nicely.

Why doesn't "your baby" and "my baby" work? Because Mulder and Scully have gone weeks now referring to their child indirectly or not at all; and, though that in and of itself was a tease, it was a tease in line with both characters' minimal communication. "When he's old enough, tell the kid I went down swinging" and "You gotta worry about the little boy" are cleverer ways to hedge around the baby-- adding on "your" and "my" only confusingly detaches and depersonalizes its connection from Mulder, or Mulder's consideration of that connection.)

THE KNOT BEGINS TO TIGHTEN

Another tie to Parenti's clinic is murdered that night-- Per Manum's Duffy Haskell-- and his death draws Doggett and Skinner and Mulder to the scene of the crime.

Skinner, fed up with improper answers, pulls Mulder aside and questions him about the baby: "Some business we need to clear up. Personal business. About Scully's baby, about who the father is." Blowing over his former agent's quip about the FBI betting pool, he continues, "I've had my suspicions. That is, until I found out that you had questions. Questions about Scully's pregnancy itself."

Mulder warms to the A.D.'s candid, no-nonsense consideration; and confesses, "You want to know who the father is, that's Scully's business. But if you're asking me how a woman who was diagnosed as barren and unable to conceive is about to give birth in a couple days, that's an answer I can't honestly give."

It's a tricky game of disclosing only so much to minutely advance the plot; and, considering the writers' later tactics, one of the more sophisticated methods. Mulder is questioning where the baby came from-- at the present, whether it's even human. He does not trust Scully's scans because Parenti referenced them earlier; and he does not trust in convenient miracles-- never has, never will. And because he cannot explain these considerations with a clear conscience, he cannot answer his, Scully's, and now Skinner's questions.

Unappeased, the A.D. reaches for his phone, ready to worm clarification out of Scully for once. Mulder intercepts this attempt, politely; and Skinner lets him, cognizant that both agents know how to handle each other best.

Scully ditches the shower to answer the phone, dashing (as much as she's able) to catch it before the line goes dead. Mulder, hearing her irregular breathing, immediately pivots from his rote "Hey, Scully, it's me" to an alert "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," she assures, "I just ran from the shower."

Mid-conversation, Scully realizes Lizzie Gill might be a spy; and the call cuts short when she catches the other woman swapping out the prenatal vitamins.

The scene changes to the hospital where she stands distraught-- barely holding onto her dignity until Dr. Speake walks over to reassure her. Mulder and Maggie wait in the hall until the doctor slips by; and he continues to stand guard as Mrs. Scully embraces her daughter comfortingly (and apologetically.)

Skinner joins Mulder in the hallway--

--and the latter follows him out to interrogate Lizzie Gill. (Though absent by necessity, his departure reinforces Scully's long-held worry that the X-Files will always dominate Mulder's attention-- a concern that will resolve itself in two scenes.)

The interrogation is conducted by Mulder, Doggett, and Skinner, who take turns grilling Lizzie on her involvement in the Parenti project. She is equally forthright with her answers, unabashedly laying out that her former boss and his associates were working under the orders of "government men"-- adjacent, then, to the Syndicate. And that part is important: Lizzie Gill's assignment was tangential to the Project's work on Emily Sim-- creating a child cloned from a human egg and alien DNA.

"Alien babies. Birthed by human mothers desperate to conceive. They didn't live more than a couple of days, but tissue and stem cells is what we were after for other experiments."

Mulder rubs his temples, disgusted by this revelation: and immediately launches into what is most important to him. "What did you do to Scully?"

When Lizzie's answer doesn't satisfy, he repeatedly yells, "What did you do to her! Tell me what's wrong with her! Tell me what's wrong with her baby!" It's not until Doggett intervenes with a gentle, "Listen to her-- what she's saying," that he calms long enough to hear the rest.

And, of course, the revelation is somehow worse than everyone assumed: "There's nothing wrong with her. That's what I'm trying to tell you. The child she is carrying is very special. One could only hope to create that in a lab. A perfect human child but with no human frailties."

This means one of two horrifying things:

The Parenti clinic did not create this child-- worse, they marvel at, and are invested in, its existence.

The baby-- normal or not-- is a wanted asset; and Scully a target by proxy.

This may act as confirmation that the child was most likely conceived by Scully under "human" conditions-- i.e. with Mulder's involvement-- but that merely allays one fear while breeding ten more. Scully previously had a child-- born-and-bred by the Project-- that she let go to protect. Now the Syndicate-- or their scattered allegiances--are restarting the cycle with this pregnancy. Her only hope is that this baby is not what anyone is expecting; and, luckily for Scully, that is what what the ending of Existence establishes (and the beginning of Nothing Important Happened Today throws away. But I digress.)

Mulder doesn't know what to do or who to turn to; so, he stands and runs back to Scully, ignoring Doggett's initial attempts to haphazardly trail behind.

THE GREAT ESCAPE

Arriving at his partner's apartment, he makes sure she's alone before insisting she start packing, immediately.

Scully, confused and frightened, becomes frustrated after he cryptically recounts, "No-- your, your baby is fine. It's you who's in danger now, Scully."

"From who? Mulder, from what?"

Part one of the truth reveals itself-- one that will guide his actions the rest of Essence and Existence: "I don't know, I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything. I just know I've got to get you out of here."

Mulder is not thinking rationally anymore-- he is out of answers or solutions, and is now relying solely on adrenaline-fueled gut instinct. This leads him to a multitude of questionable choices (as will be explored in the next post) that no one bothers to checkmate or pump the breaks on. He is in panic mode-- one that rears its ugly head whenever aliens or Conspiracy are mentioned post-Deadalive (i.e. tearing up over continued abductions, post here; beating a black-oiled worker nearly to death, post here; and currently jumping to alien baby conclusions and continued catastrophic thinking.) He desperately needs someone to reason with him; but, alas, no one will because the writing says so.

Fed up with the overreach of evil in her life-- having lost her sister and her health and her fertility to the monster of the Conspiracy; and having left the files without plans to return-- Scully snaps, incensed. A limit has been reached, and a line in the sand drawn. "Look, Mulder, look, I can't take this! I can't live like this—as, as the object of some unending X-File."

And part two of the truth reveals itself-- one that has grown and taken root in Mulder's life over the past eight years: "This isn't about the X-Files, Scully. It is only about you."

He expands this truth to include the little Scully-- "Now, you are going to have this baby and I'm going to do everything I can to protect it. I just can't do that here"-- and waits for his partner to process his promise and trust it.

After a long, assessing pause-- weighing Mulder's transparency against other (or any) alternatives-- Scully acquiesces, gliding away to hastily pack her things.

But as fast as she is, Billy Miles is faster. While Mulder is on the phone with Doggett, Billy arrives, cutting the power lines as he works his way up to Scully's apartment.

Both former agents freeze, taking in the sudden darkness; and realize their chance at escape is fleeting. They make it down the hall and out the stairs mere seconds before their pursuer arrives, fleeing into the night towards her car.

Mulder outstrips Scully's pace effortlessly; and she passes over the keys so he can jump behind the wheel and unlock her passenger side door-- both fluidly in time with each other's movements.

Having escaped, all is well; and both speed off into the night.

...Right?

CONCLUSION

The next part will tackle the egregious errors of Essence and Existence-- the bits that can be (I posit: should be) tossed into the garbage truck that crushed Billy Miles.

In the meantime, we bask in the bare minimum: story beats that aren't egregiously expositional, with moments that navigate previous characterization through formulaic, tension-building Chris Carter rhythms. It's not a clean break, overall; but it's not too sloppy, either.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[shoujosoulsite]

𝒜omi's waiting room : concept and lore 🪷

ok, the votes came in and it looks like everyone wants to know about the place I’m respawning to. Of course, i will gladly explain everything! Here is everything about my lore and my waiting room

❀ part I | ukiyo, the floating world .

── .✦ the concept of my home world

In Japanese, ukiyo (浮世) means two things. One is “transient world” or "floating world” and the other is “truly living in the moment and detached from all of life's worries”. This perfectly fits with my waiting room in both meanings. my home world mainly consists of two (three if you really squint) sections “the floating mini world” and “the heart of euthymia”. This entire bundle is just a timeless, eternal, and cozy place where you can call home and not worry about anything.

After the past life version of myself has brutally died, my significant other “shinko” who goes by satoru in my waiting room and in most realities has spend decades looking for me, even creating a whole world (which is this waiting room) just so we can be together eternally without nothing *even the stars* tear us apart. (*cough* yeah they is pretty much a Yandere but is soft and non-toxic*)

The Floating mini world...or should I say floating castle is a traditional x modern (modern in a cutesy y2k sense *not the ugly or bland type* ) Japanese styled floating mansion with too many gardens and plushies surrounding the place. It’s a place where both me, my lifa assistant “meiko”, and satoru resides in. It’s high up in skies— the heavens you may add! Surrounded with clouds , colors, and sparkling mini stars. The whole vibes and aesthetics are basically the Mononoke series and bee and puppy cat. I like to call this place my spawn point because this is not only just the place I will literally wake up in when I respawn but always wake up in when I shift back, especially due to any type of death or a “major shift”. It mainly consists of not only this home but the beautiful skies and the mugen express .

The mugen express is the train that I like to consider one of the two main transportations to my desired realities(the first way is shifting normally by deciding and a couple of affirmations) . It also can be a form of delivery when I order stuff from my lifa delivery app, or a way of summoning people when I’m lonely. One fun detail is that whenever I enter the train, especially when it comes to shifting to my desired realities is that depending on the dr I go to, inside the train will replicate it! From, aesthetics, vibes, and items from those drs.

the ever after are the skies that beyond the eyes can see. It’s basically where a beautiful chaos takes place. In the ever after is the heart of euthymia which is ethereal zone where the true form (they are like some higher and celestial being )of my significant other resides in. Shinko divided themselves into three versions— the one that with me in a human form in the floating castle, the main version of themself here, the overall essence of their being in all the realities I go to (in the terms of significant other. Which is why in one of my last posts where I list down my current drs, I mention how all these different forms of my lover are still the same person ) (yeah I was inspired by the Holy Trinity from Christianity for this concept ).

I don’t know if any of you watched the movie annihilation (it’s a really great film) but the antagonist "the shimmer" is extraterrestrial being with an electromagnetic field that changes and scrambles the dna of any life that touches it. I wanna base the whole heart of euthymia on that (this is still in the works btw)! It's where magic and chaos take in full form, where infinite possibilities in this waiting room come from, and you can say, is the main source of the magic of this waiting room.

🪽 yeah that’s the overall basis of waiting room, if you have questions my mail is always open!

[paikothecateater]

I personally don't think enough people talk about Denmark and Iceland's canon father/son relationship, so I'm gonna. Welcome to the yap session.

Do you guys remember the DNA test episode? Something I can't get over is how even though Iceland gave Denmark the envelope, clearly implying he was fine with him looking at the letter, but Denmark refused to read it until he got verbal confirmation that Iceland didn't mind. Not only is this scene adorable because it shows that even though Denmark sees Iceland as a kid, he still respects that he doesn't like to be treated that way, so he makes sure that the decision is Iceland's and he isn't just giving him the letter because he 'has to', this scene also shows that when it comes to Iceland's boundaries, Denmark is very serious and refuses to pressure him.

Another thing that shows this is the Nordic 5 song in which Norway and Iceland argue about Iceland calling Norway 'big brother'. Even though Sweden and Finland both side with Norway, Denmark is like 'are you guys seriously still arguing about this?'

He's actually the only person who doesn't push Iceland about that. Finland is always like 'I'm so jealous tee hee, if I had an older brother, I'd call him big brother' there's nothing objectively wrong with that, but it can come across as super patronising which Iceland is well known for hating. Sweden, despite usually advocating for Iceland, seems to always side with Norway in this matter. Denmark is the only one who thinks Norway ought to drop it.

There were also several occasions in which Iceland was missing for maybe five minutes give or take and Denmark lost his collective shit. This man basically tackled Iceland asking if he was lonely and apologising for leaving him alone... For five minutes give or take. Iceland rightfully was confused, but I think part of him was definitely grateful seeing he sometimes feels like he's forgotten by the others.

Speaking of which, Denmark is the best at shutting down those thoughts. Another time Iceland was momentarily missing, he told Denmark he thought they'd forgotten about him, and Denmark, rather than dismiss him or get defensive, just simply let Iceland know that he and Norway were worried sick about him.

Iceland also can't stand Denmark's absence and panicked when Denmark disappeared that one time. Even though Norway told him to wait ten seconds and Denmark would come to them, Iceland insisted they look for him immediately.

This one is a bit hazy because I don't actually have the full context, but I remember a slip in which Denmark told Iceland something ridiculous (something about cows if I remember correctly) and Iceland was the most gullible human being on this earth for a couple seconds. He did get very annoyed afterwards, but the fact that Denmark had this very specific line he knew would shock Iceland tells me this is something that used to actually work on him when he was little and Denmark was trying to replicate the same reaction. Of course, someone with actual context could tell me I'm very wrong, which yeah, I probably am.

Anyway, I have more, but that's enough for now.

[theavaricesystem]

You know what, y'all are getting this essay now.

Metroid Fusion is a game about being transgender and being haunted by the idea of who you could have been/who you were, and Metroid Dread is about abusive and neglectful family and being prosecuted for factors outside of one's control.

This will have spoilers for Metroid Fusion and Metroid Dread.

In the intro to Fusion, Samus Aran is working with a part of the galactic government, as a sort of freelancer. While on a mission, she is attacked by an amorphous alien lifeform which suddenly disappears after invading her suit. Later, while in transit, she suddenly loses motor functions and crashes her ship into an asteroid.

The lifeform, known as an X, had fused to her body, slowly killing her and destroying her from within. It was so deeply connected to her at that point that the doctors and scientists trying to save Samus were at a loss. They had removed parts of her suit hoping to quarantine the X and reverse the process, but it was deep in her central nervous system at this point.

As Samus' narration puts it:

By taking a sample of Metroid DNA and splicing it with Samus', her body was able to adapt and absorb the X. This was only possible because the X are describes as being of "nearly pure energy", and Metroid being creatures that absorb energy, are one of their only predators.

Now, what does that have to do with an allegory for being trans? Well.

Being Part Metroid is not a reversible process. And it's not without its problems. Metroids are naturally vulnerable to cold, and while Samus used to be able to handle at least close to arctic temperatures without her Varia Suit, she is now barely able to even handle research facilities in said areas. On top of that, her suit is now more deeply connected to her than it ever has been before. It saved her, kept her alive while the X tried to ravage her body, but now it is an inescapable part of her.

But, she had been given the ability to consume X parasites. Her body was now, in part, Metroid in nature. She had won against the X that sought to kill her.

This is the image that really cements it in my brain. Samus has become a different person. She was reborn as a hybrid of Human, Chozo, and Metroid. Samus, for her part, accepts this pretty quickly, even reflecting that her life up to this point was leading up to this. The Metroid DNA that saved her came from the infant Metroid that saved her way back in Super Metroid, after all.

(I could go into how the change has caused her suit to become softer, and slightly weaker, and how much of the outer plating of her suit has been lost, and how that plays into the theme of transition, but that feels a bit more tenuous of a connection.)

Now, let's move to the antagonist of Fusion.

Samus' old suit, the parts removed by the scientists to get to her, was quarantined on a space station. However, the X inside began to replicate Samus herself, until they had become a copy of her at the peak of her power, but devoid of any humanity. A killing machine.

This is referred to as SA-X.

(that reveal scene gave me nightmares as a kid)

Throughout Fusion, you're attempting to basically get Samus back to the level of power that she had, in order to contend with and defeat the SA-X. A lot of other things happen in this game, including the personhood of Adam(who needs his own essay tbh). But, the crux of the conflict is between the SA-X, who is imitating a previous version of Samus, and Samus herself, who is desperately trying to become the person she once was, again.

The final boss of Fusion is a Metroid, not any X imitation. Despite the conflict between them, the SA-X attempts to fight this Metroid, it's natural predator, but fails. With the SA-X's death, Samus reclaims some of power that she lost, by consuming what was left of it. But, she doesn't just become the person that she was. She is permanently changed, permanently A Metroid by any standards. There is no going back.

She has taken the remnants of who she was, accepted them, and become something new, something greater.

Then, we come to Metroid Dread. In it, Samus is tasked with figuring out if the reports of X existing on a planet. A series of robots were sent to take samples and figure out if this information was true, the Extraplanetary Multiform Mobile Identifier, or E.M.M.I. units. Of course, all of them disappeared shortly after reaching the planet, and couldn't be reached. So, they sent Samus, whose unique biology made her the only living thing in the galaxy capable of surviving an attack from the X.

Samus is, in this game, the last Metroid in existence.

In the end, it is revealed that the EMMI units were taken over and controlled by a Chozo called Raven Beak. This Chozo was one of the several who gave their DNA to Samus, and he calls her Daughter throughout the ending sequence of the game.

Raven Beak's goal is to take the Metroid DNA from Samus to create a new form of bioweapon using it. Which is, for those familiar to the series, the same thing that the government has done, like, three times. Hell, it happens in Fusion, too. (The Metroids in that portion aren't even hostile to Samus, as they recognize her as one of their own.) Raven Beak was also the cause of a major schism within the Chozo, between those who wanted to exist in harmony with the universe, and those who saw it as theirs by right of their power.

Despite calling her "daughter", Raven Beak sees Samus as a tool. A source of power that he has every right to harvest. He manipulates her and pushes her to near-death to bring out her Metroid instincts, which are to Consume and Kill. He helps her become stronger, but only to make her a more complete Metroid. In his mind, her destiny is to pave the path for his dominion and control over the galaxy.

Despite never being there for her, Raven expects Samus to give her life so that he can become all-powerful. He calls it "her destiny". The process that saved her from the X in Fusion ultimately endangered her, and it is only through accepting her nature as a Metroid that she is able to survive and triumph.

Because she was a Metroid, a change that she did not choose to make but that was needed for her to survive, she became a target for Raven Beak. She was hunted by the EMMIs for her DNA, and became a monster to survive.

(it did give us the Coolest suit Samus has ever had, but still. Traumatizing for her)

In the end, Samus is of course not sacrificed upon the altar of Raven Beak's power. She escapes, and narrowly so, thanks to another Chozo who had been taken over by the X but retained his lucidity, named Quiet Robe. By willingly giving himself to Samus, she is able to regain a more normal form, but it is clear that the events of Dread have changed Samus irrevocably.

If you're still reading, I'd like to thank you for sticking with this rambling mess. And for coming to my ted talk. Lol.

[thinkingaboutbetterdays]

the dna god. ( greg sanders x reader )

Gif belongs to me

From across the hall, he could see you while you worked. Greg checked his watch, counting how long you had rerun the same experiment and judging by your frustrated expression, reaching the same results. After the third time, he crossed the hall and you looked at the lab-tech who sent you a small smile.

"What's up buttercup?"

You shook your head when he grinned and leaned back in your chair with a sigh. "You're good at DNA, right?"

"Good? I'm the DNA God."

You playfully rolled your eyes with a smile, "Fine, DNA God. Explain this to me." You nodded to the results you had been questioning for over an hour and Greg rested a hand on the desk as he leaned over, his brow furrowing when he saw the replicated results.

"What's the problem?"

"The DNA matches a woman who has been dead for two hundred years."

Greg raised an eyebrow, whistling as he stood up straight. "Casper's mom?"

"Want to hear the best part?" Greg nodded. "She is buried out of State. Five hundred miles North East."

"You're messing with me, right? How could two-hundred-year-old DNA show up in a crime that occurred yesterday?"

"I was hoping you could figure it out, DNA God." You sighed, "I'm officially out of ideas."

Greg thought for a moment, slowly nodding. "What are the stakes?"

"Stakes?"

"Well, if I figure it out, I should win something."

"Being a God isn't enough for you?"

"No." Greg crossed his arms with a grin. "If I win, you have to go out for dinner with me."

After a year and a half, since joining the lab, you had downplayed Greg's flirting, returning it but never agreeing to go on a date knowing he was a well-known flirt. But right now, you need his help and his skill.

"Fine. But I choose where we go."

"Deal!" Greg exclaimed. "Now go, don't distract a God at work."

You held your hands up as you walked away, smiling as you shook your head. "Wouldn't dream of it."

You walked out of the room, looking at Greg through the glass as he got to work, and smiled softly as you headed down the hallway. He may be a serial flirt, but he had a good heart, and you knew that when it came to DNA, he was the best in the lab.

A few hours later you were observing as Nick fired bullets into the water and jumped out your skin when you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned to find Greg's amused gaze, removing your headphones as you stepped into the hallway with him.

"Sorry." He chuckled.

"Please tell me, you have some good news."

Greg grinned as he walked away and you followed, shaking your head at his need for dramatics. You approached the desk he had been glued to for the past three hours as he explained the tests he had run. You took the results he gave you fresh from the printer and your brow furrowed as you read the determinations.

"The sample was tampered with."

You met his gaze, "I placed them in the box in the trunk myself."

"Yes, but you weren't alone. There were dozens of officers, detectives, and CSI wandering around."

You shook your head, "Are you sure about this?"

Greg pressed his lips into a thin line and you held your hands up. "Right. Sorry." You sighed as you looked at the readings again, "I have to take this to Grissom. He'll want to talk to you."

You stepped forward to kiss his cheek, catching him by surprise. "Thank you, Greg."

"Anytime." He smiled as he watched you go, "What about our bet?"

You turned in the doorway, "Pick me up tonight at six." His head turned, following you through the glass as you walked down the hallway toward Grissom's office.

He took a seat on his chair, spinning around as he fist-pumped the air. He had tried several times to ask you out and each time you conjured plans out of thin air to get out of it. But tonight, he fully intended to blow your mind. He had a reputation around the lab, but tonight he would show you that he had changed. When it came to you, Greg Sanders was strictly a one-woman man.