#C coding techniques

[legendaryearthquakestranger]

C# best practices for Experienced Developers

Introduction C# best practices: C# is a powerful and versatile programming language widely used for developing a variety of applications, from desktop software to web and mobile apps. As an experienced developer, you may already be familiar with the basics and intermediate concepts of C#. However, mastering advanced techniques can significantly enhance your productivity, code quality, and…

[picknmixsims]

Changing Hood View of Maxis items with Object Relocator

Object Relocator can be used to change the hood view visibility of Maxis objects by creating “override packages”.

Note: This feature requires SimPe correctly configured to locate the Maxis scenegraph files so is subject to this caveat.

1) Start Object Relocator. If using V5.3 or later, from the Options menu make sure Advanced is ticked.

2) From the “Options” menu, ensure “Hide Local Objects” is ticked.

3) From the “Options” menu, ensure “Show Hood View” is ticked.

4) From the “Mode” menu, ensure “Make Replacements” is ticked.

5) From the “File” menu’s “Select Folder…” item, navigate into the TSData sub-directory for your latest installed EP, for “Ultimate Collection” this will be “…\Fun with Pets\SP9\TSData”.

6) Navigate further into the “Res\Objects” sub-directory and click the “Select Folder” button, Object Relocator will chug along as it loads all the 11,000+ Maxis items.

7) The "Hood View" column will display "unknown" for all but the first item in the resource grid

8) Select the item(s) you want to change, right-click to bring up the context menu and select "Show In Hood View" or "Remove From Hood View"

9) Click the “Save As…” button, navigate into the sub-directory you wish to save the override package into, enter a file name and click the “Save” button.

10) Exit Object Relocator, start the game and check your changes.

11) You can use SimPe to check that Object Relocator has extracted the selected item(s) CRES and SHPE resources into the save file and updated them as required.

12) Start the game and check your changes.

I recommend that you put all such override packages into a sub-directory with a meaningful name.

[thedbahub]

Connecting SQL Statements to C#: Traceability Techniques for Seamless Integration

In the realm of software development, traceability plays a crucial role in ensuring the integrity and maintainability of your codebase. When it comes to connecting SQL statements to C# code, implementing effective traceability techniques becomes even more essential. In this article, we’ll explore practical T-SQL code examples and applications that demonstrate how to establish a robust connection…

[codertrend]

Task Manager App: Effortlessly Develop One

Create a Task Manager app using C# WPF and the MVVM pattern. #WPF # Tutorial #MVVM #C-Sharp #Development #Developer #CoderTrend

Using C#, WPF and the MVVM architecture to create a stunning and Useful Task Manager Application Welcome to our comprehensive series where we delve into the creation of a sophisticated Task Manager application using WPF (Windows Presentation Foundation). This journey is not just about building an application; it’s an exploration into the robust capabilities of C# and WPF, crowned with the…

[sundial-bee-scribbles]

HSAZDFVHBN I JUST NOTICED THE MINECRAFT NOISE POPUP- you are very good at editing, friend :) -🌟

HEHE 😈 i thought it would be funny to include

but thank you 🥺

[vermilionsun]

This post translates directly to @musas-sideblog's about how Touchstarved ties with Victorian horror and implicit/metaphorical sex, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so here is a lengthy theory. Enjoy :)

Note 1: Victorian era authors used an unholy amount of ways to imply sexual feelings/acts etc, so I here I will include only the ones that are of interest. Note 2: I've highlighted the "most important" parts. Note 3: I'm not an expert at this, so please bear with me and feel free to correct me. Note 4: Do I need to add a TW? I think it's obvious-

Overview: What is Victorian Horror?

Victorian horror refers to the genre of horror literature, art, and culture that flourished during the Victorian era, roughly from the mid-19th century to the early 20th century, coinciding with Queen Victoria's reign from 1837 to 1901. This period was marked by a fascination with the macabre, the supernatural, and the dark aspects of human nature, reflecting the anxieties and societal changes of the time. 

Key Themes and Characteristics

Supernatural Elements:

Ghosts and Spirits: Tales of haunted houses and spectral apparitions were central to Victorian horror. Charles Dickens's "A Christmas Carol" (1843) and Henry James's "The Turn of the Screw" (1898) are notable examples.

Monsters and the Gothic: The era's literature is filled with monstrous creations and gothic settings, such as in Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" (1818), Bram Stoker's "Dracula" (1897), and Robert Louis Stevenson's "Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" (1886).

Science and the Unknown:

The Victorian period was a time of great scientific advancement, but also of fear about the implications of these discoveries. This is evident in works that explore the dangers of unchecked scientific experimentation, like "Frankenstein" and H.G. Wells's "The Island of Doctor Moreau" (1896).

Exploration of the Human Psyche:

Victorian horror often delved into the darker aspects of the human mind, including themes of duality, madness, and the hidden, sinister side of human nature. This is seen in "Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" and Edgar Allan Poe’s works, such as "The Tell-Tale Heart" (1843).

Social and Moral Anxieties:

The literature frequently reflected Victorian society's fears and anxieties, including issues related to sexuality, class, and the role of women. Gothic novels often contained subtexts about societal norms and the consequences of transgressing them.

Urban Fear and Isolation:

The rapid urbanisation of the Victorian era contributed to themes of isolation, alienation, and fear of the crowded yet lonely cityscape. This is evident in the settings of many horror stories, such as Arthur Machen's "The Great God Pan" (1894).

Sexual Content: Victorian literature is renowned for its strict moral codes and conservative views on sexuality. Explicit depictions of sexual activity were considered taboo and were subject to censorship. Consequently, authors developed subtle and nuanced methods to imply sexual scenes or themes.

Literary Techniques for Implying Sexual Scenes

✧ Symbolism and Imagery:

Sexuality was often conveyed through symbolic imagery. Objects, actions, or natural phenomena could serve as metaphors for sexual activity or desire. For example, in "Dracula" by Bram Stoker, blood and biting symbolise sexual penetration and the exchange of bodily fluids, infusing the act with a sense of forbidden desire and eroticism.

Clothing and Undress:

Gloves: In Victorian culture, gloves were highly symbolic. The act of a woman removing her gloves in the presence of a man, or a man assisting her in this act, could signify a moment of intimacy or vulnerability. Similarly, a man giving a woman his gloves could be a sign of affection or a deeper connection.

Hats and Bonnets:

Corsets

Objects and Personal Items:

Locks of Hair

Jewellery

Books and Letters

Touch and Physical Contact:

Kissing Hands

Hand-Holding

Food and Drink:

Wine: Sharing wine or a meal in an intimate setting often suggested a prelude to deeper connection. Descriptions of characters drinking wine together in private could imply a romantic or sexual undertone.

Fruit: Certain fruits, like apples, grapes, or peaches, were laden with sexual symbolism. Eating or sharing fruit could represent temptation or indulgence. For instance, in Christina Rossetti’s poem "Goblin Market", the act of eating the goblin fruit is rich with sexual symbolism.

Flora and Fauna

Flowers and Gardens:

Roses: Roses were often used to symbolise love and passion. A red rose might suggest romantic or sexual attraction, while a wilted rose could imply lost innocence or sexual ruin.

Lilies: Lilies, especially white ones, represented purity but could also suggest a contrasting theme when associated with a fallen or tarnished character.

Garden Settings: Scenes set in secluded gardens or amongst lush, overgrown vegetation often hinted at secret or forbidden encounters. Descriptions of characters wandering through or tending to gardens could imply sexual exploration or awakening.

Flowers Blooming or Opening:  The blooming of flowers often represented sexual awakening or the act of losing one's virginity.

Nature Imagery:

Rivers and Water: Flowing water and rivers often symbolised sexual desire and the act of lovemaking. For instance, in "Tess of the d'Urbervilles" by Thomas Hardy, Tess's encounter with Alec d'Urberville is often described with metaphors of nature and fluidity.

Storms and Weather: Storms, with their intense energy and sudden outbursts, were frequently used to symbolise sexual passion or climactic moments.

Birds and Beasts:

Animals, especially those that are wild or predatory, often symbolised primal sexual instincts and desires. The taming or interaction with these animals could imply a character’s grappling with their own sexuality.

Fire and Heat

✧ Phrases and Sayings

Euphemistic Language

Descriptive Phrasing

Dialogue and Confessions

Private Spaces:

Secluded or Dimly Lit Rooms: Scenes set in private, darkened rooms often suggested clandestine sexual encounters. The privacy of the setting allows authors to imply what could not be explicitly stated. In Wilkie Collins’s "The Woman in White", many key interactions happen in secluded spaces, hinting at secrets and hidden desires.

Dreams and Fantasies:

Dream Sequences:

Dreams and fantasies were used to explore a character’s subconscious desires and fears, often revealing their suppressed sexual longings. These sequences provided a socially acceptable way to delve into erotic themes.

Hallucinations and Madness:

Moments of madness or hallucination could serve as a metaphor for overwhelming passion or uncontrollable sexual desire. These states allowed characters to express forbidden feelings in a way that was metaphorically safe.

Physical Interactions and Horror

Touch and Proximity as Menace:

Unwanted or Forced Touch: In horror, touch that is typically a sign of affection or intimacy becomes a source of fear.

Physical Closeness in Horror Settings: Close proximity in dark, secluded places amplifies the sense of claustrophobia and vulnerability, turning what could be an intimate setting into one fraught with terror.

Undress and Exposure in Horror:

Loosening Corsets and Vulnerability: The act of undressing or loosening clothing, which can be a prelude to intimacy, in horror often leaves characters vulnerable to attack or exposure of their deepest fears.

Food and Consumption in Horror

Cannibalism and Vampirism:

Blood as Sexual and Vital Fluid: The act of consuming blood, as in vampirism, blends the themes of sustenance and sexual exchange. The vampire's bite becomes a metaphor for both sexual penetration and the transfer of life force.

Example: "Dracula" is a prime example where blood consumption is deeply eroticized, with Dracula’s victims often portrayed in a state of ecstatic submission as he drains their blood.

Food as a Lure: Food and feasting, typically symbols of pleasure and indulgence, in horror contexts can be used to lure victims into dangerous situations.

Example: In "Goblin Market" by Christina Rossetti, the goblins’ fruit is both irresistibly tempting and dangerous, representing a forbidden and potentially fatal indulgence.

Plot and Character Dynamics in Horror

Power and Domination:

Common Dynamics with a Dark Twist

Predators and Victims: Characters who prey on others are often literal monsters in horror, representing the loss of control or innocence.

Secrecy and Concealment:

Hidden Desires and Monstrous Revelations: Characters who conceal their true identities or desires often find these hidden aspects manifesting as monstrous or terrifying in horror narratives, suggesting that repression can lead to dire consequences.

Clandestine Meetings and Forbidden Encounters: Secret meetings and forbidden relationships, often tinged with sexual implications, add an element of danger and fear, suggesting that transgressing social norms leads to horror.

Common Themes in Victorian Horror

Duality and the Doppelgänger:

Theme: The concept of duality, where a character has a hidden, darker side, or encounters a double (doppelgänger), often symbolises the internal conflict between good and evil within individuals.

Connection: This theme reflects Victorian anxieties about identity, morality, and the consequences of repressing one’s darker impulses.

Gothic and Supernatural Elements:

Theme: Victorian horror is rich with Gothic elements such as haunted houses, dark landscapes, and supernatural beings. These elements create a sense of dread and evoke the mysteries of the unknown.

Connection: The Gothic setting often serves as a backdrop for exploring human fears, isolation, and the impact of the supernatural on everyday life.

Decay and Degeneration:

Theme: The fear of decay and degeneration, both physical and moral, is a recurring motif. This theme often examines the decline of individuals, families, or societies and the consequences of corruption and vice.

Connection: This theme mirrors Victorian concerns about the erosion of social and moral values amidst rapid industrial and social changes.

Madness and Psychological Horror:

Theme: The exploration of madness and psychological horror delves into the fragility of the human mind and the terror of losing one's sanity. This often includes hallucinations, obsessions, and the thin line between reality and delusion.

Connection: This theme resonates with Victorian fears of mental illness, the limitations of medical knowledge, and the impact of societal pressures on mental health.

Forbidden Knowledge and the Faustian Bargain:

Theme: The pursuit of forbidden knowledge and the resulting consequences is a central theme. Characters who seek power, immortality, or forbidden truths often pay a heavy price, reminiscent of the Faustian bargain.

Connection: This theme highlights Victorian anxieties about scientific progress, moral boundaries, and the potential hubris of human ambition.

The Uncanny and the Unknown:

Theme: The uncanny involves the strange and unfamiliar becoming eerily familiar, often unsettling the reader and characters. It blurs the lines between reality and the supernatural, invoking fear and discomfort.

Connection: This theme taps into Victorian fears of the unknown, the foreign, and the otherworldly, reflecting broader anxieties about social and cultural boundaries.

Death and the Afterlife:

Theme: Victorian horror frequently grapples with themes of death and the afterlife, exploring the fear of mortality, the possibility of an afterlife, and encounters with the dead or undead.

Connection: These themes reflect Victorian preoccupations with death, the spiritual realm, and the possibility of life beyond death, often intensified by the era's high mortality rates and interest in spiritualism.

Isolation and Alienation:

Theme: Isolation and alienation are prevalent themes, often highlighting characters who are physically or emotionally detached from society, leading to their vulnerability and descent into despair or madness.

Connection: This theme resonates with the Victorian experience of industrialization and urbanization, which often led to feelings of disconnection and loneliness.

Class and Social Anxiety:

Theme: Victorian horror often explores themes of class and social anxiety, including the fear of losing social status, the consequences of poverty, and the tension between different social classes.

Connection: This theme reflects the rigid class structures of Victorian society and the fears and tensions that arose from social mobility and economic disparity.

Moral Corruption and Hypocrisy:

Theme: Victorian horror frequently critiques the era’s moral standards and exposes the hypocrisy of societal norms. Characters who appear virtuous often harbor dark secrets or engage in morally dubious activities.

Connection: This theme mirrors the Victorian concern with appearances and the underlying tension between public propriety and private desires.

The Five Pillars of Victorian Horror & The Five Love Interests

The Supernatural and the Gothic (Ais)

Essence: Victorian horror often revolves around the supernatural, blending Gothic elements to evoke a sense of dread and otherworldly terror. This includes ghosts, vampires, haunted houses, and curses, which create an atmosphere where the boundaries between the natural and the supernatural blur.

Impact: The use of Gothic settings and supernatural phenomena provides a backdrop for exploring deeper themes of fear, mortality, and the unknown.

Psychological Depth and Madness (Vere)

Essence: Victorian horror delves into the complexities of the human mind, exploring themes of madness, obsession, and the psychological effects of fear and trauma. Characters often grapple with their sanity, facing inner demons as terrifying as any external threat.

Impact: This focus on psychological horror allows for a deeper exploration of character motivations and the impact of societal pressures.

Moral Corruption and the Double Life (Leander)

Essence: Themes of moral corruption and the duality of human nature are central to Victorian horror. Characters often lead double lives, presenting a veneer of respectability while concealing dark, sinful secrets. This tension between outward appearances and hidden truths reflects the era’s social hypocrisy and fear of scandal.

Impact: These themes critique Victorian society’s emphasis on propriety and the dangerous consequences of repressing one’s true nature. The idea of a double life or hidden self adds to the horror by suggesting that evil can reside within anyone, masked by a facade of normalcy.

Decay, Degeneration, and Disease (Kuras)

Essence: The themes of physical and moral decay, societal degeneration, and disease permeate Victorian horror. These motifs symbolise the fragility of human life and the inevitability of decline, reflecting the anxieties of a society grappling with rapid change and uncertain futures.

Impact: By focusing on decay and degeneration, Victorian horror underscores the transient nature of life and the ever-present threat of corruption and decline, whether through ageing, moral compromise, or societal breakdown.

Isolation and Alienation (Mhin)

Essence: Isolation and alienation are pervasive themes in Victorian horror, often depicted through characters who are physically or emotionally cut off from society. This separation heightens their vulnerability to external threats and internal fears.

Impact: Isolation serves to intensify the psychological tension and sense of dread, as characters confront their fears alone. It also reflects the era’s social and existential anxieties, including the fear of being disconnected or outcast from society.

Generally, I believe each LI connects with a pillair (as seen above). Perhaps by looking at the archetypes we could deduce propable endings and route elements.

Forgive me, for the following part is MESSY;

Ais

Vere

Leander

Kuras

Mhin

[copperbadge]

Before I left for vacation I did my usual “tidy for the petsitter” routine, and there was some paperwork that I thought should probably get put away, so I stashed it in a storage bin I had out. Because I know me, I put a note in my to-do list for when I got back that said “There’s important stuff in the bin, remember to go get it.”

So I did, but I thought I should deal with the other stuff in the bin too, and I’ve just been popping the lid and dealing with one or two things every time I go past it. Most of it is paperwork, and I’ve just hit some records from high school that my mother recently gave to me without either of us going through them.

There’s a bunch of report cards, which are heartbreaking and hilarious. I graduated a semester early and my last semester was cleanup -- two classes to complete graduation requirements and one to maintain status as a “full time” student. Two were math-based which I was notoriously bad at, and sure enough at the midterm I was getting a D+ in one and a C- in the other. We’d just begun digital grade recording, so the teachers would keep their grades in a paper book and then log into an extremely basic database and enter the grades, which would spit out on our printed report cards. They could put in a grade plus three “codes” which would print next to our grades as status updates, stuff like “disruptive in class” or similar. 

My English course, in which I was getting an A, said “Exceeding expectations” which was kind of Mr. G because I remember him and his expectations were exceptionally high for me. 

The other two have the same catechism: Missing Assignments, Does Not Pay Attention In Class, and of course...Achievement Not Up To Ability. Guess now we know why. 

Reading through these old cards with the cushion of time, it’s fascinating to see my young brain at work. My math and (math-based) science grades tank so hard, at the same time I was getting As or Bs everywhere else -- history, civics, econ, english, spanish. There are documented questions about whether I’m going to pass enough math to graduate high school, dated the same semester as my perfect Verbal SAT score and my fives in AP Comp and Lit. The first semester after I was put into the Gifted program, I failed Remedial Algebra.  

I did say at the time, to my mother and my teachers, there’s something wrong here. My mother, in her defense, had her hands full with my brother; my teachers just didn’t know what to do with me. The school district was broke and didn’t have disability testing available. By the time I got to college I’d simply internalized the idea that I was a neurotypical kid who got stubborn when asked to do something I found pointless and boring, and that was a personality flaw to be corrected, not a symptom of something bigger. My therapist for my last few years of high school agreed, and thought I should probably learn more anger management techniques. Although it turns out you can’t breathing-exercise your way out of undiagnosed ADHD. 

In any case, here in 2023, there’s no solution or tidy resolution or anything to be done about it, it just is what it is: a sheaf of paper from the late 90s about a smart fuckup who could have used a hand. I’m here now, alive and employed and medicated and a homeowner, so it’s a bunch of numbers that don’t mean anything. I’ll scan them into my digital archive, then toss the paper and never look at the archive again, probably. 

Achievement not up to ability. Boy, no kidding. 

[python333]

glass half-full, or half-empty? — python333

— — — —

synopsis you're trapped in a coffin, then you're not, then you're questioning your whole life- basically, buried alive trope meets found family and meets age regression and they all have a super messed up baby that has the occasional good quality.

relationships caretaker! price, caretaker! gaz & little! reader (gender-neutral).

characters cap. price, gaz, others briefly mentioned.

word count 8.0k

warnings reader was buried alive, implied drugging, implied panic attack, sooo much disorientation in the first section it's crazy, british slang that only kind of makes sense, second person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of both c/n [code name/call sign] and y/n [your name], wayyyy too long.

note hey!! sorry for disappearing!!! please accept this offering as an apology!!! I've finally gotten back the motivation for writing what i actually wanna write, so now i'm back to writing fics!! enjoy this new and improved interpretation of age regression!

Someone’s ribs are encasing your own. 

Well, not really, but it feels that way. Though your torso is clothed, as is the rest of your body, the defined bones of the skeleton beneath you poke and dig into your skin the same way it would if you were naked. The rotted wood around you creaks and sand falls onto your frontside from above, where the lid of your coffin is kept together solely by hopes and dreams. 

Only an hour ago, you blacked out. Fighting enemy soldiers whose fighting techniques you aren’t familiar with is hard enough, especially when they happen to keep bleach and rubbing alcohol in the same place they’re fighting you in. The two mixed together, poured and soaked into a rag that was later pressed to your face, created a substance that knocked you out. You know the name of it. You know it. But you can’t think of it, because remembering is too hard, and the wood surrounding you is too suffocating. 

Your limited air is becoming more and more apparent. There’s no light, no noise—well, unless you count the subtle static playing in your broken earpiece—basically, it’s sensory deprivation hell and you’ve committed one too many sins according to those enemy soldiers. 

Your whole body is sore. You don’t know if those soldiers messed with you after you passed out, or if this is just the result of fighting them for a few consecutive minutes, but whatever happened caused a strange weakness to invade and overtake your body. The oligarchy in your body created by this soreness left you unable to move properly, save for the occasional twitch of your skin or the ability to move your fingers freely. 

But fingers are useless when your wrists are bound. Maybe they aren’t physically bound to the floor of the coffin, but the invisible ropes made of the misuse of cleaning materials seemed to be enough to keep them down. It was irritating, and the mental ropeburn created pins and needles from your wrist to your elbow that only made you even more uncomfortable. 

The static continues. It’s cold. Cold, quiet, and God, how did I even get here? What time is it? What day is it? Your uniform isn’t enough to keep you warm. The tactical gear only makes your body heavier, not in the comfortable way that it feels when you’re heavy with sleep and ready to rest, but in the out-of-body way that makes you feel both like you’re floating and being pulled down like an anchor at the same time. You recall vaguely algor mortis, the stage of death where your body begins a gradual decline into an inhumanly cold state. 

Why you’re recalling it, you don’t— actually, no, you do know. The cold. That’s why. You’re cold. You’re cold. Don’t forget it. It seems hard to forget feelings, to forget the present, but you’ll find that it’s like breathing; inhale, you know that you’re cold, exhale, wait… you’re cold? How do you know? How can you feel? Inhale, you can feel things because you’re human, because you’re alive, exhale, you’re alive? 

Are you alive? Have you made it this far? What have you done? Not much, honestly. Or, not much that you can remember. Though there’s an overwhelming amount of hopelessness clouding your mind, you can still make out a few moments that play like a shitty wedding slideshow at your distant relative’s wedding who you didn’t know existed until a few hours before the event. The time that you told Ghost a joke that made him laugh. That other time that you told Ghost a joke that made him laugh. Or, no, wait, was that Price? 

That time that you chased after Soap while he had your unlocked phone, which, by the way, was a very normal response to that and was very valid. Yes, it was necessary for you to tackle him, even Gaz agreed with you on that. Ghost just enjoyed seeing Soap get tackled, for some very dark very strange reason that you would rather not think about too hard—assuming that you can even think any harder than a brick right now. Price, of course, disapprovingly shook his head and seemed to mentally weigh what the effect of a leash on the three of you would grant. 

Static-static-static-stat— “H—o?” 

You almost sit up, but your head bumps on the top of the coffin, and you groan. Oops. Thought a little bit too much there. 

You’re immediately dizzy and it feels like all the blood has rushed out of your head, but you still manage to stay conscious and try to figure out how to respond to whoever’s talking. 

“H—lo?” They ask again. You tilt your head ever-so-slightly so that the button on your earpiece can get pressed, and you almost start crying when you hear the small click and beep emit from the earpiece, signaling that it’s now on. 

“Hello?” Your voice is hoarse and it hurts to talk but you couldn’t care less. You have an opportunity to get out. You’re desperate to get out—or, at least, you should be. 

For the strangest reason, despite the claustrophobic environment you’ve been forced into, despite the sores that you know are forming along your stiffened spine from the rough wood you’re lying on, you feel comfortable in the most uncomfortable way. The fact that your memory is fuzzy and your movements are limited to twitching and stretching makes you uneasy, but at the same time, the absence of your typical nonstop stream of incomprehensible thoughts and feelings strangely lets you�� relax. The lack of thinking, only lying down and staring up, puts you in a mindset that you don’t think is so bad. 

The situation is awful, but for whatever reason, the results of it are— are… oh God, what’s the word? It’s on the tip of your tongue, you swear, and now you’re thinking, well, shit, maybe this isn’t the best mindset. The void that grows in your head was nice maybe a minute ago, but now you’re forgetting words and yeah, no, I don’t like this, but at least you aren’t constantly second-guessing yourself. You aren’t contradicting every other thought you have, there aren’t mental wars waging in your mind that keep you unfocused and almost lightheaded, you aren’t arguing with yourself on how you truly feel. You just feel. And hell, you fuckin’ forget what you were even feeling just a few seconds ago. Thoughts come and go, nothing more than fleeting, and a part of you wishes that there was something for them to latch onto because being absent-minded feels a little too empty but your usual mind feels too full. 

You wish your mind was like that— that problem, with the glass, the… the glass… the one where everyone argues on something about it. Something about it. What do they argue about? What glass? There’s a glass, a drinking glass, that everyone argues about, and whatever side you’re on dictates how you think— what the fuck? What is that problem? God, if only you had a working phone right now to look it up. 

Oh, shit, yeah, the earpiece. There’s someone talking. Only just now have you actually acknowledged their words. They sound muffled and far-away, not at all like there’s a small microphone shoved into your ear that plays directly into it. 

“Private?” It’s crackly and still full of static, the sound is drowning in it, “Pr— a— —u there?” 

“... Huh?” You question dumbly, sounding more confused than you ever have before. There’s a ringing building up in your ears, and the person on the other end—who is talking?―is talking again. 

“Ar— —ou ther—?” They ask again, sounding… worried? Concerned? Wait, shit, those are the same thing. Damn you and your lack of a mental thesaurus. Wait, no, if you… if you use the same meaning in two different words… would that not— whatever. You don’t even care anymore. This ‘mindset’ doesn’t feel very nice anymore. You’ve been conscious for too long, you’ve started questioning yourself again, but in the worst way possible; usually, you can actually think properly when you question yourself. Now, you’re questioning your own knowledge without actually thinking about your questions first, so instead of the usual hellish loop of what does this mean? Why did I say this? What else could I have said?, you’re now stuck in the purgatory of, what was that word? What can I say? What did I just think? What? Huh? 

“Yeah… genius…” You manage to scoff, despite the heaviness of your tongue and the cotton in your mouth and mind, “Where else… would I be?” 

“Oh m— God,” The person on the other end breathes out, “Do y— kno— who you’re t—king to?” 

You shrug—well, you move your shoulders the tiniest bit up and back down—even though they can’t see you.

“Priva—?” They ask again, like a broken record, making you groan without you even realizing it, “G—z. Sergea—t Ga—ck? Y’remember?” 

“G’z,” You mutter, trying to sound out the syllables, “Giz… G— oh, shoot… Gaz? Sarge?”

“Yeah,” Gaz laughs, a little clearer now,  “Sarge, sure. Y— doin— —kay?” 

“Uh-huh,” You exhale, a little relieved that it’s just Gaz, “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Gaz sounds like he’s smiling, it’s audible in his voice, “Y’wanna t—l me where y—u ar—?”

“Uhh…” You look around the coffin with limited head movements, “I dunno, probably… probably a, uh… one a’ those grave things. Coff— coffin. In one of those. In a grave thing. Maybe. Wha’ are those called? The things?”

You sound dazed even to yourself, and mentally chastise yourself for the usage of grave things, even though you had no better words to describe it. You swear, you know the word. It starts with an “s”, you think, there’s a whole movie with it in the title by some guy named Steve-something. It has graves, coffins, the other thing that’s a coffin but not, graves, dead stuff, all that… hm. All that swing? All that… all that jazz, right, all that jazz. Wow, go ahead and clap yourself on the back for that one— oh, that’s right, you can’t, because you’re stuck in a fucking coffin. 

What a day.

“You’re in a cof—n?” Gaz asks, shocked. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Underg—nd?”

“Where else?” You deadpan, even though, for whatever reason, your instincts scream at you to be a little bit nicer. For that reason only, you tack on, “Respec— …respectfully.” 

“Jesus,” Gaz lets out a shaky breath, his voice growing a little more faint, as are you, “Wh—e do y— rem—ber being last?” 

“I don’t…” You mumble, eyelids growing heavy, threatening to droop down and meet the waterline of your eyes. 

“Don’t… what?” Gaz asks, sounding almost… scared? 

“Rember— rem’m… remember,” You reply, “Woof. That was… a toughie.” 

“Oh my God, th—’re lo—ng it,” Gaz whispers to himself, or maybe to someone else, “Private. Do y— know at all w— you m—ght be?” 

“Uhh…” 

“D—” This time, you know this is Gaz cutting himself off, because he gasps right after he begins talking and starts a whole new statement, “Is your tr—ker on?” 

“My wha’?” 

“Tracker, the— the th—ng, it’s a—ched to y—r earp—ce,” Jesus, how much can this thing cut out? 

“I don’t… what the— what are you tryna say to me?” You ask, for some reason… censoring yourself? What? Why… huh? You don’t censor yourself, you’re not five. Well, at least, you don’t think you are, not right now. Wait, when are you five? What are you saying? Or, thinking— what are you thinking? 

“The— Captain,” Gaz calls out to someone else, “The t—!” 

“Tra’ker,” You mumble to yourself, “Huh. I have one a’those?” 

“[c/n],” Gaz says into his earpiece, the sound suddenly louder than before, making you jump and almost hit your head on the ceiling of the coffin, “Are you h—rt?”

“I don’ think so,” You respond, looking down at the shadows casted over your body, “Can’t tell.” 

Gaz lets out some kind of pained noise and you feel your eyelids growing heavier. Your lungs hurt. Your lungs hurt? Oh, shoot, your lungs hurt. Gaz should probably know that. 

“Actu’ly,” You take back, sounding almost intoxicated, feeling like you’re breathing through a straw, “My chest hurts.” 

Close enough. 

“Your chest?” Gaz questions, the static slowly but surely clearing up, “Your lu—gs?” 

“Uh-huh,” You confirm. Your breathing was already a little shallow, but now its turning labored, and it feels like there’s rocks in your lungs, more and more appearing from God knows where, weighing down and taking up so much space in your lungs that the oxygen you breathe in must search for refuge within the cracks and crevices in between the stones. 

Exhale, and the carbon dioxide that leaves you seems to find a way to invite more rocks into your lungs. Inhale, and there’s less and less room, exhale, there should be more room, but instead the room— inhale, there’s no room, try to inhale again, you can’t— inhale, breathe, breathe, gasp, hold your breath, don’t exhale-don’t exhaledon’texhale— 

“[c/n]!” Gaz shouting your name startles you and forces you to exhale, a low whine coming out with it, making Gaz shut up. There’s a warm liquid dripping in trails down your cheeks, reaching your jaw and chin, the feeling of it sending waves of discomfort through your body and straight to your brain. 

You desperately try to breathe in, try to inhale anything, even if it’s the sand falling from the ceiling or the carbon dioxide that you’ve tried so hard to keep inside. 

“[c/n],” Gaz repeats your name, in a different tone this time, something more soft, something that resonates and echoes in your empty yet full mind, “We’re close, we— almo—t there, you s—l with me?” 

You continue to struggle with your breathing. Exhale, exhale, inh— exhale, inhale, ex— ex— exhale, in— in— Jesus fucking Christ, just inha— in— in— 

“I can hear you,” Gaz says, uncannily clear, he must be at least… at least something klicks within the radius of… of me… of me? Where am I? “You’re gonna be okay, okay? You’re gonna be fine. I need you to stop panicking, okay? I know that— th—t sounds easy to me, because I’m not in a coffin, but if you keep breathing like that, you’re gonna make it worse for yourself.” 

You finally inhale, but it feels so wrong, like hearing crunches while chewing what should be soft food. You gasp. You’re choking? What’s that other word for choking? Starts with a “c”, right? Wait, no, that’s choking. Dang it. 

Gaz is yelling in your ears, and it almost sounds like he’s actually there, but the wooden walls encasing you and this stupid, very smelly skeleton underneath you tell a different story. You cough. You cough again. And again. And now you’re just forcing the bad air out of your lungs, which is great and all, but now there’s no air in your lungs, which you would like to argue is far worse but you can’t argue because you can’t think and you can’t think because you’re in some coffin with a stupid— what did you even want to argue, again? 

There’s yelling. There’s commanding. There’s footsteps, heavy ones, ones that come from combat boots and men in tactical gear, the same gear that weighs you down like an anchor, that keeps you glued to this skeleton, who’s ribs encase your own. 

Or, at least, it feels like they are. Even though you’re wearing tactical gear, it still feels the same way it would if you were naked. The annoyingly present bones of the skeleton dig and poke into your skin, and there’s sand falling from between the planks of rotten wood above you, where the ceiling of the coffin is held together solely by hopes and dreams. 

An hour or two or three ago, you blacked out. You think you did, at least. You think you might black out again. Fighting enemy soldiers who fight with techniques you aren’t familiar with is hard enough, but fighting the invisible forces that prevent you from breathing in good air is even harder, because they don’t fight with guns or knives or fists; they fight with rocks that they shove into your lungs and vines that they tie around your already-tight throat. 

There’s no light, but there’s sound. Sounds that would be useful if you could think. You don’t remember thinking. You don’t remember remembering. 

But you’ll always remember this skeleton beneath you, who’s ribs encase your own. 

Or, at least, it feels like they are. The tactical gear you’re wearing does you no good, serving as the only barrier—the most useless barrier ever—between you and this skeleton and this coffin and the sand that's begun pooling around you. The skeleton, who’s ribs are— why are you repeating yourself? 

Gaz is yelling in your ear. Someone else is— someone else is there? Someone else is there. Talking, yelling, screaming, commanding, running, searching, above you— above you? Above you. While you exhale, gasp, exhale, choke, gasp, gasp, try to breath, fail, exhale, exhale, there’s men above you digging, digging and lifting weight off of you, you think. There’s more sand coming through. The loss of pressure must be making it looser.

Are you thinking? Are you feeling? Can you remember? What is there to remember? There’s an incomprehensible jumble of thoughts in your mind, and you think, trying to control your thoughts, I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. 

It’s getting easier and harder to breathe. You can’t. You can… wait, no, you can’t. 

You can keep your eyes open— you can keep them open, you can k— 

“—eep your eyes open, Private,” Gaz begs you, pleads for you, his voice far but close, loud yet quiet, “C’mon, keep ‘em open, stay awak—” 

—e, stay awake, stay awake, no, no, no, no— 

— 

You wake up to a stark white ceiling and some kind of electric beeping. Your head is clearer, fortunately, but still not clear enough to immediately remember what exactly happened. You remember a coffin, a skeleton, suffocating, talking to Gaz, and that’s about it. You shiver. A skeleton. You can still feel the phantom feeling of its ribs hugging your body, something you think your captors might’ve done to make you feel even more uncomfortable. 

While you’re thinking about the skeleton, you don’t notice the sliding of a curtain and the footsteps that grow exponentially louder and closer to you. 

“G’morning,” Gaz says, making you jump up and sit up instinctively, before you promptly lie right back down. Gaz snickers at you, and you turn your surprisingly sore neck to glare at him. 

“Y—” You cough, furrowing your eyebrows as you bring an unstable and floppy hand to slap around your face, finding an oxygen mask nestled right on your nose and mouth. You take a few breaths, the task uncannily easy now, “You can knock that off. No laughing at the injured.” 

“Oh, I’m not laughing at the injured,” Gaz clarifies, sitting down at a plastic chair he’s pulled up beside your bed, “I’m getting ready to yell at the injured soldier who gave me a heart attack about five hours ago after suffocating in a coffin buried six feet under in some cemetery in Derbyshire.” 

“Derbyshire…” You muse, “What’s that? Or, where’s that?”

“‘bout forty klicks from Sheffield,” Gaz hums, before seeing your blank stare, and sighing tiredly, “The one with the cute houses and the pudding.” 

“Ohhh,” You nod, now understanding, before joking, “At least I got buried there instead of, like, the bluejay one.” 

“The bluejay one?” Gaz asks, confused, before pausing and asking you incredulously, “Jaywick?” 

“Yeah, that one,” You hum. Gaz blinks at you, before groaning.

“Is this how you felt when I thought Las Vegas was in California?”

“Probably,” You grin at him, “It might be closer to when you thought NYC was the capital of New York.” 

“If it’s not the capital, then why is it named after the city?” Gaz asks, exasperated. You shrug.

“Doesn’t change the fact that the capital’s Albany.” The room is silent for a little bit. The beeping, which you’ve now identified as a heart monitor, is loud. Your heart’s beating is fast and feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest. Gaz looks down at his chest, fidgeting with his hands, wringing them.

“I, uh,” You start, making Gaz look at you again, “When I was in the coffin…” The mere mention of it makes Gaz’s gaze sharpen and his hands still.

“It was hard to breathe, and also really hard to think,” Gaz nods along, “But I was still thinking, I guess, and I wasn’t thinking too hard. Like, jellyfish type shit, y’know? Like no thoughts, but also thoughts, but like…” 

Gaz raises an eyebrow at you, and you try to explain it better, “Do you remember back in like, ele— when you were five or six and you like, just got a conscious and you’re thinking but also not?” 

Gaz’s face relaxes and he nods wordlessly. You continue, “That’s how I felt.” 

“I’m sorry,” Gaz frowns, putting a gentle hand on the metal bar on the bed you lie on, “That must’ve been… weird.”

“No, no, I liked it,” Gaz’s face goes right back to confusion, “It was nice. Which is weird. But I didn’t feel weird. I felt, like, really calm in that sense, for the few minutes that I wasn’t panicking.” 

“You… liked it?” Gaz asks skeptically. You nod. 

“Yeah.” 

“How?”

“It was just…” You try to find the words to describe it, “I don’t know. I didn’t have control over it, which really bothered me. I felt, like, small, for some reason— like my mind is shrinking but my body is still the same, y’know? So it was really…” 

After a few moments of you trying to find the word you needed, Gaz offers, “Disproportionate?” 

“Yeah, that,” You nod quickly, “It was disproportionate and sucked, and it was obviously really scary, but I wasn’t processing stuff like I usually do. Which was great.” 

“That sounds…” Gaz wrinkles up his nose, “... awful, but okay.”

“I think a lot,” When Gaz raises an eyebrow at you, you weakly slap at his knee and continue, “And earlier, when I was in that coffin, I wasn’t thinking. Everything was just going in and out just like that. It would’ve been nice to keep some of those thoughts, yeah, but when I can properly think like I am now, I keep too many thoughts and it’s like— it clutters up, and it just lingers for way too long.” 

A small flash of understanding crosses Gaz’s expression. “So, you liked not thinking too much, because you already overthink too much, and being in the coffin and high on something happened to both help and not help with that?” 

“Yeah, basically,” You hum, before realizing, “That’s way simpler than what I said. Huh.” 

“That’s that overthinking,” Gaz muses, to which you respond with a frown. 

“I’m not saying I wanna be all claustrophobic like that again,” You clarify, because you still see doubt on Gaz’s face, “But I liked thinking like that. The non-thinking-thinking. I think it would help with my stress and stuff.” 

Another flash of understanding crosses Gaz’s expression, except this time, there’s a hint of something else in there. Realization? Curiosity? You’re none the wiser to it, getting a little more confused yourself. 

“Oh.” Gaz’s slight frown disappears, the upturning of the corners of his lips now visible, “Okay. I get that. I actually think I know what’s happening.” 

“You do?” You ask, confused. 

“I gotta confirm it with the captain, though,” You’re more confused. It’s visible, you guess, because Gaz laughs at your expression.

“Don’t worry, it’s not bad,” He clarifies, still grinning, “I just have some suspicions. Y’mind if I let Price know what y’said?” 

“... Sure?” You hesitantly say, to which Gaz responds by standing up and starting to speed-walk away from your bed, making you snort. 

“I’ll be back in a bit!” Gaz calls out over his shoulder. You sigh and turn so that your whole back is on the mattress of the bed. 

You were being honest, but at the cost of Gaz apparently “knowing what’s happening”, which is… disturbing, coming from Gaz, who you’ve affectionately titled a “D1 bird-brain”.

But whatever. It’s true, anyway, how you felt. It was uncomfortable, but it was somehow so much better than how you usually are. Or, well, not so much better, but at times when you’re overthinking or overwhelmed, you wish you could just turn off your brain, or something. Okay, maybe not turn it off, but turn off certain parts. You like thinking, and you do it all the time, but doing it all the time for you is like a full-time job on top of your already full-time job of being a part of the 141. 

You don’t even make sense to yourself, but that’s okay. You make sense to Gaz, apparently, and possibly Price as well. 

Speaking of— 

“Hey,” Price greets you, his usual quokka-smile gracing his lips, Gaz following in right after him with the most smug look you’ve ever seen. What a bastard. 

“What did you do?” You immediately ask Gaz, who only shakes his head and looks away, amused, making you a little annoyed. Price seems to know what you’re talking about as well, judging by the way his smile grows a tiny bit. I hate inside jokes. Only I’m allowed to have those with people.

“He told me what you told him,” Price hums, before sitting down into the chair previously occupied by Gaz, “And I have an idea you might like.” 

“... Okay,” You look at him suspiciously. 

“When I was still in the SAS—”

“Oh, so around the same time as the Trojan War?”

“Shut it, you.”

“Sure, Captain.”

Price sighs, exasperated, while Gaz snickers at his unamused look. Price, ever-so determined to explain this to you, proceeds, “Back when I was in the SAS, there was this other lieutenant who happened to be a good few years younger than me. Too young, in my opinion—” 

“Look at yourself,” Gaz interrupts him. 

“Bugger off,” Price sneers, “I’m tellin’ a story.”

Gaz puts his hands up in a surrendering gesture, “Keep your hair on, Captain, jus’ pointin’ out that you were younger than them when you first joined the army.” 

You blink at the two. “I think that’s the first time that I’ve heard British slang that I can actually understand.”

Price takes a deep breath, “However, it wasn’t up to me to decide if or when they joined. So, I got to know them a little better, and found out that the stress they got after assignments was so bad that they had this coping mechanism that they had thought to be fairly strange. I asked them what it was, and because we’d known each other for ‘round a year now, and I was to be moved to a different unit, they told me that they didn’t really know the name of it exactly but what they did was they would sit down in their jammies, ones that reminded them of their childhood, watch some cartoons, all that and some more. And I asked them how that helped them, because back then, I was a dense little shit who couldn’t think for more than two seconds, and they said that it let them think the same way that they did when they were a kid.”

You blink at him. “So the idea is… ?” 

“Maybe you two are related,” Gaz muses, “And the denseness is hereditary.” 

Price groans, “Put a fuckin’ sock in it, Kyle.” 

You gasp scandalously, before comically whispering, “First name after telling him to shut up? You’re just gonna let that slide, Gaz?” 

“I’ll shove a sock up your—” 

“My idea,” Price interrupts the two of you, preventing what could’ve been a fifteen-minute long spat, “is that you do that. You throw on your jammies—” 

“Jammies,” You repeat incredulously.

“―you watch some cartoons, play with stuffies—”

“We have stuffies?” You interrupt Price again, who pauses this time.

“We should, yeah,” He nods, “There’s a bin of ‘em around here somewhere, for emergencies.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “Emergencies?”

He looks at you pointedly, “Emergencies.” 

You blink at him. Blink, bl— “Oh, fuck off, I don’t need stuffies. I don’t think any of this would help me. I’m not five.” 

“Yeah, but you wanna be, don’t you?” Gaz questions you, voice a little less joking, though it still has a little humor in it— a safety blanket, basically, in case you take his words the wrong way. 

You stay silent. Price speaks up, “Tell you what; we’ll come back tomorrow, just me ‘nd Gaz, and you can let us know what you think of the idea. If y’like it, I’ll get you whatever you need to help you out. If you still don’t like it, you don’t like it, and we’ll figure somethin’ else out, alright?”

You sigh, “Alright.” 

Price smiles at you and gets up to clap you on the shoulder, “Get some rest, soldier, up the wooden hill and off to Bedfordshire with you.” 

“What the hell?” You immediately question, looking at Price like he’s gone mad, “Up the—”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s bad British representation,” Gaz hurriedly says, getting up and pushing Price lightly out of the room, talking to him in a theatrical whisper-yell, “You’re introducing them to sayings they’re not yet prepared for! Nobody says that to anyone above the age of twelve, Captain!” 

Price simply laughs and lets Gaz push him away from your bed, not bothering to push aside the curtains obscuring the view of you as he pushes him out of the medbay entirely. 

You blink at the swaying curtains.

“English people,” You mumble to yourself, turning over onto your side, “God damn English people. I’m never grouping Soap in with them ever again.”

— 

True to his word, Price walks in with Gaz the next morning.

Price sits down next to you.

“G’morning,” He greets you softly, chuckling at the disgruntled look on your face, “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“Woke up and thought I was six feet under for a second,” You mutter, making the smile on Price’s face falter. 

“Sorry,” Price apologizes, reaching out a slow hand—so that you can move at any second—to grasp your own hand and squeeze it gently, “Y’good now?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, nodding, your gaze shifting to Gaz, who looks as disgruntled as yourself. You snort and ask him, “Are you good?” 

“Someone,” Gaz snarks, glaring daggers at Price, “Woke me up two hours before my alarm so that he could force me to search for supplies with him.” 

“I wonder who that could’ve been,” Price hums, ignoring the way Gaz shakes his head disapprovingly, “Anywho, have you given any thought to the idea?” 

“The idea?” You question, before quickly realizing, “Oh, right, yeah, the idea.” 

Price looks at you both expectantly and patiently, while Gaz forces himself to pull his glare away from Price and put his gaze on you, observing your expressions and response. 

“Uhh…” You look at Price with hesitation, and he looks back at you without a trace of pressure in his eyes, making you sigh, “I’ll try it, but no guarantees that it’s gonna work.”

“Thank fuck,” Gaz groans, “My hard work hasn’t gone to was— ow!”

Gaz takes hurried steps back after Price stomped down hard on his foot, and the latter simply smiles at you at your response. 

“Great,” He gets up, dusting off his army-green shirt and pushing his chair back, “D’you reckon you’re good to get out of bed now?” 

“Probably,” You shrug, testing the waters by pushing yourself up into a sitting position. You wince at your still-sore back and your stiff legs, but otherwise feel okay, okay enough to feel confident in your ability to actually stand—though, you suspect you may need to grab onto something for extra support. 

Oh well. You’re sick of this bed already, and if you can stand, you’re gonna stand. 

Price sees this, however, and is quick to hold his arm out for you to grab onto as you swing your legs over the bed railing and hop off the mattress way too fast, making yourself dizzy in the process. You feel his concerned eyes burning holes into the top of your head as you try and succeed in regaining your footing, keeping a firm grip on his forearm in the process. Thank God for Captain Price and his too-muscly arms. 

“You alright?” Price asks, to which you respond with an affirmative nod. 

“Fine,” You hum, taking a deep breath before tentatively letting go of Price’s arm. He frowns, but doesn’t protest. Gaz looks at him questioningly, and Price shakes his head, nonverbally communicating to the sergeant that it’s nothing to get worried over.

Gaz decides to lead all of you out of the medbay, with you following after him and Price right behind you. You occasionally lose your footing, slipping on nothing, but you never fall, and even if you were about you, Price would catch you. You know he would. He’s been watching you like a hawk, hands twitching every time your footing is lost. But instead of begging for you to just take his arm, for fuck’s sake, he walks up so that he’s right next to you and starts talking. 

“So…” He starts, making you look over at him, “Y’want me to go over the plan?”

“The plan?” You ask, raising an eyebrow, “Sure.” 

“You get changed into your pajamas, we get on the bed, cuddle a lil’, you get a stuffie, we see what happens and then see what to do from there,” Price explains simply, “Any problems with that?”

“No, sounds good,” You hum. It sounds fucking fantastic, you think, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“Good,” Price smiles down at you, before saying, “You remind me of them.” You tilt your head to the side a bit, “The lieutenant?”

Price nods, “Yeah. Really sweet person. Had a whole collection of stuffies and blankets.”

You smile, “Sounds nice. They just keep all those in their quarters?”

“Yeah.” You both fall into silence again, comfortable silence, and soon enough, the three of you reach your sleeping quarters.

You all walk in. Well, except for Gaz, who is stopped by Price at the door. You turn around to question them, but Price stops you before you can even open your mouth.

“You just go get dressed,” He says, nodding over to the drawers in the corner of your room, “We’ll be outside. Just knock when you’re done.” 

Skeptically, you look between the two, before you nod and close the door, leaving you inside your room alone. You try not to give too much thought to it, trying yet failing to ignore every thought that crosses your mind, busying yourself by choosing pajamas. 

Soon enough, you’re dressed in your favorite pajamas—fluffy pants and a loose t-shirt, as well as just-as-fluffy slippers to replace your boots—and knocking at the door to signal to Price that you’re done. He opens the door, and Gaz is nowhere in sight, but you choose not to ask about it. Instead, you step to the side so that Price can walk in and sit on your bed, closing the door behind him.

On the bed already is a fluffy blanket—it must’ve been set up earlier, considering that Gaz was apparently woken up at around four in the morning to get everything ready. 

You sit down on the bed next to your Captain, your fluffy pajama pants and loose t-shirt already making you feel relaxed, as well as your fuzzy slippers. You don’t really wear this outside of going to sleep, but after wearing a medical gown for the past twenty-four hours, you’re more than happy to make one small change in your routine. Price smiles down at you, one arm hovering around your back questioningly, before you nod and let him fully wrap it around you and pull you into his side. You’re already pretty tired, despite the fact that you got a full night’s worth of sleep, so the pajamas are honestly pretty fitting.

You sigh, turning your head slightly so that your cheek is pressed to his chest. Gaz walks in just seconds later, your gaze immediately moving to him as he sits down on the bed right next to you, sandwiching you in between him and Price. In any other situation, this would make you feel claustrophobic, but it feels oddly… comfortable right now. You notice the stuffed animal in Gaz’s hands—a small, round, fluffy cow with a black and white coloring pattern—and look at him questioningly. 

“That s’posed t’be for me?” You ask, strangely drawn to the small stuffie. Gaz seems to see your fascination with the stuffed animal and smiles softly at you, a weird sight, considering that the two of you are having kerfuffles every three seconds at the very least. 

“Uh-huh,” Gaz nods, offering it to you, smiling even wider when you gingerly grab it, “Y’like it?”

“It’s cute,” You mumble, looking it over in your hands, rubbing your thumb against its soft fur and black beady eyes. You know what you want to do with it. You want to hug it close to your chest, like you used to oh-so many years ago, back before you had to force yourself to stop sleeping with stuffed animals out of fear that you would need them in order to sleep forever. It only partially worked; you never slept with another stuffie again, but instead found yourself waking up with a bunched up part of your blanket or your pillow in your arms, pulling tight to your chest. 

You really wanna hug it. You missed stuffed animals. You miss stuffed animals, present tense. You miss their soft fur and the baby pink of their ears, the polyester trapped safely inside the confines of the felt and fluff, the sweetness and child-like wonder that you lost with them. 

Both Price and Gaz sense the conflict in your mind. 

“Hey,” Price softly rubs your arm with his thumb, with gentle circles and too many yet just enough callouses, “You’re thinking a lil’ bit too much there. You wanna hug the stuffie, go ahead and hug it.” 

It’s easy, you think, so easy to just… think, but let go of my thoughts when I have him to ground me.

You hug the stuffed animal, pulling it close to your chest and wrapping your arms around it, your limbs too long for what you’re trying to do but doubt and stress in your mind slowly growing small enough to compensate for the lack of a smaller body. It’s frustrating, yes, but Price’s arm around your body and Gaz’s hand that cautiously rests on your shoulder makes your body feel the tiniest bit smaller, and it makes your mind the tiniest bit cloudier. 

“There y’go,” Gaz coos, his voice a type of soft you didn’t even know was possible from him. Price only chuckles, and you should feel annoyed because they sound like they’re teasing you, like they’re a part of an inside joke that you’re not, but they’re not. They’re here right now, Price’s arm is around you and Gaz’s hand is on your shoulder and they’re speaking so softly and— and you’re letting your thoughts go. 

They’re coming and going, some staying longer than others, but they never pile up, never clutter up like a messy desk or a disorganized folder. They’re neat and held up by mental thumbtacks, pinned to the corkboard of your cerebral cortex, sometimes melting into the beige board and other times staying, but never getting to the point where the thoughts are stacking on top of each other or where there’s no more room for anymore thumbtacks. 

It’s something you never thought you’d be able to experience, but here you are, experiencing it, breathing it in like oxygen. Like an open field, bright and clear, with your Captain’s or your Sergeant’s arms—wrapped in blood and flesh, not stripped down to the bone, not poking and prodding at you—around you and keeping you grounded. Your very own anchorage; the perfectly crafted bumps and dips in their arms that fit around you like puzzle pieces when they pull you towards either one of them, as if your Creator knew that you would find refuge in them, as if They knew that you would know how perfect it is.

Because it is. It’s perfect, in the way that a salmon knowing its birthplace despite swimming so many miles away is. In the way that homeostasis works; your body finding equilibrium, that perfect balance between your internal systems and outside forces. In the way that the stuffed cow in your arms seems to seep through your chest and go straight to your heart and soul. 

You don’t realize that you’ve zoned out until Price lightly shakes you. 

“Y’alright, darling?” He asks, concerned, his gruff voice more gravelly than usual. You blink and look over at him, and you’re sweet again. Sweet and loved, and loving to love. Or, at least, you think you’re loved. You might be a tad bit delusional, but there’s something in Price’s eyes, some kind of light that reflects pink and green hues, some kind of nurturing-feeling that doesn’t go away when he blinks. 

“Uh-huh,” You nod, the way your head moves up and down almost like a bobblehead figure, “All… sunshine ‘nd rainbows over here.” 

Price breathes out a small laugh and Gaz raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Yeah? All sunshine and rainbows?” Gaz teases you, “Are you sure there’s anythin’ happenin’ up in your noggin?” 

You pout and lightly swing your leg at him to kick his calf, and although you’re only wearing slippers and are kicking about as hard as a pillow, Gaz makes a show of pretending to get seriously injured by it. He gasps dramatically and brings his knee up to his chest, hugging his calf to his torso and rubbing at the spot you kicked. He pouts right back at you, immature and theatrical, and you giggle—fucking giggle—at his antics. Gaz can’t help but let up the act, grinning as soon as your laugh sounds out, the noise music to his ears. 

“You havin’ a laugh while I’ve gotten hurt?” He antagonizes you, voice light and fluffy, “Brat.” 

“Noo,” You deny, voice growing just slightly higher-pitched, your movements a little less controlled by yourself, “I’m never a brat.” 

“You sure?” Gaz raises an eyebrow at you, letting his leg down, “I think you’re lying, duckie.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Yuh-huh.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“I cannot believe you’re both still annoying, even when they’re bein’ little,” Price sighs exasperatedly, making both you and Gaz laugh, your laughter more bubbly and light while his is knowing and proud. 

“Lil’ kids aren’t an exception to my teasing, Captain,” Gaz snickers, reaching over to ruffle your hair while you squeal quietly and lean back into Price to hide away from your attacker’s hand. Price snorts and pulls you a little closer to him.

“All little ones, or just this one?” Price nods down at you. Gaz hums, thinking.

“Ah, just this one,” Gaz grins, making Price sigh. The latter brings his other arm around and turns so that he can pull you to him with both arms, while Gaz suddenly frowns. 

“You’re hoarding them,” Gaz whines, while Price only raises an eyebrow at him. You feel oddly joyful at the thought of Gaz also wanting a share of your attention, or at least some of your physical affection.

“Shoulda gotten here faster than me, mate,” Price simply hums. He sounds so smug, voice full of smarm and expression knowing, because he’s more than aware of the fact that Gaz quite literally could not possibly get here faster than Price had.

“You made me get the supplies!” Gaz argues, though softer than he usually does, being more mindful of your newfound mindset, you assume. 

“Ehh, you could’ve refused it.” Price says, blatantly lying as he does, watching in amusement as Gaz gapes at him.

“What?”

You like the attention, but what you like even more is the conversation Price and Gaz start up afterwards. They don’t take their attention off of you, no, not one bit, but they aren’t talking directly towards you, you’re just existing and it’s amazing. 

Price begins asking Gaz about something, probably his reports, and Gaz responds positively, you presume. Price is talking calmly and slowly and Gaz is nodding along, his hand making its way to your own, his fingers interlocking with yours and squeezing your hand every now and then. Your pajamas feel awfully comfortable now. What did Price call them yesterday? Jammies? Usually, you’re an avid hater of English slang, but you can’t help but feel a little warmer just thinking about the word jammies. 

You can feel your eyes going half-lidded, and you can hear someone chuckling. Probably Gaz. He likes laughing at you, but it’s never in a mean way. Maybe that’s why you feel so comfortable with the laughter. It reminds you of an older sibling, someone who’s basically programmed to tease and make fun of you, but still likes you. Or, at least, is expected to still like you. You enjoy the idea of a chosen older sibling more than a biological one, funnily enough, because the expectation of liking someone is so different from actually developing a liking to someone. With the expectation, there’s almost no choice; there’s still a chance of them not liking you, but it’s expected of them to like you, so they’re gonna try anyway, and it makes it feel less authentic, less real—but with choosing, they choose you to have that bond with them, they choose to treat you the way they do, not because it’s expected of them from birth, but because they see something in you that draws them to you. 

Gaz is that person. That older brother that chose you to tease, to play fight with, to argue with, to laugh with, to hold hands with—he chose you. And because of that, his laughter is acceptable, and his teasing is never taken to heart. 

Your eyelids get a little heavier, and someone’s gently tilting your head so that it’s resting more comfortably against their chest. Probably Price. He likes physical touch, unsurprisingly, and shows it as much as you allow him to. He particularly likes to loosely wrap a hand around one of your wrists with his thumb resting over your veins, gently pressing inward to feel the beating of your heart. Why he does it, you don’t know. Maybe he likes the reassurance of your living. Maybe he likes how it grounds him, how it reminds him that you’re a tangible being with a beating heart and a working mind. how it might let him know that you’re real and here with him. 

Or maybe it’s something deeper, maybe it goes back to that other lieutenant, maybe it goes back even further to when he was sixteen and had just joined the British military. Whatever it is, you accept it wholeheartedly, because when he does it, it reminds you as well that he’s alive and searching for proof of you being alive as well. Because you believe that living people will always search for other living beings, or at least you know that you always will, because the feeling of brittle bones and the sight of dead bodies haunts you in ways that you never thought possible. 

Your eyelids droop down completely. 

“I feel like I should say good night, but it’s barely no—” You think that’s Gaz.

“Shut it and let them sleep, for Christ’s sake.” That’s probably Price.

“I’m just saying—” Definitely Gaz.

“I’ll staple your mouth shut so y’stop sayin’ anything, how about that, y’muppet?” Definitely Price.

[astronomywriting]

Unexpected Affection ❤️ Shinobu x Fem! Reader

WC: 1.8k Words

Vocab: [H/T]= Hair Texture || [H/C]= Hair Color || [S/C]= Skin Color || [F/N]= First Name || [E/C]= Eye Color ||

Content Warnings: Reader’s father is mentioned to be deceased, and their mother is emotionally unavailable

Premise: The reader is emotionally repressed, but they find themselves wanting cuddles from Shinobu

A/N: This one is a lot of yap with little dialogue. If you happen to have any constructive criticism I’d love to hear it :D

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You were an exceedingly stoic person. A persona you’ve long adopted, ever since early childhood. Your father passed away unexpectedly, which threw your mother into a pit of depression. Depression that would lead her onto the path of emotional neglect, not only for herself but also for you. Your mother would never go on to tell you why she changed so harshly after the passing of your father, but somewhere you had a feeling it was because you resembled him too much for her to bear.

These unfortunate events made you grow up faster than you would’ve liked. You had to take care of yourself, get back up on your own after something in life had gone wrong, and teach yourself how to adjust as you grew with the ever-changing world. Even now, as an adult, you still hold onto these past techniques, normalizing them into your day-to-day life. You weren’t able to trust easily, and even those whom you’ve left in your life rarely get to see a smile or express basic human emotion.

Which is why, as you lay on the futon alone, you wonder how and when you started missing the company of your girlfriend. You were used to being alone, so what strange circumstances of events led you to greet being alone as a foreign feeling? When did you start longing for her to be around? When did you begin to enjoy the small kisses and the warmth of having a partner to sleep next to?

You didn’t know how to answer such a question yet, but you did know you wanted to drag Shinobu back to bed so you could fall asleep once more. However, there was one small factor stopping you. It wasn’t in your code to just get up and tell Shinobu how much you enjoyed her company and that you couldn’t sleep without her. Even the smallest levels of intimacy were completely untouched by you.

Kisses between you were nothing but small pecks, only to be shared in the privacy of your own home. The only handholding you did was a quick squeeze in between the days. Your type of affection wasn’t something bold or outgoing; it was simply small acts that could be done completely alone. Instead of cuddling, you’d just silently enter a room Shinobu happened to be in and sit down, simply basking in the proximity of your beloved.

Tonight was different, though. Echoes of the past were quite keen on keeping you up, no matter how much you tried to readjust into a comfortable position or try to work on your breathing to lull you into sleep. It was becoming more and more obvious to you that what you needed was another person to help you drift off. Whether it was with her scratching your [H/T] [H/C] hair or whispering small words of affirmation until you fell asleep, the fact was clear. Sleep would not come tonight unless Shinobu was with you.

You sigh as you remove the covers from your body, the chill air hitting you in an instant. You sit on the edge of the futon as you nibble on your lip. Your hands are scrunched up on your thighs, leaving small crescent patterns in their wake. You let out one small, shaky sigh. You knew Shinobu wasn’t like your mother, but it still just felt so nerve-racking. Knowing your girlfriend, she was most likely up late again working on another project of hers. She had her own personal study just down the hall from your shared bedroom.

A short walk was all it would take to get what you wanted. All you had to do was pop the question, and you were sure Shinobu would oblige. Though many times you asked your mother for something small, like a hug or the simple message that it was going to be okay, you were declined instantly. You continue to dig your nails into your [S/C] skin.

You release the grip of your nails on your skin and stand up. Maybe the sleepiness had made you bold, or maybe you were facing the fear of intimacy. Whatever it was, it was enough to make you travel outside of your bedroom and down the hall towards Shinobu’s study. For a moment, you just stand there, staring at the door knob. You command your arm to move so you can enter, but it’s of no use. The light is on; you know she’s in there, but your body lies still.

This is stupid. You think to yourself.

What kind of adult can’t sleep alone? You criticize.

I’d only be bothering her. You admit.

Despite these harsh words, you find yourself slowly opening the door. The confidence you once had is beginning to shrivel away. Your hands turn shaky, and you begin to sweat. You almost want to close the door and run back into the futon to hide under the covers, but you don’t. Twisting the knob ever so slightly with your trembling hands, you see Shinobu, her back turned to you, doing some paperwork at her desk. The chair is pushed to the side, and she is standing.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest and out of your ears. You’re surprised Shinobu doesn’t hear, with her being a Hashira and all. Maybe it was the habit you picked up in your early childhood— wanting to be completely silent as you wandered through the house so as not to upset your mother. Either way, you enter the study silently, and you are now standing behind her. A small part of you wishes to stay inside your comfort zone. Opting for the usual routine of you and Shinobu sharing a space with comfortable silence. But today you feel different, more bold, and more eager.

You find yourself walking behind her, slowly wrapping your hands around her waist, and plopping your chin on her shoulder. She tenses up for a moment, a bit startled, but relaxes when she realizes it’s you.

“Love?” She asks, her voice a little confused.

Normally you get tense when she calls you any sort of pet name, but today you feel yourself relaxing instead.

“Shino,” you start. Your mouth goes dry, and while you don’t mind her calling you a pet name, hearing it come out of your mouth is a different scenario. “Can…can you come back to bed, please?” You mumble.

Shinobu doesn’t respond; she’s a bit stunned for a moment, unused to your small display of intimacy.

“Shino?” You try again, your voice low.

This clears her senses, and she quickly forms a response.

“Ah, yes, [F/N]?” She quickly stutters out.

“I asked if you would go back to bed with me.” You repeat.

“Yes, of course, my dear.” Shinobu agrees; she prioritized her work heavily, but on this special occasion, she simply couldn’t refuse. “May I ask why, though? You’re usually so—”

You cut her off. “Stoic? I know,” you let out a dry chuckle. “I just,” you struggle to find words to represent how you feel. “It’s hard to sleep when you’re not there, and my late-night overthinking is the worst,” you confess.

You realize your hold on her waist, and you step back to let Shinobu readjust her posture. She turns to face you; her purple eyes tear into your [E/C] ones. You see her lean forward ever so slightly, but she stops herself. You know that she knows about your boundaries. You’re hyper-aware of them too. Although not comfortable for a full kiss just yet, you grab her hand. Despite her being a Demon Slayer, her hands are silky smooth.

You bring her hand to your mouth, placing a small kiss on one of her knuckles. It’s short, like all of your other kisses, but the air around this particular kiss feels different.

“I wish to cuddle with you..?” You phrase it as more of a question than a request. “And you don’t have to use my name either,” you add on. “I’m okay.. I’m comfortable with you using a pet name,” you reassure. This all feels dizzying to you.

Shinobu gives you one of her soft smiles, and she goes to take your hand. Not a small squeeze or a simple graze. This touch is lingering and comfortable.

“Of course, my dear,” she says, leading you back to your shared room.

Shinobu lets go of your hand to enter first; you follow after her and realize the air is no longer chilly. She kneels down in front of the futon and pats it, signaling you to come lie down. As you do, Shinobu moves to lay behind you. This time, it’s her who wraps one arm steadily around your waist, while the other comes up to toy with your [H/T] hair.

Your body relaxes, your muscles go limp, and you lean back into her smaller frame.

“Sorry for interrupting your work, ‘Nobu, it’s just today I felt like—“

This time, it’s Shinobu who cuts you off. “Shh,” she coos. “You’re not a bother; in fact, I’ve been waiting for you to get more affectionate.” You feel her warm breath against your neck as she speaks.

“You have?”

“Mhm,” she hums. “I concealed it, but in my study I was practically jumping for joy.”

“That was always your specialty, huh?” You snicker.

“My specialty is medical work,” Shinobu declares. “Speaking of.”

You can’t get a word in before two hands gently run along your shoulders.

“Did you know that massages help with sleep, love?” Shinobu says.

“I did not,” you reply.

Shinobu gently caresses your shoulders before moving down your back. Every now and then, there’s a small pop, and any pain you once had in your back dissipates. You also feel yourself growing drowsy. Eyelids turn heavy, and you can barely focus on the scary feeling of intimacy anymore. The only thing that is present is Shinobu giving you a massage while you flutter into a peaceful sleep.

[ak319]

I love Roxi 🩷🩷🩷 do you think she would be ok with a fem partner? Like, a partner with a more feminine style. The partner will still take care of her and baby her, buut they will do that while wearing dresses and makeup and stuff :)

Okay, so Roxi is someone who desires an honest partner who loves her and only her and is loyal to her and not her money. You could be her childhood best friend, a fellow model or her fiance. Let's look at each of them﹒♡

If you're her childhood friend, her family obviously trusts you, and Roxi trusts you with her life. It's kind of that classic "AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES!" scenario, to be honest. You went to the same school, and if you're rich, you probably lived in the same neighborhood (having sleepovers at her house, making you an honorary Moore because of how much time you spent there). If you're not rich, she still clings to you like a puppy, dragging you to the Moore estate every time you hang out.

You two were THAT DUO in high school, always glued to the hip--if one of you was absent, the other one was too and wearing colour-coded dresses almost every day. Whatever your hobbies are, like gaming, for example, Roxi made sure to set up a whole gaming room just for you. Makeup? You are getting gifted the best kits and she even teaches you the best techniques. You still braid each other's hair like you always did, at 3 a.m. during sleepovers when she even lets you cut it if you're being goofy and you're the only person she lets touch her hair. You both cook together, making a mess in the kitchen, but come on--it’s fun. It’s pretty obvious to everyone around you that you two are perfect for each other, and somehow, you finally muster the courage to confess to her, WHICH SHE'S BEEN WAITING FOR FOREVER! Now, you’re together! Passing her love notes in class just to see her blush has become your favourite thing to do. She even makes lunch for you, despite having a whole line of attendants at her disposal, and every time she feeds you, it only fuels that little voice inside your head that says, "WIFE HER UP!" But no, you need a job first--get a grip, (Y/n). You both still wear those matching bracelets and outfits and have your favourite café where you celebrate your anniversaries. Roxi used to hate it when people mistook you for her cousin or just a friend , but now, with a ring on her finger and her arms around yours, she proudly declares that YOU ARE HER WIFE!

If you’re her colleague, expect her to be your number one fan. She still remembers how nervous you were on your first day at the modeling agency, the day she met you and took you under her wing, guiding you around. From then on, she practically became your... manager? Your shoots? She has to know. Your makeup, hair and the outfit you’re wearing for the ramp? She has to know, because it has to be nothing short of the BEST.

She even argues with the staff or the designer to ensure you both do a duo walk or photoshoot. Later, she’ll be in bed watching edits of the two of you on repeat, squealing and giggling at the sheer energy you bring to the stage beside her. She makes some herself too. After all, she made sure her sweetheart looked P-E-R-F-E-C-T from head to toe. Your actual manager? Yeah, she’s in therapy because of Roxi now, and you don’t even know.

You both launched your own jewelry brand with signature couple bracelets, and of course, you debuted the collection on your anniversary because, why not? After all, she’s not only your mentor and best friend but also your girlfriend, and she deserves the best. You’re famous, partly thanks to her, and you thank her every single day.

If you’re her arranged fiancée, then girl, Roxi is beyond grateful to her dad for choosing YOU! She practically falls in love the moment you speak, like how smart and confident you are-- and when you both discover that you share the same love for brands and fashion? THE SAME ONES SHE LIKES?! It’s like fate!--aaaaand her father just had to interrupt by asking about your degree. SMH.

So, it’s settled that you’re the heir to your own family’s company, but then you find out that Altan isn’t so sure about Roxi being the heir to her family's business and wants you to take over--wait...maybe not.

"I WANT TO BE THE CEO TOO, DADDY!"

"Why? I thought you-"

"NO! If (Y/N) can do it, so can I! I want to impress her. Please, please! And she said she’ll help me too!"

Cue both of you strutting out of your shared mansion in chic pantsuits, looking like a power couple straight from a fashion spread, and as you drop her off at her office, a quick kiss on the cheek seals the deal before you head off to yours with a proud smile on your lips.

On weekends, she sits on your lap, engrossed in her book while you try to work, both of you sporting face masks. Despite sharing nearly all the same interests, there are still moments when you don’t see eye to eye.

Like when it comes to selecting a movie.

Or your new hair colour and style. Yeah, she threw a fit when you suggested a change, but of course, you always end up giving in to your baby in the end.

You lounged on the couch, a bowl of popcorn resting in your lap, Roxi scrolled through the streaming service, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Okay, I found it!” she declared, excitement bubbling in her voice. “We’re watching that new romantic thriller.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “No way. Last time we watched a thriller, I ended up with popcorn all over me because you screamed at every little twist. Remember?”

Roxi spun around, a faux look of innocence on her face. “I can’t help it if the suspense is too much for me! And you’re the one who decided to sit right next to me. I thought it would be comforting!”

“Comforting?” You raised an eyebrow. “You mean distracting while I tried to focus on the movie instead of your dramatic reactions?”

“Dramatic? I was just passionate!” she retorted, crossing her arms, a playful pout on her lips. “Besides, it’s not my fault you get all nervous and twitchy during the intense parts.”

“Oh please, you just want an excuse to snuggle up to me when things get too tense,” you teased, leaning back with a confident grin. “Admit it, you love using me as your personal pillow.”

She leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Maybe I do. But if I’m going to use you as a pillow, I expect some… perks.”

“Perks?” You chuckled, leaning in, your faces inches apart. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

Roxi smirked, the glimmer in her eyes igniting a spark of mischief. “How about you promise to give me a back massage after the movie? That way, I won’t feel bad about screeching every five minutes.”

You pretended to ponder her request, tilting your head thoughtfully. “Hmm, a back massage? That sounds like a fair trade. But what do I get in return for this act of selflessness?”

She leaned closer, her voice sultry as she whispered, “How about I let you pick the next movie we watch… and I’ll wear that cute little outfit you like?”

Your breath caught in your throat, the playful banter shifting to something undeniably charged. “Now you’re speaking my language. But you do realize that if I pick the next movie, it’ll probably be something completely ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous is fine, as long as I get my back massage afterward,” she replied, biting her lip, her playful gaze never leaving yours.

You grinned, feeling the electricity in the air. “Alright, deal. But if I hear one more scream tonight, you’re in charge of the popcorn cleanup!”

Roxi laughed, the sound warm and inviting. “Fine! But just remember, I might need extra motivation to keep my cool.”

You smirked, feeling the thrill of the moment. “Motivation, huh? Well, if you scream too much, I might have to find a more… persuasive way to keep you quiet.”

“Oh? Is that a challenge?” she teased, leaning back slightly, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Because you know I can handle a little thrill.”

“Bring it on, babe,” you said, your heart racing. “But just remember, I play to win.”

Roxi Moores HC

[nartml]

To Pimp a Butterfly and 1989: a rant

Listen here, three things about me are that I'm a) white as snow, b) Greek, c) still a minor.

What does this mean? It means that I obviously wasn't raised with hip-hop, and I got into Kendrick Lamar's music pretty late.

As in, early this year.

I've known of him for some time, and the moment I found out he had a Pulitzer prize at some point in late-ish 2023, I decided I had to sit my ass down and pull out Spotify.

Now, as an avid reader of both fanfiction (ao3 raised me) and books [I feel the immense need to clarify that I don't associate myself with mainstream booktok. Capitalism's consumerism has overrun that shit and all I see are the same 20 books being recycled and recommended (a substantial amount of those are Colleen Hoover and her variants). Tropes and spice* are officially the defining factors of whether a book is worth it (*your porn addiction ain't cute) and quantity is heavily prioritized at the expense of quality. Also, diversity who?], I was, for a lack of a better word, hyped.

A Pulitzer prize is nothing to scoff at in general, more so in music, more so in hip-hop.

(Edit: Upon quick reflection, I realize that putting emphasis on hip-hop can come across as coded.

I am in no way, shape, or form trying to undermine hip-hop or say that it's somehow less 'sophisticated' than, for example, classical music. I'm very aware of the amount of skill and technique one needs to write a masterful hip-hop album, and I'm not doubting that there are hip-hop artists out there who are also incredibly deserving of such a prize. I meant it in the sense that I've unfortunately never heard of another hip-hop artist who won a Pulitzer before, which is quite telling.)

That's some huge shit, and I'd be a fool not to be intrigued.

Admittedly, I didn't get on that immediately. For a while I procrastinated, because I wasn't in the mood to hyper-fixate on anything new just yet.

Which of course meant I ended up forgetting about it for a few months, because of course I did.

But then I came across a TikTok that talked about how it was insane that '1989' won the Grammy when To Pimp a Butterfly was right there.

Now, a fourth thing about me is that I don't fuck with Taylor Swift.

And a fifth thing about me is that I'm not baseless in anything that I do, say or feel, and that includes annoyance.

Her immature understanding of activism and feminism leaves a bad taste in my mouth. The way she built up her fan base around this portrayal of her as a relatable girl's girl, her refusal to accept criticism, and always making a victim out of herself (even now when she's in her thirties and is a fucking billionaire) while never using her position of power and privilege for good are all reasons that serve to fuel my dispassionate dislike.

And before any Swifties get on my ass, no, I don't think that "But she's a singer! Why are you expecting so much out of her, she isn't even qualified to speak on XYZ—" is a good enough excuse.

She has always been rich, and now she's a billionaire. There are no ethical billionaires, and that includes her.

Fame is influence is power. Uncle Ben said it all: With great power comes great responsibility.

And let me tell you, I don't see her owning up to that responsibility, especially after all that talk about how she supports women, supports the LGBTQ community, and supports the BLM movement. Has she ever actually put her abundant money where her mouth is?

I've never seen her speak about anything that doesn't immediately concern her.

Don't get me wrong. She's not the only celebrity like this out there. I'm sure there are worse cases. I know it for a fact.

To wrap this segment up before I get even more sidetracked, I'll outright state that I don't hate her, because hating her would by definition mean that I, in some way, actually care about her, and that just sounds exhausting.

Best way to describe me is indifferent, leaning towards distasteful.

She's annoying.

And that's how I feel about both her as a person and her as an artist.

I'm not denying her talent, nor her impact on the industry, nor the fact that she does have good songs that even I like.

A select few, of course, but still.

Apart from those...what? Ten songs? I have never, ever been able to listen to any other song of her's all the way through.

I get bored. They do nothing for me. They sound empty. Hollow. Plastic. Repetitive.

Her lyrics, that are praised by fans for being deep and complex, sound pretty surface level to me.

Not all of them. But I'm a sucker for analysis. A literature nerd. Greek is my native language. I can tell when something's deep and when something wants to be deep.

(Not necessarily including Folklore and Evermore in that category. Her storytelling ability is actually great.)

Her music largely sounds like it wants to be deep.

Most recent example being her latest release, The Tortured Poets Department.

Anyway, back to Kendrick.

My initial plan was to listen to 'DAMN.' first, because that's what he won the Pulitzer for in the first place.

There was a change of plans after that TikTok.

I decided to compare the opening tacks.

I put on Welcome to New York, and predictably, I felt nothing.

The rhythm is dance-y, I suppose. But there's nothing substantial about it. There's nothing exciting about it.

The lyrics are juvenile, and I get it, it's a pop song and she was in her twenties.

Nobody is expecting Shakespeare (no matter how much you scream or kick your feet, the only reason Shakespeare couldn't write Taylor Swift is because he's in another league entirely) or Odysseus Elytis. Nobody is expecting mind-blowing lyricism.

But it's the opening track to an apparently Grammy-worthy album. The very least I'd expect from it would be some additional levels of artistry.

Am I being harsh? Probably. Do I care? No.

Disappointed but unsurprised, I put on Wesley's Theory.

I ascended within the first minute.

Don't get it twisted, I barely understood shit.

Not only am I white, I am also entirely removed from America and its culture as a whole. I don't know what's going on there in y'all's daily lives.

And this was baby's first proper introduction to hip-hop as a whole.

My untrained, white-ass ear barely caught two references. I got what the gist of the song was about, and that's about it.

I had to look up analyses of the track to fully grasp what Kendrick was on about, and even then, there was obviously still a disconnect.

And I expected all of that.

I didn't expect to get hooked on that song within the first listen.

I swear to fuck, the beat is addictive. I swear to fuck, even when I was fighting to understand what the lyrics were referencing, I was having the time of my life.

Even I, an amateur in every sense of the word, could tell that there was depth and there was quality and there was intentional meaning in every line of that song.

It didn't matter that I couldn't understand it. It mattered that I knew it was there. Not because someone told me that was the case. But because it was audible.

I listened to the next track. And the one after that. And the one after that. I had listened to all of the tracks, before I knew it.

And the evident permeance of quality, of substance, carried on throughout the whole album.

It had exactly the type of lyricism I'd expect a Grammy-worthy album to have. It had exactly the amount of artistry I expected a Grammy-worthy album to have.

Even better, it had all the ingredients I expected a timeless album to have.

The poetry Taylor Swift fans insist hides in her discography, I found in plain sight within Kendrick Lamar's.

After meticulously reading the lyrics, I watched video essay after video essay, searched for analysis after analysis on this album, each time understanding the meanings behind it a little better.

Needless to say that the Grammy's are rigged and I love Kendrick Lamar.

Hip-hop is gorgeous.

[stuckinmoilalaland]

Gojo x Hindu!Wife!Reader Arranged Marriage

Note: Cold Gojo.

You, a 25 year old Hindu woman, and Satoru were in an arranged marriage since 2 years. He's always cheerful, except when you're around of course. It's clear to everyone that you're not welcome into his life at all. This is why you aren't accepted into Satoru's friend group. Although, the students love you like you're their mother. They're always used to seeing your smile, which is fake of course. You are a very good teacher at Jujutsu high, and our curse technique is being able to bend the laws of physics. You were heading back from your missions at 11:00 PM, like normal, but something was different. You were hit by the cursed technique of the curse you exorcised. You somehow got into the house, but you were bleeding a lot. Satoru was sitting on the couch and chilling, he turned his attention to you, as his eyes widened, he rushed towards you and scooped you up in bridal style. Without a word, he took you to his bedroom and took out the first aid kit. He treated your wounds, and then let you rest in his bed because you fainted. 2 hours later, you finally wake up. Satoru is sitting at the edge of the bed with his head down low, you can hear him sniffling and sobbing...

You: Satoru?

You say as you sit up on bed. Satoru rushes to you, revealing his teary face. He jumps onto the bed and then hugs you tight. You blink for a moment with your eyes widened, but you calm down and hug Satoru back while smiling. Satoru cries onto your breast and hugs you tighter, while you caress his head. It looks like almost losing you taught him your importance...

You: Shhhhhh... It's okay........

You say while comforting Satoru and caressing his head. Satoru says in his breaking voice...

Satoru: Y-y/n..... I'm so s-sorry-y...... I-i should have l-loved yo-ou m-more and understood-d your-r importance-e.... I-i-

Before he can speak more, he bursts out into tears again. After a few hours, he finally calms down. Right now, he is hugging you with his face buried into your breast. You kiss his soft head and say...

You: Now now, stop crying my sukh(Note for reader: Sukh means happiness).

Satoru: W-wh-hat does Sukh mean?

You smile and reply...

You: Happiness in Sanskrit.

Satoru hugs you even tighter and says...

Satoru: E-even after I never l-loved you or c-cared for you, you still call me your h-happiness, why-y?

You: It's because of my dharma. Think of dharma as the code of conduct in Hinduism. Just because somebody considers me their enemy, doesn't mean I do the same thing. If someone does something wrong, I shouldn't repeat that same thing because it's wrong.

Satoru: I'm sorry....... I don't deserve you to be my wife. You're way too good for me.......

You peck him on the forehead and say...

You: I love you Satoru, and don't worry, everyone deserves a second chance. Also, you've proved that you deserve a second chance because you took care of me, forgetting all your hate the moment I needed you. I appreciate it.

**Should I continue this?**

[picknmixsims]

Repricing / Recategorizing Maxis items with Object Relocator

Object Relocator can be used to reprice/recategorize Maxis objects by creating "override packages".

1) Start Object Relocator.  If using V5.3 or later, from the Mode menu make sure Advanced is ticked.

2) From the "Options" menu, ensure "Hide Local Objects" is ticked.

3) From the "Mode" menu, ensure "Make Replacements" is ticked.

4) Press the F2 key to make sure "Buy Mode" is selected.

5) From the "File" menu's "Select Folder..." item, navigate into the TSData sub-directory for your latest installed EP, for “Ultimate Collection” this will be "...\Fun with Pets\SP9\TSData".

6) Navigate further into the "Res\Objects" sub-directory and click the "Select Folder" button, Object Relocator will pause as it loads all the Maxis items. (Note: Object Relocator assumes it is loading many files containing only a few objects each so its progress bar is based on the number of files processed.  In this case it is loading in excess of 11,000 objects from a single file, so the progress bar appears to halt!)

7) Select the item(s) you want to edit and make the required changes.

Don’t forget that to make a price change “stick”, you MUST press Return/Enter after editing the value.

8) Click the "Save As..." button, navigate into the sub-directory you wish to save the override package into, enter a file name and click the "Save" button.

9) Exit Object Relocator, start the game and check your edits.

10) In SimPe you can check that a single OBJD resource override has been created.

I recommend that you put all such override packages into a sub-directory with a meaningful name, as that way if/when you run HCDU Plus, messages about GUID conflicts will not come as a surprise!

[landofanimes]

CLAMP Exhibition (2024)

July 3 - September 23, 2024 in Tokyo

The biggest CLAMP exhibition to date, the event showcases the original artwork from 23 works made by the group of four women, from RG Veda to Card Captor Sakura: Clear Card (technically 22 but they're counting Legal Drug and Drug and Drop separetely).

Over the years CLAMP has published a variety of manga, including those for boys (shounen), girls (shoujo) and young men (seinen), depending on the magazine they were published. Appealing to readers of all ages, genders and countries, their work continues to captivate.

The exhibition will feature a total of 800 original manuscripts (200 in color, 600 black and white), divided in 7 areas: Color, Love, Adventure, Magic, Phrase, plus Imagination and Dream.

C for COLOR. CLAMP colors the world.

Displaying a total of 200 original colored pieces from all 23 works (100 for each half of the exhibition).

This area showcases the variety of artstyles, techniques and tools CLAMP used over the years on their different manga. Includes pieces with colored ink, Copic markers, acrylic gouache, pastels, and digital art.

Even when publishing 2 different works at the same time the group likes to vary their tools: RG Veda (1989-96) was colored with ink and airbrushes, while Tokyo Babylon (1990-93) was colored with screen tones. The artstyle also changed depending on the publisher.

2. L for LOVE. CLAMP draws the forms of love.

The artwork in this area are divided in 8 types of love seen throught CLAMP's manga.

"The love depicted by Clamp is not singular—there is a straightforward love towards a significant other, but it can also be a determination to protect loved ones, a thought character keeps in their hearts, or even the conflict itself." (from tokyoartbeat article)

3. A for ADVENTURE. CLAMP weaves the stories of adventure.

350 manuscripts from 6 action-packed manga series: RG Veda, Tokyo Babylon, X/1999, Magic Knight Rayearth, Cardcaptor Sakura, and Tsubasa: RESERVoir CHRoNiCLE.

Includes a synopsis of each work and selected scenes to follow along parts of the story.

4. M for MAGIC. CLAMP casts its magic.

The fantasy, magic, and mysterious powers seen in CLAMP works are seen in the moving manga pannels projected in 3 large screens in this area.

5. P for Phrase. CLAMP spins the phrases.

The first room showcases 40 manuscripts from xxxHolic.

The second room focuses on the power of words spun by CLAMP, exhibiting quotes form their works on the walls. Visitors can also pull one phrase sticker from the Phrase Box from CLAMP and take it home, or stick it to a wall in the room. There are 120 different phrases to pull.

6. IMAGINATION

Timeline of 35 years of creative work, from 1989 to 2024, featuring manga volumes, magazine issues, and more.

An installation in the center of the room also features quotes from a new interview with the four women specially for this event.

This is also the only area which features CLAMP's work in other media, including various collaborations. There is a selection of color illustrations, rough design drafts, and other artworks from Soryuden: Super Dragon Brothers, CODE GEASS, BLOOD-C, HiGH＆LOW g-sword, Cardfight!! Vanguard, GIFT (picture book by Ice skater Yuzuru Hanyu), The Grimm Variations, and HELLO KITTY.

7. DREAM

The last area is solely to exhibit a new illustration featuring Ashura (RG Veda) and Sakura Kinomoto (Card Captor Sakura: Clear Card), representing CLAMP's beginnings and future through their first and latest work.

"Kuro" (Black) and "Shiro" (White) are also the names of the new artbooks titled COLOR, which compile the artworks seen in the exhibition. A deluxe edition will be released at a later date compiling both volumes in one.

............................................

The audio guide during the exhibition is provided by Jun Fukuyama, who has played Kimihiro Watanuki in the anime series xxxHOLiC, Kobayashi Kotaro in ANGELIC LAYER, and Lelouch Lamperouge in Code Geass: Lelouch of the Rebellion (CLAMP is responsible for character design in Code Geass) .

The place also features a store with a long list of products.

They also have the first volume of their various manga available to read, and a TV showcases the recently shared announcement video of the new anime project of Magic Knight Rayearth.

CLAMP Exhibition National Art Center in Roppongi, Tokyo First Half: Wednesday, July 3 - Monday, August 12 Second Half: Wednesday, August 14 - Monday, September 23

Sources:

Tokyo Art Beat

Fashion Press

Bijutsutecho (+)

Natalie Mu

Internet Museum

Official Clamp_ex Twitter

[yyh4ever]

Yu Yu Hakusho WEBKUJI Volume 11

~capture a moment~

The 11th Yu Yu Hakusho Web Lottery has been announced! The boys are sexy and gorgeous.

Official Site: WEBKUJI

Lottery type: BOX type

Sales period: April 27 to June 11, 2024

Shipping: mid to late August 2024

Price: 750 yen/ticket

Prizes:

Prize A: BIG die-cut Cushion

Size: H300mm x W700mm

Material: Suede, filling

Prize B: BIG Acrylic Stands (7 types)

Size: Maximum height 235mm (depending on the chara)

Material: Acrylic (3mm thick)

Price C: Tumblers (6 types)

Size: H135mm x φ85mm

Material: PP

Prize D: Lid Mascots (14 types)

A revival item using illustrations from past WEB lotteries! You can put it on the lid of a plastic bottle!

Acrylic size: H70mm x W50 / Cap size: H16.7mm x φ34

Body material: Acrylic (3mm thick) / Cap part: PE

Prize E: A4 Art Board (8 types)

The English quotes are really cool!

Size: H297mm x W210mm (A4)

Material: Cardboard (interleaving paper)

Prize F: Large Can Badges (7 types)

Size: φ76mm

Material: Tinplate

Benefits:

Last Win: Life-size Tapestries (7 types, available only online)

If you draw all the tickets in the box, you will receive a tapestry! You can choose your favorite character from a total of 7 types.

Size: H1880mm x W700mm

Material: Polyester (suede)

Last Win: Younger Toguro Cushion (available only at stores)

If you draw all the tickets in the box, you will receive a Younger Toguro die-cut cushion!

The back of Younger Toguro's cushion comes with his famous quote: "Pure strength beyond technique - that's power!! ".

Gift Campaign: Photo Chance

Those who get the in-store limited "last win prize" (Younger Toguro Cushion) can enter the campaign to win an Elder Toguro die-cut cushion. 10 people will be randomly selected from among the customers.

To participate, you need to follow the WEBKUJI X account and post a photo of the Younger Toguro Cushion with the hashtags: #幽遊白書 and #WEBくじ_フォトチャン

The back of Elder Toguro's cushion comes with his famous quote: "I often break my promises".

Purchase Bonus: Postcard (7 types)

You will receive a random postcard for every 5 items purchased per transaction!

Size: H148mm x W100mm

Material: Paper

One more Chance: Acrylic Panel

10 people will be randomly selected from among the customers who purchased lottery tickets to receive an acrylic panel as a gift! Those who purchased the tickets at the store can apply using the serial code on the lottery ticket stub.

Size: H150mm x W235mm

Material: Acrylic (3mm thick), metal (foot parts)

[paganimagevault]

Scythian mummy tomb (Fifth Pazyryk Kurgan), Pazyryk culture 3rd C. BCE. More pictures on my blog, link at bottom.

"The pair were buried alongside nine horses, a huge cache of cannabis and a stash of priceless treasures - including the world's oldest carpet and an ornate carriage.

The man had curly hair and was aged between 55 and 60 when he died, whilst the woman was about ten years younger.

It is believed he was a chieftain or king of the Pazyryk civilisation, which lived in Kazakhstan, Siberia and Mongolia from the 6th to 3rd centuries BC."

...

"The attractive log cabin was a prefabricated construction by the prehistoric Pazyryk culture to house an elite tomb - in which was buried a mummified curly-haired potentate and his younger wife or concubine.

The mound in the Altai Mountains was originally 42 metres in diameter, and this tattooed couple went to the next life alongside nine geldings, saddled and harnessed.

The house itself, recently reconstructed, was not built as a dwelling but nevertheless is seen by archeologists as showing the style of domestic architecture more than two millennia ago.

This structure was the outer of two wooden houses in the large burial mound in the valley of the River Bolshoy Ulagan at an altitude of around 1,600 metres above sea level.

The core of the mound including the ice-preserved bodies of the elite couple had been excavated by Soviet archeologists in 1949, and many of the finds are on on display in the world famous State Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg.

As we have previously written, the pair - who owned perhaps the world’s oldest carpets - are currently undergoing an ultra modern medical scan to establish the cause of death, and reconstruct the appearance of the ancient pair, and to study the techniques of mummification in more detail.

Yet in 1949 this fascinating house was left in the permafrost ground - and only retrieved now from the so-called Fifth Pazyryk Barrow, to the excitement of archeologists.

Head of the excavation Dr Nikita Konstantinov from Gorno-Altaisk State University, was full of admiration about the skills of the ancient craftsmen.

‘We took out the log house and reassembled it right next to the mound,’ he said.

‘We made kind of express reconstruction, which made it possible to study the log house in detail.

‘Notches were made on each of its logs - building marks…’.

This was like IKEA instructions today for building their products, telling modern day excavation volunteers how to correctly construct the prehistoric building kit.

The result is seen in the pictures shown here.

‘This log house was first built somewhere away from the mound, then it was dismantled, brought and reassembled in the pit,’ said Dr Konstantinov.

‘Today we build in similar way, using Roman numerals, as a rule.

‘In those times they simply made different numbers of notches.’

The archeological team followed the code left by the ancient craftsmen and reassembled the house without problems.

‘The Pazyryks knitted the corners of the building in a masterly way and chopped the attachment points of these logs.

‘They fitted very cleanly….

‘When we built the log house and began to measure the height, it turned out that the height difference in the angles is only one centimetre.’

In modern constructions, a difference of 7 cm is allowed which showed how skilful were the ancient craftsmen.

He said: ‘This is a funerary structure, but we can say with a high degree of probability that the log cabin was created in the image and likeness of the houses in which the Pazyryks lived."

-taken from siberiantimes and thesun