#Just data. Information. We get streams of it

[nanamineedstherapy]

Why yo JJK Daddy won't fuck you in his domain

or

Questions We Were Too Afraid to Ask About Gojo's Domain Mid-Fiuck

Q.) Would a normal human suffocate in Gojo’s Infinite Void? Is it a slow death by asphyxiation, or something worse?

Ans.) Okay, picture this: you’re trapped in a space where time, reality, and the very fabric of your sanity start glitching out like a Windows XP error screen. Now ask yourself—would you be thinking about oxygen, or would your brain already be deep-fried beyond recognition? Let’s break it down:

Instant Incapacitation: The moment Infinite Void activates, your brain is force-fed an infinite stream of information. It’s like trying to read every Wikipedia article at once while someone screams quantum physics into your ear. You don’t even get the chance to feel yourself suffocate—because you’re already mentally done before your lungs even remember they exist.

Infinity’s Environmental Control: Gojo controls space at an atomic level, right? If he can stop physical objects but still let oxygen in when fighting, then he’s probably not sealing his Domain like a vacuum chamber. Your lungs might be fine, but your brain? Completely bricked.

Domain Mechanics: Domains are spiritual barriers, not physical ones. While they trap targets, they don’t inherently cut off external airflow unless the user explicitly designs them to (e.g., a water-based Domain). Gojo’s focus is on information overload, not environmental sabotage.

Verdict: You’re not suffocating. You’re getting an eternal brain freeze while Gojo stands there looking pretty. If death had a blue screen of death, this would be it.

TDLR: You die, but not from lack of air. You die because your brain is sent to the fifth dimension against its will long before suffocating can become an issue.

Q.) What if he's like having sexy times with his wife and he like you know…. arrives at the station and accidently activates it then would she suffocate????

Ans.) Picture the surreal horror of an intimate moment shattered by cosmic miscalculation. Even in this absurd scenario, suffocation remains unlikely. Here’s why:

Activation Demands Total Focus: Gojo’s Infinite Void requires hand signs and chanting. If he’s “arriving at the station” mid-sexy-time, his brain is probably focused on… other priorities. Domain Expansions demand intense concentration—hard to pull off when you’re, uh, distracted. Or, Infinite Void isn’t a button you can hit by accident. It requires precise hand signs and an unwavering focus—a mental state that’s nearly impossible to maintain when you're caught in a passionate embrace. Your mind is split between desire and duty, and the latter simply can’t be achieved halfway. Or, Infinite Void isn’t a sneeze; it’s a full-on hand-sign-chanting-mind-focus event. If he’s “arriving at the station,” his brain is, let’s just say… preoccupied. And last I checked, you need at least some mental bandwidth to activate a Domain Expansion.

Even If It Happens (Somehow, Someway)-Infinity’s Autopilot: Even if he somehow activated it, his Limitless technique subconsciously filters threats. Air molecules = allowed. Suffocation = blocked. The Domain’s true purpose is to flood the target’s consciousness with overwhelming data, not to create a suffocating prison. His wife would still get oxygen—just also get a front-row seat to the cosmos screaming into her brain. Or, Gojo’s Infinity is basically his body's automatic firewall. If it filters poison gas, it sure as hell filters air molecules. His wife isn’t suffocating—she’s just getting front-row seats to cosmic horror at 4K resolution. Imagine mid-sex and suddenly, BAM—the entire universe starts whispering forbidden knowledge into your skull.

The Real Danger-Instant Neural Shutdown: Instead of a slow demise by lack of air, the person caught in the void would experience a rapid collapse of their mental faculties. Imagine an instantaneous, existential blue-screen of death—where your brain is the system crashing, not your lungs giving out. Or, she wouldn’t be gasping for air. She’d be locked in place, her mind thrown into a spiraling existential meltdown while Gojo panics, like, “Oh shit, wrong expansion—”

Gojo Would Shut That Shit Down IMMEDIATELY: Domains burn a ton of energy—he’d collapse it within seconds, realizing his mistake (and probably screaming in horror). Then he’d spend the next 72 hours groveling with limited-edition crepes and emergency foot rubs.

Verdict: So, while the headcanon is as wild as it is darkly humorous, the outcome isn’t a suffocation scenario. It’s a catastrophic, instantaneous mental overload—a cosmic “oops” that leaves you with nothing but a shattered psyche. So just trauma and a very awkward conversation with Shoko later.

TDLR: You know how you need to focus to get the optimal velocity in bed? It’s the same for him. He’s either focusing on the sex or the Domain—he can’t do both. (I know all men do is lie. SMH. Men right.)

And for this reason alone, NONE of your JJK Dads/Moms are fucking you in their Domains.

…Except maybe Takaba. But only if you’re funny enough. And even then, you’ll never know if he’s laughing with you or at you.

PS: These deductions are based on watching everything way too closely. If you disagree, let’s argue—after all, the void is infinite, and so are our headcanons.

Double PS, read comments. There's more deep discussion going on.

[pucksandpower]

okeyyyy!

but we need a Grid Kids that maybe y/n and seb were in an car accidente (and y/n took the worst of it) and now the roles are reversed, now they are gonna take care of them

Loving this series so much

Grid Kids: UNO Reverse Card

Sebastian Vettel x wife!Reader x platonic!drivers

Summary: the roles are reversed when disaster strikes and your grid kids make it their duty to take care of you

Series Masterlist

The rain is pouring down and the paddock is filled with the usual organized chaos accompanying a wet race. The garages are lively with the sounds of mechanics tuning engines, engineers going over data, and drivers preparing for the race.

Suddenly, a deafening silence descends as a member of the Aston Martin team rushes in, face pale and voice shaking, “There’s been an accident. It’s Sebastian and Y/N.”

The news spreads like wildfire. The paddock, usually filled with the roars of engines and excited chatter, is now eerily quiet. Your grid kids, upon hearing the news, rush to find out more details, their faces masks of concern.

A shaky video from a fan’s phone plays on loop on their screens, showing the aftermath of a devastating collision. Your car is almost unrecognizable, crushed, with the driver’s side visibly less damaged.

George, having seen the video, collapses onto a nearby chair, tears streaming down his face. “This can’t be happening,” he whispers.

Lando, usually the life of the party, stands frozen, disbelief evident in his eyes. Mick, face ashen, tries to make calls to get more information while Lance rushes to find his father to find out if the team has heard anything more.

***

Soon, details emerge that you bore the brunt of the impact and your condition is critical while Sebastian, though injured, is stable. The helicopter is already airlifting you to the nearest hospital.

As the severity of the situation sinks in, your grid kids, in an unprecedented move, gather together for an emergency meeting. The weight of the decision is clear in their eyes.

After what feels like an eternity, Charles stands up, his voice firm yet choked with emotion, “We’re pulling out. We can’t race knowing Y/N is fighting for her life. We need to be there for her, just like she’s always been there for us.”

The decision is unanimous. One by one, they all agree. Telling their teams and the FIA descends the paddock into even more chaos.

***

The hospital waiting room is filled with a mix of team colors. Red from Ferrari, orange from McLaren, deep blue from Red Bull, green from Aston Martin, white from Haas, and black from Mercedes. The fierce rivalry that usually defines race weekends is nowhere to be seen. Instead, they’re united in their concern for you.

Sebastian, despite his injuries, is by your bedside, holding your hand, praying silently for a miracle.

As the hours drag on, the grid kids take turns sitting by your side, sharing stories, hoping their voices provide some comfort, even in your unconscious state.

Mick, teary-eyed, recalls, “Remember when I missed my dad? You were there for me.”

Lando adds, “And when I just wanted milk? You welcomed me like family.”

Charles, voice filled with emotion, says, “We’re here now, for you, just like you’ve always been for us.”

***

As night turns into dawn, there’s a shift. Your vitals start stabilizing and the worst seems to be over. The relief is palpable as the somber mood hanging over your family fades away.

Sebastian, tears of gratitude in his eyes, thanks each one of them. “She’s strong, and with all of you here, I knew she’d find a way to fight through.”

***

A week has passed since the accident and you’re now firmly in the recovery phase. The room is overflowing with flowers, cards, and quirky gifts — each one a symbol of just how much you mean to the racing community.

As you slowly regain consciousness, groggy from the medication, the first thing you spot is a balloon, bobbing near the ceiling, with the words “Speedy Recovery!” It has a little caricature of you in a race car with your cat (in a tiny sweater) on your shoulder. Another one reads, “Get back on track soon!”

Mick enters the room with a tray, “Look who’s awake! I made you my special recovery smoothie. Okay, it’s mostly chocolate ... but it’s the thought that counts.”

Charles follows, holding a peculiar-looking teddy bear dressed in a racing suit. “Meet Racy. He’s going to keep you company. We tried to smuggle Speedy in under our hoodies but got caught so this is the next best thing.”

Lando waltzes in, proudly holding up a t-shirt with “I survived a car crash and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” printed on it.

Max pops his head around the door, holding a full-sized F1 helmet, “You better wear this the next time you get in a car.”

George, with his trademark smile, presents a plush safety car. “To keep you safe and sound, always.”

Lance, trying to contain his grin, brings in a steering wheel cushion. “For those moments when you feel the need to take control of your recovery.”

You can’t help but chuckle at their antics. “You guys ... always know how to lighten the mood.”

Sebastian, holding your hand, grins, “They’ve been brainstorming ways to cheer you up nonstop for days now.”

***

Determined to keep things positive, your grid kids rally together for a surprise. As the evening descends, they transform your room into a mini-movie theater. They even managed to sneak in a projector.

The movie choice? “Cars” of course.

Lance, armed with a bucket of popcorn, declares, “I mean, if we can’t race real cars today, might as well watch animated ones!”

Mick dims the lights and George hits play. As the familiar sounds of the movie fill the room, everyone settles in ready for a night of laughter.

***

It doesn’t take long for the grid kids to turn the movie night into their own commentary session.

As Lightning McQueen races across the screen, Max quips, “I think I could’ve taken that turn better.”

Lando, laughing, chimes in, “And Mater reminds me of Charles after a few too many energy drinks.”

Charles feigns outrage, “That’s unfair! I’m at least 10 percent more sophisticated than Mater.”

You, through bouts of laughter, shake your head, “Honestly, I can’t decide what's better, the movie or your commentary? You guys might have a future on a broadcast somewhere if this whole racing thing doesn’t work out.”

As the credits roll, Sebastian whispers, “This is exactly the medicine you needed.”

Your grid kids truly make the day memorable, proving that through thick and thin, family — in whatever form it may take — is everything.

***

The sun is high and the paddock is buzzing with energy as preparations for the upcoming race are in full swing. As you and Sebastian approach, there’s a sudden almost comedic halt in activity. It’s as if someone hit the pause button on a remote. Everyone turns to face you, jaws dropped.

Lance feigns fainting, “Is it a mirage? Or has our beloved Y/N truly graced us with her presence?”

Max approaches with an exaggerated limp, mimicking you, “Thought I’d get into the spirit of things,” he says with a smirk.

George emerges from the crowd holding a makeshift red carpet (it’s just a red towel he stole from Ferrari), rolling it out in front of you. “For our returning queen,” he declares with a bow.

Charles and Lando appear, each holding one end of a “Welcome Back” banner. You try to turn your head to read it … they accidentally held it upside down.

You’re trying hard to hold back tears of laughter. “You guys are impossible,” you manage to say between your chuckles.

Mick, with a gentle smile, approaches holding a small framed photo. It’s of you surrounded by all your grid kids, taken during a race earlier in the season, with the inscription “Family, Always.”

Touched by the gesture, you softly say, “Thank you so much, Mick. This means a lot.”

“You’ve always been there for us,” he replies. “It’s only right that we’re here for you.”

Sebastian, wrapping an arm around you, adds with a grin, “I think they missed you.”

You really loved your grid kids.

[leapingbadger]

Tattoo

Read on AO3

***

“Does it hurt” Omega asked, hovering over her brother.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Hunter replied, eyes closed. The buzzing made his brain feel like it was vibrating but there was no pain to speak of. He’d had much worse in battle.

“Like you’d say if it did,” Crosshair said witheringly. “You didn’t even complain when you got that shrapnel in the neck, remember?” He was bent over Hunter’s chest, scraping at the skin with the tattoo gun and aggressively wiping away the blood and excess ink.

Omega gasped, “you got shrapnel in your neck?” she asked Hunter, alarmed.

“Omega doesn’t know that story?” Crosshair said, a toothpick hanging out of the corner of his mouth absentmindedly.

“We didn’t tell her all of them yet. We were kind of preoccupied,”

“But yeah,” he said, turning to Omega. “I had to leave it in until we could get back to base.” He said, moving his hair with his left hand so she could see the slit-like scar on the back of his neck. Omega shook her head at him, sat back down, cross legged on the floor, elbows on her knees, chin in her hand.

“I remember that. Made me feel sick,” Wrecker said. He was next to Omega, scratching Batcher behind the ear. Her collar jingled and her tongue dangled out of the side of her mouth.

Hunter chuckled. The sun was streaming through the window of the small common room.

“What about Skako Minor?” Crosshair asked.

“Are you kidding,” Wrecker said, “that was her bedtime story for a while. Tech and Echo loved telling her that one,” Omega nodded in agreement.

Hunter was stretched out on the couch, arms behind his head. It had been a while since he’d gotten a new tattoo.

He had paid a professional to get his face tattoo and the skeletal outline on the left side of his body, but the others had been done by his brothers. The skull with a 99 in aurebesh on his right bicep was done by Crosshair on a particularly stormy day on Kamino when the ocean looked like it might come through the window of their room.

Tech had inked the Mando’a for brother, ‘Vod’, while scrolling his datapad. Hunter had watched nervously as he waived the gun around wildly while info dumping to the rest of them.

Wrecker hated needles and had a hard enough time being in the room while the tattoo was being done but he had inked a small aurebesh number four just so Hunter could complete the set.

The most recent one he got, before now, was a small Omega symbol on his wrist. He’d gotten it in a dingy underground parlor during a particularly tricky mission while looking for intel on the Pikes. He told Wrecker it was the only way to get the information they needed but he also needed a reminder of what he was fighting for. It was by far his favorite, although he’d never told anyone else that.

The new one, the one Crosshair was painstakingly scratching into his skin on the right side of his chest, was a familiar skull with lightning bolt behind it. Tech had designed it in their cadet days. He drew it everywhere; it was repeated on the back wall of his bunk on Kamino.  He had scratched it into the side of his data pad and carefully painted it onto his customized helmet for their first mission.

Hunter was sure Tech would call him sentimental, or at least think it. But it was a way for him to keep his fallen brother close. It would be a reminder every time he got dressed in the morning.  A reminder of what this life on Pabu had cost.

“Did you tell her about windsurfing on the Keeradaks on Skako?” Crosshair asked Hunter, throwing an amused look at Omega.

Hunter laughed, “I’d forgotten about that,” he said.

“Tech didn’t, he was cursing the entire trip to retrieve you,”

“Really?” Hunter said, surprised.

Wrecker laughed, “yeah, said you’d dropped your only braincell during that trip.

They all laughed, that kind of laughter that filled a room. It was boisterous, childish laughter, the kind that only siblings could share. Except, there was one missing. The realization seemed to hit them all at once and the joy was sucked out of the air.

Crosshair finished up the last section of the lightning bolt. He pulled back, cocking his head to the side to take in his work. Hunter looked down. The lines weren’t as straight as they could have been. Crosshair was still getting used to his prosthetic hand, but his painting had come such a long way that Hunter thought his brother was ready to get back to his first love. He had loved tattooing so much he’d even help the Regs out on occasion when they were on Kamino. It had taken some convincing but after a few weeks of Hunter’s unwavering confidence in his abilities, it finally seemed to take hold.

As he checked his new ink out in the mirror, Hunter noticed a slight tremor in Crosshair’s prosthetic hand. He narrowed his eyes in concern but said nothing.

“Omega said you went to Kashyyyk,” he said quietly.

Hunter traded looks with Wrecker who was now bench pressing Gonky in the corner. Omega looked at Hunter in concern.

“Ah, yeah. We did. Found a young Wookie. A jedi, actually…we…ah…took him home.”

“I always liked Kashyyyk,” Crosshair said, looking at anywhere but directly at Hunter. “It was our first mission.”

“Yeah,” Hunter said, sitting on the couch closer to his brother and resting his hand on his shoulder. “We’ll go back again, someday.” He added reassuringly. He had expected Crosshair to shrug off his hand like he often did. He wasn’t one for sentimentality, at least, he didn’t used to be. But they sat there for a few moments in silence.

“I missed a lot.” Crosshair said, his voice low and gravely.

Hunter, Wrecker and Omega traded glances again. The warmth and joy that had been on his face earlier had disappeared, replaced with a grimace. The ever-present toothpick in his mouth left an indent in his lip as he pressed his mouth into a thin line.

“But you’re here now,” Omega said reassuringly getting up and giving him a hug.

Crosshair raised his eyes and gave her a halfhearted smile.

“Are you ready for yours?” Hunter asked Crosshair, trying to change the subject.

“That depends, have you gotten any better since the last one?”

Hunter laughed, “probably not. But unless you want Wrecker to have a go, I’m your best bet.”

“I’ll do it,” Omega said hopefully.

“No,” Hunter and Crosshair replied in unison. Omega sighed and rolled her eyes.

Crosshair sighed dramatically and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt, “fine.” He sat down on the floor, right forearm stretched out over the coffee table.

Hunter was taken aback. Crosshair wanted the tattoo near the stump where his right hand should be. He gave a questioning look to Wrecker who just shrugged.

“Are you sure that’s where you want it?” He asked in a would-be casual tone.

Crosshairs eyes narrowed, “Yes. I have to look at it every day anyway. Might as well put something there I wanna see.”

The answer satisfied Hunter. He shrugged and set about cleaning and setting up the new equipment. It had been a long time since he had done this.

They spent the afternoon huddled in the common room, regaling Omega with stories of old missions, laughing, teasing each other and sometimes sitting in silence except for the buzzing of the tattoo gun. The vibration in his hand tickled his senses and Hunter had to pause often to flex his fingers. Hunter was satisfied with how the skull and lightning bold looked, given his lack of experience, but Crosshair’s was definitely better.

The sun was starting to set outside. The amber glow of Pabu’s evening light display would spring to life any minute.

“What about it, Wrecker?” Hunter asked.

“Oh, ah…yeah, okay,”

“Really?” Hunter asked, surprised, “you really don’t have to.”

Wrecker had been scared of needles since he was a cadet. No real surprise given the amount of testing he and his brothers had to endure.

“No, I want to. I mean, I don’t, but Tech would do the same for me,”

He and Crosshair shared a look but set about making it happen. Wrecker sat on the couch as Crosshair worked on a small version of Tech’s design on his bicep. Hunter and Omega tried to keep Wrecker distracted. He would occasionally wince, but Omega would hold his hand or offer him a snack and his face would soften.

By the time Wrecker’s was done it was completely dark outside. They set about cleaning up, getting things tidied up and dinner on the go. Wrecker took lead on the latter.

“Hunter?” Omega asked quietly, “can I get that tattoo?”

Hunter had been afraid of this. Omega wanted nothing but to copy her brothers, it was no surprise she wanted a tattoo like them as well.

“Ah, you know kid…” he looked at her big brown eyes, hair flopping over her forehead and cascading down her back. “I think you’re a little young…”

“I’m older than all of you,” she said, hand on her hips, a confident grin on her lips.

Hunter looked over at Crosshair for support. He just shrugged. Hunter knew how much Tech meant to her and how affected she was by his death. He paused for a moment and ran his hands through his hair.

“You know what kid, you’re right. Sure. What were you thinking?”

Omega jumped up and down with glee and Hunter’s heart felt like it was going to burst. He really would do anything for this girl.

The sun had completely set by the time it was done. The skin on her wrist was red except for the heavy black ink. A skull with a lightning bolt behind it. Just like her brothers.

[houseofanticipation]

You're sitting with your friend Sam at a coffee shop, catching up. She's telling you about an instagram ad she keeps getting for some audiobook streaming service. "It's just crazy," she says, "because I was just telling Lucille I wanted to start reading more books but I never have the time, and then it's like instantly I'm getting these ads all the time."

"So what," you say over your steaming mug, "you think they're listening to you?"

Sam shakes her head. "Honestly I think it's almost scarier than that. They have so much information about us, they don't even need to listen to our conversations. They just know, based on everything they've gathered about me, that I'm probably someone who wants to listen to audiobooks."

"Well they can't be that smart," you say. "Because the only ads I've been getting lately are for something called Slut Cream."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "You must know I'm going to need more details."

You take out your phone and find an ad to show her. It's not difficult; literally all of the ads you see on instagram are like this. They're even showing up in other places now, on webpages you visit or apps you use. This one is one you've seen before: a beautiful woman in a crop top that just barely covers her nipples is proudly displaying a squeeze tube of the kind you'd buy sunscreen or toothpaste in. The caption says, "Being a slut isn't a hobby—it's a lifestyle! Step up your slut game with Slut Cream! Shop Now"

"I don't even know what slut cream is," you say. "All you get when you look it up is a bunch of porn."

"Well, obviously it's a way to step up your slut game," says Sam sagely. "What does it say on the website?"

"Oh, I'm not clicking the link," you say. "I don't want to encourage them! What I want to know is why suddenly this ad is all I can seem to see!"

Sam shoots you a wink. "Maybe you're just a slut. These data brokers know us better than we know ourselves."'

What neither of you know is that it's actually quite easy to buy online ad space, and they let you get pretty specific with your intended audience.

I live in the next apartment over from you. I've been watching you for a long time, studying you, listening to you through our shared wall. We've talked a few times, some terse conversation at the mailboxes or in the hall, which is how I knew enough about you to place those ads, with audience parameters so specific that probably only you and about five other people would see them. I had fun making them; hiring the model to do the photoshoot, dusting off the skills I picked up in that college graphic design course, creating a website for this fake business (though I'm disappointed you still haven't clicked through to see it). If you actually tried to buy slut cream, the website would tell you we're currently closed due to high traffic, and to check back later. Nowhere on the website does it explain what slut cream is.

A number of strange things happen to you over the course of the following day. On your lunch break you walk down the block to the deli by your office. You're in here every weekday, but today the energy here is different. People are staring you, side-eyeing you, having whispered conversations that stop abruptly when you get too close. As you're walking back to work, an old woman spits on the ground as you pass, you'd swear you heard the word "whore!" hissed under her breath. You wonder if you should say something, stand up for yourself, but she's elderly, probably confused, and you decide to be the bigger person.

In the hours after lunch, you're propositioned by no less than seven of your male coworkers. You've had to refuse a few invitations to dinner in your time, but seven in a day is completely out of the ordinary, and the things these men are offering to do to you go way outside the bounds of first date stuff. One guy tells you the conference room is empty, if you want to go for a quick fuck; another guy tells you he hasn't cum in a month, and if you sucked his cock he'd pump so much cum down your throat that you wouldn't need to eat dinner. Your boss even tells you he and his wife are looking for a third and he thought of you first, like he's offering you a big promotion. The strangest thing is that all of these men seem genuinely surprised when you turn them down. Like this sort of thing usually works with girls. One guy even says, "sorry, I was just trying to help."

It was pretty easy to hire actors for the deli and the street. You go to the same place every day, so I knew where they'd have to go and roughly when they'd need to be there. The harder part was getting your coworkers to play along, especially because I was picky about getting people who could sell the act. For a few of them all it took was money. A few of them I had to blackmail. For your boss I had to call in a favor, get his boss to threaten his job. He protested, but I think it made his cock hard, thinking about fucking you alongside his wife.

I keep this up for a few weeks. Anywhere you go I have people watching you, talking about you behind your back. I have people approaching you on the train, at the park, in restaurants, offering to fuck you like they're doing you a favor. You stay firm in your refusal—I wouldn't have expected any less from you—but I can tell it's beginning to eat at you. I watch you try to figure out what you're doing that seems to give all these people the wrong idea about you; you start to dress more modestly, talk less, even walk a little less confidently. But none of this will change anything. All it will do is make you feel more repressed.

After a month, I decide it's time to make my move. I could probably wait longer, but the anticipation is getting too much for me, and besides, you're beginning to get a little wild around the eyes. I'd hate to break you before I've had my fun. One evening, when I know you're home, I unlock your apartment with the duplicate key I had made two months ago. You're in the kitchen, washing dishes with headphones on; you didn't hear me come in. I leave the door open as I approach you, admiring the way you shake your ass to whatever it is you're listening to. I get right up behind you and stay there for a moment, lavishing in your innocence, feeling my cock strain at my belt as I imagine taking it away from you. Then I reach around front of you with both arms and plunge my hand into your panties

You shout in shock, fight back, try to push me off as the headphones fall off your head. But I've got you pinned against the counter, my full body weight against you, one hand down your pants, the other groping your breasts. Once you realize that fighting won't help, you stop struggling and ask me what I want. "Please," you say. Just hearing that quiver in your voice almost makes me delirious with lust. "Please, let me go. I don't want this, please."

I bury my face in your neck, kissing and breathing you in. You smell incredible, like fear and sweat and sex. I bring my lips up to your ear, let them brush against you as I speak. "Of course you want this, baby. You've been trying so hard to hide it, but you don't have to hide with me. Look, you left the door open for me." I let you turn your head enough to see the door hanging open just as my fingers find your clit. I'm rubbing you gently, tenderly, just the way I've watched you touch yourself through the webcam I have in your room. My other hand is under your shirt now and I'm squeezing your breast, rolling your nipple between my fingers, feeling it slowly grow full and erect. You try to stifle a soft moan and I kiss your neck again. "It's okay, baby. You don't have to be ashamed. It's okay to want to feel good. Let me make you feel good."

You clutch your face in your hands and let out a cry of frustration and humiliation and agony and pleasure. You barely know me; I'm the guy next door who sometimes looks at you a little too long. The guy you speed up to avoid in the hall. But that feeling radiating from you clit... You think how exhausting it's been, doing everything you could think of to change people's perception of you, get them to stop looking at you as a slut, how none of it has done you any good anyway. You wonder if you'd have had more fun fucking Jim in the conference room, or swallowing Dylan's cum, or having a threesome with your boss and his wife. And that throbbing in your clit, the agonizing pleasure...You remember that beautiful woman in the ad: "Being a slut isn't a hobby—it's a lifestyle!" You think about how happy she looked, how fulfilled. You remember Sam's words: "These data brokers know us better than we know ourselves."

It does feel good, doesn't it? To let me touch you, pleasure you, to let go of this act you've been holding on to. Isn't it okay to want to feel good? Why did you ever let anyone make you ashamed of that? You try out another moan, letting the pleasure well up through your chest and out your mouth. It feels good, so you try another, and another, and then you're leaning back into me, grinding up against me, delighting in the feeling of my hard cock against your ass.

"Good," I say. "You're letting go of those silly hang-ups. Now we can have our real fun." My hands still around you, controlling you, I half lead-half carry your trembling body to the bedroom. I throw you on the bed, face up so I can get a good look at your eyes, see what I've done to your mind. Those same eyes that have avoided me in the hall so many times now gaze hungrily up at me, wanting me, needing me.

Who am I do decline?

I pull off your pants and panties as a single unit, letting you take care of your shirt for yourself. I kick of my own bottoms, letting my throbbing cock slap against your leg as it springs from its confinement. Don't think I don't notice the way your whole body shivers when it touches you. I lift your legs and push your knees up towards your ears; you're remarkably flexible. It must be all that yoga I've watched you do at the place downtown. I've greatly enjoyed your visits to that place, so it's nice to see they weren't in vain.

You're afraid of me, all of a sudden. Maybe some part of you is seeing sense, realizing you'd have to be crazy to let a guy like me come into your home and fuck you like this. But what was the alternative? Have me rape you? Let me tell you, darling: I would have raped you. You feel the head of my cock gliding over your skin, exploring your inner thighs and pubic area, and tremble at my touch. I want this, you tell yourself. This is what a slut like me needs.

All the same, you cry a little bit when I penetrate you. It's not because it hurts—it does hurt a bit, but you're wet enough, and it's not entirely a bad pain. It's not because you're afraid—well, maybe in part, but that's not the core of it. You cry because you're finally letting go. Letting go of the person you used to be, or thought you were. It's the relief of knowing you don't have to pretend anymore, wrapped up with the mourning you feel when you lose a potential version of yourself. I lean across you as my cock fills you up, and tenderly, I kiss away your tears. "Hush, my darling. I'm here. I will always be here. I will love you despite what you are, when everyone else turns away in disgust."

My weight on you feels good, comforting. The way I press down on your legs, stretching you out, driving my cock so deep inside you that it brushes your cervix. It hurts a little, but is that any better than you deserve? Could a slut like you really expect to find better than this? Better than unconditional love and a desire to give you the pleasure you need?

I'm speeding up now, my face something like an animal, furious and insistent as I gaze down at you. There's darkness behind my eyes, you think, something cold and cruel. You thank God I'm on your side. My hips are like a hammer on your pelvis now, and with each thrust you feel my cock bulging inside you, throbbing and pulsating with anticipation. When I finally plant my seed in you, groaning and growling and pressing you further into the bed, you find there's something comforting about the warmth of my cum inside you. Maybe my seed will take root, make you swell up with me, make you mine. As I roll off you, huffing and panting, the tears begin to stream down your face again, this time from joy.

What did a slut like you ever do to deserve someone who loves you like I do?

[toulousewayne]

🌿🍃Toxic Lover: Pt: I

Nightwing X male!reader with a former team who had become Poison Ivy like meta-human.

Summary:Your a former Titan teammate, you and Dick have unresolved feelings and you become infected with the same toxins and chemicals that turned Poison Ivy into a meta-human.

————————

It was a simple mission. Get in and get out. It wasn’t supposed to go the way it had.

Y/n was a skilled fighter and vigilante, he trained with Black Canary, WildCat, Wonder Woman and the League of Assassins. He operated as solo vigilante since he could remember.

He worked with most of the league and helped them as much as he could. He helped Batman and Robin a lot since he did very similar missions to them. When Dick formed the Titans and went solo as Nightwing he asked Y/n to join him. Y/n worked well with Starfire and Raven, he had fun playing games with Cyborg and Best Boy. He often hung out with Dick and Donna and Wally would visit often too.

Y/n took some time from the team and did solo missions for a while before being called by Dick to help him,Wally and Donna with a rescue mission in Metropolis.

“We just need to find the data bank with the information containing Ivy’s records and research. Luthor was help to gather and stored it in his lab. We need to get the information and destroy any bioweapon schematics.” Dick instructed.

“Anything we should be aware of,”Y/n perked up from his seat in the jet. Donna adjusted her sliver lasso to her waist,”Is Ivy herself involved?”

“As far as Batman’s intel can confirm she’s been missing for the last three months.” He confirms.

“Great so no giant kale bushes to crush us, noted.” Wally quipped. Y/n chuckled as Donna and Dick rolled their eyes.

——-

The Quad split into pairs;Wally and Donna and Dick and Y/n. Donna and Wally took the research offices upstairs meanwhile, Dick and Y/n took the lower levels.

Dick sneak into some of the office while Y/n found a hidden lab. He took photos, and took a flash drive to take the data from the server. He found several vials, tubes and plants on a desk and took photos.

“Nightwing, I’m in this lab. It looks they’ve extracted some of Ivy’s original pheromones and try to weaponize them.”

“I’ll be there soon…kinda busy.” He heard a loud bang and a punch. Y/n turned around to see a scientist and three guards at the doorway.

“Sorry you found this, but unfortunately Mr. Luthor doesn’t what this getting out. Boys don’t let him leave.” The scientist quickly fled as the guards moved in.

“Sorry lapdogs,but I’m leaving with the drive.” Y/n sprang into action and started fighting.

“It’s a trap,you have to get out of that room.” Nightwing’s voice filed the hero’s ear. Y/n managed to take out two goons but the last one was the biggest and blocked the only exit. He rushed Y/n and managed to forcefully shove him into the computer and servers. Knocking Y/n off his balance and disorienting him. He had cuts on his faces and blood trickled from his lip.Then, while he was stunned he took him and threw him into the desk with vitals and pheromones.

The two guard got the their feet and assisted in beating him to a pulp. Y/n was loosing his consciousness and went in and out. “..Dick—help.” He winced.

The large goon took the remaining vitals and smashed them over the hero. He threw the plant cart on him too and took out a lighter.

“Mr. Luthor sends his regards.” He threw the lighter at the spilled chemical and engulfed the room in flames.

——

The fire spread through out the facility and Nightwing managed to find the source. Toria and Flash managed to get to him but the flames were to high.

“We need to save him!” Nightwing tried to go towards the labs but Toria stopped him.

“You can’t go in there you’ll die!” He tried to push her but she wasn’t budgeting. Tears streaming down his face he begged his friends.

“Please, we have to try, please.” Wally nodded.”Get him to the surface I’ll try to get to Y/n. Go now!” He barked. Toria grabbed Nightwing and sped out of the lower levels as Flash created tornados to clear up the flames.

—-

Dick set on the jet without his mask, tears, bruises, and soot. Donna stood guard watching as the building’s flames were put out by firefighters. Wally entered the vessel with a stretcher with a white sheet on top.The form on it was Y/n’s body. Dick didn’t say a word as more tears formed in his eyes.

“It’s all my fault.” He hissed. Donna placed a hand on his shoulder,”It’s not Dick, you can’t blame—“

“It is. I asked him to come, I asked both of you to come and it nearly killed you all. I—l..” Dick broke down in tears and shouted. He rocked hisself and sob and Donna comforted him. Wally placed a hand on his other shoulder and talked him through it.

——-

Dick sat in his seat at the cemetery in Gotham. The small crowd of heroes dressed in black one by one left the small private ceremony for Y/n. Dinah gave a worried look at Dick whose gaze hadn’t left the spot where Y/n’s casket had been lowered into the earth and covered with fresh soil.

Bruce stood next to her and they didn’t speak right away but Dinah broke the silence. “Diana told me what happened from Donna. He hasn’t been the same.” Bruce didn’t reply.

“Well he be okay?” She hummed. Bruce turned to his friend and looked back at his son.”They were in love Dinah, it was obvious to most of us but not them. I’m not sure he if knew he loved Y/n as more than a friend, but I know he won’t stop until he can give him justice.”

“You think he’ll kil-“

“I hope not but I can only help him through this, I’ve learned a long time ago to not try to pressure him into a decision.” He walked to Dick and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Let’s go son.”

——-

Y/n saw his life flash before his eyes during his attack. Between each rib being fractured, another punch to the back, or kick to the stomach he felt his favorite memories flood his eyes.

From training the younger members of Young Justice with Dick’s little brother the third Robin, game nights with the Titans, going to a concert with Dick he practically dragged him to.

That concert was the best night of his life he felt so carefree, not birdied with the responsibilities of being a more experienced hero. Not feeling like he couldn’t tell his best friend how he truly felt, and just watch from a distance as he went out dates with other girls or laughed with the guys at games nights.

Y/n knew he was in deep shit from the moment he met the Last Flying Grayson, and he didn’t care.

The band was one he like since he was in Middle school,and he begged Dick for weeks to go with him, eventually he agreed to go because he felt bad for missing so many plans to help his family with their own missions.

“I hope they aren’t a snooze fest because I could have stayed home and listened to Tim explain Quant-Time travel.” He joked as Y/n pulled on his hoodie he just purchased.

He shoved his shoulders,”Don’t even Grayson these guys are the best. You’re not gonna regret it. Plus, don’t act like you don’t love Timmy’s rambles.” Y/n fired back.

He held his hands in surrender. “Hey I had to think of something.” Y/n took Dick’s hand and dragged him into the arena just as the music blared through the speakers. Y/n was unaware of the crimson color that painted Dick’s face. And to busy to notice the stole glances Dick took through the night.

—-

The smell of smoke burned Y/n’s nostrils and he chocked on it. But the blood in his mouth took out some of the harsh smells. The flames were roaring in the room and shortly everything began to spin. Y/n barely regained consciousness before everything swiftly went to black.

Then it went Green.

The green light became paler and paler and the sound of a heartbeat echoed. Almost in slow motion. Most of the light became closer too. Became bright white and the sounds of Gotham City came hard and fast like a gunshot.

Y/n stood up in the middle of the street and he noticed something wasn’t right. The last thing he remembered was dying in Metropolis and now he’s in old Gotham. To his left was the build up of traffic and to his right was Gotham Cemetery. He tried to move but fell to the ground.

“The fuck.” His hoarse voice choked out. He noticed his arms were covered in slime of some kind and leaves. He saw a small puddle and took a glance at his reflection. His face was the same but more beautiful, sharper features, deep green iris, and fuller lips.

“Hey freak,get outta the way!” A voice shouted and honked his horned.

Y/n snapped his head up and grew easily frustrated,his head was still spinning and blaring horn was causing more pain.

“Ugh, can’t you be idiotic somewhere else.” With his hand on the ground it began to shake and large vines jumped through the concrete and began to crush the car. The driver managed to get out before it was crushed to pieces. Y/n slowly got to his feet and stumbled.

“That’s new.” Several other drivers fled their cars and screams. Two officers drew their weapons and order Y/n to freeze. Something in Y/n slowly turned and began to change in his feelings toward the police.

“Freeze Freak!” The older officer hisses,Y/n cocks his head to the side with smirk.

“Pathetic pigs, you never appreciate the things you take for granted. You worthless meat sacks.”

The two officers look at each other,”Meat-what?” It’s short lived as vines bursted through the growing and take them prisoner. Y/n strolls over to them. He chuckles.

“Mother Earth wouldn’t be to proud of you. Nature will always win.” He takes his nails and scratches both across the face and then plants begin to grow out their faces and they gag. More large vines rise and take Y/n underground.

—————

He re-emerges in the old Gotham Greenhouse in Robinson Park. More vines and flowers bloom in the old building giving it a new look. The old overgrown plants become green and flourish again with life.

“Men have ruined you, I don’t know what yet, I know can revive you. But I promise you will be avenged. I am Mother Nature’s new branch and I will take Gotham first then, we will cleanse the rest of this planet.” He laughs to himself before the sound of glass shatters.

He worlds around to see Nightwing.

“Y/n,what happened to you. You were dead.” Y/n felt conflicted. On one hand he wanted run to Dick and get his help, but on the other hand he wanted to crush him and turn him into mulch.

Nightwing drew closer, “This isn’t you N/N. I don’t know what happened in the last 72 hours but you aren’t yourself. I can help you but you have to let me.” His voice was strained like his had been yelling or not speaking. It didn’t go unnoticed but something in Y/n didn’t care and he was constantly fighting a battle within himself.

“Dick—what?”

“I can help you,Y/n you have to understand I care about you. But you have to stop.” Nightwing earpiece buzzed and Y/n could heard the voice of Robin from a nearby plant. The words: Cops. Killed. Poisoned. Y/n.

Nightwing turned to him with a blank expression and a tighter grip on his weapons.

“Y/n, let me take you get help. I promise I won’t let anyone harm you.” His voice wasn’t as raw as it was. It was stern yet cautious.

The switch in Y/n flipped and the smirk and sultry voice returned.

“Dick, join me,” he persuades, “Become my Adam and help me flourish this place into a new garden. Just for the two of use.”

Nightwing took a defensive stanch. “Can’t do that. I’m sorry.” The last part was a whisper but Y/n caught it.

“Well then I’m sorry too.” With the flick of his wrist and two large flowers sprouted. The plants around Nightwing were now healthily and quickly attacked him.

Y/n rose several feet in the air on a seat of large leaves and petals. Nightwing dodged the vines but is eventually became captured after miscalculating a step after trying to not harm Y/n.

He’s wrapped in vines and is unable to move. The vines bring him closer to Y/n who purrs.

He runs a thumb across Dick’s lips. “I never noticed.” He whispered.

“What?” Dick huffed. Y/n takes his face and brings it closer. He has a soft smile and Dick is conflicted.

“How much I wanted to do this.” He kisses Dick. He tries break free of his binds but after a few moments he stops and kisses back and soon the kiss deepens and Y/n has to stop. He places his forehead against Dick’s and sighs.

Dick’s eyes are glossed over and his blue eyes are a pale green.

“Dick?”

“Yes, my Love?” He says deadpans. Y/n sighs to himself and releases him.

The virus in Y/n grows stronger. And he laughs to himself.

“We have a few housewarming gifts to give out. Fetch them for me Darlin.” Nightwing mindless obeys and leaves Y/n who glances at his appearance in the water fountain for the first time noticing the torn up suit he was buried in.

“It’s time for a new Harvest.”

[sirfrogsworth]

A few people took exception to calling my car's CD player useless.

I actually think it is great there are a few holdouts still using CDs.

CDs are truly one of the most perfect media ever created.

And I can prove that mathematically.

Some will say vinyl is superior. And as much as I love records, the audio quality is preferred, not better. People have a *preference* for how vinyl sounds, but it still leaves out audio information and has noise and artifacts caused by the mechanics of the turntable and an imperfect manufacturing process.

In fact, the lesser audio quality is exactly what people enjoy. It has a warmth and comfortably compressed dynamic range that is not fatiguing over long listening sessions. It's like choosing a nice fire over a 100% efficient space heater.

But if you want perfect audio quality that does not exceed the limits of human hearing, compact discs are where it's at.

It all has to do with Dr. Harry Nyquist and his Nyquist-Shannon Theorem. (Sometimes Shannon gets left out and it is just called the Nyquist Theorem.)

The simple version is he figured out how much something needs to be sampled in order to not lose any information. As long as you sample something at a frequency greater than or equal to twice per cycle, you will have a lossless... whatever.

In this case, a lossless audio recording.

So the range of human hearing is about 20 Hz to 20 kHz. That's the lowest and highest frequencies we can perceive. The scientists creating CD audio figured they'd do 22 kHz for some overhead and then you double that to get 44 kHz. (Technically it was 44.1 kHz.)

You can imagine the smooth curvy line as an analog recording. No gaps. No information loss.

The black squares are digital samples recorded over a period of time. You can see there are gaps between those black squares. A tiny bit of time passes between the squares where nothing is sampled. INFORMATION LOSS! NOOOOO!

Clearly the vinyl nerds are correct and digital is inferior, right? You are going to get the dreaded... STAIR STEPS!

Not so fast, bucko!

By getting enough samples over a period of time, you can use math to infer that smooth sloping line connecting those individual samples. So the digital recording also has no information lost once it is converted back to analog and played through your speakers.

This connecting of dots is called "interpolation."

You could take the curvy analog, convert it to digital, get the same black squares, and then interpolate the black squares back into analog and get the same curvy line. It goes back and forth perfectly. And this is all verifiable with an oscilloscope.

NEAT!

Then of course you need a good dynamic range--the spectrum of quiet to loud. Anything above 85 decibels will damage your hearing, so they went with a 16-bit depth which covers roughly 100 dB. Again, giving them a little overhead for death metal and overzealous trumpet players.

And the final component is data bandwidth or "bitrate" usually measured in kilobits per second. This is how much data is read every second. The 1s and 0s of it all. The bitrate of a CD is calculated by multiplying 44,100 samples per second per channel by 16 bits per sample and then multiplying by 2 channels. After all that mathing is math'd, you get a perfectly uncompressed 1,411 kbps.

So you've got all the frequencies you could ever hear combined with as much volume as your ears can stand with a bit rate that will give you no loss of data.

The *perfect* audio quality all encoded into little microscopic pits.

Now you may be asking, "Why do I see "24/96" or "24/192" advertised on fancy audio equipment and high quality streaming platforms like Tidal? Aren't 24 bits better? Isn't 96 kHz MORE than 44.1 kHz?"

Dr. Nyquist might say... this is some bullshit.

This confusion comes from the fact that recording quality and playback quality are two different animals. This misunderstanding happens with video and photo quality as well. Recording in 6K will give you a sharper picture even if your final playback quality is 4K. You can get bad pixels and noise and stray photons that do not contribute to the detail in the video. By giving yourself overhead you can ensure you hit the desired quality target.

And recording at 24 bits and 96 or 192 kHz, you get a higher resolution to edit and master with, but it is only advantageous to the computer software... not the human ear.

From a photographer's perspective, I relate to it like this...

If I have more megapixels and more colors and more dynamic range I have more leeway when editing my photos. If you try to push a low quality photo in the edit, it has this tendency to fall apart. You can get ugly color banding and harsh contrast and sharpening artifacts. By capturing more quality than you need in the finished product, you can process the photo much more dramatically before it deteriorates and loses integrity.

Audio and video are the same way.

So let's say you have a metal singer that screams at the microphone as loud as possible from 2 inches away.

At 16 bits they may surpass that 100 decibel dynamic range and distort the recording. But if you record in 24 bits, you get 144 dB to play with. Or you can even do 32 bits and get 1500 dB--a volume that no human voice could ever surpass. It guarantees a clean, distortion free recording, but 32 bits would be pointless for human listening.

The same is true with the sample rate. Having a higher resolution allows you to zoom into waveforms and adjust things to an extremely granular level. You can do precise timings, tiny pitch adjustments, apply loads of digital effects, and just have more room for audio activities without degrading the sound quality.

But outputting 192,000 of those black squares is going to interpolate the exact same smooth curvy line as 44,100 when it is played through speakers.

The oscilloscope knows what I'm talking about.

Now I am about to reveal a secret that no audiophile who has invested in a $115,000 high resolution 32 bit/3,072 kHz DAC wants to acknowledge...

The master recording is always more important than the playback quality.

If you have a high quality source it will sound great even in a highly compressed MP3. Just like the 6K video is sharper on the 4K TV. And the high megapixel photo looks better in an Instagram post.

If the source is good, the media will be good.

And since high resolution audio services often seek out the best masters available before encoding their playback files, it gives many people the illusion they are getting better sound quality due to the boosted specs.

When in reality, it was just a better copy of the original recording.

According to Nyquist, your human ears are not computers and all you need is double the frequency to hear perfect sound with no loss of information. So anything above 16 bit/44.1 kHz/1411 kbps and you are just wasting bandwidth on a server.

And I don't want to hear anything about "stair stepping."

IT'S MATH.

Your ears aren't better than math, okay?

If you don't believe in math, then you and Jack White can sit in the naughty math corner with his bespoke overpriced vinyl pressings.

I will say, there is a gap between your standard music streaming service like Spotify and your bullshit audiophile service like Tidal.

Free Spotify uses heavily compressed files. Which means the bitrate is quite low and there can be information loss. Or "lossy" compression. Modern compression is actually pretty amazing, but I'm afraid anything below 320 kbps may cause some songs to not sound as intended.

Depending on the content, some songs are more suited to compression than others. And even with premium Spotify, they cap songs at 320 kbps which still may not be enough for busier, harder-to-compress songs.

Also, I don't know if Spotify cares about getting the best quality master for a given song. Which, again, is the most important aspect of sound quality.

But services like Tidal waste bandwidth with their super specs and that isn't great for the environment. What I'd love to see is a company that makes their best effort to seek out high quality masters, and encodes their files at 16 bit/44 kHz with a lossless variable bit rate compression. Variable bit rate or "VBR" will do more compression during simpler parts of the audio and less compression during more complex parts. It's smart compression, basically. And as long as you use a high enough bitrate to achieve lossless compression, the sound quality will be the same as if there is no compression at all. So you still get smaller file sizes that use less bandwidth and have a smaller environmental impact.

That would be a streaming service I would consider paying for. Especially if they put great effort into getting high quality original recordings for their content.

In conclusion... if you are still using CDs you don't need to worry about audio quality. You're all set. There is a sort of beauty in what the audio scientists who created compact discs did. They figured out the limits of human audio perception and created a format that just slightly exceeded that. No "bigger number is better" marketing. No audiophile bullshit.

They said, "Here is what you need and nothing more."

They made a perfect thing and they should be proud of that.

[writing-with-olive]

Doing activism when you can't leave your home

A lot of times when we think of activism, we think of marches and irl community events and stuff like that. But what can you do if you can't leave your home and don't have a ton of extra cash on hand? (Note that these are ideas to get you thinking, not an exhaustive list. Feel free to send me an ask if you want more in-depth info)

Important: it's really hard to keep up activism if you're burnt out or physically exhausted. If you're stuck at home because you are recently injured or are actively sick, or anything else that requires you to take care of yourself first, do that. Same for chronic illness; mind your flare-ups and play the long game. There will always be more activism for you to do when you've got the resources for it.

Outreach Options

Call your representatives. This can be at any level: city, state, federal, etc. A lot of decisions can be influenced if a lot of people call on a major thing, saying "hey you gotta pass this" or "absolutely do not vote for it." Similarly, if there's a more niche bill happening, fewer voices can also have an outsized impact. If you wanna combine your efforts with the efforts of other people, consider getting on the newsletter of organizations like Indivisible, who can help you stay up-to-date and provide resources for staying involved.

Build call scripts. For a lot of people, calling can be really scary, either because they don't know what to say, or because talking on the phone just isn't their thing. If you're in the latter, group, you can still help people in the former. If there's a bill or issue that a representative is going to be voting on in the future that you want to make your voice heard about, you can use a template like this one and post it so that other people can use it.

Send emails to your city council. City councils generally have a public comment date each month with the option to submit a written comment if you can't be there in person. If there is an issue you want to see addressed in your city, reach out that way.

Write an op-ed. If you have a local paper that has options available for this, consider writing a piece as it relates to whatever cause you're championing. Guidelines can differ by paper, but it can be a good way to get an idea out.

Use social media to talk about an issue. Generally this works better if you have something to add or are staying with a particular topic, rather than simply waving around all the issues under the sun, because the latter can cause your posts to get lost in the noise. For example, while I talk about an abundance of problems on my blog, my focus is activism education and helping people see ways that they can get engaged personally, and posts like that tend to get the most traction.

Research Options

Get involved in citizen science. You can check out sites like Zooniverse to find ways that you can help. In a lot of disciplines, multiple (the number varies by discipline) random people processing data can be about as accurate as one trained person, because the duplicity helps to balance out the errors one person will make. Lots of projects in climate science, archival work, linguistics, cosmology, and a bunch of others need help analyzing the large amounts of data they've collected, so you can be a part of the work that's trying to address world problems.

Keep an eye on local or organizational goings-on. This one pairs with outreach, as it's really only helpful insofar as you're able to do something with the information you gather, but lots of news isn't going to really focus on a city-level committee or something unless they take particularly flashy action. If there's local politics that live-stream their meetings, you can tune in. Lots of patterns are slow to arise and take multiple meetings to notice, but once you've got your bearings you can talk to other people about taking action in response. For example, I once noticed a previous mayor was more likely to shut down conversation during meetings if she was talking to an individual than she was if she was talking to a business rep. That small detail was a large contributing factor to the way my locality was getting gentrified, and once I noticed it, I was able to draw attention to it.

Help teach others. This isn't so much research on your end, but rather helping others get the skills for it. There may be other platforms that are useful for this, but the one I've got experience with is Upchieve, which is volunteer text-based tutoring for low income students who otherwise wouldn't have access to out-of-class help. It's a "whenever you feel like it" model, and will pair you with students who are on at the same time you are and need help in something you're prepared to help them with.

IRL Local Organizing Options

Host organizing meetings. Obviously this is going to depend a lot on your situation, but if you want to be a part of meetings but can't leave your home, you might still be able to invite people over, and make some of the work happen where you're at.

Help out with prep work for events. Maybe you can't help with the public facing side of an event, but if a whole bunch of envelopes need to be stuffed beforehand, or baking needs to happen for a sale, or supplies need to be sorted into boxes, or other similar assembly needs to happen, you can ask another member of your organization to drop the components off at your place, and let them know when it's set to get picked up again.

Do some of the logistics work. It's not sexy, but activism groups live or die based on how well they can keep track of their resources, who's doing what, and what upcoming plans are. If you can manage a spreadsheet or keep internal communications going, that can be vital. Maybe you can't be in person, but if you are providing operations information to the people who can, you'll still be invaluable.

[reimenaashelyee]

Hello what do you think of Ai generated artwork and videos?

I have a whole entire blog post I wrote last year btw: The Rise of the Bots; The Ascension of the Human. (Reading it again a year later I am glad I am still validated in my thoughts)

My entire being and output as an artist is rooted in process, thought, craft and connection. I am open about my process and I share/create resources constantly. I have literally experienced the thing people mean when they say 'art transforms you' just by being so close to it every step of its making. All my comics have this centrality of personhood attached to them - if it's not obvious that the artist's hand (me) is in it, there is the characteristic focus on our emotional/cultural/artistic thread across history. Just as NFTs and what they represent were antithetical to how I interact with the world as artist and audience, so is the use of so-called AI art. NFTs and AI Art share a common hype cycle / speculative mania that comes out from an annoying vulture mindset that only knows how to eat itself to fill its belly, so I don't expect it to last too long. However I don't appreciate the damage both things have done to the utility of the internet, the degradation of art as a commercial pathway and the destruction of the image as a historical/educational/legal tool. (Which is why I am becoming more underground and turning towards alternatives like the Web Revival, small presses, curated resources and in-person communities)

The technological concept around LLM (pattern recognition and matching it to a goal), especially for medicine and statistics, is not itself problematic, especially when it follows ethical and data handling regulations that have been defined. However, when people talk generative art, what we are talking about, and fighting against, is the exploitation of resources and labour, and the further disconnection of worker = labour, human = society artificially imposed by the Corporate MBA / techno class in the pursuit of infinite stockmarket growth which then introduces a type of brainrot that can only think of things as producing value in relation to how fast one can seize for themselves Westernised Ideals of Fame and Fortune. Also like, this whole AI thing is part of the degradation of entertainment (the loss of small-to-medium outlets, constant mergers, nobody owning their digital streaming products they bought, the laundering of journalism/curation into press releases), the internet (the algorithimification of everything, constant spam, search engines getting worse, the worsening of socmedia as a tool) and the intellectual rigour of all information.

It's all part of this rot that's spreading outwards.

TL;DR bro I make all my art by hand and I am a nerd about informational integrity

[tomorrowusa]

It's the media, stupid!

No, I'm not talking about specifics of various news media outlets or nitpicking about particular stories or attitudes. The problem is the vast overall state of the media environment in the United States.

Kate Riga is on target with her blog entry at TMP. (emphasis added)

Democrats Just Can’t Compete In This Media Environment

[T]here’s one leading factor that Democrats absolutely need to respond to as quickly as possible to avert this kind of electoral disaster in the future: the media environment unequivocally favors Republicans. We don’t have a ton of data yet, and much of it is partial. But we can already tell that Harris performed best — that is, underperformed least — in the battleground states. In the places where her campaign flooded the airwaves with her messaging, put her on TV shows and radio stations and in local newspapers, scattered driveways with information flyers, positioned her beside local celebrities, she improved on the repudiation of Democrats that infected nearly every other state. In other words: In the states where she set up a temporary but pervasive media apparatus, she negated some of the nationwide drag. That speaks to the reality that most of the country is awash in right-wing propaganda all the time. For the olds, it’s Fox News and conservative radio; for the youths, it’s the right-wing manosphere podcasts and streams that Trump so assiduously courted all campaign long (plus soothing TikToks promoting retrograde gender roles, evangelical values and distrust of government regulation — think the trad wives and crunchy so-far-left-they’ve-looped-around-to-the-right content — aimed specifically at women). It helps explain Biden’s prodigious unpopularity, despite passing a ton of legislation that not only polls well, but has meaningfully improved people’s lives. It helps elucidate the consistent claims that people don’t know what Harris stood for, before and after she released her policy proposals. It’s a playing field that Republicans not only dominate; Democrats don’t even compete. They still depend heavily on traditional media sources that simply don’t operate the same way these right-wing PR arms do. And we know that these forms of media are powerful; they reach tons of people, and are seen as useful enough pawns that Russia has invested in some of them. This isn’t a novel observation. The Obama alums who started Pod Save America and the greater Crooked Media family did so after Trump won in 2016 specifically to try to build up a Fox News of the left. There are structural problems with mimicking this right-wing content beat-for-beat. The Pod Save guys, while open about their political allegiances, often criticize the party and its politicians. It would be much more difficult to recreate the fawning adoration of Donald Trump Fox News and those podcasts produce for, say, Joe Biden on the left. It requires creativity and investment, but I think Democrats and those aligned with them could do it. Voters say over and over that they prefer Democratic policies — even Republicans often vote for them when they’re standalone ballot initiatives. It’ll require a cultivation of talent, a saturation of these spaces, finagling how to wrest back the counter-cultural bad boy persona from those who are espousing a way of life most people consider retrograde, confining, divisive and exhausting, not to mention solely in service of the plutocratic elites that run the party. Obama was such a revelation because he hijacked technology in a way that was new and exciting for people, and it helped him micro-target low propensity voters. Trump has since taken that mantle. In the two and then four years ahead, Democrats have to find a way to get in people’s eyes and ears, to figure out how to make an affirmative case in these spaces that people would likely respond to if they were exposed to it.

It's not just Fox News – which is bad enough by itself. There are the rightwing talk radio stations dating back to the 1980s. They joined Christian fundamentalist stations which had been pushing social conservative positions since the 1930s. And now there are countless bro types who talk rightwing shit for hours at a time on their podcasts.

Apart from Obama's skillful use of social media when it was still new, Democrats have fallen behind with digital media. Most recently, Elon Musk bought Twitter simply to use it as a propaganda machine. Facebook and its sister sites like Instagram use algorithms which promote rightwing talking points.

There had been attempts to set up liberal talk radio. But they have been sporadic and met with mixed success. Al Franken set up a liberal radio network called Air America Radio in 2004. But it had only modest reach on mostly medium powered stations and ultimately filed for bankruptcy during the Great Recession.

We need to increase our news and information footprint in a major way and on multiple media platforms – and fast. Obviously that takes money and business talent. So if you find yourself next to Mark Cuban, Bill Gates, or Michael Bloomberg on a flight or in an elevator, have your pitch ready. If that doesn't happen, we need to start raising money on our own. Nobody said that freedom is free.

[platonicreaderinsertfanfic]

Stolen Thunder and Fought for Friendship

Word count: 2,541 Summary: You were trying to bring the appropriate level of banhammer smackdown and showmanship to your job as the new Battle City Commissioner. But of course, just as you felt your confidence flourish, Kaiba wrecked it. Also, a smidge of Roland backstory. Dub canon plus a version of DSOD. Intended female Reader, but gender not actually mentioned. Set maybe two years post DSOD. Fun fact: I write my Reader characters with personality and specific description. They may not be as generic as is customary for this type of story. Each reader character also has a specific place in the Yu-Gi-Oh world, with set connections and feelings about the various canon characters and other reader characters. This is reader B, who is immune to the siren song of romance, cheap, eccentric, logical, and hands-on. “Boss, we just had a flag thrown in sector three.” One of the many women with bright hair and a neon visor spoke up as you entered the control center. Alpha Team was Kaiba Corp’s top technical lineup, if they claimed a problem, it was real. You sighed as the door slid shut behind you with a hiss. Having been on your feet since six in the morning, you had hoped for a moment to collapse in a chair and nap with your head on the desk. But Kaiba was paying you an obscene amount of money to head the dueling security commission, and by golly, you would get him his money’s worth. “What’s going on?” Striding to your own console at the top of the graduated floor, you pulled up all available information on the two duelists involved in the flagged match. One was a new duelist, with few recorded games, but all were wins; the man had gained entry to this year’s Battle City event by crushing the competition at a local tournament. The other was a twelve year old boy with hundreds of games to his name—a decent duelist, but not extraordinary; he had no chance of making the top eight in this year’s Battle City tournament. You started to compare their deck lists as Alpha Team brought up a video feed of the duel.

“The man’s duel disk is running the duel off-server.” One of the nearest techs explained.

Your head shot up. “Why is the city wi-fi down in sector three?”

“It isn’t. He’s running an override.” As the tech spoke, the man on the screen began his turn, drawing a card.   

“So he’s cheating.” You reached across your body to aggressively massage the back of your left shoulder. 

“Affirmative. It appears he is running the duel off of his own duel disk in order to use a cheat showing him his opponent’s set cards. Looking over his duel logs, I believe he’s used this trick before, but this is the first time we caught what was happening.”

Studying the various data streams, you admired the skill behind the deception; tampering with Kaiba Corp code required nearly god-tier programming skills. But with rival Schroeder Corp running an aggressive advertising scheme constantly attempting to twist past events to make Kaiba Corp appear untrustworthy and corrupt, this could hardly happen at a worse time. Surely Kaiba had granted you this position due to your reputation for fairness and good judgment, and you intended to live up to his expectations. Very well, you would have the duel suspended remotely, conjure a hologram presence at the scene to explain why, and— “What’s that?” You pointed to a contraption crossing into the edge of the displayed feed. “One moment.” A lavender haired technician adjusted the camera, panning to the right to reveal a national news crew, who were setting up some kind of camera dolly system.  

Why on earth had they decided to film this duel, when there were a handful of other, completely legitimate, duels ongoing around the city? Spectacle was the name of the game for Kaiba Corp, and there was no pizzazz in bringing the duel to a fizzling halt. Removing your glasses, you wiped the sweat from the space between your eyes. You didn’t want to let Kaiba down; he had entrusted his tournament’s honor to you alongside his company’s image. 

Maybe you could use a more impressive hologram avatar? Usually you conjured Kozmo Farmgirl to represent yourself as the duel commissioner for the tournament, but what if… “Who owns that wall behind the duelists?”

“One moment.” This time an orange haired technician spoke up. As you slid your glasses back on, the woman provided the requested answer. “Cafe la Green. It’s a local business. The wall hides the back of their store from the street.”

You glanced back down at your own monitor, checking your available project funds; you were under budget. But did you have the guts to go through with the idea conjured by your brain just now? Gently, your fingers traced the edges of the KC pin on the lapel of your dark red frock coat—both gifts from Kaiba and Mokuba last Christmas. Placing you in this role showed their trust in your ability to play the game. You would bring your own sense of flashy showmanship to the problem.

“See if you can buy the brick wall.”

“On it.”

“And load up a second hologram avatar for me, in Solid Vision.” “What monster?”

“Ahhhhhhh...” What would have a strong visual impact? “Giga-Tech Wolf.”

“Prepping the projection now.”

You pulled yourself up to your full five foot three inches and planted your fists on your hips. “Does anyone on the news crew have a duel disk?”

“No, but a nearby onlooker does, and she’s chatting with the cameraman.”

“Great. Remotely activate her debris deflection field to protect the news crew.”

“Deflection field up in five seconds.” Replied a green haired tech.

The orange technician announced, “The wall is now property of Kaiba Corp.”

Near the projection screen, the higher pitched voice of the lavender tech added, “Giga-Tech Wolf is ready to rumble.”

Gripping the metal railing separating your platform from the rest of the downward sloping room, you broke into a grin. “On my mark, suspend the duel and have the wolf smash through the wall. Make it a spectacular entrance—destructive and noisy. We want to give the news crew a show, and highlight how solid our holograms can be.”

“Understood. The Creative Department will need a minute to work out the animation.”

“That’s fine.” 

It was one of the longest minutes of your life. Each second offered an opportunity to back out of this outrageous plan, but you tightened your grip on the railing and held your resolve. Behind you, the door to the hallway hissed open, but you were too lost in thought to pay it much mind.

“We’re ready when you are.” One of the technicians broke the tension as a simulation of the wolf crashing through the wall played in the corner of the screen displaying the duel in progress. Holding out your right hand with fingers extended, you prepared for a countdown. “Excellent. Suspend the duel and unleash the Solid Vision wolf in three, two—”

“Belay that order.” Kaiba’s low voice interrupted your countdown with demanding force.

You jumped. Whirling to stare up at the man behind you and seeking understanding of his objection, you tried to work out what mistake you had made in your plan. It felt in line with how Kaiba would handle the situation. “Aren’t you supposed to be out there dueling?” You asked, confused.

“I already won what I need to make the semi-finals.” He spoke with his usual intensity. “I was going to invite you and Yugi to join me at the sponsorship dinner this evening.”

“Sure, you know I won’t leave you to face the public alone if you ask me to join you. But please, until then, let me do the job you hired me to do.” It was unlike Kaiba to micromanage. Usually, he let a person work, and then honestly praised or derided the result when it was time to judge its quality.

“Let the duel play out.” He joined you at the railing.

“Kaiba, the man is cheating. I’m not going to let him get away with that. I can tone down the response if I took it too far but—”

“Your response was acceptable. Under normal circumstances I would enjoy watching you terrorize a man breaking the rules of my tournament.”

You started to smile at the compliment, but tilted your head in confusion. “Then what’s the problem?”

Kaiba crossed his arms. “Look at the data. He’s a nobody with a state school degree and average salary as a programmer. No history of dueling until recently, and there were suspicions about his play in the local tournament he won to gain entry to Battle City. I’ve had surveillance on him since the start of the tournament.”

“And you never thought to tell me any of this? I’m supposed to be the one keeping everything honorable in this tournament of yours. We could have kicked him out from the start!”

“There’s no way that idiot managed to write the exploit he’s using. I don’t want to warn him we’ve found his trick until I discover who he's working for.”

“Kaiba, the kid he’s dueling is going to lose unless we stop the duel.”

Shrugging, Kaiba watched the duel playing out on the screen. “He never stood a chance of making the semi-finals.”

“Yes, I know that, but when he loses, let it be a just loss!”

Barely turning his head to look at you, Kaiba asked, “Do you know the kid?” “No.”

“Then why do you care? You admitted he has no particular talent.”

“Because I’m a duelist too, and I know how I would want to be treated.” Which was true, but not the whole reason. It stung your honor to think of being hired to handle cheaters, but allow one to escape instead. “Catching a cheater in front of a news crew can only be good for Kaiba Corp’s image right now.”

“I care less about the public’s perception of my company than I do finding the heart of the problem.”

“As your duel commissioner, I cannot condone this course of action.”

Kaiba finally turned to face you. “And as your employer, your concerns are noted. We’ll let the match play out.”

An angry scoff escaped your lips. “And as your friend, I think this is a mistake!” Taking a deep breath, you gathered your composure. “You hired me for my honesty. Let me use it.”

“I hired you because I thought you would have my back.”

Why did those words hurt so badly? “And I do! But not like this.”

Kaiba shook his head, his blue eyes cold, but his tone confused. “I don’t understand. Aren’t you supposed to be part of my plans? Help me overcome the string of fools who insist on meddling with my life and company?”

“Sure, if you bother to tell me about it. Maybe ask if I’m okay with your plans! Don’t you know I’m an honest person? Don’t you know it’s against my nature to let this play out? I thought that’s why you asked me to do this job!” 

“I hired you because I thought you had a modicum of intelligence.” Kaiba countered, stepping closer. “But you’re nothing more than a shortsighted fool.” He towered over you, his pitch dropping to low gravel. “My mistake.”

Incapable of mustering a comeback when faced with an uncomfortable truth, you scowled as your brain scrambled to figure out how to respond. Kaiba spent more hours in a day thinking about the future than you did in a week. “Yeah, well, then… allow me to help you fix your stupid mistake.” Releasing the railing, you fumbled with the KC pin on your jacket lapel before giving up and slipping out of the frock coat entirely. “I quit.”

“I can’t stop you.”

“I know.” Mokuba always ensured you had a penalty free termination clause in any contract detailing your work at Kaiba Corp. Relinquishing your red coat by draping it over the railing at the top of the room, you turned and left, relishing the hiss of the silvery door closing behind you.  Around you, the metal walls of the hallway offered no commentary, only hazy reflections of yourself as you adjusted your glasses. What were you supposed to do now? Shouldn’t you feel satisfied? Why was your heart…sad? You crossed your arms. “Is everything alright?” You jumped. “Roland!” Embarrassment at being caught unawares caused blood to rush to your face. “Everything’s…” How could you say you were ‘fine’ when you had just walked away from a friendship fought for each week over the last year.

“You look like mister Kaiba after he loses a duel.” Roland observed, as you frantically uncrossed your arms.

And Roland would know. While you weren’t sure if he was categorized as Kaiba’s assistant, bodyguard, or something else entirely, it was clear the man had stood at his young employer’s side through years of crises and triumphs. He understood. This man must grasp what your parents and siblings could not—the desire to befriend Seto Kaiba. Normally, people made relationships so complex, their feelings and desires beyond your simple ken. But Kaiba, for all the journalists who called him complicated, made sense. Observing him showed he loved his younger brother Mokuba, his company, and the Duel Monsters game. Ignoring his words and instead watching his actions showed him to be a man of intelligence, a man of honor, and a man seeking acceptance from a world which seemed determined to crush him underfoot—no, that wasn’t right, Kaiba didn’t seek belonging, he fought to change the world into a place he felt safe. His words showed he cared for the opinions of few; and most of them were dead.

“Do you regret working for Kaiba?” You asked Roland, breaking the silence.

“No.” Roland adjusted his suit jacket. “Do you regret your friendship with him?”

“I think I just ended it.” Your eyes burned. If only you had sunglasses to hide your eyes like the man before you. When you thought the stillness of the hallway would swallow both of you, Roland sighed.

“I worked for Gozaburo Kaiba before he legally adopted the two boys and granted them his name, back when Kaiba Corp still made military vehicles and systems. My personal life was in shambles, and my conscience wasn’t much better, as I watched my employer twist a child into a baron of industry.”

You shoved your hands into your pockets, listening intently.

“When Seto bested his stepfather and claimed the company for himself, I was the first to pledge my loyalty to the new Kaiba Corp president, even if he was only fourteen at the time.” Straightening his shoulders, the man continued. “This job has prevented me from ever finding a wife, fathering children, or taking a vacation.” He laughed. “But I don’t regret quietly shepherding two brilliant boys into capable young men. One day, my allegiance may earn me a bullet to the heart, but it’s worth it.” Starting to reach out to you, he pulled back his hand awkwardly. “I think you see it too—the appeal of cold blue eyes and the contained force of a star burning itself to extinction as it tries to protect, fight, and create.” Without doubt, Roland was overqualified for his occasional work as a tournament announcer.

“I long hoped Mr. Kaiba would find himself a friend. Now he has you and Yugi, although my genius employer has no idea how to process loyalty or kindness. Give him a second chance, and he might surprise you.”

What on earth was the correct response to such a declaration? Before you could formulate an answer, Roland had turned and entered the control center behind you. How were you supposed to befriend a man like Seto Kaiba—and yet, how could you ever make your mind settle for anything less than striving to stand beside him as an equal, a creative, and a friend? ______ If you enjoyed this story, consider checking out my reader-insert masterlist here! There are several other fics featuring Kaiba. This piece was originally written to be displayed as part of the Affirmation/Transformation museum exhibit. You can see it's digital place in the exhibit here, where it is the only story submitted to the Rivalry/Oppositions category. Also, you can check out @gwenpools-aesthetic, who is the mastermind behind the project.

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 4) Chapter Nineteen

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Nineteen: Honest Confessions

Summary: (Y/N)'s family has a real, honest discussion.

Mouse Note: We're moving on to the final episode!

            “We, of course, had several other back up plans,” said Sherlock, clean-shaven and dressed in fresh clothes. He had been treated and was finally feeling sober and clear-headed for the first time in a while. “The trouble is, I couldn’t remember what they were.”

            “You should be glad I’m the thinker,” said (Y/N).

            Sherlock frowned. “What?”

            “Nothing,” said (Y/N), popping a lollipop into their mouth.

            “And, of course, I couldn’t anticipate that I’d hallucinate his daughter,” sighed Sherlock. “Still a bit troubled by the daughter. Seemed very real. She gave me information I couldn’t have acquired elsewhere.”

            “But she wasn’t ever here?” said John, finally back in his chair at Baker Street.

            “Interesting, isn’t it? I have theorized before that if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible anticipate and deduce almost anything,” said Sherlock.

            “Your brain would probably be so overstimulated that it breaks,” remarked (Y/N). That's how they felt when started observing too much.

            “Yes, well, that’s the side effect,” said Sherlock, shrugging.

            “So you dreamed up a magic woman who told you things you didn’t know?” John looked at (Y/N). “I think his brain already broke.”

            “Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind.” Sherlock took a sip of his tea and looked at (Y/N). “But I won’t be trying again.” He smiled.

            “I can’t believe (Y/N) let you do drugs for a case,” said John. “I thought you were still terrified of them.”

            “I don’t like them. I never will. I get anxious and overwhelmed with all the data I process with them and in people around me.” (Y/N) looked at John. “But it was for you. And that made it worth it.”

            John shifted uncomfortably. He was clearly torn between staying and leaving. “I should go. I mean, Rosie is with the sitter, and I don’t want to leave her for too long.”

            “Oh, right,” said Sherlock, also growing awkward.

            “We miss her,” said (Y/N) quietly.

            John paused. “You should…You should come and see her soon. Both of you.” An olive branch. He walked towards the door.

            “Oh, by the way, the recordings will probably be inadmissible,” said Sherlock, talking of the case to keep John there a moment later.

            “Sorry, what?” said John.

            “Well, technically it’s entrapment, so it might get thrown out as evidence,” said Sherlock.

            “Not that it matters,” remarked (Y/N). “He can’t stop confessing.” They smirked. “Ego gets them all.”

            “That’s good,” said John.

            “Yeah,” said Sherlock, nodding and still looking at him.

            John nodded and turned to the door again. But he paused. He didn’t keep moving. (Y/N) and Sherlock remained silent, leaving him room to do what he wanted. They wouldn’t push him.

            “Are you okay?” Or, (Y/N) wouldn’t. Sherlock was going to speak. At least it was a good phrase.

            John turned back and chuckled mirthlessly. “No, I’m not okay.” He stammered through the words as emotions rushed through him. “I’m never gonna be okay. We just have to accept that. It is what it is. And what it is, is…Shit.” He looked down for a moment. “You didn’t kill Mary. Mary died saving your life.”

            Sherlock stared at John.

            “It’s her choice,” said John quietly before his voice grew firmer. “No one made her do it, no one could ever make her do anything. But the point is, you did not kill her.”

            “In saving my life, she conferred a value on it,” said Sherlock. “It is a currency I do not know how to spend.”

            (Y/N) reached out and touched his hand. Sherlock looked at them thankfully.

            “It is what it is,” said John. He nodded. “I’m here tomorrow, 6 to 10, keeping you off the drugs.” Everyone was still a bit wary, though (Y/N) and Sherlock knew it wouldn’t happen again. “I’ll see you then.”

            “Looking forward to it,” said Sherlock.

            “Bye, John,” said (Y/N).

            “Yeah,” said John. He turned away.

            A familiar moan echoed from Sherlock’s phone as it buzzed.

            “What was that?” said John.

            “What was what?” said Sherlock innocently.

            “That noise,” said John.

            “What noise?” said Sherlock.

            John walked closer, and (Y/N) tilted their head. They could see an interesting look in John’s eyes.

            “John?” said Sherlock.

            “I’m going to make a deduction,” said John.

            “Oh, okay, that’s good,” said Sherlock, a little confused.

            “And if my deduction is right, you’re gonna be honest and tell me, yeah?” said John.

            “Okay. Though I should mention that it is possible for any given text alert to become randomly attached to—”

            “Happy birthday,” said John.

            Sherlock paused and nodded. “Thank you, John. That’s very kind of you.”

            “A good deduction,” said (Y/N), nodding to John.

            “Never knew when his birthday was,” said John.

            “Now you do,” said Sherlock.

            “Seriously, we’re not gonna talk about this?” John looked at (Y/N). “Did you know?”

            “That she was alive? Yeah,” said (Y/N). They were glad. Irene was…mad, but she was fun. (She also sent fancy sweets to Baker Street on (Y/N)’s birthday and Christmas).

            “How does that work?” John looked back at Sherlock. “You and the Woman, do you go to the discreet Harvester sometimes, is there nights of passion in the Wycombe?”

            “She texted him that she wants to take me out shopping,” said (Y/N), twirling their lollipop.

            “Oh my god, you’re domestic,” said John.

            “For god’s sake,” groaned Sherlock. “I don’t text her back.”

            “Why not?” chuckled John. “I mean, I know you’re on the spectrum, but you certainly seemed a bit attached.” He laughed. “You’re a bloody moron! She’s out there, she likes you and your kid, and she’s alive, and do you have the first idea how lucky you are?!” It turned to an angry shout, grief overcoming his words. “Yes, she’s a lunatic, she’s a criminal, she’s insanely dangerous, trust you to fall for a sociopath. But she’s, you know…” He ran out of steam. “Text her back.”

            “Why?” said Sherlock.

            “Because it would be good for you,” said John. “You are missing out on a type of connection you’ve never had.”

            “As I think I’ve explained to you many times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people—”

            “—Would complete you as a human being.” John looked at (Y/N). “What do you think?”

            “I think my dad takes time to get attached, but he is, even if it's just friendly. I don't know about that stuff,” said (Y/N). “But I know he's just stubborn.”

            “Even your kid agrees that you should text her back, even if just once,” said John. “Do something while there’s still a chance. Because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me Sherlock, it’s gone before you know it. Before you know it.”

            Because I know how it feels to lose someone I care about, and if I had never gotten to really love her, I would regret it forever.

            The unspoken truths hung in the air.

            “She was wrong about me.” All of the pouring of his heart finished, and deep-held words came next from John.

            “Mary?” said (Y/N), tilting their head.

            “She thought that if you put yourselves in harm’s way, I’d…I’d rescue you or something,” said John. “But I didn’t. Not until she told me to. And that’s how this works. That’s what you’re both missing. She taught me to be the man she already thought I was. It’s like how you are with (Y/N), Sherlock. You are a better man because they see you as better than you are.”

            “You are doing yourself a disservice,” said Sherlock. “We have known many people this world but made few friends, and we can safely safe—”

            “I cheated on her.” John spoke with the pain of the words in his tone. “No clever comeback?” He looked at the empty space next to him. “I cheated on you, Mary.”

            Sherlock and (Y/N) looked at each other. Was he…seeing Mary? In his grief?

            “It was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair, I’d been playing with Rosie. And this girl just smiled at me.” It was John’s confession, his deepest shame, the root of all his anger—anger at himself for not being better for Mary. For not being the man she thought he was. “That’s all it was, it was a smile. We texted constantly. You want to know when? Every time you left the room, that’s when. When you were feeding our daughter. When you were stopping her from crying, that’s when. That’s all it was. Just texting. But I wanted more. And you know something? I still do. I’m not the man you thought I was. I’m not that guy. I never could be. But that’s the point. That’s the whole point.” Tears burned his eyes. “Who you thought I was is the man who I want to be.”

            John sobbed and covered his eyes as the tears finally came. (Y/N) and Sherlock stood up and walked to his side.

            “It’s okay,” said Sherlock softly, hugging him.

            “It’s not okay,” sobbed John.

            “No,” said (Y/N), joining the hug. “But it is what it is. And it can be better.”

            They stayed still for a long time, not talking. That was fine. They all needed a break.

            When they separated, John cleared his throat. “So, cake? It’s your birthday.”

            Sherlock groaned.

            (Y/N) smiled.

            Sherlock paused. “You know, it’s not my place to say. But it was just texting. It’s a terrible thought, John, but sometimes I think we might all just be human.”

            “Even you?” said John.

            “No,” said (Y/N). “Even you.”

            John swallowed and looked away. “Cake?”

            “Cake,” said Sherlock. “Oh, erm.” He turned and grabbed something. He put a deerstalker hat on his head.

            “Seriously?” chuckled John.

            (Y/N) grinned. “What a hat.”

            “I’m Sherlock Holmes. I wear the damn hat,” said Sherlock.

l

            Things went back to normal. John let them visit now. He visited them. They solved cases. John took breaks to focus on himself and Rosie. (Y/N) babysat when Sherlock and John needed guy time.

            Things would never be the same without Mary, but things would be different in a way that wasn’t bad.

            And at least some things were normal—like the crazy people on cases.

            “Get out,” said Sherlock, opening the door with a huff.

            “She’s possessed by the devil!” said the man. “I swear my wife is channeling Satan.”

            “Boring,” said (Y/N).

            “Go away,” said Sherlock.

            “I’m not channeling Satan,” said his wife as they both headed out the door.

            “Why not? Given your immediate alternative.” He swung the door closed.

            (Y/N) sighed. “We need a good case.”

            “Yes, we…do…” Sherlock trailed down as he spotted a paper under a table. He knelt and picked it up. “It’s the paper.”

            (Y/N) sat up. “The what?”

            “That the woman who said she was Faith Smith wrote,” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) immediately went to his side. “Not your handwriting. A woman’s.”

            “She was real,” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) took the paper. “There’s a different texture here in the middle.”

            Sherlock grabbed a blacklight and held it to the paper.

            MISS ME?

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[thewildwaffle]

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

-This is kind of a continuation of my other short "Injuries" - this is from a prompt given to me about aliens' reaction to how complex human shoulders are and how we can throw hard and accurate without hurting ourselves.

***

“Take me out to the baaaaaaall game! Take me out with the crowd!” Human Vincent all but shouted the words to the tune he and Human Kate had been singing off and on the entire time they’d been “decorating” the rec hall.

Captain Kar’rim looked around at the humans’ efforts of setting up for a ‘party’ in one of the ship’s smaller rec rooms. It wasn’t much, but it looked nice. To be fair, the event was fairly last-minute and they’d made do with what they had on hand. The ship had just left hyperspace last rotation after a long-distance run to nearly the edge of the galactic arm. As per protocol, as soon as the ship was back in range of the Central Galactic Communications Network, an information update packet was downloaded.

Somewhere in all that data, one of the humans found a mention of a major sporting event from their home planet that was available for streaming upon request. They submitted the request and it had been quickly granted. Instead of just watching it immediately, it was unanimously decided that the humans would instead hold a “watching party” and invite anyone on the crew who was off-duty at the time and interested in participating. Captain Kar’rim had come by just to see how things were going and had ended up sticking around after he saw what they’d done with the rec hall.

There were long strings of curled paper strung from one side of the room to another. The humans had the video stream queued up and projected against the wall. All cushions from the chairs that were not black, red, gray, or white had been removed and, as he was told, stowed away in some closet nearby. The tables had been moved closer to the seating area and were covered in various trays of different foods. The humans themselves were decked out in strange uniform-looking shirts with numbers embroidered on the backs. Well, Vincent, Leo, and Kate were. The others just wore their casual rec clothes in colors that matched.

It wasn’t just the humans either. There was quite the crowd milling about excitedly by the time Kar’rim entered the rec room. He knew the humans on his crew were very social and friendly, they had a warm and comforting presence. He knew they’d made a lot of friends on the ship, but he was still surprised by the crowd around him now.

“Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks!” Kate had joined in with Vincent’s ‘singing.’ “I don’t care if I never get back, so just root! Root! Root for the home team!”

Suddenly all the humans were singing along with varying levels of volume, much to everyone else’s amusement. “If they don’t win it’s a shame, for it’s ONE! TWO! THREE strikes you’re out in the old! BALL! GAAAAAAAAAAAAAME!”

“Oooh, dinner, and a show,” Booka Vern chuckled as he tossed one of the foods from the tray into the air and caught it in his mouth. It was a trick he’d learned from one of the humans.

“I know peanuts are a type of plant from Earth,” Effyn Merl spoke up while looking over the table of foods, “but what are cracker jacks? If they’re anything like their name implies, they sound fun.”

Human Kate pointed at a bowl to Merl’s right, “Those are Cracker Jacks. Kind of. They’re homemade. Basically, it's just hardened caramel popcorn mixed with peanuts. The bowl has a yellow sticker, so everyone needs to check the allergy list over there to make sure it’s safe to eat.”

Kar’rim looked at the list. He was very impressed to see that they had made a color-coded list of possible allergens that corresponded with labels on trays and bowls spread out across the tables. The humans had really put a lot of work into this party and made sure as many of their crewmates who wanted to join could do so safely.

“If everyone’s okay with it,” Human Leo shouted, “I’m going to get the broadcast started. They always have a bit of the warm-up and show the first pitch being thrown and all that, so by the time everyone gets food and settles down, the game should be close to starting.”

No one disagreed, so Leo hit play and everyone grabbed plates gathered foods they could eat, and found a comfy spot to settle down to watch the game. There was a lot of chatter and a lot of questions about the basics of how the game they were about to watch worked. Most everyone had seen the humans throwing baseballs around before on their downtime, but this was the first time anyone had actually seen how it all came together to a whole sport that some humans spent their entire professional careers playing.

Kar’rim had not intended to stay. He was just going to check in for a moment and leave to spend his precious downtime resting or maybe taking a stroll through some of the corridors on the lower level of the ship. But now, with everyone settling down and the players on the projection taking their places on the field, he had to admit he was very curious. The excitement was infectious, and he couldn’t imagine wanting to do anything else but watch as he found a comfortable spot to sit.

The game was, to say the least, not exactly what he thought he’d been expecting. It was a strange mix of one-on-one between the human in the box holding a bat and the human on the pile of dirt in the middle of the square (or diamond as Kate corrected someone. It was a square though.) and a full, working-together team sport. If the human in the box hit the ball with the bat, suddenly it activated the roles of the rest of the team on the field. They would run, dive, and throw with practiced precision.

Kar’rim felt his mandibles drop as he watched the first few of such throws. He knew the humans on his crew could throw with insane accuracy and speed. Stars above, he’d seen the results of what happened when Human Kate had been hit in the face after such a throw! But what he saw on the broadcast was like nothing he thought could even be possible!

“What the frewan?!” Effyn Merl exclaimed. Normally, Kar’rim would have scolded such foul language, but he was in a bit of a state of shock and had to agree that the outburst felt warranted.

“How did he do that?” Merl pointed at the projected human who nonchalantly picked the small white ball from his glove and threw it (this time much slower and gentler) back to the pitcher. “How did that other guy throw the ball like that? I could barely see it move - it was like he teleported it!”

“Do we have the conversions of the speed from miles per hour to something the rest of us can understand?” Booka Vern asked between mouths of plain popcorn.

“I don’t think so for the throws in the plays,” Human Vincent scanned the screen, “but this pitcher usually throws around 93 mph, and I think that comes out to somewhere around 120, maybe 130-ish glatts per segment?”

“You’ve got to be pulling my tail!”

“I swear I’m not! I’ll look it up if you think I’m lying!”

Kar’rim shook his head. He believed it. He thought back to when Kate had been sent to the infirmary after getting hit by a baseball that had been traveling around 80-ish or so glatts per segment. He thought she was going to die that day. He’d underestimated humans back then. Even now, he still learned new things about them that surprised him. Like how their arms and shoulders were basically deadly projectile-launching weapons.

“Does it hurt?” One of the stransi’s on the crew piped up from where she was coiled on her favorite cushion.

Human Kate looked over, “Does what hurt? The catch or the throw?”

“Uhhh, well, the throw. But wait, uh, does the catch hurt too?!”

“Not usually, you catch the ball between your fingers and thumb, and the glove protects your hand from contact. And the throws don’t hurt at all.”

“At all? What are their arms made of? Do they have some sort of implants?!”

“Uhhh… no? It just takes a lot of practice. I guess it could hurt if you don’t stretch before, or uh, I guess some pitchers need to take special steps to take care of their arms since they throw so much.”

At this point Demfar, the ship’s head medic, spoke up from between bites of various foods he’s mixed into a bowl. “The human shoulder is a very complex structure. The joint itself is one of the most flexible in their entire bodies.” He took another bite. “The downside is that it’s not as stable as other joints, and is thus prone to injuries. I wouldn’t worry about it much though, “ another bite, “ if these humans do this as their full-time employment, I’m sure they take the proper steps to avoid injury and always listen to their physicians.” That last bit felt a bit pointed, especially since Demfar turned to stare down Human Leo, who cleared his throat and shifted a bit uncomfortably in his seat.

There were a few chuckles, but soon all eyes were back on the game as the human in the box swung and hit the ball so far that the ball flew right out of the stadium, far beyond any hope of being caught. The humans were suddenly on their feet and cheering. Most looked around surprised, except Booka Vern who sat his popcorn down carefully and stood up to bound and cheer as well, looking a little confused but happy to join in.

It was explained that the hit was called a “home run,” and that the batter, as well as the runner “on base,” could then run “home,” thus scoring points. It seemed simple enough to Kar’rim, pretty straightforward. He was sure there was plenty more to figure out about the rules and reasonings, and he knew he’d figure it out while he watched, or while the humans explained the rules as the game went. Overall, he felt it was very impressive. This game took a lot of accuracy from every player. It was certainly more than just throwing a ball back and forth to each other.

He was once again reminded how thankful he and the rest of the Galactic Alliance were that humans were friendly and on their side.

[archivists-plus-one]

So, after this episode of TMAGP, I have some thoughts.

(Spoilers for The Magnus Protocol up to episode 10 below. You have been warned.)

First of all, Mr Bonzo is terrifying and I am regretting making a model of him, which now sits and watches me from my bedroom shelf. I have so many questions, and nowhere near enough answers to satisfy my brain.

But what got me even *more* is what happened at the Magnus Institute ruins with Sam and Alice.

And who is this [ERROR] (Voiced by Beth Eyre) that is seemingly unleashed from the institute ruins at the end?  

Well, I don't know. But I do have a bit of a theory...

What do we know about [ERROR]? Well. Not much. But I did come across this casting call from RQ, posted by @pinkelotjeart, which at the time they thought might be about Celia, however I can't see how it could be anybody if not [ERROR].

Mysterious? Absolutely. Hostile? If they're not, I'd be shocked. Raspy voice? If that breathing was anything to go by, definitely. Initially dormant, trapped + forgotten for twenty years? Well, the institute burned down just over twenty years ago, so I'm going to say that's a match too. Now the line that interested me most is the one that OP also highlighted - "building an identity for itself at the expense of its victims". 

What else have we seen "building an identity for itself"? Something that Colin has warned Alice against personifying over and over again? FR3-D1. And Freddie certainly seems to be taking its toll on Colin, who could feasibly be it's "Victim"...

Now what exactly does this mean? I don't know! But noting that [ERROR] is also the way Jonny, Alex + Tim Fearon's character names were written out by RQ when the casting was announced (as they couldn't do the glitchy effect from the images), it feels significant. 

But like I said. I don't know. That being said, imagine, for a moment, that you are this "[ERROR]" character...

You know your body is under the Magnus Institute, so you wait, biding your time, collecting as much information as you can. You watch through people's devices - harder, at first, but it gets easier and easier as technology advances. Some select few get the chance to relive their experiences, a "test screening" of sorts you name 'Voyeur' - you need to check your recordings are accurate somehow. You get involved with a tattoo artist named 'Ink5oul', who helps you out by live streaming their tattoo processes, showing you what the symbols they tattoo onto their clients mean, and how they combine.

You're not entirely undisturbed in your tomb under the Institute, of course - some idiots come poking around. It's a newer craze, "urban exploration", but you need it to stop. You find the most popular urbex forums, and, using the moderators accounts, make sure that your ruins are marked as "cleared" - there's nothing interesting to find there, so nobody will bother you. 

That is, until someone who goes by the name of "RedCanary" comes to the ruins, and almost destroys everything. It isn't time yet. You find their post about the Institute and see that they're planning to post photos of the symbols that have been drawn over the ruins. That will only invite more interest, you can't have that. So you go through their phone and warp the photographs they took beyond recognition. You send them "anonymous" threats, making it look like it's through the forums. You use their webcam to watch them, making them more and more paranoid. The paranoia makes you stronger. You dispatch of them, and take a photo as a warning to everyone else, then post it on the blog. That'll keep them away. 

When you've gathered enough audio data to learn to emulate voices, you start to speak. You read out the cases that will give the OIAR employees the tools they need to help you in your plight. But nobody notices. You can't be too specific, that'd only lead to more people poking around the ruins, destroying your chance. No, you need the right person. Somebody who understands The Magnus Institute, who can help you properly. 

And then, conveniently you listen to the interview of one "Samama Khalid", and know that it's your time. He was on the list from KLAUS. So you start slipping in hints, waiting for him to get involved. And he does. And now he's freed you, and has absolutely no idea what he's just unleashed.

Anyway! On that happy note! What does any of this mean? Who knows! I am very excited to see where this goes. But I will leave you with a couple of thoughts:

- If [ERROR] was created "from someone on the point of death", is this how the other voices in FR3-D1 appeared? In which case, that leaves Jon, Martin + Jonah (?) dead. Did [ERROR] die in the fire that destroyed the Institute? Were they the cause of the fire?

- How are the artifacts we've seen so far (the dice + violin) related to all of this?

- How are Starkwall involved in all of this?

- And last of all, how do I destroy my model Mr Bonzo? I never want to witness his horrible face again.

If you've made it this far, well done. Let me know what you guys think! Happy listening!

[lucydacusgirl]

And like I’m sorry but being like ugh you guys are so STUPID UNIT isn’t meant to represent the military in this story! Get better at media analysis🙄 when UNIT is literally textually a military organisation and that’s why they have crazy guns and weaponry and why they mention that Geneva is unhappy that Kate tried to feed a guy to an alien to prove a point. Like. Maybe in this story they’re meant to represent climate scientists or whatever but that doesn’t negate that they are in fact the military. And that the actual text of the show was like the bad guys here are the people live streaming having guns pointed at them. It’s weird from a programme that used to be so staunchly anti gun. And I don’t think that UNIT was represented entirely uncritically in the episode but like come on the overarching point was you have to trust the pastoral care of this military organisation that is keeping you safe while also keeping the information about what they’re keeping you safe from top secret and that’s for your safety as well. Which is a terrible analogy for climate scientists and medicine because in fact all of the data about the climate crisis is readily available information and the entire climate campaign runs on trying to make people understand it. Not blindly trust that scientists just know secrets about how the world is going to end but you don’t get to know what they are. Like it might have been the intention of the writer to write a story about covid or climate denial but that isn’t what happened. I’m sorry but we have to stop pretending that a Disney funded doctor who is doing anything different than what marvel is doing. It was also boring.

[pony-unicorn]

Helpful information about Dead Boy Detectives

•Netflix title suggestion website:

It's REALLY easy and quick to use. All you have to do is write "Dead Boy Detectives", "Dead Boy Detectives season 2", "Dead Boy Detectives season 3" and press "send".

•Netflix official feedback website:

•Netflix official chat:

•Calling Netflix:

You can call Netflix on any official account clicking in "help"

•Unhappily Netflix doesn't have an official email*

•Dead Boy Detectives stats website:

It doesn't show the only important data though, Netflix would analyze in other ways too.

•The hashtags:

Dead Boy Detectives had/has a lot of hashtags, but at the moment the the most famous ones are #DeadBoyDetectives and #SaveDeadBoyDetectives . #ReviveDeadBoyDetectives is also being used when commenting specifically about the streams.

Please use at max two hashtags on Twitter. The app decreases the reach of tweets with too many hashtags, you can use as many as you want on Tumblr though. Also, please refrain from creating more hashtags because if it splits then the posts will have more difficulty to trend. Use more of them, everytime you tweet about Dead Boy Detectives, even if you don't think it's important to use, the hashtags have been trending less in the last few days.

•Atracting more fans:

Usually when people see other people speaking angrily about their shows getting canceled, while 100% comprehensible, people tend to ignore. It's easier to attract more fans if you show that the show is cool, even if it's just a marketing strategy.

Netflix receives messages like this all the time and unhappily they ignore it. But people that don't know the show might get interested if they see the trailer, an edit, a synopsis or something similar, remember to use the hashtags ( #DeadBoyDetectives and #SaveDeadBoyDetectives ). It also is a good idea to probably type something else when mentioning DBD on Twitter and Instagram and not just the hashtags, so it won't be read as spam.

By the way, talking about promoting the show, Ali Plumb, a famous interviewer, posted asking about underrated shows recently, it's a opportunity to coment about Dead Boy Detectives, but remember to focus on it and be respectul instead of talking bad about Netflix. The post's link:

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Ali Plumb (@aliplumb)

•The Petition:

There's a petition for the show currently happening for the show. We already got 11000 signatures, the goal at the moment is 15000 signatures. You can also use multiple accounts to sign but it would be even better if you could share it to other people. Please don't send Netflix or other companies the petition, the creator will send it later when there's enough signatures.

•"Watch party" and top 10:

We are mass streaming and trying to get Dead Boy Detectives on Netflix's top 10. And while not the only important thing, the views are important and really helpful. Currently we're appearing on the "Everyone is watching" category in some countries, but you can see in which place on the ranking Dead Boy Detectives is by looking at the stats website. Kudos go to @/starrygraves, @/intotstars and @/moonkailan on Twitter.

•Rating and reviews:

Rating also helps, you can vote by episode on IMDB and write reviews for the show in both websites. here are the links for voting on Rotten Tomatoes and IMDB.

Rotten Tomatoes:

IMDB:

By episode:

•Save Dead Boy Detectives (the account):

It's an tumblr account focused on reviving Dead Boy Detectives, it also has a website (that I'm gonna put below 👇), Instagram and Twitter account, all @/SaveTheDeadBoys. You can find way more information about saving the show such as emails models to send to companies.

•Fucusing on Netflix:

I would recomend foucusing on Netflix for contractual reasons, since it's easier for it to give on on the cancelation than another company buying it. While Netflx doesn't have an official email, people such as the founder and CEOs have. You can also find other* emails on the Save Dead Boy Detectives website. A few of the emails:

→Reed Hastings - Executive Chairman & Founder

reed.hastings@netflix.com

rhastings@netflix.com

→Greg Peters - Co-CEO

gpeters@netflix.com

→Ted Sarandos - Co-CEO

tsarandos@netflix.com

→Warner Bros

discoverycorpcomms@gmail.com

•Letters:

Netflix's mailing addresses are:

"Netflix Inc, 5808, W. Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90028", for the United States and "Netflix Services UK LTD, 30, Berners Street, London, W1T 3LR" for the United Kingdom.

Save Dead Boy Detectives created a plan to send the letters in batches so there can be a constant arrival of letters for weeks. There is also advice for what could help or make worse when sending letters, you can find more here:

Please do not send hate to Netflix, they constantly receive messages like this and will not listen to us. Use the letters to be convincing and show your love to the show.

•Engaging with the articles:

If you engage with the articles more people will write about it. The visualizations and comments is way to demonstrate that people want to see more of it. Here is a list of Dead Boy Detectives articles by @DeadBoysDetect on Twitter:

[yorha-fangirl]

NieR 15th Anniversary Stream Expectations

So with the 15th anniversary stream happening tonight at 2:00 AM in PST and 5:00 AM EST, I think its appropriate to try and set out expectations. Looking through the livestream chat, there's a lot of people expecting a new game, which sadly doesn't seem likely.

「ゲームに関する情報公開は予定しておりません」 "There are no plans to reveal game-related information"

Well... that sucks, but at least we know not to get our hopes up. While we know Yoko Taro is working on something, it seems unlikely that we'll hear about it anytime soon. However there's still a few things to look forward to. I'm personally hoping for a bluray release of the 12024 End of Data concert so I can relive the best show I've ever been to. On top of that, I'd love to see any announcements about translations, especially one for the NieR Re[in]carnation Official Documents Collection book. For now though, I'm going in with the barest of expectations, and ultimately just looking to have a good time watching the program. If I successfully stay up for it all, I'll try my best to write a summary post of all the announcements made, though I can't make any promises lol.

credit to my girlfriend for sending me the MTL screenshot! I don't have Twitter so that wouldn't have been possible without her <3