#i know so much completely useless garbage

[hockpock]

for the ask meme: weird fact!

Tumblr is a functional webbed site / app and I didn't just now see this. Yep. =_o

It is honestly a challenge to come up with something that I didn't encounter *on* tumblr or that I've known so long it's lost context as being 'weird' to a general public.

Cats have accents. Kitchen counters are standardized to the height of "tall enough for one specific dude's wife." A bewildering array of stuff we take for granted in everyday life can be traced back to WWII or the space race. (Materials science, yooo!)

Fanta was developed 'cause they couldn't get the supplies for coke in Germany during the war.

Come wiki walk with me.

[dreamerimpossible]

Fragile (Art The Clown x Fem!Reader x Pennywise)

Nobody asked for this either, but…what can I tell you? I am a nasty person.

Summary: You are the little pet of both sinister clowns.

Warnings: Sex with plot, oral (reader receives), dubcon, double penetration, pain, dark content, +18, humiliation.

Your nose still couldn't get used to the smell of putrefaction that surrounded the sewer. In fact, you could never stand it. It was a weakness. At least that's how your two captors had made you feel all this time: you're fragile, and breaking was just easy. That's how it was. Of course it was. You hadn't even been able to suppress the nausea caused by the dirty water whose waste you avoided seeing at all costs. Those ropes that tied your wrists still caused you a deep pain whose impact was beginning to be progressively more emotional than physical.

Your body immediately reacted to the strong and determined footsteps of one of your captors. Your head lowered, in a sign of involuntary submission, and your fists clenched violently so that the pain you caused yourself would be much more noticeable to him than your state of nervousness and vulnerability. But you knew it was useless.

It was useless, yes. Especially because the being in front of your figure could see through you. All of you. Your hands immediately loosened, sadly representing your absolute surrender to him. He approached you with a chilling smile that released blood from his lips, forming an immeasurable drip that fell to the floor, creating a completely unbelievable scene by human standards.

He smelled you, like a rabid dog would do to an unknown creature that was a potential victim. But his reaction was one of disappointment. Which made him move away at a safe distance from you. There was no fear. There was a worrying lack of fear in your veins. And he didn't like that at all. He didn't like losing control. Suddenly, the gloves on his hands were torn as they were torn by the claws that the clown was making sprout from his fingers. You suppressed a scream... was this the end for you?

Probably. The level of dirty water in the sewer was rising rapidly, turning red just as quickly. While all this was happening, there was Pennywise, with that characteristic smile, mocking you and the way he could make your fear grow with such simplicity. You closed your eyes tightly while repeating the same mantra over and over in your head:

“It’s not real…” you burst into tears uncontrollably. “This is not happening.”

You opened your eyes slowly when you felt the water calming down under your feet. And once they were fully open, you saw that everything was back to normal. The world-devouring clown had decided to stop torturing you like that for today. However, it wasn’t because of you. It was because someone had come to interrupt.

The clown dressed in black and white walked hunched over, with the garbage bag resting on his back, and his face only reflected annoyance. Pennywise had smiled again. You didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

Every time Art was psychologically tortured by Pennywise, his strength in hurting you was even more brutal. He was getting even. That's what you were for, to get his frustration out. Otherwise, your existence would be meaningless to him.

Today would be one of those days; you could feel it in your body. You could see it through his eyes. Your body suddenly felt weak just thinking about it. And Pennywise decided to make it much harder for you by making you witness his transformation, the representation of that feeling that Art The Clown couldn't experience for himself, but that, against all odds, he did feel. On tiny levels. But he felt it somehow. There was only one person in the world that made Art angry and eager to destroy you. That girl, that woman who was very different from you.

Pennywise's figure blurred and theatrically turned into the silhouette of what seemed to be Sienna Shaw armed with her sword.

Art didn't feel afraid, no. But he felt a little insecurity and hesitation. The sweet, intrusive thought of what could happen if he was once again decapitated by that woman. And that. That little fleeting thought made Pennywise feel extremely satisfied. It was what he lived for, to make Art the Clown feel like he was insufficient before him. To remind him that although he is almost indestructible, in essence, he was still weaker than him, than the devourer of worlds himself. Extremely different levels of strength. And then there was you. A small force next to them, insignificant and fleeting.

And his attention was now on you. Pennywise, on his side, eager to push you to the limits, and Art the Clown, on his side, only wanted to vent his anger on you.

Art's fingers squeezed your jaw tightly, fixing your eyes on his. You could see that there was nothing. Nothing that reflected any hint of emotion. Maybe that was his way of telling himself that Pennywise hadn't affected him in the slightest. Then, you saw his smile, and you were terrified of whatever he was about to do.  With a knife he tore your bloody clothes, scratching the skin of your torso. You took note of how many moderately deep scratches you had there. Your hurt tits were visible to both beings, who proudly looked at the bite marks, blows, and cuts they had left there, pleasing their sexual need.

Next, Art cuts your panties off with ease, letting them fall into the dirty water of the sewer, leaving you only in that skirt. That skirt that you wore to go to work almost obligatorily before you were imprisoned by a being from which it was impossible to escape.

Your skin was marked. You would never be the same again. You were lost.

Pennywise sank his teeth into your neck, sucking a little of your blood, like a little appetizer of what it would be like to truly devour you. Your eyes closed weakly, simply accepting your fate. But Art would make it harder. He inserted two of his fingers into your entrance, entering and exiting you at a raw speed. And it hurt in an indescribable way. Your moans were of absolute pain, making both men smile.

But what was coming now would be new and completely devastating for you. Art roughly grabbed your waist and held you in place, slowing down the pumping of his fingers and hitting just a specifically pleasurable spot for you, making you let out your first moan of involuntary pleasure. You felt bad. You weren't supposed to enjoy it. You opened your eyes in horror, and all Art did was mock you silently with exaggerated gestures of silent laughter. He had discovered a new kind of pain for you.

Pennywise followed the direction the other clown was taking and placed his red lips on one of your nipples, no bites. Your moans increased as you felt his tongue exploring with different movements, looking for the perfect way to make you enjoy this against your will. Your hands relaxed in your ropes, and your groans increased as you felt his tongue exploring with different movements, looking for the perfect way to make you enjoy this against your will. throw your head back and let out shameless moans as you felt the circular movement of Pennywise's tongue on your nipple, along with the marked rhythm of Art on your pussy.

They would kill you, sooner or later. They would finish you off. And yet... it felt so good. Art knelt before you, smiling at the irony of the situation, even believing that you could have any kind of control over him, and he pulled his fingers out of your entrance with ease and replaced them with his own tongue. Your leg was over his shoulder, his mouth sucking on your pussy without any shame, demonstrating once again his unhealthy fondness for all kinds of bodily fluids, licking and swallowing everything you had to give him, without making a single gesture of disgust.

It was completely alarming how much it turned you on. You are a nasty person. You had to be. Your screams echoed against the walls, given over to a pleasure that was undoubtedly beyond your control.

Pennywise's claws dug into your back as he began to alternate licks on your nipples with small bites that increased in intensity. Pleasure and pain lodged in the pit of your stomach, making you a slave to him, increasing your disorientation, and destroying your own moral code. You noticed how your own blood slid through your body and how you seemed to shamelessly enjoy it.

Art's tongue worked on you in an almost expert way, which made you ignore any kind of pain that they wanted to inflict on you. Your release was close. You wanted it; it was painfully torturous not to get it. You simply wished he would let you cum at least once. Looking into his eyes, you thought that maybe he was deciding too, whether to overstimulate you or leave you wanting again and again. Both are quite attractive options. However, to your invasive visual delight, you saw how Art drank all your fluids in a shameless way, licking your folds to try to clean everything that was left.

But make no mistake, he wasn't doing it for you. He needed you to enjoy it so he could destroy you, shamelessly break you. He needed you to be his doll too, the one who enjoyed the pain and the contempt.

Pennywise separated from your tits, squeezing your stimulated nipples with his fingers. The pain and pleasure were once again present, and the scream you let out was an auditory sample of the mixture of those two sensations that they wanted to make you feel.

Art stood up and continued in front of you; Pennywise positioned himself behind you. You felt four hands violently grabbing you by the waist. You couldn't even muster the strength to shake your head when you realized what they were going to do. But before you could make your displeasure known with sounds, each one penetrated your corresponding entrance. You bit your lip with a certain habit to endure that kind of pain at this point and prepared yourself for what you were going to feel. Be it good or bad.

They both penetrated at the same time, with a force much greater than two considerate boys would have, but much less than what they were used to. You felt both cocks inside you, fucking you with a desire you didn't think they even had. Your body was being abused and taken selfishly, and you could even feel the pain that would remain in your belly for days after experiencing that practice for the first time in such an inconsiderate way. Pennywise growled in your ear from behind, while the skins were heard colliding with each other, as if you were just that. A toy, one more hole. As Art watched your reactions, as you fought the fear and discomfort you felt at your own enjoyment. They both spilled their semen inside you in due time and separated, watching as your eyes closed at the amount of sensations you experienced.

They both watched as their semen fell down your thighs, mixing with all the blood from your wounds. You fell into a deep sleep instantly, as proof of your physical and emotional exhaustion.

No, not even Sienna Shaw could save you from this one.

[alexanderwales]

There's a scene in Kurt Vonnegut's Player Piano where an architect uses an AI to generate architectural plans within constraints, and the program does so well that the man realizes that he's completely useless, so he goes and kills himself.

I think this is one of the reasons that I keep finding myself drawn to AI text generation, following the papers and reading some of the output: am I useless yet? Has the time come when I've been surpassed?

And every time I check it out, I see that it's just not there yet ... but sometimes it's closer.

I'm starting to get very frustrated by some of the AI conversations. There's so much question about whether or not AI is capable of producing art, and I keep thinking that this is unnecessarily philosophical.

I would say that currently, in terms of prose generation, the AI is in the bottom 30% of writers, it's just bad in very different ways from a human writer. There are obvious issues with accuracy and consistency, and it leans on cliché, and doesn't understand pacing very well, but ... to me, these are important things to know? And they're not insurmountable, even if we froze the models at their current capabilities.

One of the main things I see people throw around is that AI writing is boring and uncreative. I guess I would agree with that generally, but it isn't axiomatically true, it's just true right now. And it's not even that bad.

Here's an example: I have a script set up to generate novels, and it starts with a premise, which comes from a combination of genre and theme (which are provided by me). Here, I had provided "genre=fantasy, new weird" and "themes=grief, loss, creativity and creation".

When renowned sculptor Maya Chen loses her ability to create after her daughter's death, she discovers that her abandoned artworks have begun manifesting as living entities in a parallel dimension called the Unfinished. As these incomplete creations start bleeding into reality—bringing both wonder and horror—Maya must venture into this realm of artistic fragments to confront her grief and either complete what she started or risk watching her uncontrolled imagination consume the world.

Is this a wholly unique plot? I mean, no, but I think wholly unique plots are kind of overdone, and that people place too much emphasis on doing something that's never ever been done before. But if you told me this was the premise of your novel, I wouldn't immediately say "well that's derivative garbage". If I picked up a book in the store and read this blurb ... it doesn't sing to me, I wouldn't buy this book unless it had rave reviews, but I wouldn't think "ugh, another book about a creatively blocked artist mourning the death of a loved one". I think that if I had to, I could write this book, and I wouldn't be straining under an overdone premise.

Here's how the novel opens:

The studio had become a tomb.

Maya Chen sat rigid in the wooden chair that had once been her throne, her spine straight as carved alabaster, her hands folded in her lap like offerings to a god who no longer listened.

And you know ... this isn't terrible! I think "spine straight as carved alabaster" is just nonsense as a metaphor, and indicative of the kind of error that LLMs routinely make, mashing together words that sound nice but don't actually work as imagery. Is carved alabaster straight? I would submit that it's not. The word was probably "chosen" for its associations of being cold, pale, and a sculptor's stone, but it doesn't actually work here. So is her spine curved like carved alabaster? This would make sense if she sat hunched in her chair, but it's a pretty bad use of language.

I think if you're reading quickly, this is the sort of thing that you won't consciously notice, but I think maybe you will notice it subconsciously, particularly when it happens eight times in six paragraphs.

This foray was done with Claude Sonnet 4, which is close to being state of the art, though to my knowledge there's not a frontier model that's working on prose fiction. It's important to me to know what these models are capable of, and how they fail, at least partly so that I can know whether I need to start trying to pivot to another way of making money that's not writing.

Do I think it'll get there eventually? I mean ... I'm starting to get skeptical. I have a hard time reading more than a few pages of AI-generated text using the best prompting and control methods I know of, but I'm a professional writer and hobbyist programmer, so there's got to be someone who can coax better stuff out of the machines than I can.

For now, I'm resting secure in the thought that I'm a much better writer than the machine is. For now.

[doodlegirl1998]

You know what's really funny to me? The trope of Bakugou in canon being super talented at everything that he does. In canon it's supposed to be for laughs when he's good at random shit, but I don't understand how it's supposed to be funny when the funnier route would have been that this guy has dedicated himself to nothing else but being extremely good at fighting with his quirk and to be a hero that he's actually super ass at everything else. But I guess having a complex version of Bakugou where he learns that there's more to life than heroics and maybe is way less of a demon isn't something that would have been interesting. ALSO ALSO, genuinely I'm confused as to why people think Bakugou is super smart. Like I get that he was excelling at school and was taking mock UA tests and shit, blah blah blah, but:

A) I can totally see his marks getting doctered by Aldera

B) Passing the UA exam doesn't tell me shit about his intelligence, since people who are "dumber" (Kaminari and Ashido) than him also passed the same exam. Without even knowing the proper format of the test (keeping in mind it's also a standardized test) there's no real way to gauge how "intelligent" someone has to be to do well. Also there's a bunch of General-Ed students who passed that test so again, doesn't tell me much.

C) For all the praise that he receives, there's nothing really like "intelligent" or complex about the plans that Bakugou comes up with when people suck him off for being such a good tactician. He fully somehow thought he could overwhelm fucking ALL-MIGHT with his explosions alone, if he's such a good tactician why would he all of a sudden fuck this up? Also, his "counter" to Uraraka's plan was just do bigger explosions, so again, nothing to do with his actual intellect, it's just his quirk. Which brings me to,

D) Bakugou fully should have been taken out by Uraraka's plan. I get that she was tanking hits and he wasn't, but he suffers no backlash at all from unleashing his quirk all day, and is even able to fire off massive explosions no problem. I don't care what bullshit excuse Horikoshi or the fandom comes up with, unless Bakugou has a second quirk that makes him indestructible or lets him cancel out forces, those massive explosions would have shattered his arms and legs from the recoil. But nooooooo, Todoroki suffers from acute frosbite and Midoriya shatters himself when he uses OfA. But Bakugou? Ah well, sometimes we'll remember that he's running out of sweat or his wrists will hurt a little or sumthin.

E) Why is Bakugou (and I guess Kirishima by extension as well) more ripped and buff then Midoriya when canonically somehow managed to balance a fucking small pick up truck on the last pile of garbage that he stood on when he cleared the beach. Midoriya should be jacked and stacked like Jotaro fucking Kujo in part 3 and be an immovable object, yet some how Bakugou is shown to be physically stronger than him??? Midoriya should be casually lifting couches with the entire class sitting on it so he can vaccum underneath.

PS. I think it would've been exponentially better to have IZUKU be the one who is good and talented at random shit. Like the kid who didn't have the one thing that is required of all heroes (a quirk) and tries to overcompensate for his "uselessness" by being insanely talented and skilled at tons of different hobbies would have been an awesome angle, he's genius enough to pull it off. Not only would it give us more insight on his life before All Might, but it would also make Bakugou less of a Mary Sue (seriously, the narrative bends over backwards for him) and Izuku less of an untalented loser (again, the narrative loves shitting on him, sweet Jesus). Having Bakugou be terrible at everything besides heroics and Izuku being good at everything "besides heroics" might've made for an interesting character parallel that Hori insists on shoving down our throats for 400 chapters straight 😒

Hi @stormiclown 👋

💯. I completely agree with this.

Bakugou being ass at everything that doesn't involve his quirk would have been much funnier, and it would have made more sense narratively for the reasons you listed.

In a good story, that fact would have also forced Bakugou to grow and realise that in UA, he's no longer a big fish in a small pond - he's just one of many talented children.

As you rightfully pointed out, it would have made much more narrative sense for IZUKU to be the ripped one, to be the talented and intelligent one. He would have felt like he would have had to prove he wasn't useless growing up, so it would have made more sense for Izuku to have dozens of hidden (and developed - where did Izuku's quirk analysis go?!) talents.

Then, for Izuku to feel jarred by the amount of praise and appreciation he is getting now, he isn't "useless quirkless Deku" that he felt like he was at Aldera. Then for Izuku to flourish and grow as a result.

[martialartslover7]

Weird Wednesday Headcanon: Outside of Team 7, Neji, Shikamaru and Kiba sympathize the most with Sasuke's fall from grace after the Five Kage Summit.

Alright, this is another headcanon of mine that can be written off as "mental", but hear me out, this has so much potential.

I'd like to think that, outside of Team 7, Sasuke wasn't just closely acquainted with Naruto, Sakura or Kakashi, but also:

Neji (whom we even got a small teaser hint of a rivalry between him and Sasuke for, which sadly, never came to be, because Byakugan VS Sharingan is a question in the community, that truly needs answering)

Shikamaru (shogi rivals, nuff' said, the only guy, that managed to corner Shikamaru at his own game, I mean, Sasuke is meant to be a genius too, so, why not?)

Kiba (just being around him, Sasuke's IQ just automatically decreases, but in a fun way, like Renji and Uryu from Bleach, considering, Kiba had lived most of his life, surrounded by moody, dominating women, and he might be Sasuke's "stay-in wingman", when it comes to Sakura, or they would just talk about how tiring women can be, but they do manage to get best results out of you with their motivation, and he would be way easier to handle for Sasuke, because unlike Naruto, Kiba ain't braindead)

These are the three main players, but if you want, you can also put Choji and Rock Lee into the mix, considering that, later down the road, Sasuke's and Choji's daughter would end up becoming besties, and if Might Guy wouldn't survive the war, he and Lee can become the new Kakashi and Might Guy, the next generation, if you will. And this is ironic, because...

...just by coincidence, who else was sent to get Sasuke back, to prevent him from defecting to Orochimaru? Ah yes.

But now, I get to the meat and bones of this thread. And that being, the reason why I believe personally, it was a wasted opportunity to not give Sasuke more personal allies that sympathize with his actions, after he joined the Akatsuki.

Like, NO ONE can tell me, that the Uchiha weren't the only ones, who were under close observation within Konoha borders, by the elders. Sure, they were the biggest target, but it leaves you asking, especially in regards to those clans, who are either the strategist faction, or possess sensory type abilities: What about them? Wouldn't they suspect that something was going horribly wrong over there, at the Uchiha compound? Did absolutely NO ONE hear the screams, or blood splatters? I am just not sold on the idea that EVERYONE in Konoha blindly agreed to Tobirama's discriminatory policies, some had to know better than most. The select few, who weren't exactly fans of just distancing themselves from another clan, all because some frankly racist piece of garbage for a Hokage said so, along with the useless shitstains, that are the Konoha elders, especially Danzo.

And now, three people come to mind, where I truly felt like, they could have been there that night, when the Uchiha clan was being slaughtered, and they were either too late to stop it, or Itachi had knocked them out with his Genjutsu (which purposely contradicts Madara's propaganda about "no one in the village cared about the Uchiha, and only saw them as tools"). And ironically, they are probably the very select few of the adult shinobi, who weren't complete sub-human trash.

Hizashi Hyuga.

Shikaku Nara.

Tsume Inuzuka.

Just picture these three adults being the only ones, who caught on to what was happening, through not just the screams of terror, the smell of blood, or seeing through the walls with the Byakugan from Hizashi. But sadly, by the time they arrive, most of the Uchiha were already slaughtered. And right before they could even act to evacuate those, who may have survived, Itachi arrives, and knocks them clean out with his Tsukuyomi, not killing them, as their passing would just cause an uproar throughout the village, the following day.

And once Danzo learns, that three non-Uchiha, Leaf shinobi, were actually present that night, and they may or may not have caught a glimpse of who else was there that night, Hizashi, Shikaku and Tsume were forced to stay silent on the matter, as Danzo threatened them, through the lense of the ROOT Anbu:

"Dare to let a single word about last night's events slip, then your clans will be receiving severe repurcussions."

I mean, sure, it's kind of silly to try and silence three unrelated Leaf ninja into keeping silent, but considering how paranoid the elderly can be, especially Danzo, I wouldn't put it past him to actually go there.

And how convenient, because as the story progressed, two of these adults would wind up deceased. Shikaku died in the 4th Great Ninja war. One piece of the puzzle, gone.

Hizashi would actually be the first one to die, before all two of them, because the Hyuga clan was trying to mend their security blunder that one fateful night, when someone from Kumogakure tried to kidnap Hinata. But keeping in mind everything I just said, it just adds another layer to how corrupt this shinobi system truly is. Who is to say, Danzo basically bribed the Hyuga elders to sacrifice Hizashi, in place of Hiashi, because he couldn't possibly risk that one defiant Hyuga showing lip to the Hokage? Something to think about. Even if Hiruzen remains a useless piece of shit. You can never be TOO careful, right?

Tsume would probably be the only adult to keep on living, to tell the tale, and through her, does Kiba learn, how deep the rabbit hole with Danzo actually goes, and how Sasuke's hatred for the village MIGHT be """mildly""" justified. Especially if Neji and Shikamaru were to approach him about their own clan blunders, involving Danzo, right after his passing at the hands of Sasuke.

But especially Neji, man... If everything I said gets applied in practice, it would mean, outside of Naruto, he might also be considered worthy of facing Sasuke in battle, after the Five Kage Summit. Because, not only does he more than understand how it truly feels to lose family and loved ones, but also, how this entire shinobi system is essentially screwing over those, who were unfortunate enough to be born into families, that get treated like dirt by the government, that is supposed to protect them. Just imagine their exchange, while Kiba faces off against Jugo, and Shikamaru holds Suigetsu at bay.

"A slave to your own family... I really don't need another moral lecture from a man, who willingly decided to stick to his own kin, despite them viewing you as nothing short of cannonfodder. And yet, despite it all, you still side with them... Run, Neji. Run and hide with your insignificant existence weighing you down, before I tear you to pieces." --Sasuke

"No, Sasuke. You're wrong. If it's any consolation, I am more than able to sympathize with your current state of mind. As of recently, I had to learn the hard way, that you and I, at the end of the day, are not so different. Believe me, you're not the only one, who was royally screwed over by the same village that you once swore to protect. The only reason, why I am not defecting, is because I still have family left to protect... Which is something I cannot say on your behalf, as much as it saddens me to say this. You have every right to hate us. Especially considering, we believed the rumors first, leaving no room for you to speak up and defend yourself. I didn't come to lecture you. And I won't run... because I am going to make you listen." --Neji

Pretty epic, isn't it? I am sorry, Neji is just the GOAT to me, and anything to make him and Sasuke spiritual broskies, I am here for that. Just visualize how adrenaline-driven their encounter would end up being, if you add the Bankakyo Byakugan into the mix. This is how Neji's Bankakyo would look like (source by Aleister Brown):

And for context on what this eye gives Neji for busted abilities, which make him a more or less equal match to Sasuke, after he got Itachi's eyes implanted:

Left eye: Foresight (he can look 10 seconds into the future, to predict Sasuke's moves, before he could even pull them off)

Right eye: Timeskip (improves his Taijutsu, by basically freezing time all around himself, and teleporting, at anything his eyes can see for time)

And, to make it even, with the Bankakyo, you can even summon a chakra avatar, similar to the Susano'o called, Sarutakahiko, take a look:

And because it's me, this is the music that plays in my mind, every time I am trying to visualize their fight, with these conditions being met:

...and to end this thread on a more comical note, when I said, Sasuke's IQ lowers around Kiba, and I compared the two to Renji and Uryu, here is why. It's even more ironic when you consider, Uryu and Sasuke have the same seiyuu! Noriaki Sugiyama! Check it:

OK, OK, enough with that. Have a nice day.

Peace.

[serpentarius]

been trying to wrap my head around the cancellation of "Our Flag Means Death" and why it hurts so fucking much. lots of folks who are much more eloquent than I have summed it up perfectly, but I still think it’s important I add my voice to the matter. 

It really, really sucks that the hurt is being compounded on us every time another queer/minority-led show gets prematurely cancelled. and for a long while, we also had to deal with the many shows that deliberately queerbaited us, which was a shitty and traumatic experience unto its own. And even though we’ve largely surpassed that early-‘00s-flavoured brand of queerbait now, mainstream queer media is still predominantly white-led. With the cancellation of OFMD, we've lost one of the very few intersectional queer shows in the mainstream. Shouldn’t we be beyond asking for crumbs at this point? Shouldn’t we get unabashedly intersectional shows helmed by and starring queer, BIPOC, and trans folks without them being axed for no rhyme or reason?

It’s exhausting at this point, honestly. OFMD has done so well in terms of viewership and engagement and fan response—almost entirely due to word of mouth and little thanks to the Max marketing team, mind you—and even still the show got cancelled? Can they make it make sense????

For me, the thing most akin to this OFMD situation was when Sense8 got cancelled. And yes, the fandom fought, and we eventually DID get a movie that wrapped things up years later! That gives me hope for OFMD, that maybe another network will pick it up, or maybe they’ll be able to make a movie someday. But what makes me sad about cases like Sense8 is knowing that the creators still had to force the narrative around the amount of time they were given. That the corporate overlords who only care about numbers and profit dictated how much time they had to wrap up their story.

And it fucking kills me that DJ only wanted one more season. One more season to complete the vision.

I'm just so mad that queer people are constantly being jerked around and used for profit and then left high and dry. And then we're given excuses like "oh there's no budget" or "oh there's not enough viewership, that's all it is". like, sure, maybe those are contributing factors, but then I look at all the useless garbage shows that have little viewership and high budgets that keep going forever and then I think "hmmmm, the math ain't mathing." It's fucking transparent; the corporations can spew all they want with their rainbow capitalism and talks about diversity, but the evidence is clear, and they can't convince me homophobia/racism/transphobia/etc. is not a factor in these decisions.

Anyways, back to OFMD. OFMD made me fall in love with fandom again. I drifted away from fandom for a while in my 20s, and while OFMD wasn't the first fandom that drew me back into the madness, it's certainly the largest. The sheer amount of creativity both within the show and outside of it has blown me away; I've read some of the best fics, seen some of the best art, and witnessed some of the most incredible creativity from people in this fandom.

And let's not forget the role of the show's creators and how they've interacted with us fans. They made us feel seen. And made us feel loved and valid, even when we were being weird and loud and horny. It's so fucking rare to see that. But they understood; understood that the show they made was for us, for any of us who've been marginalized or made to feel Othered or different or stuck in life or unsure of our identities. And they gave us so much love for it.

The story... man. The unique combination of quirky humour and bright visuals and dark, introspective moments, the gorgeous costumes and soft, lovely, unabashed queerness, and veteran actors and new actors all getting to shine, brilliant comedic actors getting to show off their dramatic chops and vice versa. For me, seeing Rhys Darby - an actor I've loved for a long time, but who I never thought I'd see in a leading role - getting to be the romantic lead in a queer role? And seeing acclaimed director/producer/screenwriter/actor Taika Waititi play opposite Rhys, as an indigenous Blackbeard? Fucking incredible. OFMD Edward Teach you will always be famous to me.

Anyways... despite my long ramblings here, I still don’t think I've been able to get to the root of WHY exactly this show has inched its way under my skin and stayed with me in the way it has. Maybe I'll spend years trying to understand it. But I DO know that it's in part to do with seeing both older queers AND a diverse range of queerness onscreen, in a way that I've never seen in media before. I DO know that OFMD has forced me to look inwardly, and allowed me to realize some important things about myself. About my own queerness, my own identity, things I'm still figuring out. I've cherished being able to see myself in Stede, in Ed, and each of the crew members. In Roach’s love for cooking, in Oluwande’s ability to mediate; in Jim’s quick temper, in the way Izzy builds walls to guard his heart. In Buttons’ quirkiness, in Wee John’s sass, in Frenchie’s ability to turn pain into humour; in The Swede’s silliness, in Lucius’ bluntness, in Pete’s soft heart beneath the skepticism. Lastly, OFMD has inspired me. To create, to write, to draw, to devour other peoples' works and worlds while I sit in sheer, overflowing joyousness at their talent.

so yeah. the news of this cancellation is upsetting and hurtful and disappointing. And it's making us cry, and it's making us grieve, and may make us hollow and numb at times because we've lost yet another thing we love so deeply before it was meant to go. It's so much more than "just a TV show". It means more to us than any passive mindless idiotic mind-numbing bullshit - because even though there's a time and a place and a purpose for that type of media, it's the thought-provoking work, the work that creators pour their entire hearts and souls into, that hit us deep in our own souls. The work that changes our lives. The work that has the ability to save lives, as I know OFMD has done for so many. 

please know I'm sending immense amounts of love and strength to those of you who are also hurting. we'll get through this, one way or another, and I'll keep up with the hope that we'll get more someday; but in the meantime, I'm holding you tight. ❤️️🫂

[sgiandubh]

Chère Madame Connasse/ Dear Mrs. Fuckwit

First of all, please excuse the length of this answer (you have also been blocked, incidentally speaking). This deserves its own audio. In French, since the French connection is so fucking tenuous:

Here is the English translation, since I am pretty sure Madame Connasse does not speak any French:

'Dear Mrs. Fuckwit,

Oh, well - how may I put it? I also find interesting that such an idiot would lose her time sending such enormous things to a page she hates and which, in return, cordially tells her to go fuck herself.

I usually am entitled to some pretty mighty garbage, but you do have enough vocabulary as to use words like 'hubristic' and 'vortex'. That makes you, by the way, very vulnerable and also more exposed than Uganda's current budget.

But why not you, after all, like so many others? The more, the merrier and you do write, not without some chutzpah, that my French connection is tenuous, as is my legal expertise and that I make you laugh, along with all the rest of the shipper community. Which, to be honest, is as untrue as possible. But it must be such a pain in the ass for you to see that people read me, that people like what I write and that, who knows, all those people (of which there are many), have a better day, in this bizarre environment.

I have already shown you some pictures of myself, including at official events. It was not enough.

I have already shown you my car, my office, my desk and my diplomatic passport. It was not enough.

With just one click you could have checked all the (very transparent) clues I have patiently scattered in my posts, in order for you to find me. Some did. They know perfectly well that you lie and you know it, too.

So, here's the deal, you stupid bitch: your cackle will turn sour when you'll see this very official paper:

This is just one of my law degrees - my Public Law BA at the Paris II University, in June 2001, as you can see by yourself. I have worked so hard and so passionately to get it, that I don't give a flying fuck about the fact that a nobody, and a coward to boot, doubts me. I have nothing to prove, nothing to demonstrate and I owe you nothing. However, sometimes one must set the record straight and I am a very impulsive person, after all.

I shall spare you all the rest, dear Mrs. Fuckwit. There is much more, but I am afraid your self esteem could never bear it. That being said, think twice, the next time you'd try to humiliate someone you do not know. Internet is so wonderfully sketchy that you never know (pinky promise: like never, ever know) to whom you're really talking. People lie very easily in here: I find this ridiculous and useless, in 2024, when one can find more or less everything about anyone. In no time at all, provided one knows exactly how to do it (between you and me, it's not even that complicated).

You and your posse of Pointless Underlings have insulted and intimidated dozens and dozens of people of our community, with an absolutely revolting ferocity. You have been doing it for years, with complete impunity and the strong belief that you were protected by a particularly perverted context, by some obscure agendas and by the indifference of the Two Main Characters. I am here to tell you I am not afraid and also that I couldn't care less about whatever you'd write or think. You will do it again, of course, because I think your obsessive universe is limited to the tiny window of your delusions.

But don't worry, dear Mrs. Fuckwit: until further notice, I shall make mine what a distant descendant of Irish Rebels, marshal of France Mac Mahon, said during the Crimea War - I am here and I am here to stay.

Also, you know: she who laughs last laughs the best.'

[uneatenclient]

murderbot tv show ep 4 reactions/spoilers under cut. it's better again praise be

what

where

who

omg

HEY

DON'T CALL IT GARBAGE

where'd his mask go

omfg this is very accurate to super capitalism and it's bad scoob

"it must be disturbing for humans, knowing their operating system was just a random shuffling of dna" it really is mb it really is

YIPPEE

i don't like this. these limbs are bad. terrible accurate view of construct manufacturing i hate it

none of them know what they're fucking dooooinggg omfg

different gene material obviously

ALL THE TIME??

oh propaganda

he's gonna have nightmares

god the fucking heads in jars

LMFAO I'LL KICK YOUR ASS

you wouldn't last half a second kiddo

mb believe me we do know. on many levels in fact

oof

oh my god

THE FUCKING THEME

I NEED THE WHOLE THING STAT

also this seems like big end of book 4 vibes with only the media left in its head. what, do you not believe youre gonna make it there? you better fucking make it there

LMFAO OH MY GOD

i'm begging i'm pleading for the sonic mining drill

omfg ratthi i love him so much

oh man oh fuck of course this would be in the show. they really do pick the most horrific parts and tbh thank god they didnt tone it down

what kind of alien ass armor

IT'S JUST A FUCKING MACHINE

HOO BOY MENSAH YOU ALREADY KNOW THE TRUTH

I'M SO

"all due respect YOU get back to the fucking hopper"

the way mensah's face journey is like "wtf pin-lee?...i mean you right goddamn"

ooooo she can order them for realsies

pin-lee will remember that

oh my

oh my f

oh my FUCKING GOD

what the rfucking hell omfg

uh oh

cmon mensah

CMON MENSAH

YEAH BOYYYYYYY

USELESS CLIENTS MY ASS

oh dear that's gonna stick with her huh

omg she needed a bigger gun

"don't touch" expressing its feelings and boundaries for the first time? i'm so proud???

the buffer help meeeeee

SHE'S VERY INTIMIDATING OKAY

it is a very cool rule

stop no

you can't use that gun

RATTHI PLEEAAASE

oh that's interesting. module stopped it from fucking with it. really makes you think about what the wrong code can do to constructs

INTREPID GALACTIC EXPLORER

IT SAID IT OUT LOUD

IT SAID IT TO HER

oh my god

THE HAIR

WHAT

HELP ME

HELPPPPP

omg captain mensah

the smiling is lowkey concerning

IT CALLED HER CAPTAIN OUT LOUD

WHAT IS HAPPENING

OH MY FUCKING GOD

can you imagine this shit in the books i'm gonna

i bet it did happen and it removed it from its logs for embarrassment reasons

for fuck's sake ratthi

RATTHI PLEASE

this is so fucking funny but tbh i think it's a little heavy handed for proving that mb really is a person. like they didn't need that shit in the books they don't need it here

MENSAH 2 FOR 2 HOLY SHIT

ratthi oh my fucking god

okay. that's ridiculous. but i'll allow it this once

"i hate eye contact" it's only really honest when its in severe distress 😭😭😭

BASIC GUN SAFETY WE'RE ALL BEGGING YOU RATTHI

i was mega skeptical of how the show dragged out the override module thing but goddamn did it really put more weight and emphasis on what mb was feeling and how much it wanted to NOT kill them and i like that a lot

oh my GOD thank fuck this episode was so much better than the last one.

also completely buckwild are override modules basically drugs for constructs cuz i think what just happened what some kind of trip

also update cuz i forgot last time

[evereverest2]

~LEGACY LM~

THIS SERIES IS CURRENTLY UNDERGOING A REWRITE. FOR THE UPDATE CHAPTERS, FIND THE MASTERPOST HERE.

-

Spilled Wine - Terzomega

2.8k words ~ smut

Terzo asks Omega for another night together. Omega can’t stand his guts.

[warning: terzo is struggling and omega has no sympathy. this fic is pretty angsty and dark, so don’t read if you’re expecting comfort]

i decided to post this one.. i just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

[parts:] next

—

Omega stood idly in the back of the cathedral, listening to Secondo’s sermon. While was not obliged to be there, he liked the atmosphere of being in mass. Human-watching. Studying how they interacted with one another and the worship. Feeling their moods shift from listening to praying. If he just focused on one person praying, he could almost know their thoughts completely based on how their emotions shifted. Sad, hopeful, angered, desperate. He found the art of studying humans an interesting one, such complicated yet simple creatures.

“Enjoying yourself, Omega ghoul?”

Omega shut his eyes in annoyance. He should have sensed him coming.

“Can I help you, cardinal?”

Terzo stood by his side facing forward, but tilted his head at him. “You tease when you call me that. I missed you.” His voice dripped with the alcohol he abused. He smelled sweetly of wine.

“Not now.”

Terzo looked out at the congregation, avidly engaged with Secondo. “No one is looking, carissimo.”

“No.”

In all senses of the word, Omega hated Terzo. He wanted power but avoided responsibility. He was sloppy, useless, and did not have a strong loyalty to the Ministry. He often heard him spreading rumors among the siblings about his slightly older brother, Secondo. Talking to him was a chore in itself, though Omega was obliged to humor him.

“Secondo talks as loud as a garbage truck. They will not hear us, mostriciatto.”

“No.”

Omega suddenly felt his hand on his ass. He disciplined himself to stay still. Even staring straight ahead, he could see Terzo’s mischievous smirk in his mind’s eye. He gave him a decent squeeze.

Though Omega wished to kill him most days, they had been engaged in a secret, sexual tryst that Terzo often liked to invoke. That was what led Terzo to drag his sorry ass out of his quarters to beg Omega for attention.

“Let go,” he growled through grit fangs.

“Make me.”

“You’ll regret this.”

“Will I? Are you threatening your cardinal, mostriciatto?” Terzo teased.

Omega boiled with anger. “It’s not a threat if I do it.”

Terzo slyly moved his hand into his pocket, just barely able to feel the outline of Omega’s dick with the tip of his finger.

Omega seethed.

Terzo said, “Why do you not just come with me? Must you stay here?”

Omega was as silent as stone.

“Do not be like that, you are like a kitty who did not get his food.”

He was committed to his silence. Terzo tried to get his attention again, but Omega elected to walk away. He came towards the other side of the pews, partway to the front of the church where there were witnesses, and Terzo just stared at him from the back of the room. After a few minutes, he disappeared out the door.

Omega blew out a slow breath. Terzo was nasty when he was drunk, which was always.

What they had was circumstantial at best; a cardinal who took too much of a liking to a ghoul, finally convincing him one day to sleep with him. Like a dog fed scraps, he kept coming back with his needy eyes, begging for more. Omega saw little harm in indulging himself, especially when he could take out his anger and abhorrence of the cardinal on him. That was, as long as their affair could be concealed.

After mass, instead of mindlessly following Secondo around for the rest of the night, Omega surrendered to his lust and found himself standing outside the cardinal’s quarters, still in his uniform and mask. He knocked softly, looking carefully down the hallways, before stepping inside.

Terzo was on the ground in front of his couch, his head propped up on the side like he had slid off it. He wore a black suit, his dress shirt unbuttoned halfway, one sleeve rolled up, and his belt undone. He nursed a glass of red wine. Lying next to him was a spilled bottle.

“Omega ghoul,” Terzo murmured, staring at the glass in his hand. “My wine is on the floor.”

Omega, unphased by his intoxication, crossed the room and squatted over him. He grabbed Terzo’s throat, which made him look up.

“Clean it, then.”

His command was clear. The pathetic cardinal swallowed, and Omega roughly let go. Terzo took a drink, set his glass on the ground, and began licking the wine off the floor. Omega grabbed his head, pushing his nose into the hardwood. Terzo released a weak whimper, breathing harshly against the floor.

“Mostriciatto…”

Omega pulled him up by the hair, tilting his head to the side to look at him. He waited expectantly, watching stray red drops run down his cheek.

“You will not kiss me if I keep drinking the floor.”

“I don’t want to kiss you.”

He dropped his head roughly back to the ground. He whimpered.

“Keep cleaning,” Omega grunted.

Terzo’s pink tongue flicked from his lips again.

Terzo irritated Omega. Scum made better company than the drunk bastard skulking around the halls of the ministry. His intoxication made him hard for Omega to read, which annoyed him more that he could not glean his intentions. All he knew was he was oft horny, always drinking, and indignant of his position as cardinal—but only because he said as much.

Terzo started panting. Omega noticed he was shallowly grinding against the floor, clearly desperate for friction. Omega changed his position to kneeling next to him and used his other hand to slam his ass down, gripping tightly and keeping his hips still. His fingers dug into the fabric as hard as they could. Terzo groaned. He tried to thrust himself upwards, but Omega’s grip was strong, and tightened on his hair. He heard him gasp.

“Omega— Please— Let me go—“ Terzo gasped.

Reluctantly he did, realizing Terzo was choking. He rolled on his back and coughed harshly. The outline of his dick was clearly visible in his pants. Even while he gasped for air, he stared at Omega pleadingly. When he had settled, his hand subtly reached down to play with his own bulge.

Omega did nothing, just watched. Terzo got bolder, unbuttoning his pants, pulling them down just below his hips. Before he could reach the prize, though, Omega hoisted him up, carried him to the bed, and threw him on the mattress.

Terzo rolled to his stomach, steadying himself on his knees so that his ass was raised in the air, his pants falling around his thighs. His hand slipped between his legs, his fingers pressing against his asshole. He looked at Omega, his head lying against the bed, with hazy and needy eyes.

He was desperate.

Omega growled, “If you wanted to jerk off by yourself, you shouldn’t have teased me.”

Omega pushed him over, forcing him on his back. He yanked down his own pants and climbed over him. He dangled his dick over Terzo’s face, holding himself over him in what was almost a push-up. Terzo knew what to do, taking it in his mouth obediently. Omega rolled his hips and started fucking his mouth.

Terzo took it well. His hands exploded Omega’s lower half, his fingers slipping around his balls, thighs, and ass. The extra stimulation added to his grunts and moans.

Even as his chest rose more shallowly, as his fingers gripped more tightly, Omega did not let up. The human’s warm, wet mouth was doing wonders to satiate the risen passion burning within him. He knew Terzo had seduced him for his own desires, his need to be treated like shit. Strangers could not mistreat him as well as the hellish fury who he knew already hated him. It was a wonder why Omega bothered to keep coming at all. Perhaps he loved to torture Terzo. It was more vindicating than glaring at him behind the mask silently.

Terzo gripped his thighs, breathing harshly, clearly wanting relief. But Omega was close and he did not want to let up. His throat was a perfect and tight hole for his cock, even if it was choking him. Listening to Terzo struggling to breathe was getting Omega off even more. The more he gasped, the tighter he was.

How he despised him. Enough to cum down his already constricted throat.

Omega lifted himself up with a grunt, standing next to the bed and pulling his pants up. Meanwhile Terzo was doubled over spitting up cum on his bedsheets. He gagged as spit dripped from his mouth, retching like he was close to vomiting. Omega was indifferent.

It took a decent few minutes for Terzo to pull himself together. He laid on his bed, pants still down, his dick now soft from choking for so long. When he could breathe again, he whispered in a raspy voice, “Mostriciatto, will you give me my wine?”

Omega shook his head. Terzo crawled out of bed towards the couch where he had set his wine glass on the floor. He sat against the couch and took a long drink. When it was empty, Omega watched as he crawled to his coffee table to open another bottle, ass out and dick wagging. Not from a lack of shame, but a lack of awareness. He was wasted.

Omega was disgusted. This was the lowest that humanity had to offer. Terzo looked so pathetic he felt, for once, pity.

“Omega ghoul,” he slurred, crawling to again sit against the couch on the ground and pouring wine in his glass. “Will you touch me now?”

His dick noticeably twitched, growing to a half-on. Omega silently shook his head.

“Please.” He looked up at him, his arm swaying in the air before he took a drink. Omega denied him again, turning towards the door.

A sob. Omega stopped. Where before he had felt little through the veil of wine, now there was a surge of misery emanating from Terzo, so strong it strangled his heart. He turned to look at him again.

“You do not like me?” Terzo wailed. “Am I not handsome enough? Do I not choke down your dick? Mostriciatto, you think I am bad in bed, si? No! I am good, I am sexy!”

There was an anguish that ran much deeper than the superficialities he cried about, a pain that Omega had never sensed in him before. It went beyond his intoxication. It was something he hid. He could feel it twisting around every neuron, lurking behind his thoughts. It was impossible— how did he hide this from a quintessence ghoul?

Terzo continued to break down. He took another drink and began pumping his dick, which was not even hard. “I don’t need you for fun, ghoul! I am il maschio, I can do my own!”

He visibly was not into it, gripping onto himself without rise. He continued crying into his wine glass, and though he obviously could not get himself up, he continued to try.

Omega could not stand it any longer. He turned to leave again.

“Wait!”

Terzo scrambled behind him, his glass audibly clattering to the floor. As Omega reached the door, Terzo threw his body against him.

“Don’t leave, caramissio, don’t leave…”

Terzo’s snot and tears soaked into his shirt, to his annoyance.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Do not leave me.”

The sadness flooding from him was overwhelming, unfortunately triggering his sympathy for him. It must have been lonely to be Terzo. Omega knew the only attention he got was when he was spreading rumors and lies, that otherwise he went unnoticed in Secondo’s shadow. Omega was all he had— and Omega hated him.

He tentatively wrapped his arms around Terzo, who readily clung on to him in return, weeping against his chest. Omega gingerly rubbed his back and allowed him to cry.

After a few minutes, he seemed to calm down. Terzo pulled back slightly, looking up at him, his black eyes and lips smeared to all hell. He suddenly grabbed Omega by the crotch.

Omega’s eyebrows knit together in irritation. “Terzo…”

“Please, I want you, mostrichiatto. Just once tonight, fuck me up the ass.”

Omega felt the loathing return to him. Terzo was just a whore, in the end. But he would oblige, because he felt sorry for the pathetic cardinal.

“Fine.”

Omega lifted his slight frame and brought him back to the bed. Again, Terzo was quick to raise his ass in the air, his asshole puckering at Omega greedily.

Omega once again lowered his pants, gave himself a few strokes, knelt behind him, and shoved inside without prep or lube. Terzo groaned painfully, burying his head in his covers. Omega mercifully paused for his benefit, even reaching beneath him to start yanking on his cock.

Terzo tightened and relaxed around him, moaning. He bit his finger, body relaxing with pleasure. When he began pushing his hips back for friction, Omega began thrusting.

Terzo took up the task of stroking himself off so Omega could grip his love handles as he moved. He whined and panted, peeking at Omega over his shoulder. Even with his bizarre eyes, he looked desperately cute. Omega, feeling aggressive as a result, yanked Terzo’s shirt down around his shoulders and raked his claws down his back, just to see his skin turn red and bleed. Terzo moaned at the contact, his head disappearing into the bed again.

Omega grabbed him by the hair and yanked him upwards so that his back was pressed against his stomach. Holding him around the waist with one hand, touching his chest with the other, thrusting all the while. Omega slid his fingers against his nipples, rubbing and pinching them as Terzo whimpered. Terzo kept jerking off all the meanwhile, steeped in his sexual bliss, likely overstimulating himself just to make his mind go blank.

“Carissimo…”

Omega pushed him down again harshly, the bed bouncing with the force. He planted his elbows on either side of his shoulders and thrust quickly into his tight ass, which would clench with every change of movement. Terzo grabbed his wrist with one hand and let the other return to stroking after he had used it to catch himself.

“Carissimo…” Terzo moaned again. Omega did not like his pet names, said to him as if they were more than they were. He voiced his distaste with a bite to his shoulder, deep enough to draw blood. Terzo screamed in pain. He followed it up with harder thrusts, clapping against his body, almost making him lose the balance in his knees. So strong were his thrusts that Terzo started shouting his moans.

He felt Terzo’s arms quickening and could physically feel his orgasm build up in him. Omega focused, feeling the tense string of his arousal threatening to snap. When his mind had found it, he gripped it tightly, stopping him from his release.

It took the drunken Terzo awhile to realize. He was desperately yelling, mumbling incomprehensibly in Italian. He wanted to finish. Omega could feel it take over every cell in Terzo’s body. He wanted the release. He wanted to think of nothing but the floods of chemicals in his mind.

But he didn’t let him.

“You’ll cum when I’m finished,” Omega grunted between thrusts.

Terzo had neither the words nor the capacity to deny him.

Omega had his way with the little man, biting him once more just to hear his pain. The cardinal was a bitch, but he was his bitch. No matter the strange surge of pain and misery Omega had felt from him, no matter his need to be drunk at almost all times, no matter the way he clung to Omega and begged for his companionship. Terzo was nothing. Omega was just using him; That was all they were. Terzo liked it this way. He liked to be hurt by him.

Right?

Omega came again with another vicious bite, and mercifully released his mind hold on Terzo. Terzo jolted with him, and they came together, dripping in synchrony, sighing as one. Again, Omega was quick to stand and pull up his pants, ready to leave at the first opportunity, even if his legs felt more weak than before. He adjusted his mask, his shirt, righting himself until it looked as if nothing has happened at all.

“Omega ghoul…” Terzo said softly, having collapsed on his stomach. “…Will you stay?”

His back and shoulders looked as if he had survived an encounter with a lion. Perhaps he had.

“No.”

He was steely, silent. Terzo was quiet for a moment.

“May I have my wine?”

Omega, haven given up, grabbed the bottle near the couch and handed it to him. Terzo sat up to drink, his eyelids heavy as he gazed at him.

“Please…?” he murmured slowly.

Omega shook his head. He had already stayed longer than he wanted. Holding Terzo all night was too far for what they were.

Nothing. They were nothing.

He took a swig, shaking his head. “Mostriciatto, you asshole.”

Omega took that as his cue to leave, and this time, Terzo did not stop him. He heard the bottle thunk to the ground as he left. Terzo had passed out. Omega did not turn back.

[parts:] next

buy me a kofi <3

[litmot-archived]

Midas

Andrew Marston x Reader

You have a fight with Andrew. It does not end well.

“I hate this so much!” you exclaimed, throwing up your hands in exasperation. The words would not come, and you needed to type up this in-depth review tonight. “I just want to read these lovely little manuscripts and write some silly little notes on the margin, not do this!”

Andrew chuckled tiredly at your theatrics, continuing to chop the carrots for dinner. Today had been particularly challenging at the museum. He had been looking forward to spending the evening with you for the whole day, cooking you dinner and cuddling on the couch until you fell asleep in each other's arms. It was a fail-proof remedy to improve his mood, and he desperately longed to be trapped in your soothing embrace until all his worries melted away like wax under a flame.

“I wouldn’t call the blocks of paper you go through ‘little,��� exactly,” he said, raising an eyebrow at you from the kitchen aisle, “Nor are your comments ‘silly.’ You do your work well and thoroughly, Darling.” Perhaps a little too much of the latter, he reasoned, the sight of your frown as you continued staring daggers at the words in front of you both amused and annoyed him.

You had promised to reduce your working hours. You had promised to call it a day when he got home, no matter the unfinished work. Yet here you were, going back on your word to him.

“Yeah yeah,” you mumbled, waving dismissively as you continued working on the report. “I’m not sure why I’m struggling so much with this, honestly. I know what I want to say, but the words get jumbled when I try to express myself coherently” — you paused, reading over the absolute garbage you had just typed out and deleting it again with a groan, trying again — ”And I don’t see why I should be the one running the numbers here either. What do I have to do with mathematics? Why do they want me to do it?”

“You should really take a break,” he said, trying to drain the impatience from his tone as much as possible. 

It was obvious you were tired, and no matter how much you hated leaving your work unfinished before you allowed yourself to rest, he knew that what still needed doing would get done in at most half the time tomorrow, when your body and mind were rested, than it would take you to do today.

Doing a half-spin, Andrew raised the lid of the cooking pot, adjusting the heat to keep the water from boiling over. “If you can’t finish it, I can always do it for you,” he added absentmindedly, pulling out another pot to cook the carrots. 

His words made you pause, stilling the sound of your typing as they fully registered. An odd feeling of inadequacy washed over you as you looked up at Andrew. Surely, he had not meant to sound condescending. But the wording, the way he phrased it, the careless tone in which he told you that whatever you were struggling with, he could complete with barely any effort at all—

If you failed, he was sure to do it right.

“What,” you began, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice as you dropped your gaze to your half-finished review, “do you think I’m incompetent?”

Your tone must have been flatter than you had meant it to be because Andrew’s head snapped up immediately. “What?” he asked bewildered, confusion evident on his face, “No! Why would you— what are you talking about?”

You scoffed, the hurt his words caused you only now fully settling in. Why had he offered to do it for you instead of simply offering his help? Was that what Andrew thought of you? That you were inefficient, slow, and dragging him down, failing at doing useless little things he wouldn’t even bat an eye at doing?

“Do you think I’m unable to do my own work? Is that it?” you asked, the ache in your heart quickly bleeding into annoyance. You frowned, resuming your work. There was no way you could concentrate and finish this review now that the air between you and Andrew was filled with tension. 

The thought of him being right — that you truly could not finish this on your own right now while he could probably do it in less than twenty minutes — made your jaw clench, further fueling your anger at the situation.

“I never said that!” Andrew exclaimed. His shock at your initial reaction quickly fading into exasperation. This was not the way he had hoped this evening would progress, and the last thing he wanted to do right now — or ever, actually — was fight with you. Especially when he figured that it was your exhaustion making you snap and jump to conclusions. Turning off the stove to give you his full attention, he began with a calmer tone. “Darling, what—?”

“You sure implied it,” you muttered pettily, not looking up even as his footsteps drew closer.

“I did not imply anything,” he said, placing his hands on the kitchen table and looking at you closely. 

You still refused to meet his gaze, keeping your eyes fixed on the screen. He was growing tired of it, his fried nerves from a long day at work adding to his own irritability. So knowing all your files were saved automatically, he pushed your laptop shut. 

“Look at me when you accuse me of things at least. Frankly, I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up over, so how about you explain it to me instead of acting out dramatics.”

“Oh, ‘acting dramatic,’ am I?” you scoffed, annoyance turning into outright anger as you rose to your feet as well. “At least I don’t waltz it everywhere and declare that I can do everything perfectly and with no effort at all unlike some people, just because I’m a few years older and held a damn professorship!”

Andrew’s expression darkened, his mood souring further as he listened to your opinion of him. “I don’t know how I did not fail you in literature,” he said, his tone of voice reverting to his flat academic monotone, “evidently you are abhorrent at reading between the lines.”

The angry reply died on your tongue as his words sunk in, and you blinked at him Once. Twice. 

Silence hung heavy between you two as you looked at him speechless. His words reminded you of the power imbalance that had hung over your heads and, while it never truly felt that way, it was undeniably there all the same. 

Although you had been the one to bring it up, it still knocked the breath out of you to hear Andrew wield his power over you.

“Wait, Darling, no. That was—” he stuttered, running a hand through his hair nervously. He was frustrated. This was the opposite of what he wanted. The argument was bleeding into a fight, and he feared that he had escalated it now even though he had set out to do the opposite. “I didn’t mean to—”

You only shook your head once, expression blank as you straightened and walked away towards the entrance hall. He watched you, the gears in his head turning for a moment until he heard the rustling of your coat. He dashed to the door. 

“Where are you going?” he asked around the lump in his throat, hands balled into fists to stop them from shaking as an argument that happened years ago flashed before his eyes. 

The last part he saw of his brother was his back, disappearing behind the slam of the front door as he walked away from him. The last thing Andrew said to him was a tearful ‘I’m sorry,’ nearly drowned out by the church bells tolling for mass. It was not enough neither to keep him from leaving nor for him to stay in Andrew’s life.

His brother disappeared entirely when he stepped through that door, and perhaps he would have managed to slip from Andrew’s mind as well if he didn’t stare back every time he looked at himself in the mirror.

“Out,” you answered briskly, putting on your shoes.

“What do you mean ‘out’?” he asked, his voice shaking slightly. 

He could not bear the thought of you leaving, could not face the possibility that this could be it — you could walk away from him just like that, shattering his heart and leaving a mess of broken shambles in your wake that he would never have the energy to place together again.

“When will you be back?” Andrew asked, heart racing as he wracked his brain for a way to get you to stay when he saw you pick up your keys. ”Where—”

“Just out, Andrew!” you said with more force than necessary. “I need to clear my head.”

Andrew panicked, the image of his brother disappearing behind a slammed door making him tremble. 

“Running away from conflict, are you?” he said shakily, his tone as daunting as he could manage. If you continued your argument, that meant you would stay. He could turn this around and keep you from leaving. If you were screaming at him, at least you were still here. “How mature of you.”

The anger flashing in your eyes at his words felt like a newly ignited fire. “Immature, am I?” you spat, stepping towards him. “How rich coming from you,” you said, pointing an accusing finger at him, “Your favorite movie is a child’s movie!”

Andrew clenched his jaw. Bringing up his childhood, one of the most vulnerable sides of him and one that had taken him a lot of courage to trust you with, felt like a stab in the heart. It hurt hearing you use it to make a point. 

It hurt hearing you use the trust he put in you against him. Rationally, he knew you didn’t mean it; the words were spoken in anger. Still, it was hard not to take them to heart, especially with how closely connected this part of himself was to his brother. 

Andrew stiffened, his back straightening as if the walls he was rebuilding around himself drew him up as well. “I have achieved more in my career than you ever will!” he retaliated, panic overshadowed by hurt and anger.

You let out a huff of laughter, looking at him incredulously. “You’re so arrogant. I can’t believe I’ve never seen it before. What, you think academic validation is everything?” you scoffed, shaking your head. “At least I managed to make friends during my time in university because I’m not an insufferable, uptight, perfectionist asshole so full of himself because—”

You cut yourself off, biting back the insult. 

“Because what?” Andrew asked challengingly. “Go on. Or are you too much of a coward to speak your mind?”

Your expression darkened. The irony of being called a coward when you were the reason this relationship developed in the first place left a bitter taste on your tongue. 

“Because mommy and daddy never taught you how to make a mistake,” you finished flatly, relishing the expression of hurt flashing across Andrew’s face and wiping away the self-satisfied smirk. 

He felt like he’d been slapped. 

All the trust he had put into you, opening up about his difficult family relations — his parents, his brother — ultimately leading him to be alone in the world, was now thrown carelessly at his feet. You stomped on his heart, taking all his secrets and insecurities, and laughed in his face.

Blinking away tears, he clenched his fists. “At least I don’t struggle with basic mathematics and English,” he retaliated, raising his voice to hide how it shook, “because I actually spent my time studying instead of ogling my professor!”

“Are you calling me stupid you prodigy?” you screamed. 

“What if I am?” Andrew screamed back, holding your gaze. “Do try to keep up with me, but oh” — he chuckled condescendingly — “I forget. You’re too slow. How I put up with you daily is a mystery even I haven’t figured out yet.”

His words made your heart sink. Was this what he thought of you? You still hadn’t fully forgiven yourself for being the reason he quit his job at the university. Having the confirmation of your deepest fears — that you were a burden to him, that you were too stupid, too slow for his excellent mind — tore you apart. 

You averted your gaze, turning from him to hide the tears in your eyes. He did not say anything as you dashed to the door with a choked-off sob, letting it fall shut behind you without sparing him another glance. 

It made you miss the immediate regret appearing on his face, his wide eyes as he processed his words and their implications. He stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the shut door as if willing you to walk back over the threshold. 

Andrew was alone again. 

[candlelightreader]

On Bad Endings and 911 as a Prime Example (because the show is very dead to me but I want to process why)

I was watching this video (below) on bad ways to write endings last night and it was funny to see how many 911 fell into. I am likely not even gonna touch on Athena. I think I've said all I wanted to say on that. They really hate thay poor Black woman and it is quite simple, really. Not much there.

The essay makes pretty good cases overall. Somehow, Bobby's arc and the whole season manage to hit many bad endings that he lists:

The Rushed Ending

Just the episode itself where Bobby is killed does not provide any space for his death. While it could have been realism, they spent the bulk of the time on nonsense only for his death to just be a blip in the scheme of things. There was no respect for what the character had been through or who they are, nor time to give the audience time to absorb it. Being realistic about what being a firefighter is does not mean you can't tell a good story about how they are killed, if you decide to go there. So yes, it was a rushed ending that was then followed with a terrible aftermath where the remaining characters completely didn't give anything worth anyone's while.

None of the grief was believable to me. The funeral took only about 2 minutes? Fuck all that. Then the finale was useless, predictable, and made me feel only anger. I was not touched by any of it. I frankly don't even care for that baby. None of it hit any cord.

Outside Force Saves the Day

This is meant to refer to deus ex machina and it doesn't really apply here. Not explicitly. However, an argument can be made that they killed Bobby in such a really convoluted way, and the series of events leading to it are so nonsensical, that it led to so many of us thinking there is no way it just went down like that. You failed to stick the landing because you just brought in a ridiculous plot just to achieve that end.

Ending in the Middle

Just... How dare you kill a beloved, top of the bill character on a random Thursday, not even give them a big finale or big series opener if you had to do it? Just boom, dead, then it's keep going to a feel good finale like fucking nothing major happened? What seismic shifts? Incredible.

This also can apply to Tim Minear jumping in out of nowhere at all to kill Bobby just as a ploy to, what, make things more interesting for the rest of season? Just no substance or nuance, no subtlety. Just the finesse of a wrecking ball.

Changing Topics/Genres

This is the biggest one that I think applies here. People had bought into a little show where everyone lives and the worse things are in people's private lives. This was a show Peter Krause once described as a comic book. You just know they will fall, dust themselves off, and keep going. It's not worth less. We need this in these times. It was a drama comedy that worked as its own thing.

Instead, after eight years of creating crazy scenarios where main characters just survived everything convincingly within the logic of the show, you went and made it a sad little show that picks and chooses when to be realistic? Such garbage.

Unearned Happy Endings

That whole shitty finale was unearned. None of it felt genuine. The characters are all over the place. It was mocking to audiences. And worst of all, it tried to gloss over the big thing it tried to tell us was such an shift. What fucking shift? (See last point below about predictability.)

It was All A Dream

This one also doesn't really apply because frankly I'm willing to believe that s7-8 was all a bad dream that Athena is having on the honeymoon. All of it has been very Alice in Wonderland levels of surreal.

Unsolved Mysteries

Tell us again how a suicidal man sacrificing himself for his team is good storytelling? And what was it again about him, a fire captain who has almost died so many times, doesn't have his wish for his last rites written already so that his widow will not have to agonize over it? And tell us again what the point was for Athena to be involved with him if he dies anyway? She was better off just living her life solo because as it stands he didn't even leave her anything, not even a house or a grave!

Predictable Endings

Naming that baby after Bobby? Really? So fucking transparent. The whole building collapse just for her and Chim to be locked into it for them to make up? And don't tell me everyone did not see Graham being more seriously injured than he said coming from miles away? It was another fuck you to Athena for good measure, as well as the audience. Because why dare to be different by giving us a happy and lived Black woman on a TV drama.

Now, it could also be, if Bobby is alive, that the Graham near death was a way to say that actually he was revived after they all thought he was dead. Then again it would be very predictable (coupled with the whole plot of the fake baby burial), but it woukd then count as Checkov's gun. But if so, I still don't see what taking everyone through this did. It would be very "all a dream" trope that was a waste of time to us all, including the characters. They knew they were a family already. Athena did not deserve that kind of grief. And there was nothing new forged other than deciding out of nowhere that Hen doesn't wanna be captain after all. That Karen and Athena scene was such ridiculousness, for instance.

[fragilefable]

don't look too far, right where you are, that's where i am.

Pairing: Joel Miller x GN!Reader Summary: As you battle a seasonal flu, your partner Joel makes sure that you don't have to lift a finger. Warnings: sick fic, soft/ooc!Joel, cursing, brief mention of loss of appetite due to sickness, in depth descriptions of being sick, suggestive flirting (nothing crazy), probably too much domestic fluff, established relationship, kissing.

Word Count: 1.1K Currently Playing: Mariners Apartment Complex by Lana Del Rey ♪

A/N: this is completely self indulgent as I am currently writing this on my death bed (i have the flu). so please accept this oneshot while i finish proofreading another (way longer) fic that i've been working on for a long time! also please keep my immune system in your thoughts/prayers :(

As the color of the leaves became warmer, the Wyoming air turned colder. Another autumn in Jackson came and went. With this seasonal shift came great advantages: Infected became slower, as did Raiders and Hunters. It also came with disadvantages–– sickness being one of them. The Cordyceps Infection plagued every inch of the Earth, but this disease was far more unavoidable. 

Your body ached with each minute movement. The sheets were damp with sweat. Your throat dry, as if you were backpacking in the Arizonian heat, your tin canteen bone dry. Pressing the back of your hand to your forehead, you groaned: You definitely had a fever. Removing your clammy hand, you extend an arm in search of a familiar warmth, only to find the left side of the bed empty. 

A raspy cough escapes your lips as you call out for your partner, "Joel?" Your call is met with a heavy silence, daylight filling the empty bedroom. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. A smile threatens your cracked lips when you spot a glass of water and two painkillers on the nightstand beside a note embellished with familiar chicken scratch: "Went to the market, be home soon. Love ya."

You weakly chuckled as you popped the two pills in your mouth, chasing them with the lukewarm water. A shiver ran down your spine as you threw the covers off your body. Groaning softly, you stood up and extended your arms above your head, permitting the sore muscles a moment of reprieve. Padding over to the dresser, you lazily pulled on one of Joel's flannels and a pair of grey sweatpants. You took a moment to inhale through your stuffy nose, basking in the warm, woodsy scent of his shirt.

It took you an embarrassing amount of time to descend the stairs; your tired limbs were heavy like sandbags, effectively weighing you down. Shuffling into the living room, you collapsed on the worn leather couch. You were useless in this state, resolute to hibernate until this illness left your body. Curling into the couch cushions, you allow your eyelids to droop shut as sleep overtakes your body once again. 

A familiar weight sinks beside you on the couch, just barely rousing you from your slumber. The warmth of Joel's hand rested briefly on your forehead and then on your cheek. You hum in response, nestling closer against the callouses of his palm. He chuckles softly, "Hey Darlin'. How ya feelin'?" Your eyes flutter open, taking a mental photograph of his chill-flushed cheeks: "Like shit." 

A sympathetic smile graced his hardened face, causing you to frown. You were tough–– you had to be. There was no room for weakness or fragility in a post-apocalyptic world. But you truly felt like utter, complete garbage. Joel's large hands wander the expanse of your back, gently massaging the strained muscles. As much as you didn't want to burden him, you couldn't deny that his attention was helping to alleviate some of the discomfort: "You don't have to fuss over me, Joel. I'm a grown-up. I can take care of myself." 

Joel hums in acknowledgment, applying more pressure to the tight knot right below your neck where your spine starts: "I know, baby. I want to. Lemme take care of you." You hesitate but eventually nod softly, your body sinking further into the plush leather. Joel's hands knead your back muscles with such care and precision that any tension immediately dissipates. 

Slowly, you push yourself up, clutching your neck in discomfort. "Your throat hurt?" Joel beckons from beside you, one of his arms slung over the back of the couch–– his fingers absentmindedly caressing the exposed skin of your shoulder. You nod weakly, causing him to stand and wander towards the kitchen abruptly, "Went to the market and picked up some of that tea y'like. Got some soup, too." 

You follow his path to find him unpacking the canvas tote, setting each item on the granite counter. "Thank you, baby. 'M not really hungry though," you stand behind him, arms wrapped around his torso. You press a kiss on his clothed back in between his shoulder blades, eliciting a soft groan from Joel: "Why don't you go take a shower, and I'll get you that tea?" 

Your arms tighten around his tall frame, "Are you sayin' I smell, Miller?" Joel laughs gruffly, "No. 'M sayin' you need to relax if you wanna get better." You separate from him, brushing a stray curl from his face: "Mhm. You just wanna get me naked." He smirks, placing a hand on your waist and pulling you flush against him— his gaze darts between your eyes and lips. You place your hands on his chest and softly protest, "Joel... We can't, you'll catch it too."

He scoffs, "Don't care. Your germs are my germs, darlin'." His lips capture yours; the kiss is chaste but affectionate. His teeth gently tug at your bottom lip, tongue swiping across the subtle indents he left. He pulls away, his thumb caressing your chin: "Now go before I change my mind." 

Rolling your eyes, you trudge up the stairs to your and Joel's shared bathroom. You turn on the shower, allowing the room to fill with steam. You lather your body with herbal soaps made by one of the older women who work in the greenhouse. It smelled of lavender and thyme–– it smelled of Joel. 

After turning off the faucet, you wrap yourself in a large terrycloth towel. Worn and slightly miscolored, but clean nonetheless. When you descend the staircase, the overwhelming scent of chamomile fills your nostrils, accompanied by the mellow chords of an acoustic guitar. A smile breaks across your face at the sight laid in front of you: Joel perched on the worn fabric of the couch with his guitar idly sat in his lap, his deft fingers plucking the strings. 

Your body collapses next to his, head lolling to the side before it rests against his shoulder. "Did the shower help?" His chest rumbles, fingers continuing to play a song from before the outbreak; the name escapes you. "Yes, it did. But this helps more," you bring your knees close to your chest. You relish in Joel's body heat; that man always was a goddamn furnace. 

Joel set the guitar against the coffee table, repositioning until your body fully leaned against him. A pair of strong arms wrapped around your torso, "Is there anythin' else I can do f'you darlin'?" You shook your head, "Can we just stay like this for a little while?" A deep chuckle escaped him, "That I can do." As your eyes slipped closed once more, you felt a pair of warm lips press against your hairline and listened as Joel's breathing evened out. The sound soothing you to sleep like your very own lullaby. 

© 2023 fragilefable do not plagiarize, translate, or repost my writing to any other site.

divider by @saradika

[glade-constellation]

I know I’m getting overly obsessed with a character when I pull out the physical paper and pencil.

So far during the rewatch of TSAMS, I’ve been typing all my notes in Discord. Tonight, though, something was urging me to physically write stuff down. Anything not related to Eclipse was still typed, but Eclipse has officially gotten a spot in our notebook for character analysis.

Like, fun fact, Killcode called Eclipse his child before he did Bloodmoon. Completely unprompted as well. He only called Bloodmoon his child as a bribe to get them on his side. Even threatened Bloodmoon if they ever decided to attack his “son”. Eclipse was obviously Killcode’s favorite before something happened to change it to Bloodmoon. Especially since Killcode didn’t see Bloodmoon as his actual child when they first teamed up. They were just a means to getting Eclipse.

There’s also a moment in a previous episode where Eclipse is acting as Sun to get Moon angry, and says something along the lines of “you’re just like Eclipse”. While it was definitely a poke at Moon, I wonder how much Eclipse actually believes that statement. Moon/Killcode says the line, “I’m a useless hunk of garbage scrapped virus that you had to pry out of your head, in order to ‘not feel so much pain’.” The statement was directed at who he thought was Sun at the time, but sounds an awful lot like how Eclipse felt about Moon. With how Eclipse has canonically been shown to have guilt over his actions, I feel Eclipse internalizes that statement. He subconsciously views himself as useless and a nuisance. Due to that, he acts like he does so he can’t be disappointed if when people don’t like him. He knows it’s wrong, which explains the guilt, but he only sees himself as a bad guy. So why try to be anything different?

Eclipse is constantly being rotated in my brain under a microscope. I need to understand him.

[spookyrea]

Something About Us

You're stuck waiting for the bus in a torrential downpour. Conrad offers to keep you company (and later, to warm you up).

(part of a larger series of vignettes about navigating life, love, and monsters with one James Conrad.)

Warnings: none! | read it on AO3 here

You stand under the lab’s narrow awning, watching a tropical storm batter the pavement. The wind carries the rain at an angle, whipping mud puddles into a thick mist that leaves your legs prickling uncomfortably with the cold. You had the forethought to wear a jacket but your umbrella lies inside, useless, at the bottom of a garbage can, decommissioned by a fatal gust earlier this morning.

“Dreadful weather, isn’t it?” A warm voice and an even warmer body joins you under the awning. Whatever James Conrad is doing in the lab is beyond you – he’s not a researcher, nor a tech, so outside of delivering mission reports he has little reason to be on this end of the Monarch campus.

That hasn’t stopped him from becoming a constant in your day-to-day life, though. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Had to get my shots.”

“Right.” It’s a lie – more likely that he’s spent the afternoon being briefed on some top secret reconnaissance endeavour that’s above even your clearance level.

“Are you waiting for the bus?” He curls just that bit closer, his voice calculatedly casual. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him against your arm, his body half turned so that you are parallel to his underbelly, to the space where his jacket is wide open and vulnerable to the chill. It’s a space just big enough for you to slot in, if you wanted. 

“Yep.” The researchers’ barracks are within walking distance, technically, but they’re at the very edge of the base, farther than any of the other accommodations from the central hub. “Which means I have to sit,” you nod toward the lone bench on the side of the road, “right there.”

The lab door opens; instead of stepping away to let them through, Conrad crowds up into your space, so you’re pressed shoulder-to-chest, leaving just enough room for the janitor to slip by on his way to the barracks. He’s appropriately dressed for the weather, at least, in a raincoat and hat, and heads off in the opposite direction toward the pub.

“I could share,” Conrad says, unfolding his umbrella, “as long as you promise to behave.”

“Behave?”

“Mhm.”

“You ask too much of me,” you say, though you don’t deny yourself the pleasure of looping your arm through his as you start toward the bench.

It’s not a very large umbrella so you both have to huddle to stay under it. In weather such as this, though, it’s nearly useless; the rain seems to come at you from every angle, stirred up by the wind, and the asphalt swims with  a couple inches of water. You regret wearing suede shoes – there’s no way you’ll get these stains out.

“It was a typing day, then?”

“Hmm?”

Conrad nods at your calves, now shiny with rainwater. “You’re wearing a skirt. You don't wear skirts in the lab.”

“Oh.” Something warm thrills in your chest at the knowledge that he’s taken notice. “Yes. Reports to write. Forms to sign. Any excuse to dress up, you know…”

“So the day hasn’t been a complete write off. Since you got to… dress up.”

It’s not necessarily vanity – you just like the feeling of putting yourself together in the morning. Of matching your shoes to your hat, or coordinating your lipstick with your mood. Some of the techs and more than a few of the privates make fun of you for it, jeeringly calling you nicknames like Scientist Barbie or Private Monroe. Even those who are nicer about it have begun calling you ‘ doll’ and, in true military fashion, the nickname is near-permanent.

“I did.” A jeep rolls by and you have to pull your feet back to avoid getting splashed. “And now I’m kind of regretting it.”

“Oh come on, doll. It’s just a bit of rain.”

You don’t mind when Conrad calls you doll. His accent curls it a little, makes it less leering and more affectionate. He gets this look to his eyes, a puppy-dog kind of expression you’re glad hasn’t been carved away by the horrors Monarch subjects you to every day.

“You’re not going out tonight? Weaver thought the two of you would make good money destroying those transplant recruits, the ones from the base off the coast of British Columbia.”

“Not tonight. Figured I would give someone else the chance to win for once.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“Thoughtful? No, no – I’m stoic, remember? Rugged. You can’t slander my name like that. I just want to bide my time to make them complacent.”

You laugh; the look Conrad shoots you is unimpressed, his mouth turned down in a pout, but you can see the slightest curl of amusement behind his eyes. “Sorry,” your fingers wander with a mind of their own, pushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead. “It’s just hard to take you seriously when you’re all wet.”

“It’s raining,” he deadpans. “You’re wet. We’re both wet. ‘Wet’ is neutral at this point.”

The wind howls as if summoned, syphoning the rain into the collar of your blouse. Your nylons are soaked through, the hem of your skirt so saturated that it clings to your calves. His shirt is equally wet, slippery under your hand when you lean into his chest to muffle another laugh. Conrad tucks himself closer still, scooting up the bench so that you are half wrapped up in the circle of his arms, as if he means to shield you from the rain with his body instead. His left hand, the one not holding the umbrella, threads through one of yours and draws it under the lapel of his jacket, tight to the space just under his heart.

The bus’s headlights cut through the rain a little ways ahead. A twinge of disappointment stirs in your belly as it approaches. As cold and wet as you are, there is something nice about being this entangled.

Conrad ushers you to your feet under the pretence of keeping you under the umbrella, his hand riding low on your back, just shy of friendly territory. You don’t think it’s intentional, though – you suspect that, like yourself, he is an audience to his own body, watching it respond to yours unconsciously.

The inside of the bus is superheated compared to the weather outside. You’re the only passengers – it’s a weekend, so everyone is probably already in bed or playing pool at the base pub. You lead Conrad to the very back of the bus by his index finger, looped around your pinky. You think it’s too intimate, to try and hold his hand outright, so you settle for this, if only for the excuse to keep touching him.

A cassette tape soothes through the bus’s radio; new records and a decent radio signal are nearly impossible to come by on the base, meaning your only lifeline to pop culture comes in the form of your twice-monthly trips off base and the occasional recon mission abroad. This tape is probably a couple years old; you don’t recognize the voice or melody.

Water pools under the umbrella where it lies between Conrad’s feet, spilling out along the grooves in the bus’s rubber floor. You shift in your seat and Conrad’s knee is quick to follow yours, so he never loses the weight of you against his leg. “I’m dreaming of a hot shower right now,” you sigh. “Dry clothes – what a luxury. When I get back state-side I’m moving to the desert where I’ll never be this damp again.”

“Area 51, then?”

“No. Somewhere completely, utterly boring. Adjunct professor, maybe. University of Arizona.”

“Hmm. I’m not convinced. I give you three months before you’re crawling back to the jungle to take more of those little smears or slices or whatever they’re called.”

“I would be a great professor, thank you very much.”

“Of course you would.” His fingers trail under your sleeve, admiring the skin over your pulse point. “You’d have a full class every semester, I reckon.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm. Though the demographic might be a little skewed.”

“Ah. Business students looking for an easy grade.”

He laughs. “Not quite. I was thinking something along the lines of teenage boys making excuses to come to your office hours. At least, I would, um… I, well…”

“Oh.” The bus rocks as it eases over a speedbump. Conrad winces, looking a little regretful at his revealing joke. It’s maybe the most blatant he’s ever been with his affections for you. You imagine for a smooth talker like himself, it must be difficult to be tongue-tied.

Taking pity, you try to move on. “The hot shower might be a pipe dream at this point. I’ll be lucky if the water is lukewarm in the barracks.”

His shoulder bumps yours when he sinks backward into his seat. “A perk of being so indispensable: private bathroom.”

“Ugh! I hate you right now. I actually really do.”

“The hot water runs out quickly, if it makes you feel better.”

“Well if you’re only one man, that’s not an issue. Twenty, all in one bunk… The stuff of nightmares.”

Neither of you acknowledges the fact that you work with real, living nightmares on a daily basis. Nightmares with teeth and acid drool. Instead, you trace the side seam of his jeans with your pinky finger.

The bus groan under the weight of the storm outside as the first flash of lightning tears through the sky.

Conrad watches you watch him. An understanding yawns in the narrowing space between you, grown heavy and swollen with a latent charge that needles your skin. Your whole body thrums; for all the discomfort - the tight chest, the hammering heart - you think you'll find relief in him, in his mouth, like a lightning rod. 

“You could always join me,” he says slowly.

“Mhm,” you mumble. “I could.”

“It’s… and after, with two bodies in one bed… much warmer than the barracks.”

“Much.”

“Don’t even need to worry about dry clothes.” His nose brushes your cheek.

“Because we won’t be wearing any.”

“Exactly.”

The bus bounces off a pothole. The two of you collide inelegantly, shoulders and chins bashing, fingers scrabbling in each others’ clothes as you both nearly slide out of your seats. It shocks you both into a proper seated position, backs ramrod straight, eyes forward, your hands tangled in a knot.

You roll to a stop outside of the private quarters – Conrad’s stop. Yours is two more away at the end of the loop. 

“The offer still stands,” he says gruffly, not looking at you. He peels himself off the velour seat slowly, making a show of shaking out his coat.

“Don’t forget your umbrella.”

He waves it away. The spell over you seems to have been broken; there is a significant arch to his shoulders that exudes displeasure. “You’ll need it. It’s a longer walk to the barracks from the bus stop than it is here.”

He climbs off the bus, leaving you reeling and a little lonely. You watch him trudge through the rain toward the private lodging complex where the higher-ranked staff live. Not quite it's own house – closer to a dormitory than anything – but he gets his own room and bed.

It’s a short journey to the next stop, only a couple minutes’ drive, and you spend it stewing. These barracks are for the soldiers and labourers; there’s a gravel path connecting their courtyard to the private quarters’. The lab staff’s housing has no such thing – it was built almost as an afterthought, right against the edge of the bluff.

You descend from the bus and start the walk back toward the private housing.

You find Conrad’s name on the list outside his building and dial him. The intercom rings and rings and rings, so long that you start to get nervous and steel yourself for what is sure to be a dreadful walk back.

His voice is rough, even through the tiny speaker. “Hello?”

“I–” You what? You find yourself at a loss for an answer. “We weren’t done talking.”

“Doll? Jesus, one–” the intercom cuts out. You shuffle your weight from one foot to the other, your hands gone cold and numb.

Conrad is wearing a dry shirt and a pair of gingham-print boxers, and his hair stands up at awkward angles, half-dry already. “Did you walk?”

“Only one stop.”

“Come inside you silly thing.” He corrals you through the front door and down the hall, toward his room. You’re not sure if this housing is co-ed – despite the recent push to allow women equal employment, military organisations (particularly private ones) tend to be quite exclusionary – so you try to keep your voice low, lest you get caught.

“Take your jacket off. Take everything off, actually, you’re going to freeze to death.”

You laugh. Your jacket joins his over the back of a chair – standard issue, plain teakwood beside a matching desk. “I thought that was what the shower was for.”

“Tell me you didn't just come here for a shower.”

“No. I was promised a warm bed, too.”

His eyes soften just the faintest bit. “Ah, yes. Understandable.”

His fingers start on the top button of your blouse, watching your face for any signs of reticence. “Come along, little doll,” he murmurs, drawing you backward toward the ensuite. “Let’s get you warm.”

It only occurs to you that you left his umbrella on the bus the next morning.

[cresent971]

When people treat this man like garbage it angers me i don't know what he's done to deserve this horrible treatment but people actually needs to stop their ways this is not funny anymore I'm tired of people disrespecting Michael Jackson and throwing his name in the mud this has angered me so much it's not funny anymore people who do these things deserve proper punishments for their actions not every single day I get infuriated and annoyed people should really stop disrespecting Michael Jackson and throwing his name in the mud like he's a horrible person I'll never fully understand why people still in 2024 have the audacity to want his money and slander him in the most damning way possible this has to stop immediately this is not funny anymore I am fed up already this is a Neverending battle that people still continue this madness they need to stop degrading that man like that and making fun of him and being immature as well this is not funny at all people should actually stop disrespecting Michael Jackson and being immature as well the mocking has to stop as well this is why I left Facebook completely because people these days really don't know when to actually stop being immature and childish this makes me question the reality that people on Facebook are childish and immature and selfish and disrespectful and inappropriate nowadays they have no respect for Michael Jackson or the other celebrities that have passed away in recent years and this year alone I'm not happy anymore I'm so over people thinking they have the right to start causing mayhem around others like that this type of behavior will get them in severe trouble already I do not have the patience nor desire or the energy to deal with immature people anymore if people cannot stop this madness already they will be in a world of trouble i cannot recall how many times that people will straight up do these things and embarrass Michael Jackson even though he's not alive anymore and i get tired of people saying he's alive ok first of all he's not alive it's been 16 years now dead people do not come back to life at all this has to be the most dumbest thing I've had to endure this is dumb and idiotic I'm not even sure what to say anymore this is absolutely pathetic and useless if people are this dumb and oblivious to believe that then they are morons i don't believe the lies or allegations or rumors about Michael Jackson this makes me wonder why people still think they can just ruin someone's life without even realizing what they are doing is disrespectful and rude do not be going around doing these things i don't know how many times I've actually had to fight idiots on Facebook for their immature and childish ways Facebook needs to be banned permanently I'm sorry but this is ridiculous Facebook is a toxic cespit full of immature people and scammers I'm really hoping they will permanently ban Facebook so that i don't have to deal with that nightmare this is absolutely ridiculous I'm over this madness anyways

[galact1c-ambition]

Midas and Firth's First Meeting

Short fic I wrote back in October! Thought I'd share some Spoonstraw lore since I haven't been drawing them much despite them never leaving my mind

"I'll be late! Konche is counting on me and I'll be late!" a sea bunny cried from the main room of New Carcinia's museum. "I have to get to the surface now or I'll miss the sunset!" He ran out the main doors, completely focused on his goal...until he forgot he needed to focus on where exactly he was walking, and ended up tumbling down the stairs. Luck was not on his side today, as passing by during his tumble was a hermit crab with a large wagon of trash. The gastropod crashed right into it, knocking out a portion of its luggage. "I'm so sorry! I have a lot of issues seeing things, I didn't mean to bump into your wagon!" He scrambled to pick up the spilled garbage.

"Don't sweat it. Nothing looks dented, so I won't charge you this time!" the hermit chuckled, as he grabbed more of the spilled rubbish. "A good businesscrab never puts all his shells in one butt, after all! Where were you going, anyways?"

"Oh, me? I'm heading to the surface. I want to watch the sunset from above the water." The slug spoke softly. He knew most of New Carcinia saw his job as useless. What reason was there to study outside the ocean? The hermit looked intrigued, however. "Oh, are you the new astronomer? Cool! Be careful up there, wouldn't want you to dry out!"

The two smiled as they cleaned the rest of the trash. They rested against the wagon, panting and fanning themselves from the hard work. The hermit looked over at the sea bunny. "So...what's your name, anyways? I know you're not just 'the new astronomer.'"

"Midas. My family thought it'd bring them good fortune." He answered with a smile. "I'm Firth. Don't erode it."

"So..." Midas started. "What are you doing with that wagon?"

"Shell trading! It's a great business. I get shiny new shells, my buyers get shiny old shells...it's a win-win!" Firth smiled. "I was just bringing some trash in from the Shallows. They're all some pretty rare finds!"

Midas stood back up and moved away from the wagon. "It's almost time for the sunset! I'm so sorry to leave, but I can't miss this! I have to record it for the museum!" He started to run off. "Oh, it was nice meeting you! Good luck trading those shells!"

"Midas, wait!" Firth called out. "Would you...like to meet me at the bar tomorrow?" Midas looked disappointed. "I'm afraid I can't afford it."

"Don't worry. I've got enough to cover both of us. My treat." Firth waved goodbye and smiled as he pulled his wagon along the pathway to Shellfish Desires. Midas couldn't believe it. Did he just make a friend? Did he get asked out on a date? He's been oblivious to both, so he couldn't quite tell. Regardless, he was still determined to reach the surface.

He swam up until he found a small, damp rock, and he laid on it, watching the sun fall and moon rise. He hadn't ever seen it like this before. It was breathtaking. It wasn't long before the stars appeared, forming a spiral as they always had. Their sparkling reflected back into his eyes. He gave them a grin and dived back into the sea, ready to report his sights to Konche.