#Wire Binding Process

[togglesbloggle]

Voltaire's Prayer

“I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: Oh Lord, make my enemies ridiculous. And God granted it." -Volaire’s letter to Étienne Noël Damilaville, 16 May 1767

I’m inordinately fond of sex, in the political sense.  It’s saved us so often from the worst parts of ourselves.

As far as anti-authoritarian elements of the human experience go, sex is right up there with curiosity and the search for truth- maybe even more so.  When a new tyrant comes to town, shutting down the universities and the libraries is only the second thing they try.  The first thing is to regulate human sexuality to within an inch of its life.  Rules for marriage, rules for courtship, rules for which genitals may touch and where they may touch and when they may touch.  Rules for who and rules for whom.  Rules for which kinds of sex must doom characters in literature, rules for which things may be described as sexy, rules for which things may be described in a sexy way.

Of course they do!  If you’re trying to bind a large polity together under a common ideological narrative, to render people predictable enough to quash dissent and legible enough to exert power through them, the last thing you need is a bunch of folks running around being horny about stuff without permission.  Nature gifted us with a great capacity for reason and community; we have the innate opportunity to learn about ourselves and our neighbors, and to form complex societies based on that understanding.  It was Aristotle who first called us the political animal, and the fruits of that extraordinary capacity will always be within our reach, if only we can come together within a shared understanding.  The invention of the city is the great triumph of our species, and with it we conquer the universe.

But also this extraordinary, reasoning mind has been sculpted from the raw clay of a biology that’s anchored in sexual reproduction, and this ends up being very, very funny.

The problem isn’t so much that the sex instinct exists, per se.  It’s how it’s implemented.  Like most biological forms, the full complement of 86 billion(!) neurons in your brain aren’t encoded in a particular configuration; the brain is much too complex to be described so precisely in the only ~725 megabytes or so of human DNA.  The particular shape of your brain is in there somewhere- the lobes and subregions responsible for vision, memory, cognition, all that- but only up to a point.  The genius and fundamental limitation of genetics is that, below a certain level, the genes instead describe a process for the production and reproduction of specialized cells, and simply constructs them in such a way that they can be relied upon to order themselves as they go.

This is all well and good when we’re talking about kidneys and livers, but the fact that you can encode any kind of specific behavioral instinct in a brain this way is nothing short of a minor miracle.  Think about it!  Spiders don’t have a ‘spider web’ gene, the gene is for ‘proteins that come together in self-assembling electrochemically sensitive gelatin tissue which, when complete, encodes patterns that operate organ systems such as legs and spinnerets in such a way as to reliably create silk webs.’  This is absurdly impressive, and also completely insane.

What I’m getting at is, powerful behavioral instincts in a complex animal aren’t precise instruction manuals by which we pursue evolutionarily advantageous behaviors.  Sex and eros are prior to logic or language, let alone strategy.  Sex is a double-thick electrical wire discharging lightning bolts right through the middle of our cognitive centers, installed in the brain by a surgeon wearing mittens.  It’s an untethered firehose whipping chaotically through the cathedral, unpredictably spraying golden reliquaries with substances unmentionable.  It’s the first and greatest anarchist.

I really can’t overstate my gratitude for this.

Obviously this results in any number of deeply goofy outcomes by way of kinks and odd sexual practices- it gets tangled with pain centers, with random bits of anatomy and proprioception, with our taboos and aversions, with our greatest terrors or our greatest yearnings or just arbitrary stimuli from adolescence, and of course it gets enmeshed so often with our notions of power and submission.  It imbues these things with a fascination and potency out of all proportion with their mundane meanings.  And ultimately, you end up with human pleasures and human values that diverge so far from banal evolutionary imperatives as to be all but unrecognizable.

Even when this process somehow manages to propagate through the brain in such a way as to drive behaviors that are legibly aligned towards some adaptive constraint- e.g. heterosexual mating practices resulting in biological reproduction and careful childrearing- it’s still madness.  Love and sex penetrate deeply across tribal and national and racial boundaries, across economic interests, across battle-lines and enmities.  We become traitors, apostates, emigrants, and artists.  Declare a law, and in short order some hot-headed young people come along to break it in the name of sexual passions you could not possibly have seen coming.  Divide your neighborhood into us and them, and by the time the ink is dry on your proclamation there will be a forbidden relationship across the fence.  There is no social order, no ethical system, no theory of human nature that can entirely withstand contact with the full spectrum of human sexuality, because sex and eros are always going to be exactly as bonkers as the complexity of the human mind and culture will allow, plus a little extra just to be sure.

This isn’t always a delight, of course.  Many prohibitions exist for a very good reason, and the chaos of human sexuality makes no exemptions for true evil.  Some of us end up really, truly victims of this process.  But for all the dangers, the chaos at the root of all this isn’t oriented towards evil.  Chaos just means chaos, essentially arbitrary and hence absurd in character.

And in the grand analysis, we are so lucky to have this thing moving through our communities, this ridiculous madness that guarantees that there will be cracks in every wall and slips exploding cigars in the pockets of the powerful few.  Not in everybody as individuals, of course, and not everybody the same amount; asexuality is certainly one of the outcomes that all this mad gallivanting through our brains can produce.  Sexuality would never be so predictable as to guarantee its own existence, after all.  That’s part of what makes the joke so funny.

But all of us, regardless of sexuality, get to live in a world where the grand anarchy of sex is constantly driving home this lesson that no category is inviolate and no law is perfect.  That we should not and cannot take ourselves too seriously, or forget that we’re animals.  That we don’t exist only for the sake of others, or within their understanding.  That cities are made of cooperation, grace, and forbearance- not conformity or mere compliance.

People sometimes worry about immortality.  In the political sense, I mean.  They worry about eternal dictatorships and unconquerable gerontocracies.  This fear isn’t entirely unjustified; death has often played a role in progress and liberation.  But as long as enough of us are still getting horny without permission, still falling in love in stupid ways, I think we’ll be okay.  Romeo and Juliet don’t have to die at the end to make a difference in the world, as long as they’re brave enough to get weird with it.

[starscream7799]

"Onlined Cold" Starscream oneshot

I've been working on this oneshot exploring how it may have felt for Starscream to first come online after being constructed cold. I find the concept of forged and CC so interesting, so here's my interpretation of it!

The first flicker of consciousness he had ever experienced in this world was disorienting. His senses were coming online one by one, slowly giving him more information about his situation and the world around him.

The first sense his processor finally connected to was touch. He was now able to feel everything against his frame, and the sudden sensation caused him intense discomfort. He tried to move, his motor functions finally kicking in after a brief moment, but his limbs were bound to whatever type of platform he was lying on. Panic filled his spark, not understanding what was going on.

Then his olfactory senses booted up, along with his audials. The air was thick with the scent of chemicals and he could hear the low hum of machinery around him in the room. It all felt unwelcoming and cold. A second later, a strange noise filled his audials before something clicked in his processor halfway through and the sound somehow morphed into a pattern he could understand. 

"┴ɥǝ sdɐɹʞ ɐup ɟɹɐɯǝ sǝǝɯ ʇo qǝ— responding well, despite initial observations."

"Once he's fully online, we'll see if the data transferred without complications."

"I'm sure it did. This one's spark didn't reject the frame like some of the others. He must genetically be a seeker."

"Kinda short for a seeker…”

“Blame whoever made the frame. They're not all going to be identical.” 

“...Continue monitoring his vitals."

The seeker didn't know what exactly was being discussed, but he seemed to be able to process what the words meant and understand the language.

Right after he began to interpret sound, his optics onlined and he was blinded by harsh fluorescent lights. When he shut his optics to avoid the brightness, he could still see markings in the very corners of his vision. His processor then deciphered the strange markings and informed him it was normal. He quickly understood the purpose and what the text said; It was a heads up display showing him his current energon levels, vitals status, communication channels, etc.

"All of his senses are functional, which means the language and basic informational drivers have been downloaded properly. Let's continue, then get onto the next one." 

He opened his optics again, this time finding the light more tolerable. When he got his first good look at everything, he saw machines all around the room and various wires and lines attached to his frame. He saw mechanical beings- "Cybertronians", his processor informed him- writing down information and observing him. 

"Answer these questions here and you can go." One of the mechs, a doctor he figured out, said to him, not bothering to look up from the data pad in his hands. Another one was detaching the wires and such from his frame and then unlocked the bindings that had been holding him down. He sat up, rubbing his wrists where the metal had been chafing against his joints.

"Alrighty, first: Do you know where you are?"

"I... what?" He asked, still confused and disoriented by everything. He then searched the data that had been downloaded into his processor and found the answer. "Uhh, Cybertron?"

"Primus- Did no one scan his protoform after it was put into the frame? His vocals are damaged, he sounds like a damn banshee." The doctor turned around to ask the other medical personnel, clearly irritated. A couple medics looked away innocently, while another one left the room entirely, avoiding responsibility for the oversight. 

The seeker just tilted his helm, trying to figure out what the problem was. "What's the issue? I can speak." He assured the doctor, frowning.

"Yeah... okay." The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, writing down something on his data pad. "Next question: Do you feel any discomfort, pain, confusion, frame rejection, vibrations, delusions, murderous urges, nausea, paralysis, processor damage, aches, or abnormal sensitivity?" The mech spoke quickly and robotically, as if reading from a list.

"Uhh.." The seeker didn't know what to say and didn't quite catch everything. Some of that sounded nonsensical, if he was being honest.

"Good, good." The doctor gave a nod and checked something off his data pad, clearly not actually paying attention to the seeker's reply. He shoved something into the seeker's hands and then stood up. "Alright, you can go now. Here's your identification card, it'll tell you where you'll be stationed. Welcome to Cybertron, kid.” 

With that, the seeker was ushered out of the facility. He tried to argue that he didn't know what he was supposed to do, but he was ignored entirely, as if this wasn't the first time they'd heard a patient claim such. He frowned and looked at the identification card he was given.

“Starscream..” He said aloud, testing how the designation sounded. That was the name he was given, as stated on the card. Before he could read further though, he was harshly shoved to the ground.

"Get out of the way, air head!" 

"Why do they keep making fliers of all frames? There's too many of you freaks around." 

"Because they're good war-builds, duh. Brawn and no brains. Aww, did we scare the wittle seeker?” A tall mech snickered as he stood over the jet. Starscream didn't realize the position of his wings were a very good indicator of how upset he was at the comments. They hung low against his back. He still had so much to learn. 

Thankfully, the tall one and his friend didn't stick around too long, as they laughed at him and walked off. At that moment, Starscream felt discouraged, wondering how he was going to survive this intense world. It seemed like the odds were already stacked against him.

He picked himself up before he became more of a fool and looked back at his ID card.

Designation: Starscream

Frame Type: Aerial

Model: Seeker

Creation: Cold-Constructed

Function: [Redacted]

Secondary Function: Construction mapping and energon seeker

Starscream made a face that was a mixture of both confusion and disgust as he read he was supposed to work in construction. That sounded less than ideal, it actually almost offended him the longer he thought about it.

But what else was he to do? He hadn't been online for more than an hour, had been bullied, had no plans or goals. Sure, he had basic knowledge downloaded into his processor so he could be a functional Cybertronian, but besides that, he was clueless about the world and how it worked. He didn't know who he was supposed to *be*. 

He thought back to what the tall mech had said about fliers having no brains, just brawn, and a new feeling began to bubble up inside of him, simmering slowly. He wasn't going to let anyone tell him what he could or couldn't do. He didn't care what his stupid ID card said, he refused to work in something as menial as construction. Why should he?

Fuck it, he wanted to be a scientist.

[angelofchaos001]

Meet the Rivulet! (Splitmind AU)

Reblogs > Likes (Reblogging helps out a lot, even if it doesn't seem like much!)

It's Ruffles time!

Lore under cut, includes pre and post Scugerator

Quick tidbit about her design, is that as I draw more designs, I slowly make these slugcats less cat-like and just go more and more nuts, with the Splitmind AU being very different. Rivulet isn't even furred, but instead has placoid scales and has a more sharkskin feel to her.

Also, something you'll see with more of the AU is that scugerators will have their left eye black with a pupil colored like the iterator inside the scug. The only time this changes is when the iterator takes temporary control (whether willingly or through force), where both eyes become reflective of the iterator.

Moots, Interested, or Ones who I think will be interested

@doodlebug091

@keeper-of-magic

@angeliteonfridgeduty

@stupidscav

@batnip

@riverripplespeaks

@cherry-b0mber

@luxdraconia

@voldkat

@lunas-sketchbook

Pre - Moon

Before Moon placed her consciousness in the paws of a slugcat, Rivulet was just an aquatic beast that lived in Shoreline, mostly near the seafloor of the ocean and only coming up every so often to sunbathe or hunt if her normal prey was scarce. (Splitmind Rivulet has true gills, so she can live underwater. She also still has lungs, don't worry, evolution didn't screw her over too bad)

Rivulet lived a solitary lifestyle, only coming into contact with one other slugcat in their life, who simply came and went. At some point, she did visit the local iterator before their collapse, and was given the Mark of Communication before going back to the life she usually lived.

After the iterator collapsed, Rivulet started collecting some of the scraps that washed into the sea, such as pearls, bits of metal and wiring, and even a rarefaction cell (and a lot more damaged cells too). Eventually, she saw another slugcat traveling to the iterator, and out of curiosity, she followed them to watch as they brought the lifeless puppet back to life. After the other slugcat left, Rivulet dropped down to listen to Moon's stories, and would even stay in the chamber when the rains came since she could still breathe.

Post - Moon

After several cycles of living with the iterator, Rivulet saw another slugcat enter the chamber. After initially being hostile towards them, Moon wanted to investigate after the slugcat drew a pearl from a pouch and handed it to her before speaking to both of them, despite marks not being two-way communication. The creature explained that it was an iterator inside of the slugcat's mind, and it hoped this could be a convoluted way to ascend themselves by binding their own minds to another, more feral creature. The pearl contained the instructions on how to do such.

Without lingering for much longer to answer any questions, the creature then gave a suggestion that, normally, it would prefer to genetically engineer the perfect host for such a task, but in Moon's condition, it could be less stressful on her fragile systems to use what was on-hand.

After reading the pearl, Moon asked Rivulet if this was something she was okay with: An iterator in her mind. Rivulet agreed, having grown fond of Moon's presence, and wanted the best for her. Moon went ahead with the process, transferring her mind to Rivulet's.

With a newfound consciousness alongside her own, Rivulet originally wanted to try ascending straight away, but Moon encouraged her to spend some time exploring and showing her things she'd never seen before. Rivulet began doing just that, and Moon offered insight into things that Rivulet didn't understand. The two meshed perfectly, and in the end, the choice Rivulet made was one she never regretted.

Rivulet also met some of the other scugerators on her travels, namely, a feisty and explosive slugcat that had the same telltale eye, but refused to open up on who or why. The slugcat, Artificer, had two missions: Kill the scavenger cheiftain, and then ascend. Rivulet wanted to help, at least with the ascension, and accompanied Artificer on parts of her journey until finally taking her to the new place the scavengers had set up, Bitter Aerie in the remnants of Moon's structure.

After Artificer had done what she wanted, Rivulet took her to meet echo after echo, though both the echoes and Moon told Rivulet that something was wrong with Artificer, as a carnal desire bound her to this world. Despite this, Rivulet still guided Artificer through the world until they'd reached Subterranean, where the guardians (obviously) attempted to attack Artificer. With Rivulet's speed and a bit of trickery, she was able to sneak Artificer past them and eventually, to the void sea.

Riv watched Artificer go, but shortly after could see the golden shimmers in the water and almost saw the red slugcat being fragmented. Confused and worried, especially after seeing what looked like the slugcat trying to claw her way back to the surface, Rivulet dove in to save her. Despite the pain of the void fluid starting to dissolve her body, Rivulet managed to grab Artificer and pull them both out before either could echo/ascend.

After this, Artificer said she was going to 'make things right', and after the two sheltered together, disappeared into the world. In attempts to find her lost friend, Rivulet found a trio of slugcats that didn't have the telltale eye and instead, seemed like just that: Slugcats. As she talked to them and got to know the three, a pair of siblings and the third being like an adoptive one, she became friends with them as well and tries to visit them as often as she can, since she still roams the world looking for Artificer.

[smhalltheurlsaretaken]

Not me being mad today about people over exaggerating the "do or do not there is no try" and hating on the Jedi for it as if it's not an idiom about always trying your best and giving it your all (and considering things when you do them) instead of literally saying don't try if you can't succeed. :/

I've always understood "do or do not, there is no try" as "ultimately, you will either have done or not done" - it seems like it's about focusing on the outcome instead of the process.

(As a recap of what exactly happens in ESB: Luke is doing a handstand trying to lift stones with Yoda perched on his leg when the ship suddenly sinks further into the water. It breaks Luke's concentration and his rocks fall, along with him, and Yoda. Luke laments they'll never get the ship back, Yoda laments that Luke always thinks things are too hard to be done, Luke says lifting stones is different, Yoda says it isn't, and Luke agrees to try, which is when Yoda has his iconic line.

And critically, after Luke does try and fail, Yoda gives him a great speech about the nature of the Force and how it binds everything together and Luke despondently says that it's just impossible. Upon which Yoda lifts the ship out of the water, of course, and Luke exclaims that he can't believe it, to which Yoda answers that that's why he's failing.)

Obviously you won't always get things right the first time, and that's precisely what Luke is frustrated about in the scene. And because he's disappointed that he's not getting things right, he doesn't even want to try anymore - his first instinct is to give up because he thinks the situation is beyond fixing.

So the critical point about the quote is that this Yoda shifting the focus: he tells Luke to stop thinking about what he's doing and concentrate on what he wants to do.

This is because of Luke's current state of mind, because Luke is currently associating his own efforts with failure, it's not just a random thing he's saying to make him feel bad.

Everything Star Wars tells us about the Force is that it's used through both intuition and confidence:

That's why the Jedi train so hard from such a young age - you can't doubt yourself or second-guess the Force, or you will get your ass kicked by both the universe and your potential opponents. You have to be able to trust your instincts because you have to rely on them - hence the need to either instill good Force-oriented instincts in kids, or in Luke's case relearn his own base sentient instincts. You can't learn to categorize the material world as 'too heavy,' 'too far,' 'not possible' - you have to focus on the Force, not the physical nature of the objects or your own limitations.

Luke thinks and feels the way a non Force-sensitive would: 'heavy things = can't be lifted.' He was doing okay lifting stones upside down, but he was using his muscles to stand upright, not the Force (hence why he was struggling to stay up and why he fell so easily). His concentration was clouded by material concerns (the loss of the ship and his own powerlessness) so he couldn't maintain it. He sees success as depending on his own conscious efforts but that's just not the way it works, he has to let go because his mind is just not wired right yet and so his efforts are necessarily counterproductive. It's that materialism that Yoda is responding to.

That's the point of Yoda's lesson imo - it's not so much about the technicalities of 'giving it everything you've got,' it's about something much deeper. He is trying to get Luke to radically change his mindset and entire worldview (the 'luminous beings, not this crude matter' quote is from this scene too), because Luke is never going to succeed if he thinks in terms of 'trying.'

If Luke could visualize the starship out of the bog and focus on that, the starship would be out of the bog. If he's focused on trying to lift it out of the bog, then he'll fail because everything in his mind tells him he can't.

Which is exactly what happens.

And the fact is, we know Yoda is 100% right with his advice and that everything he says and teaches in that moment is endorsed by the narrative - because he easily succeeds where Luke kept failing.

Story-wise, it couldn't be clearer that Yoda's advice is good, because it's immediately proven that not following it doesn't yield results, but that following it does.

Like most Jedi maxims, "Do, or do not. There is no try," is circumstantial advice and I'm pretty sure it doesn't show up again in Star Wars canon, be it the movies or TCW (until Rebels that is, when Kanan quotes it to Ezra like it's a rote thing that Yoda used to say all the time and it's kind of 'ah ah' moment because neither of them can figure out what it means). Which is why it kinda bugs me that it was elevated to a Yoda proverb like it's something he says constantly and not just something Luke needed to hear in that moment. It's a banger of a quote though.

[livingz0mbee]

“Dude, Look at me and breathe.”

Fem Dick Grayson/Fem Kid Flash (My AU)

The sword impaled through Graysons chest didn’t help with the fact that Her best friend, Kid flash was thrashing in some sort of rope that kept her binded in the air.

“We’re gonna die and I’m gonna die- oh my god this is so surreal.”

Grayson glanced up at the speedster who was hanging above her. She saw as her breathing began to speed up but she didn’t mind it. “Calm down, this is what we signed up for.” Grayson groaned as she fixed herself into a (weirdly) comfortable position on the sword. Her robin suit was torn, due to some sort of scientifically created beasts. Her thigh had a gunshot in it, her ankle was probably broken. There was a throbbing in her left knee. Everything was overstimulating but I mean; she was close to death.

Kid Flash on the other hand , had been wrapped in some sort of web and left to bleed out. She couldn’t vibrate through it. She kept trying to move which only made it worse. Surprisingly her wrist was broken, along with her right ankle. She had been stabbed in the shoulder and through her palm. Even when she didn’t move the burn of the ropes digging into her thighs didn’t help. “You think Cons gonna find us? Or are we just..”

“We’d be lucky to even catch a glimpse of someone. We’re so deep in this museum.” grayson spoke as she analyzed the room around her. Well maybe she would take the sword out but guys, the handle was so thick. Grayson sucked in through her teeth harshly and spoke, “Yknow, I actually liked this team.” she lifted her wrist to look at her watch that was glitching and had wires sticking out from a guy stepping on it. “You guys were funny.” She looked up at kid flash who was silently crying. “KF?” no answer. “Are you okay?” “Is it something I said?” “Look at me.”

Wests tears flew down her face, hyperventilating in the process. She felt the world slow down, except this wasn’t in a good way. Her hands shook and her mind dissociated. Grayson reached a hand out to her. “I don’t wanna die.” grayson paused, looking at west. “West. Then why would you do this then? Every Day is a risk.” Kid flashes breathing got even worse and Grayson reached her hand out to her. She was so out of it she didn’t notice. Grayson moved as much as she could to get closer, a little blood came out of her mouth in the process. she wiped it with her semi- working wrist. “Kid Flash, listen, please.” she didn’t, opting to cry harder. Graysons hand ghosted over Kid flashes bicep. Just a little more and she’d be close enough. It hurt like hell but she managed to get close enough.

Her fingers gripped her shoulder, as hard as they could. Blood slid down Graysons mouth to her chin, still slowly trickling down her neck. “Look at me,” Grayson commented behind the domino mask, “And breathe.” Everything stopped in Wests world, the buzzing in her ear and even the sound of her heartbeat. Grayson lifted her hand to take off her mask and West felt her heart thump in her chest. Graysons Eyes stared into hers and it was pure love, and adoration. Graysons fingers went from her shoulder to her free arm, grasping her hand.

“Just look at my eyes. It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay.” Grayson lied, she wasn’t okay, she would most likely die. But she would hope kid flash would feel at least a little better. The way her mask slid off and she blinked; her eyelashes were so pretty. She looked up at Kid Flash, intertwining their fingers. It was just them. They didn’t hear the sounds of men yelling, the flash of red and blue zip past, Or the feeling of being Let down.

Kid Flash and Robins gaze never faltered. Grayson spoke up as west was pulled down, their fingers slowly slipping apart; losing warmth from her palm: “See, I told you.”, Kid flash was put into Flashes arm, her head over his shoulder. Robin was being carried by her father, “I love you.” Batman quirked an eye as his adoptive daughter spoke, his hand on her back, holding her close. Kid flash smiled as she her eyes closed. “I love you too.”

[afreakingdork]

Weak Spot - Chapter 50

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

Do not be afraid! You're alright unlike Don in this week's chapter art by @garbagemilkshake

Warnings: Aged-up Turtles, Romance, Meet Cute, Villain Donatello, Cussing, Crushes, Xenophobia, Fear, Intimidation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Love, AFAB Reader, Vaginal Sex, Sex Rough, Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Teasing, Scent Kink, Sexual Tension, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Marathon Sex, Somnophilia, Bondage, Feral Behavior, Feral Donatello, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Public Sex, Dom Donnie, Human/Turtle Relationships, Turtle Noises, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay

Synopsis:  A love story of villainous proportions! Though it hadn’t come easily, as these things rarely do, you found yourself in a whirlwind romance with a handsome and mysterious mutant. His idiosyncrasies had been easy to ignore as attraction grew into something more. However, will love endure when the unknowns about him end up being far darker than you ever considered?

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

Waking had been more of a nightmare than you initially imagined. From the crust of dried fluids to the film in your mouth, extracting yourself from bed was a process of scraping the rust off old machinery. The parts needed a firm scrub with a wire brush and until you could garner that facsimile, you were grinding ancient gears. It was a stumbling affair to the bathroom, where you locked yourself in unintentionally.

Priorities askew, you randomly selected what seemed pressing from the pile and brushed your teeth. Going long over to devastate slept in plaque, you then ambled to the shower to sit under a hot stream. Head to the wall as you had seen in some movies, reenactment was the furthest of your thoughts. Your life was a satisfying one with nothing to mourn and your head was mostly empty until you got a hold of a loofa. Clearing the debris brought clarity and by the time you remembered to wash your hair, you could form thoughts for the day.

Thankful it was officially the weekend, there was late breakfast to attend to and then presumably cleaning. There had been a mishap with the souffles which had dried into the floor even if you had eaten the leftovers in a stupor. Shaking off having eaten a long cold egg dessert, your stomach hadn’t seemed to notice and you finished up. Donned in more than one fluffy towel for the sake of leisure, you came out in what you imagined was a puff of steamy smoke to find your partner still asleep.

Dropping the charade, you crept quietly and got dressed in something comfortable before going to inspect the damage. The desserts had splattered a lengthy stripe that reminded you of the sauce Donnie had once smeared on fancy dinner plates. Giving a moment of silence to fallen comrades, you wondered about the dishes until you turned to find an enormous leaking bundle in the kitchen. Remembering how Donnie had flung the candlelit dinner contents, you glowered at the package.

Without a way to move it without waking your partner, you awkwardly worked around it to grab yourself some breakfast. Emergency rations from the freezer, you gnawed on something meant for busy ease and thought over how to clean. The food smears would need minor soaking and the mess of broken dishes was best stuffed out the window if only there were a dumpster underneath.

Not so lucky on the latter’s front, you sprayed the smears of lost souffle before addressing the bundle. Sat in its sad puddle, you picked lightly at the knot Donnie had made. One of a twist like a balloon, you wiggled it a bit until it started to unravel. Thankful for cotton’s resistance to stay tied, you were slow to release the binds. With only the light clicking of broken dishware, you waited and listened to see if that was enough to wake your partner.

Finding little sound and imagining he’d groan upon waking, you were methodical in gathering up the shards. Nothing had survived the onslaught, so you doubled up on bags to trash the pieces. You then disposed of the entire bundle since it had already done your sweeping for you before returning to now softened souffle residue. Wiping it and the kitchen puddle up, you dusted your hands of the matter and went to rest.

Just as you had found a comfortable position on the couch, you heard an annoyed grunt from across the apartment. Rolling your eyes, you decided to let him have a similar morning to you. As you scrolled, Donnie made a variety of exhausted noises as the land of the conscious was thrust upon him. Repulsion came with a near gag at the state of his body and his footsteps were hurried as he disappeared into the bathroom with a similar locked latch as your own.

His shower started sooner than yours and you almost wondered if he’d brush his teeth amongst the stream. Not something you particularly cared to find out, you ended up closing your eyes and getting close to a doze by the time he emerged. Humidity changing and a clean scent announcing his reentry into the bedroom, you languished in his soap’s smell until he padded into view.

On a mission in the kitchen, he downed an entire pitcher of water before his nose tested the air. Presumably picking up on all the cleaning you’d done, he turned an exhausted, but thankful look on you. Enough to get you on your feet, you moved to greet him properly. He opened himself up as an indication that he would receive you and you buried into the faint dampness that clung to his scales.

Nuzzling into his plastron, a vibration echoed above your head and you blinked wide at the feeling.

Donnie gave a single sharp inhale.

It did nothing to stop the roiling hot tub noise.

The jets continued to rumble.

Feeling your partner’s muscles tense, he tried giving a snort to stop the onslaught. One not the trick, he gave several in quick succession that amounted to only a few hiccups amongst an ongoing churr. 

You looked up at him curiously and, in doing so, the noise amplified.

In a swift move, he caught your shoulders and pushed until you were at an arm’s length.

The sound stopped.

Watching him, he studied you with a furrowed brow until he began to reel you back in.

As soon as you got into what you considered his personal space, the churr started right back up.

A tittering excitement ran through you and he shoved you back to the safe distance.  

“No, no, no…” His pupils wobbled at the forefront of a spiral.

“It’s cute.” You reached up and cuffed the wrist holding you at bay.

As if tapping into the source, you felt the vibration of his churrs increase through the connection.

You giggled.

The completely wrong sound, he vanished.

“Donnie!” You called out after him and slowly tracked his disappearance.

You found him at the foot of the bed, standing with a pin pricked gaze that swam in sclera whites.

“It's okay…” You ushered, trying to break through his bothered exterior.

“I’ve lost control.” He spoke with a weighty horror.

“Slow down, it’s only been a few minutes.” You held back from getting close as you approached. “Are you up to talking about it?”

A fearful flick from him came with an unsteady in and out of breath. “What to say…?”

“Maybe… explain what a churr is exactly? I’m not sure…”  

It took a moment for the information to penetrate, but when it did, he moved to look at you. “It’s a…” He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “A contented… sound as I label it.”

You tried not to let your surprise show.

You didn’t want him to read it wrong.

It wasn't the meaning. 

You could surmise as much. 

It was the connotation. 

Your mind was unusually faster to connect the dots.

If he knew what the sound was then he’d felt it before.

It went against what you knew of his past and you weren't sure what to make of that.

“There’s a worrying amount of extrapolation. Depends on the species. Depends on the sound. Some are too low a frequency to be heard by humans. Some deny its existence. Others tout fiction.” He grit his teeth and rounded the bed for a little more distance.

Now worried you’d jumped to conclusions, you went to clear up confusion. “Have you made it before or is this from research?”

The question wounded him and he had to sit down.

You ached as you waited at the foot of the bed.

“Yes to both…”

“Donnie, I don’t want to judge, but this reaction seems…” You headed toward the window and tried not to see how he’d react. “… a little dramatic?”

“Repercussions!” A snarl escaped him before he slapped a hand over his mouth.

You twisted a hand into the curtain where you’d caught it out of nerves. “Um…”

“This!” With another snap of his teeth, he leapt backwards out of the bed and crossed the room. “Control! These emotions are connected! A precarious balancing act has been disrupted! A leak of contaminants!”

Leaning into the sheers, you pulled the fabric close as you thought. “How you were still holding back.”

“Yes.” He spat.

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know.” He clicked angrily before giving a bitter sigh.

Quiet, you pinched some gauze. “What did you do before?”

“When?” He inspected a dresser.

“The last time you churred.” You felt guilty having been envious of an imagined age old Donnie finding minor comfort in a blanket or something of the sort. 

“A few days ago?” He retorted with a daggered edge.

You were taken aback.

His features scrunched up with his own bafflement.

You stood in a confused stand off before you both went to dispel it.

“What are you talking about?”

“Y/N please, it’s been happening for months.”

“Months?!”

“You’ve noticed!” He refused to take a step, but addressed you with the whole of his irritation.

“Noticed what!? You purring like a cat?! I think I’d remember something like that!”

“You didn’t-a cat?!” He hissed against his point. “You’ve said many an inane thing, but that-!”

“It literally shares the same word ending!”

“Turtles don’t have vocal cords! It’s a completely different sound!”

“I don’t know! You talk!”

“I’m a mutant!!!” He roared, throwing his hands up. “I can’t…” He shriveled around his rage. “I can’t do this…” Dropping with abject terror, he bolted for the partition between the bedroom and living.

“Donnie, wait-!” You made it a few steps before the wrap of the curtain held you back. “Damnit!”

A green hand appeared and helped uncoil you.

“Donnie!” You turned on him, but he stumbled away before falling over.

“Stop!” He held his hands up as if you were attacking him.

“It’s okay…” You dropped down to your knees and methodically placed your hand to the ground in a non-threatening way. “It’s okay. I'm not chasing. I'm not going to do anything. I just…”

His eyes flew around your figure and he had one fist raised nervously to his chest.

“You can go. If that’s what you need to do, that’s fine.”

“But…?!” He flared at your silence.

“That’s it.”

“That can’t be it! This is the part where… where…” His mind stumbled over his thoughts and he was left swinging his gaze back and forth as if reading the broken repeating letter on a typewriter.

“I’m not going to pretend I know what you’re going through. Even with everything I’ve seen; I don’t know anything. Nothing at all. I don’t know what you mean by months. I don’t. I wasn’t trying to stop you. I just.. Didn't want you to leave like that. Not running away. I wanted you to know that I’m here for when you're ready and it's okay if you need time.”

“You’re…” He hinged and threw his palms up to press into his eyes. Grunting, he smacked his head a ruthless few times and you helplessly reached you. You couldn't stop the strikes and he slowed only to give a heaved breath. “I need to move.”

“Go. It’s okay. I promise.”

“I’m coming back.”

“I know.”

“Y/N.” He inched back a bit before righting himself.

“Yes?”

“I’m coming back.”

“Donnie, I know. I’m not worried.”

Raised to his knees, he stared and you gave him an encouraging nod.

He took it as strength which he transferred to his legs. Standing a little off balance, he stumbled one step before you watched his legs tensed to leave. Lowering your gaze in case that was keeping him in place, you moved to stand yourself. Coming up found a green foot and a prosthetic still standing across from you and you kept your eyes glued to the floor as you retreated further into the bedroom.

You made it one step before he was around you in a bracing hug from behind.

Only touching a hand to his forearms in return, you felt him give over to a full body churr.

He let it linger until he had to growl himself out of it and in a whoosh of air he was gone.

Waiting a few stale minutes just in case he changed his mind, you trailed to the kitchen to shut the window he’d run from. Leaving it unlocked, you surveyed the kitchen and how it was still clean. He hadn’t gotten to eat and you hoped he’d grab something while out. Knowing that unlikely due to him having disappeared in sweatpants, you sighed and trailed the empty apartment.

Feeling the yearn of movement yourself, there wasn’t anything to do. Having already cleaned and you listlessly walked the apartment without an outlet. Hopeless with a lack thereof, you ended up sitting on your side of the bed. Across from you stood the dresser that Donnie momentarily ran to and you watched a phantom memory of him flinch away from his own anger.

He’d compared his emotions to a leaking package. It didn’t sit right with you, but it felt like a moot point. You thought otherwise. You thought he was making progress. He’d seemed like he was on a steady incline to happiness. Each day he opened up for what you considered his true purpose.

He’d also mentioned otherwise more than once.

He considered you the anomaly and this trend of happiness to not be the true him.

You could have sworn the opposite was revealed, but right now you weren’t sure. You almost felt a form of shock. His set back had occurred without warning. You knew progress wasn’t linear. You knew that there was no inevitability to healing. You knew that each day was simply to be taken in whatever form it could, but that was all knowledge and not done in practice.

When the time came, you’d belittled his meltdown.

Head sinking, the moment of you calling his feelings silly replayed like a haunt.

You deserved the torment of it and swore to yourself that’d be your first apology.

Had you even tried to get through to him?

He’d lashed out, but he’d also be undeniably scared.

You’d registered those emotions and then swiftly undermined them.

Swirling in that distress, you got to your feet.

You needed something in your hands.

Something tangible to manipulate.

You opened a dresser drawer.

In it, you’d never actually put everything back to the way it had been prior to Donnie mixing it up. The system didn't really matter, but for the sake of it, you moved to reorganize. It meant methodically emptying each cabinet and repiecing the collection, but it was better than sitting around berating yourself.

In the grand scheme, it was another known fact that was easy to say and harder to exercise.

Things got messy. 

You both were bound to make mistakes.

Neither of you were perfect.

Your underwear had been split between three drawers as of current and you filed them into a tidy row to all go into one.

What mattered was how you handled it.

Things could get heated, but it was how you moved forward that mattered.

As Mikey had said, you could only try to be better.

Scooping up a heavy load of winter clothes that should have been more readily accessible considering the month, you set down the stack only to graze something square. Any oddity in what should have only been cloth, you dismantled the stack to find a rectangular bulge folded up in a holiday sweater. Something ugly once purchased for a party, you unfurled the garment to find a pristine looking white apparel box.

Something you imagined was for fancy dress shirts, you slid your fingers along the edge to find it wasn’t taped shut. Deciding it wasn’t a gift and since it was amongst your clothes, you lifted the lid to find finely folded tissue paper. Another marker of a high price tag, you took care in peeling back the billowy edges. Undressing the wrapping in what felt like a literal sense, you revealed a large swatch of what looked like purple satin. Running a finger over the item found it to be much smoother than you anticipated.

Digit halting, it almost seemed like it was silk and your hand lifted at the possibility. Not knowing how to check, you looked the box over to find it offered no indication of its contents. That meant you’d have to pick whatever this was up and the thought that you could be intruding on something else of Donnie’s reared your head. His gifts weren’t ever something you’d stumbled upon before and it seemed unlike him to have hidden a gift amongst your possessions, let alone ones you would need considering the weather.

Caught though you were vaguely aware you were talking yourself into it, you ghosted over the fabric until you found the top edge. Something that felt like a hem, you pinched at it and finally lifted the object to find out what it was. Having revealed a row of clasps, you turned the garment around to find a sort of skimpy corset. Not traditional of anything you’d seen before, it was the shape of it that caused your head to jar.

With a faint curve to its top edge, it was clear this wasn’t meant to accentuate the chest. It would probably skim across your collar and seemed more for creating a sharp waistline. As it went down, it curved further inward until it tapered into two half moons before finishing up with a squared bottom. The whole created a nearly identical shape to Donnie’s plastron.

Much shorter and something that would absolutely not even reach your mons, you held the garment further away as a blush took your face. It was such an oddly specific creation that it seemed made for you. Eyes flicking down to the box, you saw more traditional lingerie of silk and accompanying lace. An entire set, you traded to the corset for lacy strips and found them to be crotchless underwear. Layer after embarrassing layer, you then found nylon which you identified as thigh highs hooked to what had to be a garter belt. Reaching the end of the ensemble, you revealed a folded slip of paper.

Nabbing it with an anxious ferocity, you flipped the card open.

Might as well lean into the interspecies freak -Coral

Slamming the lid back on the box, a memory sucker punched you.

Two housewarming presents. You gotta find ‘em but when you do you’ll know.

You’d completely forgotten.

You'd found the astronaut, but forgot there was another.  

Dropping to squat on the floor, you were torn between rage and mortification.

It had been months.

Did Coral even remember?

Knowing her, she surely did.

You probably hadn't put it together as she hoped, but you’d also found it at the worst possible time.

Rising up in a flurry that stung your knees, you made quick work of burying the set back into its box. Clear and hopefully having not messed it up, you messily folded it back into the ugly sweater before shoving it back into its stack. Toppling all the folded clothes in the process, you groaned loudly as you were forced to slow down. Humiliation setting in, you took your time in the second go around and properly snuck the gift where it had once been. From the outside its placement was unrecognizable and you wondered if Donnie had found it in his clothing shuffle.

Remembering your boyfriend, you stopped short of the wardrobe laid out on your bed.

Was it okay to forget that you wronged him?

Stewing didn’t feel good, but moving on from the subject entirely didn’t feel like the correct route either.

Keeping him in mind like a screensaver, you returned to your original task. With everything laid out, it took less time to put it back where it belonged. The physicality of the space in order, it did little for your mental state. Not something you expected to have been fixed by this anyway, there was a faint sense of accomplishment that you allowed yourself.

Carrying it along, you moved to the living room and threw something familiar on the TV. Animated for your comfort, you watched it for a tepid relief and found it a sort of balm. For turning the unnecessary off, it helped. By the time the credits rolled, you felt little pangs of hunger and remembered you’d eaten the definition of a breakfast on the go. Not balanced and of a low calorie count, you approached a cabinet with the intent to prepare something.

Thinking Donnie could have some when he got back, you pulled out a slow cooker as nothing seemed pressing. Readying ingredients in a lull of silence, you listened to how the knife sliced. A different sound and sensation for whatever ingredient, you threw things into the pot and then added various liquid and spices. Already smelling like a meal, you turned the dial on, placed a lid overtop, and left it to properly simmer. Approaching the late afternoon light streaming through the window, you cracked it and had a final thought that maybe the smell would welcome him back.

Scrolling turned into an impromptu nap and you awoke to the faintest creak of a jamb. Blinking in registration that someone had entered your apartment, you found Donnie’s back to you as he slid the window closed. Framed by darkness, he lingered there and you let the scents of the crock pot wash over you. Sitting up, you rubbed an eye and wondered if you should welcome him back.

He turned and his movement hitched as he saw you.

You rose your hand in a sort of wave.

His gaze dropped along with your heart.

Did he hold it against you?

Stopping the trickle of nerves in your chest, you threw your legs off the side of the couch.

“Smells good.” Donnie spoke, soft and unsure.

“Wanted something easy.” You shrugged, not sure whether to commit.

You heard him give a little hum of agreement.

Did you let it be?

He’d needed time.

He wasn’t ready.

“Donnie-”

“Y/N-”

You both stared openly at one another before smiles grew on your faces. The commonality of you both breaking the ice at the same time had you moving and he went to meet you. Stopping short to prevent the dreaded churr, you gave him an obvious once over. Not necessarily dirty, he had a winter’s musk to him that said he’d been outside a majority of the day.

“Are you cold?” You asked first.

“I’d like to shower.” He seemed almost bashful. “I may have reconstructed a small city's worth of air conditioning units… “

You couldn't help but smile at the image. “Go ahead. Want me to get a bowl ready for you?”

“Please.” He gave a nod that was nearly a bow and excused himself.

Thinking your hunger was still faint, you set his bowl aside for closer to when he’d emerge and scooped yourself up some dinner. Eating it right there, standing in the kitchen, you listened to the faint sounds of water hitting his shell. A vision of him exhausted and letting the heat melt into his sore muscles.

Thinking of the labor he'd put himself through, you lounged in a pinup of him in messy coveralls until you heard the sound of water shift. Scooping out a steaming bowl and stirring the potted mixture to prevent further sticking, Donnie emerged in what you considered his comfort outfit. Not for eye candy, but a full body safety blanket of coverage with baggy sweats and a matching hoodie, he’d approached and you held out his bowl to him. He took it, a utensil, and almost seemed to not know what to do next until he decided to plop down on the couch. There he examined his fork, a tine at a time, before he worked on getting a bite with a little bit of everything.

A culmination, your lips parted in a miming as the meal entered his mouth. Closing around it and a subtraction of his utensil, he sat there with a heated mixture surely burning his tongue. He gave a chuff, remembered himself, and finally picked up eating at a ravenous pace. Consuming yours languidly and watching him from the kitchen, he cleaned his plate before getting up with obvious intent. Moving out of the way, he ladled himself another full portion and scarfed it down right in front of you.  

“Careful.” You mused, trying to curtail your smile.

He gave a dismissive grunt as he filled his third bowl.

Finishing yours as he was losing steam, you let him be as you left the kitchen. Immediately faced with a choice of the living room or bedroom, you waffled. It was all pleasantries and as much as you disliked it, you wanted to give him the space he needed to process. Your regrets not nearly as important, you decided farthest was best and flittered toward the partition.

“Y/N.” Donnie addressed just as you were about to pass the threshold.

“Yes?” You slowed and gave a half turn.

“Would you-” He swallowed. “-Could we…?”

Making a full rotation, you faced him.

His gaze fell and he looked ashamed. “Were you… going to bed?”

“No.”

He squirmed in place. “Bathroom?”

“No.” You couldn’t help but laugh a little.

“Something… else?”

“Do you want me to?”

“To?” He shyly met your gaze.

“Be busy. You don’t have to force yourself.”

“That’s not…” He tapered off with a whiny noise in his throat.

“What do you need, Don? Please tell me.”

“Talk. We should… talk.” Flinging his head to the top right, a faint annoyance twitched his lips. “I haven’t prepared to but we should.”

“Donnie, you-”

“No.” His eyes closed. “No avoidant behavior. No indulging me further. I’m… a mess. I don’t… want you to see me like this.” He sneered.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” You took a tentative step forward.

“I’m worried about snapping at you, hurting you. My disposition. These… feelings that are still… vicious.” He made a swirling gesture. “I haven't recaptured them.”

“Container, capture, control, it reminds me of something cartoonish.”

He looked at you with tinged distress.

“Not you.” You clarified. “There’s this trope where someone has to rush to clean up a room so they shove everything into the closet. It looks clean, right? But everything is only shoved out of sight.”

Donnie didn’t react, but you could tell he tracked you as you inched forward.

“There’s always this inevitable moment where the closet opens and everything falls out. There was no way it could stay like that. Those things need to be dealt with.”

“They were.”

You perked up at his voice.

“It was fine… I was…” He looked at you, his lips moving to say something, but his expression broke. “It wasn’t, was it?”

You shook your head, feeling a weepiness seize your throat.

“This is a dangerous change. I’ve explained.” He rounded the kitchen counter, but held onto it like a tether. “I’ve shown enough weakness, going out with you. Openly…” He hesitated before worry pinched his gaze. “Laughing, smiling, I’m sure channels have been alerted. You’re at risk. I’m…”

“When will you be allowed to be you?”

“I won’t.” He sighed as if those were the two words he’d been dreading all along. “I never will. I can get as close as I’m allowed, but there will never be true peace.”

“The churring-”

“Well broken. A final straw. You are incredible.” He was in motion towards you.

You wanted to catch him, but flexed your fists.

He looked over them fondly. “You make me…” A smile broke through his discomfort as he encircled one of your hands.

Near immediately, you heard a rumble waft off of him.

He brought your appendage up and pressed it near his larynx where it vibrated against your hand.

“You are my peace. You set me at ease. I can’t help it. Your being satiates mine.” Catching your other hand, he brought it up for a kiss.

“You said months?”

He smiled into your hand and rubbed it against his cheek. “The sound would start and I would cut it off.”

“I never noticed.”

“You’d look at me…” He studied you with a much more even gaze than the last time this was brought up. “There’d be twitches. You’d feel it.”

“I’m sorry, it must have been involuntary. I didn’t actually know…”

Taking your truth, he gave a saddened smile. “I’d been concerned.”

“About me noticing?”

“Its imminent arrival. It was getting harder to offset. You giving it voice was how I imagined it loosed.”

“’What’s that sound?’”

Closing his eyes, he buried into your hand for what you could feel was your scent. It turned up the volume of his ever-present churr.

“You’re getting better at talking around it.” You stepped a little closer and he accommodated.

“What choice do I have?” He gave a faint groan.

“Think this is like touch before?”

Languishing in your palm, he stubbornly fought to look at you.

“You’re holding back right. Could it be like when we first started touching? If you give into it maybe…?”

“That poses a dangerous precedent.”

“I’m not dismissing that I just-oh!” You pulled free of him only to grab his face. “Donnie, I’m so sorry!”

“W-why?” He stuttered around both his rumbling churr and his face being squished.

“I told you that you were being dramatic! You weren’t! I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t forget this relationship stuff is new to you and it's hard… You’re… You’re such a good partner.” You gave a teary chuckle. “I know, but because of that I sometimes forget.”

He forced his head through your hands so he could properly smile. “Thank you.”

You nodded.

Tucking his fingers into yours he languidly stroked your hold. “You were saying?”

“… That…?”

“Precedent.”

“You really can’t have both?”

“Both?”

“Being able to express yourself how you want without danger.”

“Both…”

“That’s two things.”

“Peace and freedom.” He specified.

“Yes.”

He gave what was almost a sigh and mulled it over. “A herculean effort with no true end. There is no fleeing the choices I’ve made.”

Your gaze dropped.

“They made me. For better or worse. No atonement.”

You gave a single nod.

“United, that falls onto you.”

Looking at him, you smoothed his cheeks with your thumbs.

“Marriage and what comes after. If our family increases. I will never be able to truly let my guard down.”

You stilled.

“Do you still choose me?”

Your lips parted with an instant confirmation, but his thumb pressed into the plump to silence you.

“Think. You’re overly familiar with the repercussions and I can assure you that you’ve only seen a small sampling. Worse may never come, but that doesn’t mean the possibility is nigh.”

His digit held.

“I know your immediate answer. I want you to consider it another way.”

You fluttered your lashes as a go ahead.

“I’m asking if you’ll accept this is what you’ll get of me. You have the whole of me, but you will never see it. You’ll come close and that is a finality.”

He released and you sat with parted lips as his words sank in.

With a little shimmy, he got out of your slack grasp and left you to think.

Hearing him clatter in the kitchen, you knew he was putting dinner away and you finally continued your trek into the bedroom. Sitting on your side of the bed, you looked out at the dresser, now rearranged. In its new old format, it felt a strange comparison to what you’d been told. An unplaced feeling, it was neither sad nor disappointing. A strange fact of life, it was almost something finally given definition that you’d been carrying all along. Settled with its now known knowledge, you felt there were too many running themes.

Donnie approached his side of the bed behind you and you turned.

“Will you stop churring?”

He gave it honest thought. “I will need to find a way to curtail it at every touch.” He rolled his eyes. “What special meaning does something constant have?”

“You're kidding?”

He watched you.

“It’s my second favorite sound!”

“Oh?” He got a knee up on the bed.

“I don’t want to name the first. Someone told me that if I asked about certain noises then there'll be an escape.”

“Sounds like something a moron would tout.” He crawled over to you.

“Can I hug you?”

“Now I know that dummy has clarified this.”

“Part of me will always ask if I remember. To be sure you know it’s always a choice.”

He churred sweetly before reaching you and wrapped you up in his arms.

“It sounds different.” You nuzzled into him and he took you to the sheets.

“I have theories forming.”

“I’m all ears.”

“You’re all nonsense.” He squeezed and you squeaked with a giggle. “You might not have realized, understandably, but today’s noises have been different than yesterdays.”

“When we were having sex?”

He nodded into your hair.

“Does it mean something else?”

“Do you remember what I told you about turtle language?”

“It’s not specific.”

“It’s emotions.”

“You described it as contentment.”

“Imagine it as a word with different meanings based on connotation.”

You wiggled free enough to see his face and brought a hand to his throat. “What's this one say?”

“Content with the sprinkling of desire.”

“Last night?”

He clicked his tongue. “More intangible. There was a certain distracting fog, but devotion and lust.”

You stroke his Adam’s apple. “Clicking is angry. Chirps probably have the most meanings. There’s those squeaky sounds that are usually surprise, but sometimes fear.”

“Very good.” He brushed his lips to your temple.

“Teach me?”

“Am I not?”

“To do it. I want to be able to respond.”

His gaze widened. “Y/N…”

“I've done it before… I… It was something like…” It had been quite a while and done in a stupor, but you summoned your throat as best you could and gave the greeting trill.

The response popped out of him and both of you stared at one another, stupefied.

He rolled you over to crush and you laughed beneath him.

Plied with kisses, you got through a nightly routine glued to one another before resuming the same snuggle where Donnie ran you through chirp after chirp trying to capture some nuance that you weren’t sure your human vocal cords alone were capable of. Growing drowsy, but still giving faint squeaks, he hushed you with a soothing churr that went straight to your eyelids. Lulling them and coaxing you to sleep, you were just about to let go of consciousness when you heard human speech.

“I love you.”

Whispered near silent, he unwound to sleep of his own.

Still adrift, it meant your heart rate couldn’t spike and, though your whole body rallied against it, sleep had you in its hold. Wanting to savor his proclamation even a second more, you waged a mental battle that only allowed you a single prize before granting you a merciful end.

A clarity.

A now known unknown.

He’d been doing this every night in secret for what had to be as long as he’d been churring.

NEXT

Going into the new year still thankful for my best betas @tmntxthings and @thepinkpanther83

[umbralreaver]

THE ARCHIVE

Deep below the bowels of the City, the mindless electronic devil COGNIFEX processes millions upon millions of thoughts, not one of them its own. Nonetheless, its algorithmic desires seethe amidst the current of information, ensnaring incautious delvers, trapping their ghosts forever within its wires. A select few know the ways to pry dark knowledge from the pulses and spasms in the great network, harnessing digital sorcery so they may glide immortal between their master's teeth.

The network hungers, and to abate its witless gnashing they must feed it. The ARCHIVISTS operate as information brokers and data specialists in the City, and they demand payment in memory. Unlike other necromancers, they disdain flesh and bone. Instead, they bind the ghosts of those imprisoned in their Archive into necromechanical automata. Under an Archivist's will, the black-metal husks move in perfect synchronicity.

[sissytobitch10seconds]

Two Birds on a Wire

Fandom: Helluva Boss Summary: After getting trapped with his ex-boyfriend in Greed, Blitz ends up saying a lot of stupid stuff that makes his life better in the long run. Warnings: Past underage sex, pregnancy, trans male pregnancy, mpreg, and kidnapping Word Count: 4,883 Ship(s): Asmodeus/Fizzarolli and Stolas Ars Goetia/Blitzo Buckzo

Archive link!

A/N: Another fic for my wonderful mutual(@lovely-number-7)! They give me so much inspiration for this and encouragement to keep going. I added some surprises for them so everyone is going into this fic on an even playing field, haha. I hope that you all enjoy it! Stay sissy and bitchy everyone <3

Blitz’s day had already been going pretty terrible when he ended up getting into a fight with someone that had been very important to him over a decade ago.

Not only did seeing Fizz bring back memories of when they were in the circus together and everything that they had shared before the fire, but it now also reminded him of how awful the Loo Loo Land Fizzbot had been to him. The taunts and jeers from the back of the already sparse crowd still haunted his dreams and shot down his confidence when he was trying to cheer up his office or kids. Of course that was when the jester thought that it would be a great idea to pick on him and reference the stalkers that he had, which Blitz would never associate himself with.

After the fight, Striker had captured them to prove to Crimson that he was a worthy investment. Blitz had always known that being in his line of work would result in something like that happening to him, he just hadn’t accounted for Fizz being thrown into the same cage as him. At least Striker had finally gotten the sense to cater to who he was capturing instead of assuming that Millie wouldn’t chew her own leg off, beartrap or not, to save her husband.

He had been bound in normal rope, something that he couldn’t hope to wiggle out of because of the friction that it was causing on his skin and suit. Fizz, on the other hand, was bound in what looked to be duct tape so that he couldn’t do anything with his robotic arms and legs.

Even the memory of the fact that Fizz had prosthetics instead of his natural limbs made years and years of guilt come swimming back at him. He wanted to snap and fight back to get the feeling to go away, but he also knew that it would lead to nothing good for either of them. He had been trying so hard and for so long to better himself so that he could be a good example to his girls, but it was a slow going process. Being around the man that had started and ended everything in his life had regressed him back to where he had been fifteen years before.

Fizz started to whine and look around the cage for a way out. “Oh, chill out Jester,” Blitz spoke without meaning to. The words all just tumbled from him and into the open air without his mind even taking a second to process them. It was what had gotten him into the mess that was his life and would likely be what took him out of it as well. “It’s like you’ve never been tied up before.”

“Ugh,” Fizz grunted as he continued to try and pull at his bindings. “Sure, but not by a bunch of psychos.” He fell forward so that he smacked into the hard metal floor of the ground, “Arg! And a piece of shit.”

Blitz narrowed his eyes at the man that was once his best friend as he tried to figure out what he was talking about. “Fi- Okay… okay, am I the psycho or the piece of shit?”

“Both,” Fizz snapped.

“Ah, that checks,” he sighed. He should have known that even when they were in a dangerous situation Fizz wouldn’t be open to listening to him, just as he hadn’t been for years. He had tried so hard after the fire, when they were both trapped in that satanforsaken hospital, and then again through letters for nearly a decade and a half afterwards.

“How is this happening?” Fizz whined as he straightened up again. “I was just supposed to grab some gas station milk and rehearse some juggling!

Anger boiled inside of him. Blitz had been in situations like that more times than he could count and he had never spent as much time whining as Fizz had. They hadn’t even been drugged or interrogated yet, they were just waiting for money to exchange hands. “Oh relax. I’m sure your big royal chicken isn’t going to let anything happen to his peppy little fuck doll.”

“Oh, playing that card, huh?” Fizz snarled. He had just as much anger and vitriol as he had back when they were snarling at each other in Ozzie’s. “Okay, well what about you? Seems your taste has gotten more… regal, lately?”

Again, his brain spoke before his mouth could. “Stolas and I aren’t like that, alright? We might have been able to try out dating if you hadn’t fucking shamed him in front of countless people at what was supposed to be our first date.”

“First date? I knew that you were bad with that whole romance thing but I didn’t consider the fact that you only take a guy out when he’s been railing you into the mattress for months first,” Fizz snarked back. Gone was the boy that looked up to Blitz with all the earnestly of someone that was the golden child of the circus. He no longer had that compassion and tenderness that Blitz had fallen for all those years ago, at least not for the very imp that had protected that in him.

“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” Blitz seethed. He had worked so long and so hard to try and make his relationship with Stolas healthier for the sake of their children. He knew that he was bad at picking partners and starting things off, the fact that Verosika still hated him for using her credit card to pay for the twins medical bills when they got the hellflu. Fizz didn’t have the right to mock him for his romantic relationships when he was the one that had damaged Blitz into making bad decisions in the first place, though.

“I think that I do!” responded Fizz. “I was the first guy to earn a date by pounding you into the mattress for months, remember?”

“You know, that’s not really a claim to fame,” Blitz snarled. “Not that you really need anything else to boost your notoriety, right?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

His cheat was heaving with the emotion that was spinning through him like a bullet. He knew that feeling very well, he had gotten shot more times than he cared to admit in his line of work. When it was an emotional bullet instead of a literal one, the pain was so much more intense. A literal bullet would pierce the skin where it had been shot and then destroy the nerve endings in that specific spot, echoing the pain from that location. A metaphorical bullet, on the other hand, tore through the entire body all at once and lit every single nerve on fire. He could feel it twisting and ripping at his heart, making memories from a long time ago arise in his mind the way that an exorcist blade might on a sinner.

Blitz focused on what he was doing instead of saying something. If he kept talking then he was going to say something incredibly stupid. He couldn’t afford to do that when he was surrounded by people that very obviously wanted to use him for their own gain. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had already sent a message back to Stolas letting him know that Blitz had been captured, or if Stolas had been able to feel it the same way that he had with the demon hunters.

With thoughts of his Goetia lover rattling around his mind instead of the memories of what had happened that fateful night of the fire, he was able to focus. He jerked his foot backwards on the rough metal floor of the cage that they were in and removed the knife that he stashed there for moments such as this. He picked the blade up with the edge of his fingers and then turned it around with amazing dexterity, something that he had picked up when he was in the circus, not that it had done him any good. Maybe he could have gotten a job at that cat-themed gambling place if he had just been a bit older when he applied.

He deftly cut through the ropes that were binding his hands and then did the same to the ones on his arms and legs. “What was that supposed to mean, Blitzo?” Fizz demanded again, as if he couldn’t see that Blitz was trying to get them out of that cage so that they never had to face each other again.

He knew that he shouldn’t have said anything, he knew he should have kept his mouth shut and protected the little pocket of joy he had carved for himself with his own claws and teeth, but he couldn’t. “Oh, nothing. I’m just glad that you managed to find someone that you could knock up and not want to abandon this time around,” he replied. 

“What in the ever loving fuck is that supposed to mean?” Fizz demanded as he turned around towards Blitz.

They didn’t get the chance to keep fighting about what he had said because Striker was there at the cage, grasping at Fizz and threatening him. Blitz had seen how ruthless he was when he had been preparing to take down Stolas, so it was a surprise to everyone there that he didn’t just perform the kill immediately. Part of him wanted to be grateful to Crimson for reminding the bigot that they were a valuable asset that had to be returned in one piece, and the other half of him was so angry that he could barely see straight.

Blitz felt like an idiot, talking about the pregnancy that he had detected from Fizz’s goading earlier and putting his ex-boyfriend in trouble because of it. He knew what it was to be a child that grew up without a parent and to raise a child without the other half of one’s heart, he would never do that to someone else. He hated Fizz with every fiber of his being for what had happened during the fire and afterwards, but most of his heart was just clinging to that anger so that he didn’t have to feel the alternative. Somewhere deep inside of him, in a place that he had buried and decided to never return to, was the sorrow that tried to choke him out every second that it got.

He could barely think about the guilt that he was feeling over that. If he had any luck left in him then they wouldn’t have to worry about Striker or Crimson in a little while. He supposed that being a Prince of Hell and a Sin meant that Ozzie would be able to hire good security for his lover when he found out what had happened. Stolas didn’t have that luxury since he was one of seventy-two Ars Goetia and often ignored by his family, which was why he had resorted to using Blitz as a bodyguard even though the imp wasn’t very good at that. 

He had to get them both out of the warehouse or he would never forgive himself. He knew that he still held resentment for Fizz, but that was only there because of the massive swell of love that existed for his childhood best friend. So he flipped the knife around his front when he had finished cutting the ropes around his arms and sliced it off his legs as well. He worked silently as he got the sharp blade through the duct tape and let Fizz be free as well. He did something convoluted and stupid to get them down from the cage, but it also managed to distract all of the goons around them so that several of them were fighting each other.

While they were working together, Blitz learned several things about his ex-best friend that he never thought he would have been given the chance to. Fizz was incredibly flexible, likely because of the prosthetic arms that he had gotten after the fire at the circus. He was still able to do everything that he had when they were kids despite the fact that they were nearly thirty, which shouldn’t have really been a surprise. Despite the fact that he had bionic limbs and had been famous for over a decade, the bastard knew nothing about fighting.

Blitz had to pull the slack for both of them because while Fizz was able to avoid getting shot pretty well, he couldn’t shoot anyone else to literally save his life. It ended up working out well when Fizz picked Blitz up and used his stretchy arms and flexibility to help the other imp get some of the harder shots, which resulted in them finding the window that eventually got them out.

After another explosion and some acrobatics that he hadn’t done for years, he managed to get them to a point where they were both safe for the time being. He let out a low breath and nearly collapsed as the adrenaline began to melt from his body. “I know that you hate me, but can I borrow a phone from you so that I can call my girls?”

“I want to talk to you about that before I let you go,” Fizz shook his head. The world around them stank like burning rubber and melting metal from the fire that they had started on the junkyard, but it felt oddly poetic in some way. Their entire relationship had gone up like a trash fire so they might as well talk about it while surrounded by one.

He had always known that it was a possibility that he and Fizz would have this conversation one day. He had known the second that the doctor came in with the confirmation that the pregnancy had lasted through the fire, he had known the second that the test had come back positive, he had known the second that they had decided one time without a condom would probably be fine. “What did you want to talk to me about?” he finally managed to make his voice say.

“What did you mean when you said that I got someone pregnant and then abandoned them? This is my first time having a kid, Oz and I were really excited when we found out,” Fizz said quietly. He looked so forlorn and scared when he did it, that it actually made Blitz’s heart ache in his chest.

He turned his head to the side and tried to blink away the tears that had gathered there as he explained. “You know how we were dating back when we were sixteen and we thought that one or two times without a condom would be okay? Well, I got knocked up. When I tried to tell you I got sidelined or told to fuck off every time. I thought for sure you knew.”

“Why would you think that?” Fizz asked, holding his hands out to the side of him like Blitz had told him that he thought the living world’s moon was made out of cheese. He knew that his ex-best friend would react to that situation in that specific way because it had happened when they were thirteen, the first time that they had gotten drunk together.

“Because I tried to tell you a dozen times! I mean, the first time really didn’t work because I passed out at your party and then when I woke up everything was on fire,” he sighed.

Fizz tightened up when he heard that. “You passed out? While pregnant? Were you okay?” he asked.

“I mean, I’m okay now. At the time I was actually really anemic, having them almost killed me,” he shrugged. “But I did try to tell you about the twins, Fizz. I wrote you letters after the security gave me a bruise on my ass because of how hard they tossed me out of the hospital.”

“No one ever told me that you came to visit while I was in the hospital,” the other imp whispered. He had tilted his head down for the first time since the explosion, staring at the green flames still licking at the trash below them. It was beginning to peter out already as it had consumed everything that wasn’t just melting. He pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his one usable arm around them, his tail completing the circle. “I wanted you to visit me so badly. I was so scared and I didn’t understand why you ran away from me after you had seen me.”

“I didn’t really see you,” Blitz shrugged. He tilted his head forward and dug his fingers into his eye socket. He was able to see the absolutely disgusted face that Fizz gave him before he marveled at the glass eye. It had enough tech in it that it could help widen Blitz’s peripheral vision and give him his depth perception back, but it didn’t have anything high-tech. If he had wanted that then he would have had to go with VoxTech because Asmodean prosthetics tried to focus on actually being usable. “See? My eyes were totally fucked for like a week after the fire, I had to make the nurses give me an extra ultrasound so I had a chance to see my own babies since I couldn’t when they checked the first time.”

The other imp was quiet for a while longer, Blitz knew why. He had put together towards the beginning of their conversation that Cash and Mammon had worked to keep the two of them apart, especially since Cash was the one that had originally told Blitz that the fire was his fault and that Fizz didn’t want to see him. Both the older imp and the sin had to know about the twins and had kept Fizz from that knowledge on purpose.

“So you were pregnant and tried to tell me, but they didn’t let you because they wanted to keep exploiting me,” Fizz finally said the silent part out loud. Blitz had known that Mammon was abusing his best friend since he had attending the first show he had to work in Loo Loo Land. The robots were made poorly because of the demand for them, which meant that they only resembled his friend to some extent. He knew that none of that money was making it back to Fizz, at least to some extent, because otherwise he wouldn’t have kept working for the bastard as long as he had.

“Yeah, pretty much. I’ve been raising both girls on my own for a long time, there’s a lot of shit I wished you had seen and even more that I’m so glad you didn’t,” Blitz said. His pregnancy had been a fucking disaster, what with him being out on his own and absolutely covered in slowly healing burns for the entirety of it.

“What do you mean by that?” Fizz asked. It seemed like that was what he was asking most often, likely because Blitz was telling him something convoluted and overwhelming. He only had to ask for clarification when Blitz could actually get the words he needed to say forced out of his mouth.

“Well, it wasn’t pretty after I had the girls. I was mostly working odd jobs that were part time so that I could be home with them for the majority of the day. I even had to take up doing maintenance of my building so that my landlord would drop the rent to something that I could actually afford. Stole a lot too, usually baby clothes and formula because your kids sure know how to eat, Fizz. I guess that’s the one thing that I’m actually grateful that Cash taught me how to do,” Blitz rambled on.

While they talked, he shimmied towards the main part of the crane that would let them travel downwards. Fizz followed after him, coming down to the ashy ground as well despite the injury that he had on his arm. It felt almost like the fire had never happened and they had never been separated for those long fifteen years. He wondered what they would have been if they had that time instead of what they had received instead. They might have turned into what Blitz’s parents had been like, in love once upon a time but miserable and together only for their children. Perhaps it was for the best that they had been separated, so they could both grow as people and become better for their children.

They reached the bottom of the crane without either of them falling and then embarked further on their journey as they tried to get out of the junkyard. The fire had thankfully turned into nothing but warmth and foul smoke by the time that they actually descended and hadn’t caught the entire place on fire.

Thankfully, Blitz was used to his van giving out and stranding him wherever the most recent part had chosen to break. He was used to having to walk through cramped, foreign city streets until a payphone was found. He slipped into it and rigged the machine by hitting it in just the right places so that the coins inside jingled but didn’t fall, which was something that could only be done in greed. He rested his head against the grimy box as he listened to it ring a couple times before someone finally picked up.

“Blitz? Are you alright? Oh please tell me that this is actually you and not another one of those kidnappers trying to taunt me,” Stolas rambled. Blitz should have known that he was going to be an absolute mess when they were able to talk to each other again, but it still warmed his heart and the lower half of his belly to know that he had someone who cared that much about him. The part of his brain that carried Stolas’ voice with him like a protection ward told him that the only reason his lover hadn’t come to break him out the same way that he had when Blitz had gotten caught in the living world was because the politics in Hell were more complicated.

“I’m alright, Stolas. Did you really think I wouldn’t be able to get us out of there? I hope that you didn’t pay those fuckers any of your money,” Blitz said.

“I was preparing to, darling, if I’m being totally honest,” Stolas replied. He sounded a little sheepish when he spoke and Blitz could almost see the blush covering the lower half of his face. In the background, the imp could make out someone else talking but couldn’t quite discern what the words were. He just knew that the tone was familiar. 

“Stolas! What they were asking for was totally fucking ridiculous and you know that Striker still has a shit ton of money from when Stella tried to have you killed,” Blitz scoffed. The memory of how injured his boyfriend had been after that incident still made his entire body feel as though he had been doused in ice water. He hadn’t been able to go to the hospital because of the trauma that he had from his first pregnancy and post-fire, which meant that he had to deal with a lot of things completely on his own on top of battling the guilt at not being there to defend his partner. He couldn't wait until their case got through the courts of Hell and they were able to put the bitch in her place by taking Via from her and giving her nothing in return during the divorce.

Stolas chittered in that way that he did when he was blushing and preparing to say something mushy, “There’s no price in the Nine Rings that’s too high when it comes to making sure that you’re safe, my dear. Both of you.”

Blitz’s hand moved down to the bottom part of his stomach, which was already beginning to swell with whatever baby had been implanted in him some months ago. He and Stolas hadn’t even been aware that it was possible for a member of the Ars Goetia and an imp to reproduce, so they hadn’t been as careful as they could have been. That was, of course, what had gotten him into trouble with his twins back when he was nineteen with the very imp that was standing outside the phonebooth. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it either time, though. The only thing that he did regret was being the first to do it because the absence of knowledge about how that worked made them both worried. They had no idea if Blitz could handle delivering an egg, like what Octavia was born in, or if he would go into labor and deliver live babies the same way that he had with his twins. There were a lot of questions and very few answers to be found, which had to be half of the reason that Stolas was so worried about the kidnapping.

He couldn’t help the smile that crossed over his face as he said, “I’m okay, Stolas. You know that I can handle this kind of thing.”

“But we don’t, Blitzy,” Stolas replied. “You could have been very hurt if your balance was off when you were trying to do one of your action hero moves. Let me know where you are and I can portal you right home.”

“Are you with Ozzie right now?” Blitz asked. It was awkward to have to refer to the man that his ex-partner was now embroiled with, but it was important. Stolas had said that he was going to request an Asmodean crystal for Blitz so that they could make their relationship official. If it was known that a Goetia was allowing his lover to use such a powerful magical artifact without permission from Paimon, the leader of the Ars Goetia, then they could both get in serious trouble. Blitz refused to give up his work even if he was just manning the office with his eldest daughter until the baby came, in whatever form that was.

“I am, in fact,” the other replied. “Why?”

Blitz went quiet for a while. He let out a low breath to try and settle the nausea in the back of his throat. He was glad for the pregnancy, for once, because it allowed him to blame that feeling on the fact that he was growing another being instead of it being about the idea of telling Fizz. That was stupid anyway, since he had already told the other imp and the reaction that he had feared didn’t come to pass in the way that he had feared it. 

He straightened up in the phone booth and then waved at Fizz to make sure that the other was okay. “I want you to bring me and someone else to their palace. I, um, I finally told the twins father that they existed and I think that we should discuss when they’re going to meet for the first time.”

“Do you think that he’s going to try and fight for custody?” Stolas immediately asked.

“I don’t think so. And you know my feelings about how custody should work,” Blitz replied. Via had been very worried about what would happen to her when her parents finally settled in the courts. She didn’t want to have to go stay with her mother every other week, not when the woman had soured so completely since Stolas had cheated on her. Apparently her bad attitude had now transferred to being directed at her daughter instead of being reserved only for her ex-husband. They had managed to work in a clause that Via would get to choose where she wanted to go and who she wanted to be with. She wouldn’t get carted around based on the whims of her parents or a court system, she would have autonomy for who she got to be with.

Stolas agreed after a bit more poking and prodding, then got the coordinates that he needed from Blitz. The portal opened and they were permitted to step through onto the plush carpets of Ozzie’s mansion. It was decorated the same way that everything else in Lust was, with massive windows that let in the hazy pink light and blues thrown just about everywhere. 

As soon as they were safely through the swirling bit of magic, Fizz launched himself off the ground and into his boyfriend’s arms. Blitz could barely even think about being jealous or envious of what they had because his own boyfriend was smothering him with affection. He knew that things were going to be okay, even if they would be weird and out of the ordinary. He hadn’t been loved the way he wanted during his first pregnancy, but he was getting it now. And Fizz would get to know what it was like to watch his children grown in the belly of the man he loved, even if that had to be with his third child and Ozzie instead of his eldest girls and Blitz.

[crristinaa-level6]

Specialist practice

Saddle Stitch Binding

Our first binding method is saddle stitch, which happens to be the easiest of all. Saddle stitching proves affordable and ideal for documents consisting of fewer pages. By stapling wire through the spine and folding printed sheets in half, a finished product takes shape. Alternatively, utilizing looped staples permits insertion into ring binders without requiring punched holes.

Side Staple Binding

The side staple technique is primarily employed to bind perforated pages, such as those found in quote books and delivery notes. The procedure involves stacking individual pages together before stapling them with wire through the front cover from front to back before trimming.

Singer Sewn & Side Sewn Binding

Singer-sewn binding is a sturdy technique employed for creating resilient materials such as passports. It employs an industrial sewing machine to stitch the pages together along the spine lengthwise. Additionally, side singer-sewn or side-sewn binding provides another option where pages are jointly fastened through both front and back covers, making it perfect for thicker books and notepads.

Padded/Pad Binding

The technique of pad binding, also known as "padding," is utilized primarily for notepads and enables the easy detachment of individual pages. A lower-strength adhesive coating is applied on the edge of a stack of pages to create these pads. To ensure stability and usability when held, a thicker board is generally affixed at the back end.

Wiro /Plastic Coil Binding 

The two primary types of punched binding are wire and plastic coil binding, enabling books to open fully flat with the pages rotating 360 degrees towards the back. Firstly, printed pages are trimmed and then hole-punched before being fastened using a spiral coil or wire that is crimped shut.

Japanese / Stab Binding 

Dating back centuries, Japanese or stab binding is a decorative technique where sheets are folded once at the center, hole-punched and sewn by hand along the spine using different needle and thread patterns.

Perfect binding

The process of perfect binding involves using machinery to bind softcover books, magazines and brochures. The technique entails stacking individual pages together before affixing them to an outer cover that sports a square spine. This is achieved by the application of potent polyurethane (PUR) glue which gives the method its name- Perfect Binding.

Burst Binding 

Burst binding is essentially perfect binding with a unique twist whereby pages are grouped into sections, folded and then notched down the spine by machinery to achieve stronger adherence of glue. This results in an exceptionally robust finish that makes it particularly ideal for books containing a greater number of pages compared to standard bindings.

Quarter Binding 

In the past, quarter-bound, half-bound or taped bindings were commonly used to produce books at a lower cost by employing inexpensive materials. These binding methods involve two distinct materials - one for covering the spine and another for protecting the cover. However, to enhance durability, pages are often bonded together and fastened on one side which results in reduced ease of opening compared with

Case Binding 

The conventional hardcover book involves printing pages that are folded and stitched into multiple sections, safeguarded by a firm rigid cover. The covers may be coated with various materials like linen, buckram or leather; alternatively, a printed design can be affixed on top of the tough casing. Such casebound books have long-lasting durability and might even sustain restoration years down the road.

Pamphlet Stitch

A refined binding technique known as the pamphlet stitch is ideal for documents with a modest number of pages. After folding and hole-punching the printed sheets, one manually threads them together using needle and thread before tying them off at the book's center to finish it elegantly.

Exposed Spine Binding

Exposed spine binding, also known as exposed Smyth sewn or thread-bound, is an aesthetically appealing method of bookbinding. The pages are folded into sections and then hand-sewn together at the spine with a continuous thread. To reinforce durability, pad glue is applied to the spine after sewing it. Books bound in this manner open almost completely flatly for easy reading.

Chicago Screw Binding 

The Chicago Screw technique involves utilizing metal screw posts for fastening pages, allowing flexibility in terms of adding or removing sheets. This makes it a desirable option for materials like menus and folios that undergo frequent revisions. Furthermore, an expandable hardcover can be customized with exterior, interior or concealed screws to fit any desired dimensions. Given its versatile nature, this binding process is particularly popular among property sales pitches as well as showcasing photographic portfolios.

Custom Boxes, Slipcases and Ring Binding

sophisticated storage solution that allows for showcasing your valuable materials and samples, custom boxes and slipcases are just the perfect fit. This type of binding is artistically crafted according to your precise specifications. Manual assembly entails utilizing top-quality board material before wrapping it with an array of premium fabrics including buckram, linen cloths as well as leather or printed laminated paper.

[the-slasher-files]

BARBED WIRE THAT BINDS US — Ghost Among us (I)

NIKTO X ANDREI KULOKOV [oc]

M x M — ENEMIES TO LOVERS

WARNINGS: Intense gore, violence, Andrei is a slasher, menitons of rape and sa, torture, war, death, angst, PTSD, 18+ language, eventual smut (?), slow burn

MASTERLIST — SERIES MASTERLIST

Shells smoked as they burned the dead grass around black boots. Another round in the chamber and fired at the set of wooden targets posed to look like breathing individuals.

They were just targets.

No blood and guts spilling to soak the soil this time. But he recalls it. Blue orbs of light now reach the dull reflection of the dead as he shoots another round. Pouring the bullets into splintered wood, emptying a magazine, the third one today. Always reaching the images of the dead around him, blood on his hands and teammates howling as he stands. A broken mind lost in a fight reaction. Not present, yet doing his job with a barbarous edge. Stepping over the corpses and cocked with the gun in his hands; A picture of his current state, except there were no bodies, no war, no danger. Just a field outside of the army base where he could be alone. Blue sky above and birds silent from the cracking of a gun.

He was the only soldier allowed to leave the high walls lined with barbed wire for target practice. Having credentials — medical and psychological — suddenly the gates opened with his therapist's words, "It will be good for him to get out and be alone. Let his mind process the world and feelings around him.". Treating him like a child who is unable to understand the words strewn in front of him. At least they acknowledged his mind and tried to ease him, unlike the Russian army that used him like a pawn— Something from a book, hidden away until they needed a blood-soaked berserker with a mind stowed only for the brutality of man.

"Nikto! Colonel wants to see you!"

The large masked man sends a gaze over his shoulder before fully turning to the origin of the voice. Evgeni. A short man with the heart of a lion.

"Heard?" He questions, knowing Nikto's disorder and simply receives a nod in response. "He wants you quickly, soldier!"

The other Russian turns curtly and disappears into the concrete maze that was the base.

Gloved hands set down the Kastov; Hot barreled and safety on, locking it up and making his way to the Colonel's office. Nikto walked with his head high, but shoulders tense. Paying no mind to the others that sneered and mocked him, wolves in packs ready to pick, nip, and spill the blood of a weak one. However, they were all talk. They knew what the masked man could do and would not dare to grip the scruff of his neck — That was unless they wanted to have a knife split their flesh, ear from ear.

The large body stopped before an oak door, a sigh passing his scarred lips as the guard dressed in black opened the door quickly. Shoulders turned to slip into the office with eyes keeping watch on the guard until he closed the door. A soldier's hackles raised from being in a small room, knowing he'll be safe, but the body remains lost in old habits.

"Nikto. Pleased to see you." The man spoke clearly and strong behind a large desk, watching cautious steps approach a dark leather chair. König — His colonel, leader of Kortac and a king on the battlefields — extended a large hand, "Sit."

Nikto grasped the armrest and did as he was told with keen midnight blue eyes, fingers tightening between raps. The hulking hooded figure reached downward to grab a folder from his desk, one that was thick and held together with a large clip.

"I'm not one to keep my men long so, you have a new mission soldier." The Austrian accent was thick but Nikto understood every word, raising his brow beneath black fabric. "It is a solo mission. One I give to you and you only due to the location and subject."

His teeth caught what was left of his bottom lip, grazing over the scars and his eyes pointed to the folder pushed before him. Konig could feel the unease only briefly until the emotion was placed with hardened steel.

"That— he, is your mission..."

"Andrei Kulokov," Nikto mouthed under the deep timber that was his Colonel. His head met every word that Konig spoke.

"A ghost of the North..."

"A wolf..."

The Russian shifted within his chair, sitting up stiff, intrigued, and tongue darting against his lips. This man was a legend they tried to erase from modern history.

People said he died drugged up and shot in the head, brains blown out against the stones of Russia's most highly secured prisons. Legend says the wolf murdered 20 men in the back of a convoy during the transfer to said prison.

But he was alive.

"Highly dangerous and armed. Andrei was spotted in Norway, Ukraine, Slovakia and Belarus. He goes wherever he is asked or wherever his desires take him." Konig took a breath, standing from his chair and taking a few steps to the window on his left as Nikto opened the file. Gloved fingers run across papers covered in black redacted ink and blurry photos.

"This... "Wolf" is rumoured to have some sort of home or shelter near the smaller, northernmost regions of Russia." He continued to explain, "...Wanted for war crimes, killing his own men, possible kidnapping of women and men,"

There was a sudden break in the sentence, blue eyes snapping to Konig's fist that was beginning to destroy the plastic cup within his deathlike grip.

"And now, he hunts soldiers like us." The hooded man turned back to the Russian, eyes meeting under shadowed masks.

"Dead or alive?" Nikto read aloud, questioning his superior.

"Affirmative. Study up on the target, and anything you need is at your disposal... Wheels up at 0630, soldier."

▪︎▪︎▪︎

The thick black boot was forced upon the man's trachea. Bubbles, muffled screams barely passed the waves of the water. A thrashing body tried to break the surface. Fingertips bloodied, clawing at the tiles and the man above who played god.

Piercing icy blue eyes seemed to fade into black. Any sign of a man was left behind for a predator as the crimson flooded into the clear. Like ink, it spread. A knife tearing apart a struggling carcass from the navel to the collar bones.

The face of a man with the teeth of hounds fell away into darkness. In a brutal, final act. The wolf pressed his full weight down with his other boot against the man's thighs, literally splitting the man in half. Splayed open like a deer carcass with ribs up and open, spine protruded beyond the flesh. Cracked open over the edge of the tub. Motionless. Dog tags sunk to the bottom of murky water. And the weight was removed from the body, letting it slump and spill out within the Latvian hotel.

Another one dead for some cash and a favor.

'It's done'

[finalfrontierpublishing]

Process - or really Nic doing random shit and hoping it works

Recently, a few bookbinders have been describing their creative process and i love how aspirational and amazing they are. these people are amazing, my friends- they come up with so much cool shit in the setting of their home, with things they have on hand, and it shocks me at how great these bookbinders are. 

i think comparatively, my process is fairly simple (i.e. chaos gremlin), and I've decided I'd like to use a previous book i took process pics of as a general outline as to how i come up with what i want to do. 

My first step is usually to fixate on a particular design element and move on from there - this is usually a chapter font or an image header or a cover image i’m interested in using, and then moving on to putting things together to form something cohesive. most of the time i have to see how it’ll look visually before i can decide, which does make choosing design elements challenging and hence made me a little into a pantser (despite being an asshole who likes to measure things). half the time, i change things like endpapers or endbands or colour of bookcloth or even the whole freaking design right down to the wire because i just won’t know what will work until i can see it.

To make this a little fun for me, I'll outline the general stream of consciousness (let's face it, it’s not that much of a process, I just think things and sometimes a book happens) along with 45% of the foul language that accompanies it when I try new things with books.

(Please be aware that I am 90% made of foul language and i sometimes frequently blaspheme like a sailor)

See below for thought process, process pics and much swearing. 

Day 0 minus 14 - Ok, let's be smart about binderary, shall we? I have a week of leave in February, let's make it count... Proceeds to prepare 10 typesets with 2 ready-made ones and then an additional notebook for a total of 13 books for Binderary. Ooh boy. Yeah, that’s achievable. 

Day 1:

Attends queercore workshop at 0630am in the morning. Fuck, am I sleepy. Did I succeed in making a book? Not really. Okay, let’s fudge it. Converts glueless notebook with nice stitching into case bind. Convenient gift for mothers day - booyah, 1 gift done. 

Oh hey. I have a thing. What about the Oh Mercy // Oh Love book. Hmmm, I have a nice image for this that I didn't use for the typesetting. Wonder if I can stitch it.

20:00 hours: Oooh, Neenah Illusio Laser paper - it looks so shiny. And Metallic. Very circuit board-y. Just what i was going for. Is it a paper? Is it cloth? I have no fucking idea. Hope it takes foil alright.

20:30 hours: Ooh ok, success - Jesus that's a lot of holes to poke.

Day 2: 

Okay, procrastination. Gotta make a case. 

JEsus i hate the turn ins and THE SPINE DFJKLSDFKLJ;SDF;LKSDF paper why you gotta do me a dirty?! Stiff and crinkly!!!!

17:00 hours: okay, case is nearly doneish.

Time to use foil quill to outline the holes to give it that soldered look and then do all the hole pokery. Dinner first.

19:00 hours: Dinner sorted. But like you know, let’s do some hammering with an awl in an apartment complex and pray none of the neighbours complain.

Shit these holes are small.

22:30 hours: I might finish this by Christmas, maybe. 

JFC i am collapsing under my hubris. THE FACT I THOUGHT I COULD DO THIS. Oh god @&£#'€¥ what possessed me to try this - oh I know, I thought it would look cool (90% of why I do things when I make books).

Go easy on the thread - do not rip it through the space between two holes. JESUS FFFJB;N;KLGH CHRIST WHY.

Okay I can do this. I can do this. Stitches for 4 hours and nearly collapses.

Stitching is done!!!! Hmmm design looks a little plain. And awww shit you can't see any of the gold around the holes anymore. Okay let's try going over it in foil quill again.

00:30 hours: OH FUCK OH FUCK WHAT A FUCKING BAD IDEA.

Jesus djdjsbsbdjdsbdbddnc * MAKES MISTAKE and adds dot of gold on the side of a hole, plainly not in the hole*

Frantically googles ‘how to remove we r memory keepers heat reactive foil from paper’

Tries to remove it with an eraser and tape as per google recommendations- but removes a fuck ton of the green colouring on the bookcloth as well. JESUS.

I am ready for death.

Day 3:

10:30 hours: Okay I am ready for a new day. Am I really ready? Unclear. Time to weed the shit out a fucking complex design and go blind in the process.

12:30 hours: Ok fuck, that only took 2 hours.

But oh shit endbands and glueing of the spine. Time to do some glueing. At least it’s somewhat therapeutic. Jesus my endpapers and mull are still not on.

14:00 hours: On to the case it goes

14:30 hours: Time to do some HTV application

Fuck why isn't the HTV sticking JESUS cricut is an evil corporation out to take my money and yet I did not want to use Siser HTV today because I Was Not Ready for Death and Ruination. 

Proceeds to iron for the next 1 hour. 

16:00 hours: Fine it's finally fucking on?

Is the spine done? Hmmm. that little blemish isn’t covered. Should I cover it? Ugh. 

Cuts out little squares of gold foil - but it looks foul. Okay, nope, not good. 

Fuck I need a nap. Somewhere along the way, spouse comes home. Dog has been fed. My job is done. 

Naps for 3 hours just because.

20:00 hours: Okay moment of truth. Time to case in. Book is gonna be held together with glue and prayer. Shit why do the squares look so small- fuck it's because there's some stitching on the spine so I can't push the textblock all the way in. I DID NOT PLAN FOR THIS EVIDENTLY. please do not stick out please do not stick out please do not stick out

20:30 hours: hallelujah it is FINE - into the press of a million books it goes

So that was a wild ride-- i wish i could say i exaggerate, but this is how it is with me tryin’ to do a book especially when trying new things i haven’t previously done before. Will a book happen? Sometimes I don’t really know. 

[peskellence]

Rule Of Nines

Betrayal Pt. 1

Explicit content, Graphic Violence (18+)

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: AU, Multi-Chapter, Lovers to Enemies, Kidnapping, Crime and Violence, Oral, Anal, Dom/ Sub

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: In a world where loyalty is currency and compromise is weakness, Gavin Reed, a ruthless mobster, lives by his own rules. When an old enemy resurfaces with a deadly demand, his life is thrown into chaos-as his trusted second-in-command, Nines, is put to the ultimate test of allegiance. Will he stay committed to Gavin, or will the loyal guard dog begin to stray? (Human Mob!AU)

Warnings: Major Character Death (before events of the story), Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Dubious Consent

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @ladyj-pl @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel

If you would like to be added to the tag list for future projects, please let me know♡

In the days that followed, they continued to receive packages from DeLuca's gang. They painted a vivid timeline of everything their prisoner had endured at their hands, supplied in meticulous detail. It seemed like Connor couldn't so much as wheeze for breath or piss his pants without the entire process being captured on a grainy video feed. 

These recordings would be sent to the Reed Hideout in the form of more flash drives—of which they'd amassed quite a collection, piled high on the meeting room table. Gavin couldn't help but wonder where the snake had gotten them all. Perhaps he'd held up a local convenience store for their office supplies…

It wasn't just the videos, of course. They'd had plenty of other weird and wonderful shit arriving at their doorstep. At one point, they received a densely packed envelope containing nothing but cigarette butts. There'd been seemingly no reason for this until a day later when the photos came—mapping in meticulous detail where exactly they'd been stubbed. 

Very few of his men had the balls to open the mail after that, the last of the stragglers calling it quits following the most recent instalment in the 'Connor Torture Chronicles.' 

It was impressive, really. Just how quickly a room full of criminals could turn into a PTA of pearl-clutching moms when the blood being spilt on-screen belonged to one of their own. Had the inherited burden of the family not already inspired sickness in Gavin, their reception of DeLuca's ongoing media project would have more than secured his disdain. 

The video that had proved too much for their delicate sensibilities found Connor in a new location, much better lit than the dingy warehouse which usually hosted his suffering. 

Evidently, DeLuca wanted to make sure this most recent performance was made crystal clear for its audience, showcasing all its bloody glory.  No one had made it all the way through, with the last viewing attempt interrupted as one of the men loudly and violently expelled the contents of his lunch. 

In the relative security of his well-insulated (and much less pungent) office, Gavin pushed back the screen of his laptop and calmly resumed the clip:

↻      ◁     ||     ▷       ↺

Connor had been strapped by his wrists to a dilapidated table, secured with bulky leather binds. An unidentified contraption sat in front of him, looking like some long-forgotten relic from a medieval torture dungeon—or something out of a horror movie.

Rusted wires connected its mechanisms to a series of steel vices, which had been clamped around his fingers. They anchored the digits a few millimetres above the splintered wood, leaving a small margin of space. The scene remained motionless for a number of seconds, as though the screen had frozen until one of DeLuca's masked goons emerged in frame. 

They settled into a fold-out chair, its creaky frame groaning under their weight. Gavin could practically taste the expectant satisfaction oozing from them as the corners of their mask creased upwards, hinting at a concealed grin. Protruding from the side of the strange device was a small plastic dial. While it had been scarcely visible until now, it became much more apparent as the captor's hand shot towards it. His reach extended until a voice sternly dissuaded him—and the grubby appendage stilled, waiting. 

Faint mumbling could be heard off-screen, as though an unseen group were deliberating on the best course of action until the masked man was given the go-ahead in the form of a terse: "Now."  

He wasted no time obliging the instruction as the switch was swiftly turned. One of the wires lurched back, taking a finger with it and forcing it to yield to an increasingly distorted angle. As it snapped in two, splintered bone pierced Connor's flesh, resembling a broken tree branch.

Given his already grotesque condition, this newest injury was barely noticeable. Over the course of the week, his body had been transformed from a blank paper doll into a vibrant, morbid mosaic. Angry, blistered welts wrapped his skin, sectioning numerous cuts and bruises. 

His mind was clearly in similar ruin, as his head hung limply across his lap, dark eyes boring vacantly into the spring-lock mechanisms destroying his hands. He made no attempt to fight the restraints, nor did he try to plead through gagging binds of worn-out scotch tape. The room was silent, save for gurgles of pain and the repeated crunching of bones. 

↻      ◁     ||     ▷       ↺

Gavin paused the video, sliding the laptop to one side as he reached for a neglected packet of cigarettes. It had failed to tug any heartstrings, which he suspected was the intent. 

DeLuca and his gang could prolong the ordeal as much as they wanted; it wouldn't change his refusal to meet their demands. To him, the elimination of another undesirable bastard from his operations could only be considered a blessing.

What did get him thinking, however, was why Connor had been selected as the bargaining chip for the ill-conceived power play. It was no secret just how much Gavin loathed the man. No doubt Salvatore would have seen it himself during his time with the family. The frequent displays of vocal disdain and physical animosity were hardly subtle. 

Not that he tried to hide it. He wore his hatred of the eldest Anderson as a badge of honour, boasting his ability to see through his bullshit in a way that no one else could. That was the bastard's M.O., after all: a 'skilled negotiator and manipulator', as Dad liked to put it. 

The younger Reed favoured his own assessment, considering it more accurate. Connor was nothing more than a conniving, underhanded piece of shit. Someone who couldn't be trusted, with his purported 'skills' beginning and ending with his ability to convince people otherwise. 

Clearly, he wasn't that great of a fucking negotiator, having failed miserably to sleaze his way out of his current predicament. A mess that Gavin was fast suspecting he’d created for himself—

A sudden knock rang through the office, derailing his thoughts and causing his hands to falter as he attempted to ignite a cigarette. The flame brushed the inside of his palm, and he dropped his lighter, hissing in pain. He then glared at the door, regarding the man concealed behind it with appropriate disdain:

"Yeah? Who the fuck is it?"

The unidentified figure was silent, as though paralysed by indecision, inspiring greater annoyance. This ill will festered cleanly into a familiar sense of impatience as he barked another demand. "Either answer me now or right fuck off. I don't have all damn day." 

Even before recent events, it seemed most of his goons existed in perpetual fear around him. Maybe it was the threat of Nines pile driving them into the floor if they ever spoke out of line. It couldn't be a coincidence that the only person who'd ever shown the gall to charge him head-on, regardless of consequence, had always been Connor. 

He'd put an end to this misguided confidence as soon as he could once he'd taken over from Dad. Making it clear he wouldn't be giving the doe-eyed cretin any of the same special treatment. This also extended to Nines, as he firmly dissuaded the soft touch he had been lending his sibling. 

Because it wasn't deserved, it hadn't been earned. Gavin wasn't  his Dad, any more than Nines was his brother—

There was another knock on the door as a despondent voice spoke:

 "... It's me."

— At least, that's what he'd always believed. Until recently. 

The pitiful address brought with it a whole new wave of frustration. Having recovered from his brush with the lighter, Gavin picked it up, sparking the awaiting cigarette hanging from his lips. He inhaled deeply before releasing the coiling smoke from his lungs with a harsh growl. 

"Was wondering when you'd show your face," he grumbled out accusingly, "You've been pussyfooting around me all day." 

What followed was far more 'demand' than it was 'permission' as he fought the urge to grab the man by the scruff of his neck, hauling his ass through the threshold himself. "Stop dicking around and get in here, jackass." 

Nines had been terrible during the entire ordeal, and it was reflected in his Hellish appearance as he lifelessly skulked through the doorway. He looked like a zombie, his once meticulously styled hair hanging greasy and limp against his face. His fair skin was nearing grey from how sickly it had become; exhaustion formed in deep-set rings around his eyes. 

Even with the door no longer muffling his words, Nines sounded nothing like himself. His words came dull and monotonous, lacking their usual bite: "We received another delivery…a few minutes ago…" 

His movements were just as stiff as he idled by the foot of the doorway, a string-bound package clutched limply in his hands. The style of wrapping was all too familiar, making no secret of its origin. 

Gavin reclined in his seat. He kicked up his steel-capped boots and thumped them down on the desk, almost sending his laptop flying. As he took another drag of his smoke, he summoned the other man closer with a lazy beckon. "Well, better be something exciting if it's important enough to interrupt my 'me time'" 

Nines straightened up a bit, his slumped shoulders rolling in a tense bristle, but ultimately remained frozen. The timid movement inspired an ongoing ripple of disfavour, fanning the flames of the embittered resentment. 

Honestly, the mobster could have forgiven Nines' sudden glow down, and even his sudden shitty work performance, had his corpse-like appearance not come with a matching libido. 

It had been days since the man had last touched him. Longer than he'd ever been forced to abstain in the entire time of their 'arrangement'. The current distance between them felt staggering, and Gavin hated just how deeply it sought to affect him. 

"What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?" His lips twisted into a bitter snarl as he fired off a biting instruction. " Now , dipshit."

Slowly, Nines dragged his heels to where Gavin was sitting, moving in small, laboured shuffles. His lax grip was relinquished as he deposited the parcel onto the grimy surface of the desk.

He toyed with the strings, exerting minimal effort as he loosened them. The paper beneath fell away to reveal a tape-bound box, which he hacked at clumsily with a nearby pen knife.

As the container was opened, the first thing that hit was the smell. Wafts of copper mingled with rot drifted into the smoke-laden air. It was overwhelming, forcing him to recoil instantly. He pinched his nostrils and tilted his head—a reflexive action to shield himself from the full hilt of the stench. 

"What the hell is that?"

Admittedly, he already had a pretty firm idea of what it was. Or, more precisely, who . What part of him he was looking at, however, remained a mystery. The putrid mass of flesh sat limp and bloodied in the centre of a pile of shredded paper, unidentifiable. 

After taking a moment to steel himself, he moved back towards the package; eyes narrowed as he peered curiously into the contents. Following a period of closer inspection, he mumbled out a tasteless remark. "...Kinda looks like the mouse I had to dissect in 8th Grade." 

Nines didn't laugh at the joke or attempt to feign any degree of interest. Opting to stare rigidly at the yellowed rolls of paper peeling from a nearby wall. Gavin's smile dropped at the snub, having officially exhausted his patience with the man's ongoing pity party. 

"I dunno. What do you think?" He then gestured his cigarette towards the box in line with a pointed glare. Ash scattered across his desk as it missed his often-neglected tray. 

The movements of Nines' head were jerky, robotic, as he dared a small glimpse into the bed of crinkled packaging. The regret in his eyes was instantaneous, his sallow complexion growing even more sickly as a sharp hitch escaped his throat. 

"I think it's—" 

The sentence was aborted as his throat tightened, larynx clenching. The contractions became increasingly pronounced as though he were repressing the urge to vomit. 

"...I think it's part of his ear." 

Gavin whistled at the revelation, his lips pursed in bemusement. He was almost impressed that such a delicate cross-section had been severed from the appendage, especially by a group of thugs who probably struggled to tie their shoes.  

"Well, shit. Good thing he's got two of 'em."

"We have one more day," came a sullen response. Nines anchored himself across the desk, subtly reducing the gap between them, "and we haven't done anything. Communicated with DeLuca at all, even to acknowledge that we've received the messages." 

"I know. We're not going to."

"Gavin…" Nines sounded winded, almost painfully so, as he attempted to support himself against the soiled wood. His palms were caked with powder, dirtied by a thick layer of grey. "He's my brother."

"He's a rat," the other man corrected. His fingers drummed idly against the table, flecks of ash falling in sync. "With any luck, pest control will do their job."

"He'd never do anything to betray you. Betray us—" 

"Oh, what, did he tell you that?"  The question was simpered mockingly, concluded with a barked laugh. "Come on, think about it. Why would DeLuca take him when he had literally any other option?" 

Despite all the enduring desperation he'd shown in pleading his case, Nines had no response to this. His lips gaped open and closed before pulling into a tight frown. 

"Guess whatever deal they had finally went south…" Gavin tutted in false sympathy as he flicked his now extinguished cigarette across the room. "That's a real shame." 

"I understand you've never warmed to him…but I implore you not to make decisions based on that alone." In an act of desperation—and presumably madness—he reached forward, attempting to place a hand on his calf. "Just try to be reasonable for a moment."  

Gavin bristled at the insolence. 

Oh no you don't.

He shot his legs back, preventing contact from being made, as he planted the ridged soles of his boots firmly onto the ground. He then hauled himself up from his chair, grabbing Nines by the collar and yanking him further across the desk.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do." The words were seethed through clenched teeth as his jaw locked tight in warning. They were close enough that speckles of spit propelled onto the other man's face, glossing his cheeks.

They stayed this way for quite some time as Nines stared back at him fixedly. Waiting in hushed anticipation as he deliberated on his next move. 

The longer spent in this proximity, the more Gavin could feel his convictions wane. All it had really taken was a whiff of the woody cologne clinging to the other man's neck for anger to slip into hesitancy.

There was musk as well. Clearly, he hadn't showered in a couple of days, but even that proved inexplicably tempting in his current repressed state. Enough to send a shiver up his spine and the blood in his brain rushing south.

God-fucking-dammit. 

Even when he looked like an extra out of  The Walking Dead,  Nines still possessed his unique ability to drive him completely insane. It didn't matter how many nights of sleep he missed; there was no getting past the marble-like chest and the jawline that could cut through glass…

Reaching for his face, his subordinate tensed as though preparing for a strike. Gavin then ran a hand up his neck, kneading the flesh beneath his fingertips. In a show of possessiveness, he flicked up his thumb, pulling it across his jaw as he firmly traced the bone.

"Come on, baby," he crooned, craning across the barricade that dared to separate them. He tickled the shell of the other man's ear in long puffs, shamelessly goading a response. "Connor isn't worth us fighting over. You're smart enough to know that, right?"

Nines' eyes pinched closed as his expression grew increasingly strained. Clearly, he was a man at war with himself, torn between duty and desire. Then, he slowly began to give in, relaxing under the touch, leaning towards it reflexively. 

"Gavin, please. Just this once, give DeLuca what he wants." Slowly, his eyes opened, icy grey darkened by lust. He grabbed his lover's hand, cradling it firmer against his face and ran his cheek against it. Then he brought his fingers to his mouth, peppering them with gentle kisses. "Do it for us. For me." 

And just like that, the moment was ruined. His dick stopped thinking for him as the blood surged back to his brain, firing off a series of blaring warnings. 

No. 

This isn't right .

Nines knew the rules, he understood damn well this wasn't how they did things. They did grabbing hands, tongue, and teeth, not soft touches and whispered promises. It was too intimate—throwing into ruin years of carefully crafted understanding. 

The kisses burned hotter than any lighter, and Gavin snatched his hand back, stomach churning. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" 

Nines recoiled, the underlying vacancy of his gaze giving way to focus for the first time in days. His eyes sprung wide, staunchly alert, and after a period of tense shock came confusion, nestling in the cracks of his stricken features. "...I… don't understand what you mean."

The sickening churn grew more pronounced as something rose in the back of his throat. Initially, it could have been mistaken for bile—until low chuckles began to echo against the muscled walls. They ramped quickly until they had built into large, bitter cackles. 

Gavin sat back in his chair, trembling, as he punctuated his disbelief with a harsh slam against the table. An empty coffee cup rattled on the trembling foundation before slipping from the desk and shattering on the ground. 

Maybe you aren't as smart as I thought. 

While he was willing to chalk at least  some  of the misunderstanding down to Nines' current exhaustion, the lapse in judgment still demanded a correction. He held himself upright, chin jutted high, as he cracked the bones of his now pulsing knuckles. 

"Let's make something clear—because it looks like you might have forgotten. I might let you fuck me, but you're still my bitch. You do what I want when I want it. I'm the one calling the shots." 

The more he spoke, the more Nines seemed lost to despair. Watching as the line he'd cast, Gavin vanished into the ocean, pulled by an intense force. "I have never once questioned you, and I don't intend to do so again. This is not something I ever predicted I'd have to ask for. I just…" 

The words trailed off, adopting a distant quality, as his brow pinched in concentration. 

“...thought…after all this time…"

"You thought wrong." Gavin interrupted, refusing to let him continue. "I keep you around for two reasons: You can shoot a bullet through a man's eyes from across a football pitch, and you screw better than some coked-up hooker."

His gaze was spearing, carving into him in line with the daggers spewed from his lips. Every aspect of Nines' response was monitored closely—with cold, unfeeling scrutiny. As he watched the man fall apart, he saw something more than the stony-faced machine his Dad had always praised. 

Nines looked hurt . All wide eyes and trembling lips, the picture of vulnerability.

In his current crestfallen state, he was a spitting image of Connor. The realisation worked another knot into the mangled mess of his gut as Gavin realised the bounds of his trust had extended too far, allowing for too much leniency. It was a wrong he sought to correct. Swiftly and definitively. 

"You mean nothing to me, and neither does your shithead brother. Do you understand that?" 

Nines' face pulled and contorted as though struggling to contain a deluge of sentiment. Waves built, cresting rampantly as they prepared to crash down—but the flood never came, trickling away without event. 

Sharp features settled back into their usual stoic rigidity as he coolly returned to form, nodding in acknowledgement. 

"Understood."

Gavin could feel the tension that had amassed slowly begin to wane. He slunk down into his seat with a satisfied grunt. "Good. So quit bitching and do something useful. Either handling the situation down at the docks. Or…well…” He made a gesture towards the fly of his jeans, smirking as he did so. "You know the drill."

There was little consideration made for the crude proposition. Nines spun on his heel, refusing to dignify it, as he briskly strode from the office without saying another word. 

[twothpaste]

Giegue/giygas for the ask game, maybe?

First impression: I learned about Giygas through internet osmosis long before I even thought to play EarthBound. All the usual "ooooh this game is secretly sooo dark" and "he's ack-chewally an aborted fetus, see, oooo" kinda shit. I remember it giving me the impression Mother was way scarier and edgier than it turned out to be. (I played games like OFF and Yume Nikki first though. So by the time I got around to Mother, it was very refreshing to play somethin bright & uplifting at its core, lmao.) (In retrospect, I kinda wish Giygas wasn't among the first things every prospective player is told about the EarthBound. Going into the Giygas battle blind seems like it would've rearranged my brain molecules, and I wish I'd gotten to experience it like that.) I forget when exactly I learned about Giegue (I didn't get to play M1 blind either), but I'm pretty sure my first impression was honestly pretty neutral? The imposing presence of a huge alien spaceship, 8-bit sci-fi machinery, and a barely legible creature in a capsule was pretty wicked to see for myself the first time though!

Impression now: Giygas is a big triple decker chocolate layer cake worth of metaphor & symbolism. The existential horror of growing up, the fear of losing who you fundamentally are in the process, the horrific inhumanity adults are capable of, the hopelessness of coming to terms with the world as it is, and so on. Not really a character per se, but the quintessential globular slurry of adolescent angst Ness & pals've gotta contend with. Giegue is a bittersweet little story about a broken family. An internal conflict between vengeance, familial love, and maybe where one's obligations lie? Cool antagonist for sure. I wanna like him more than I do (M1's cryptic hands-off approach to storytelling is hard for me to sink my teeth into 😔). I've speculatively written (and drawn a comic for the upcoming zine 😉) about how Giegue became Giygas, and read some good fics on the topic. In the canon we're given, though? There's really so little binding them together narratively or thematically… I have a difficult time reconciling the two, in the context of the games themselves. Mother 2 in general feels more like a reboot than a sequel - and there's hardly if any "lore" weaving Giegue & Giygas together - so Itoi's choice to declare they're one and the same just seems kinda odd to me. C'est la vie. Fan creators make do.

Favorite moment: The Giygas battle, but like, before he goes sicko mode. When he's bound to a chamber of wires and innards, reflecting Ness' face back at him, and it turns out our fervently raving buddy Porky is actually the one in "control". The atmosphere is so intense and unnerving, such a bizarre yet captivating way to ramp things up. There's like, this sense of stomach-churning dread, as you begin - if only scarcely - to realize the alien overlord you were expecting is an entity far more powerful and personal and helpless and incomprehensible than you ever could've imagined. I mean. You know, because the internet spoiled you when you were 11. But in the bigness of the moment it still makes my mitochondria itch on a primal and cellular level. /pos. Love it.

Idea for a story: My favorite Giegue thing is the vague implication (??) of whatever the hell George did to to him. Y'know, whatever made him hate humanity so much. Whenever I see fan content speculating on how George might've experimented on him or mistreated him I do in fact Feel Somethin' There. (I have been a sucker for angsty-creature-in-a-lab stories from the time I saw Mewtwo Strikes Back in kindergarten all the way to Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 3 a couple months ago, and I don't suppose I'll ever be sick of 'em.) The conflict it introduces between George and Maria is intriguing too. Like, her husband's treating her dearly beloved child like a science project? Trying to extract the secrets of PSI from his oversized alien brain?? You know if this kinda shit went down, those two were on a caliber of divorce drama the world has rarely seen.

Unpopular opinion: I really like Giegue design interpretations that're freaky and grotesque and biologically unfamiliar. When the beast isn't just mammalian in nature. Truly out of this world.

Favorite relationship: A mean-spirited but otherwise ordinary 13-year-old willingly aligned himself with the alien emodiment of all things evil. And the alien embodiment of all things evil willingly let the kid be his right-hand man. And I'm normal about it. EarthBound tells us basically nothing about how Porky n' Giygas' partnership in crime came to be, but speculating about it sends me into a shark frenzy. Porky seeking power over the world that wronged him, at literally any cost. Giygas weaponizing a child's worst, most vengeful impulses. Porky ultimately usurping Giygas, at least in terms of agency. Witnessing the absolute horror his "master" becomes, and simply sidestepping out of the universe itself to dodge the mess he brought about. I like to imagine there was a period where Giygas was still cognizant enough to maintain a rapport with Porky - and that the two of them fucking hated each other. Both of 'em using the other as a means to an end, assured in the conviction they're the one with the upper hand. And they're kind of both wrong. Bloaw up da worl.

Favorite headcanon: Giegue/Giygas speaks (telepathically?) with a rural midwestern accent. Courtesy of the fine folks who raised him. Other aliens probably think it's weird and mondo cringe, but are too intimidated to say so.

[sowingseedsandshootinghoops]

The Truth About Trauma

Note on the text: I used The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness and Healing in a Toxic Culture by Gabor Mate, M. D., with Daniel Mate as published by Avery in 2022.

It all starts with waking up; waking up to what is real and authentic in and around us and what isn’t; waking up to who we are and who we are not; waking up to what our bodies are expressing and what our minds are suppressing; waking up to our wounds and our gifts; waking up to what we have believed and actually value; waking up to what we will no longer tolerate and what we can now accept; waking up to the myths that bind us and the interconnections that define us; waking up to the past as it has been, the present as it is, and the future as it may yet be; waking up, most especially, to the gap between our essence calls for and what ‘normal’ has demanded of us (497).

Trauma is a very complex thing and healing from it is an equally intricate and, at times, beautiful process. Beautiful because it involves us getting to know ourselves on the deepest, most fundamental, of levels. Gabor does a wonderful job here of highlighting just how awful the effects of trauma are and how one can heal from it to go on and live fulfilling lives as their authentic selves.

Socrates once said that the unexamined life is not worth living, and this is especially true when it comes to speaking about trauma. Because trauma isn’t so much about what happens to you as it is what happens in you. The kid who, experiences the trauma of unstable housing and moving around a lot and yet sees that as an adventure experiences a different type of trauma from the kid who sees it as proof that his world is inherently unstable and something to be afraid of. A traumatic event occurs when our relationship to either ourselves or our environment is disrupted and irrevocably shifted. A woman who previously had no fear of the world gets raped and now is afraid to go outside for example, or a child who after getting beat by his dad for failing English class now develops a perfectionist attitude because he feels like he is otherwise unworthy of being loved and respected.

Sometimes individual’s change in attitude is sudden and at other times it might be more gradual, but in any event the person who exited the traumatic event is not the same person who entered into it. I say it might be gradual because often the change that happens happens at a more unconscious level, but that doesn’t change the fact that trauma is, at its core, “about a loss of connection- to ourselves, our families, and the world around us” (23). Trauma affects us in very central ways. That which we call a personality is really a “jumble of genuine traits and conditioned coping styles” (409). Which is to say that certain aspects of our personality are inherent to who we are as people and other emerge as a way to cope with whatever our living conditions are, as in the examples I mentioned above. Which is why healing from trauma involves bringing a level of consciousness and awareness into the life of the person in question. Trauma takes our power away by often times forcing us to be people that we wouldn’t otherwise be. Healing means taking that power back so that way we can choose to be our most authentic selves and live lives that line up with those values that we hold most dear to our hearts. Which is why the first step in healing from trauma involves taking an honest account of who we are, what is happening in our lives, and how do we feel about that. An examined life is not worth living because “as long as one does not examine oneself one is completely subject to whatever one is wired to do, but once become aware that you have choices [then] you can exercise those choices” (35).

But first let’s take a step back and talk about just how real the effects of trauma are. Dr. Gabor goes into excruciating detail about the links between trauma and one’s physical health. He, for example, cites studies that link post traumatic stress disorder to higher rates of breast cancer, and how grief can affect the immune system (42). He also cites people who, in a very practical way, saw what their body was going through as a reflection in some way of their mental health. Just listen to what Julia said about what her rheumatoid arthritis told her about herself:

it was my body’s way of saying ‘wake up, wake up.’ You’re not helping yourself holding this much rage and anger inside’. Rage and anger are not feelings I want to hold onto, but I do see them as guides that let me know that something in my life is out of balance. I get rheumatoid flare ups maybe once a year now. When one shows up, I just accept that it’s here and there is something I can do about it, something more to learn from it” (392).

What we are witnessing here is how her disease has lead to understand herself better in a more holistic manner which in turn has enabled her to live a more fulfilling life.

The point is that trauma is real in every sense of word. It affects us both physically and mentally which is why

any movement towards wholeness with acknowledgement of our own suffering. . . . True healing simply means opening up ourselves to the truth of our lives, past and present, as plainly and objectively as we can. We acknowledge where we were wounded and [to the best of our ability] perform an honest audit of the impact of those injuries [both to ourselves] and those around us” (363).

What he is talking about here is acceptance. That in order to start to heal from our trauma we must be able to accept it for what it is instead of “resisting the truth or denying or fantasizing our way out of it” (380-381). Now that doesn’t mean we have to condone it. Accepting is not the same as condoning. We can accept that something did happen while wishing that it didn’t. What trauma does in large part is force us to become something that we are not as a way of adapting to the new reality. It can therefore lead us to become inauthentic versions of ourselves and force us to live lives that we are not proud of because those lives don’t reflect who we actually are. Healing therefore means taking back that power and re-giving ourselves the ability to choose who we want to be: “the exercise of agency is powerfully healing” and the assertion of that agency starts with us “renegotiating our relationship with the personality traits [that] we have [used to identify ourselves with]. . . . There is no freedom is having to be good or [talented] or in the need to please or entertain or be interesting” (377-378). We have to have the freedom to be who we want to be simply because we choose to be that person, not because we are (or were) pushed by forces outside of ourselves to be someone that we do not want to be. It takes a profound amount of introspection and honesty to realize that we are not the person we would like to be and to change that. But that is what it means to heal.

It requires a a certain amount of intentionality and focus because you have to consciously undo what for the most part has been subconsciously building in your head for years. You have to look at your trauma and the beliefs that came out of it and judge if those beliefs still serve as well as they once did. Although the traumatic event was outside of your control, your current reaction to that event is not. The beliefs about yourself and/or the world that came out of that event are not facts and so they can be changed. Take for example an abused child who is now an adult. As a child because of the abuse they suffered they decided not to trust anyone. They became incredibly self sufficient and so mistrusting of others that they don’t ever reach out for help or let anyone in in a meaningful way. Healing from the initial trauma means that as an adult that child has the ability to step back and see if that belief still serves him and if it’s reflective of who he wants to be. Or does he want to be more trusting of people and rebuild his boundaries in such a way that he can let at least some people in and perhaps not be so lonely. He can decide what kind of person he wants to be.

Healing from trauma, to bring it back to the quote that started this post, means “waking up” to who you are. It means fully accepting what has happened to you and making the decision to be who you are despite that. Understanding and fully accepting who you are, and living a life that is in line with those principles, is without a doubt the most meaningful and powerful thing that any of us can do.

[transmorphobots]

RECOLLECTION

A piece about the enigmatic Coldfront featuring of course the lovely @classychassiss Venus (who also came up with the pin-locking knee joint that is utterly gruesome but I love) and a mention of @messengerofmechs Castor.

Depictions of PTSD and child harm ahead.

Waking facing the ceiling makes defense protocols activate. Instincts surging to the surface. Where was it? What was taken this time? Memory diagnostics ran fast, trying to get as far as they could get before someone took notice of the sound. System diagnostics found something first- it was plugged into a computer. Wires had been hooked into its sensor hubs. Before it could be stopped, revulsion surged through all of its processes and on its heels came fear. Overwhelming, unstoppable fear. Diagnostics quit the processes as defense protocols take priority. It can't maneuver its arms well enough to remove the wires itself, it'll have to use distance and its body weight.

Peeling off the back of the table-

[Error! Surroundings need to be confirmed]

-and jerking the legs out of the bindings-

[Error! Surroundings need to be confirmed]

-The machine starts to scream in protest. It pulls an arm forward. Wires snap, some fall away and some stay plugged in after their severance. The blade flattens against the guard as it jams the edged point somewhere into the center of its mass to silence it-

[Error! Surroundings need to be confirmed]

-Coldfront pulls with all its might to be unplugged while revulsion floods every emotional processor and input. It would rather be destroyed than to be here again, to be put through the erasure and the modifications again. Its bindings are pulled out or broken, the supportive tension being lost, almost sending it to the floor had its knees not defensively locked to keep it upright.

The pins bite into the joint. The sensation traveling through the twisted wires all the way to the support struts in its back which triggered a feeling like all of the heating coils in its body went off at once. It didn't scream. It couldn't because it already moved, that noise was enough, and Supercell would be back at the commotion and it needed some sort of element of surprise. It forces the joints to unlock so it can maneuver.

It turns its whole body to face the door -

It faces a wall instead.

[Error! Surroundings need to be confirmed]

- and it finally listens to that annoying message when it sees that the door is different, the lab is different... and Venus is sleeping at the computer. Defense protocols drop back immediately as it confirms where it actually is and runs its memory diagnostic again. Fragmentation in earlier files was to be expected but these last few weeks featured no break up or corruption. Supercell had not caught onto it yet... or... tentatively it could consider...

It couldn't consider anything yet, not until he was gone.

Fear was stubborn to let go of its hold on its systems and so comfortable there. A niche made for it, growing inside, thriving on a feast of its archived emotions. Supercell let Coldfront have fear. He was the only one who knew it could be afraid and he was the only one who could make it move despite it. Bravery and courage kept preserved and if that did not work then the lack of control of its movements would. One single directive above all - Keep moving forward. However, the conflicting and broken code, the memory core itself as mutilated as the rest of it, meant those fail safes eventually eroded. They broke down and the rest of the pieces fell out. A wave of disgust rolls through it like a roaming blackout before it settles back in the fog of its processes.

It would thank Supercell for the shielding around its spark to keep it hidden if only because that meant its emotional responses were harder to read. The people helping it didn't have to see that every time it woke up in the lab its anxiety would spike. That while it held itself so still and docile under every investigative touch and poke of their tools it was only that sheer will that kept it from trembling.

When was the last time a touch laid on its frame had been anything but pain? Countless touches, seemingly all of them had been with pain. Its memory lost track of what it was like without. Instead of keeping records of suffering it threw the data out because if it had kept a record, its processor would have no space for anything else.

But it was collecting new data. It may only have moments it can count on its hands that were of genuine mercy and relief but that was just the start and it had been so welcome. Sidesplit and Venus had been so kind to it without any reason to. Calling out was not even a plea for mercy but rather one desperate attempt in a thousand failed attempts to deny Supercell a victory.

It had just wanted to deny him what he wanted and a mission so far away from the usual territory was perfect for staging a crash. It had left a witness, left some perfect bait to see what it was taking. Nebulean coins, some philosophy and historical books, and a Matrix. Something so carefully crafted to pass knowledge from one to the other and he would have it placed on a shelf, far away from anyone using it. He would maybe even wipe its memory core with something more suiting to his tastes. A Matrix of Supercell. A tremor of disgust rolls through it again, stronger this time, for it knew that its handiwork would be imprinted on crystalline circuits to preserve it for eons. He would gloat about its construction, it knew this and depised it.

All of it would be on there. It, the heirs, and the.............

It couldn't let him..............

let him............... ?

The thoughts veer away from it before they can even be realized. With Sidesplit cutting some of the restrictions in its emotional processors out it could at least feel anger without fear of being forced into shut down. It surged forward and made its frame tense with a famailiar but corrupted combat protocol.

Supercell treasured knowledge above all else, hoarding it away from the people he destroyed. Whatever was always lingering at the edges of its understanding was denied. The artifacts he hade Coldfront fetch, things from his homeworld that he destroyed... Supercell loved the power of knowing things other people didn't. Nothing would infuriate him more than not having it.

Now it didn't have any of his trophies.

It had bared its wounds to the Dirge crew and they responded with mercy. Peace was a feeling it hardly felt and it wasn't sure if that was Supercell's design or the predicament it was in. With the situation steadily changing, perhaps, becoming more secure... it didn't know what to feel. The moment's ancient anger dropped away like a curtain, or a shield maybe? It could feel that hope was lingering in the recesses of its processor it had been sequestered to. It had bared its wounds and... it stabbed the considerate rig that Sidesplit had made for it. One of the display screens hangs loosely by some cables. Parts of it sparking from the wound it was given. Guilt activates in one of its emotional processors. Creeping through its memory looking for a target to amplify its potency. Lashing out at the speaker to trap her against the very wall it had been facing when it woke- taking her city in its unstoppable march- taking other cities. Other people. Other worlds.

It focused on Venus asleep at the table. With slow, painful steps it goes to her side and it does not wake her. She fell asleep with a pillow of notes. Notes that kept the score of what had been taken from it, notes on how to get it back. It sets a hand on Venus gently just to rest it there, mindful of the weight of its arm.

The speaker had... breached something when she had dug through all of the shielding and touched the reserve of anger. Within its own archives there was something desperately trying to understand and make a connection to the action with knowledge. It was a mangled collection of data but its systems kept trying to access it with no success. What did she remind itself of so much that it was driving itself mad?

[Error!]

[Error!]

The files won't get uncorrupted by constantly recalling them but it's loop continues.

[Error!]

[Error!]

[Error!]

One failure after the other but the desire to know was powerful. What had she touched? If she had come back to the lab perhaps it could have asked her. It had no intention of doing so, how could it? The first time it had seen her it had tried to to stop. Put as much dead weight in its legs as it could to give her time to get out of the way but she didn't. Her people fought and they paid like other worlds had.

[Error!]

Terror on her face because that is all it was now. There was a time people smiled [Error!] when they saw it. [Error!] There was a time it was different. Maybe. It felt like a dream to want something that wasn't tied to him. That place [Error!] Person? Home? Whatever it was. It didn't know what the Tower was. Something important but out of reach. The data scrubbed over and over again to leave nothing but still, persistently, it remembered that it was different.

Did she remind it of that time? Were they similar? Was the Tower its home in the same way as her?

Was she even still there?

[Error!]

[Error!]

[Error!]

[Error!]

[Error!]

Its own sequence of crashes mesh into a memory of Volt-tier's own cries of the word. Younger, smaller, still in a rudimentary form because- [Error!] He was not yet the Count and in this memory he was vulnerable and dear. His arm torn open from the heat of lightning. Leaving a trail of energon where he's stumbling as he goes from one drone to the next looking for someone to answer his cries for help. They have no programming to respond to that and neither does it. Still, compelled by something it doesn't understand, it gently cradles his face with its elongated hand and looks over his destroyed one with the other. Parts of its processor try to connect it to something, it's something familiar.

The stroking of Volt-tier's cheek with its fingers to calm him.....

was........

was.............. ?

[Error!]

Fragments of corrupted imagery keep being recalled. They were hard to parse, most of them were a mess of visual snow and black holes burned through the center of them. Only small hints of people in the images. A finger in the mess of color. Snippets of a location.

Its hand strokes Venus' back. An idle motion while it tried to sort through the chaos. Its hands were getting stronger but some movement was still hard just because the hands were not meant to function like hands. The joints would catch often and some would be too loose. Both of them, could it shakily call them friends at this point, tried to fix it so it could have a little autonomy and it was touched by that. There was so much more to be doing- Getting Pollux back for one but also its other systems. It didn't want to be turned against them after all they had done. Still, they chose sometimes work that was grueling and not for their own interests, but for the comfort of Coldfront.

Much more pleasant than the pins locking its knees but still the motion of realization is similar. Up from the source to something deeper. The repeated motion, the gratitude- its familiar. A touch on a body that no longer conforms to the original shape. A sensation of a great weight being lifted though leaving exhaustion in the new space. A type of relief. A satisfaction maybe? A tired, tired satisfaction. The motion repeated in the same way as it does now, wisps of relief not its own at the edges of what it is/was and something else.

Are you still there? Is a thought that cannot be shaken. Who? It doesn't know.

The images cannot get any clearer but as they retreat back into its disorganized archive, briefly, they make more sense. A touch to the cheek, a hand on its own when it had a shape more like a hand, a smile from a friend. Who are they? It doesn't know.

Venus stirs under its touch finally. It noted that the struggle should have woken her sooner but she was constantly working. Her systems were tired. Familiarly tired. Why? It keeps its hand there and as she wakes to the disaster she missed, it says words that aren't its own but they're familiar. Someone said them to it once.

"Thank you, for everything. I’m sorry for putting you through this. Help me, please."

[k00325480]

Glen Martin Taylor - Artist Research

Glen is a ceramic artist based in Ohio (Instagram @ glenmartintaylor), He incorporates destruction into his creation process with the Japanese art form of kintsugi. But instead of using golden veins to hold together and repair the objects, he turns to various objects (wire, rusting metals, blacked soldering alloy, etc.). It embraces imperfection, the often ugly, the messy, and the passage of time it takes to heal, and it portrays this in his works. 

‘It feels like I’m opening my wounds to find the healing and all the meaning in the suffering.’ -Glen Martin Taylor

I admire the multiple ways he can find to mend an object, embracing it’s story and showing everything it has been through. There is a balance of beauty and horror in his pieces, it feels honest. It gives a resemblance to life, how it truly is instead of how we want it to be or how we dread it to be. 

Life is painful but there are moments of love and kindness, it all is combined holding onto each other with whatever there is and sometimes those binds aren’t pretty.

I especially felt myself drawn to the piece named 'Ocean's Edge', using seashells as the main component to fix the gap in the vase. Sea shells are often a symbol of fertility in other words life and with life and time we shall fix and heal. His approach and version of Kintsugi align quite much with my own project.

find more works of him on his site