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nc-vb · 10 months

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐙𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐬, oo. 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐳𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐫

Time is not prejudiced. It gives and takes as the ordinance of life sees fit. Time begets loss and fear, but it also spawns warmth. After centuries worth of time having passed for you, you learn that time also sires impatience, and does not wait for a lost soul to find their way. Time carries on, and flows likes the current of a river. Ironically, so, too, does blood.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 • jing yuan x reader, blade x reader, dan heng & reader (no pronouns used this chapter)

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 • 18+ (mdni), no explicit smut but suggestive & insinuative; partially beta'ed.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 • can be read as a gn!stand-alone fic! • extended lifespan reader; reader is the records’ master for the Seat of Divine Foresight; allusions to ptsd. • this chapter is introductory and is meant to be vague toward the true plot... the real story begins in the official first chapter. • this originally had a different title, "it ain't the heat, it's the humility" before being reformatted for the series.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 • seat of divine foresight npcs, yanqing

𝐰𝐜 3.1k

zephyr -> a soft, gentle breeze.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 • 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬' 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 • 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

It didn’t matter where you’d tried taking refuge. Your apartment, or your friends’; the streets of the Luofu, or the various fountains littering them; the Exalting Sanctum’s new little dessert parlour with the delicious ice treats, or the sparse number of trees along the way to it. Shelter is far and few, you’d been quick to learn, and none of them with enough of the protection you’d been hoping to find since two days ago when the heatwave began.

It’s hot. Too hot. Too hot for your thoughts to thread themselves into proper sentences whilst on auto-pilot. No, it takes your entire conscious focus for you to even complain about the heat, and even that works up a sweat. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting, you remind yourself as another thick bead of sweat rolls down your neck and into your shirt. So gross. No matter how many cool showers you’d taken that only had your water bill racking up in dues, no matter how popsicles you’d indulged in, or how many times you’d stared at one of the public fountains in longing and wished it could be a public pool, instead, there’d still been no means to an end when it’d came to such brutal weather.

In your many decades of life, you don’t recall it ever being this hot aboard the Xianzhou Luofu. Perhaps the Sky-Faring Commission might have a little historical insight on record temperatures, but putting your curiosity aside, looking into something like that to try and distract yourself from the current temperature? The thought exhausts you.

This only leaves you with one other option, one you’ve left as your absolute last resort, one you know will free you from the pain and suffering plaguing the Luofu and instead, tethering you to another kind of pain— returning to your post within the walls of the Seat of Divine Foresight, where the cooling system had shut down due to overheating. When it did, you conveniently disappeared without a word. Now that it’s fixed, really, you have no excuse to not return to your post.

It’s just unfortunate that it’d dawned on you two days later, the fact that you never told anyone there, including the Arbiter-General you worked directly alongside. You didn’t tell him, either, that you’d abruptly chosen to go absent without any official leave taken on account of the weather.

How does he do it? Those thick, tight clothes, that heavy armour, his thick, heavy hair— in this heat? He must have been suffering, too, you realize much too late. And I left my post and all of my work for him to… Crap.

Your pace quickens, your agility proving surprisingly capable today as you weave in and out and around the crowds littering the Exalting Sanctum until you’re finally able to break into a run. Why is it so busy today?! Why are they all out in the sun?! Are they insane?! Have they all collectively been struck by mara?! Go find shade or shelter! Maniacs! Get out of my way!!

“Chiyan!” you shout from the other end of the dock, not only startling the messenger of the Divine Foresight, but the patrons passing behind you.

Chiyan huffs, shaking his helmeted head at you as you approach.

“And here I thought you’d quit,” he dares to muse during your heat-inspired bad mood.

Nearly gasping now, you tug at the neck of your shirt to puff air down it. “I do not have the energy to tell you off right now, so move it.”

“Yeah, I bet I can guess why. You look…” He just shakes his head again. “Anyway. You’ve got great timing.”

“T-The cooling system is working again, right? That was true?”

“Should’ve placed money on that bet,” he grumbles. “That’s right. The Seat of Divine Foresight is back to its former, air-conditioned glory.” He steps aside. “Please, after you. Go on— go enjoy working in comfort, and out of this heat.”

You nod once, extremely curt with the gesture, and without guilt when you speak your farewell.

“Yeah. I will. See ya.”

For decades, you’ve said this, sworn this, but after the hell you’d gone through over the past fourty-eight hours, you now promise to never complain about the colder seasons, nor take for granted the refreshing chill they brought aboard the Luofu. You can simply throw more layers on then, but in the summer? Not like I can peel off my skin to cool down.

The noise of relief you make upon the doors of the Seat of Divine Foresight shutting behind you is loud, borderline obnoxious, and, if your coworkers were any kind of honest about it, downright pornographic. They quickly avert their eyes and return to their work and their conversations before you can catch their stares.

The difference between the temperature of this room versus even the hallway leading to it is painfully staggering. It seems like they’ve chosen to completely divert the path of the cooling system to the main chamber, you note, glancing up and around you. It’s probably only until they can fix the entire system, but it looks like even the employees of the smaller offices are working here today.

To your disappointment, so is the General. And it’s your bad fortune that it isn’t his usual hologram self.

Despite being on the complete other end of the room, he notices you right away, and the two of you lock gazes. His conversation with Qingzu ends with an abrupt raise of his hand and a brief apology— she bows away, descending the staircase to join Yong Hai and Yong Nian.

I suppose it’s time to play it on thick, you think, before clearing your throat with a harsh cough.

“General,” you call out in exasperation, voice echoing across the hall as you exaggeratedly stagger past the guards with a wave of greeting. “Generaaaaal.” They bow in return, a little too low to be considered a normal sign of respect for someone in your modest position, until you hear a snicker slip out from under one of their helmets and realize they’d been trying to hold in and hide their laughter. You pause, lips parting as if to speak, but you keep in character.

“General Jing Yuaaaaaan.”

From his spot atop the helm, Jing Yuan smiles small and sweet at your dramatic, child-like display put on just for him— the fact that the rest of the chamber gets to experience it for themselves today makes them lucky, as there are only two instances where you, the Divine Foresight’s - normally - dutiful records’ master would display yourself like this. The first instance is just this— you’ve done something wrong and at the very least, you know what it is and are now hoping that sucking up to the boss will help you work it out. The second instance? The circumstances aren’t so different. But it takes place in the privacy of your shared abode, instead of his office.

Your trudging across the floor of the massive strategy-slash-starchess board is squeaky, the soles of your shoes catching on the smooth tiling until you reach the General.

“General Jing Yuan,” you whine, still bothering to salute to him. “It’s hot.”

He chuckles, tucking his arms behind his back as he moves to descend the staircase closest to you to reach you.

“I figured that could be the only explanation behind your sudden disappearing act,” he says, still smiling. “Two whole days you were gone! Imagine my surprise when it’d been Qingzu to tell me of your absence and not you.”

You, you easily infer of him, My partner. Not just my subordinate.

You’ve heard from other outworlders and their testimonies that relationships between mortals in comparison to relationships between those with extended lifespans greatly differ. The flow of time is easily the heaviest hitter— average mortal lifespans range between eighty to one-hundred years old. As life expectancy goes for most those aboard the Xianzhou Luofu, each calendar days’ time differs, too— mortals, Foxians, and those native Xianzhou all have different clocks that tick within them.

Being on the "older" side of the spectrum of age immortality, you tend to fall into dissimilar habits, as opposed to the ones your aging friends do, such as forgetting to send a message back to someone, or informing them of an absence?

Unfortunately, this is why the Arbiter-General still smiles at you, why his response had been just barely teetering on passive aggressive. You know you haven’t heard anything bad from him yet, that the only reason you’ve yet to be chastised as a repeat offender is because the room remains full of other Divine Foresight employees. To the General, you aren’t just one of his most trusted allies. You’re also his lover. And to not know where and not hear from his lover even once within fourty-eight hours after existing together for so many years, you realize that you’d be agonizing over it, too.

Immediately, the act drops, your eyes widening down at your feet.

Oh, god. That’s definitely so much worse than me not saying anything as his subordinate.

“Jing Yuan.” Lip pinched between your teeth, you look to him and muster as much of an apologetic look as you can. “I’m sorry.”

A dark eyebrow raises at you inquisitively. “For?”

You bite back a huff—you already know what for. So, you decide to list everything but what he wants to hear.

“For disappearing without a word to anyone. For not requesting time off first. For not finishing my duties before leaving. For abandoning my post for two days.” To hide the smirk that’d begun to twitch onto your face at the sight of his expression growing more and more stolid, you bow your head, similar to the guards at the entrance to the chamber. “I’m sorry, General.”

He hums, and not thoughtfully. Strangely, you no longer feel his eyes on the back of your head, and by the time you raise it to find out why, you see him stalking back up to the helm.

His timing couldn’t be more perfect when a loud, mechanical groan suddenly sounds throughout the room.

“Ah!” Jing Yuan exclaims, seemingly agreeing with your wordless sentiment— he peers down at you where you stand steeping in your petulance. “The second stage of the cooling system must have kicked in. Friends,” he calls across the hall. “I do believe you should be able to return to your original chambers now; no need to linger and loiter around here any longer. In fact, how about you all take an extra break today? Starting now. A gift, on account of this weather, of course.”

Thanks and bows of appreciation are quick to be thrown to the helm where the Arbiter-General stands; unfortunately for you, your coworkers have never been ones to stare a gift horse in the mouth, and flee out the doors as quickly as they’d earlier arrived. Maybe you had no trouble playing with the General, but they’d wanted no part whatsoever in it— the look Qingzu throws over her should at you as the last person to leave confirms this.

Ah. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so petty, after all.

The sound finally settles into a dull hum, barely noticeable over the doors to the chamber slamming shut.

“Those were a lot of apologies,” Jing Yuan points out. Looking to the helm, you find him wearing a perfect poker face. “Are you sure you didn’t miss a couple?”

You sigh at him, hands on your hips now.

“You already know that I did, and you know that I did it on purpose, too.”

He matches your attitude with the crossing of his arms.

“And?”

“… and I’m sorry if I made you worry by not telling you where I’d gone,” you mumble.

“What was that, dear?”

Your cheeks burn. “I’m sorry if I made you worry. I didn’t mean to not tell you. I know that with this whole… Stellaron thing, you might’ve been busy. I didn’t want to distract you by telling you I wasn’t feeling well.”

“______. I’d want to know if you got even a paper cut.”

You can’t help yourself when a laugh bubbles up and out of your throat.

“We both agreed that we wouldn’t let things like this affect how we perform our duties, right? This is a perfect instance of that agreement; I asked you to set these boundaries with me for a reason.”

“Reporting on our well-being is much different than perhaps sending the other a picture of what we ate for lunch.” He scratches at his chin. “Although, I did want to send you what I had for mine today. I would have liked to have shared it with you.”

“Jing Yuan…” Quickly, you clamber up the steps to stand before him. “I love you with every fibre of my being. I promise not to do something so thoughtless like this again, but please… I need you to properly honour our agreement. I don’t want to have to afford anymore missteps in this lifetime. Not after… no… I-I can’t. Never again.”

To either side of your face, the General’s hands rise, claiming them in his cool palms. You sigh, your own coming up to hold them to you.

“You were on the front lines for a long time, ______,” Jing Yuan reminds you. “Even before the incident. And when we live as long as we do, the memories won’t simply fade away with time.

“I understand how you feel, exactly how you feel. And when I say to you what I am about to say, please know that I don’t wish to diminish or dismiss those feelings, either.” He thumbs your cheeks, pulling you closer into him, lips ghosting the crease between your brows and smoothing it down with his affection. “Even when I don’t hear from you, you are always on my mind. And for as long as we’ve been together, that has never changed. If you ever find yourself burdened by those feelings, I wish to share the load with you. Paper cuts and all.”

“Even over something as silly as my impromptu two day vacation…?”

“Fu Xuan did mention there’d been a nice breeze over at the Divination Commission, last I spoke to her. If only my love didn’t forget about me in their search for some shade… Surely, I could have invented some reason to send you over there…”

“Ah, so a guilt trip and not a work trip, then, huh?”

“No, not at all.” You shoot a playfully disapproving glance to the man. For a moment, he simply stares back, his one unshielded eye sparkling with obvious mischief. Little warning is given when he steps toward you again, hands reclaiming their rightful place at your waist. Fingers curl into the loops securing your belt and tug your hips to meet his.

Your cheeks instantly heat at the contact, at the knowing glance he dares to send you at such close range.

“You know,” he says, breath fanning your face. “We could always try building up a different kind of sweat— you know. To take your mind off the heat.”

Jing Yuan doesn’t give you a chance to answer, instead sliding his one hand from your side to curl beneath your right ass cheek and hoist you up into the air. Instinctively, you’d raised your legs to curl around his middle as he’d turned to carry you toward his seat. If this is my punishment, I accept it gratefully and gracefully, you think, almost dizzyingly.

“That break you sent the others on was more for you than it was for them, wasn’t it?” you ask him, hand curled around his neck as he lowers you onto the cushion. Without missing a beat and with a single hand, Jing Yuan’s fingers are deft to remove your belt and unbutton your trousers.

“Naturally, they assume their “dozing general” merely wants to take another nap…” He taps your thigh, encouraging the lift of your bottom. You shift your weight into your palms and rise, and he removes your pants to rest around your ankles. “… or that I’ll be reprimanding you.”

“I suppose it’s a relief that they’re aware you don’t pick favourites around here. Well, the exception being Yanqing. He’s everyone’s favourite, after all.”

“Not yours, I’d hope?”

“Definitely mine.”

“And why not me?” Still hovering above you, he bends over to nose at your throat— you shudder, unable to stop yourself. “Considering how I have you… and how I’m about to have you. Tell me that I’m not your favourite?”

You scoff lightly at him, even when he presses kisses deep into your throat, strong against your jawline, and gently against your lips.

“W-With how long you insist on teasing me like this…? W-Who likes a hot dinner served cold—” you’re cut off by his tongue prodding against your lips; you part them, eagerly, hungrily, the joke about eating somehow making the craving to have him have you even stronger, more obnoxious the more he makes you wait.

He is barely gentle now, showing little restraint in how his tongue plunders the inside of your mouth. Jing Yuan is a giver and a taker, of pleasure and of oxygen— your gasps are sharp, not being given a chance to breathe, a chance to win whatever battle he’d entered with you. “Jing Yu—” the butterflies that swim in the pit of your stomach are traitorous in his repetition; they know how good he makes you feel, strictly in the way he takes your breath away with each kiss, each suckle and swirl of his tongue around yours, each stroke of his calloused hands sliding to grip the fat of your thighs, and they make you weaker and weaker with each ministration.

With a final swipe of his wet muscle across your spit-soaked and kiss-numbed lips, he draws away, eyes lidded and panting.

“G-General Jing Yuan,” you rasp almost chidingly. Your hand is quick to brace him away from you; he chuckles at your weak attempt, instead returning it to where it once kept you entirely upright. You huff, every inch of your skin flaming and dewy with a thin layer of sweat. I just finally cooled down, too…

“You’re going to need that there,” he tells you, rising to his full height. He tugs on his own trousers to give them a generous amount of slack before kneeling down before you, nestled between your already shaking thighs. “We still have twenty minutes, after all. You’d better get comfortable.”

#jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x yn #jing yuan x y/n #jing yuan #honkai star rail #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan smut #jing yuan fluff #blade x reader #blade x yn #blade x y/n #✦ nc-vb.#✦ the zenith unto animus.

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beangal-does-something · 1 year

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“Hey Guys! Look What I drew! It’s older me!”

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An AU that I call “Truly Techno-Organic Sari”

So basically, it always bugged me that there wasn’t really anything done with the fact Sari wasn’t truly human in the earlier part of the show. So, I made up stuff because I could and here we are.

Sari was always meant to be a vessel for the AllSpark. That’s why she looked so vastly different than other protoforms. But given Cyberton’s unstable political climate even prior to the war, she was sent away for her own protection.

Her stasis pod crash landed on Earth and remained hidden until a mining operation outside of Detroit found it millennia later. Now let’s put a pin in that for a minute.

After the war on Cyberton and being thrown through a Spacebridge, the AllSpark starts to use its energy to search for its lost protoform. It takes a long time, but it finally senses the protoform on a planet across the galaxy. That’s when it, in Ratchet’s words, “Found Us!” and powered on the Spacebridge with its location being Earth. It was going to go to its protoform and see to it that the little one was raised with love and care. What it didn’t account for was the Autobots crashing into Lake Eerie and going into stasis for 50 years. And it definitely didn’t count on humans getting to the pod first.

Fast forward to Sumdac finding a pod that he that he vaguely remembered asking to be brought to his lab after he was contacted by a mining company and discovering the little protoform inside.

As a defense mechanism, Sari’s systems used Sumdac’s DNA in reformatting her body to better blend in with the planet’s natives. It even went as far as to hide her spark signature from other Cybertronians.

After all that, the story continues largely the same in terms of plot (for Season 1 and 2), except with some changes.

Number one: Sari is a literal child both in human and Cybertronian terms and she stays a child. No age up. But she does occasionally get dreams about herself when she’s older in place she doesn’t recognize.

The AllSpark still gives a fraction of its power to Sari in the form of the AllSpark Key. However, in this AU, whenever Sari abuses the power of the AllSpark Key, it either goes in a locked mode for a short time or its power is greatly reduced. It's the AllSpark’s way of grounding her and teaching her: With Great Power...

Now for more headcanons for this AU.

Sari is smart (which I believe is kind of canon because if I remember correctly, in one episode she’s learning the quadratic formula from Tutorbot, and that’s middle school math...and she’s eight. Also, Sumdac asks if she’s tinkered with the pocketbot which leads me to believe that even prior to the Key, Sari might have reformatted her dad’s robots). So, building from that, Sari finds her school subjects too easy, and she gets bored from not having a challenge. Que her reformatting her dad’s robots so that she can sneak away to go exploring around the city.

When the Autobots come into her life, Sari asks Optimus if he wouldn’t mind teaching her Cybertronian subjects, like history or language.

Having a been a data clerk in the Iacon Archives prior to joining the Autobot Academy, Optimus has a wealth of knowledge to share, and he was more than happy to teach her.

Sari eagerly awaited Optimus’s lessons. There was finally something to challenge her mind.

Ratchet figured if the kid wanted to keep hanging around them, then he better look into human health. He started monitoring Sari’s diet and would get stressed seeing how much ‘junk’ food she ate. He started to replace all her junk food with fruits and vegetables.

Occasionally, when Ratchet would run a check-up on her, he would pick up Sari’s actual spark beat on his equipment. At first, he thought it was a glitch because how could Sari have a spark beat? She’s organic. But the more Sari spent time around the Autobots, the more the ‘glitch’ keep happening, and Ratchet started suspecting that kid wasn’t all organic after all.

When Prowl meditated, he sometimes felt the electromagnetic field of a newly activated protoform when Sari was nearby. For a while, he thought it was a form of his guilt manifesting. Then one day, he saw Ratchet’s equipment experiencing a “glitch”, and the cyber-ninja knew in his spark that Sari wasn’t fully human.

Prowl felt that regardless of what she was, Sari needed to be taught how to defend herself should she even need to, especially with all the trouble she seemed to get into. So, he started giving her the basics of cyber-ninja training, including their philosophies about respecting all forms of life, cybernetic or organic.

Bulkhead and Bumblebee didn’t pay attention to Sari’s inhuman quirks. (Well, Bulkhead noticed some things, but chose not to say anything.) The two youngest of Prime’s team acted as big brothers to Sari, with Bulkhead trying to keep the other two out of trouble.

#beangal-does-something #transformers #transformers animated #tfa #sari sumdac #tfa sari #headcanon #au #optimus prime #tfa optimus prime #ratchet #tfa ratchet #prowl #tfa prowl #bulkhead #tfa bulkhead #bumblebee #tfa bumblebee #truly techno-organic sari

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ddwcaph-game · 4 months

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FUCK ME.

I had to reformat my computer to get it fixed. I was so sure everything would be saved, but because of a stupid misunderstanding, ALL my files are gone now. My documents, my drawings, my animation and portfolio files, everything I did for school... it's all gone now.

I guess the silver lining is... all my DDWCaPH files are still intact, minus all the art stuff. Which is... fine in the grand scheme of things. None of the existing artwork is final anyway, and I guess I can still download the files I uploaded.

I'm still trying to process everything, but the messed up part is... I don't even feel like crying? There's obviously a LOT I'll never be able to get back, but it almost feels freeing to have some sort of fresh start? I dunno, it's hard to explain. Maybe the realization will catch up to me later.

Since I'll never be able to polish the animated trailer I made, I guess I might as well share it after I've recovered a bit (thankfully I uploaded that to Youtube).

Please distract me with asks about the game. I need it more than ever.

#i was double checking all my saved files earlier #it feels like all the files were flashing before my eyes before they got deleted #ramblings

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rancidpancakebatter · 1 year

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hey, i hope you're doing amazing! i was wondering if you could write a tasm!peter fic based on the song 'honest' by the neighbourhood? it can be reaaally angst, i promise i won't complain, not even a little bit! thankk you soo muuch in advance, i love your writing! ♡

You want angst? I'll give you angst

Honest by The Neighborhood [P.P.] | The Playlist

Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x Reader

Word count: 4.6K

Summary: Peter is lying. Peter has been lying. And now you have to find out why.

Content: Swearing, Alcohol Consumption (legal age), Mentions of blood (Spider-Man injuries but nothing too graphic), break up,

( Paylist | Masterlist | Fic Break down: 1|2])

A/N: I'm making my way through my asks and It's been great. Thank you for all that submit things to my ask box, I love seeing it :))

You pace your room, a vexing mix of emotions swirling in your gut. You had to talk to him. You couldn’t keep doing this. You were confused. You were angry. You were hurt. But really you were scared. You were scared for Peter. You couldn’t understand it. You couldn’t understand him.

You were supposed to have a date last night. You had been looking forward to it all week. Your boss had been up your ass lately, demanding you reformat your analytics debrief six different times. There was family drama your mother was constantly updating you on and asking for guidance in a situation you were too exhausted to deal with. And you hadn’t had a chance to go grocery shopping (due to the overtime you had to put in), so your cabinets were bare and your fridge bereft.

All-in-all, not a good time. Peter had promised that he would see you. That you would be together. But instead, you waited in your fancy dress and painful shoes for four hours, drowning your sorrows in wine and staring at your unanswered texts. Waiting, always waiting.

Peter had always been a bit flakey. He would often ask to reschedule or push back plans, garnering some excuse as to why he couldn’t make it on time. It was a bit annoying, but not the end of the world. Peter liked to take things slow, and you respected that.

You went on seven dates before he kissed you. You'd been dating for six months before he said I love you, and you didn’t sleep together until a month later. You figured Peter just had a fear of intimacy, but he seemed to be trying, and you didn’t want to pressure him. But he has pushed you too far. Your patience is gone.

The wine was almost empty; you had ditched your glass a while ago. There was no point in keeping up with social etiquettes when it was just you. It’s not like you were going to share it with anyone. Not anymore, at least.

You heard a knock on your door and made no attempt to answer it. You were playing music, but it wasn’t loud enough to warrant a visit from any neighbours. You didn’t feel up to a social call, so you continued to wallow.

“(Y/n)? (Y/n), honey, it’s me. Can you open the door please?”

For a moment, you thought it was a hallucination. Your drunken mind stringing you along, taunting you with the one thing you wanted.

He knocked again, “(Y/n), I know you’re in there. Just open the door.”

You scoffed and took another sip, “Look, your mad; I get it. I understand, and you have every right to be. I’m so, so sorry. Please, I- I want to apologise.”

You felt your body temperature rise and anger slowly build in your veins as it pushed out the self-pity you had once been filled with. You took unsteady steps towards the door, the cold tile against your bare feet making you shiver.

You undid the deadbolt but kept the chain in place, opening the door and peeking your face through the gap. You just looked at each other for a moment, a silent stare down. Your gaze held a certain animosity, while his was filled with relief, though it grew confused when the door stayed in its partially opened state.

“Can I come in?” You say nothing as you continue to stare him down.

“Please, I know you’re mad-” If he says that again you just might scream. Actually, that’s not a bad idea.

“You don’t know anything, Peter.” Your words slur together, and the t’s don’t come out just right, but you’re sure he understands precisely how angry you are with the venom you spit out alongside his name.

His brows furrow as he looks over your face. “Are you- are you drunk?”

You keep your glare intact as you think over your answer. You could lie, but you didn’t need a mirror to tell you that your cheeks were adorned by a familiar warmth, and your lips were surely tinted with an obvious magenta stain.

“Yes, but that’s none of your business. Good night.” You move to close the door, but Peter’s hand stops you.

“Uhng- Wait. Ow, shit- just wait a second, please.” You slowly open the door again, not for his pleas but for his expressions of pain.

This time you look at him, really look at him. You can see a bit of blood on his lip, a bruise on his cheek, and his hand holding his side. You feel a chill run down your spine.

“Back up.” He takes a step back, taking his weight off the door while you undo the chain lock and usher him inside.

You set him on the couch and winced along with him. You rushed to your bathroom and prepared a warm washcloth and some band-aids you found under the sink. Maybe you should invest in a first-aid kit. You had never needed one before.

You returned to Peter’s side and raised your hand to his face. It wasn’t really necessary, his eyes have been locked on you since entering. But you lifted his chin anyway, a silent promise to hold him close.

You wiped gingerly at his lip, wiping away any dried blood and grime. It was obvious that he had wiped at it a few times.

“I’m so sorry. Really I-” You lightly pinched his chin.

“Hush. I don’t need an apology. I- I just…Peter, are you okay?” You could feel your eyes watering, tears swimming forth and resting on the verge.

In his eyes, you could see the once-sweet cacao of his irises tainted by fear and distress. It pained you to see it, so you stopped looking. You grabbed his hands instead, gingerly wiping down each finger, tracing the tendons and fate lines.

“I’ll be okay.” His hand was still holding his side, and you moved it, slowly lifting his shirt to look underneath.

The wound stretched from his lat to his hip, twisting toward his stomach. It looked like a giant rug burn. No, more like a scrape you would get on your knee after tripping on the sidewalk. Only deeper. You could still see bits of gravel lodged between the flesh, and you grimaced at the thought. That had to be so very painful.

You wished you had rubbing alcohol so you could clean it. A wound of that size, that exposed, was sure to get infected. You used the rag as gently as possible and mumbled a sorry every time he hissed. You didn’t make much progress before he grabbed your hand, calling your name sweetly.

“Hey, hey. Just leave it be. Really, it’s fine.” He tries to comfort you with a smile, but it’s tired at the edges, his drooping eyes not matching the expression.

You can feel yourself choking up but try to swallow it down because Peter needs you right now. He shouldn’t have to be the strong one.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, “Wh-what happened, Pete? Who did this to you?”

He swallows before he answers.

“I…got mugged.” You tense for a second.

“You got mugged?” If Peter noticed how your concern drifts, he made no comment on the matter.

“…Yes.” You drop his hands, let go of him.

You turned your body away as you stared at the wall. Your tears were dangerously close to falling. This is when your patience broke. This exact moment. It snapped, stretched too thin and tested too often.

It shattered along with your heart, shards scattered across the uneven floors of your apartment. The wine in your system did nothing to dull the pain of heartbreak. You felt every crack and splinter as it slowly broke apart, then burst all at once.

“Are you sure?” Your voice is cold, your capability for sympathy floating away in waves.

You saw him tilt his head in confusion from your peripheral. Any other time you would have thought it was adorable- compared him to a Yorkie or a Spaniel- but his act of innocence only made you angrier now.

“Yeah…why?”

You remained silent as you got up from your seat, walking around the back of the couch to the side he was sitting on. You grabbed his backpack, tucked into the side as if he had hidden it, and dropped it on the coffee table. Peter’s eyes widened at the site.

“So you got mugged…and your backpack is still in perfect order?”

The canvas was unstained, the zippers undamaged. The bag was in its normal state of distress. You watched as his face began to flush, and his mouth opened and closed uselessly.

You waited for a response, but when he refused to give one- you pushed forward. You unzipped its pockets and pulled out the valuables that were all unharmed and very obtainable to anyone who wanted to take them by force.

“You got mugged, and they let you keep your camera, your laptop, the Beats I got you for Chanukah, and your wallet with… ” You dramatically counted the cash in front of him, “forty-two dollars in it?”

“It- he…uh… ” You tapped your foot as your arms rested firmly in a crossed position.

“It wasn’t a successful mugging,” He finally settled on.

“What happened? Exactly.” Peter squirmed on the couch a bit as if running from your anger.

“He, uh, stopped me. And then he took out a… knife. And then he told me to give him all my stuff, and when I started to run, he knocked me down. We fought for a bit, and then I got away.” Peter looked you in the eyes while he uttered, which only infuriated you more.

“When did this happen? Where? What did he look like?”

You continued to grill him as he fumbled through each answer he gave you. Your anger climbed with every word he said. He might have been able to convince May, but you knew his tells.

Usually, he would ramble, giving entirely too much context to a situation, caught up wholly in the story. But when he lied, he said as little as possible. Peter fidgeted a lot. If he was sitting, you could bet one, if not both, of his feet, were bouncing. But now he sat before you almost perfectly still. Shifting his body around slowly, his discomfort evident.

“Peter, how the fuck do you get yanked across the concrete hard enough to get an injury like that? Did you get assaulted by Mike Tyson? It looks like you were hitched to a truck and dragged.” You ask, angrily pointing at where his hand continues to rest on his side.

“You’ve told me this story three times now, and not once did you mention that. I’m not buying it; just tell me what happened.” You watch as Pete shifts again, propping his elbows on his knees as he brings his head into his palms.

He sits there for a moment before he ruffles his hair and sits back up. “Okay, you got me. I-I fell on my skateboard. I was just embarrassed about it.”

“You missed our date…because you were skateboarding.” It wasn’t a question because that wasn’t the truth either. "You're telling me that you hurt yourself this severely, and disappeared for however many hours because you randomly decided to ride your skateboard for the first time in almost a year, and you were embarrassed."

Peter broke out into another story, but you blocked it out. You weren’t a particularly violent person, but Peter was pushing you to that level.

You clenched your fist as you fought the urge to grab everything within reach and chuck it at his incredibly thick head, maybe knocking some sense into him. You felt like you were losing your mind. You were seconds from snapping, and you weren’t sure what that would look like.

Your head was pounding, and your buzz was long gone. You weighed your options for a minute before releasing a terse sigh, cutting off his newly woven tall tale.

“Are you gonna bleed out and die tonight?” You still couldn’t look at him; you focused instead on memorising the phosphenes dancing behind your eyelids.

“No, I’ll be okay, I promise.”

You almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his statement. Here you were, arguing over his blatant dishonesty, and he thinks you’ll accept his promise? You felt sore from the way your muscles had been tensing.

“Then get out.” You didn’t need to look at him to know how pitiful he must look.

“What?” He sounded so small, and you felt bad for a moment, but only a moment.

“I said, get out, Peter. If you can’t be honest with me, then…just leave.” You finally open your eyes, utterly defeated.

He stood, taking a step toward you but stopping when you backed away. “(Y/n/n), I’m telling you the truth-”

“No! You’re not! And I don’t want to hear another word. Not tonight.” You held your head in your hands, blinking back tears.

He froze, staring at you incredulously. He looked completely distraught, and while you wanted to feel bad, all you could think was maybe now he understood how you felt. Just how terrible this exchange made you feel.

You didn’t really want to kick him out; you wanted him to hold you close and tell you everything was okay. You wanted him to change into his sweats and scold you for stealing his sleep shirt, forcing him to remain shirtless. You wanted him to complain about you keeping him up by staring at him while he tried to sleep. You wanted him to retaliate by rolling over on top of you, peppering you kisses and pretending to fall asleep like that.

You wanted to go back, return to normalcy. But the damage was done, and no patchwork could turn this around.

You pushed his backpack toward him, across the table, and that seemed to break him from his trance. He slowly threw it over his shoulder, giving you a tearful glance before he walked to the door. You followed him to the threshold, and he only took one step into the hallway before whipping around to face you.

“Not tonight…but when?”

You hastily swiped a tear that had fallen from your eye, “I need space. I need to calm down and think before we discuss this anymore.”

Peter's jaw quivered slightly before he forced the muscles to tighten. He turned, and his heavy steps echoed in the hall. You close the door behind him and finally let the tears fall. Your body racked with sobs as you sunk to the floor, the exhaustion catching up to you. You felt utterly deflated, devastated by Peter’s inability to just talk to you, to be honest. You ended up falling asleep there.

Three days had passed. Peter had texted you thrice. That night he told he was sorry and he hoped you were okay. You didn’t respond.

Obviously, you weren’t okay, but you didn’t know how to communicate that without blaming him and inevitably starting another fight. He texted you again halfway through the next day to ask how yours was. You had spent it fighting the urge to go to Aunt May to cry to her instead of your playlist of heartwrenching songs.

You knew she would give you comfort and support, knowing exactly how it feels to be lied to by Peter, but you also didn’t want to put her in that situation. You didn’t tell him this; you didn’t say anything. The last message Peter sent you just read: “let me know when you’re ready to talk. I’ll be here.”

As you paced around your bedroom, you think you’ve finally reached a mindset that was level-headed-adjacent. You had calmed down significantly.

You didn’t like feeling angry. But for you to get as upset as you did, was borderline unacceptable. You had to acknowledge that Peter’s lies had been gnawing at you for a while so you could begin to heal. And now, as the sun sits high in the sky, you bask in its beams. You sit on your bed and hug a pillow to your chest; your phone weighs heavy in your hands as your thumbs hover over your keypad.

You had come to the conclusion that you were both at fault. Peter had lied. He had lied often. He had scared you. He kept you in the dark, but you made it your home. You never called him out for it. You never communicated your fear or concern, or why you felt you needed him to tell you the truth. But you also realised that being open and honest, that communication, came with trust.

If Peter wasn’t coming to you, it was because he didn’t trust you, and you had to open your mind to the possibility that that could be your fault. You decided that needed to be the basis of your conversation. And you were finally ready to do it. You were determined to save this relationship.

You texted Peter that you were ready to talk, and for once, he responded immediately. You felt a little bad that he hadn’t heard from you yet, but you didn’t want to lash out; you were looking for a resolution. You asked to meet at his place, “I’m home all day.”

You go over everything you want to say as you walk down the street. It was a forty-five-minute walk between you and Peter’s place. You could take the bus, but you wanted the walk. You wanted the fresh air and constant motion. You were nervous, but if you were walking, you didn’t have to focus on it.

When the door opens, Peter’s eyes light up. As if looking at you brightens his mood alone. He wore a timid smile, and his shoulders were tense, but his eyes twinkled in the hallway fluorescents just because they fell on you.

He invited you in and sat down on the couch. He attempted to make small talk, and you tried your best to answer without saying anything that may garner guilt.

“I’m sorry,” Peter suddenly blurted out.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he continued, “I missed our date, and I didn’t text you. I am so, so sorry. That wasn’t okay, and I promise to do better.”

You took his hand, and he seemed to relax a bit. “Peter that- yeah, that sucked. But that’s not what I’m upset about.”

You could almost feel Peter’s nerves, like his anxiety was shooting out of the pads of his fingers and into you. “I am worried about you. You are often…harmed in some way or late, and you can never tell me why. And I just- I’m-”

Maybe it was your nerves you were feeling. “I’m worried you don’t trust me. I wanted to know if there was something I could do to remedy that.”

Peter grips your hand a little tighter, “I trust you. Of course, I trust you.”

His words soak into your skin, and you feel anger bubbling within you. But it’s not just rage; it’s exhaustion. You’ve done this song and dance, and the tune no longer excites you. You know now that there’s no way to avoid it. If he claims it’s not you then you have to confront him. But you didn’t really want to. You knew the question but feared the answer. The words lodged in your throat, and it felt harder to breathe.

Say it, You thought. You should say it.

“So, then, why do you lie?”

He pulled back from you slowly enough that you could feel him slipping away.

“I don’t.”

Another lie.

The anger grew as it bubbled in your gut; it was close to a rolling boil. The steam is building, creating pressure.

“Cut the shit, Parker. I know you weren’t mugged, and I know you weren’t on your damn skateboard. Why won’t you tell me what happened? Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not-”

“Yes, you are! Just tell me!”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

He looked at you like it pained him to say it. As if in some way, he knew how this hurts you, and it hurt him too. But he couldn’t know. He couldn’t understand.

“Peter, I’m kinda losing my mind here. I mean, you are always late or busy, but it’s never with your job. I’ve caught you several times using May as an excuse, not realising that I was with her. And if you do show up, you’re covered in bruises. You have scars that you can’t explain. And anytime I ask about any of it I get vague, nonsensical answers. Why? Why can’t you tell me what’s going on? I wish you could be honest with me.”

His face falls. You see the guilt flash across his face for the briefest of moments, but then it’s gone, replaced by an expression of faux ire as he stands from the couch. He stands up straighter, his shoulders squared and fists balled at his sides. It was a defensive stance, and he fell into it so naturally, you wondered how often he did.

“Tell me this: Why’d you stick around; why’d you stay with me? If you know I’m lying, why?”

If you didn’t know him, you would have been hurt by his tone, filled with disdain and contempt. But you knew Peter Parker. He was trying to push you away again.

He would go through these cycles where he would shower you in adoration, tell you that you were perfect and amazing, and how he was so lucky to have you. But then he would freak out. He would ghost you and act distant. When you could finally pin him down, he would confess that he felt he didn’t deserve you or the love you poured out for him.

The fact that he was doing it now frustrated you to no end. You could feel your hair greying.

“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU! Jesus, Peter, I love you. And I knew you had some issues, but no one is perfect. And I’m not asking you to be. I’m just asking for you to be truthful with me. And if you can’t do that, I’m asking for an explanation. What am I doing wrong? How do I fix this, Peter? Please, give me something, anything!”

You were pulling at your hair, on the verge of tears. Your breathing erratic. You felt like you were going to explode; your atoms were seconds from throwing off electrons left and right until they all decayed and left you in a pile of mush.

“What- You’re not doing anything wrong, okay? You’re great, amazing even. It’s not you.”

Peter placed his hands on yours, pulling them away from your head and placing them over his heart. You steady your breaths in time with his.

“Then why? Why do you lie to me, Peter?”

“It’s to keep you safe.”

“Safe from what? What are you running from?”

“Look, I can’t. I can’t tell you, alright? I can’t put you in danger like that.”

It was Peter’s turn to tense and your turn to soothe.

“Hey, we’re in this together. We’re supposed to grow and learn and chase our dreams together.” You intertwined your fingers and bring them to your lips. “ Peter, if you're in danger I want to know. Let me help you, please.”

Something in Peter snaps. His eyes are now cold as he pushes your hands away, taking a step back. If he had walls up before, you were now looking at a fortress. Fort Knox. Castle Rock.

“You. Can’t. Help. Me.” He spoke the words with finality. “Do you hear me? I don’t want your help.”

You felt his words rip and tear through you, taking part of you with them. A deep cut by a serrated blade. You did your best to apply pressure to the wound, to keep going- to make him see.

“But that’s what you do. When you love someone, you help them. You do it all the time, whether it’s carrying my groceries up the stairs when the elevator’s down. Or when you run me a bath after a stressful day-”

“That’s different, (Y/n).” You shake your head furiously.

“No. No, it’s not. You help me because you love me. Let me do the same.” You’re pleading with him at this point; your dignity lone gone.

Peter looks to the ground and says nothing. You feel your heart sink; he says nothing. “Peter?”

Still nothing. “Peter?”

You feel like you might vomit. “Do you…Do you love me?”

Your ears are ringing in the silence. He finally lifts his head, and his eyes are rimmed with tears, but still, he says nothing.

His hesitation kills you. This is it. This is your end. Peter Parker doesn’t love you. The last bit of hope in you fades, and you feel hollow. His love had died, and so have you. The revelation is almost enough to bring you to your knees.

“I couldn’t save it,” You whisper so faintly one might mistake it for a draft from a leaky window. “I couldn’t save it.”

You cry. Hadn’t really done that in front of Peter before. You’ve teared up sure, maybe had one or two slip, but this was something else. This was a steady stream down both cheeks. This was raspy gasps from your chest. This was ugly.

And Peter just stood there.

You collapsed onto the couch as you started to shake. You felt like everything was falling apart. If you thought your heart had been suffering before, you were wrong. It had now been obliterated.

There were no shards or mess, only a plume of smoke and a singed cavity where the muscle once was. It burned and burned, eating itself alive until there was nothing left.

You wondered if this is what stars felt- this fear, this betrayal- before they succumb to their own crushing gravity, exploding with a grand flourish…and then nothing.

You wiped your face. He had lied to you for the last time. You held no sympathy for him. You found it hard to believe that he didn’t love you, but if you were right, what does that say about Peter? He was deeply hurt. You saw glimpses of it when Peter would lose you in the store, when he would wake you up with a night terror, when he lied. You loved him, for better or for worse, you did. But you couldn’t do this; you deserved better.

You stand and grab your bag, throwing it over your shoulder. You make it across the floor and to the front door before Peter says anything.

“Wait, where are you going?”

You bite your tongue, holding back as many scathing comments as you can. Most of them call him out for pushing you away and being upset when it works. But instead, you settle on something else, something you think is a little nicer.

“I hope you find a way to be yourself someday.”

When you look back at him, he looks like he’s seconds from shattering. But maybe once he falls apart, he can build himself back up. You hope he does.

“I pray for the best for you, Peter.” And that was true. Even as you shut the door behind you, even as you silenced his notifications on your phone, even when your friends shit on him- trying to make you feel better. You hoped that he would get the best life had to offer. You hoped it would be a little kinder to him.

Taglist: @andrews-lovr, @barbecuetiddy, @cherriescherriesred25, @djdre92, @heejinw0rld, @ilovemoonknight, @negasonic-teenage-asshole, @preciousbabypeter, @princesskittycatofmeowland, @purple-amaranthe, @raajali3, @rudy-the-winged-wolf, @scorpiolystoned, @wannapizzamymindposts, @whoreforklitz

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joelhappyhil · 4 months

Text

It's been a month and a half, here's a update for DAWN before the new year.

(This was taken from an update on my Kickstarter)

Hello everyone, and happy holidays!

I'd first like to give an apology for the lack of substantial updates, especially regarding DAWN's progress after the Kickstarter's end. I've shown many small updates on my Twitter and Discord but felt it would be annoying to send out emails for each of those teasers. I've created this post as a bulk progress update before I release a major update to the playtesting material (more on that later).

Art

I would like to share the thing that's taken most of my time and funding since the Kickstarter ended: the ordering and use of new art for the book.

This is only some of the work that's been done so far, but since this art is meant to represent player options, I felt it was good to show you all these as examples of what's been completed, as I assume most of those reading will be looking to play the game as players.

Playtests

I've been spending a lot of time on balancing the game, with combat tests being hosted on my Discord every week. These have resulted in a lot of reworks and changes to the mechanics that will be apparent if you read the version that was publicly available during the Kickstarter's run. Here’s some examples of reworked Techniques (renamed from Power's since the KS) and new ones that have been well received by testers.

Design and Copy Editing

You may have noticed from these screenshots, but I've also taken a try at reformatting the game to better reinforce the comic book look, with new fonts and improvements to the page layouts, while better managing the negative space.

I feel I've made a lot of progress and I'm getting closer to the final pdf, but there’s still quite a bit of quality checking that needs to be done. (The GM parts of the book especially).

I'll be aiming to release a Final playtest document on my Itch sometime before or around the new year. It'll be the most complete version so far, but will still be missing a lot of art fluff text, and short stories I plan to add at the head of each chapter. As the name implies, this should be the last freely available version I release before 1.0, where I'll start working on the physical layout for printing and start on the supplements funded in the KS.

Conclusion

If you got this far I'd like to thank you. I've spent quite a few years on this project and never thought I'd be able to get this much funding for it, or for any of my books, really. To show my appreciation, here's the current book cover for that final playtest document. I'm not sure if it'll be the same when the update comes out, but I felt like some of you might enjoy seeing its current version.

Again, thank you all so much, I'll be updating you again when this stuff becomes available.

- Joel Happyhil

#indie ttrpg #ttrpg #dawn #kickstarter #indie stuff #ttrpgsolidarity #game design

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lets-try-some-writing · 1 year

Text

Remnants of the Wild

Orion had to adapt to live in the Cybertronian wilds. And while most of those adaptations faded with time, some things just stuck, even after he became Prime.

Feral Orion Pax

Despite how much Orion, and later Optimus might have glorified it, living in the Cybertronian wilds was no easy feat, especially for an unattended sparkling. The newly forged Orion Pax would have died from either starvation or natural hazards if left alone. But thankfully for Orion, he was picked up by a local pack of predators and raised to be capable of not only surviving but thriving in the wilds.

He spent his sparkling years feasting on the energon of hunted creatures alongside his mechanimal siblings and recharging tucked against the huddled frames of his pack. As he grew older and his frame came to be larger, he joined his adopted family on their excursions, hunting and learning the ways of the wilds. He was treated like any other newly forged youngling of his caretakers' species. As such he did what all sparklings do and bonded to his adopted family, his base coding changing his very CNA to better match theirs.

This meant that by the time he was grown and living in his own territory away from his pack of origin, he was truly a terrifying sight to behold.

He could have been mistaken for a rouge Predacon if it weren't for his very definitively Cybertronian helm and facial structure. His frame was huge, his plating colorless, jagged, and highly intimidating. His digits were long, clawed, and very obviously meant to tear prey to pieces and cut into tender protoform. His legs were unusually long, granting him both incredible mobility and a terrifying stride when in pursuit of a potential target. His optics were sharp and piercing, meant to catch even the slightest movement no matter the light or situation. And Lastly, Orion's mouth was filled with sharp serrated denta which gleamed threateningly when combined with low light conditions and the glow of his optics.

As one might have guessed, Alpha Trion left with his fair share of wounds when he found and promptly subdued Orion. After Alpha Trion took Orion in, he had to start from the very beginning when it came to Orion's education. Teaching him language, speech, basic manners, and other things a sparkling should have learned while slowly helping him acclimate to civilization. This took nearly a vorn, after which Alpha Trion spent a similar amount of time taking Orion to specialized therapists and doctors to help him lose some of his wilder traits.

After several vorns of teaching him and slowly reformatting his frame to something more civilized, Orion finally appeared and acted mostly normal...

Orion Pax

Most of the wild features that Orion retained were small, at least the physical aspects. His legs were still longer than average and his frame was still built to withstand just about anything. But this was easily dismissed as him being built as a combat class mech or having a sturdier frame type. As such the only things that stuck out on him physically were his still very much present fangs and clawed digits.

While not a problem in the archives since his appearance had long since become a normal sight, newcomers tended to shy away in fear upon meeting his predatory gaze for the first time. His social obliviousness did little to help him in those situations as for a long time he was unable to determine what was wrong. However his rather straight forwards perspective in social matters did allow him to make fast friends with just about anyone able to look past his appearance.

However it wasn't just a few physical differences that set him apart, it was his mentality. He had no qualms against eating the fauna of Cybertron if he was hungry and the opportunity presented itself. He would also tend to forget to speak when uncomfortable and revert to using body language and his EM field for communication. Animalistic sounds slipping out on occasion were also common alongside his habit of subconsciously sizing everyone up, flaring his plating to look larger.

Megatronus found it to be more adorable than intimidating.

Picking apart the weaknesses of those around him with an uncomfortably long stare was also something that tended to set his fellows on edge. His quiet but undoubtedly possessive behavior was also noted when he finally felt comfortable around his friends. Often he would get in-between others who he deemed dangerous and his "pack", doing his best to keep them safe. Even Megatronus who stood nearly a head taller than him was not exempt from Orion's overprotectiveness. And despite not being a very touchy feely individual, Orion always made sure his "pack" were well taken care of and loved.

Him leaving dead mechanimals on his friend's doorsteps or workstations was also something he did regularly until Ratchet informed him of how unsettling it was. He would also leave small markings on his "pack's" armor if he could get away with it. Often nothing more than a small scratch on the paint, a quiet declaration that they were under his protection. Small affectionate touches and near undetectable humming were also common ways for him to show how much he cared.

Of course after working alongside Megatronus, fighting in the war, and becoming Prime, a great many of these little habits and features faded.

Optimus Prime

After the Matrix's forced reformat, Optimus retained even less of his wild features. All that remained were subtle things, like his digits which were still slightly pointed, or his optics which seemed a little too piercing, and his denta which appeared to be sharper than they should be. Of course, his long limbs remained, but the Matrix hid their unusualness beneath a thick layer of armor that accentuated other parts of his frame, almost as though to draw attention away from the effects of his less-than-pure Cybertronian CNA.

His coding was also reworked, pushing him to give more attention to others and the welfare of Cybertron instead of his and his "pack's" survival. This in turn eliminated many of his previous habits, instead making way for diplomatic data, battle protocols, and the wisdom of the Primes. That is not to say his pack instincts have faded out entirely, no, they still remain, but they do require a reason for activation.

The only times he exhibits even slightly wilder traits are when those closest to him are in danger or in need of comfort and when the rush of battle grows to be too much.

During the former situation, before and after arriving to earth, his go-to method of protecting his family is to take the lead. He makes himself larger, more stoic, seemingly untouchable and eternally wise. He takes it upon himself to shoulder all their burdens and to be there, allowing his presence to make them feel protected and loved. The occasional song like humming that he may produce is too high pitched for most to hear, even for his fellow Cybertronians. But it does subconsciously make his family, and even the human children feel that much safer. He might also offer some comforting touches and words but usually he tries to help his family quietly, lest his mask of stoicism slip.

As for the latter situation, his self preservation has been nearly eliminated in the sense that Optimus no longer feels the need to preserve himself if it would benefit a greater cause. This conflicts with his wild base coding and can cause him to fall into a maddened rage if he feels his family is too threatened. He cannot flee as the Matrix and his Prime programming would never allow it, but his wild coding also refuses to let him roll over and accept death for himself or his family. As such he can fall into a berserker like rage when things get dire, his morals and everything outside of his need to eliminate the threat being pushed to the side.

He has long since learned to control this rage, but when it does happen Megatron does not even bother coming up with a good excuse and flees the battlefield. An Optimus who doesn't care, who isn't weighed down by morals and duty and only has the primal desire to tear his prey to pieces is not one who Megatron has any intention of messing with.

#transformers prime #feral orion pax #orion pax #tfp optimus prime #transformers ideas #this is almost an au #goodness I need to stop putting so much effort into my tumblr posts #I believe Optimus is possessive as pit and I accept no criticism on this front #yeah I can see him acting like he isn't #but the team are HIS people #he would totally keep tabs on those he views as his

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aizawasnumberonefan · 1 year

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Hi! I was wondering if you still need some ideas? I really like your writing and would like to see how you would interpret a young All Might (or him in his prime) receiving a surprise kiss for the first time! Can be on the cheek, lips, nose, knuckles, idc

I feel like he would be all blushy and cute

Thank you!

this is literally so cute i am in love!!! i'll come back and reformat later but i need this out rn rn rn

Sweet Treats

All Might x Reader

It’s been a long day out for the number one hero, All Might. Between interviews, meeting civilians, and defeating villains, the poor man has hardly been able to catch a breath. He practically falls through the door to his apartment, collapsing in a muscular heap on his sofa. His blue eyes shut as he finally allows himself a moment of peace at the end of his day. He doesn’t notice how quickly sleep overtakes his overworked body until he hears a timid knock at his door. Toshinori stretches, yawning as his dreams slowly drain from his mind. Once again, he hears a knock against his front door.

“One moment!” He calls, his husky voice still muddled with sleep. He stands and his apartment fills with the sound of both him and his sofa groaning in response. He half-heartedly messes with his hair in an attempt to fix it before making his way towards the door. He barely suppresses a yawn as he opens it, but finds himself a little surprised to see you, his neighbor. His eyebrows raise slightly in response. “How can I help you?”

In the amount of time that you’d been living in your apartment, you’d hardly taken the time to meet your neighbors. You knew that All Might, the young, buff, blonde that the entire world was in love with lived next door, but you’d never busied yourself with heroes or their work. You appreciated them, but you weren’t as involved in their lives as many people seemed to be.

“Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you so late.”

“It isn’t a problem.” Toshinori replies with a reassuring smile, glancing at his clock on the wall to confirm that he had indeed been asleep for several hours and it was now approaching midnight.

“I’m baking for a get together tomorrow and I just melted my only mixing bowl on the stove. I know it was a stupid mistake, but no stores are open right now and I promised that I would bring cupcakes. Is there any way that I could borrow one of yours?” You ask, subconsciously returning his smile. You’re embarrassed by the admission, but he can tell by the flour in your hair and on your shirt as well as by the frazzled look on your face, that you genuinely tried every alternative before coming to his door.

He chuckles, opening the door wider and stepping back to allow you in. “Of course. I’m glad that you felt comfortable asking me.” He says, closing the door softly behind you after you step inside. You wring your hands in front of you, but don’t gaze around in awe, which he would expect from most of the public. It’s refreshing, he thinks, to be treated like a person instead of an untouchable item.

You watch as he moves, muscles flexing passively as he goes through his kitchenware to find a bowl suitable to your needs. “I’m Y/N, by the way. I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve introduced myself before.” You say, holding out your hand with a smile.

He turns to look at you, face lighting up with a grin of his own as he feels the pleasure of introducing himself as, well, himself, instead of his hero persona. “Toshinori Yagi. It’s nice to finally meet you.” He says, grasping your hand for a firm but warm shake. “Will this bowl work?” He asks, holding up a large bowl adorned with the pattern of his costume.

You nod eagerly, taking it as he holds it out to you. “Thank you so much Toshinori. You’re a lifesaver.” You say, pulling him in by his hand to stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. “I’ll return it tomorrow.” You say with a sweet smile before disappearing back out his door and into your own apartment.

Paralyzed in shock, All Might feels his face slowly heat up as his cheeks and the tip of his ears turn a burning red. His signature grin replaced by a soft smile that slowly grows until his cheeks hurt. Slowly, his hand moves up to touch his cheek where you kissed him, shaking him out of his temporary paralysis. “You’re welcome.” He says quietly, to the closed door that you left behind you.

The following day was decidedly a good one for All Might, despite it being busy. Throughout his morning and afternoon, his thoughts had been consumed by your smile and your kiss. He knows that it shouldn’t be as big of a deal as he is making it, but it was the first time in a long time that he had been seen as something separate from All Might. He returns home around the same hour as the day before to be greeted with something on his doormat. His bowl, sparkling clean, sits patiently for him, holding 3 beautiful cupcakes. While the cupcakes were divine, he found that his favorite treat that you gave him was a thank you card with your phone number on it.

#mha imagine #mha fanfic #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #all might drabble #all might x you #all might x reader #mha toshinori #yagi toshinori #my hero academia toshinori #all might #.all might 💛#.mha 🌤

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writer-darling · 11 months

Text

Are You Ever Dreaming of Me?

Chapter 2: Clean | Read Chapter 1: Bad Blood!

I NEVER USE Y/N OR ANYTHING LIKE IT THANK YOU SO MUCH :)

Rating: M - MATURE ((for now, but there WILL BE explicit stuff later sooo (18+ MINORS DNI)

Pairing: Ezra (Prospect, 2018) x F!Reader

Warnings: STRONG WARNING: Voyeurism under threat of violence (not Ezra). Good old enemies-to-lovers trope. age gap (10 years). Nothing super descriptive for Reader but they are described as having hair. Tension, ofc, especially sexual tension out the wahzoo. Adult language. Alotta feelings and things of that nature. Banter. Fighting. Insults, Flirting. It’s E-to-L, you know where this is going. Feral Ezra (he’s about at 75.4% in this chapter). If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in :)

Word Count: 4.6k

Summary!: The morning after your realization about your feelings for the prospector, you decide to take some time to yourself to get your thoughts in order.

A/N: REWRITTEN & REFORMATTED ON: 12/25/23

******

“The water filled my lungs, I screamed so loud

But no one heard a thing…”

The next morning, you’re up earlier than usual. None of the prospectors should be awake. Only a damned fool would be up before the shift starts. Which you suppose, you are right now. Still, you suit up and put on your glass helmet, charging your thrower and checking that your radio signal is working.

Your mind is still reeling from the interaction between you and Ezra last night. And even more so from your realization. You don’t hate Ezra. You like him. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Yet, you can’t deny it. Not after last night.

You leave your tent and take a quick look around to make sure no one’s up and about before you walk away from the campsite, being quick and quiet. The sky above you is still pitch black, the two suns only beginning to kiss the horizon. The cool of the night and quiet of the forest makes for a perfect opportunity to sneak away while your colleagues are still sleeping away in their tents.

You have no idea where you're going, and you don't really care. You just need some time to think. After last night, you're suddenly afraid of what you might say or do if you see Ezra again. So the best decision you can make right now is to just get away. You’re good with hostile confrontations with Ezra, that’s been made clear, but this one you truly are ill-equipped for. You know you feel this way. But is it possible Ezra knows too? You’re honestly not sure and you don’t care. Right now you just need some time to think.

Alone.

So you make your way through the woods and find a site that’s isolated but still close enough to camp. You don't have to go far to find a small clearing with a sturdy-looking tree. This is a perfect spot, one that will leave you undisturbed. You can already feel a certain level of peace wash over you now that you've put a significant distance between yourself and the others. You lean against the tree, allowing its sturdy bark to provide you with support for your weary body. The silence fills the air around you, calm and peaceful.

You're still not sure why you feel so drawn to Ezra. He's hardly been civil to you. He's arrogant and insulting and… likable. You frown and try to make sense of why you feel so drawn to him when you shouldn’t! You’re not friends, hardly acquaintances. He’s smug and annoying and completely irritating.

But still, you couldn't help but feel something last night when he got close to you. You could feel your pulse race. Something unlike anything you've ever felt before, and it was… good. Even now you can still feel your pulse beating out of control, the blood rushing through your veins from just thinking about it. What is this? You two are enemies. The idea of having feelings for him goes against everything you’ve become comfortable with in all your time as part of this crew. You try to calm your thoughts but it’s not working. You need to get your mind off of all this. You get up and decide to keep walking.

After some minutes, you’re much farther from camp, your preoccupied thoughts carrying you with more haste than you realized. You’re already sweating in your suit, even with how dark it still is out. Even at night, there’s little relief from the heat of this planet. It's almost like a vacuum for it. This environment was notorious for droughts, and even with the cooling apparatus in your suit, the heat and drought have been the worst parts of this expedition so far, absolutely brutal.

There’s a rock formation you’re approaching and you charge your thrower and aim it carefully in case there’s anything behind it, walking around the formation with great caution. On the other side, you find a pool of water. Freshwater. It’s a natural body, and the dark water is almost like a mirror as you approach it. Using your toxicity meter, you find that it’s pure, without any toxic chemicals. You’re not one for public indecency but this area seems closed off, hidden.

So, you strip down to your undergarments before you can think twice about it, suddenly desperate for relief from the heat and your racing mind. You dive into the water, the cold of it being just the shock you need to get all your thoughts to stop. As you break through the surface with a quiet gasp, your body instantly contracts as a reaction to the frigid temperature but by the time the initial shock wears off you can already feel it helping clear your head and calm your nerves. You feel like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders, at least for a moment.

Nothing else seems to matter, and when you open your eyes to look up at the sky, you realize how beautiful this little corner of the forest is. It's a reminder that you've never been anywhere so peaceful. There’s no rush, no danger. You wish you could stay here forever. You let your body float on top of the water as you enjoy this moment of peace and silence. The only sounds are those of forest life and your own heartbeat. It’s such a drastic change from the constant thrum of the prospectors. You find yourself enjoying the solitude. For a few minutes, you really feel completely relaxed.

That is until the sound of something rustling in the bushes behind you fills the silence. Your heart stops in your chest. You turn around carefully, and as you suspected, someone's there. Someone or something. You look for your thrower but of course, it’s back on the grass along with your clothes, piled a few feet away. All of a sudden you feel extremely vulnerable. You can only let your body dip under the water, only keeping your head above it as you tense and prepare to fight with your hands if need be, your eyes fixated on where the sound came from.

Your instinct proves to be correct, and seconds later you see a figure slink out of the darkness.

Your heart jumps into your throat, the fear on your face surely visible to your attacker. But something makes your pulse slow for a second and your eyes suddenly go wide as recognition washes over you. He's right in front of you, and you get a better look at his face through his glass helmet. Ezra. He looks at you calmly, and as he steps closer the expression on his face turns from pensive indifference to one of playful amusement instantly.

“What the hell?” You hiss. “Ezra, what in Kevva’s name are you doing here?” You snap, keeping your body under the water and out of his view as you grow hyper-aware that you’re very underdressed right now. Ezra shrugs his shoulders, his face still betraying no fear or concern whatsoever.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Ezra says as if your sudden profanity is the most normal thing in the world. Which, when it comes to him, it is. He crosses his arms and steps a little closer, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What are you doin’ out here at this time of dawn? Shouldn’t you be sleepin’, just like all our other comrades?”

“It’s almost sunrise, jagoff.” You retort. “Did you get so drunk last night that you’ve lost track of time?” You ask him. “It would certainly explain your weirdo behavior last night.” He obviously wasn’t drunk, but how else to explain how he was acting? Besides, now that you’ve seen the cigarettes, you’ve no doubt that he’s likely got other contraband he shouldn't have somewhere in his tent. Ezra’s smile grows wider, and you swear he’s holding in a laugh. He steps closer, coming within less than a foot of you. Your face is hot and you’ve never felt so exposed and vulnerable.

“Does it look like I was drunk?” he asks, his smile still playing at the corner of his lips. He tilts his head to try and get a better look at you, his gaze lingering on your body for a few seconds. There’s a shift in his eyes as he does so and your body grows burning under his stare, despite the chill of the water. “Not to mention this is hardly normal,” he says, gesturing to your less-than-ideal state of undress. You glower at him, dipping your body even lower under the water keeping your chin just above it, as if that would help at all.

“Well, you could’ve fooled me.” You respond, snark, but it doesn’t have that same bite your responses usually do, as he clearly has you one-upped right now. Ezra's smirk only grows to an infuriating degree.

“Is someone embarrassed?” He asks, his face betraying only a brief glimpse of amusement before he manages to collect himself and go back to the way he was before. You’re trying to be angry but you just can’t help but feel a little bit flattered by a look from Ezra. You shouldn’t feel this way, you know you shouldn’t. You’ve never met someone who speaks and carries themselves so well. As if he were above everyone else. But why do you kind of like that?

“Embarrassed??” You say with a sudden burst of bravado you don’t actually feel. “Why the hell would I be embarrassed around you?” You ask him. Ezra nods and smiles slightly as you put up a more confident front.

“Because you should be embarrassed,” Ezra says bluntly. “You look like you’re about to slip out of your underwear.” He gives you a little wink and a smirk, his voice dripping with an air of confidence. He speaks with a cadence that makes every sentence sound like a flirtatious invitation, a taunt made to make you feel small. And for some reason, it always works on you.

“So what?? What are you, 14??” You ask. “Or have you just never seen a naked woman before?” You ask mockingly. Ezra rolls his eyes now.

“No, I’ve certainly seen women before, but usually in much more… pleasurable circumstances.” He smiles, letting that little add-on at the end linger for a beat before he continues, “Plus, most of them don’t like to be seen naked, especially by someone they barely know,” Ezra says, raising an eyebrow at you. You feel embarrassed as he gives you a knowing look, the corner of his mouth turning up at the corners. It’s clear he’s enjoying his ability to make you feel flustered. But… the feeling you get in return is somehow both infuriating and addictive. You want to slap him. You hate him.

“Yeah well, you’re not the first prospector to see me naked. And I don’t get intimidated by men who mean nothing to me.” You respond, letting your shoulder rise above the water. “Now, how about you turn back the way you came and let me finish my swim in peace, hm?” Ezra’s smile grows even wider as he takes a step back and raises an eyebrow again.

“Better yet, how about this, rook? How about I join you?” He asks, the hiss of his helmet releasing its airlock as he removes it from his shoulders interrupting you. You stop and turn around to face him.

“What?? No, this is my watering hole. I was here first!” You protest.

“And so?” He scoffs, already unlacing his boots. “I don’t exactly see your name on it, rook, and even so, nature belongs to no one individual, ain’t that right?” He asks rhetorically with a smug grin that makes you want to slap him. You can’t argue with that, so you don’t, just glaring at him and watching as he strips down to his boxers. This is the barest you've ever seen him, so used to seeing him in his suit or just in lounging clothes on your days off, the few you have out here. He’s actually not bad-looking. Not at all. You don’t realize you’ve been ogling him, but he notices just as he stands upright again. He grins.

“Enjoyin’ the view, rookie?” He teases, walking over to the pool’s edge. You snap out of it and roll your eyes immediately, swimming further away from him, both to make room and also to keep a good distance between you two.

“Please,” You respond. “Like I said, vet, you mean nothing to me, just like those other jerks who took a peek at me.” You mutter back as you turn to face him. He grins and does a smooth dive into the pool, no doubt feeling the same freezing cold you felt. When he rises, he’s closer, but still keeping a good distance from you as he grins.

“Tell me somethin’, rookie.'' He says, his voice dripping with smug arrogance. “I would love to know the names of these men who saw you naked and lived to talk about it,” Ezra says, folding his arms across his chest.

“Piss off.” You mumble. “They were just a few assholes.” Ezra chuckles.

“Yes, you established that already,” he says sarcastically before laughing to himself. ��But let’s make this interestin’. Give me a name or your swimmin’ session is over,” he says, leaning in again and staring into your eyes intently. There’s a new level of intensity in his eyes, a deep hunger that makes you think he might actually follow through with his threat. Why is he pushing this?

“Why do you want a name? What does it matter that one of those other jerks saw me naked, hm?” You ask.

“Oh, it certainly matters,” Ezra says with a low chuckle as he swims a little closer to you, about an arm’s length away. He stays quiet for a long moment as his eyes bore into yours. You almost think he’s not going to elaborate. But then he speaks, “Because I’m a jealous man,” he says slowly, his voice full of power and authority. The way he looks at you right now, the way he needs you right now, fills you with a strange combination of both fear and excitement. “And I don’t like the idea of some nothin’ jerk gettin’ to see you in such a vulnerable state,” he says, almost daring you to argue, even as his voice seems almost… sheepish to say this all.

His words shock you. He’s jealous. And he’s just said it out loud.

Your entire demeanor drops, that irritation and arrogance you feel always flare up around him is now replaced by shock. You can’t even respond to him, completely floored by his admission. Ezra smiles triumphantly, almost reveling in the power he has over you in that moment as his earlier sheepishness fades away. You have never seen him look so… relentless. He’s like a dog with a bone right now.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says slowly, his voice turning soft and sweet as he takes another step closer to you. “Who was he, rookie? What’s his name?” The intensity in his eyes is unnerving, more like the predatorial stare of a lion. This is the most you’ve ever seen him want anything, and right now he needs you to tell him. He’s not gonna let it go.

You sigh and move away from him, swimming to the other end of the pool, letting your upper body come out of the water, your undergarments clinging to your skin. Thankfully, you can stand upright in this shallow pool easily.

“It was a group alright?” You snap, annoyed as you begin to remember. You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose with your thumb and forefinger. “I had just graduated from the Ephrate, only a few days as a prospector and I was finishing up my basic training at one of the apprentice camps on Central. This group of assholes ambushed me one morning while I was getting dressed for my shift.” You say, frowning and suddenly vulnerable as you open your eyes to glare at the water in front of you.

“They ambushed you?” Ezra asks, raising an eyebrow at you. The look on his face is almost impossible to describe. Part anger, part protectiveness. You’ve never seen him this way before. “What exactly did they do?” Ezra asks, his tone growing dark and demanding as he leans in closer.

You sigh again. “It was really in the morning… I had just gotten up. I was half asleep, my thrower was in its holster… I was just getting out of the refresher. I came out of there naked because I figured maybe I had just forgotten my clothes back in the main space. But when I come out… they’re all just sitting there… a group of about 3. One of them’s got his thrower aimed at me. But they never spoke, never moved. They just… watched.” A ripple of disgust goes through you at the memory. Ezra’s face twists into a snarl.

“Those sick bastards,” he says, and all the playfulness and arrogance is gone from his voice, instead replaced by a dark, grim seriousness that’s new to you. “And you didn’t even have a chance to defend yourself.” He shakes his head. The look on his face is also something you've never seen before. It almost looks like a combination of anger, sadness, and guilt. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and it looks like he's weighing his words very carefully as he looks off into the distance, as if still processing what you’ve told him.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks, his voice full of concern as his eyes meet yours again.

“No.” You respond honestly and there’s clear relief in your voice. “I couldn’t do anything, I just begged them to not hurt me, to not... you know. To please leave. It took…” you take a deep shuddering sigh as your eyes close, a clearly painful memory. “It took a lot of pleading. I was half-convinced they’d kill me. But eventually… they left.”

“Damn bastards,” Ezra snarls, a look of pure hatred on his face. “They’re lucky I wasn’t there,” he says, his voice full of determination. He takes a deep, steadying breath. It’s clear he’s trying very hard to contain himself right now. “Who were they?” he asks, his voice cold and sharp. He looks at you, his eyes full of a mixture of concern and anger. “Tell me. I’ll make sure they never hurt you again.”

“I don’t know.” You say. “I’ve never seen them again after that day. It’s like they just disappeared and it was so dark in the tent, I couldn’t make out their faces.” You add. “Believe me, I’ve committed that morning to memory, if I had gotten a good look at them and seen them out here, they’d be dead.” You say. Ezra nods slowly and you know he believes you, but he’s still stuck on this.

“They may be gone now, but do you remember anythin’ about them?? The way they spoke, the way they looked, anythin’ that would help me track them down?” His eyes are full of determination as if he's not going to rest until he finds these men and makes them pay. You've never seen this side of him before, and it's almost intimidating in its intensity.

“Track them down?” You ask, looking at him. “For what? It was just a few idiots who got a peek at me, it doesn't mean anything.” You say dismissively, though the pain in your eyes is obvious. Ezra scowls.

"'It doesn't mean anythin', my ass. No one gets away with somethin’ like that. Not on my watch." He leans in again, his face inches from yours. He looks almost frightening as he stares you down. You're not sure if he's serious or not, but he seems intent on finding these men. "Tell me anythin’ you remember about them. We'll find them, and I'll make them pay for what they did to you." You glare at him, suddenly angered by his attention to this. He may not mean it, but the way he’s acting, as if what happened was some sort of offense to him is infuriating you.

“Listen to me, and listen to me good: No one gets to reopen my wound. No one. Not them, not me… and certainly not you.” Your voice is quiet and low, clearly a warning. You’re protecting yourself. You won’t go down that dark spiral again. You’re just barely getting over this incident and you won’t let yourself get pulled under it again. You’ve only just started to feel like you can be around men at all. Barely able to feel like you’ve got some semblance of control over yourself again. Ezra scowls, but he doesn't move. He stares at you angrily for a moment, as if weighing his options. Then, finally, he sighs heavily.

"Fine," he says, folding his arms across his chest. "If that's what you want. But they're still out there. What if they do it to someone else? Can you live with that?"

“You think I haven’t considered that??” You snap, your eyes blazing as you look at him. “That’s one of the many scenarios that keeps me up at night. That haunts me. But what do you want me to do, huh?? Spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder??” You ask, your tone furious. Ezra shakes his head, his expression full of frustration. Then, after a few moments, he softens.

"No… of course not," he says, his voice much calmer and softer. "But those men deserve to be punished. They can't get away with hurtin’ you like that. They just... they can't." His voice sounds almost pleading now as if he's asking you for some kind of favor. Your heart softens a little, despite everything. Even though you’re still angry, you can't help but feel a little bit moved by his concern.

“They already did, Ezra.” You say, feeling defeated. “Besides, you don’t even like me.” You say and begin swimming over to the edge of the pool a few feet away. You lift yourself out of the water and onto the grass, taking a moment to gather yourself. He averts his eyes. After a moment, you stand up and look for your clothing, finding it right where you left it along with your boots. Ezra turns to watch you go in silence. He seems almost sad that this is how the conversation has ended. But then, suddenly, his expression darkens. He follows you out of the pool, letting the water drip off of him as he grabs his clothes, clearly realizing that this interaction is over. But he’s not done with this yet. He’s dressed faster than you and as you turn to leave, he steps forward and blocks your path.

"And who told you I don't like you?" he asks, "I never said anythin’ of the sort." His voice is calm and measured, but there's an intensity behind it that makes your heart race. You're not sure what to make of that.

“Oh blessed mother, Ezra.” You say as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you, that’s how this whole thing works.” You say, gesturing between you and him. Ezra sighs loudly, his frustration obvious.

"So you're just goin’ to walk away, then?" he asks furiously. "After I just tried to help you?" He shakes his head, clearly disgusted by the thought. "I don't understand you sometimes, rookie. You're always so closed off. Why can't you just be honest for once in your life?" He says, almost pleading with you. "Why can't you just let yourself be vulnerable?"

You whip around to face him.

“You want me to be vulnerable??” You snap, marching towards him. “Fine. Leave me alone!” You shout. “I don’t owe you any explanation. We’re not friends, we’re not partners, we’re not a damned thing.” You say finally as you glare at him. Ezra stares at you, almost shocked by what you just said. There's a mixture of anger, hurt, and surprise on his face. But there's also a flash of... understanding. He’s clearly struck a nerve, and he isn’t entirely sure how to dig himself out of the hole he’s just dropped himself into. He takes a deep breath and backtracks, speaking calmly and softly.

"You're right, rookie," he says softly, his eyes bittersweet. "We're not friends. And you don't owe me anythin’." He pauses for a moment, staring intently into your eyes. "But that doesn't mean I'm not concerned about you," he says, his voice growing more serious. "And it doesn't mean I'm ready to just give up on you."

“Well, you should.” Is all you can remark back as you put on your helmet last, your voice slightly muffled now but still intelligible. You walk away, rushing back to camp. Ezra scowls, watching you go. He wants to say more, but the words never come to him. And so, he's left standing there, ruminating with anger and frustration.

"That girl... that damn girl," he mutters to himself, unable to refrain from thinking out loud. "Why does she have to be so difficult?" He shakes his head, almost as if trying to clear his thoughts. Then, he lets out a loud sigh. "She makes me want to punch a wall," he declares loudly, almost yelling at the top of his lungs, "but she also makes me want to run to the very ends of the galaxy for her." He shrugs to himself, a small smile on his face as he lowers his voice down to a pensive whisper. "Oh, the life of someone who can't decide whether they worship a girl or despise her."

You hear his yelling but can't make it out from how far away you are now. After a good five-minute walk, you reach the site. You head to the camps and see the prospectors just beginning to wake from slumber, giving you a chance to slip into your tent and get ready for the day without interruption.

Meanwhile, Ezra glares down at the ground, trying to control his temper. He knows it's not good to let his emotions get the better of him. But still, there's something about you that drives him absolutely crazy. How do you make him so angry and so... attracted to you at the same time? He sighs to himself, shaking his head. You really have him wrapped around your finger, and he isn't quite sure how much longer he can take it before he finally just snaps and says something that might disturb the temporary peace you both have.

As you make your way to your tent there’s the smell of rain in the air, and as the sky lightens you notice that it's overcast ahead. Once you’re finally inside, the rain starts slowly. But, by the time you're ready to head out, it begins to pick up. When you're outside, it falls in sheets against your helmet. You sigh, knowing that the mud is going to make today a hard one, but it also feels good to finally have some relief from all the heat. You decide to still take it as a good sign as you join your crew at the digs, steeling yourself for the labor ahead.

******

Can I write just one character without trauma?? No, the answer is no. Sorry. So I was going to wait to upload this until tomorrow but I'm impatient so I just decided to do it now. I figure this is probably going to be a slow burn E-to-L cuz it's just more fun to torture myself (and in turn everyone who reads this muahaha). As I said in the last chapter this is my first E-to-L so I might just suck at it bUT I'm gonna try anyway because I am persistent, damnit. Anyway, that’s it, thanks a million, hope you all enjoyed, and see you in the next one!

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witchofthesouls · 6 months

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The Primes are lucky Optimus' Witch s/o isn't friends with Sun Wukong the Monkey King. While OP's s/o can't do much, I'm pretty sure an 5 times immortal incarnation of chaos who wrought sheer havoc to the Heavens can. 13 Primes getting beaten up by a stone monkey.

Now that I think of it... Witches having contracts might protect them from the immense pressure when being in the godly realm. Their divine power acting like a barrier against the other.

Also the sheer awkwardness if one deity claims Optimus as their ward. The madness it shall wrought on the 13 Primes since in a way, OP is a walking loophole in divine affairs.

I think the Monkey King would either be best friends, terrible enemies, or both with Liege Maximo. Same with Amalgamous Prime.

Quintus would love to study how an inanimate stone was brought to life. Solus would be interested in his shape-shifting abilities into weaponry. Megatronus and Prima have differing opinions. The Shadow enjoys the hell-raising antics the Monkey King brings forth, while the Light, although can respect the fighting spirit and prowess, prefers the guy to be far away from him. Onyx and Sun Wukong would have meditation retreats in the most dangerous regions.

Magic-users can form contracts and allegiances with the divine, the unknown, and the powerful, but the issue lies with their patrons and where they settle in the cosmos as well as their own Domains and Traits. Tributes can vary even among similar deities. One war god may demand blood and bone as their tribute, while another settle for victory and/conquest. A few entities are so encompassing that their hierophants can only represent a single trait of their whole. And feuds by the immortals can be a whole other level of cruelty and pettiness.

So since his "disappearance," Prima has been interacting with avatars he reformatted into the equivalent of a Cybertronian Escanor from Seven Deadly Sins. Very powerful and able to channel the Matrix (aka Prima's own power), yet still mortal.

Prima is literally used to only handling beings that have been reconfigured to his own specs to channel the Matrix, so yeah, he didn't even notice a human until the end. Like hello, tiny thing that's definitely not my champion, how did you get here? Wait, brother-mine, come back!!

Megatronus, on the other hand, had given up his physical form to encompass Earth to keep Unicron in check. He's literally now the ocean and the layers of sediment. Megatronus 1.0 is in everyone and everything on Earth (and Cybertron). Much like his siblings and creator, he doesn't need worship to sustain himself. He simply is a force of his own kind. Megatronus has always been tried to life via his twin, Solus, and his very nature. He's aware of the Earth's quirks, but he can only withhold so much or risk breaking the containment.

Okay, Optimus is such a weird case because that's actually true, canon wise. It's said that he's the reincarnation of Thirteen, yet his wandering self was claimed by Alpha Trion and later by Prima. Orion and Optimus carry so much of their teachings, so who's to say they didn't interfere with what Thirteen was supposed to do?

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caltropspress · 2 days

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Spittin' Wicked Randomness with Small Professor

or, Bizarre Rides II the Pharthest Cyde;

or, A beginning doesn’t need an ending, only a portal

Make your body a temple. Make your home a shrine. You are a God, live like one!

—Timothy Leary, “You Are A God, Act Like One!” (1967)

Psycholinguistic structural confusion leads to insidious beat wrecking missions and continuous speech recognition, prescription, vocal anecdotal object impressions…. Synergistic sample arrangements.

—Jungle Brothers, “Trials of an Era” (1993)

EXORDIUM

I long for the anonymity the internet once provided. Everyone was faceless. Vacant visages—not even an avatar. I’ll often try to remanufacture this premillennial experience for myself. I deliberately avoid seeking images to accompany the names I see on the screen. Many people nowadays—most people, the writer bemoaned—make this nearly impossible. Vanity of vanities—all is vanity! But I do try, I do. I look away; I increase the scroll speed; I squint to blur and becloud. Like Iris DeMent desired, I try to let the mystery be. On Rakim’s plodding “The Mystery (Who Is God?),” the God MC suggests you can solve the mystery if you realize the answer revolves around your history. But I need the mystery to stay intact. So many years on, and I’m still figuring out da mystery of chessboxin’, looking all the way back to when Wu-Tang was in black hoodies on the man-sized chessboard—cloaked rooks shouting peace to all the crooks with bad looks. “You cannot hook up a 100 million years of sensory-somatic revelation to your puny, trivial personality chess board,” so says Timothy Leary. I’m inclined to agree.

Aside from his music, I’ve known Small Professor—Jamil Marshall, if we split the veil—only through his words, through his text on my chosen screens: pixelated patterns of character images. But late last year, I stumbled across an image of him appearing not unlike a cloaked rook. Draped in a black robe, Small Professor appeared beside his Wrecking Crew brethren as a Sith Lord. The occasion was a Halloween performance at Cratediggaz Records in South Philly. Small Professor’s face was hidden, and so I could fuck with this type of qualified exposure. His shrouded appearance elevated my intrigue rather than diminished it. This was no flashbulb, soul-capturing, photographic evidence of existence; this was no selfie self-absorption; this was simply some spooky shit.

Of the many messages that Small Professor measures out into the ether[net], the ones that have frequently caught my attention make some mention of hallucinogenic drugs. Here again, we have [e]strange bedfellows—that being technology and drugs. Twinned conceptualizations: drugs as teknology; teknology as drugs [scanned as tricknology, too, two]. Programming in the Silicon [Uncanny] Valley with the capital-I Internet reformatted as a Third [Eye]nternet. You scream as it enters your bloodstream. “Build, elevate to a higher comprehension, / Let your third eye rise above evil interventions,” if we’re properly tuned in to the Jungle Brothers’ “Troopin’ on the Down Low.” Teknology and drukqs might be more familiar than we (Eye) thought.

As we know from Jesse Jarnow, psychedelic saints were known as “heads,” which, underground hip-hop stalwarts of a certain age will wreckonize as an honorific for their own dedication to a way of life and listening. Stewart Brand, author and publisher of the Whole Earth Guide, would later speak of computers and online communities as the most auspicious collective force “since psychedelics.” Hua Hsu brings this to my total attention, but with my full cooperation (word to Def Squad), so there’s a few more things I’d like to mention. Computer science research centers saw networking and information sharing as devout acts “borrowed directly from Deadhead communalism.” Again, not dissimilar from the tape trading so crucial to the spread of this thing of ours called hip-hop. John Morrison writes of how “hip-hop owes much of its early development and propagation to an underground economy,” to the “recording and circulation of cassette tapes of park jams, live battles, DJ sets, and radio broadcasts” that brought a burgeoning and insurgent art form to the masses. The backchannels and clandestine conduits that made this dissemination possible suggest a secret organization with figures like Geechie Dan and Elvis “The Tapemaster” Moreno as its stewards. These cross-cultural, cross-generational connections exist despite Jerry Garcia’s abhorrence of rap as a legitimate musical form [see below: “Deadhead” diss-poem]. Small Professor centers himself within the radial lines of this complex mandala. His production isn’t strictly for the psych heads, or the hip-hop heads—his musick is For the Headz at Company Z.

Small Professor understands the possibility and catalytic practices of rappers, much like William S. Burroughs did: “With computerized tape recorders & sensitive throat microphones we could attain insight into the nature of human speech & turn the word into a useful tool instead of an instrument of control in hands of a misinformed and misinforming press.” Somewhere you can hear the echoing call of Newwwspaaaaperrrr from the Jungle Brothers’ “Book of Rhyme Pages,” a song with a prophetic register, a song that reads.

In Burroughs’ essay “Academy 23: A Deconditioning,” which appeared in the San Francisco Oracle (c. 1966-1968), the beatific junky proposes that “academies be established where young people will learn to get really high…high as the Zen master is high when his arrow hits a target in the dark…high as the Karate master when he smashes a brick with his fist…high…weightless…in space.” As high as Wu-Tang get, I might add, Allah allow us pop this shit. Burroughs believes it’s “[t]ime to look beyond this cop rotten planet.” The students in Academy 23 “would receive a basic course consisting of training in the non-chemical disciplines of Yoga, Karate, prolonged sense withdrawal, stroboscopic lights, the constant use of tape recorders to break down verbal association lines. Techniques now being used for control of thought could instead be used for liberation.”

Small Professor is already present in such an academy, his “lab”—be it Albert Hofmann’s Sandoz Laboratory or RZA’s antediluvian lab. Like Bobby Digital, Small Professor experiences the “Lab Drunk,” the studio stupor: Stumbled into the lab half-drunk—honey-dipped, stinking blunts. The neural activity of Madlib’s psilocybin; the mind expansion of MKUltramagnetic; outlaw practices: tripping on LSD or sampling on an MPC—same diff, really. “The experience,” Leary wrote in the East Village Other, “must be communicated, harmonized with the greater flow.”

PART I

[December 23, 2023 | 9:10 PM]

Small Professor: Ah, fuck. I was supposed to plan this out. Just took 2 tabs to the dome officially at 9:00 PM. At some point tonight I will be looking around at my room like I just got here from outer space.

[10:14 PM]

Caltrops Press: Where’s your head at right now?

SP: Difficult to see. Always in motion is the right now (to paraphrase Yoda). Right now I am listening to “Right Now” (HAIM, live).

CP: Are you alone?

SP: I believe that to be true, but we can never be 100% sure, can we? I don’t presume to speak for you of course, but I’d wager that you may have, at least once, considered that The Truman Show could be real life, after all. According to this, though, yes:

CP: Somebody once said, “Every day is Truman Show. True men show their face and expose flesh…” Do you think acid allows you to see beyond this reality?

SP: No. It allows me to see this one more clearly. Time, or whatever it is that we collectively agree is this forward feeling momentum, seems to slow. So you (me) see the same things that you see everyday, but that your brain kinda knocks aside after a while. Things look new.

CP: Are you typically playing music when you trip? Does the music slow down? Not literally. But do you process it differently? And, of course, I’m curious if you ever try to make music in this state?

SP: I like making music that barely makes sense in whatever state I’m in at that time, so when I come back to it I’m even more confused. Like leaving yourself a drunk voicemail, but on purpose. I’m generally high—it’s just a matter of how. And to the last question: Do or do not, there is no try.

PremRock: I think [Small Professor's] work has benefited from discovering [hallucinogens]. He’s pretty passionate about ’em! I think it’s made him more expansive and he’s more eager to try far out ideas. He was always psychedelic in nature, but this just provided more of a conduit.

Zilla Rocca: Even without shroomz he always had a bugged-out sense of melody, rhythm, and layered samples. Smalls has always been a seeker. We connect like that. We love unearthing old rap to learn from it while appreciating all the new styles.

When brothers start buggin’, I bug the most.

—Jungle Brothers, “Simple As That”

CP: I’ve never fucked with psychedelics, so I generally have either a romantic or sensational notion of what it must be like. Have you ever had any experiences where things went really weird, or have you ritualized it enough so that you know what to expect? Like it’s become yoga or meditation for you by this point.

SP: Yeah, it’s pretty meditative. The first time I had acid was so surreal that nothing else could dream to compare.

CP: When was that? Do you still remember the details?

SP: Well, first of all, I couldn’t have started such a journey without such caring guides, for they did not have to take time from their lives to explain how much to take, how much not to, to be mindful of the kind of media you’re ingesting while in that space—like nothing too scary and shit like that. They specifically said, “Maybe watch a comedy tonight. Something on the lighter side of things.”

CP: I’ve heard that’s important, having a guide.

SP: So I believe I initially started off with the smallest amount I could take, cuz I didn’t know any better. But the effect was immediate. I remember going outside and just standing in an empty parking spot in front of my crib and watching it rain. It was night already. I was like, Wow, this is the best rain I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of rain. And then I went out to get more tree. On my way home though, so…okay. How do I explain this? So, my Lyft driver on my way back to my house, he and I strike up a conversation. At the end of our talk, which included a phone call to someone of high stature in the 5% community who spoke to me directly, I embarked on the path to knowledge of self.

CP: Like, sincerely? Or only until you stopped being high?

SP: Well, I know now it started there. But I’ve always known that I am god, in some way. It’s just that, after you find out, what do you do with that knowledge of your own god-dom? That’s one thing I can appreciate about psychedelics. It’s like, Alright, well, if I know my brain is capable of such a thought or a piece of music in this one state, then I should be able to get back to it.

CP: I get that. Like, “I’ve done this before, so I can surely do it again.” But, for so many artists, they struggle to capture whatever it is. I know a lot of times I’ll look back on something I’ve written and then ask myself, How did that even happen? Because the process—the making of something—is often so unconscious.

Curly Castro: Smalls calls me after the fact (bka “a trip”) and regales me with a cornucopia of odd and odder occurrences. I will say that one time [redacted] and that’s when [redacted] and what could say after [redacted]. I just told him, Say Less.

CP: How long will this trip last? You took two tabs at 9 PM, and it’s been 4.5 hours.

SP: Oh, I’ll be up for a while. Night hasn’t even begun.

CP: I need to crash because I’ve got to be up early. But keep dropping whatever random thoughts you have here. We’ll call this Part 1.

SP: Fantastic, Pt. 1

SP: “God is never small.” Those are the words that man said, and my reply was, “...I am? I am. Ohhhh. I am.”

[Small Professor links me to a video showing Donald Lawrence & The Tri-City Singers performing “I Am God.”]

SP: Also, I’m quite proud of the fact that my government name [Jamil], oddly Arabic considering how Christian my dear mother is, quite literally translates to “Beautiful Ruler,” with my first name actually meaning “god” in certain places (“Jamil” is one of Allah’s 99 aliases—I found that out earlier this year). My mom HATES THIS BOYEEEEE. She thought it just meant “handsome.”

SP: Words mean things but don’t have to.

SP: [Denmark Vessey & Scud One’s Cult Classic] (This is my official trip soundtrack.) “Throw bricks at him if you can’t build wit ’em, / Whoever marquee, top bill, I’ll Kill Bill ’em.”

SP: It’s 8:23 AM. Still trippin’.

PART II

[December 24, 2023 | 9:15 AM]

CP: You awake? If so, talk to me about “Dettol.”

SP: I feel like that beat was made along with a few others in that same span of time with Roc Marci in mind. Not only in terms of the drum un-emphasis but also being intentional about giving an MC room to operate, to breathe. On Midnight Marauders, both “Electric Relaxation” and “Lyrics To Go” are special beats because they operate within the parameters of 4/4 time but the bar lengths aren’t the typical 8. On “Dettol,” you have mostly 8-bar loops until it shifts to 12 for one measure, and then it starts over. (Not sure about my beat math there.) So the Armand Hammer guys had to each approach that in their own way. Couldn’t have drawn it up any better. “Numbers look crooked like King Kong shook it.”

CP: (That’s your second Slum Village reference in this convo.) Paraffin was the first album I heard by them, so that beat would’ve been the third Armand Hammer song I heard overall. And that “giving them space” idea definitely benefited me—a guy who hadn’t been paying attention for years, specifically because lyrics weren’t grabbing me like they used to.

The psychedelic experience is not just an internal, private affair. The “turned on” person realizes that he is not an isolated entity, a separate social ego, but rather one transient energy process hooked up with the energy dance around him.

—Timothy Leary, “You Are A God, Act Like One!”

CP: How did you originally connect with woods and ELUCID?

SP: I may have been aware of ELUCID as early as 2005 by way of his Tanya Morgan/Lessondary/Okayplayer fam associations, but 2007 when he dropped Smash & Grab is when I instantly knew, Ah, this guy’s one of the best rappers ever. By 2009, that became, The best ever. That was the Myspace era, so we connected on there musically but also on some homie shit. We were working on a song of his in like 2011 or ’12 for the BIRD EAT SNAKE mixtape, “Dumb Out.”

ELUCID: BIRD EAT SNAKE is a whole lifetime ago. I had just met woods. I was also just beginning to develop the Cult Favorite record with AM Breakups. I was super charged creatively and was fortunate enough to have a lot of space to develop that. “Dumb Out” was such a strange beat that made my pen move immediately. Nothing overthought or drawn out. Just really chunky, vibed out, and punchy energy. I just began to acquire these attributes during the making of that tape.

CP: “Don’t eat the brown acid…”

SP: Originally woods was supposed to be on there. I distinctly remember this being one of the first times I heard him because…okay. He recorded a verse on this beat and ELUCID sent his acapella but no reference to guide from. And I’m very good at matching up acapellas, so the fact that I could make no sense of his flow—where to place it in the mix—always stuck out to me.

CP: Is that why he didn’t end up on the song?

SP: I don’t believe so. That would be funny if true, though. Because it feels like I have more music with those two than what tangibly exists.

CP: Also funny because, as their audience has grown—exponentially of late—the “discourse” returns to whether woods raps “on beat” or not.

SP: Once I understood that the question of if he’s rapping on- or off-beat is the wrong one—when it should be, Why do I hear this as off-beat? How do I hear what he heard to deliver it that way?—that’s when it clicked for me.

CP: Was “My Blank Verse” your first beat for them officially?

SP: That was the very first song me and ELUCID made together. Don’t think it was for anything in particular, initially.

CP: Got it. So it wasn’t approached as an Armand Hammer track, per se. Just ended up on an AH project. When did you connect with ELUCID in person?

SP: I wanna say I met him in person at a show in Philly, at the Khyber. But the time I remember the most is when I was in Brooklyn with him (this actually might have been when we met up to record “My Blank Verse”), and he showed me the block where B.I.G. grew up. I like to imagine my power levels increasing on that day due to the residual holy hip-hop energy on the premises.

CP: That’s dope. I’m surprised to hear you recorded the track in person. Both because so much is done remotely now—the producer and the MC separate—and also because ELUCID, I’ve read, is pretty private when it comes to recording. Maybe that came later, though.

SP: Yes, that did come later to my knowledge. But also, I’m special.

ELUCID: This was the era when Willie Green’s studio was still in his apartment. I had just started recording with Backwoodz, and “My Blank Verse” was indeed recorded that afternoon. I usually don’t have people hanging in the studio while I record, but I think my comfort level with Jamil speaks to the ease I feel in our dealings.

SP: I also remember going to meet ELUCID in New York specifically to get a flash drive that had he and woods’s verses for the Sean Price “Midnight Rounds” song they all should have been on together. His internet was down.

CP: Why didn’t that track come to fruition?

SP: woods’s hook was an interpolation of Apache’s “A Fight” (because, midnight rounds). The label was like, “Oh nah!” Word for word! Bar for bar! Sean P would have appreciated it.

CP: Jersey’s own.

billy woods: At that point in my “career,” I was kinda disappointed to get cut but not surprised. I guess I had a long history being snubbed regularly by peers and institutions in the indie music scene, so it just seemed like, Yeah, more of the same. I was pleasantly surprised to be invited, and unpleasantly unsurprised to be disinvited.

SP: So, kept ELUCID’s verse and subbed in my man Castle, making this song the spiritual successor to a track I did on me and Guilty Simpson’s Highway Robbery, also featuring those two. Things fall apart, but they also come together. How they’re supposed to.

CP: What’s the story behind “No Grand Agenda”? Also, where are we at in terms of the trip?

SP: It’s slowing but at a light jog now. The beat for “No Grand Agenda” was originally part of an album I did made up entirely of exactly 1-minute long songs called You’re Killin’ Me Smalls. There were 60 songs. ELUCID was one of the only rappers I sent it to, specifically because it wasn’t “supposed” to be for raps. I had an ex who stomped out my computer and hard drives one day, including the original files for this project. All except for that one.

SP: “Are we sure there’s no grand agenda?” And ELUCID took my stems and arranged it how he heard it. It was meant to loop in on itself, like the other songs on that project. It was originally named “Kelvin Spacey,” and I’m sure I’m misremembering but I wanna say “Dettol” was originally named “Kelvin Duckworth,” if only to verify Zilla Rocca’s guess that I was the producer in question that had sent woods a beat named after his favorite Portland Trailblazer.

CP: So you’re saying, like any good friend, ELUCID jacked that beat?

SP: Oh, I remember him asking to rap on it, perhaps for nothing in particular at the time. But who am I to deny the goat? And it’s obvious to me that this is how it was supposed to go; ain’t nothing coincidental or accidental, dunn.

ELUCID: The making of “No Grand Agenda” was a cornerstone for a foundational era of style for me. I felt like I made a song that seamlessly weaved both verse and chorus in a way that felt absolutely hypnotic. It was a new belt for me, this sense of control. Small Pro was one of the first producers to trust me enough to send his beat stems. During this period is where I began producing more of my own music, so I also wanted to arrange the song how I heard it. Thankfully, Jamil dug it.

CP: What do you like about ELUCID’s rapping?

SP: Some of it is the voice. Some of it is the things that he’s saying. But mostly, my favorite rappers all share this in common: they can get busy on any style of beat, any tempo, any sound, any Small Pro time puzzle. I was listening back to his older stuff a little while ago and heard him doing whole specific styles on one song, and never doing it again. The versace, versace flow, in particular. It felt like he was bored at the time and peered ahead three years to see how everyone was rapping, came back, did it, and that was that.

ELUCID: [Working with Small Pro] is a special thing. Something that I’m still exploring. I think a Small Pro x ELUCID tape would be ill. Knowing his attention and care in the translation of my bars and flows is the type of partnership real MCs aspire to. It just hasn’t happened yet!

SP: He and woods both have had a way of inspiring me through specific lines. “Go where the drummer commanded me,” for example. It’s me. I’m the drummer. And woods, a few songs before “Dettol” says, “Beg producers to take out the drums,” which he said was meant to be a joke, but I took it literally and started making beats that could exist with or without drums equally.

All of my Backwoodz-related songs are credited as “Small Pro,” not “Small Professor.” I was on shrooms the week after my birthday earlier this year when I realized those are now different entities. Especially because woods was once like, “Wait, you did ‘No Grand Agenda’?” And I was like, “I did….I think? No, that was Small Pro.”

The last full project I—or I—did before moving back to Philly was a reimagining of A Jawn Supreme 1-3 from the Small Pro remix perspective. It was my—or my—first time remixing my own music, hearing things without the drums I put on them originally. It was an enlightening time. I hear voices at the fortress.

CP: I think it’s rare for a producer to be so attentive to what the MCs are saying, let alone to look at what they’re saying as guideposts. The idea of a differentiation between “Small Pro” and “Small Professor” is interesting. Where does the Small Pro path ultimately lead? Into this larger Armand Hammer universe?

SP: I feel like when I started out making beats my natural inclination has been to make things as busy as possible. Small Pro is like, What if I take away instead of adding? Or, How can I still have a million things going on in the track but it sounds bare or like, not done? “My girl say this beat sound unfinished, / I said, ‘Yeah, that’s where my voice go.’”

SP: (Not sure when I passed out. I knew the crash was inevitable.)

[December 24, 2023 | 6:47 PM]

SP: To your point about it leading to the AH-verse, that may be part of it too. They’ve both inspired me as rappers but also their production decisions and choices—ELUCID quite literally, as his production has always confounded me, but woods too. Two producers who have had just as much an influence on me as anybody I worshiped when first starting out are August Fanon and Messiah Musik—modern legends. Fanon can make beats for literally anyone. But Messiah’s natural style is one that both Hammers can sound great on from the get-go, whereas I have to consciously get myself into that mode. They also both sometimes do odd and potentially challenging things regarding time in their beats, as I do, but in their own way.

CP: Do I remember seeing you mention somewhere that you still use Fruity Loops and Cool Edit?

SP: Yup. I wanna say since 2008. Well, technically since 2003. But I’ve been using the same versions of those two programs for a minute now. Still using Windows XP, too. It’s comforting to me. And ridiculous. Like Rasheed Wallace faithfully wearing Air Force 1s his whole playing career.

CP: I love that. Some real “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” ethos. Any rules for yourself when it comes to sampling? Strictly vinyl or are you irreligious when it comes to source format?

SP: 98% of my beats are made from mp3s. The remaining fraction is YouTube or some other source. Haven’t used vinyl for sampling purposes in many years but ironically try to make my beats sound like vinyl. As far as rules, everything I thought was law were things I later learned the musicians I look(ed) up to sneered at.

CP: Ain’t that the truth. Very little is sacred when it comes to process, I find. That’s a lot of ego. What efforts do you make to have the beats “sound” like vinyl?

SP: On “Dettol” is my go-to record crackle sample. That’s also in 98% of my beats, and something I specifically remember was like, corny or something, but—ah, here it is: Slum Village reference #3 to fulfill the rule—on “Hold Tight” Dilla uses a needle pop as a snare bolster as well as the accompanying static. It’s there for added depth and texture but also can act as a counter-rhythm to your percussion. Reality features an inherent level of static in the form of cosmic microwave background radiation around us at all times. Art imitates life.

[December 25th, 2023 | 11:41 AM]

CP: “No Christmas this Christmas…”

CP: I always like to think of the story—apocryphal or not—of Evil Dee using bacon grease hissing on the stove for extra crackle.

SP: The turntable hum is freakable too. Makes for a great bass sound but also something you can feel.

CP: Do you ever have acid trips accidentally interfere with other obligations? I imagine you’re always planning for a blocked out number of hours. But best laid plans…

SP: There’s a recovery period the next day, so that can be interesting to navigate. But yeah, I usually am in my room avoiding external interactions on whatever kind of trip it is. In my experience with acid, you gain more control over your “self,” and shrooms is the opposite, where your sense of self and awareness is reduced. Go home, brain—you’re drunk.

CP: The loss of control is something I just can’t handle. Have you ever found yourself in a situation on shrooms where you emerge later, like, “Damn, that was a bad look”?

SP: Yeah. My first time taking an 8th to the face (I ate it on a burger) after getting to and past the point of looking in a mirror and not recognizing my face for a sec. I later came upstairs and my BM had made some, like, lasagna? And it was so good that I’m just there demolishing it over the stove—like I was Garfield. Her friend walked in the kitchen at that moment and I should have been mortified, but in that moment there was only delicious lasagna.

CP: Real Gs move in silence like lasagna…

CP: Listening to Terror Management on Xmas morning. Is “Marlow” your beat/song with the most synchronicity between you and the rapper?

SP: It’s up there. That album is interesting to me because of the repeating motif of having two beats from different producers for one song—always thought that was cool. The intro on that beat had the spoken part added after the fact, so it did really feel like some good ole fashioned teamwork.

CP: And specifically the serendipity of you naming the beat for your late father, correct? I imagine an artist won’t typically name their song after the name of the beat. Was there a reason you named that beat, out of so many, after your father?

SP: Originally it was a play off of the artist’s name I sampled (a lot of my song titles are born this way), but I can also say it makes me think of my father’s dark side. He was one of the happiest, generally cheerful people I’ve ever known, but I’ve seen him go into green belt mode when pushed too far—only a few times, but it was like, Oh snap.

woods closed his set with “Marlow” at a Philly show last year shortly after my pops passed, and it’s one of the nicest gestures anyone has done for me. I was at the bar crying like a newborn fucking baby, god.

billy woods: That was a special moment for me, too. I really love that song. Pro and I have not worked that much together, but a lot of what we have done is really dope. He has produced a handful of Armand Hammer songs but they all hit, in my opinion. But [“Marlow”] is a song I really love and has come in and out of my setlist, but always makes it back in. The fact that it happened at that moment, and that it had that extra meaning for him was an honor for me.

SP: That album [Terror Management] as a whole has always intrigued me because of the repeating motif of two producers each having a beat on one track (this happens on some Armand Hammer albums too, now that I think about it, but it’s a different effect when it’s two MCs on each beat instead of one).

CP: Lots of doubles—the name, the sides of your father, “Small Pro” versus “Small Professor,” two beats, etc. Double-consciousness, perhaps. Not necessarily in a Du Bois sense; more so in the sense of realities.

SP: I’m all about man’s rugged duality.

CP: Did you and your father connect over music?

SP: Oh, absolutely. Our music rooms were down the hall from one another when I got started in college, and over the years he would start wandering in to hear what I was working on. Eventually, as he started transitioning into working in DAWs, he would ask for advice with things he knew I would be able to help with. He loved showing me whatever he was working on, and I knew he valued my opinion as one of the people responsible for a lot of my music edumacation in the first place.

[December 26, 2023 | 12:26 AM]

CP: Would you reciprocate and show him what you were working on? Did he look upon hip-hop favorably?

SP: He was from probably the last generation that didn’t grow up with hip-hop, and by and large it was probably offensive to him on two fronts: as a pretty religious dude the language and subject matter was too much, and musically all he heard were the loops, repetition, and sounds he loved and recognized being used all over again in an inferior, simple way. (I found a lot of the samples from Mobb Deep’s second album amongst his tape collection.) But over the years, as he saw how seriously I took it—as well as being impressed as a person who played 7-8 instruments by what I was able to do with two computer programs and mp3s—he was able to appreciate it as an artform (at least, the production side) even if it wasn’t quite his thing.

He’s also half the reason I’ve always been enamored with non-common time signatures, a key feature in a lot of the music he dug—that Weather Report, Yellowjackets, Return to Forever, Herbie Hancock, Steely Dan, late ’70s, early ’80s chamber. My mother was more into “traditional” jazz and classical. They shared gospel personally—and professionally—as working church musicians. On my first album, there’s a 5/4 beat that I remember excitedly showing him because it took me forever to get the chops lined up in an un-choppy fashion, and there’s a switch on there between drum pattern grooves much like what you would find on a jazz fusion-type song. I felt like if I could impress him, I must be doing something right. The last time we hung out before the cancer did him in, he was showing me how far he had gotten learning how to play drums, and I got on the sticks and tried to replay the patterns on some of my beats (emphasis on tried). The “trouble don’t last” jawn, in particular, to which he responded by telling me I was already a drummer. Memories live.

The times I saw his email pop up in my Bandcamp purchase notifications, I figured it was just a proud dad supporting his firstborn…nah, he was actually listening. His favorite project was the album I did along with my group Them That Do, which was my version of Madlib’s Shades of Blue on the beat tip. Besides digging the actual sound (updated jazz rap), I think he was most taken by the fact that he couldn’t quite tell what was sampled from where and that I had made all these sound from sometimes vastly different records seem like they were supposed to be together, and the beats made sense from the perspective of a person who understood music theory.

CP: “I said, Well Daddy, don’t you know that things go in cycles.” Beautiful that you guys got to share those moments.

SP: (I even said the part about two beats on Terror Management twice.)

SP: My brother (the actual drummer of the family) just sent me “Spain” by Chick Corea, one of our dad’s favorites. Speaking of my brother—who I credit with teaching me how to program drums and how to count bars and all that—one time we were on our way to church with my dad, and Steely Dan’s “Black Cow” was on. Pops started to try to explain the lyrics, what a “black cow” was, why they were very high…all that.

So a few years back I was proud to send [my father] “Gas Drawls” from Operation Doomsday because this story has always cracked me up, but also that’s a great-ass sample chop (and one that he appreciated, as opposed to the time my broski and I were buggin’ out over the beat for Jay-Z’s “Kingdom Come” and he was like, Is nobody doing anything original anymore?).

[December 28, 2023 | 12:56 AM]

CP: You should’ve sent him Lord Tariq and Peter Gunz after “Gas Drawls” and been like, “See.” As a drummer, does your brother fall more in line with your musical tastes or your father’s?

SP: I’d definitely say my brother has a much more diverse and varied musical vocabulary/understanding/tastes than I. We both grew up hearing, and then eventually listening, to rap. Twenty-three to twenty-four years ago when the neo-soul era was beginning, we were smack-dab in the middle of it, in the literal eye of the storm. Things Fall Apart, Like Water For Chocolate, Black on Both Sides, Reflection Eternal were just coming out. Musiq Soulchild was on the radio. Voodoo (which I didn’t get into until much later when I listened to it riding through Zanesville, Ohio countryside in 2007 [it’s still “Brown Sugar” over everything, though]) was everywhere. But there was also his actual school music education from primary to college, as well as listening to people from all instinctive travels and paths of rhythm, so he knows it all—or because he’d be like, “Shiiii, no I don’t!—a bit about a bit.”

I keep saying “my brother” when I have two. My younger bro is the drummer but my older brother’s tape collection was everything in high school (actually, even before that I was stealing his It Was Written tape when I was in seventh grade to play on the way to school). Being eleven years older, he was in high school when the great 90s east coast revolution was happening, and his Nike shoebox archives reflected the sounds of the time. As far as his tastes go, if DMX was still with us and dropped an album today, he’d get it without a second thought.

[December 28, 2023 | 11:10 PM]

CP: Sorry to trail off. Got a bit busy on my side. Would you be down to hit me with a handful of your most interesting beat names at the moment?

CP: This is art.

SP: The “Will Smith as…” series is new. They all slap.

[Small Professor posts a since-deleted message on X quoting Werner Herzog talking about stealing a 35mm camera from a Munich film school. The quote: “I don’t consider it theft. It was just a necessity. I had some sort of natural right to this tool. If you need air to breathe, and you are locked in a room, you have to take a chisel and hammer and break down a wall. It is your absolute right.”]

CP: I love this. “A natural right” to make something. Like a compulsion within. (I also love Herzog, so I appreciate the anecdote.) Do you remember where you first acquired that cracked Fruity Loops (and maybe Cool Edit, too)? If I think back, I probably had a friend hand me a disk, a CD-RW, back in like 1999 or something. God knows what sketchy site he downloaded them from.

SP: In college when I first started doing beats, I torrented everything—movies, programs, especially music—with nary a second thought. It’s a good way to give your computer a bad cold, which I did on several occasions. And I too appreciate Herzog because I love no myth more than my own as well.

CP: Have you got any myths on par with rescuing celebrities from wrecked cars or nonchalantly brushing off bullets to your abdomen?

SP: No, but I can say I did albums with both Sean Price and MC Paul Barman.

CP: Indisputable. I think this is an appropriate spot to (un)officially close this. Anything else you want to talk about?

SP: Gotta give a shout-out to the Jungle Brothers for making Crazy Wisdom Masters in 1991. PremRock told me legend was that they made it on shrooms and when I listened to it on acid I was like, Oh, yeah, y’all were high as fuck when this was made. I could tell not only because the music itself is bugged out but even the pace of the record is accelerated. They had some songs on there that were a minute-and-thirty-seconds but so much was going on , sometimes different things in either stereo channel that it gives off the effect of being on a trip and you’re noticing—for what feels like the first time again—that everything is happening everywhere at once.

Listen to Crazy Wisdom Masters when you get a chance. It’s a personal classic that I’ve listened to at least fourteen times this month. Warner Brothers did them dirty (this was their M.O. apparently—this was the same time period they were beefing with Prince) by delaying the entire record two years and having them clean up the tracks, and disrupting the carefully curated listening experience by taking tracks away and rearranging the entire thing. J Beez wit the Remedy, the resulting hodgepodge, would drop on my birthday in 1993, and when I first heard it, I was like, Hmm, something’s awry here, and that’s how I found out about Crazy Wisdom Masters.

CP: I think I downloaded it or thought about downloading it recently when people started talking about it again. Is there a “definitive” version to look for? I know Bill Laswell had uploaded a version to his Bandcamp page a while back.

SP: That’s a good question. The version I found that concludes with “For the Headz At Company Z” is the album as the god(s) intended.

Just as Small Pro is distinguished from “Small Professor”, “Crazy Wisdom Masters” is a distinct personality from “Jungle Brothers.” Small Pro is a definitive, lost Laswell version—a ra ra kid who catches wreck with randomness. He doesn’t channel, but grooves, as the most psychoactive Afrika Baby Bam and Mike G doppelgänger. We end up doubled-over; “dope-sick,” if you will. You sleep on it, then you wake up in the morning and dwells on it, as Small Pro casts his spells on it. (It’s as Simple As That.) SP’s Comin’ Through, and when he does, multiple realities accelerate as he explores radical possibilities. He’s chewing on the chemicals and raising up the levels on the decibels. We—his audience of lab assistants, his dilated pupils [and peoples]—“experience the ultimate, the infinite.”

Images:

Most images are from the Vol. 1, No. 10 October issue of the San Francisco Oracle or unknown issues of the Chicago Seed | Small Professor “Sith Lord” photo courtesy of Matthew Shaver for WXPN | The Grateful Dead tapers section photo, Unknown | Screenshots by Small Professor | Apache tape photo by Caltrops Press | Gilbert Shelton, “The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers,” East Village Other (detail) | “Deadhead” poem by Joseph Rathgeber

#small professor #backwoodz studioz #underground hip hop #elucid #billy woods #zines #armand hammer #wrecking crew #zilla rocca #premrock #curly castro #acid trip

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