#i love data smearing!

[azraeldigabriel]

A bunch of court cases crossed my desk today from our city attorney himself, specifically because he knows I’m a workaholic and can’t resist cases with tons of coding work lmao

[chiaraswritings]

No Going Back

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel or their settings. This is certainly not canon.

Warnings & Topics: Slight angst, fluff, cursing, unhappy relationship, bride leaving wedding, fem x fem relationship. 18+.

Word Count: 2K words

Summary: (fem!Reader x Natasha Romanoff) fem!Reader is about to be married to a man she doesn't love, but her crush and best friend, Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow), rescues her just in time.

Author's Note: Okay, let's maybe not run away from our weddings in real life, that's pretty traumatic to the person waiting at the altar. Still, it's romantic to fantasize about, especially when it's the confident Black Widow whisking you away. Thank you for all your support. I hope you enjoy.

What do you do when the moment you've thought about your entire life happens? How do you manage it? How do you stay calm? What if it's something you don't even want?

My mind was racing, my hands were shaking. I accidentally smeared my lip stain and nearly dropped the open tube on the white dress. The itchy heirloom dress that I didn't want to wear. It was my mother's, grandmother's, aunt's, cousin's. It was stiff, the sleeves puffed out, and pearls had been beaded across most of the seams. The poor dress had been tweaked and pinned and let out many times and looked seconds away from falling into pieces on the floor. And yet there I was, sitting in front of the church's vanity with the chipped paint, getting ready to marry the perfect man.

The perfect man. To be fair, he was perfect. His eyes were kind and his hands were gentle. I'd never heard him utter a sharp word. He was the kind of man that made women melt in the street. The kind of man my mother would practically force upon me.

I thought of all the people in my life I'd ever loved, my mind reviewing them like flipping through a catalog. Men with shiny smiles and sweet words, it was nothing new. And yet, there was someone that stood out. Someone who was drastically different from the others.

My mind settled on her. The person who knew my deepest, darkest secrets and my most painful scars. We'd met when she started coming to the café I used to work at a few years ago, collecting data on a barista there, yes, but after the case was closed she kept coming back, asking me to make me my own favorite drink every time. She hated the drink, I could tell, because she never finished it. She would linger at the counter for a few minutes, and if there wasn't a line I'd chat with her. Then she'd leave in a rush, "forgetting" the drink she had ordered.

Now, we were closer than "beers in a six pack", as she would say. She knew my favorite ways to be touched, that spot on my neck that made me tremble when she "accidentally" brushed her fingers against it. I didn't remember when I fell in love with her, or when the flirty remarks or brushes of hands against thighs began. All I remembered is how I wished it was her I was walking down the aisle to.

I let my imagination float away, I didn't notice my hands stopped shaking. I closed my eyes and imagined I was marrying Natasha in a few minutes instead of the man my mother introduced me to. I envisioned myself in a dress that I picked out myself, made of lace and tulle, floating down the aisle to her, taking her hands in mine and telling her how much I wanted to love her for the rest of my life. I wanted to tell her that from the first time I saw her, I knew that she was the person I'd fall in love with deeper than the universe's depths. Maybe in ten years we'd curl up together and thumb through a dusty album full of our wedding pictures, and read our vows to each other again in gentle whispers in between kisses.

And yet, there was barely any chance of that happening. We had never admitted any kinds of feelings to each other, though our body language displayed romantic tension to anyone who looked hard enough. To everyone who wasn't looking, she was my best friend who I spent more time with than anyone. To me, she was so much more than that. But then a man came into my life. A whirlwind romance later, he had popped the question in front of both our families. And now Nat was my maid of honor instead of my bride. Or was. She had called me last night, telling me she'd been called in for an attack in Manhattan. That she couldn't come. Maybe it was for the best, it was so painful seeing her now. Her beautiful face, her glowing hair, that smirk that made my stomach flutter.

Suddenly, all my thoughts were snapped away from me. I turned my head as the door slowly opened. It was my groom. I looked up, my eyes still hazy from daydreams and realities. "You're not supposed to see me, it's bad luck."

"I'll see you in a minute anyways," he answered, fully stepping into the church's bridal room, his black suit looking out of place among the pink and white surrounding us.

I tried to give him the best smile I could. I had only finished applying lip stain to my top lip, making my grimace look slightly disturbing. Quickly, I turned back to the mirror to finish. "I suppose so."

His hands ran up my back from behind me. The unwelcome touch made my back straighten. He stroked my shoulders before extending his hand to grasp mine, which I hesitantly accepted. "I'm so excited to marry you."

"Mhmm, I'm… I'm sure."

He didn't seem to catch onto the strain in my tone, but instead pressed a kiss to my forehead. "I'd better go before one of our mothers catches me in here."

"Yeah, you'd better." Watching him exit, I rubbed at the spot he had kissed me, trying to brush away the feeling.

As wonderful of a man he was, his touch made my stomach coil. I felt... dirty after his displays of affection. Every time I had tried to tell my mother, or my friends, or anyone else, I got the exact same response. "He's perfect for you, what are you talking about? I'm so jealous of you, you're so lucky!"

"Then why don't you marry him," I'd mutter under my breath whenever I heard the comment. Yes, he was perfect. Just… perfect for someone who loved him. He deserved someone who loved him. That person wasn't me. I wished I could tell him.

But still, here I was, under my family's watchful eye, about to swear away my life to him in a single day. How is that possible? How is someone able to pledge themself to someone they don't even love in a matter of minutes? Just because everyone else likes the way they look together?

Someone else knocked, scaring away tears that threatened to spill over my mascara-lined eyes. It was probably my new maid of honor, bringing me my bouquet of lilies. "Come in, I'm… I'm almost ready."

But it wasn't the bridesmaid I had expected. It was Nat, the woman I wished I had gotten the opportunity to love, just for a little while. She didn't have flowers, and she didn't look happy. She was wearing the Black Widow suit, and I could see the dark circles under her eyes clearly.

"(Y/N), why are you doing this? You can't be serious." Long strides brought her to my side in a matter of moments.

"Why wouldn't I be doing this? I'm getting married to a great guy, it's not rocket science." I turned back to the mirror to keep the lump in my throat from rising.

"You're right, it's not rocket science. It's deeper than that." She grabbed my arm and I looked up at her. Her eyes shot right into mine like piercing bullets. "You're marrying someone you don't even love and you know it."

"What makes you an expert on who I love?" I didn't mean to snap, but my voice was cross. "You're not even supposed to be here, what happened to Manhattan?"

"I didn't go, okay?!" Her voice rose, and she hadn't stopped looking into my eyes in that violent way. "I had to come here and tell you what a mistake you're making! I was praying for months that you were going to call me one day and say 'just kidding, it was a prank', but you never did. And now I have to see you marry that… that… that!"

"That is going to be my husband, and I don't see why you hate him so much all of a sudden! I thought you supported my decisions."

"I do… when it's not a stupid decision."

I rolled my eyes at her. "So what the hell makes this a stupid decision? You're not a love expert, so stay out of it. You're ruining my wedding day."

"It was ruined from the start. You shouldn't be marrying someone you don't love."

Returning the statement with a glare, I rose to my feet. "And who do I love, Natasha?"

Before I could process what was happening, she suddenly pulled me closer, her lips crashing against mine in the most passionate kiss I'd ever felt in my life. Her hands grabbed my hips to pull my body to hers as I returned the kiss. It wasn't lustful, it wasn't sexual, it just said everything her words couldn't. When she pulled away from me and looked into my eyes again, I could see… relief. Gone were the angry arrows aiming at me.

She reached up to stroke my neck, her thumb running against that one spot. "Get out of that fucking hideous dress and meet me in the car outside. Let me… just let me give you what you deserve."

Natasha disappeared out of the bridal room before I could even register what she had said or done. The colors of the walls and dresses surrounding me melted into a pool of watery color as I pressed my fingertips to my lips. My heart was in my throat, my stomach was in a knot… but… I liked it. I didn't want this feeling to end.

"(Y/N)? Here are your flowers, it's time." A bridesmaid, one of my mother's friends, poked her head into the room and set my bouquet on the vanity in front of me. "Aren't you excited?"

"Oh… yeah… excited." I picked up the flowers cautiously, as if they were a snake about to lash out.

"Gosh, you look like you're about to bawl. I know you're happy but don't ruin your makeup, you have to look fresh for your husband. No going back now!" She too disappeared out of the room before returning with a funny look on her face. "I think I just saw an Avenger in the hall, maybe I had too much punch."

"You probably did have too much punch." I pressed my fingers to my lips again as the bridesmaid bustled out of the room. I could hear the organ music begin to play, I knew the wedding ceremony was about to begin. And I knew what I had to do, for everyone's sake.

…

Sunlight kissed my shoulders and nose as I slipped out the church kitchen's back door. I was wearing the same jeans and shirt I had shown up in. My hair was down, flowing, free of the pins and pearly headpiece that had been twisted into it earlier. I carried two things, the bouquet of lilies tucked under my arm, and in my hands, a large box that contained a lemon-vanilla bean cake that had been meant for the reception. They were mine, I paid for them, and now I was going to share them with someone I actually cared about.

I didn't hesitate to slide into the passenger seat of the black Corvette, next to my new adventure in life. I placed the box next to my feet before turning to her, unable to keep the smile off my face. "Sorry about that, I couldn't unbutton the last buttons."

"I should've stuck around to help you, but I didn't really want anyone to see me." Nat started the car before turning her head and leaning in for a kiss as deep and meaningful as the one we had shared inside. She pulled away, but only just, our noses brushing against each other and our lips inches apart. I opened my eyes to stare into hers before she spoke again. "You really should marry someone you love, (Y/N)."

"Did you just propose to me or…?" The smile I couldn't hide grew when she laughed and put the car into reverse. As we drove out of the parking lot, I lifted the bouquet to my nose and nuzzled one of the roses. No going back.

[moonshynecybin]

hola! would love to know your thoughts on Uccio and his motivations...I read that quote from him that he *never* approved of the Marc friendship. Why though? What do you think?

stepping out of fanfiction world into irl: frankly i dont have much against him besides hes a certified marc hater who is at times a little shady. but this is sports. and that is enough. likeeeeee okay putting on my empathy hat here. YES he played a role in splitting up marc and vale's friendship (really pushed vale over the edge with the data) and YES hes kind of an incurable yes-man and YES he's a lil sleazy (smile more pecco lmao) but like. those arent crimes ! vale is also kind of a sleaze ball !! and he made the decision to blow up his relationship with marc all by his 36 year old self in the end !! and as for vale keeping him around all the time like. being famous sucks !! and theyve known each other since they were (mostly) normal kids !! idk like to have someone i know would never intentionally betray me in my back pocket who i also enjoy hanging out with would be genuinely so important... like BOTH marc and vale have their people that theyve known forever that they keep inside their VERY small little bubble... marc got lucky that his (alex) is also a very good rider! vale had to make his an assistant. which to me is a bit weirder in terms of power dynamic. significantly so. but still very understandable imo. their codependent slay

BUTTTT where uccio is so funny is as a narrative device for rosquez tbh. like hes GONNA catch strays here bc he fills that fun little role of relationship saboteur for them. like HE went to vale with the telemetry "proof" about Phillip Island 2015, he vocallyyyyyy hates marc still to this day, and while rosquez were friends he was genuinely giving marc the evil eye in parc ferme so fucking often it was so funny. whats ur ISSUE man

so like. i can see him embracing his and vale's #codependence and seeing marc as like. a threat to vale's legacy, a threat to his direct championship hopes, and ALSO a threat to his and vale's weird relationship. like truly when your buddy gets their first serious significant other and you feel a lil weird that they arent spending as much time with you... so i think allllll of those coalesced in his brain and it became MISSION CRITICAL. to get vale on board with hating marc. so he kind of maybe started a teensy smear campaign to get that twink outta here. which to be fair to his iago slay did work. grima wormtongue lookin ass.

[z909-voided]

"You've done a lot of things! I love that about you. Always doing something; no matter who you hurt. They said that was one of your best qualities!"

He laughs, humming faintly as a finger taps to his cheek, trying to think of what they'd even talk about. There's nothing to talk about! He already knows it all! They were so kind to tell him after all.

"I'm sure we'll meet again. You're a bug no one can seem to get rid of anyway! Haha! Why would you even want to talk! I thought you hated being seen near me, Doctor. Surprised you'd even try to lie and call me a friend to my face!"

█✢█

Oh.

Her spines twitched and vibrated; she didn't know whether to be angry or hopeless. Either way, hurt and confusion were the reigning king and queen.

"If I hated being seen near you why would I have welcomed you into my lab? Why wouldn't I have sent you away? Why wouldn't I have argued against it whenever my coworkers were around?"

Tears stung the back of her eyes, made them water.

"What the hell did they tell you? Did they also tell you I don't pick and choose what the hell they tell me to research, or experiment, or whatever? That I was at their mercy just like everyone else?"

Her chest tightened. What dd they tell him? That she was the one who figured out how to convert Z-317's data into something serviceable to human genetics? Did they tell him he's an experiment, did they tell him about the other guy? ...Oh god what if he's down here, too?

She glanced down.

"It isn't a lie, Zeef. You're my friend. You made life more bearable just by being around. Should I have said that more? That I care about you? That I missed you? That I felt like I could be more myself around you than any other damn person in that place? That it hurt whenever you weren't there? That thoughts of you was what helped me sleep at night and dull the pain after I was made into this?"

It was hard to see, now. Everything was blurry, smeared in a watery, salty hue.

"Zeef.... You seem angry and hurt. I don't know what I did but I am so, so sorry for causing you to feel this way. I want to make it right, please... tell me what I can do for you."

[themculibrary]

Long Wandavision Fics Masterlist

An Auspice of Scarlet (ao3) - AnontheNullifier wanda/vision, background pepper/tony T, 143k

Summary: After another failed seance, Wanda Maximoff finds herself seeking asylum from an unknown millionaire and his reserved, but kind butler. As with most things in her life, it's when the semblance of normalcy and contentment begin to form that her past comes crashing in to upend everything she's worked hard to create. Will the blossom of love be enough to vanquish the demons of her past?

Creep (ao3) - proud_papaya M, 68k

Summary: "... there's so many of them." Wanda exhaled, looking out at the sea of people, but they weren't people. Their skin was the color of the earth and their irises looked like sewage water. There was gore smeared across some of them and their clothing was in tatters. And for a moment, just a moment, she thought she saw Cap's uniform covering one of them. Because they were the only ones left. Wanda and Vision. Surviving the end of the world... but no one thought the end of the world would look like this.

"Stay close to me."

"Always."

Flaneur (ao3) - Cyan_Rain wanda/vision, background darcy/jimmy T, 70k

Summary: Post-WandaVision Series Finale

He was Vision. He was a sentient weapon. He'd tried to kill the woman he loved.

She was the Scarlet Witch. She was cursed to destroy the world. She'd killed the man she loved. Twice.

They have some things to work out.

Give Me My Sin Again (ao3) - thelilacfield E, 121k

Summary: 'You know, it's too bad that you work for the organisation I want to see brought down in flames.'

'And why is that, Ms. Maximoff?'

'Red always was my favourite colour.'

A woman looking for something to make her feel human again. A man who never felt human seeking to keep his powerful position. Finding each other and finding that they have hearts capable of feeling.

i don't need anything other than you (ao3) - ghoultown T, 51k

Summary: “Come, step into the light.” Vision pulls her close, into the yellow light, holding her hands in his. “Tell me. Do I look the same to you today?”

She makes a face, “Of course you do.”

“No, please. Please, look closer.” He bends down slightly to assist in her search. “I’ve been looking in the mirror for ten minutes. There’s something here. Something extra or something missing, I cannot tell, but i-it’s something.”

Wanda’s disposition changes. “Vis, you sound… panicked.”

“Hm?” Vision blinks. “I can’t panic.”

_

Vision wakes up one morning to find his memories gone. He figures there must be a logical explanation. Until there can't be.

In the Absence of a Way of Life (ao3) - wisteriafic M, 66k

Summary: "The only thing preventing him from phasing through the walls and escaping this morass is the admonition with which Secretary Ross had left him two days ago: If you try anything, she dies. They all die."

After the airport fight in Civil War, Vision is arrested and sent to the Raft, along with the others. Once they've escaped, Wanda has company as she adjusts to a life on the run.

Late in the Day (ao3) - wisteriafic E, 59k

Summary: After the fall of Novi Grad, Wanda chooses to remain there to rebuild her homeland instead of becoming an Avenger. Over the years, she and Vision build separate lives for themselves, but they establish a long-distance friendship. As the tenth anniversary approaches, they get together for drinks, and they reconnect.

(Love's got the) World in Motion (ao3) - olsenbcttany E, 60k

Summary: Wanda Maximoff is the sister of the world famous Pietro Maximoff, goalkeeper who is set to see Sokovia win The UEFA European Football Championship. Victor Shade is the England player who ruined their chances. When the two meet, sparks fly.

Non-Volatile Memory (ao3) - patches365 M, 292k

Summary: Vision has been restored physically and mentally, but not emotionally. SWORD's tampering has left him nothing but a sentient computer with no personal attachment to the data stored within him. Wishing to make himself whole again, he seeks out Wakanda's premier scientist to help him emotionally reconnect with his memories, and thus with Wanda.

Nothing is Impossible (ao3) - Boopoopeedoo T, 62k

Summary: Two lives that were feared, and a love no one expected, lead to a miracle nobody ever thought possible. When Wanda made a home in the Avengers compound, she never could have imagined how much her world would change, or that The Vision would become the centre of it. She expected to fall in love with him even less.

The two find a way back to each other after the chaos of the Avenger's civil war. It is then that their love truly builds, and where they eventually create their miracle.

ScarletVision, eventual Infinity War fix-it

playing nice (ao3) - ghoultown E, 214k

Summary: “What’s your name?” she asks.

He opens the door wider in reply.

Wanda doesn’t move.

The man bends to root through a cupboard instead.

“I don’t have anything in,” he reaches into the shelves, half of him disappearing inside, “Not much to offer you in the way of hospitality.”

“Yeah,” she studies him, rubbing her fingers together. “Ghosts don’t drink, do they.”

A bottle of cheap liquor. He tosses it a bit in his hand, turning it, inspecting it, grinning at the label.

“Think I’m a ghost, do you?”

-

Following a sudden appearance of a strange red power, Wanda begins killing men to take the edge off. Her first kill in London doesn't go as she'd hoped.

Recordkeeping (ao3) - chaostragic E, 53k

Summary: Wanda has a lot of secrets.

Among them: Wanda was a spy once. Sort of. Also: Wanda is a widow and a murderer and legally not allowed to leave New Jersey.

When a one night stand lasts a few months too long, Wanda must confront her past. Can love overcome government conspiracy, criminal records, and unresolved trauma?

Run Away (ao3) - proud_papaya wanda/vision, bucky/natasha M, 71k

Summary: She was running away. Again. This time to another city, the biggest city in the world. Little did she know her next door neighbor would happen to change her life.

Synthesis (ao3) - psychologymajor226 N/R, 296k

Summary: This is a Wanda/Vision fic that alternates from the events in Wandavision to a lead-up of all past events until Infinity War, exclusively from Vision’s POV.

Take Me Away (ao3) - heartAttackoFtheMinD T, 146k

Summary: What events happened in between A.O.U and C.W that drove Wanda and Vision to try their luck as a couple after the Raft? Series of events growing their relationship, getting past the loss of a loved one, and discovering humanity with Wanda and Vision as they fall in love at the Avengers Compound.

The Age of Miracles (ao3) - thelilacfield T, 68k

Summary: "What is taking so long, Peterson? Get those prisoners to their cells now!"

"It's the witch, sir."

"Well, slap a pair of handcuffs on her and get her to her cell now!"

"We can't, sir, she's-"

"She's what? Wrecked the medical bay? Injured someone? That's what we got the collar for!"

"Sir, she's pregnant."

The Red Menace (ao3) - JustAnotherMarvelGirl M, 75k

Summary: Wanda is a fierce and ruthless Captain of the Scarlet Witch, the most feared ship in the Caribbean.

Vision is a Commodore of the British Royal Navy who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

When their two ships clash, will Vision live to see the light of another day?

Under Renovation (ao3) - gamerfic M, 60k

Summary: "It isn't safe for you to be here," says Vision, and he doesn't only mean the huge hole in the floor that yawns between them.

"I know that, too."

"Then why did you come back?"

Wanda hasn't turned her gaze from him since she entered the room. Behind it there's an echo of the same relentless, crushing pressure he felt that night she filled him with her power and brought him to his knees. He's not safe here either, in his way. "I came back for you," she says.

(Or: Vision and Wanda fix a building, fix their mistakes, and slowly fall in love.)

Wanda Enchanted (ao3) - percyjacksonfan9261 wanda/vision, steve/natasha G, 52k

Summary: When Wanda was a baby, her fairy godmother, Agatha, decided to give her the so called "gift" of obedience. By the time that Wanda becomes a teenager, sick of her step family bullying her, she decides to go on a quest to find out where she can find her fairy godmother and convince her to remove to "gift". Joining Wanda is one of her few friends, an elf who wants to be an inventor in a world that doesn't allow it, and a prince who's uncle just so happens to be plotting to kill him for a bid to take over the throne. When Wanda slowly starts falling for the prince and uncovers the plot of his assassination, she has to figure out what's more important in her life: following her heart or getting rid of her obedience once and for all.

Your Castle of Memories (ao3) - starlithumanity T, 112k

Summary: After the events of Age of Ultron, Wanda Maximoff faces the pain of her loss, and Vision tries to comprehend the intricacies of existence. They find comfort and a great deal of fascination in each other, as the new expanded Avengers team learns to work together. But they are about to face the greatest challenge to their friendship: the arrival of Civil War.

[alchemist-of-thebes]

KH OC Week Day 1

Hello! How fun that KH OC Week is finally here! Actually, even though I've known about it since it started, I've never actually taken part in it. But I'm trying it! I'm trying so hard! I've been writing for a very long time, but only started dabbling in KH-related stuff because of @hinataoc. My characters were really originally mostly made to help support her characters and her stories, but the ol' writing bug would bite me every here and there and eventually I started writing little stories and adventures of my own for them. I've got a few now, but this week I think I'll just focus on the two OCs that started this journey for me. So... uh, here we go.

Day 1: Introductions

◾Tell us about your OC!

To start off my first OC Week, I’d like to introduce two of my characters - Velcia and Velcia! …Wait, what?

Yes, I’m afraid that it may seem a bit confusing at first. Both characters share the same name and very similar appearances, but they are in fact very different people! So let me introduce them both and tell you a bit about each one.

First, credit to the amazing @amyhayanora for the wonderful art of these two for me! She did such a good job of bringing them to life.

Now, to get started! On the left we have the first “Velcia”, who lived in Daybreak Town as a Keyblade Wielder up until the Keyblade War.

KHx-Era Velcia:

Her true name is “Valencia Florere”, but when she arrived in Daybreak Town all alone at the age of 3 years old she was unable to pronounce her own name properly. Nobody in Daybreak Town could have known otherwise, and so her mispronunciation “Velcia” was how she was known. For just this one introduction, I’ll use her ‘real name’, though don’t expect her to recognize it!!

As a toddler, Valencia was rescued from the Lanes Between Worlds by The Master of Masters, who did not deem fit to provide to anyone else an explanation of how she ended up there. Not having the faculty to raise a babbling baby, The Master of Masters created a digital data world modeled after Enchanted Dominion. This snippet of a world was completely devoid of danger, and it was here that Valencia was raised alongside a digital Aurora by the Good Fairies.

Pleasant and peaceful though it was, being raised by digital facsimiles of real people does tend to leave one a little odd, and by time Valencia was old enough to leave this fictional nursery she was quite an odd girl indeed.

Shy, awkward, and almost entirely lacking in social skills, Valencia was nonetheless an aspiring artist who quickly honed her craft as she worked to document as many Wielders and events in Daybreak Town as she could as a sort of reclusive self-styled historian. Her fingers and hands usually have pencil smears on the sides from all her drawing. She does wipe them off constantly, but she’s also drawing constantly so it’s a bit of a self-defeating endeavor.

She doesn’t try to be annoying or obnoxious but has a vague sense that there are things that she does that bother other people that she can’t really seem to change. This leaves her with a bit of a lack of confidence, but she’s always so eager to learn more and add more things to her books she pushes past her awkwardness anyway. 

Poor Valencia is terrible at fighting and quite a pushover, who did her best to stick to the periphery and hope nobody would notice her working quickly to sketch them into one of her many books. It wasn’t until she finally met a young man named Balthazar that she was really able to find a stable friend and companion. 

Valencia found she had a strong affinity for the World of Olympus, dearly loving everything about it. Of all the Projected Worlds, Olympus was where she spent the most time and as soon as she was able she bought a set of Olympian Robes from the Moogle in Daybreak Town; but stuck to wearing her more familiar boots, pants, and other various accessories. She didn’t know what her true homeworld was supposed to be, but she hoped beyond hope it could be Olympus.

The events leading up to the Keyblade War were nearly as devastating to Valencia as the War itself, and during the war she was struck with what should have been a fatal blow and left for dead - but a very odd thing happened. An unusual Heartless appeared on the battlefield and whisked her away from the chaos, bringing her to Olympus and healing her before ultimately being destroyed.

Now living on the world of her dreams, Valencia eventually managed to put the traumas of her past behind her and start a family. Her now-powerless Keyblade and the name “Velcia” were both passed down through the generations, and each time one “Velcia” passed away the next-born daughter received the name and the heirloom Keyblade, and after some time that brings us to…

KHII-Era Velcia

Velcia Anthes, daughter of Hephestus and Ioanna Anthes, was raised in Thebes as a Potion-Maker and Alchemist by her father after her mother mysteriously vanished when she was two years old. Named after her Keyblade-Wielding Ancestor from her mother’s side, Velcia received the Heirloom Keyblade and grew up hearing stories of wielders from her grandmother and marveling at the tales.

Coming from a family of scholars on her father’s side, Velcia is keenly interested in learning everything she can about the fundamentals of both magic and potion-making; and her devotion to learning magic hit an all-time high after her father and cousin were killed by Vanitas during the events of KH:BBS. 

After this, she was taken in by her aunt and uncle who helped her to stay strong and focus on her studies as they worked together to overcome the pain of losing their loved ones. Thanks in no small part to their support and the integrity of her father, Velcia is kind, graceful, and has every bit of the elegance that her KHx-era ancestor lacked; but most of all she is driven and determined to help anybody she can, especially if it means they can avoid the sorts of losses she dealt with growing up.

Thanks to time spent participating in events at the Coliseum when she was younger, Velcia combined her effective if rudimentary physical fighting skills with her growing array of spells to become a competent red mage who was very confident in her magic abilities. In her mid-twenties during the events of KHII, Velcia thought that her life as a potion-maker was perhaps all she would ever be.

One fateful day she meets a visitor from another world named Samantha, and almost the next thing Velcia realizes she’s being asked to come use her magical powers and knowledge to help Sam and Hinata chase down a dangerous Replica called Thaanix. This, it turns out, is only the start of her adventures…

--------

That’s about it for my introductions! I will include answers for both Velcias going forward for the rest of the week, but will likely have more information and pictures posted for the Modern-Era Velcia as I have more stories and art for her. Truth be told, the picture above is really the only proper picture of KHx-Era Velcia I have! Thank you for reading these little bits about my characters, I really hope you’ve enjoyed them.

Anyone who would like to read any of the stories I've written can find them either on my AO3, or on @hinataoc's Fanfiction.net page (which also has a plethora of other very good stories by her that you should check out). Archive of our Own Fanfiction.net

In addition, I have been in the middle of posting a new story about the Modern-Era Velcia called "Return to Eos", with a new chapter posted every weekend. I'm trying to post a little snippet of the chapters here on Tumblr as they go up, so if you are interested you can keep an eye out for those, too. Lastly, thanks very much to the @khoc-week crew (small as it may be this year) for hosting this event. :D

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @sergeantnarwhalwrites!

Oc in 15

Now that I've done all my HO protags, I guess I gotta move on to Mortal God. So let's get this started right with Astra 'This ain't my first rodeo' DuClaire!

"Tall order, huh? Well, then I'd best find me some platform boots."

"Motherbitch!"

"To start with, you can call me by the proper title. It's Ms. DuClaire. Not master. I'm a witch; not a book mage, not an alchemist, not any a' the hundred names people call folk who work in material magic. No one who calls themself that would be out here solvin' your wraith problem. Ya got it?"

"Go to the vardo. There's no law out here 'cept the ones we make. I'll take care of the bodies, you get the Extraordinaire ready to dash, ya hear? "

"Next step: test tube type shit. Or gatherin' data if you wanna be boring."

"Humble... Like the folk out here need to be humbled any more. I wish priests would stop sayin' shit like that."

"I always speak the truth. Till it's inconvenient, of course, but that's the price a' doin' business."

"...So there I was, trapped in the smithy, smeared hair and hide with that janky invisibility ointment, a red-headed housewife out for murder just beyond the door."

"On your feet, love. You ain't gonna hurt me. Trust goes both ways and I'm givin' you mine. I will fix this."

"Laugh when you can build one, potion boy! I'd like to see your pansy ass wrangle some live steam!"

"Wetter than a selkie strip club out there!"

"Ain't nothing like a good ghost story to prep you for the day. Hell, I was practically raised on the things."

"I am the best witch a' the borderlands, after all."

"Think? Nah, love, you didn't do that. Not fuckin' once did you think or you wouldn't have tried to leave me behind with a godsdamned monster you made!"

"Hear that, Mashal? We're entertainin'!"

I'll tag @angie-j-kay @gothamxwattpad @trippingpossum and @elsie-writes!

Have a bitchin day <3

[skynapple]

Budding Romance | Ch. 4

Love and Deepspace | Jeremiah x MC / slow-burn / friends-to-lovers

warnings: none

Multi-chapter | A03 link

Beginning | <- Prev | Next ->

Back in the present, new friends begin to reconnect. Pizza will be had.

[Present]

“She…died.” He had said. The air hung around them, dust sparkling in the glow of the grow lights around the store.

Her stunned expression turned somber, crystalline eyes brimming with compassion. ”Oh my God, I'm so sorry. What..." Her sentence trailed off as she hesitated to ask.

It’s not that he’d wanted to bring up the subject so quickly, but he couldn’t help it. After years of being one of her closest friends, all he wanted to do was catch up, brimming with desire to share his happenstances. He was trying his best to keep it contained, remembering the fact that he had no right to expect immediate closeness with someone who was nearly a stranger.

"I was young. Brash. In love. Proposed after like, 6 months. I guess she was into that.” He shook his head, reminiscing. “She passed away before we got married. Car accident."

More like the Deepspace Portal event 30 years ago.

"But it was... humbling, and beautiful, being with her. She loved this little shop.” I wish you could have met her. She would have loved you. You would have gotten along so well.

"Philo...It means love. Because you loved her."

He nodded. The dirt he’d accidentally smeared on his brow began to irritate the skin, and he instinctually rubbed it again, making it worse. “Don’t worry about me. I’m ok. It was years ago now.” After so much time had passed, it was the truth.

Meanwhile she stood across him, only a little comforted, a light ache in her heart at the topic and slight embarrassment after being the one who initiated the conversational direction.

Seeing her expression and immediately wanting to comfort her, he smiled, "Trust me, she's looking after this place. I've had nothing but good luck here." His grin widened. "Even you walked in."

---

A season later, it was a warm spring day, with flower blossoms floating through the light breeze, adding a romantic touch to the environment, but the shop was closed, and Jeremiah had no idea what the weather looked like. There he sat in the secret back room of his shop, plugging away at research and data. Several chat windows were open - an entire network of Lightseekers utilizing adapted technology with the remains of what was with them from so long ago, still quite advanced compared to what earth contained me.

He’d instant messaged Xavier a few coordinates and some wanderer identification, paused to stare thoughtfully at his phone and added,

[Take care of her if she's with u.]

Seconds later, [Not coming.] was all he received in response.

Course not. Let me guess, ditched her. Again. He only thought it to himself, stretching his right shoulder. The hours had passed quickly, and he’d completely lost track of it all. When he finally stood, his knees cracked from lack of movement. Grogginess threatened to plague his mind. There was still so much to do.

A growl escaped his stomach. He grumbled. Not enough groceries for anything quick. Instant noodles for the 3rd day in a row? No. Delivery was too expensive when he was quite literally in a walkable downtown area. He grumbled once more, sleepily grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.

He ended up at a nearby pizza place and despite the noisy interior, found himself beginning to nod off as soon as he sat down at a booth in a far corner to await his order.

Unbeknownst to him, several minutes past. A warm hand on his shoulder stirred him, although it took him moment to get his bearings. He straightened, rubbing his eyes, straining to identify who the hand was connected to through his bleary state.

"Wow, birds of a feather." A familiar voice said.

What is she doing here?

"Hmm?"

"I wasn't sure if it was you, but then they must have called your name a dozen times. I grabbed your order for you."

She indicated to what she placed across him.

"Oh, sorry. Thanks."

"You ok?"

He rolled his neck, not entirely remembering the sequence that put him in the shop, and still processing her presence. Sleeping in public too? Now that was something he hoped Xavier never discovered. "Just pulled an all-nighter. I'm good."

"That's what Xavier said. Hah. You two really are similar.”

Ah, so they’re talking at least. That’s good.

Jeremiah picked up his slice, not minding that she was still sat next to him. "Did he also tell you he's headed to the no-hunt zone without you?” He prodded, half-curious, half-hoping that this would fall back on Xavier somehow.

“What?"

Her flabbergasted expression rang genuine to him, making him chuckle. Got ‘em.

"You did not hear that from me."

She spent a minute texting Xavier, muttering to herself under her breath. Immediately after, his own phone lit up. He decided to not look at it.

"You gonna join him?" He said between chews. The restaurant seemed to pick up in business now, and he glanced non-chalant at the growing line. Distracted, he observed it.

She scowled, leaning her head on her hands, almost pouting. "I wasn't assigned like he was..." A sigh. "And today's my day off."

“The guy can handle himself, don't worry." A bubble of irritation rose through him, and he felt the fought the urge to roll his eyes. It was a habitual response, born from years and years of needing to reassure her. Of course she was like this cause he left her. She didn't have to try to sound so tough about it. "He'll return to you before you know it."

Except, this time, she only shrugged. "Yeah ok. You know he just does what he wants. Shows up when he wants. And hey, pizza or wanderers... tough choice but I think I made the right one." She nudged him with a free arm.

He felt himself smile tiredly. Despite still getting accustomed to the differences in her personality, he appreciated that it felt like he could be friends with her in this life too. He was beginning to look forward to the ways she surprised him. Just what was in that brain of hers?

"What are you doing after this?" She asked casually enough.

"Going to bed."

"Makes sense.” She stood finally, brushing a few long dark strands behind her ear and smiled warmly. "Well, I'll let you go. I'm meeting up with an old friend today. Don't wanna be late."

“Have fun. See ya.”

It not that he wasn’t thrilled to see her, it wasn’t even the tiredness in his brain, but the fact now that she was a little more playful, a little more curious, a lot more casual, he was struggling to wrap his head around it. There were moments when it felt very surreal being around her. The fluctuations in her tone, the way she pointed things out, obviously her appearance and the way her eyes were so expressive all stuck out to him.

It’s her, but it's… not. But it unmistakably is.

And yet it was a very comforting thing, being reunited after all this time. When he was around her, he felt a little more like his old self, an old self he’d nearly forgotten. He smiled to himself and finished his now cold pizza, a little amused at himself that she’d been the one to find him in this state. Memories of late nights in encampments, watching over each other through the long nights, chiding each other over small things, the bickering, the banter.

Fine, I missed you.

[poppyandzena]

Zena:" The stalkers who claim to be experts on Poppy's story don't even know shit about sexual health. This is just clowning around. I just can't these people seriously. I told Poppy to get testing to protect herself because after someone violates you, they're is zero reason to trust their history."

1.) Literally no one has claimed expertise on Poppy. This is yet another false claim. See, people paid attention to Poppy's behavior and Poppy's words. People are just observing Poppy's publicly abusive meltdown. People are simply tracking a smear campaign. Poppy provides that data. A LOT of data. Poppy continues to incessantly and obsessively make false claims of sexual assault, as if hundreds of people didn't witness Poppy serve us with a linear timeline of rejection. People aren't experts on anyone, that's silly. Poppy put out a fuck ton of information publicly. It's getting difficult for people to silence their own critical thinking. Luckily, there is public access to entire archives documenting Poppy's willfully malicious campaign to destroy another Trans woman. Because of rejection. It's revenge. Thanks to Poppy's unhinged antics across Tumblr and Twitter, people can analyze the data for themselves on their own time. And there-in lies the rub for this sneaky tyrannical goblin -- your arguments are getting more nonsensical. Zena is throwing up diversions. It's getting a bit pitiful.

Zena: "I guess I'm going to be posting sexual health articles to educate these fucks now. Just how much these people know about sex is both astounding and telling. This is a self report on their part."

Zena: "These are just more signs that Poppy's story is actually true AND that she has love and support to help her after this awful shit.

2.) The only link between public discussions on sexual health and Zena's false expertise claims is Poppy's word-vomit. The UTI was splattered all over her TL after having consensual sex & getting rejected. That's it. Zena, this disjointed, bizarre gotchya connection you made with sexual health is not a sign that Poppy's story is true. This deeply goofy statement is almost as bad as me saying, "Oh wow my cat actually has asthma, not a hairball." Then going on to say, "This is a sign why I know my neighbor married a raccoon." Y'all have lost the plot and if all this wasn't so potentially harmful to folks in an already marginalized community, this shit would be funny.

On to the next point the goblin tyrant attempts to slip in subtlety. Folks may have left out the BACTERIAL VAGINOSIS part during sexual health discussions. Hell, some folks might not even know what BV is. NOT knowing what BV is or forgetting to mention BV aren't indicators of a total lack of knowledge on sexual health. Leaving out BV doesn't mean folks need to be educated by this tyrannical goblin Zena. What she's trying to do is divert attention away from Poppy's very transparent attempts to further humiliate Noeh. Everything Poppy puts on her TL centers on smearing Noeh. She literally HAS NOT stopped tweeting @ Noeh since she publicly disclosed her tweets made Noeh uncomfortable when they were partners. It is deeply unsettling that Poppy continues to try to talk to Noeh behind the scenes while routinely @ing Noeh from the YT account. This is all calculated and this community is not dumb. They're catching on. Trust that there are doubts that even her most fervent defenders are experiencing -- OF COURSE they have doubts, but what would happen if they just got brutally honest and disclosed that Poppy is indeed out of control. Poppy has gone against SO many things she advocates in her streams. Rapejacketing and targeting a trans woman is pretty disgusting. Attempting to cut of a homeless trans man's only source of revenue in the middle of winter in MICHIGAN. Shitting all over asexuals because Noeh slipped up and made a controversial statement.

BPD will NEVER be an excuse for abuse. An abuser is actively being coddled to the point where her supporters are enabling more abuse. I think it's pretty clear this therapist has not gotten treatment like DBT for her BPD. This person is a public figure. She is lending more stigma to this diagnosis. There are so many folks with BPD in my life who put in the work and are determined to be well. It is unbelievable what they face and I have so much respect for these survivors. I also feel incredibly protective over them. That impact of these far extending stigmas ACTIVELY cause HARM to people with BPD.

Listen, it's very obvious how Poppy is shitting on survivors of rape and havers of BPD. She's not an imperfect victim. She's a spiteful, vengeful, scorned woman. Zena is also shitting on folks with BPD by enabling Poppy's behavior Her supporters are enabling Poppy's behavior. You are lending to stigma and shitting on other BPD survivors. Coddling this woman while she loudly and publicly continues on with her harmful actions is not a loving act. Enabling is not an act of love. If you truly supported her, you would not lend momentum to her smear campaigns. You'd see that, at this point, Poppy is actually a liability. She is causing REAL harm to your community. Adding insult to injury, she really is out here publicly shitting on y'all, underestimating y'alls knowledge base and ability to recognize lies, abuse, danger, and malice. Some of y'all are leaning into that and at some point, you'll have to come to terms with your choices.

Anyway...

I just want to acknowledge the work and time y'all archivists have put into this. I really do appreciate being able to have access to the information I've needed to form my own opinions. Okay. That is all.

Have a beautiful night, beautiful people.

"Whoops lotsa typos there" 🥴💩

^

[valvesandthings]

Preceptor x Reader Breeding Kink

Four.

That’s how many overloads he’d drawn out of you. Perceptor was a mech of science and there rarely existed a moment in which he wasn’t observing, manipulating, and collecting data. And yes, that absolutely included fragging. He utilized every readily accessible tool —servos, mouth, toys, restraints— to tease you to the brink and, after hovering on the precipice for an agonizing moment, push you over the edge.

But tonight was different. There was more to it than Perceptor’s usual game of cause and effect. You were now five overloads in and he hadn’t even opened his panels. He watched you with carnal hunger, but seemed to be reeling himself in, holding something back. His optics whited out for a second while he took a picture of you with your legs spread and limp on the berth, valve swollen and anterior node throbbing, spike arcing into the air, smeared with oral fluids and your own transfluid. You were a mess for sure but he ate it up, quite literally at times.

You tilted your hips and whined, attempting to entice him. “Percy,” you moaned.

He was above you in a flash, capturing your mouth with his, demanding your glossa and effectively muting you. Whining was one of his few weaknesses. When he pulled away he left a parting nibble on your bottom lip.

“Yes, love?” he asked, voice thick with tightly restrained arousal.

“I need you.” You stretched the words into another low whine. Hopefully that would convince him to finally give in and properly frag you.

Perceptor set back on his heels, straddling your waist, too high up your frame to offer any pleasurable friction. “I have a request,” he said, slipping into his clinical science-man voice. Masking his nerves with the detached tone.

You ghosted a servo over gray hips. “Anything, baby. I’d do anything for you.” After everything he sacrificed to help the Autobots, what was one kinky moment? Perceptor worked day and night to further his own knowledge and therein aid his faction in the war against the Decepticons. He was a quiet, devoted, noble mech who never quite got the recognition he deserved. You intended to give him everything and anything he could possibly ask for.

He swallowed hard. “Would you consent to being the subject in a highly intrapersonal and physiologically intensive experiment? With me, of course.”

That sounded awfully vague. “And what exactly is the purpose of this experiment?” you asked, playing coy to stretch the moment.

“To test the function of a long dormant coding in our frames and determine whether or not said coding is a feasible form of survival for our dwindling species.” He didn’t even blink.

You paused, thinking you knew where he was headed with this. “On Earth?”

He tilted his helm slightly to the side. “I have considered all variables. Here and now is no less ideal than if we were to wait. If you do not consent—”

“With you, I’d do anything. I mean it, Percy.” You remained steadfast in tone even though your spark fluttered anxiously.

Perceptor smiled and leaned forward to kiss you again. As he drew back, he whispered, “Then spark me. Fill me with your bitlits.”

Your hips twitched just at the thought. A Percy so full with fluids he could barely walk, then growing round with sparklings of your own siring. . . “Oh Primus,” you moaned.

“Is that your consent?”

“Yes, Percy, a thousand yeses!”

He smiled again and finally revealed himself. Transfluid spilled out of his plump valve in an absurd amount, like it’d been building up for days behind those enticing red lips. His spike was no better off, both engorged and twitching, blushed blue with excess energeron. Blinking blue biolights lit a path from the tip of his spike to his gray exterior node and you longed to follow it with your glossa. He ground back on the curve of your spike and you both hissed at the lovely bit of friction.

“And,” Perceptor groaned out, “in turn, you will —ah— receive enough reproductive fluids to potentially produce a healthy batch of sparklings.” His excitement meant that his processor was struggling to filter and speak “normal.” Science was his default. As he finally, finally caught the tip of your spike with his valve rim, what he said set in.

“We won’t let a drop of fluid go to waste, baby,” you vowed.

He slammed down on your spike, that carnality unleashed at last. It had a one track mind now, and later Perceptor would deem this a successful experiment in his notes.

[dangraccoon]

Oyuba'din - Chapter 14: Remember

Summary: Jaine makes a decision about her future.

Warnings: intense pain, painful memories resurfacing, implied physical abuse, brief mention of murder

Author's Note: Hello friends! This is gonna be a sort of rough one; as mentioned in the warnings above there is implied physical abuse and mention of murder. These are contained in less than 100 words at the end of the chapter. Nothing is described or discussed further. All that being said, I hope you're all still enjoying this series! I'm really loving creating it for you all! Please keep it up with your lovely replies, likes, and reblogs! they fuel my even better than the spite that normally does 💛🤟Also, let me know what y'all think of the little banner I made!

« Previous Chapter Next Chapter »

“What?” Hunter groaned, squinting at the medic at his bedside. 

“You’re an idiot,” Jaine repeated, a little softer now, but the chill didn’t leave her voice. She picked up a scrap of cloth, smeared some kind of paste on it, and then blew a cool breath over it before laying it across Hunter’s forehead. 

“Smells weird,” he grunted. 

Jaine scoffed a little. “Smells better than you do.”

Hunter shifted his concentration towards himself. She wasn’t wrong. He could tell his body odor was stronger than normal, and he still reeked of alcohol. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. 

She ignored him, turning back to her bag on the side table. “Can you take pills?” she asked, tersely. 

“Yeah, I-”

“Take two of these with food, and then one every two hours until you’re feeling better. I’ll give the instructions to Tech and Crosshair because I know you’ll either forget or just not do it without someone forcing you.”

Something was wrong. Hunter knew something was wrong. Her voice was icy and her face seemed to be made of durasteel. None of the typical humor that sparkled in her eyes was present. She almost looked hollow. 

The door to the room he was sharing with Crosshair for their R&R slid open, revealing the sniper himself. 

“Good timing,” she said, though Hunter noted that the hint of sarcasm that was usually a staple in her voice - especially when speaking to Crosshair - was absent. 

He longed to ask her what was wrong, to search for whatever was draining away all the little tones and mannerisms he’d grown used to and fix it all. 

“He needs to take this medicine. Two as soon as possible, it goes down better with food. Then one every two hours until his headache is gone. That cloth on his face is optional, but it should help minimize the overload I’m sure will hit him later on,” she prattled, barely even looking at either brother. 

“Jaine,” Hunter tried to interrupt. 

“If you need to add more to the cloth, it’s in this container, and this container has the drink blend for his migraines, and some of the de-scented kind in case he’s overloading. Also in this bag is the bruise salve - I made extra, I know Wrecker goes through it like crazy - Echo’s phantom pain lotion, Tech’s tea blend, and those pills I gave you for your stiffness.”

“Jaine,” Hunter tried again, sitting up. 

“Lay down, sergeant,” she ordered, not looking away from the task at hand. “I labeled everything in aurebesh; I know Tech was worried about not being able to read my ‘scribbles’, as he called them.”

“Hey,” Crosshair started, quietly. “What’s going on? Talk to us.”

“I am talking to you,” she stated plainly, pulling a data stick from the bag. “This has everything I just told you in case none of you can get it right.”

She packed up the bag, then placed the strap of it in Crosshair’s hand. “You can contact the 501st when you are in need of a resupply and more will be sent when we get the chance.”

“Jaine, you’re not serious,” Crosshair protested. 

“As the grave, trooper,” she spat. “I have a meeting. Goodbye.”

She quickly left the room, despite the protests of the men behind the other side of the door now closing behind her. 

She started her brisk walk away from the barracks, but was quickly met with Tech and Wrecker, emerging from the room they were sharing with Echo. 

“Jainey!” Wrecker shouted, even as she brushed by them.

“Jaine, I have some questions about the files you have sent to me,” Tech started, trailing after her and meeting her pace easily. 

“I’m sorry, I have a meeting in a few moments, and it is important that I get there on time,” she stated. 

While Wrecker was more or less oblivious as he and Tech stopped following Jaine down the hallway, letting out a disappointed sigh, Tech noted her. Her voice came out flat and monotone as opposed to the way she sounded almost musical to him, and her posture was guarded, even as she rushed away. More than that, she brushed them off completely. Tech knew she cared about them, but she was acting distant from them now. Even if she were running late, she would have stopped and likely would have told Tech about her meeting. Now, she barely even glanced at them, even Wrecker, for whom Tech knew she had a soft spot. Tech didn’t rely on intuition or “gut feelings” as much as his brothers did, but he had one now. 

“Guess we’ll see her later,” Wrecker shrugged, heading back to their room. 

Tech stared at the point he had last seen Jaine before she had rounded a corner. “I’m not sure we will,” he said under his breath. 

-

“Jainey, are you sure you want to do this? I know you and General Skywalker don’t have the best…opinions on one another,” Rex asked, cringing a little.

“Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t be doing this if I weren’t,” she shrugged. “Do I wish Skywalker was a little less…irritating, sure, but he takes good care of his men. I’ll be fine.”

Rex took a deep breath. “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t give you the chance to back out of this.”

Rex hit the button to open the door, and Jaine entered the room.

“Lieutenant Vale,” General Skywalker greeted warmly. Jaine stood rigid at attention, her hand at her forehead in a salute. “None of that for an old friend.”

“Of course, sir,” she replied, as at-ease as she could be in the presence of this particular General. 

“Why don’t you have a seat; my Padawan and our other colleagues will be arriving shortly,” he smiled, gesturing to a set of chairs on one side of the room. 

“‘Other colleagues’, sir? I was under the impression it would just be the three of us.” Jaine was beginning to feel uneasy, like she had just been walked directly into a trap. She ultimately decided to attempt not to show her true feelings, sitting politely on a couch. 

“You see,” Skywalker began, but was interrupted by the door opening again. 

Kriff, she thought as she watched two more Jedi and two more clones enter the room. 

“Jaine,” Obi Wan Kenobi smiled. “I hope you don’t mind that I invited Commander Cody and ARC Echo here to this meeting; they and Captain Rex all feel Echo may have some insight that could be helpful in coming to a decision about your placement in the GAR.”

-

“You have to take them,” Crosshair grumbled as Hunter refused to accept the medication left for him by their medic, his medic. 

“Stow it, Cross,” Hunter growled back. 

Wrecker laughed. “Sarge must be feelin’ bad,” he grinned, elbowing Tech’s side. “That’s why he’s so grumpy!”

“Given the amount of alcohol he consumed last night and his usual hypersensitivity to stimuli, it is unsurprising that he doesn’t feel well,” Tech mentioned, rubbing the section of his rib cage that had caught the brunt of Wrecker’s amusement. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Wrecker added, rolling his eyes and waving Tech off as he walked out of the room. “Anyway, I got some regs to spar and win against.”

Tech and Crosshair exchanged a look with each other, then glared back at Hunter. 

“What?” he scowled. 

“Hunter, Jaine’s directions were clear,” Tech said. “If you want to feel better, you will have to take the medication she has left for you.”

“I don’t need them; I’m fine,” Hunter reiterated, flopping back onto his bunk. 

“Sure,” Crosshair snarked. “The lightest sleeper I know slept undisturbed through all of his brothers and his medic coming into the same room as him. But yeah, sure, you’re fine.”

Hunter’s eyes narrowed at the sniper.

“Hunter-”

“I’m not taking the damn meds, Tech,” Hunter snarled, shooting back into a sitting position. He realized he said it a bit more forcefully than he’d intended as he watched Tech recoil a little, and Crosshair stepped towards him, almost protectively. 

“Fine, feel miserable then. Just answer one question; why didn’t you tell us Jaine was transferring units?”

“She’s what?” Crosshair sputtered looking between Tech and Hunter. “She told me she was on a temporary mission, not leaving altogether.

“Jaine is leaving our squad for another unit. I do not know the reason behind it, though I expect Hunter does. 

Hunter simply sat there, glaring at his brothers as though he were trying to convince them to leave just with a look. 

“Hunter, why is our medic transferring to another unit?” Crosshair asked, his voice far softer than Hunter expected. 

“Don’t know. It was her choice,” he finally said, doing his best to keep his voice as neutral as possible. 

Crosshair scowled at Hunter, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Echo was supposed to be babysitting him last night,” Crosshair murmured. “Maybe he’ll tell us.”

With one last nasty look from both of his brothers, they left him alone. 

-

Why does this feel like a trap?, Jaine wondered as 6 sets of eyes all watched her carefully. 

“So, Lieutenant Vale, your record shows that you recently transferred from the 212th to Clone Force 99, about two and a half months ago,” Ahsoka questioned. “Why are you requesting another transfer now?”

“Interpersonal conflict between myself and the commanding officer of the unit, Sergeant Hunter,” Jaine reported. 

“You want to join the 501st because you and Hunter can’t get along?” Anakin scoffed. 

“I am unsure of what soured our working relationship, but it seems we have irreconcilable differences.”

“Lieutenant, you were ordered to work with Clone Force 99 by General Kenobi, myself, and Commander Cody. Why go against that order now?”

“As I said, General-”

“Echo,” Skywalker said, cutting Jaine off mid-sentence. “Did you witness any of these ‘irreconcilable differences’?”

Jaine watched Echo’s eyes widen in surprise for a moment as though he couldn’t believe his opinion was actually being asked, before settling back into the fierce expression of determination he’d been wearing since he arrived. 

“Not personally, sir, although Sergeant Hunter did confide in me a few things he was uncomfortable with regarding Lieutenant Vale,” he reported, his eyes never leaving Jaine’s. 

“Did you agree with your Sergeant?” Obi Wan asked. 

“No, sir. I found most of his points to be unfounded.”

What is he thinking? Jaine wondered as she watched the ARC speak.

“Oh, really? How so?” Obi Wan said, urging Echo to continue.

“His observations were primarily based on Lieutenant Vale’s character, something to which I have been paying close attention as well, and I believe his findings to be fallible,” Echo explained, his amber eyes burning holes into Jaine’s hazel. Despite the stoic expression on his face, his voice was full of emotion. “That being said, I also believe that any misunderstandings between Sergeant Hunter and Lieutenant Vale can easily be cleared up. I can even mediate if they feel it is necessary.”

For the briefest of moments, Jaine felt as though she could read beyond his soldier’s countenance. Deep in his eyes she saw it; his express desire to keep her in the squad, to keep her with him, and above all else, his fear that she actually would leave.

“Well, I’d say that’s certainly something to consider,” Obi Wan said, grinning at Jaine. 

“Would you be open to meeting with Sergeant Hunter, perhaps accompanied by Echo, to try and…talk things out?” Anakin snarked.

So Jaine was right, it was a trap. She walked right into it, and now that it had her, she had no choice but to submit.

“I will have a meeting with them, however I would ask that my request for transfer be kept open, in the event that our discussion does not go as well as you all seem to think it might.”

“Of course,” Ahsoka smiled. “And I’m sure that should you still wish to transfer to the 501st, General Skywalker would be glad to have you.”

Jaine couldn’t be sure, but she could’ve sworn she saw Commander Tano kick Skywalker’s leg under the table, who quickly cleared his throat.

“Right, I’m sure we could find a…suitable position for you, Lieutenant.”

They all stood from the table, and Lieutenant Vale gave a respectful salute to the Generals, Commanders, and Captain, turning on her heel to leave.

“Oh, Lieutenant,” Obi Wan called. “I was hoping we could have a word with you in private?”

“Of course, General,” she sputtered. 

Jaine watched as Skywalker, Ahsoka, and Rex all left. Echo turned back to face her. “I’ll be right outside,” he assured her, before following the others out.

“How can I help you, sir?” Jaine asked nervously. 

“None of that. What happened, Jaine?” he interrogated. 

Jaine’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What?”

“All records indicate that your time with this squad have been positive, but here you are, leaving only a few months in? That doesn’t seem like the Jaine I know.”

There was a slight ringing in her ear. “I- I don’t understand,” she mumbled, hand cupping the side of her head.

“Jaine, what do you remember about your home planet, Qoljak? What do you remember about the day your moon died?” Obi Wan pressed. The ringing became louder and Jaine fell to a crouch.

“General,” Cody began to protest, rushing to Jaine’s side.

“It’s going to be okay, Cody,” he spoke soothingly to his Commander, before his voice turned harsh again. “Think, Jaine. You must remember how you escaped the planet after your ship went down.”

“I don’t- I c-can’t,” she whimpered, clutching her head. Her eyes were screwed shut tightly, the ringing becoming too much. She knew what he was trying to do, thinking back to the way she’d brushed Sinya off when she’d suggested going over the list. “P-please don’t.”

“Obi Wan,” Cody practically begged, feeling helpless in this situation.

“Come on, Jainera, remember me,” Obi Wan’s voice pleaded with her, pushing her down into what felt like a black lake. She crashed under, floating helplessly into her own mind.

On the surface, Jaine howled in pain, her torso thrusting up, face towards the ceiling. Her eyes flew open, her usual hazel replaced by a crimson red light that completely covered the irises, pupils, and sclerae, smoky red tears dripping from them. Cody jumped, looking over his friend, full of anxiety. 

Echo burst into the room, eyes rapidly trying to take in the sight before him, he rushed to Jaine’s side, grasping her shoulder with his hand, and pressing his scomp to her other arm.

“Jaine, Jaine,” he called. “What happened? What’s wrong with her?”

He looked frantically to Cody and Obi Wan, begging for answers.

“Echo, Cody, we need to lay her flat, and you both need to get away from her. If you see any red smoke, do not touch it,” Obi Wan ordered.

The pair of clones looked at each other, but ultimately followed the general’s orders.

Jaine’s red eyes were wide open as she lay supine on the floor, unmoving. 

“Set a chrono, I’ll need to know how long we’re under,” Obi Wan ordered Echo, then turned to Cody. “There is a contact on my data pad labeled as S. Bey. Comm her, immediately. Tell her M3, GAR barracks. When she confirms that she received the message, you will meet her at the gate. Use my clearance codes if you must, but she must get here quickly. Go, now.”

Cody set off to carry out his orders, sending one last look of thinly veiled fear.

In her mind, Jaine resurfaced. She was home. No, not quite. This isn’t where I was that day, she spoke, her words echoing slightly, as though she were in a cavern. She could see the destruction around her. The craters left by the meteors.

No, I remembered this already. I know what I did, she begged to the emptiness. She could hear herself crying out, pleading for help. She ran towards her own strained voice.

I was so young, she said. Something made her spine tingle and she realized she wasn’t alone. Just as her younger self saw a young man running towards her, shouting for his master, she saw Obi Wan Kenobi, now a Jedi master in his own right. The two images collided together, mixing in a way that made her eyes sting.

Do you remember me, Jainera? he asked, stepping towards her. My master, Qui-gon Jinn, and I were sent to your home planet to stop the war and save your people.

Jaine felt herself trembling. She looked down at her shaking hands, vaguely aware of the wisps of red smoke pouring from them. 

Obi Wan? she murmured.

Obi Wan pointed to the memory playing out before them. Yes. We rescued you from that debris. We brought you to Coruscant.

Qui-gon Jinn and Obi Wan Kenobi, she repeated. You brought me to the temple.

Yes, Obi Wan breathed.

You brought me to the Council. You said they would help me.

Yes, he repeated.

The Council sent me to the AgriCorps. That’s where Sinya and I met, she remembered. That’s… she trailed off as she felt what felt like a swift kick to the gut.

Go on, Jainera. Remember, he pleaded.

They refused to let me contact you. Our group leader, she- she was horrible to us.

Obi Wan’s eyes went wide. These were not the memories he was looking for. 

That’s why I can’t remember you, isn’t it? she cried, red tears streaming down her face. Because of what she did to me?

Jainera, I-

She killed me, Obi Wan.

Thanks for reading! - Dang

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[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Bagley : Salt Lake Tribune

* * * *

[Kristof: We're less and less a Christian nation, and I blame some blowhards]

Nicolas Kristoff :: Oct 27, 2019

Perhaps for the first time since the United States was established, a majority of young adults here do not identify as Christian.

Only 49% of millennials consider themselves Christian, compared with 84% of Americans in their mid-70s or older, according to a new report from the Pew Research Center (Religion, Oct. 19).

We don’t have good historical data, and the historians I consulted are wary of definitive historical comparisons. But something significant seems to be happening. The share of American adults who regard themselves as Christian has fallen by 12 percentage points in just the past decade.

“The U.S. is steadily becoming less Christian and less religiously observant,” the Pew study concluded.

Some on the religious right will thunder that this as a result of a secular “war on Christianity.”

“Christians and Christianity are mocked, belittled, smeared and attacked,” declared an essay on Fox News’ website, plaintively titled, “How Long Will I Be Allowed to Remain a Christian?”

This mockery of Christians is, as I’ve written many times, both real and wrong. But a far bigger threat to the “brand” of Christianity comes, I think, from religious blowhards who have entangled faith with bigotry, sexism, homophobia and xenophobia. For some young people, Christianity is associated less with love than with hate.

“Pompous right-wing political chest-thumping, and an unwillingness to listen on matters like climate change or racism, has contributed to a perception by millions that Christianity is irrelevant, or worse yet, a threat to progress,” the Rev. Richard Cizik, the leader of a group of self-described “new evangelicals” with moderate views, told me. “That’s a real burden to carry going into the 21st century.”

Cizik, who was fired from the National Association of Evangelicals in 2008 after he expressed support for civil unions for gay people, added that Christianity’s reputation suffers from backward views on women’s issues and from the unwavering support among evangelical hard-liners for President Donald Trump.

“Trump has played them like a fiddle,” he said.

It would be difficult to imagine a president more at odds with Jesus’ message than Trump, a serial philanderer and liar who has persecuted refugees, divided families, exploited the poor and allegedly committed sexual assaults. When Trump in 2016 was asked to name a favorite part of the Bible, he muttered “an eye for an eye” — a reference to an Old Testament passage that Jesus, in the Sermon on the Mount, specifically renounced.

That is the opposite of the Christianity whose heroic side I’ve often praised: A Catholic doctor in Sudan’s Nuba mountains … a missionary doctor in Angola … nuns everywhere. If they were the face of Christianity, its reputation would be golden. Likewise, Christian organizations like International Justice Mission, Mercy Ships, Catholic Relief Services and World Vision labor to make the world a better place. Across America, a crucial safety net comes from churches organizing food pantries and emergency shelters.

Surveys find that religious Americans donate more to charity than secular Americans and are substantially more likely to volunteer. In a Pew survey in 2016, almost two-thirds of highly religious Americans said they had donated time, money or goods to help the poor in the past week.

There’s nothing about faith that necessarily makes it a bastion of conservatives. Martin Luther King Jr. and many other liberal civil rights leaders were shaped by their Christian beliefs, Jim Wallis is a liberal evangelical writer with a large following, and Jimmy Carter is truly the unTrump, at age 95 still building houses for the needy. But today’s prominent evangelical leaders are mostly conservatives.

Pew’s latest report found that nonbelievers are gaining ground fast. “Nones” — those with no particular religion — now account for more than one-quarter of the American population. There are substantially more nones than Catholics.

The decline in religion is particularly evident among young people. Those born between 1928 and 1945 are only 2 percentage points less likely to identify as Christian than they were a decade ago, while millennials are 16 percentage points less likely to call themselves Christians.

“Adults coming of age today are far less religious than their parents and grandparents before them,” said Gregory Smith of the Pew Research Center.

Smith noted that the data seem consistent with the argument made by leading scholars that young adults have turned away from organized religion because they are repulsed by its entanglements with conservative politics. “Nones,” for example, are solidly Democratic.

The upshot is that a majority of white adults now attend church just a few times a year at most. Blacks and Hispanics are more likely to attend, although their attendance is dropping, too.

The central issue is that faith is supposed to provide moral guidance — and many moralizing figures on the evangelical right don’t impress young people as moral at all. Sen. Jesse Helms said in 1995 that AIDS funding should be cut because gay men get the disease. The Rev. Jerry Falwell and the Rev. Pat Robertson initially suggested that God organized the 9/11 terror attacks to punish feminists, gays and lesbians.

God should have sued Falwell and Robertson for defamation. But, in some sign of karma, a survey found that gays and lesbians have higher public approval than evangelicals do.

[quizzically]

wait while i'm making posts.

I think the statistical implications of how most tumblr polls work is totally fascinating and really should be acknowledged by people who compile data they get from tumblr polls to show facts

i am such a huge statisticshead it really interests me i love data analysis. it kills me when people let the sanctity of a good old fashioned poll get taken out back and shot. BUT IT DOESNT HAPPEN ANYWHERE MORE FREQUENTLY THAN ON THIS SITE

The bias on polls is INSANE. "Voter fraud" game is INSANE.,shithole bananas. Ok let's take a favourite obscure character poll for example. let's say it's relatively small scale that receives about 400 voters per poll at leaston each of its rounds. people who are into smaller fandoms seek a blog that runs a poll about their small fandom. they Nominate their own candidate. when this candidate appears in the polls, because of how tumblr polls function (they appear on your dash from people you follow already, voting takes literally no more than 10 seconds if youre not super divided and then youre on your way. no need to register a name, or any other details. polls can be botted, you can use alternative accounts, there is no showing up in person.) the success of the candidate may almost entirely depend on the dedication of the person who nominated that character to promote and spread "propoganda" as its always called, to their followers and friends who may have had no actual previous opinion of this character. IT IS THE PICTURE OF A NIGHTMARE BIAS. they could not be less from representing the opinion of a general public or an actual body of people. It's less like gathering statistics and more like a popularity contest? but you're not shown all your options! maybe the opposing candidate is great but just doesn't have anybody who is obsessed with them to write a 3000 word essay on how they're so great! music blogs are really widespread too, either for knowing music or liking it, so that reduces bias, but still; people on tumblr are often young, often queer often leftist id say, they will be inclined by these demographics to recognise/like certain artists or genres less, certain genres more. like what im imagining is old, classic (but obscure and not trendy) bands might get voted out in favour of a broad-appeal modern artist. Despite that band actually being recognised worldwide and having cultural-reset-level influence. i probably should recognise that tumblr polls are not trying to represent a world statistic..that's pretty impossible and an unrealistic standard. i dunno.it just gets me het when people pretend they have ANY credibility. lets talk about vriska winning pathetic meowmeow over harry dubois ok. ITS A POPULARITY CONTEST! SMEAR CAMPAIGNS! How many people can you get to show up for you but it doesnt actually represent whos better or who SHOULD factually win! i suppose popularity contests IS all they are or all they can be tbh it's just like. who likes apples who likes oranges. IDK take everything i say with a grain of salt These polls are cursed horrible sickly animals. just wanted to talk about it

[leiawritesstories]

a study in color

hi everyone :)

this is very different from my usual fanfiction stuff, so feel free to skip if you're just here for the angst and spice and fluff. i've been wanting to share some of my original work for a while now but haven't ever had the confidence. yet. thanks to my lovely friends for encouraging this; a special thanks to Kelsey (@heirofflowers) for offering advice on this little beast. anyway. a little background: the last couple years have not been a good place for me mentally, and one of the things my therapist had me do was turn emotions into stories, using writing as an outlet. this is one of those stories.

word count:

warnings: hospitals, veiled references to mental illness/depression

please let me know what you think! i love feedback :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cold. 

The first coherent thought. 

Cold, and silent. Like a tomb. 

Empty as a tomb, too, the faintest little noise bouncing off the walls and ceiling in jarring cacophony. 

The walls rise in uniform vertical lines of blank slate gray, the lack of color bleeding into the blank white expanse of ceiling. All flat lines, this room. All angles and corners and perfect ninety-degree turns and flat planes, white and gray and cold and silent and empty and blank. 

A single slender glass rectangle breaks the colorless monotony of the opposite wall, set into a simple steel frame just a shade more metallic than the wall. Through the pristine glass, unmarred by smudges and fingerprints as if nothing living had ever come within breathing distance of it, a landscape lies out of focus. Blurred, hazy, no more than a smear of something that could be color, out of touch, it stays just far enough removed--just far enough behind the lens--not to disturb the tenuous life within the sterile room. 

Blink. 

Blink. 

The first faint twitch of independent motion, the body at last remembering how to operate without mechanical instruction. 

Through the crystalline glass, a bright wild untamed blur of color bursts to life, verdant and vivid and completely fundamentally opposed to the monochrome monolith keeping it out.

An arm drops reactively over the feeble eyes, soft welcome darkness blocking out color and light and vibrance. 

Blink. 

Breathe. 

Beat.

Blip. Glowing white line pulses against its black background, tracking the pulse, the only indication of life aside from the body’s few remembered motions, the steady blink of the eyes, the jerk of the arm flying up to defend against the sudden unwelcome onslaught of life that broke into the protective, colorless shell of sterility. 

Time does not penetrate this deep, cannot probe its filaments into the suspended silence of this solitary space. The machine can only track so much, so many records of pulse and heartbeat and oxygen level and vital signs, and the numbers only mean so much. So much data to those who can interpret the readings, so much nonsense to those who cannot. 

The woman inert in the hospital bed, gray-gowned body tucked neatly between gray cotton sheets, skin nearly as leeched of color as the ceiling above her, does not know how long she has laid in this bed, asleep but not asleep, alive but not alive. A single sterile string trails from her finger, her vital signs sent through the wire to the cold, silent monitor. 

In the corner, mostly concealed beneath a soft gray sheet, lurks a battered cardboard box, a jarring swatch of brown against the colorless emptiness. 

At least it’s not terribly colorful. The second coherent thought. 

Blink. 

The eyes adjust to the room’s respectfully dimmed lighting, the arm falls back down, its task complete. 

Excruciatingly slowly, expending all the strength gathered in her wasted body, she turns her head to the side, away from the slice of untamed life blaring through the window glass. 

Away from the color. 

It is too much. 

It is too soon. 

And yet…and yet the blaze of color beckons, a siren call, haunting, persistent, inviting, wheedling her trembling consciousness to turn back to its vibrance. 

Too much. The third coherent thought. The first decisive thought. 

Gray and white and sterile and unfeeling--this is safer. The world--its overwhelming brilliance--she cannot. 

Her eyes flutter closed again, the effort of being awake, of being conscious, of being herself having drained her. Sleep. She wants to sleep. 

The first desire. 

When she blinks awake again, a delicate gray curtain obscures the window, muting the cacophonic onslaught of the view outside. She wonders vaguely when that happened, whether she has slept long enough for an age to pass and the hospital to be rebuilt around her or whether it was simply one of the many nameless faceless staff who’ve passed in and out around her while she slept. Probably the latter. 

This time, though, her awaking feels different. 

This time, her head is clearer, lighter, unburdened. Freer. 

This time, her body obeys when she commands it to rise and sit up and swing its legs over the side of the bed, cautiously attempting to support her own featherlight self for the first time in a lifetime. 

Shaking, unsteady, wobbling like a toddler, she places one pale foot in front of the other, barely even feeling the chill of the industrial-tiled floor. She takes one halting step after another after another–until her outstretched fingertips brush solid wall. Sideways she goes, trailing her touch against the too-smooth gray-painted plaster until she reaches soft floating fabric, more delicate than her sight thought it might be. 

Fingertips twitch as she closes her hands around the fabric--a child’s grasp, too light, too feeble to be a woman’s. 

Breathe. 

In. 

Out. 

In. 

And out. 

The curtain draws aside as fluidly as water, sweeping back from the glass rectangle to allow burnished sunlight to splash into the room. 

A curious thing, the sunlight. So…so warm and alive and glowing against the stark sterile blankness of the hospital room. Golden and beaming and beckoning, inviting her to dip her feet into the soft warm puddle of light splashed onto the colorless tiles. 

For the first time in a lifetime, warmth floods her frail body, bathed in evening’s embrace in front of the perfectly shaped rectangular window. 

For the first time in a lifetime, she dares to lift her head, dares to slide her wondering wandering eyes up and over the glowing sunlight to peer hesitantly into the glass and out to the world beyond. 

Evening tempers the cacophonic blaze of color outside the steel and stone and glass of the hospital, subduing the rich vibrant hues of autumn so her uncertain mind can reach past the silent grayscale comfort of medicine and dip once more into the palette of life. 

Almost unconsciously, she lifts one hand towards the perfect untouched glass, brushes the very tip of one finger against the silken clear surface, marveling at the faint trace of imperfection she leaves against the pristine window. 

Her palm flattens on the glass, the soft puff of her breath fanning in an opaque cloud atop the window as she leans closer, captivated by the liveliness [life?] thriving beyond the hospital’s sterile barricade, by the gold-washed blur of color and motion and light and laughter and joy. 

She exhales long and slow and careful, entranced by the way her breath flickers across the window before vanishing. 

She stares out at the city as the evening light fades, warm golden sun slipping behind red brick towers until her toes are no longer kissed by gentle heat but recognize the chill of the tile. 

She lifts her pale hand from the window, impossibly satisfied at the distinctly hand- shaped smudge left behind on the too-perfect glass. 

Her handprint. 

Her mark on the hospital’s precisely polished comfort. 

A break in the blankness.

When the door behind her slips softly open, she is ready to see the figure who enters. 

Ready to see the face that blinked in and out of her hazy dreams. 

Ready to take the outstretched hand and step from empty monochrome silence into brilliant overflowing light.

~~~

tagging my general fanfic taglist; please tell me if you want to be added or removed for original stories :)

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@chronicchthonic14

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[fettesans]

I wrote a text to accompany the announcement of Felix Deiters' exhibition The Questionnaire which opens Friday, 13 October 2023, 6–9 PM at SOX. If you are in Berlin, please join us.

--

🎶How does the disappearance of time influence your mood, mental health and bodily experience? Help us find out by signing up for, and sharing, our new pre-registered survey! These surveys will track your mood, your experience of the (time) crisis, and your interoceptive experiences on that day. You can stop at anytime, and should do so if you feel any distress whatsoever from completing the surveys. 🎶

The first time she had her tarot cards read, she was told to keep her question quiet, to herself. And in this crowded bar she took a breath of relief and with sedulous silence, she uttered nothing. Oh, how good this felt to be offered both the question and the answers, she had thought.

Considering how much biometric data she had shed into the world, it was astonishing how much more diffuse she was with information. She told herself this spoke of a desire to inhabit other identities, of voraciously collecting stories, of wanting to remain odd-angled, hazy-like, being based nowhere-in-particular but here, and of always preferring another scene altogether, like a second opinion to her own thoughts. Anything but a straight answer, and never settling on a favorite color. Not that she didn’t have one, she simply preferred to complicate impressions made of her.

But a questionnaire isn’t a manifesto, I told her.

In 1617, an interrogatory comprising eighty-four items guided the commissioners of Eichstätt in Bavaria in their investigation of suspects. Some of the questions were grouped under topics, such as “Diabolical lust” or “shapeshifting.” Under the latter, one of the questions asked was “Whether she did not change into other forms; why, how, when, and by what means did it happen (no. 75).”

In a world where death came often and unannounced, I imagined how such questions required precise answers when the only guides were shaped by dictated prayers and confession-by-fire.

A questionnaire would have to be cast like a spell, she said. And the answers would bear the contours of a knife found in the crease of a striped couch. Words thrown like insults to exercise one’s conjured slang—the bastard tongue lovingly excoriating the mother. Or Panacea fucking Epione, I said over her laugh.

She wanted to know if there was this one lie I kept, and would always reach for when trying to give a satisfying answer to a stranger felt like watching my doppelgänger reach into my organs with a grin. I realized that I didn’t possess such a handy tune to sprinkle. I already killed the louche fucker, I probably answered instead.

I take that you have one to recite, I asked. Yes.

She had always loved taking and trying on things from her friends’ closets, or from a lover’s bedroom floor, a shirt worn the night before preferably, and when they would say you look good, she would always believe it. She thought how such gestures were templates to her own advice column, or towards an entire self-help book for casting foolish yet sensual responses when each question is a riddle. After all, advice—whether unsolicited, unwarranted, or desperately sought—appeared in ancient philosophical treatises, and medieval medical manuals, before it became the golden smear of Facebook’s actually infinite News Feed.

It was the hospital regime that produced the first sets of standardized protocols for the collection of information forms to be filled in by doctors. Volker Hess and Andrew Mendelsohn have written about “the technology of paper pre-scribing,” namely, blank sheets ruled in columns to obtain particular data. By the end of the 18th century, hospitals in Berlin and Vienna used these to record patient admission, diet, and discharge (or death). More detailed diagnoses and treatments for each patient came to be added, or recorded, on separately configured sheets or in journals. In long-practiced disciplines, such as medicine, the categories or topics written at the top of the columns – symptoms, diagnosis, prognosis, cure, etc. – functioned as implied questions.

I told her how much I loved to look at my multiple reflections formed by opposing mirrors in the entrance halls of the old Charlottenburg apartment buildings. Like a relentless acquisitor of circumstances, you seem to extend into the infinite when in reality you get progressively darker and fade into invisibility, long before you even get to the end. I remember how she looked at me as if I had just hurled an occult formula she could deviate into a questionnaire. It’s in the way mirrors reaffirm body consciousness by gesturing deceptively towards our inherent failure of communication—how my reflected body would be saying no when I wanted yes. Is that what being in the world means to you? she finally asked me. Maybe.

The push and shove of wanting, immersed in such an unstable, expansive present. How does one sequence self disagreements? I responded.

Eventually, I told her that the questions I’ve answered best were always the ones conferred like orders by a lover, questions without interrogation points, permissions really. As if possessing a strange talent like drawing blood simply with their fingers touching my skin. Conjuring veins for a laugh, or a fuck, and never expecting words. She would attempt a dispute, insisting that a questionnaire is always like an armor to the one who asks. The one who asks doesn’t have to endure any of the arrows yielded in return, she yelled at me. I remember how I stroked her hair, consoling her fantasy of opting out by saying that she needed to commit more dramatically to the source of the conflict by spending even more time on Quora. Finally, she kissed me with a smile. I remember having said something like how in his genius, Bob Flanagan had gotten rid of the power of decision-making by stealing all of the arrows. Turning his curse into something better than any audience when he had raised this army of Saint Sebastien longing for his embrace.

Perhaps questionnaires are the ultimate aporia between words and meaning, they suggest the most imperceptible forces, from moon tides to the incomprehension of decay. They force a collaboration like a hieratic plot, so deceptively arbitrary yet often bearing a scheming motive, that when a question eventually satisfies the curiosity, it induces the rattled wish to have had an entirely different one asked.

Did I only give you love when you were in pain? I don’t know. I was in pain so much of the time.

Excerpts from Daniel Midena & Richard Yeo (2022) Towards a history of the questionnaire, Intellectual History Review, 32:3, 503-529, DOI: 10.1080/17496977.2022.2097576