#Nebulously After Their Agreement that's all you get

[tallerthantale]

Effective Boycotting is a Matter of Leverage

I'm not writing this to be critical of or police anyone's personal position on continuing involvement in Good Omens fandom or whatever their state is with Amazon. Some people may never want to engage in the fandom again, and that's ok. Some people want to keep working on their art, that's ok.

For people who are actively interested in strategizing around their relationship to the fandom and the work, I want to give you my thoughts on how that can be done.

Amazon appears to be considering reducing Neil Gaiman's roles from Season 3. As far as I have seen we don't know what any of the details are that are currently being considered. That means right now is the most impactful moment to consider the role of fandom.

When we look at this strategically, the first step is, what's the objective? For me, the long term goal is to have an incentive structure for Amazon and other such organizations to drop people from projects. I'll explain a bit what I mean by that.

Imagine a labor union that's contracted with a store owned by an evil corporation. It's too much of a monopoly to realistically take down the corporation, a lot of people are stuck buying from the store because they don't have decent transportation.

There is a labor dispute, the evil corporation is doing something extra evil and the union calls for a boycott until they stop. So the people who reasonably can stop shopping at the store honor the boycott, and buy from somewhere else. If it's a well run boycott they also help other people out with rides to shop elsewhere through community organizing.

Eventually the store gives in on the labor dispute and does what the union wants. At that point, the union drops the call for a boycott, as the parties have come to an agreement. The evil corporation is still evil. Here is the really important part: When the union drops the call for a boycott, you go back to shopping at the store. Yes, even if the store is still largely evil.

You do that, because that is what preserves the union's power. If no one who participated in the boycott went back to the store after the agreement, the store learns to not bother to reach agreements with the union to end their calls to boycott. Corporations are not acting off of moral principles, they are acting off of bottom line. If reaching an agreement with the union does not improve their bottom line, why bother to negotiate?

So my point is, for fandom to become a base of organized power that can have and maintain effective boycott leverage, there has to be a thing that we are taking away, and a thing we want Amazon to do, at which point those strategically inclined will put back the thing we took away.

The most obvious option is to go back to supporting the show if Neil Gaiman is removed from it to a reasonable degree. Doing that contributes to an incentive structure for Amazon and other corporations to remove people under similar circumstances in the future.

If Amazon can avoid the financial hit of the protest by giving the protestors what they want, they will do so. That helps break down the cultures of looking the other way in the entertainment industry. If shows that remove people get full on protested even after the person was removed, they have no incentive to remove people because it's all sunk cost.

Given how often shows are cancelled these days, I think it is a stronger message to have a show fire its showrunner and carry on successfully than to have a show nebulously not return. I like that outcome better even if it leaves Gaiman with some residuals, because for me the priority goal is incentivizing platforms to publicly dump people in these situations. Gaiman's bank balance is further down the list.

Other people will have other things they want their end goal to be and that's ok. Just remember you aren't appealing to Amazon's better nature, you are appealing to their spreadsheet. What is their incentive to care what you think?

Plan like you are in a negotiation with Amazon. What do you want them to do? What are you willing to stop doing that you will start doing again if they do what you want? And if you find what your position is on that, tell them. People who can drop prime and then offer to reinstate it probably have the most power, but pausing fan content is a meaningful thing to mention too.

[the-remote-viewers-division]

I have an alternate pale theory…

Consider this like a ‘Pale-AU’ (i.e. I know it is probably not supported by canon, and certainly not supported by some other works like Joshua Jenkins designs, for example… also I haven’t finished reading PJÕL, so maybe my ideas will change after that) but I started thinking about it as a “what-if” situation: If there were to be a direct sequel to Disco Elysium :insert prayer hands:, how could we reconcile the multitude of different Harrys the player could create? What about the fates of other characters? Some change due to our influence, some die. How could a sequel storyline somehow accept all those possible variances? Introducing my almost-certainly not-correct pale theory!TM using a little bit of in-game info, some real-life stuff, and a sprinkle of imagination!

Caution: Many spoilers ahead.

So what is Pale -- just the past?

After you talk to the Phasmid you’re given the impression that humans/people created the pale accidentally (with thinking and memory and ideas and invention?); and after talking to Joyce you learn that some think the pale is “rarified past.” It’s all pretty nebulous, but I think that the pale being a product (or a by-product) of the human mind/memory is close to what could be accepted as the canon origin of the pale:

INSULINDIAN PHASMID - The pale, too, came with you. No one remembers it before you. The cnidarians do not, the radially symmetricals do not. There is an almost unanimous agreement between the birds and the plants that you are going to destroy us all. YOU - Wait, the pale is human made? INSULINDIAN PHASMID - It is a nervous shadow cast into the world by you, eating away at reality. A great, unnatural territory. Its advent coincides with the arrival of the human mind. YOU - I don't have that kind of power. INSULINDIAN PHASMID - You are a violent and irrepressible miracle. The vacuum of cosmos and the stars burning in it are afraid of you. Given enough time you would wipe us all out and replace us with nothing -- just by accident. YOU - ...how? INSULINDIAN PHASMID - We suspect it will be something like the oxygen holocaust that wiped out anaerobic life 2.6 billion years ago -- when organisms first started breathing. Only much worse. CONCEPTUALIZATION - Instead of air, you exhale thoughts. There are no trees that eat thoughts.

JOYCE MESSIER – "Some say the damage stems from extreme sensory deprivation. Others argue that pale somehow *consists* of past information, that's degrading. That it's rarefied past, not rarefied matter." JOYCE MESSIER – "They call it *the blend-over of the self*. The pale does not only suspend the laws of physics, but also the laws of psychology, maybe History, even... The human mind becomes over-radiated by past." YOU – "Who says and who argues?" JOYCE MESSIER – "The logical positivists say -- the dialectical materialists argue."

An effect of the Pale is “entroponetical crosstalk" which you can experience when you use the doorbell intercom outside the whirling and hear the woman speaking from Tricentennial Electrics a long time ago, and additionally the old pale driver also talks to you about how she’s experienced the past in the pale, like the assassination of Dolores Dei. Both are snippets of human past:

KIM KITSURAGI - "It was a recording trapped in the circuitry. From some ancient tenant. This sometimes happens. Shall we conclude here? We have other mysteries to solve." YOU - "I do have one mystery that still needs solving... the radio ghost in the Doomed Commercial Area's electronic doorbell." SOONA, THE PROGRAMMER - "The creepy woman!" She slaps her forehead. "We were wondering about that when we worked there... but I had completely forgotten about it ever since!" SOONA, THE PROGRAMMER - "It must be entroponetic crosstalk. The one you get in radios and long-distance calls... Now it makes sense, with the pale right on the doorstep." KIM KITSURAGI - "Incredible..." the lieutenant murmurs. "This would also explain why we get it on the police radio all the time." YOU - "Entroponetic crosstalk?" SOONA, THE PROGRAMMER - "It's quite common actually. When the signal gets routed through pale, all kinds of irregularities take place. You may hear snippets of someone else's conversation, or the voice of your former lover, or an echo of an event that took place 100 years ago." SOONA, THE PROGRAMMER - "Pale is a shroud of memories and it doesn't really distinguish to whom those memories belong to. You could hear anything."

PALEDRIVER - "You don't need to turn back time. The pale is already churning with it. As the tide of pale rises, so does the past. Someday both will cover the whole world. That's it. That's the story." PALEDRIVER - "They say there is a point -- one that *I* have not crossed -- in the pale superdeep. If you stray too far off course on the U41-A, or in Lomonossov's Land... where every step you take is one step further from home, no matter the direction." PALEDRIVER - "It's a point you cannot come back from. Your mind becomes so radiant with the past -- there is a flip." She flicks the ash from her cigarette. "Instead of writing, it erases memory. Nearing some kind of..." She shakes her head. "Indescribable *finale*." PALEDRIVER - "Like Gabriel Buenguerro in 'Segure-me, Paraíso'..." She nods and smiles, unkindly. "You're the opposite of me then. I remember everything -- even the things I never knew." YOU - "Things you never knew?" PALEDRIVER - "The smell of liquor on Gabriel's lips after the shoot. In the motor park. The roses on the day of Franconegro's coronation. On the grand stairs of Raehl. The smoke from the fowling piece, when Dolores Dei was shot..." PALEDRIVER - "The look on her face -- like an orgasm. The wound in her chest. My hand in my father's hand..." She closes her eyes, her eyelids trembling. "Except I never had a father. And I never shot Her Innocence Dolores Dei." .. PALEDRIVER - "Thought insertion? *Dithering*? The Graad-Katla Magistral?" She savours the lungful. "It's more than dangerous -- it's *sad*. But... at first I had to make a living. Now..."

So you’d think Joyce’s theory checks out, it’s all history/memory---BUT! I did the moralist political quest my first play thru, and when you are trying to contact the airship you also get radio crosstalk from the pale.

KIM KITSURAGI - "It's cold now..." SHIVERS - A slight frisson at the point where your neck meets your spine. Something about the lieutenant's words, directed at you, but not *you*... YOU - "It's really coming down, now that you mention it." KIM KITSURAGI - "Mention what?" YOU - "It's cold, like you just said." KIM KITSURAGI - "I didn't say anything, detective." KIM KITSURAGI - "...someone has been maintaining it. The wiring has been repaired..." HORSEBACK ANTENNA - An uncomfortable silence falls over the connection. KIM KITSURAGI - "... It's been a long winter... Long and cold..." YOU - "Are you going to tell me you didn't say *that*, either?" KIM KITSURAGI - "I promise you, I didn't, even though it certainly *sounds* like me..." The lieutenant seems to wince at the sound of his own voice. YOU - "It must be entroponetic crosstalk. It's the only explanation." NOID - "So your partner's haunting himself. Trying to warn him off his current path, most like." KIM KITSURAGI - "It's eerie, for certain, but also harmless. I just wish I could remember what I was talking about..." ESPRIT DE CORPS - Something here is eating at the lieutenant, as much as he would like to move past it.

You can even hear it if Kim is not with you:

KIM KITSURAGI - "It's cold now..." SHIVERS - A slight frisson at the point where your neck meets your spine. You can *feel* the lieutenant's presence, even though he's nowhere to be found... YOU - "Kim? How did you get on my connection?" NOID - "Whoa, the cop's *own partner* is a radio-spooker. That's some *other core* business right there..." HORSEBACK ANTENNA - ... KIM KITSURAGI - "...someone has been maintaining it. The wiring has been repaired..." YOU - "Kim! Answer me." NOID - "No use, man. Don't think he can hear you." YOU - "I've encountered this before. It's entroponetic crosstalk. This is a piece of the past mixing in with our signal." NOID - "What..." KIM KITSURAGI - "It's been a long winter... Long and cold." NOID - "What have you gotten us into, lawman?" HALF LIGHT - Just *run*. Unplug that headset and get as far away as you can.

YOU - "Kim? How did you get on my connection?" … YOU - "What is he talking about?"’ SOONA, THE PROGRAMMER - "I believe you mean, what *was* he talking about." YOU - "Wait, what are *you* talking about?" KIM KITSURAGI - "It's been a long winter... Long and cold." SOONA, THE PROGRAMMER - "It sounds very much like entroponetic crosstalk. It happens sometimes when sending transmissions across long stretches of pale..."

Except IT'S NOT FROM THE PAST. It is Kim talking from the future, from the fort on the island. Which hasn’t happened yet.

And it can possibly NOT HAPPEN.

You hear Kim say this stuff even if he gets shot and doesn’t come with you to the island.

During gameplay they kind of just go “huh, how strange and spooky...” and don’t really delve into it.

But that completely changes the pale right? It’s not just past, it’s also future, and not just the ONLY future, POSSIBLE future.

So, my theory is that the pale is multiverse colliding: the near pale is the places where these universes begin to overlap, and deep pale is where universes overlap to such a degree they are cancelling themselves out into nothing.

Fungal communication – mycorrhizal network

When Joyce talks to you, she talks about a fungus growing at the edge of the porch collapse. I think this fungus could be acting like a mycorrhizal network, which in our world are an underground networks connecting fungi and plants allowing them to communicate or share information. I think the fungi/spores in Elysium pop up at origin points and thrive along the porch collapse and are allowing the universes to “talk” to each other.

SOONA, THE PROGRAMMER - "I understand..." She closes her eyes. "A theory of the pale where instead of an *outer ocean* it metastasises -- like a cancer or a mould -- erupting in points *inside* the world."

JOYCE MESSIER - "An uproar of matter, darling, *rising* into the pale. Rolling. Evaporating even, a great vision. The area of transition between the world and the pale is called *porch collapse*." JOYCE MESSIER - "Imagine a grey coronal mist, cold vapour, marked by spores of an opportunistic microorganism -- a mould that's adapted to grow at the edge of the unrest. It's..." JOYCE MESSIER - She closes her eyes and breathes out heavily: "... the most *disco* thing you will ever see.

INLAND EMPIRE - The white noise turns into a wall of mist and grey mould, bubbling, sweeping over the city... it tears up buildings and raises sidewalks into the sky. It's Revachol -- at the end of the world. INLAND EMPIRE - ...and it hasn't even really started yet.

Destructive interference – “le gris”

When Lena tells you about the cryptid the Col Do Ma Ma Da Qua, you learn that they are nearly extinct because the scientists played back their own calls and since they are creatures made of sound, the recordings cancelled out the birds. They died because the signals matched and cancelled each other out.

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "It's the *Col Do Ma Ma Daqua*," the woman corrects her glasses. "Its name means 'thin whisper of sound'. And that's *precisely* what it is -- self-replicating sound waves, invisible and intangible! The Col Do Ma Ma is very afraid of us, which makes it incredibly difficult to track..." YOU - "Why is the Ma Ma Daqua so afraid of us?" LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "That is a sad story." She frowns. "A group of university students assisting with the field work, in their enthusiasm for the project and, no doubt, because they were preoccupied with impressing their professors, nearly drove it to *extinction*." YOU - "Extinction?" LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - She nods gravely. "They tried to communicate with it, and had no other means but sound. So they started sending out sound waves at frequencies they thought might match the Ma Ma Daqua's. And what happens when a sound wave meets another sound wave of the same frequency, dear?" YOU - "They cancel each other out."

So... admittedly this doesn’t directly connect to the pale, but it’s illustrating the concept of signals cancelling each other out and, I'm going to say, indicates that this concept is possible in Elysium. The pale is destruction, the overlap between universes causes matter, physics, and even numbers to dissolve. The more complete the overlap, the more complete the destruction.

In conclusion...

According to my theory, the pale is the areas of the world that are affected by these fungal organisms that allow very similar, but different universes to communicate with each other, and since their 'signals' are so alike, they are being cancelled out.

So why did I force myself to jump thru these mental hoops? I think having a multiverse like this would make a sequel more possible since there are so many ways the game can be played. Any possible playthrough would be its own universe. Having a multiverse like this acknowledges and validates any play thru as 'canon,' no player will feel that they somehow played the game “wrong.”  Whatever Harry appearing in the sequel is one of the possible Harrys even if he wasn’t “your” Harry. If a character died, they died only in some of the universes, not all. Whatever world the sequel would take place in is just one of the many possibilities.

Anyway, I thought WAYYYY too much about this and now you can too. Sorry!

[eldritch-spouse]

I just had to break off a 2 year friendship but it actually went really well, we talked about it, came to an agreement and parted ways.

How would the clergy members react to (humor me because haha friends outside the clergy? No.) An s/o being sad and quiet after breaking off a friendship?

Thank you pinnie. I present thee a bagel sacrifice :3

[I mean, it's all a variation of the same really...]

Dropping a friend

Morell doesn't even feign sadness for you. Well, you broke it off, now it's time to move onto greener pastures right? One less obstacle to divide your attention, now you can pay attention to the important things.

Gallon coaxes you somewhere so you two can drink and talk about it. If you ask him, that's not the only friend you should probably part ways with, in all honesty. Though he's mostly preoccupied with making you forget aaaall about that person. What was their name again? Who cares.

Santi rubs a hand on your back. Well, it's better this way, isn't? But he doesn't like that frown at all. You can make better friends in the future, he might introduce you to some of his! Now, how about he works a little magic in you and make it all better?

Grimbly doesn't hide his disdain. Well, it sucks, but honestly they were shitty. You're much better off without them, for sure. Grimbly knew this would happen, and he told you to drop them earlier, but you don't listen to him, do you mommy? Tsk.

Nebul is another one who likes to sit you down and process it. Except he's going to talk circles around you, in way that might raise your walls to anyone you meet in the future. You don't want to waste years of your life on someone who you don't even know will be respectful to you, right? Let's not let that happen again.

Belo commends you on your ability to get rid of the insufferable pests in your life. If you ask the angel, he thinks your real potential is being muddled by these bad influences. Clearly, this is not the type of acquaintance you should be having, and Belo would like you to consider some other vermin connections.

Fank-e makes a little sad face on his screen. That sucks balls, but guess what!! There's a bazillion friends out there on the Internet, how about Fank-e show you some places where you can make friends?? He's still the best though, of course. You know that.

Vinnel is sad that he didn't get to them first. Fuck, guess he'll have to be quicker next time... That's one less domino. Poppet, the less you have, the better. Your friends are hilarious really, they're the funniest jokes ever- Get real, since when do you need people like that in your life. Get some taste in people, he's been the only good choice you made.

Patches tries to come off as empathetic, lord does he. But it just doesn't stick. He's bad at it. You'll have an awkward conversation where he lets it slip that he thought the other person was unintelligent and bland and he's glad you're going to stop talking about them now.

Sybastian could not give less of a fuck. That's relieving news, more time for him and the mimiclings. Now come join them to eat, no more talk of your silly little human friends.

Krulu is stroking you from all sides, several hands rewarding his beautiful vessel as he whispers praises in your ears for being so good, for listening to your lord when he tells you to drop someone. You're going in the right path, Krulu loves you.

[dynared]

Random thoughts on the Earthspark cancelation and what comes next for the Transformers brand

What a week, huh? So, we got confirmation Earthspark was canceled, Hasbro put the absolute bare minimum effort into their 40th anniversary celebration leading to many people going to the movie theaters expecting Transformers the Movie and not DVD-quality episodes of the TV series with many demanding refunds, and some good news, Transformers from Skybound being nominated for several Eisner awards, the first time a Transformers comic has ever been nominated for the comic book world's Oscar equivalent.

So once again, the brand, the sole surviving Western mecha brand at this point unless that J-Lo movie next week somehow launches a new franchise (doubtful) is at a crossroads, especially with their enduring business partner Paramount in complete turmoil, with more senior executives jumping ship and an official NDA signed between Paramount and Sony yesterday which allows Sony access to Paramount's record-keeping in order to ascertain the value for a bid.

So with all that said, rambling about the franchise under the cut.

Earthspark is done after this season, and it's easy to see why. While many right-wing grifter types will point to the nebulous "wokeness", an ill-defined term at this point that means little besides "bad non-traditional thing", the reasons are pretty simple. Kids weren't interested, the toyline didn't sell, and the show, whether due to being distributed on a streaming service people only get for Sonic stuff and the occasional South Park special, had very poor ratings. If you're making a kids show and you bore the kids, you're done, no matter how "important" you think the stories are. The days of Ted Turner funding Captain Planet out of his own pocket are long gone.

Since Earthspark is dead, but another series is in development, it looks like Hasbro will not be letting the franchise rest for any set period of time. The most likely follow-up for Earthspark is a spin-off of Transformers One similar to what Tales of the TMNT is for Mutant Mayhem after the latter's box-office success. It's a pretty low-risk venture to boot, with the biggest issue being the usual problems with a movie spin-off (lower quality visuals, sound-alikes since you can't pay the celebrity actors to do the voices week in and week out) so long as the movie is a success. It also lets the franchise establish some needed distance from Earthspark's lack of success.

Now, the question of "What if One isn't a success?" definitely is one that Hasbro is contemplating. For all the ragging on Snake-Eyes GI Joe Origins as a box office bomb, Rise of the Beasts was widely viewed by Hollywood as a flop and the lowest-grossing film in the history of the franchise. While a lot of that may be due to the wishy-washy way the continuity has been handled and the inability to commit to a full reboot (Madame Web producer Lorenzo di Bonaventura has been insistent that all the Michael Bay movies are still canon, even though that makes no real sense), if One isn't successful, the franchise may need to step back for a year or two.

Any other new concept for a series that fans have wanted is simply not feasible due to time and budget. With Hasbro joined at the hip with Paramount (apparently Hasbro board members own Paramount stock, hence their desire to keep the relationship going so long as Paramount exists), they don't have access to or funds for numerous studios. Studio Trigger have been asking to do a Transformers show for years now, hence all the shout-outs in stuff like SSSS.Gridman and even Panty and Stocking. Studio Orange's head took to the internet earlier in the week asking to be able to do a mecha show. Neither is getting the call from Hasbro because Paramount would rather use local Western studios and save money.

That of course leads to the final option for an adaptation, a 1:1 or similar of the Energon Universe. The problem with that is simply put, it's way too soon. While it would assuredly get a lot of attention just by putting down "From the creator of Invincible and The Walking Dead" in the promos, animation lead times mean that it would be impossible to do at this point without overtaking the entire stock of comics and either resulting in huge delays between seasons, or filler. Neither of which would be helpful.

So I guess tl:dr - Earthspark bombed not because of a non-binary owl, but because the kids were bored by it, with even the Fox News controversy failing to get the show any real positive attention with its main demographic of families. As horrible for Hollywood as it may be to see Paramount be sold for parts to Sony, it may actually be Hasbro's best bet at making its tie-in brands successful again on the big and small screens. And if One doesn't succeed, they are going to be in big trouble because nothing else is realistically ready yet.

[aerodaltonimperial]

non-verbal jack prompt: jack getting into darby's space and falling asleep on him

(not in the fic timeline but in a nebulous zone we call "i do what i want")

Lightning grounds all the flights out of LaGuardia. The whole damn airport shuts down, and heaven forbid they try to leave in case the place decides to start shuttling them into the clouds again, so they're stuck, all of them, the thousands and thousands of stranded passengers ready to descend upon the customer service desks with fire in their eyes. So they all wait, mostly curled over their luggage in whatever gate they ended up getting the bad news in. Darby finds a corner where the wall meets the windows and sinks into it. There's an outlet next to his elbow; he's set.

He's absently scrolling through social media when Jack finds him. It's not often that Darby sees Jack outside of the backstage, not like this: not rumpled and tired, with creases in his t-shirt and normal sneakers on his feet. Jack stands past Darby's shoes, his mouth twisting.

"Hey," Darby says. "You're stuck, too?"

Jack wobbles his head back and forth, agreement. Then he lifts one shoulder in a shrug that doesn't quite finish.

"You can sit," Darby offers. He even scoots over a bit, giving up his hard-earned spot so Jack can slide in next to him. It's a tight fit, with the corner, but Darby doesn't really mind. Jack curls up next to Darby's arm and watches Darby thumb through his feed.

"Dunno how long we'll be stuck here," Darby says. "They don't even give us vouchers for shitty airport food with weather delays."

Jack pantomimes bringing food to his mouth.

Darby shakes his head. "Maybe later. I actually don't like to eat much when I travel."

Jack pokes at Darby's stomach, which ends up triggering Darby's startle reflex. "Dude!" Darby laughs. "Gonna smack you in the head with my knee if you aren't careful."

Jack hums a little, a low chuckle. And then he goes quiet. The airport buzzes around them, full of frustrated passengers who are realizing they may have to give up on getting to their final destination. And Jack's cheek presses against Darby's shoulder as his body sags inward. When Darby glances sideways, Jack's eyes are closed. His lashes have fluttered down onto his cheeks.

Darby looks up, afraid that someone will come over and startle Jack. Afraid that someone will announce over the loudspeaker that the runways are opening back up. He doesn't want them to open up. He's comfortable here, with Jack's warmth against his side.

Jack's chin dips a little lower, brushing against Darby's collarbone, and finally, hoping it doesn't send this whole situation sideways, Darby shifts his arm out. Loops it around Jack's waist. He sort of freezes after that, worried Jack is gonna bolt, but the guy doesn't. Jack curls in closer, his nose disappearing into the folds of Darby's sweatshirt.

Darby exhales, a bit of a rush. The hand against Jack's side worms further around the curve of his waist, fingertips applying pressure. Darby can feel Jack's lungs expanding against his palm.

"You okay?" he murmurs, as quietly as he can, just to see if Jack is still awake.

"Yeah," comes the whispered reply, half-muffled by black fabric. Jack is so warm. He's managed to make himself small enough to slot right into Darby's side, and it's possibly the most contact, outside the ring, that Darby has had in months. It's been so fucking long since he was able to put his arm around someone and just be. Just exist.

Darby sets his phone down on his lap, taps the screen dark. He focuses on Jack's breathing against his skin and Jack's hair tickling his neck.

Jack falls asleep, but Darby doesn't. He's awake the whole time, for the entire next hour, gently dragging his thumb down Jack's ribs over and over and over until he's pretty sure he could pick Jack's heartbeat out of the entire crowd of irritated travelers.

[andmaybegayer]

Project "Let's watch every single Fast & Furious movie"

Alright I looked at the Wikipedia page and apparently in addition to all this they have six seasons of an animated series about *checks notes* a group of evil racers bent on world domination. Cool. I will decide whether I'm watching that or not later let's just do the movies for now.

The Fast And The Furious (2001)

Oh there's so much on display here. FF was not the first bit of street racing media but it was what brought it into the mainstream for sure, and the echoes of this movie are still being felt. This influence is made all the better by the fact that the movie has no goddamn clue any of this is about to happen.

You may look at the big beefy muscleboys and sexy fawning girls and go "this is going to have a lot of gender in it isn't it" and while you wouldn't be wrong you'd be missing that gender mostly takes a backseat to race. There's a lot of race in this thing. You've got the three racially distinct gangs with their racially distinct hangers on driving their somehow racially distinct cars. Or in the case of the nebulously Asian group, racially distinct motorcycles, because. Japan.

The setting is so 2000's, unbearably normal suburbs of Hollywood. Dominic Torretto lives in the most ordinary suburban house I've seen in a movie in years, because of course it's 2001 and everyone does not yet live in ethereal perfectly decorated minimalist houses. This really helps sell the multiple times the Gang are all hanging out in this space watching a shitty move on a tiny TV or having a fun little barbecue in the backyard.

I'm not sure they had realized they had made this little found family so endearing yet because about 20 minutes after this scene, Torretto takes the protagonist for a walk and tells him all about how the only thing he cares about is drag racing and screw his gang, which I expected to be a setup for a more explicit realization/rejection later but no he reiterates this in full at the end of the movie with no apparent realization. This despite

The fun barbecue and movie times

Toretto immediately going after his missing friend when he is at extreme risk of going to prison

I think they probably only figured the whole family angle out fully later but you can see the framework is already here.

Actually an aside for the funniest bit of Torretto characterization in the movie: shortly after winning a race, almost getting busted, getting saved from the police by the new kid, accidentally violating a gang agreement, getting threatened by the Asian gang (in front of a chinese restaurant), almost getting killed in an explosion, and catching a taxi home, he gets in to his house where a moderately rowdy house party is going on. His girlfriend comes up and is like "hey do you want to go upstairs and have some epic sex with your win wife" to which his response is:

"But what about all our guests?"

Perfect moment no notes. A man who is wondering whether they're going to run out of nachos.

I had to remind myself very often that this show was from 2001, so when they pull out a 1995 Supra my first thought was "oh, of course, the 2JZ is a legend" not, "oh, the current Supra." This happens with a few cars, the Honda S2000 is a 1999 car, it's basically brand new in this movie, not the classic that we now know is a huge pain in the ass because it only makes any power at redline.

You know people made fun of FF for being obsessed with shifting and I don't see it. They do make a note of it but I mean come on, it's a drag racing movie, shifting is 9/10ths of the game. It's not overdone.

The cinematography is so much. Most of the time it's reasonably normal, some fun crane work when they're out in the desert, but the amount of compositing and post-processed camera shake and bizarre undercranked cuts during races is unbelievable. The undercranking especially is so weird, it's an unusual approach to conveying speed, standard cinematography would say you want to have motion blur but these were shot either extremely slowly or with extremely small shutter angle so it looks almost stop motion. It's almost the opposite.

You may notice I am not really talking about the plot, and I'm not really talking about the romantic subplot either. These both exist. The romantic subplot of Mia and Brian is fine, it's cute, but it's so foregone as to be ignorable. It is eye candy if nothing else, Paul Walker went full force prettyboy for this movie, it's unreal. The plot is there to move you from scene to scene but this is absolutely more of a movie about each individual scene rather than what happens when you put those scenes in sequence.

The emotional through line of all these independent scenes is reasonably strong. As mentioned, you get to see Toretto and his buds hanging out and bonding, they're all so endearing, the scrappy ECU tuner tells our protagonist about how he dropped out of school despite being good at maths because he has ADD. The choice to not show Brian ever being a cop, and instead dropping you right in the middle means you have no attachment to whatever past life he may have had, I don't think you learn a single thing about his actual background beyond "cop who wants to make detective" and "quit smoking."

I am very interested to see how the rest of the series handles the character of Toretto because he has a lot of room to be a very strange kind of center of gravity around which other people collect, but he could also just become a modern Big Beefy Action Hero and that would suck. I do think he just fucks off for the next two or three movies though, so.

Brief return to "this setting is normal as fuck," the climactic final drag race occurs on the back street outside a high school. Zero flair.

The Fast and Furious movies have long reaching consequences in other media. It's no surprise that Need for Speed Underground came out two years after this. I'm interested to see some parallels in wider media as I go here, obviously Tokyo Drift was what brought Initial-D style drift obsession to people who didn't watch Anime, and street racing went from being a niche thing that only people invested in the scene cared about to being a thing twelve year olds cared about.

[pensiveant]

Sorry but I'm full of opinions about this and I actually understand what I'm talking about, so I can't shut up. "Ethically sourced AI art generation" is not a thing because "unethically sourced AI art generation" is ALSO not a thing. If you campaign for image generation algorithms to be trained only on data banks gathered """with consent""" (i.e. consent from the original artists, many of which are long dead anyway) and for anything else to be punishable under law, then you better be ready to advocate for the 13 year old drawing anime characters for the first time to be sued, fined, and/or incarcerated too because. it's the exact. same. thing. It's the same principle.

The neural network looks at millions of photographs and art depictions of an apple and learns to recognize what it looks like. It learns to recognize what red means in relation to an apple, what bright means, what dramatic shadows mean. And then it creates an entirely new picture from scratch, putting together the information it collected from looking at all those examples and what they have in common. It does not copy, trace, crop and glue bits together, or whatever else people are imagining. It's not the same technology as applying a filter to an existing picture to modify it.

A budding artist learning to draw does the exact same thing. They look at reference pictures, they look at other people's art and how they depict certain elements of color, shadows, light, etc. They're inspired by other people's art styles. It's not just practiced but even recommended that starting out, new artists trace over reference photos or other people's art for private practice in order to get of sense of how to build certain shapes, how to manipulate perspective, and so on. They learn the exact same way the AI does, and they both need some time and practice to get it right.

It's impossible to legally ban one without hurting the other. Where do you draw the line? The difference between the two might seem clear to you now, but it could easily be argued that it's nonexistent by a determined enough asshole looking to sue someone. And who do you think that is going to affect the most if not people who were already vulnerable in front of the law as is?

Furthermore, it's impossible to copyright art style. That's just not a thing. Copyright is already a nebulous concept when it comes to art (not just the visual type either) and how strictly it is applied depends on how much of a dick someone wants to be. People claim this kind of AI is putting small artists doing commissions out of business, but do you realize that the overwhelming majority of commission artists are regularly selling art of characters they do not legally own? That both the artist and the commissioner are participating in copyright infringement? That neither of them actually owns that piece of art? Or do copyright laws apply only when it makes you angry?

Someone including an artist's portfolio in training datasets even after explicitly being asked by said artist not to do that is a bit of an asshole move, yeah. I agree and I wouldn't want anything to do with someone like that either. But it is not an immoral act. And under no circumstances whatsoever should it be an illegal one. It's just a shit thing to do, but I promise you can live with it. Put your pitchfork and torch down for a moment and think what kind of future you're asking for by asking for stricter copyright laws because I don't think most people realize what a hellish authoritarian system that would be.

The conversations we should be having regarding the ethical use of AI revolve around its use to replace and lay off employees, impersonate actors by using their voice and likeness without their agreement, impersonate real people in general (more easily so, not that this is a new issue strictly related to the rising popularity of image generators), bloat internet spaces with irrelevant or erroneous information and ads, decrease the reliability and general usefulness of search engines, and so on and so forth. Yet what most people froth at the mouth about are topics like "AI art is not real art" and "AI art is stolen art" and "AI art is not valid because a human didn't put in effort" etc. which are all completely asinine topics that will never lead to productive discussions.

If you want to take a stand against AI art, do it for the right reasons, not out of misinformed kneejerk reactionary panic and stubbornness.

[sonorous-cicada]

Breathe Part 8

Crickets chirped outside. They always did this close to the Land of Grass. Wind swept through the old wooden corridors of the Ryokan, the paper doors crinkled against the gentle barrage. 

Hana moved her hand against my bare hip. Small callouses that had always dotted the sides of her index fingers, rasping along my skin. “Why are you up?” 

The moonlight streamed into the small crack in the sliding door. 

I snuggled further against her, kissing the side of her neck. She was so warm, or was it the Haimaru triplets scattered around our bed? Warm fur was against my back. Hai’s drool always dried on my shoulder when we slept together. Out of the three, he was perhaps, the biggest cuddler. 

Hana scrubbed a hand over her face. “Why are you awake?” she repeated. “Is something wrong? Do you need your medicine?”

I shook my head against the pillow and held her closer before she had a chance to get up. “No, I’m fine. It’s just a beautiful night. I wanted to take it in.”

“I don’t buy that for a second,” she murmured sleepily, pressing her lips to my forehead. 

“You should,” I whisper back, savoring the feel of her body against mine. My lung disease was progressing. In the mornings, I would wake up and expel the mucosal build-up from the night. Lately, that included copious amounts of blood. I would never mention it to her. She’d only worry. She’d demand that I stay in the village for tests. She might shut down, and lock herself away in search of a cure that doesn’t exist and never has. 

Perhaps I was being selfish, keeping her here with me while I meet a rogue-nin from Kiri. I wish she’d go back to sleep so I could possibly run away and meet him by myself. After all, it’s no great loss to the village if I pass, but her? She’s the sun, breathing warmth into my heart that had long closed off to anyone who wasn’t kin. Guilt consumed me at the thought of leaving her behind, the only relief I could find was in knowing she would find someone else. She was charismatic, beautiful, and tender-hearted. A woman anyone would dream of being with, I certainly had.

“Chizu—” Hana groaned. She tightened her grip around my waist. “You’re thinking so loud.” 

Hai huffed an agreement from my right. His heavy paw landed on my face; the calloused pad scratched against my nose. 

Dawn came far too early, bathing the room in a wash of pinks and oranges through the rice paper door. The light crept over her face, highlighting the errant hairs that had escaped her nightly braid. Gods knew I loved her. The love I felt for her could rival that of my brothers. Or my parents. Or cousin. I would happily go to the grave for her. 

I rolled out of the bed, shoving Hai’s leg off of my shoulder. Ru sighed and stood up from the end of the bed. He laid down in the spot I had vacated and enjoyed the residual body heat. As quietly as I could I turned on the shower, then used my medical equipment. By the time the nebulizer treatment was started, Hana walked into the bathroom and kissed my bare shoulder. 

She hugged me over the towel I had tied around my chest. “I love you,” she said quietly. “I don’t know all of your plans, but felt you needed to hear that this morning.”

The mask on my face prevented my reply, instead, I turned and pressed my forehead against hers. All she was supposed to know was the Hokage had sanctioned a civilian merchant to meet with a notorious nuke-nin, ostensibly to broker a deal for rare dyes made from ingredients found in the distant sea. Hana wasn’t stupid by a long shot. She knew long before anyone could guess I was an agent for the Hokage. When I received permission to leave on this mission, she went to the Hokage and begged to accompany me. I don’t believe my godfather was fooled by her feigned cluelessness, but he is far too romantic to deny such a request. He would have done the same for his wife. 

For the nuke-nin, Kisame, it was quite a deal. In exchange for information on a new terrorist organization, the Hokage offered citizenship and amnesty. Why Kisame? The former head of the intelligence division of Kirigakure no Sato turned rogue, well. That made for quite an illustrious story I could not resist following. Every scrap of information I could collect was neatly collated into a folder nearing two-hundred pages by the time I turned in my proposal to the Hokage. I could only hope the rogue would be amenable. We would find out this morning.

I think, if I had more time in my sandglass, I would have made her mine. I could easily picture her in her clan’s colors standing next to me at the shrine entrance. I would happily fold into the Inuzuka clan, and shed the trappings of my birthright. Not that the Uchiha elders would argue, to them, I was a waste of space. We’d have matching bouquets of daisies, fancy bows for the Haimaru triplets, and excellent food. Maybe we’d dance until our feet became sore, then sleep until noon the next day still in our wedding clothes. If I only had more time…I wish I did. I really do. Gods knew I wish I had more time. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The guards at the village gates watched with sympathetic gazes as Team Seven signed in. Kakashi frowned at their quiet expressions. 

He tapped on the wood in Konoha standard code, ‘Did someone die?’

Kotetsu nodded. He brushed the rough grain wood of the check-in counter with his finger, then haltingly replied, ‘Chizu Uchiha was attacked two weeks ago. Itachi brought her home, but he was too late. She will be taken off life support this afternoon.’

Kakashi sighed and rubbed a rough hand over his face. ‘Don’t say anything. I’ll tell him.’

The gate guards’ shoulders dropped, and they sat back in their seats, relieved of responsibility. 

Team Seven continued to walk through the village. Dismissing Sakura and Naruto, Kakashi turned to Sasuke, pointing him to Hashirama Park. They walked the trail in silence, winding closer to the hospital with each footstep. 

“Why are we walking to the hospital?” Sasuke asked suspiciously. He threw his hands in his pockets as they continued to meander down the path. “Is Chizu having an episode or something? Is that what this was about?”

Kakashi placed a heavy hand on Sasuke’s shoulder. “Stay calm, remember, we’re headed to see her. They said she was attacked. Your older brother managed to save her. However, she will be taken off life support this afternoon.”

Sasuke stopped, his feet refused to move any further on the cobblestone path. “It’s too early. She still has another year, maybe two. She takes care of herself.”

“I understand this is difficult to process. We should keep moving.”

“She still has more time!” the teenager protested, shrugging Kakashi’s hand off his shoulder. “They’re wrong.”

“Sasuke, I’m sorry.”

“No! They’re wrong. It’s a mistake. She still has time!”

*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sasuke barely registered the tapping of his feet on the sterile linoleum tiles of the hospital. Nor did he feel the frigid air pumped through the vents above his sister’s bed. He couldn’t hear the beeping of the machines, the whoosh of the oxygen equipment, a nurse’s mumblings. He didn’t smell his mother’s perfume when she held him against her chest, whispering that it was time to let go. 

How could it be time? She still had more. 

The door to the room opened again, and the bottom dragged against the floor softly. Itachi sat down heavily at the end of the bed, pushing Mu to one side. Sasuke didn’t realize that his fingers were interlaced in the large dog’s soft fur. The door kept opening, and more people crowded along the bed, hoping, praying for a miracle. Shisui leaned against the supply closet door. Hana held Fugaku’s hand from the chairs near the window. 

A stranger walked into the room in an obscenely white coat. Far too sterile for words, Sasuke could only pray he didn’t contaminate the room’s watchful silence with his voice. 

“I’m Yakushi-Sensei. First, I will conduct the exams to determine the constitution of Chizu Uchiha. Per her last will, she has requested to not have extraordinary life-saving measures continue past the second week. That time passed exactly ten minutes ago. My condolences for your loss. I cannot hope to understand what her family and friends are feeling at this time. Though looking at this full room, I can tell she was very much loved.”

The door opened once more, Minato walked in quietly, followed by Kushina and Naruto. Naruto silently slipped his hand into Sasuke’s. 

The physician continued, “Right, well first, I will remove the intubation tube from Chizu’s throat. Please do not expect a miracle if she breathes on her own, we have run several tests, and each indicated she will decline without the supplemental oxygen. Please do not be alarmed by any gurgling, convulsions, or tremors she makes. I promise she is well sedated and pain-free at this time.”

Hana sniffled against Fugaku’s shoulder. When Sasuke glanced back, her knuckles were white in his father’s hand. The small ruby pendant Chizu had given her for her birthday reflected the afternoon sun. Foolishly, he always thought they would get married, maybe adopt a few kids. In his dreams, he would see them running the small yarn shop together, two old ladies, bent with time. 

Itachi’s face was wrecked, red, and blotchy. His eyes were rimmed in red, his hair was mussed in a ponytail. He reached out for their mother’s hand. Instead of holding his, she pulled him closer, his shoulder brushed against Sasuke’s as their mother held them both. She was their bastion of strength against this long-foreseen storm. 

The tube was removed with a soft pop. As promised, Chizu gave a sickly gurgle as it was laid on the tray. The nurse assisting the physician turned off the monitors and oxygen. Shisui squeezed his eyes shut and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The IV was removed, and a small square of gauze tapped over the access. 

“We’re done here. Nurse Maiya will continue to monitor her vitals manually until she has reached the end. Again, I wish to express my deepest condolences.”

Chizu’s even breathes tapered into watery growls. Mu whined from her lap, he held her down with his paws as her body convulsed slightly. Her breathing continued. Warmth fell down Sasuke’s cheeks as he watched her labored breathing. Mikoto’s grip on his shoulder tightened. The wince on Itachi’s face told him more. He imagined he could feel Chizu’s end. They were twins, they had always been weird together. 

“Chizu,” Itachi whispered, reaching out for her hand beneath Mu’s chest. “It’s…okay…” Every word was a struggle for his brother, each one held more pain than the next. “We…I…will be okay. We will grieve. We will live. Go in peace, without pain. We love you. You are always loved.” He reached up and poked her forehead with two fingers before retreating back to their mother’s arms.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

‘I love you too. All of you…I wish I had more time…’ 

The breath seized in my chest. I was tugged back to a distant sea, painlessly crushed beneath the waves as they dragged me down. My soul was an anchor, willing to be tethered in the depths, released into the next cycle. I would see them again, in another life, perhaps. One where it wasn’t so cruel. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

To read more click: Ao3 or Ffn.net

Or...dig through my tumblr o.O I certainly don't want to go through the garbage bin. They're all labeled under 'Breathe.'

[thishazeleyeddemon]

gelid

gelid, adj - icy, extremely cold.

Adam had not been convinced that their new accord would change anything, but shortly afterwards he was proven wrong.

Commonly, Adam stayed within his own memories, allowing Michael the view of the outside void of the Cage (not that Michael was outside very often, these days. Even before they were on anything approaching good terms, he still was with him frequently. Adam supposed fighting Lucifer had to grow dull). There was a memory of a forest he’d visited on a trip with his mother (a stunningly rare occasion, Adam was fairly sure it was the only time he’d left Windom before college) when he was twelve that he visited frequently; he’d read that greenery was supposed to help stave off insanity in people who had to spend a lot of time in enclosed spaces for one reason or another.

He was also fairly sure it wouldn’t have mattered if Michael hadn’t been there to heal his memories, to patch his broken neurons, but at least here he had the memory of sunlight, even if it had nothing on the real thing.

It was within this memory that he rested when Michael came to find him this time. He was sitting on the memory of the roof of a cabin he’d stayed in, staring up at the false sky. He remembered the sun as bright, but he could stare at this without blinking - was it because it was a memory, or was it not bright enough? Was that the right shade of blue for the sky? He tried not to dwell on these things too much - there wasn’t really a way for him to know, in any case. 

He turned when he felt Michael next to him. Even when Michael was silent, Adam could feel the burning of his presence. “Hey, halo,” he said. He hesitated, before adding, “Wanna sit with me?”

Michael tilted his head in that odd way he had. In the first few years, that question, the nickname (which Adam couldn’t remember when he’d started to use) would have been met with derision. Now, all it provoked was a shrug and a quiet, “I suppose.” Michael rarely talked much, he had learned. He had assumed, at first, that it was simply because Michael didn’t see fit to speak to a human, but it was seeming that the Viceroy of Heaven was just a quiet person. 

Still, Adam heard something off in his voice as Michael sat down next to him, a...stiffness that made him turn his head to look at the archangel. Michael gazed back coolly, but there was something in his face, the set of his shoulders, that seemed wrong. Adam bit his lip. Would it be okay, to ask? Michael was proud, probably even more so than Lucifer. He didn’t think that Michael would hurt him, even when they’d hated each other he’d still only sneered and snarled and left (although that had been enough, being alone-), but he still didn’t know if it was okay. Everything felt so new and uncertain now, their agreement (to really talk, to try and understand, to try and get along so their imprisonment wasn't any harder than it had to be) still so fresh.

Adam swallowed, and took the easy route instead. “Do you want to hear a story?”

At some point they’d started saying that first. Adam wasn’t sure why, they hadn’t bothered back at the start, when they’d been telling each other things (or rather, Adam had told Michael things) in between long silences and biting words simply to pass the time. Neither of them were going to say no, but it still seemed important to say.

Sure enough, Michael leaned back, whatever shadow had been on his face before disappearing under a look of interest. “Sure, kid.”

That was new too, and it made Adam grin, some of his tension dissipating. “Alright, old man. When I was twelve...”

This was a comforting routine. Adam felt himself relax as he went through a story about the trip he’d taken here, the cake his mother had let him order at the place where they’d stayed, the first time he’d been far enough away from a city to see the real night sky and the way the vast shining expanse of it all had stolen his breath away (’it’s easy to not see how big everything is in a little town...I think that was the first time I even understood that a tiny bit.”), the walk they’d taken and the way his head had been filled with the sound of rushing water and the green smell of the forest. 

“How can a smell be green?” Michael asked. The stiffness in his demeanor hadn’t quite fled, but he was giving every indication of enjoying the story. Perhaps someone who hadn’t known him for so long wouldn’t be able to tell, but Adam could see his interest.

 “It’s...” Adam fumbled for an explanation. Before he might have just brushed Michael off with a “Don’t worry about it”, but in truth it was sort of fun to try and explain. “Obviously it isn’t, not really, but I guess...it’s because it wasn’t any specific thing, right? I’m sure you could find all the different plants or whatever -” he nudged Michael lightly “-But it was just because it was all the different smells of the trees and grass and bushes, all together, all those different growing things. Sure, a lot of plants aren’t green, but enough are that it’s kind of how we think about them. So it’s like...saying that it was green...that just means it’s the smell of new things, of stuff growing altogether. Of life - does that make sense?” 

“It does,” Michael allowed. “Or it doesn’t, not really, but I think I understand how it would for you.” His voice was contemplative. “I think...do you want to hear a story?”

“Oh - sure.” It was stupid to feel like something unexpected had happened. Michael had shared stories before, frequently, but it was Adam who had started this off and still often Adam who was the storyteller. Presumably eventually they would run out of stories from Adam, Adam who only had nineteen years of them as opposed to Michael’s untold eons - but they hadn’t yet. Adam settled back, crossing his legs. “Go ahead, halo.”

Michael nodded, shifting so he was sitting cross-legged just like Adam. He was a bit of a copycat in truth, though Adam wasn’t sure if he knew how much. 

Michael had been a terrible storyteller at the start, ironically because he took a more logical approach - to say just what happened. He still did that, but now he tended to add more details - how he had felt, what he had wanted to say but didn’t, what he thought about what had happened. When he let himself, he could even be quite funny, in a very dry sort of way. Adam had grown to enjoy their storytelling more and more as the years (centuries) went on, as it felt more and more like he was talking to Michael and less like he was reading a list of facts online.

 (It fit, though, in a terrible sort of way with the stories Michael told of Heaven - which seemed rife with work reports, and scarce of anyone who would ask Michael his opinion on anything.)

This story was about a star. There was a limit to how much Michael could describe the process of its creation (”I’m not sure a human can fully understand,” and at least his voice was apologetic now and not arrogant), but he did his best, describing the feeling of shaping the energy, the power that radiated out of it, the way the light cut through the darkness like a knife (Michael, Adam had noticed, seemed to like comparing things to weapons). He grew more animated as he spoke, gesturing with his hands like he wanted to paint in the air. 

“Do you want to show me?” Adam asked, before Michael could get into his next sentence.

Michael blinked. “Hm?”

“You know -” Adam waved his hands. “Archangel magic up a picture, or something, I want to see this star too.”

 He was expecting Michael to either comply or brush it off, that or tease him for saying archangel magic, but instead the archangel drew inward, his shoulders stiffening again. “Maybe later,” he said, his voice too tight, too controlled.

Adam frowned. “Okay, sorry but - are you okay?”

He leaned forward. Michael looked away, down at the expanse of fake forest with fake trees that were just green blobs until you looked directly at them. He wore Adam’s face so differently, it was striking. Sure, technically they looked the same - but the graceful way he moved, how he smiled, the way he tilted his head, the way he gestured as he spoke came together to make a picture of a completely different person. Sometimes it was hard to remember that Michael’s face was technically also his. “I’m...I’m fine,” Michael said, his voice tight with concealed strain. 

Adam bit his lip. He didn’t want to press, didn’t want to do anything that could strain their new accord, but...”Halo,” he said, pitching his voice as gentle as he could. “Tell me? Maybe I can help.”

Years and years ago, that would have provoked anger; now, Michael gave him a quiet, pained smile. “I don’t...you don’t have to,” he said carefully. “I can handle it fine, it’s just right now, it’s a little...”

“Halo, you’re the first thing ever made,” Adam said. “You’re the toughest angel there is, I know you can handle it.” He leaned forward, close enough that he could touch Michael. He didn’t - aside from getting pushed around a bit at the start, Michael had never touched him and he had never returned the favor. Not even after their agreement. “Do you want to handle it?”

He wouldn’t push it. Not if Michael didn’t want him to. 

Michael swallowed, looking hesitant. It was a strange look on him, on the eternal soldier. Eventually he shook his head, short and jerkily. “I’m...you know that Lucifer is of ice,” he began.

Adam flinched at the mention of the Adversary. “Sure do,” he muttered. Of the few times he’d been Out, one of them had been when Lucifer had shoved a gigantic spike of ice right through their body. Even without that, the frosty aura of his presence was like standing in Antarctica in midwinter. Although it was nothing compared to the Cage itself -- he looked at Michael, burning Michael, fiery Michael, and thought he felt understanding dawn. “Is it an...elemental thing? The Cage is hurting you because it’s built for Lucifer, not you? Because it’s too cold for you?”

Michael looked genuinely impressed, an expression Adam suspected few had ever seen. “Yes, that’s it. It’s -” He shifted, moving his hands in a way that Adam knew he had learned from him as he tried to figure out what to say. “Energy, life, the fire of creation...these aren’t here,” he said eventually. “It’s...it’s too cold.” He shivered, unconsciously. “It’s too cold.”

Adam nodded. “Sometimes I can still feel the cold around the edges. It’s...” But what words were there, for a space that had never seen any sun? He’s sure without Michael the cold would have driven him mad. “How can I help you?”

“You don’t have to,” Michael said again. “You’re my vessel, it’s my job to protect you. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I know I don’t need to,” Adam snorted, and quietly filed the “it’s my job to protect you” away under ‘interesting’ in his mind. That had not been part of the vessel discussion all those years ago. That was a new sentiment from Michael. Adam wasn’t sure what it meant, yet.

 He looked Michael in those strange, pale eyes and said, “I want to.”

Michael sucked in a breath, a quick, sharp intake of false air. “I...”

Adam smiled, wryly. “I say yes.”

Michael was very still, for a moment. He could be much stiller than Adam was, without all those little residual instincts that said move this way, shift, fidget. Than he smiled, and if it was a little sad, a little sardonic, Adam wouldn’t mention it. “Alright, then.”

 “What do I have to do?”

Michael squirmed. That was the only word for it. It was sort of funny, to see Viceroy Michael looking so uncomfortable. “Can I...you know souls are powerful,” he started, “They have a lot of energy. May I...”

Adam looked up at the false, too-blue sky. When he thought he had mastered himself enough to not do anything stupid, like burst out laughing, he looked back down and held out his arms. “C’mere.”

Michael blinked, going still again. “You don’t know what I was going to say,” he said, a bit petulantly.

 “Was it not going to be, “Let’s cuddle for warmth like we’re in a Christmas-themed romance novel?”

Michael didn’t laugh - Adam hadn’t figured out how to get him to, not yet - but he looked like he wanted to, his smile torn between embarrassed and amused. “Not quite like that, no.” The smile slipped from his face. “Are you sure this is okay?”

Adam tilted his head. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Michael’s mouth twisted. “I don’t...you’re so small,” he said, a bit helplessly. His hands fluttered nervously by his side. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 Adam couldn’t quite hold back a smile at that. His chest felt full of real warmth. “I appreciate that,” he told him. “But I’m not quite as small as that. It would probably be good, actually, humans are supposed to get physical contact from people.”

Michael looked alarmed. “Really? How often?”

Adam tried not to wince. “You’re supposed to get a hug at least eight times a day, ideally twelve.”

There was a pause while they considered the amount of time they had both been down, down in the dark, occupying the same body but refusing to let Grace and soul touch.

“Is it too late,” Michael said eventually. “To apologize again?”

He didn’t say for what. There were a lot of options, after all. 

“Why don’t you give me a hug instead?” Adam offered. He was still sitting cross-legged; he shifted around so he could more easily lean into Michael and held out his arms. “Come here.” Michael shifted forward slowly. Had he ever tried to touch someone before, outside of combat? One of his brothers maybe, at the start of things. So...at minimum, a few billion...oh dear.

 He paused when he was almost within Adam’s grasp and looked at him. Adam put on his most encouraging face and tried to project “this is totally okay and everything is fine” at him. Michael’s barriers between them were up, so he didn’t mind when the archangel made no sign of having heard and just shifted closer, reaching out to pull Adam to him as well.

 As soon as their hands made contact with each other, they both yelped and pulled back, staring at each other with wide eyes.

Adam was the first one to break and laugh. “So, maybe a little more intense than we expected,” he said, grinning.

Adam laughing seemed to relax Michael. “Perhaps we should have guessed,” he said. “It’s been a little while, after all.”

“Oh yeah, just a little while,” Adam agreed. “Try again or stop?”

“Try again.”

It wasn’t that it hurt, of course. It didn’t, although Adam’s underused nerves almost thought it did. It was like sticking a hand in an oven, like his veins were full of lightning and electricity. What of this was from touching an angel’s Grace construct and what was from simply being very, very touch-starved, he didn’t know, although he was sure the few times they’d touched in the first few years it hadn’t been nearly this intense. So maybe it was all him.

Michael seemed to be similarly overwhelmed by the first warmth he’d felt in many, many years. His hands fluttered over Adam’s shoulders, like he didn’t know where to put them, like Adam was almost too hot to touch. So Adam rolled his eyes and leaned his weight on him fully. He wasn’t so breakable as all that.

Michael caught him, easily, and the contact seemed to have worn down their barriers somewhat. Adam felt the angel’s true form shift and writhe on some adjacent plane, and for a moment, the jacket under his fingers felt like feathers. He could hear Michael’s surprise, his high-pitched nervousness, the way what passed for his nerves were singing in comfort at the warmth. It helped him relax, oddly. The knowledge that it wasn’t just him who was out of his depth was welcome. Michael blinked, and Adam knew that he heard that thought and didn’t mind.

 They ended up with Adam half on-top of Michael, Adam's arms around Michael's body and Adam’s head tucked under Michael’s chin. Michael’s hands were still fluttering, trying to figure out where was okay to hold.

“You live in my body, halo, you’re technically touching all of me already,” Adam grumbled. It takes effort to focus enough to make that sentence, when he wants to just sink into the warmth and close his eyes. He felt like a man who’d been given water after years in the desert. He wasn’t sure he was ever going to let go.

“It’s your soul, though,” Michael argued, because of course he did. The nervous whine even faded when he did - Michael liked to argue.

“Hugs work better if you actually grab me.”

That worked. Michael huffed, but he eventually settled on one hand on Adam’s shoulder and the other on his back, like a brand through his shirt. “You’re so warm,” he marveled.

 “Haven’t you touched the souls of other people you’ve possessed?” Adam pointed out. Michael's tone made his face feel warm. “I can’t be that unusual.” 

“No, it...” Michael huffed. “It seemed weird. I didn’t touch them.”

“Hm, fair enough,” Adam allowed. “You are still very much touching me - my body is me - but fair enough. Is this helping? Because I don’t mind getting up if you want, but I may not ever if you don’t mind.” 

Michael still doesn’t laugh, but the huff he made this time had the shape of one. “Our beings can still touch without these extensions needing to,” he said. “Technically we don’t have to stop.”

“Fine. You wanna try for the world’s longest hug or something?” He looked up at Michael and grinned. Michael smiled back. He seemed calmer, now that the chill had receded. Adam could feel him shifting his wings, just like a man shaking his hands to try and get the circulation going.

“I don’t have blood,” Michael reminded him. “And sure. Because of the cold.”

“Because of the cold,” Adam echoed, and carefully did not wonder why, if their bodies didn’t need to touch for their beings to, if Michael didn’t actually need to hold him, why the Archangel Michael, Viceroy of Heaven, wanted to hold him at all.

Fin.

[geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek]

of crispy-edged waffles and slightly burnt toast

geraskefer, ciri pov — 1.4k — gen audiences — modern au, domestic fluff

written for the "domestic" space of my @geraskeferbingo card

.

"I want to do breakfast in bed for Dad and Papa tomorrow," Ciri tells her mom, when it's just them after lunch. Dad and Papa both had to go back to work because their jobs don't let them work from home like Mama's. She puts another piece of her puzzle in place.

"Oh?"

"For Father's Day," she clarifies. She searches for another piece as she says, "They deserve something nice for being the most awesome dads to ever dad."

She knows a lot of people buy, like, tools and grills and stuff for their dads, but Dad has plenty of tools and they just bought a new grill last year, anyway, and Papa doesn't cook or use tools, because that's what he has Dad for, so she thinks this will be something special and unexpected.

Mama hums consideringly. "I think they'll love that, actually. Your papa will definitely cry about it," she adds, and Ciri giggles.

"He probably will."

"I know he will," Mama says, "because he cried when your dad brought him breakfast in bed for his birthday last year."

"He's a sap," Ciri says, and Mama snorts.

"Yes," she agrees, "he is."

"But that's why you and Dad love him."

Mama smiles her soft smile, the one Ciri only sees on her face when she's thinking about Dad and Papa. "Yeah."

They sit in silence for a bit. Ciri puts ten more pieces together while Mama types away on her laptop. It's nice when it's just them, but she misses her papa's singing and having her dad help her with her puzzles. She's got a whole collection, and he's helped her finish almost half of them now.

"What kind of breakfast do you want to make for them?" Mama asks after a bit.

Ciri frowns as she looks for one of the missing center pieces of her puzzle; it's being a sneaky hiding bastard. "Hm. I was thinking, like, eggs or something. Or waffles—Papa loves waffles. Maybe toast too? Dad likes to put his eggs on his toast because he's weird, so he'd probably like that."

"Probably," Mama agrees, and Ciri can tell she's trying not to laugh. "But that sounds good."

Ciri finally gives up on finding the missing piece and pushes up from the floor. She stretches her arms above her head, going on her tiptoes, and then drops her arms. She looks over at her mom, curled up on the couch with her work computer and a mug that probably had coffee in it at some point, and considers going to get an apple juice box for herself.

"Will you help me make it all?" she asks. "I've never used the waffle maker before, and I don't actually want to set the kitchen on fire, so."

"Bold of you to assume that anyone in this house but your dad knows how to use that thing," Mama says, and they grin at each other. "But sure, sweetie. I'd be happy to."

"And I can blame you if the house does burn down, right?" she asks innocently.

Mama throws one of the couch pillows at her and she runs from the living room, cackling.

.

The next morning, way earlier than she usually gets up, Ciri sneaks over to her parents' room and cracks the door open. She can hear her papa's soft snores—the ones he insists he doesn't make—and snickers silently to herself as she steps into the room.

Dad's in the middle of the very big bed, as usual, with Papa's arm flung over him. The space on his other side is empty and rumpled, and Ciri looks into the ensuite to see Mama brushing her teeth. She meets Ciri's eyes in the mirror and nods, and Ciri nods back before sneaking back out and going to the kitchen.

Ciri's got very simple instructions on how to make a waffle and eggs over medium pulled up on her phone, and she stares down the waffle maker with only a little nervousness.

"Ready?" Mama asks, coming up beside her.

She pulls her shoulders back and lifts her chin, determined. "Yeah. Let's make a fucking waffle."

"Hey," Mama admonishes, but she kisses Ciri's head and finishes it with, "watch your fucking language, young lady."

It's...an adventure of sorts, after that.

Both Ciri and her mom can follow a recipe okay enough, and they manage to make the waffle batter with little difficulty: measuring out ingredient amounts is pretty straightforward, and Mama knows how to use the stand mixer, sort of, and they only get it over the counter and on their faces and not their clothes, so they consider that a win.

Cooking it without it coming out a charred, mangled mess, or without it being way undercooked, however—and also making eggs over medium—proves to be a little more challenging. They have several failed attempts and go through at least half a dozen eggs before finally getting something that doesn't look like it'll poison either her papa or her dad if they ingest it.

"Okay," Ciri says, watching the clock closely, "I think that's good enough."

Mama hums in agreement and they open the waffle press. The edges are a bit more dark brown than Dad ever gets, but the center is a nice golden color. It'll have to do; they're running out of batter.

Ciri gets the waffle on a plate while Mama slides the eggs they've managed to actually get in the skillet and cook for a nebulous amount of time on top of the slightly burnt toast that came out of the toaster. Apparently you actually have to pay attention to a toaster because it can jam and things can burn? That was something new they learned.

The yolks break a bit and start soaking into the toast despite how careful they are, but Dad would do it himself anyway, so Ciri figures they're just helping it along. She's pretty sure everything is edible, at least, which is all she can ask.

She pours orange juice into two glasses—which she manages flawlessly—and Mama gets everything onto the big food tray they only break out for special occasions, like today. Ciri runs and grabs the cards she'd made for her dads and tucks them under the plates, and then she helps Mama pick it up and carry it to the master bedroom.

Dad and Papa are still sleeping soundly, and Ciri feels a brief pang of guilt for wanting to wake them up. But then she shakes it off, because she knows they won't mind and besides, she made them breakfast in bed and the least they can do is appreciate it.

Mama takes the tray and gives her an encouraging, evil grin, and she grins back before throwing herself at the bed and jumping on top of it. She bounces a bit and crawls over their legs as they grunt and startle awake, blinking blearily at her.

"Cirilla—"

"Ciri, what—"

"Happy Dad's Day!" she crows, throwing her arms around both of them as best she can. She feels each of them wrap an arm around her and smiles into the big hug they give her. "Mama and I made you breakfast."

"Thank you, sweet girl," Papa says, kissing her head. Dad just hums and holds her tighter. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know," she says, pulling back and settling between them as Mama brings over the food. "But I wanted to. You deserve it. Both of you. You're the best dads ever."

"She figured you didn't need another grill," Mama teases, and they all laugh.

Papa's eyes are a bit wet, the blue color even brighter than normal, and Ciri internally high fives her mom because they totally called it. Dad also looks ready to cry—by which she means he's hiding his face behind his hair—which is a bit more surprising, but also not really, when she thinks about it. Fondness wells up in her chest and she leans forward to kiss each of their cheeks.

"Love you Dad, love you Papa," she whispers, and they pull her close and tuck her between them as Mama sits on the bed too and puts the food tray between them all.

Ciri makes a face when Mama kisses both of them in the Grown Up Way, but she's warm and safe, surrounded by her parents. She's happy and loved, and that's all she can think to ask for.

She's also relieved that the food isn't terrible—or at least that her dads love her enough to pretend it's not.

[interldes]

♡ hi & hello! super excited to be here aahh i’m peach ( s/h, 21+ ) & i’ll be writing for my funky girl go jisun, who was an idol trainee for almost a decade before she threw in the towel... & college entrance exams threw the towel back at her twice, so she’s meandering & trying to find that nebulous sense of self now that she’s without a dream to work towards :( my pages are barebones but here ( about, wanted, bio ) but here’s some info on jisun under the cut! please drop a like or an im if you wanna plot, or lmk if you’d like my discord! 

have you seen GO JISUN around? i heard they moved here because SHE’S FINDING HERSELF AFTER FAILING THE COLLEGE ENTRANCE EXAMS TWICE. their tenant agreement says they are 22 YEARS OLD and a MAIL CLERK. i always see them FIDDLING WITH THE MANSION’S VINYL PLAYER and they kind of remind me of DISCARDED FIVE YEAR PLANNERS FILLED WITH SCRIBBLES…

TIMELINE

had a fairly unremarkable childhood—she grew up shuttling between the city & isa-ri, only child to divorced but equally rich & stubborn parents

at 13, jisun was street casted & decided to become a trainee

she’s got a couple of almost-debuts under her belt. at age 15 she was still too young & untrained, then she wasn’t polished enough when she was 18, and finally she was too old at the ripe old age of 21 to make the cut for even just the shortlist to form a team to prepare for debut

21, with no other skills or talents & nowhere to go. her childhood dream has fizzled out, but at least there’s something else to grasp on to—the good ol reliable college path! she’ll be starting a little later, but she can still get a degree, a good job, & maybe it’ll still work out

then she fails the first entrance exam she takes. to be fair, she focused totally on debuting, so she’ll take this as a dry run, & throw all her effort into the next try!

and fails the college entrance exams a second time

but she gave herself three shots at debuting. she’ll give getting into college a third chance too—maybe studying in a place without distractions will help?

her parents end up recommending the mansion to her when it opens, an easy drive down from isa-ri

she moves in the day it opens. maybe it’ll be just the thing she needs to find herself & get back on track

( on track to where? she has no idea, too )

PERSONALITY / OTHER

very much an optimist, in that cheery, comforting way, but also in that gives way too many second chances way, ‘things will probably work out so i don’t have to work that hard’ way

pretty outgoing & exuberant—half of it genuine, half of it drilled into her

carries around a very quiet regret for her dream that mellows her a little

wistful, but not embarrassed that she didn’t get to debut! firmly believes that it just wasn’t her chance, so don’t look at her too sadly if she tells you her story off hand

not quite the most responsible or put together person, but she’s trying really earnestly

not exactly lazy, but if she’s given an easier route or an opportunity for a break, she’s definitely taking it

jisun spent so much time training that she doesn’t really know if its a genuine dream, or if she just doesn’t know how to be anything else now. trying to find herself by doing other things, but has been in limbo for so long it’s a bit of a struggle

probably not totally unknown, one of those anticipated trainees who never debuted so the public lost interest

also working as an adhoc mail clerk for isa-ri’s post office! by which i mean the mansion was too far for the grumpy old man who runs the office to wanna make the trip, so she picks up & delivers the mail for the residents of the mansion, & helps out occasionally with other post office jobs

thank u for reading my lil ramble hehe pls come plot with me!! ♡ 

[narrators-journal]

Moonlight

warning: Light depictions of violence, Aku really admires Atsushi’s tiger (idk if it comes off as super sexual, so idk might be a bit monster-fucker-y) Nothing sexual or vulgar, just him being super into watching Atsushi kill.

edit: Had to fix some glaring formatting issues, also just editted some of the choppier bits of the text :D

Akutagawa had no clue why he was out looking for a pissy tiger gijinka at 10 pm, but he was. He wasn't super thrilled about it, to say the least. However, Dazai had called and explained that Atsushi had apparently had an awful day at work or something and then changed into a weretiger in the evening, and the bandaged ADA agent wasn't sure if that was intentional or because of the full moon, so it was now up to Aku to go find the weretiger and bring him back to his apartment before he could cause any trouble.

Any good mafia member would've told the traitorous sociopath to go fuck himself with a cactus, but some weird urge had led the goth to agree to return Atsushi home for his old mentor. Had him receiving the crybaby's address from his mentor and heading out into the darkness.

It wasn't that he still wanted acknowledgment, he'd gotten his praise and acknowledgment a few weeks before. So while he still highly respected Dazai, he wasn't out clicking his tongue into alleyways and lifting himself onto rooftops at such a late hour for his praise. It definitely wasn't out of concern for Jinko, he could care less if the brainless house cat got hit by a car or stuck up a telephone pole. No, what had Akutagawa out near the hellish docks was a lingering sense of curiosity. He couldn't exactly place what he was curious about that exact moment, but he was intrigued. So, he poked around until he finally spotted a familiar flick of white and black disappearing around the corner in the slums.

When he spotted the first signs of Atsushi, Akutagawa dropped to a crouch and crept forward until he could look around the wall to see a dimly glowing white tiger nosing through a trash bag he seemed interested in. With him distracted, Aku took the chance to move towards him, bringing Rashoumon to life once he was close enough. Either the energy or the light near-instantly drew the predator's eye, but either way, he was now staring into the golden eyes of Atsushi Nakajima, or, more so, his tiger.

In that dangerous, uneasy situation, it finally clicked. He'd wanted to see this. Atsushi's full tiger form. That's why he'd agreed to go hunting for him upon Dazai's request. Not only that but staring into those predatory eyes brought a new sensation through his body. Awe.

        "Jinko," He said, doing his best to sound calm while he internally battled a storm of fear, awe, and honest wonder. "Can you understand me?" He asked it nonchalantly, his grey eyes just staying glued to the tiger's golden gaze as he circled to face the vampire of a man properly. With no answer, obviously, Aku took a deep breath to steel his nerves before trying to reason with the creature again, "Listen, I know we don't get along, you annoy the shit out of me, I'm sure you dislike me just as much. But, Dazai sent me to try and return you home, so can you please cooperate?" He asked, but the answer he got was a pretty huffy tail lash and the creature walking past him and across the street to dig through more trash. And for a moment, Akutagawa was nearly mesmerized, forgetting what he was going to say. The hunter's movements revealed the powerful muscles just beneath its snowy, striped fur, it knocked home just how dangerous this car-sized cat could be. He hasn't attacked me though, the mafioso realized, normally Jinko would maul me on sight, but his tiger isn't. Not even a growl. The realization almost made a sense of honor well up in his chest as he followed the giant cat to the next bag of garbage he seemed intent on investigating.

For a bit, the goth trailed after the large predator, his original task abandoned, mesmerized by the sight of it moving so quietly despite its lethal claws and hulking, muscular form. However, his observations were interrupted when a realization hit him like a brick to the face, Of course! He's hungry! No wonder he's been digging through stray garbage bags and whatnot, he's probably looking for meat! He slapped his hand over his face at how obvious that had been, then, he whistled to the massive feline, coughing a few times before he spoke again,           "Would you like to actually hunt, Jinko?" The snowy ears of the creature perked at the mention of hunting, perhaps he can understand me to some extent, the thought was swiftly shelved for later though, he had mentioned hunting, he had no time to ponder how conscious his nemesis was as a likely impatient and hungry tiger. "If you follow me, I can take you to someone you can hunt," he offered, once again looking into the yellow eyes of the beast, almost able to see him contemplating his offer before he suddenly moved forward.

Akutagawa's first thought was that the car-sized feline was going to eat him instead, but no. In reality, Atsushi simply headbutted him in the chest, sending him sliding on his back across the pavement, coughing and wheezing from the air leaving his weak lungs so suddenly.             "J-Jinko!" he snapped between coughs, glowing red in his annoyance, but instead of being even slightly intimidated or on-edge from the show of hostility, Atsushi just continued to headbutt or nose him, pushing him along the pavement until the choking mafioso finally managed to put his hand on the cat's striped, moon-silver forehead, Holy shit, you're so soft, and shove him back enough to let him get back to his feet. "What are you doing Jinko? Don't nuzzle up to me just because I offered you food, dumbass!" he snarled, keeping his pale hand on the cat's head as he glared at him.

The two stood there for a moment, Akutagawa's glow intensifying when Atsushi pushed against his hand and made him step back to avoid tumbling over again, all the while the choppy-haired vampire was trying to decipher what the weretiger might be doing this for. It's not likely that he wishes to eat me. If he did, he would've pounced as soon as I was on the ground...That also means he's not looking for a fight. Could it be his way of thanking me for offering to take him to hunt? Is he just trying to NUZZLE me?? His cheeks heated like stovetop burners at the thought of the elegant predator showing him, his most hated rival, affection of all things. He could handle the tiger trying to maul him, half expected it honestly, but he didn't know how to feel about Atsushi nuzzling up to him as a thank you or otherwise.

It was only when he gave another attempt at a nudge that Akutagawa got the message at long last.           "Oh! You're wanting me to take you there!" He rolled his dark gray eyes at that and pushed himself away from the weretiger, turning around with a huff and starting to lead the way. This also gave his pale cheeks the time to return to normal in the cool night air, though his heart couldn't seem to stay at a steady, calm pace. It kept jumping and thumping unpredictably with the excitement of maybe seeing Atsushi on a proper hunt.

It was sure to be a fascinating sight, to see the massive feline crouched, creeping up on an unsuspecting victim, to see his muscles bunch with so much power just before lunging at the prey. He was excited at the thought of seeing the weretiger's lethal talons tear into a person, and his jaws crunch down mercilessly on his victim's bones. The sheer power of it. The fact that he had fought someone who could tap into that primal potential. He'd looked into such an animal's eyes, he'd seen the human intelligence mingling seamlessly with the animalistic cunning. Atsushi's razor-sharp fangs had been mere inches from such a vital part of his body, and yet he'd done no malicious harm. No, not a scratch. Aku couldn't place the feeling of awe and nebulous adrenaline-pumping thrill he got from it. From being so close to a beast who could end him without hesitation or issue, and yet he hadn't. All of that strength was so beautifully control-

The goth's thoughts were interrupted by another headbutt, this time to his spine, sending him sprawling onto the pavement with an indignant squawk.           "Jinko! Wha- Are you trying to get me to speed up, or fucking kill me?!" He snapped, scrambling to his feet with a small cough and a tidal wave of humiliation for the noise he'd made on his way down, but his only response was another nudge from the beast, one he swatted away. "Oh no! I am not jogging or running ahead of you! Quit acting like an impatient toddler," he scolded, dusting himself off while the tiger huffed like said impatient toddler.

With his own grumpy huff, he continued, leading Atsushi out of the slums and into the nicer parts of town. It wasn't the rich end of Yokohama, where the homes were capped with long driveways and wrought-iron fences or had names for addresses, but it wasn't the slums. The neighborhood they ended up in, while sparse of people on the sidewalk and road, thrummed with life within the safety of the nightclubs and bars that were scattered about. It was somewhere near the outskirts of town without being too far, around there Akutagawa would find the mafia's casino and the one rival casino whose owner was as equally a customer of the mafia as much as a rival.           "Alright, you stay here for a moment. I've got to go find your food. Don't worry, they aren't good, innocent people, so you shouldn't feel a lick of shame for eating them." He promised Atsushi, now standing a few buildings down in a wide alleyway from the rival casino. "You eat the men in suits to your heart's content, in return, I'll destroy the street security cameras." The creature made a noise he assumed was agreement, so he left him in the alleyway and began prowling the street, taking out cameras as he went until he'd not only left the whole street defenseless but also found the owner of the second gambling hall.

Once he'd located the man and his goons relaxing at an outside table, smoking and drinking their booze in front of the closed shop, he used a ribbon of his coat to slither over and knick the owner with the sharpened cloth, slipping away before he realized it was more than a simple bug bite or accidental scratch. With the fresh blood now on his coat, he slunk back to Atsushi, letting the striped hunter sniff the strip of cloth thoroughly before he hoisted himself onto the roof with Rashoumon.

From his vantage point on the rooftops, the wheezy goth could follow the weretiger as he prowled down the street, following the scent of blood until he too spotted the prey at the cafe table and fell into a hunter's crouch. The goth repressed his coughing and wheezing as much as possible, paused with the cat, his grey eyes fixated on the silent animal as he inched closer to the men.

It amazed Aku that neither the owner nor his goons noticed the rabbit-soft white-and-black fur of the weretiger, part of him wanted them to spot the beast before he pounced, just so he could watch them run and panic and really see Atsushi chase down his prey. Sadly, by the time the small group had finally realized they were being stalked, it was too late. Atsushi was already on them, tearing them apart, his powerful jaws turning their muscles to pulled pork in seconds, his talons tearing into them like a hot knife through butter. They tried to run, but they didn't get far before each one was picked off with one swipe of the dark claws, or powerful jaws of the predator.

Akutagawa watched the scene from the safety of the rooftop, his heart racing with excitement, his breath quickening as he grinned like a lunatic. Not even his subsequent coughing fit could ruin the absolute thrill that zipped through his blood at the sight of such a gorgeous, efficient predator crunching on bones like they were nothing, his white fur now stained a lovely shade of red. It took a moment for him to come back from that high and realize that his lightheadedness and shortness of breath had gone from pure elation to an issue, so he had to swiftly fish his inhaler out of his pocket and pull from it, hoping it was enough to open his airways so he would avoid the hospital. He was not keen on having to explain to a doctor what exactly had gotten him so hyper.

Thankfully for the pale mafioso, his inhaler worked. So, after a moment to catch his breath and regain his composure, he brought Rashoumon to life and used it to lower himself down to the pavement again, a safe distance from Atsushi, who was contently tearing the mafia's rivals apart and devouring their flesh. With one final calming breath, he slowly walked over to the beast, not getting a glance as he approached until he was beside the car-sized feline while he chomped at a bone until it splintered.

Once he was sure Atsushi wasn't interested in him, Akutagawa crouched down and gently, tentatively put a hand against his side, feeling the soft, silky, striped fur and perfectly honed muscles just beneath his pale fingertips.          "I can see why Dazai chose you...over me..." he muttered quietly, his eyes glued to the tiger's mouth, admiring his fangs as they worked at the bones and meat of the casino owner, "You are far beyond my power level. So much more controlled, so much stronger, so much more capable than I'll ever be." It hurt to voice these shameful realizations, but for some reason, Aku felt like he wouldn't be judged by the beast, even if it did understand his words, it wouldn't shame him for his admitting to his faults.

So, he just sat beside the tiger, running his hand over the beast's side, shoulder, even along its back, from snout to as far as he could reach behind him. Just taking everything about him in. The car-sized feline didn't seem to care at all, unbothered by the admiring pets, or when Aku grabbed his back paw to flex his toes and unsheath his talons. Some part of the mafioso still reminded him, He could still eat you next, but it did nothing to dissuade the child-like curiosity that fuelled his exploration of every deadly part of the animal, from tracing his muscles, to bringing out his bloodied talons, all while Atsushi ate his fill of his prey until nothing remained save for their shredded clothing.

The pale man simply gathered those up and ran a hand through his chopped up hair,             "I guess I should take you back to your apartment now before dawn comes." he mused, judging that they had about an hour or two before the sun rose and Atsushi likely changed back to his more pathetic, weak form. Aku looked at the weretiger, watching as the beast licked his chops and shook himself off, then turned with a sigh to head to the address Dazai had given him. Atsushi followed without complaint, padding alongside the goth, much more content, it seemed.

Once Atsushi was safely back in his own home, and the clothing was burnt and disposed of, Aku went home to his personal apartment, flopping onto the bed with a half groan, half sigh. Now that he wasn't running on thrills and curiosity, he was exhausted. His only thought before passing out was Never telling anyone of this.

[the-dragongirl]

So, I know anecdotes are not the same as qualitative evidence, but as an example, have a profile of a library user:

My library cards (yes, plural, I live on the intersection of four different library systems that all let their nominal patrons get reciprocal cards in the other systems) all lapsed when I was in grad school. Due to various economic and logistical barriers, they were not reactivated until after quarantine ended. During that time, I re-read a lot of books I already owned, and read a lot of fic (much of it by listening to podfic), but didn't read many new published works. I purchased a single digit number of new books per year, and about the same number of used books, almost all by authors I already knew.

Since I got my library cards reactived last summer, I have gone from reading a single digit number of new books a year to reading an average of 1.5 new books a WEEK. Of those books, most have been by authors I would not otherwise have tried. My exploration of works by authors from historically marginalized populations has especially increased, since my local library systems have particularly fine collections of works by lesser known authors, and I can try things I know less about without feeling like I am wasting my small entertainment budget. I almost exclusively use digital copies of audiobooks, so my use of them is part of the licensed agreement where authors are getting paid for my use.

Oh, and my new book purchasing? Yeah, that has increased by an order of magnitude as well. And the additional books that I buy are MOSTLY audiobooks that I previously borrowed from the library. My to-read list is now 60 books long, and it is likely I will read all or at least most of them in the next year, instead of getting to them in the nebulous "someday". Heck, I even have a book by the OP on that list - one of my library systems FINALLY added the audiobook, so I'll be getting to that sooner rather than later.

So, in summary, libraries directly resulted in more money going to authors. And you know what? I don't think my reader profile is that atypical. Even when we are "just using libraries for entertainment", libraries overcome logistical barriers and GET US TO READ. And that reading leads to buying that would not otherwise be happening.

Currently having an argument discussion with a fellow author... friend (???) in a group chat, who is railing against public libraries because they claim their publishers say they're a waste of time and consider library lending to be stealing sales from authors, and that's why their sales are down (oh boy), and how unfair it is that libraries don't pay us when someone borrows our work...

Except they kind of do? The Public Lending Right program exists across something like 35 countries. I know this because I routinely receive microscopic payments from some of them, which, when all counted, totals something like $30-40 a month. (Y'all are staggeringly prolific at getting Hunger Pangs into libraries, thank you.)

Like, don't get me wrong, most PLR programs are an inconsistent nightmare, and the US Authors Guild is STILL trying to get one started in the US, but they very much do exist.

Also, if your publisher is telling you library lending is a waste of time (press X to doubt)... Like I have questions because publishers love libraries. They pay anywhere from double to six times the amount for a physical purchase/lending license.

I assure you, your publisher would rather have that than nothing.

Like... with all kindness. Maybe your sales are down because it's just... not what people are into right now. It's certainly not the fault of libraries.

[flowerflamestars]

Let's ask the hard questions here, baby. What do you think the series would have been like had it been Nesta Archeron under the mountain?

BABE this is it-this is the best question I’ve ever been asked. 

For one thing, chaotic. For another: I think the simple substitution reframes the whole structure of the narrative. It’s not about a journey to power that fights Evil Tyranny (abused Human to Hero to High Lady).

It’s a story about the people working around, beside, under the powerful Lords- and the difficult choices they make. Less Hero’s Journey more, Look, These Are the Real Heroes.

Let’s start with Spring. We know now that the whole you killed a faery now you have to come to faeryland thing was an insanely shitty ruse. So maybe Andras is still alive. Maybe Feyre killed him and Nesta successfully protected her sisters. Maybe Tamlin is just a twat and went that one is pretty. ANYWAY-

Nesta gets to Spring. Lucien doesn’t immediately despise her, for, you know, murdering and skinning his only friend (a handy sublimation of the anger he can’t express against his High Lord). Nesta was raised in the fucking gentry and Nesta can play the game- it’s a question of willingness.

Feyre is a lot more willing to roll with weird circumstances for caution.  Nesta is, to her bones, an aggressor. Empty manor doesn’t add up? She’s going to say something so cutting, and so infuriating to Tamtam she ends up seeing all the faeries. She steels herself, refuses to be afraid of Alis, and asks questions. (See, Nesta’s first IC dinner, zeroing in on the scariest faery and refusing to flinch)

At some point, there’s a confrontation. 

But it’s not between Nesta and Tamlin. Now, in canon Tamtams is extremely willing to drag his feet on the curse. In this version, that is so much worse- sure, he’s into Nesta (Nesta, recall, just looks like sharper Feyre), but Nesta takes one look at this fragile immortal man child and roasts the shit out of him. What’s he going to do? Kill her? Negates all the stupid trouble he went to. Punish her? He clearly needs her for something.

Tamlin cannot handle that. There are no Romantic Moments. Nes spends calanmai watching faeries do weird shit out her window. She sure as fuck doesn’t drink faery wine and dance for Tamlin at the solstice. It is not happening.

 So Nesta spends a lot of time alone, wandering around. Talking to Lucien, Alis, random-ass faeries out of sheer reckless ego, reading every book in the ugly manor.

Nesta confronts Lucien. I’m going to go with after the wingless dead faerie and the head in the garden. The stupid blight conversation.

This works differently and better than Feyre’s attempts to get more information for I think, two important reasons. 1) Lucien and Nesta speak the same language in acotar. It’s all anger babes- sharp edged, sexy, bullshit. There’s no cycle of forgiveness then softening- they are the same, too the same, tired and self-hating survivalists bored out of their minds in a gilded death trap. 

and 2) Nesta and Feyre are quintessentially perceived differently. Feyre is hopeful- tenacious, young, free. She shakes up things for these old ass faeries and gives them something to believe in. It’s youth for the eternally young. 

Nesta...is not that. She gets under your skin, forever. Multiple faeries meet her throughout the books and have very extreme reactions to that- but what matters at this point, as a mortal- Nesta reads as an adult. She’s immune to glamour. Her strength isn’t kindness or an open heart, it’s fucking steel that might take your last breathe.

And look, Lucien would respond to that. Tamlin...isn’t even talking to the girl his people died to get him. The curse is almost over and they’re all going to get tortured. Nesta, has, from day one, known something is wrong- she’s so angry, and it makes it easier for Lucien to be angry.

It’s not hunting bros who become Real Friends, it’s fire and gasoline. Empowerment.

So, I haven’t read acotar in ages- but I’m pretty sure they literally couldn’t tell her about Tamlin’s curse. But Lucien can communicate around the magical fuckery- there’s a great evil. The kids in Winter are all dead because of another High Lord. 

And look, Nesta cares about dead kids. She even, begrudgingly, cares about Lucien. She does not give a single flying fuck about the High Lords.

But Lucien, in this world, is the first one to say it: Hybern. 

Amarantha is Hybern’s general, and Hybern wants all of Prythian. All of it. 

Nesta is absolutely going to walk into the fire to keep the humans- and by extent, her sisters- safe from faeries. 

Tamlin- because he does not love Nesta- doesn’t send her away. Doesn’t crush any savage hope Lucien harbored, doesn’t do shit. He gives up.

And so Spring is dragged beneath the Mountain.

Nesta has exactly two advantages on her side: she can see through glamour, so she’s not 100% disoriented and vulnerable (just..you know, terrified), and sheer force of will.

Amarantha likes will. She likes to break it, and there are so few real contenders left after her victory. 

Nesta doesn’t bargain- Nesta doesn’t beg for Tamlin’s life and love- she asks to win her own. 

Amarantha wants to crush her like a bug. Insignificant little human- but wouldn’t it be more fun to watch each little crack form?

So she gets the riddle. Tamlin’s power is thrown in like the boring chekovs gun that it is. Lucien (probably) gets beat up because Lucien always gets beat up under the Mountain. 

Nesta has two choices: she can answer the (stupidly cliched, easy) riddle right there, and try to walk out. (Nesta knows she’s not making it out alive). Or she can wait, and play the game. (She’ll be damned if she doesn’t take that insane bitch and maybe Tamlin down with her. Her only ally is Lucien and he’s being hauled off with a bleeding headwound soo..)

Nesta lets herself be dragged away. She doesn’t fight. 

Let us remember again, that the Archeron sisters are built like a triptych. A presumable almost mother maiden crone. They look alike, especially Nesta and Feyre. If Rhysie boy thinks Feyre is hot at first glance, guess what he also thinks about Nesta?

So, yes, of course he goes to offer a deal. And let’s be clear on something- when Feyre hated Rhysands guts, what did he like about her? That she was beautiful, absolutely didn’t give a fuck, and what’s that? Fought with him.

She lets him heal her, but then- Nesta won’t even talk to him. Nothing he does works. They come to agreement (which Rhysand finds fascinating, a human with loyalty, that human heart) that Nesta will listen to Rhysand’s offer if and when, he delivers to her a whole, safe, Lucien Vanserra.

Rhys frames this as emotional torture. Incentive. He doesn’t need to play evil as well- Nesta hates fucking faeries. And she knows he killed a bunch of children. 

So Lucien gets thrown in the cell. Minimally healed. About to embark on the misery train, self-deprecating laughter at the fact he’s healed, now, because of Nesta. 

Lucien: so nice of you to make sure we’re all pretty before we die, Archeron. Final night spent huddling for warmth together?

Nesta: Shut up. Shut up- tell me why the fuck Rhysand would be trying to make a deal with me.

They come to the conclusion that, while Rhysand is a monster, he also has no control of his own. He’s completely under Amarantha’s thumb, and apparently, wants out.

Nesta, because she always goes for the jugular, has another thought: Are you really going to go back to Spring after this? He gave up. He gave up and you were rotting in a cell.

Lucien, to whom Nesta is both gasoline and mean friend catnip, but who is also a Sad Boi: where else can I go?

So they make a plan. Rhysand thinks Nesta is the key to killing Amarantha? Cool, Amarantha needs to die. Tamlin is the only High Lord who has access to his power more readily? Tamlin needs to do the killing. 

What does Nesta want? There to be no Hybern coming to burn the land where her sisters live. To go back, to go home- but Nesta doesn’t think, even for a second, she’s really going to make it out alive. And if she does, as she thinks late at night, of Feyre’s laugh, or Elain’s quiet humor- how will it ever be safe? They live on the Wall.

Nesta is known to faeries now- Nesta is infamous, and there’s nothing to stop anyone, should her presence lead them back to her home.

Nesta privately decides Tamlin should die too.

So when the time comes, and Rhysand is like, I’ll protect you, you’ll be mine and you’ll be healed- Nesta says no. Nesta, because she really has never learned to back down- looks dead in the eye of the High Lord of Night, the monster who sleeps beside Amarantha and says: safe passage.

She’ll do what Rhys wants, for this: Lucien Vanserra’s safe passage to a safe place, and for Rhysand to promise not to get in her way when she answers the riddle.

Rhys still wants her to come to the Night Court- for whatever nebulous reasons he wanted Feyre to...which only make sense AFTER she’s changed by the High Lords...which Rhysie couldn’t have known, BUT ANYWAY- Nesta says yes. She doesn’t expect she’ll be alive to pay.

Lucien sulks back to Tamlin’s side, and spends a few weeks between challenges laying it on thick. A quiet whisper that grows, a perfect stroke to Tamlin’s volatile ego. How dare Amarantha, how dare Nesta- Tamlin is a Lord, Tamlin is Spring- Tamlin, who has suffered so much more than the other Lords, deserves his power back. 

Nesta is dragged out for the final challenge.

In one of the long, dangerous hallways, her guards look the other way for just a moment- for a visitor. The High Lady of Autumn knows her son is safe because of this girl. 

She hands Nesta a knife. A small gift- all she can. Steel, not ash, small enough it will go unnoticed.

Nesta is dragged before the throne, before the High Lords, Tamlin and Amarantha, Rhysand.

Nesta answers the riddle.

And when Amarantha refuses to abide the rules- Tamlin, carefully manipulated without coordinating by both Rhys and Lucien, goes apeshit.

This does not stop Amarantha from hurting Nesta. The opposite- she’s trapped in the fight between them. When Amarantha does give Tamlin over the power, it doesn’t stop- unloved by even a human, and now she’d take any chance he’d had to win her as he really was.

Nesta doesn’t stab Amarantha. Nesta lays there, bleeding to death, biding her time.

Tamlin murders Amarantha. Rhysand doesn’t beg, but he’s there, getting growled at by Lucien as he tried to staunch Nesta’s wounds.

Amarantha dies, and Tamlin, glowing with power, makes his way to Nesta. They think he’s going to heal her- to try, but Tamlin is Tamlin, so he pulls her into his arms.

Nesta, who knows she’s going to die- Nesta, who was taken from her home, her family, deprived of her life by the choices of this man- Nesta lets Tamlin embrace her, the arrogant, stupid bastard, and stabs him in the throat.

It is the golden, desperate words of Lucien Vanserra that convince the High Lords to heal her. It is Rhysand who tries first, who gives the most. After all- Tamlin had been too selfish to try, and they’d all suffered for it. Faery justice: swift and bloody.

Nesta had died victorious. Nesta died with a bloody autumn court dagger in one hand and the grip of her only real friend in the other- but death was chaos. Skies and stars and howling wind, love and blood and war.

A thousand miles away, Cassian awoke screaming, clawing at his own chest.

She climbed through blood and battle, dreams and hope, floated to an infinite sky: and found herself alive.

Breathing, whole, an immortal monster. On her way to the Court of Night with Lucien by her side. 

[kyofsonder]

That's one of my favorite things about Tumblr and similar social blogging sites, too. It's a chance to broaden my worldview, and try to understand other people no matter how similar or different we might be. I think you being interested in learning about other ways of existing makes you a good fit for this place. We could use more non-judgmental curiosity on the internet, after all.

As for plurality, while you're looking up information and forming your own opinions about it, I do have a metaphor I like that I think might be helpful. It's a long one that I'm having trouble summarizing like I did with my username information, but there's no pressure to read it now or any time soon if you don't want to.

I often think of my own and others' minds like housing. Every mind, every brain, is a different type of house or shelter. This is a useful framing for me in terms of neurodivergence. An autistic person's house is going to look different from a non-autistic person's house, for example.

I think of plurality as house sharing. Not everyone does it, not everyone needs or wants to do it, but some housing types are suited to it and some get specifically built for it when the need arises.

Plural systems can form because someone's house was broken into, and living alone is no longer safe. So a "roommates wanted" ad is put out (within the brain itself, in this metaphor) and whoever responds to the ad is usually signed onto the lease agreement or deed or however someone's ownership of their home is organized in their mind. Sometimes only one person responds to the ad. Sometimes just enough people respond to fill up each available room. Sometimes so many people respond that a full remodel of the home is necessary. It all depends on the person, their brain, and a million situational factors they can't keep track of in the moment. Either way, the security of their home that was compromised is now a little safer -- or at least covered by more people -- because they have others living in their house. This source of plurality is commonly related to dissociative disorders like DID.

Systems can also form because, even though security is fine and no specific event damaged the house or its furnishings, the general stress of not being able to keep up with household chores or repairs or rent is too much to handle alone. So, again, a "roommates wanted" ad is posted. People also respond, and are also usually signed on right away. This can also be associated with dissociative disorders, but not always. It can be a little more nebulous, since the trauma involved is more gradual and less distinct.

Some systems can form because living alone in the housing that is a person's own mind can be lonely -- lonely enough for some people that they feel the need to post the same kind of "roommates wanted" ad. Some do this consciously, others suddenly realize they live with someone now. This can be associated with both dissociative disorders and maladaptive daydreaming, but sometimes it's completely separate.

Among the many other ways systems can form, including spiritual plurality, some housing is just built as apartments or duplexes or other shared homes from the start and people arrive because it's assumed that more than one person will be living there. The roommates are there from the beginning, and it's just how things are for that home. This is almost never associated with dissociative disorders, and seems to just be another way brains can exist.

There are a lot of theories, scientific and cultural and social and other, about plurality and a lot of discussion within our own community about what being plural does and does not include, but I think envisioning it as housing helps to sort through all that. You can form opinions about what's scientifically and medically provable, about where spirituality and personal autonomy and medicine all interact, and at the same time remember that a house will not stop being a shelter to the person or people living in it regardless of how they got there or what their housing is called. A duplex is as much a multi-person home as an apartment complex, and a single-story home can belong to a single person alone as easily as a two-story.

Homes are homes, people are people, and sometimes we need or want or involuntarily end up with roommates in our homes.

Also, in the case of my system, there's a mix of reasons why we're all sharing a home but we have a decent ability to communicate with each other and we try our best to respect each other as residents of the same house. It's ultimately in my name, it's my house (sometimes I feel a little guilty about being a sort of landlord, but I'm assured no Sonders resent that), but we all live here and the least we can do is not make the headmate experience unnecessarily difficult.

Hey I'll support practically anybody with "sonder" in their username, but what does "Ky" mean?

Thank you for the supportive ask, and the appreciation of sonder as a concept. It's always good to see other people understanding and liking sonder.

I rambled a little, as usual, but the TL;DR is that Ky doesn't stand for anything and is just the name of the guy running the blog. The whole username is a set of chosen names, actually.

For the rambling version, it's a combination of my own chosen name and my system's chosen group name. I picked the name "Ky" for myself because every name I put into every video game and book as a kid that wasn't my deadname would invariably start with "ky" and in games that had limited letter slots it would often just be those two letters on their own. I've considered changing the spelling to "Kai" because it's more recognizable in most places, but the history of "Ky" as a thing I picked for myself still has a lot of meaning to me.

The "Sonder" part of my username is actually also a chosen name. It refers to my tendency to experience sonder on a daily basis and my admiration of the concept itself, of course, but it also functions as a reference to my system. While I don't talk about it very often, and typically keep it to tags when I do, I do have it in my bio that I'm plural. Most systems choose collective names to help differentiate between when it's the host/usual person speaking, another named system member speaking, someone who doesn't know their name speaking, or the system as a whole speaking together.

Our chosen system name is "Sonder" because it not only references what I just mentioned about my experience of Sonder, but also acts as a reminder that even when I'm the only one speaking to my followers on this blog or even when it's quiet for us internally and we're not speaking much to each other as a system, we all are and deserve to be treated as people with lives and stories of our own -- to whatever extent makes each of us feel most comfortable and respected. It's been a nice reminder for us to have.

The "of" part of my username is also a reminder. It means this blog belongs mainly to me, Ky, but I'm inevitably Ky of the Sonder System. Most posts and tags are mine, but there's inevitable bleeding through of other Sonders -- and some posts are entirely theirs. All original writing tagged #sonder stories is mine, I write it, but we know there's influence from Sonders whether we plan it or talk about it amongst ourselves or not. This blog contains reblogs, posts, replies, and writing by Ky. Ky of Sonder. The username reflects that.

[zeta-in-de-walls]

Okay, in the wake of the L’Manburg war, allow me to get meta for a bit. 

Now obviously the war, and the SMP server in general, are just for content. The stakes are all fictional - nebulous things like freedom on a minecraft server, sentimental value placed on music discs and all that nonsense.

Bearing that in mind, I want to discuss how it played out.

 Who were the best players? It’s clear who were the most powerful and dangerous as enemies - Dream, George, Sapnap and Punz. (I’m leaving aside Eret for the moment btw)  They all had full netherite armour, planted TNT traps and planned betrayals and ambushes to win the war. They had the upperhand throughout. Meanwhile the other side felt weak and ill-prepared and did very little damage to any of their opponents. 

But you know, being more powerful doesn’t actually make for much content on its own. What makes good content? A good narrative filled with drama, tension and excitement. In those terms, we’re looking at Tommy and Wilbur carrying the server with this war.

 The second they said independence and made some grand speeches, there were stakes. Instead of the server being a somewhat peaceful building simulator, it was in a state of conflict. Alliances were created, flags were made, Hamilton and Revolutionary war references were heard, matching skins and all that were being created. Putting great significance into stuff like a patch of tilled soil, suggesting carrying sticks instead of weapons and wearing no armour but fighting with words - that’s the sort of stuff that made this whole scenario work. Without it, this dispute wouldn’t have been able to call itself a war. They even make ridiculous stuff sound convincing - just the idea of calling L’Manberg its own separate server that happens to be inside another server with the running costs still being paid by Dream. It’s crazy but it works. 

And my goodness, did they have their work cut out for them. 

You see, I feel like Dream and co. weren’t really playing along. They heard ‘war!’ and thought - let’s win. Let’s absolutely crush the enemy! No mercy. 

Now playing the villain can be cool, sure. And it kinda worked here. But only just. Some of their actions definitely irked me. 

See, there are kind of unspoken agreements in stuff like letting people prepare, not attacking too early, that sort of thing. You tell everyone that the war’s gonna take place at 7pm and sure enough it does. And there’s Dream’s server rules: No stealing and no griefing. These rules do get bent in the middle of an ongoing battle - eg battles often involve a lot of placing and breaking blocks and when you’re low on stuff, trying to run to a nearby chest to grab some last minute supplies is going to happen (and later after the battle’s done you’ll probably get yelled at a little before making up) - but generally they are upheld. Especially when others are offstream and you aren’t in the middle of something. 

‘Ah but it was war - rules can be broken!’ one might argue. Yeah, no, this is entertainment. You don’t start early because you’re going to ruin the stream and make the content worse - and the whole point of the war is to make good content. Like, when WIlbur’s stream died - they asked for a pause so WIlbur could sort out technical difficulties before continuing. 

Yeah so Dream and Sapnap basically broke all the rules in order to win. Fundy and Tommy put up insulting signs in different languages. Funny content. Dream and Sapnap burned Tubbo’s house to the ground. Err... okay that’s a bit excessive but we can make it work. No mercy, ha. 

So Tommy asked Tubbo to prep for the war. Tubbo agreed and got to work to try and balance the already uneven odds. At this point, the war’s in a day and all of Dream’s side has full netherite and none of L’Manburg do save Eret. Time is short but that just makes it all the more exciting. 

So Tubbo uses villagers and trading, stealing a frugal amount to get himself started before really getting into it and grinding for diamond armour and makes nine stacks of emeralds - enough to place some high level enchants and even the odds a little and make the fight interesting.

While Tubbo’s offline, Sapnap comes in and steals them, getting books to enchant his own set of netherite armour using Tubbo’s set up. Well then. There goes any hope of a fair fight. And they are trying, you know. They realise the armour discrepancy so they’ve been trying to get potions but even that’s a struggle - when Dream finished his apology stream he logged on to the SMP without warning and managed to kill Tubbo before he could get away while his inventory had been full of potions. (Tommy and Tubbo had been visiting Dream’s base to put a sign in it - an offer of Mellohi for peace. Nothing comes of this sign or any of the other Tommy put in other people’s houses - more potential good content there like demanding Sapnap stay neutral in return for a supply blaze powder (a ref to the drug war that preceded this conflict)). It’s not that Dream killing Tubbo is the issue - it’s more how he logged on basically without warning so Tubbo had little chance to get away as he was mostly unarmoured and ungeared. 

Still, the next day Tubbo is trying to grind back up, to even up things a little. He’s only managed to get 2 end crystals and he has a few sets of plain diamond armour and a few books. So he grinds like crazy in the limited time, trading all his iron, chopping trees, carrots, bamboo, sugar, everything he has into emeralds. But he needs levels. He tries to go to the spawner which the other side has been freely using to grind up exp and they kill him when he goes near. One time, Dream kills him while he has several books on him so he has to trade back emeralds to get them again. And now he doesn’t have a good way to get experience so he can’t even the odds. Punz and Sapnap even combatlog inside the spawner so if he goes near they’d come online and kill him. And yeah, they’re stream sniping. They’ve all streamed very little, hiding all their preparations while taking advantage of the fact that the other side have all been streaming everything they’ve been doing. 

‘Imagine streamsniping.’ Tommy and co. said that at one point during today’s conflict. It’s cheap - it’s not fun, it’s taking advantage - one that’s not even necessary as you’re already all OP. Dream’s side aren’t the underdog, they don’t need every single advantage to win this. Instead it’s more like rubbing salt into the wound. 

And yeah, despite all the griefing that Dream side have done, not once does anyone grief anything of theirs - like the chat was totally asking for them to burn down Punz’s house. No, they just place signs and talk. 

Okay, so Tommy announced the war would be at 7pm. He logs on at 6.45 to say hello and hype all his viewers up, get his music playing and give a rundown of the situation and what’s occurred since he’s last streamed. No sooner has he logged on then Tubbo gets ambushed early! They attacked prematurely! 

...

It’s like there was one rule - war begins at 7pm. And instead Dream, George and Sapnap all attacked Tubbo at his base at 6.45. Tommy is ages away and can’t do anything and Fundy’s in trouble too and Tubbo just barely manages to save the gear he has managed to prep. They’re even more on the backfoot. All their strats are known anyway as they’ve been watching streams so they know all about the potions and endcrystals while Tommy’s side are in the dark about Dream’s side’s preparations. For instance, offstream they filled Tommy’s base and L’Manburg with Tnt which they set off to devastating effect. 

The ‘war’ is as one-sided as you’d expect. Tommy and co. are trying to attack even though they lack arrows and food and are hopelessly outmatched but they put up a pretence of trying anyway. At no point is a single one of Dream’s side even moderately threatened (except perhaps when they ambushed Tubbo early as he tried using harming potions) and everyone knows it. 

Still, Tommy and Wilbur push on - they talk, they rally etc. Finally, Eret betrays them and they’re all killed in an ambush. And they’re shocked by this twist, they react, they call Eret their downfall. (Dream’s side didn’t need to resort to such tactics to win given their obvious advantage.) and Eret being a traitor is fantastic for content anyway so it is a great part of the narrative that they all react to perfectly. Eret seems to have a good instinct for making good content as well as this sort of twist is a good addition. It works because its drama - they trusted him and they never expected him to betray them to the other side after all they’d built together. 

In the end, Tommy finishes it on a high with a dramatic bow duel followed by offering the discs in exchange for freedom. And fittingly, despite have being entirely outplayed in terms of power and tactics, they win the thing they cared about - which was the independence that they started the war for. The content - not anything material. Dream’s side was far stronger and better prepared and they weren’t given so much as a chance to catch up for a pvp conflict. But L’Manberg - they got that. 

-

Okay, so this has been long and I’ll probably rewrite something similar soon - but I wanted to highlight how in meta terms, the war was being played unfairly and its obvious that Dream’s side had different priorities - win under any means necessary rather than continue to make great content for the SMP. They’re treating it like a manhunt or something when its absolutely not and shouldn’t be. They’re lucky that Wilbur and Tommy were so good at making it work as they do all the heavy-lifting for the SMP which ensures its got a healthy lifespan.