#and at the time i was actively writing (almost a decade ago)

[doom-dreaming]

I've come to the realization that my old Halo 4 canon divergence AU severely needs a character dynamic I hadn't really put much thought into at the time. Roland and Cortana.

[midnightwind]

trying to get my Rook origin story in a state to share like shaking a bag of dog treats in front of friends going "you want to beta read my silly fanfic, you want to beta read it so bad, you can't resist looking at it"

[androgynealienfemme]

"I was born thirty eight years ago and raised to be a nice Chinese girl. But nice Chinese girls don't grow up to be dykes and rebels. And I turned out to be both.

I grew up on silence. Though I was part of a large extended family, we ate in silence. There was no conversation or laughter, just the sound of soup spoons and chopsticks against rice bowls. I was not encouraged to talk, express emotions, or ask questions. I grew up with a heritage of silence.

I was a girl child, the first born in a traditional Chinese family, raised to be seen but not heard, raised to excel in school but not be curious, raised to be someone's wife but not to be a person of my own. When I was growing up in England, Hong Kong, and San Francisco, I read everything I could get my hands on, but none of the books spoke of my own experience. I started writing when I was eleven years old to fill the silence and to turn the years of rejection into affirmation.

You're probably wondering what the hell any of this h as to do with sex. The answer is- plenty. What I write is shaped by my history and experience as both a Chinese woman and as a lesbian.

Chinese is my first language. But I was fluent only in the words my parents deemed it necessary for me to know. I was certainly not taught the words for breast, cunt, ass, or orgasm. There were no words for sex; therefore, sex did not exist.

I came out as a lesbian when I was twenty-one, but I didn't start writing about sex until almost a decade later. Sure, I wrote love poems, but I never wrote about sex. I was, after all, a nice Chinese girl and we didn't''t talk about things like that. --

I have always loved women passionately. I love the way a femme moves across a dance floor, knowing all eyes are focused on her. I love the hard eye-to-eye look from another butch as she sizes me up as competition- or her next conquest. I love the fluid seduction in a femmes eyes. I love the long line of her neck, her delicate earlobes and soft lips, painted some shade of red or unpainted but deeply flushed from having been kissed long and hard. Many times. I love the curve of her breast, the hardness of her nipples, the softness of her stomach, the fullness of her ass, her legs with a faint covering of hair or long and sleek in black silk stockings. I love the strength of her in her thighs, the firmness of her biceps, the feel of her forearms as she takes me. I love the smell of her heat and the place of pleasure between her legs. I love her ankles and her delicate toes and her soft instep where I run my tongue until my teeth are gripping her Achilles tendon. I love the smell of her, the taste of her, the feel of her, the sight of her. I love women passionately.

--

Some women do not attend my theater or literary events for fear of supporting my sexual politics. I have been accused of recruiting. Never mind that I have a long history of writing, community organizing, and activism. Now I am judged solely for my leather sexuality. It's never been easy being different, but I have always survived. I will continue to speak out, write truths, and make waves. My countryman Mao Zedong wrote, "Dare to struggle, dare to win." I say, dare to write. Dare to be different. And who says nice Chinese girls don't talk about sex?"

"Who Says we Don't Talk About Sex?" Kitty Tsui, The Persistent Desire, (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

[maxwellatoms]

Hello Mr. Atoms, I'm an animation student in college and fan of your work. I got this assignment in which I need to ask questions to a professional in the area. Could you pretty please answer them? It'd mean a lot to me.

1- Are you happy with your career? How it's going.

2- What are your opinions, expectations and hopes about the independent animation industry that's developing?

3- What do you think about the advent of artificial intelligence? Do you fear for the future of animators?

4- If money wasn't a problem, would you still do what you do?

5- Any animators you admire and would like to mention?

Okey dokey.

1- Are you happy with your career? How it's going.

Not really, in that there seems to be no career left.

The animation industry swelled its numbers greatly before 2020. Almost immediately after that, corporate greed synergized with a pandemic to reduce animated programs and the number of people working on them to almost zero. It takes almost a year from beginning to end to make a single episode of an animated show (by the modern standard). There was nothing being made in 2020 and four years later, we''re not in a much better spot. It's going to be a long drought for (especially) Kid's TV Animation.

Recently, many of my former co-workers have hit the financial wall and can't continue, moving away after (sometimes) 20 years in the industry. I begin to wonder if I'm very far behind.

A "bounce back" a year from now would need to start today. There are still some animated shows being made now, but those are almost universally "library" properties. That means it's an existing I.P. (Intellectual Properties like Garfield/Mario/Batman/Star Wars) so as an artist you're immediately in that box. Depending on the property and the studio, it can be an unpleasantly tight box. I grew used to holding and maintaining the vision for a show, but it's less fun when it's not my vision. It's even less fun when you can't inspire someone to follow your vision because they've been so ruthlessly abused.

I'm pretty sick of how big media corporations treat their employees. If I inherit one more burnt out crew due to mismanagement, I'm gonna lose it.

Over a decade ago I fought hard to get board artists story credit for the episodes they were actually writing, and felt like I'd won a big victory for everyone. The second my back was turned, it all reverted.

Mostly... what is the point now? My career is/was developing ideas, crafting those ideas into a workable show, then managing teams of thirty to seventy people to produce a couple of dozen episodes per year. Studios actively do not want new ideas right now, and are actively searching for ways to eliminate what artists from the process. I'm not sure what my job would be under this new system, but it feels like they decided to hang onto the anxiety-inducing deadlines while removing anything remotely pleasurable from the experience.

2- What are your opinions, expectations and hopes about the independent animation industry that's developing?

It's the only way to get anything done, currently.

The current state of the industry is not sustainable. I (along with a lot of other animators I know) are trying to decide what's next, and pretty much everyone agrees that "you just have to make something".

It is (in that very specific way) a great time to be a young animator. The system was never going to treat you well anyway. If you can get something like a Hazbin Hotel happening without studio help, you can currently write your own ticket. I'm super proud of Vivsie, because that's a LOT of stuff to handle. I never had to handle my own marketing or drum up money to make Billy & Mandy happen.

There are opportunities there, but it's definitely "Hard Mode". The best idea is probably to team up with a few other people you like and like to work with.

Hopes? I hope that the young animators take over and make something new on top of the bones of the old industry, rather than just allowing that industry to patch its rotting hide with their collected works.

3- What do you think about the advent of artificial intelligence? Do you fear for the future of animators?

I suspect true AI might just peace-out like ScarJo in "Her", but we're not there yet. What we have now isn't Artificial Intelligence at all (though I do believe it may be the underpinnings of the Artificial Suconscious of what may one day become an actual Artificial Intelligence.)

The LLMs and "Generative AI" are (so far) a big dumb waste. They consume tons of energy and aren't great for doing anything creative. If you've sat down with Chat GPT for a creative writing session, you've probably run into the "out of the box" limitations which prevent it from talking about sex or violence-- which happen to be a major component of most stories.

Still, the technology has come incredibly far in an incredibly short amount of time. I imagine we're going to hit the point where we're being hazed by artificially generated political ads way before Generative AI can produce a consistent and usable character turnaround, so that'll be the test. Whatever the legal fallout is from this stuff over the next few years will set the tone.

Still, studios have a vested interest in pleasing their shareholders. Generative AI potentially has the capability of not only replacing swaths of money-eating artists, but handing that control directly to the billionaire studio heads. Mark my words: We're headed straight for billionaire-generated content.

I don't think the public at large will want to watch Elon Musk's fever dreams, so there's that. So law and general distaste might stave it off for a while, but I think there's just too much impetus for studios to continue to try to please their investors. "AI Art" is here to stay.

Eventually that will lead to millions and millions of bots generating millions and millions of songs and paintings and movies all day every day. Most of it will be utter trash. Right now (so I'm told) viewers are already burnt out, and will generally only click on what they already know. On Netflix, where there are twenty things you've never heard of and one you have, you're more likely to pick the thing that gives you comfort and gives you a guarantee you're not wasting your time. With exponentially more A.I. trash, how would you even begin to filter it out?

You'd need absolute control of an already existing distribution system. We currently have a few of those, and all of the media companies are desperately trying to merge with them to insure their own survival.

To me, the post-Gen-AI landscape looks a lot like old-school Cable, but with endless I.P. and fewer masters.

4- If money wasn't a problem, would you still do what you do?

The real question is, maybe, "What am I even doing?" These days I try to do a lot of gardening. I'm trying to learn new art skills, because suddenly twenty five years of experience managing, drawing, and writing isn't worth much. I recently worked on Jellystone until Zaslav lost 2.5 billion in the wash and had to find justification for his new yacht. The show before that? Also culled midway through to save money. The days of multi-year gigs seem to be over, and if I'm going to scrape by doing freelance, maybe I can do that somewhere else.

I'll always make art. I can't seem to help it. Ideas aren't my problem-- it's executing those ideas without the help of a structured pre-existing system. I honestly don't know if I'll ever be able to pull that off. My strengths are great, but were always supported by friends I worked with.

Can I start an indie cartoon with all of these cool friends? Sure, maybe. Most of those people have gone on to have other careers of their own and got used to being paid. Now nobody is getting paid and no one can pay anyone else. My immediate circle are all now middle-aged people with families and no jobs. Convincing them to give up a large chunk of their day for an idea that's not guaranteed to pay off is going to take some real effort.

I technically have fifteen years until I can claim my "retirement", assuming that still exists by then. That's a pretty big hole to fill with... I don't know what.

The difficult "What comes next" discussions at home are really just starting.

5- Any animators you admire and would like to mention?

There are a lot of cool animation people out there. I already mentioned I was proud of Vivsie. I was also reminded recently just how great C.H. Greenblatt and Mr. Warburton are. I know they're my friends. They're both just really upstanding, creative people who take good care of their crews.

The treatment of animation industry professionals by the studio system has been one of the most demoralizing and heartbreaking parts of this demoralizing and heartbreaking time.

---

So there ya go. If you want to look for someone whose attitude is a little more upbeat, I won't blame you a bit.

Wherever you are, I wish you the best of luck. For me, just climb up there and crush it. I would very much like to add you to #5 someday.

[dredgesnails]

I love to imagine the magic mountain bases all actually existing completely separately from each other in completely different time periods (almost), despite being physically in the same location.

In the ancient world, pyramids are constructed at the base of a huge volcano to honor the dead and worship old gods. A wide path leads to an entrance into the volcano, far enough in that the heat gets dangerous. Inside, sacrifices are made to the gods, to their king, offerings given up for the benefit of them all. The king is kind and forgiving, loyal to his people, asking for little and giving as much as he can. The gods however, are cruel, and all civilisations must fall eventually. For this one it's after a great eruption, one that shakes the earth with all the fury of the gods, that the pyramids become abandoned, left alone for centuries to erode. Over time new life grows, and thick jungles begin to hide the pyramids from view, until eventually, they’ve become a part of the natural landscape. Venture far enough in, however, and you might find remnants of the ancient civilisation: old writing in a language no one knows anymore, praises given to their old king; the remnants of ancient weapons and armour; the shapes of people who once lived forever preserved in ash and pumice.

~

It's the start of the industrial revolution, and rumours start spreading of an eclectic man and his steamrail full of exotic animals from across the globe. He’s a travelling zoo, of sorts, appearing in the strangest of places (as long as there's a railway line, he'll be there), areas it logically shouldn't be able to reach. He’s got all sorts of animals, from dolphins and turtles to strange, mysterious beasts. Where does he keep them all when they're not on the train? Some say he doesn't exist. others insist he does, that he lives underneath a mountain no one dares to visit. It's an active volcano, they say, dangerous to go near. If anyone dared to explore they might stumble upon the largest, most diverse collection of animals they've ever seen, and, most bizarrely, a large steam locomotive that runs on its own railway track, seemingly on a loop through the volcano itself. The tunnel is so dark the train disappears into it entirely. a young exploration group decide to find out for themselves, years later, and at first they think there's nothing there, until one of them stumbles upon the obvious remnants of a railway line, no longer in use but not so old that it's started to break down. Maybe he did exist after all...

~

In the late 1800s, a small fishing community establishes itself by the mountain. Electricity is new, and with the new machines and motors available to them the community quickly grows into a small village. Something is wrong, though. The rocks embedded in the mountain appear to resemble a skull more and more by the day, water streaming from one eye socket as though it’s crying. Underground passages and tunnels are found by the new residents, all leading to strange chambers. There's something in the water. A young man, one of the first in the village, disappears for a month, and when he returns, he's changed. He insists the ocean speaks to him, to everyone through him. He fishes for hours, days, weeks on end. When his madness begins infecting others, most gain the sense to stay away from him, but not everyone does. There's something in the water.

By the mid 1920s, the small fishing village is still standing, although most of the residents from four decades ago have since left. A young woman, traveling alone in her tiny fishing boat, docks at the village in need of repairs. What was meant to be a one night stay turns into days, then weeks, then months, as she begins to notice strange happenings in the village. A local artist has locked himself in his house, gone mad from something he found in the ocean. A scientist is experimenting with strange materials, and sometimes at night strange noises come from her house. There's something in the water. An older man speaks in tongues, driven mad by the sea. There's something in the water. The young fisher sees him occasionally, staring through her, unseeing. She's begun dreaming of ancient monsters in the depths of the water below her, reaching their long arms out and crushing her and everyone else. When she looks into the sea she can't see anything. It’s just inky blackness.

(No one knows how the village gets destroyed. One day it's here, and the next it's turned to rubble, razed to the ground by forces beyond human perception. It appears no one survived, but strangely, there's no trace of the small fishing boat the young woman had arrived in, nor of her body, and if anyone stopped for long enough in the wrecked city they might hear mumbling at night from underground, the mad ramblings of a man who has seen too much.)

~

Magic mountain row thrives in the early 2000s. They’ve beaten the Y2K bug (it really wasn't that much of a problem, anyway), business is booming at all the independent stores, and the local economy is better than ever. It doesn’t matter that not many people want to live here because new tech keeps Big Ron busy, and Willie Jr is old enough to start working at his father's shop, preparing himself to take over the business. The safe storage containers are always a little open, but nothing ever really goes missing, because no new people means everyone knows everyone. A young boy visits his neighbours for the last time before he leaves with his family; his dad's got a better job somewhere far away and they have to leave now, and besides it’s safer not to live by a barely-dormant volcano (it’s not as cool, though). His new neighbourhood has a lot more kids his age, but he can't help but miss the eccentric nature of his old neighbours. He returns to his childhood home twenty years later to find it empty. Most of magic mountain row is empty now, actually. There are a few places still open: Big Ron refuses to close up shop because Willie Jr, who has taken over the business now that his father's passed, still needs his help from time to time. Anyone still living here is merely clinging to a past they remember so fondly they can't adapt for the future. They're happy, though. They’re happy to remain here until it's their time to go.

~

In the not-so-distant future, a dense city is formed on the mountain. It started out as a smaller town, with traditional architecture and shrines dotted around the place, but as technology advanced and society progressed it grew and evolved into towering skyscrapers, holographic billboards, a rail system that winds through buildings and above streets. Elements of the past still remain - lush gardens lined with cherry blossom trees, the old shrines and temples still standing, a mark of the city's history and longevity. The city stands the longest, weathers the strongest storms, grows and evolves and changes, but all must come to an end, eventually. A rumbling in the earth, a once-dormant volcano waking from its slumber. They have the tech to know it's coming, now, so they all flee before it can hit. Only one man stays behind. This is his city. This is his home. He built this entire place from the ground up, and he’s not going to leave it behind. He makes his way to one of the shrines. Praying to his goddess, he leaves her one final offering, and when the ash settles all trace of him is gone.

~

The apocalypse happens in a future beyond our reckoning. A city lies, abandoned by most, on top of the ruins of civilisations that came before. Once a lively hub of activity and tech and innovation, the city has become a ghost town, occupied only by the artificial intelligences that had driven humanity out. They wander aimlessly, mimicking the behaviours of the humans they used to watch and help, protecting the inner core of their city that keeps everything, including themselves, alive. The humans reside elsewhere, in a bunker resembling the old world, with more vegetation and life than the city had despite being hidden underground. The city’s architects reassure everyone that they’ll be able to return someday soon. The one who designed the robots, a man more cyber than human by this point, just needs to fix a few issues with their programming. He doesn’t want to destroy them but he might have to. His partner, who designed most of the city, will need to commence repairs before anyone can live in the city again. So they leave, vowing to fix the city so that everyone can return to society. No one knows they will never return.

[sl-walker]

Booster's Queer af

Something I wrote on Reddit on a thread asking 'what's your DC hot take??', because if you're gonna kick a hornet's nest, kick it with your best steel-toed boots and then smile:

Booster's queer. That man hasn't come across as straight-- ever. Like even when I started reading DC in 2003, he came across as queer to me, pretty much from his inception. Seriously. He comes across like someone closeted and decidedly not-straight who just stays in the closet initially because it was a very bad time to be anything other than heterosexual when he landed in the past and later because it's habit and expected of him. I don't think he's gay, I think he probably leans pretty pansexual or maybe even demisexual, but any which way, you'll never convince me he's not at least a little bit queer. He's had one in-universe romance that hasn't been retconned (Firehawk) in his entire time existing and one that was a joke and maybe not even real canon (Gladys). After almost four decades. His thing with Firehawk lasted, I think, like less than a year, too. I'm pretty sure you can count his on-panel kisses on one hand, but not more than two. He's never had a 'morning after' scene. The one seriously emotionally intimate relationship he has is with another guy. When he does flirt or attempt to, it comes off as being awkward and a bit desperate and a bit like a man who is kinda using it as cover. And like-- that really makes way more sense for him than anything otherwise. I'd sincerely hope by the 25th century that we'd stop giving a damn who loves or wants whomever else based on gender presentation. It also makes for a pretty compelling tale, a guy getting dropped into the middle of the AIDS epidemic learning a very quick and ugly lesson about what happens to queer folk in this time period. I dunno how hot a take this is, though, because at least some people up top agree (he's canonically hooked up with Ted in Teen Titans Go! and like-- any time Tom Taylor writes them, he all but says it aloud), but if TPTB were brave, they'd finally confirm it mainline. Like you don't even have to ship him with Ted (though that's my preference), just confirm he's queer. Here's my essay. What's my grade? LOL!

--

Since it's relevant, tho, here's a few pieces I wrote from a long email back and forth (since us old people still do that) with another very long-time fan of his a couple weeks ago:

But anyway, to me, he acts about like how a kid who got dropped into the 80s during the height of the AIDS panic and rampant homophobia and the wholesale death of gay men might, especially if he were queer himself. I'd probably try to straight-wash myself, too, in his boots. (I remember that time period, if distantly. I didn't realize I was queer myself until I was well into my 20s, despite falling in very desperate and intense love with another girl when I was 12. I do remember being in high school when a boy was murdered for being queer by being tortured and left tied to a fence to die, though. It was that kind of world back then for people like us. In some places, it still is.) Still, where Booster fails at any hetero romance (oh god does he), he's so devoted to Ted that a big part of his second solo was dedicated to him either trying to save the man or actively mourning him. It's heartbreaking and amazing and really actually quite good stuff, from a literary POV. Whether DC meant it or not, somehow they managed to write one of the greatest love stories I've ever seen in a comic across most of twenty years, no kidding, and I've read a lot across a lot of companies, even back when I was a twelve year old girl and ridiculed for it. And not just a great queer love story, it's a great love story period. A person can make a credible argument for it being a one-sided -- romantic and therefore non-platonic -- love, but it's pretty hard to argue it's not a very intense one regardless.

And

I guess what I'm trying to say is: This is another read on him. And I think also a very valid one. He's one hell of an amazing character, I wish DC had handled him half as well post-Flashpoint than they did pre-Flashpoint, and I don't think a queer reading of him detracts anything from how amazing he is. If anything, I think it makes the older stuff several shades deeper (and so, so relatable, god), and I think if they decided to write him as explicitly queer now, not too many people would actually be all that surprised. With or without Ted. I can't really identify with Alan Scott, love him though I do, even though I can acknowledge that a generation of gay men likely could quite strongly. But I can identify with Booster Gold, who grew up poor and wrecked his future in part for love of family, who clawed his way out of poverty and fell back into it, who has brilliant and shining moments of courage and heart, and moments where he lands on his face, who was tough enough to survive a lot of shit but devastatingly vulnerable to exploitation, and who looks like a fellow queer kid who might've fallen for his best friend, but was surrounded by homophobia and hate and terror and buried that part of himself because the alternative might have been getting beaten and left tied to a fence to die.

[fruitmins]

FRI(END)S | taehyung

➭ summary: in which Taehyung has some big shoes to fill after his hyungs went to the military. The stress of it all and utter loneliness causes him to make some grave mistakes. Like paying a girl to be his friend. But after months, he starts to feel something more. He doesn’t know if he’s just over pretending because she’s obviously just doing her job.. or if something more is there. And after a rough night, he finds out.

➭genre: short oneshot, slowburn-ish, angst, friends au

➭warnings: unedited properly, talk about depression, a couple bad words, he can kinda be seen as creepy but he’s just awkward i swear

➭note: i actually like this. chat i like writing, i wish i could do it more. Agust Dad is in the works tho..

Taehyung knew the members entering the military would affect him.

Sure they had moved out of the dorm and stopped living together ages ago, but he was saddened to see his hyungs go after being in contact for almost decades. They had watched him grow up and helped him through the complications of being an idol.

And now that he was making music and doing it all on his own? He felt the effects of their absence hardened.

He tried staying close to the other maknae’s but they were doing their own preparations for their solos and didn’t want to be a burden. He tried smoking but it would only stir up trouble and was too risky. He tried going onto Korean tv shows but it only felt like more work.

It started to get worse the more he worked on his music and the longer his hyungs were away. He’d stay day and night at the studio, working tirelessly on his album. And when he did venture to his apartment suite, it was cold and empty. The Bangtan group chat dry.

Alone.

He hated the feelings of being alone. After 2020, the tour being cancelled and not being able to see his new fans, being forced to stay inside. He had his members at the time, making English songs that blew up. But he wasn’t happy. He was alone.

And whenever he walked in the door of his apartment after a long day or night, he felt the same feeling. Dread, hopelessness. Empty. And then, the military would come and sweep him away as well.

He didn’t want to feel like that. Didn’t want to spend the time he had before the military being things changed for good, feeling like that. He wouldn’t put out good music for his fans and he wouldn’t do good for himself mentally and physically. He needed something, anything to give him comfort. He couldn’t go down that rabbit hole he once been in.

Sugar.

Your brain's reward system is activated, which releases dopamine, a chemical that signals pleasure.

In this case, Sugar, is a sweet caring friend. A paid friend. Ironic to the fake name she gave Jimin, she was a sugar baby. You are sugar, in every meaning of the word.

He felt weird at first, when Jimin gave him Sugar’s number when he reluctantly told his hyung how he felt one night while drinking together. But after texting for weeks and a shiny NDA contract, Sugar was his temporary paid companion.

They’d text regularly, and when he was feeling his most depressed he’d pay her to come to his house before he got there. They didn’t have to talk, she just had to be there so he didn’t feel like he was drowning in his pity and loneliness. So he felt like people still cared.

As much as he hated it, it was working. The text turned into meet ups at his house. The chilling turned into cuddling. And hell, he felt good waking up in the mornings. Music felt less like work. Life felt like, life.

But working on music, and releasing it were two different battles. And doing it with a group, and being solo, were two different battles.

Taehyung put on a smile as he went backstage, the chilling sound of his fans feeling his ears as his earpiece now silent as his sound ended. It had been a while since he preformed at a Mcountdown, and he had forgotten how many strangers there were backstage as they started profusely congratulating him.

He put on a shy smile as people started handing him a small fan and wiping off his sweat. Before anyone else could crowd him, he grabbed his phone and excused himself to the bathroom.

He could feel his hands shaking, the pressure of being on stage by himself bringing back that some feeling of loneliness. He had forgotten about it because of the fans, but being backstage was much more awkward. He remembered how he used to cool down backstage with his members.

He missed them, dearly.

His fingers shook as he pressed against his phone screen, going to his messages and clicking the top person. He knew it was Sugar, he had only talked to her recently. He asked her to come over, and even sent the money in advance while also tripling the amount. He was vulnerable, and scared. He needed his fix. He needed comfort.

When he was finally able to escape the stage and was able to home later that night, he half expected for Sugar not to be there. The day had been so draining he had completely forgotten.

His eyes widened when he saw her in his apartment, lying on the couch all comfy. Her breathing soft and her hair in front of her face as she slept.

He quietly sat down his things and took off his shoes and socks. He had already changed out of his performance outfit and was in a baggy hoodie and jeans. He walked over to Sugar, brushing her hair out of her face and even that calmed him down from all of the chaos in his mind.

She had looked so comfortable in his space while she slept. So peaceful. Like she belonged there. He hadn’t realized how attached he had gotten to her until that moment. Her beautiful soft skin and playful hair. Her kind natural beauty and caring nature. It has been a while since he met a girl as innocent and sweet as her and the comfort she brought didn’t make it better.

He blinked out of his trance when he saw her blink, as if sensing his everlasting gaze. Her eyelashes fluttered as she slowly opened her eyes, Taehyung smiling when he saw the familiar pearls.

“Oh, you’re back.” She said she yawned and sat up slightly. “How was filming the.. song?” She asked, sounding so unsure and confused in her half awakened mind.

He chuckled, being aware for some time now that she knew nothing about the idol life or even listened to his music, and it was slightly refreshing.

“It was good, Sugar.” He said, his voice tried and raspy from singing and talking all day. The word coming out as more than a pet name more than it being the name she actually went by.

He picked her up, hands gripping her waist tightly as he easily held her up so he could sit on the couch and set her on his lap. His large hands, so soft and masculine, gripped her thighs tightly, situating them around his hips.

His body relaxed and his eyes closed slightly as he felt her soft figure against his chest as she wrapped her arms around her neck, playing with the back of his hair.

“Thank you.” He said breathlessly, eyes still closed as he relaxed and let himself feel her soothing touch. “You’re too good for me.”

”Are you okay?”

He didn’t except to hear her voice, considering she just woke up and that speaking to him wasn’t mandatory or anything. Her voice was as soft as ever, extra quiet from the sleepiness.

Fuck, he was getting attached. He was being too vulnerable, it was getting too intimate. To real.

She was paid to do this. To act caring and sweet so he could keep coming back and she could keep getting money. But God, it felt real now. Much more real than the first few months.

He tensed for a minute, his heart telling him to spill out everything but his brain winning, like most days. “I’m fine, Sugar.” He assured, his hand moving to her hair, gently stroking it. There was a moment where he considered actually telling her about his day, but the thought of it made his chest tighten. He didn't want to burden her with his problems, wanting her to stay shielded to the harsh reality of his life and riches.

"It's just been a long day, and I'm not used to things being this way." He admitted, his voice a bit more strained than normal. It was silent for a minute before he spoke again, not knowing why. “Thank you, for being here.”

“I’ll always be here for you..” she replied softly, looking up at him as she laid her head on his shoulder. “It’s nice here.”

He smirked, a small genuine smile played on his lips before letting out a chuckle. “Is it?” His eyes flickered away from her and to the idle big tv screen.

“I was watching you.” Her voice came through as he looked down at her once more. “Your music video, I mean.” She corrected herself with an awkward chuckle.

“Oh.” Taehyung didn’t know how to feel about it. Of course he was proud of his music, but slightly nervous for her opinion. “What’d you think?”

“It was.. beautiful.” She said, her eyes sparkling as their eyes met. “It was slow and sentimental..” his face reddened as she continued, the words making him antsy.

“I loved it. And you looked all dolled up and cute.” She giggled as she thought back on it. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

“What you look at me differently now? You see me as the big popstar like else everyone does?” He said, trying to play it off as a joke even though he was actually wondering.

“No.. still just Taehyung. My friend.” She said with a smile and his chest tightened slightly as reality set in.

No matter how many nights they’d spent on the phone, no matter how many ranted texts he sent.. No matter how many late nights and cuddles. They were friends, paid friends at that.

He was delusional for thinking it wasn’t anything else other than a girl taking care of her client in order for him to keep coming back later and get more money. Even knowing this—

“You wanna.. stay the night?” I’ll pay you extra.

He wants to say, but maybe if he didn’t bring it up she’d forget that that’s what she was there for. For money, not him..

“Sure!” She said excitedly, making his heart flutter. He hadn’t felt this way in a while. Relaxed and comfortable with someone outside of his group.

She giggled when she saw his almost shocked reaction. “I told you it’s nice here.”

He chuckled, shaking his head at her. “Eh, I’m used to being here.” He gestured to his nice apartment penthouse with the view of the city. Expense brands to cook with and soft nice couches and clothes. He didn’t know why he was trying to act so cool with his grand house when she’d already seen him at his most vulnerable.

He knew from the first few instances that she couldn’t have come from a rich family, judging by her reactions and lack of knowledge with certain gadgets and such. Just looking at the things she did for money, he figured she hadn’t come from the best of the bunch.

“I mean, I already fell asleep on the couch so I might as well sleep there.” She said with a chuckle.

“You don’t want to go to the bedroom with me?”

The words fly out of his mouth before he could even stop himself and he’s surprised by himself. Surprised that he keeps trying to push his luck with this girl. God, he’d given all the hints but couldn’t take one himself.

“I—“ she paused with a nervous chuckle. “Oh wow.” In an effort to get rid of the sudden tension that came over, and to not feel like a creep, he quickly spoke. “I mean— we cuddle anyways. Why not just cuddle each other to sleep. That would help me, don’t you think?”

He felt like an asshole just saying it, but as a miracle would have it, she started to contemplate before shrugging. “Sure, okay!” She said with a small smile.

“Y-You don’t have to! It was a stupid thing to say—“ Taehyung quickly said, sweating as he tried to make it all go away.

“No, no! It’s fine.” She said quickly, the two looking like two teenagers. “I think it’d be good for me too.” She stated and Taehyung softened.

Taehyung turned off all of the lights, taking her hand gently in his as he lead her to his bedroom, a place she’d never been before. There were posters of the group and artwork on the walls. Glimpses of his hobbies scattered around the room.

He took off his hoodie, revealing a plain white shirt underneath before he crawled onto his king sized bed. The quality of it, like everything else he owned, pleasant. She hummed when she laid down next to him, sinking into the mattress as she closed her eyes.

She took a minute to relax before turning on her side and looking at him, who was already staring at her while on his side. The two faced each other, heads on soft pillows with the lights dimmed. “You’re different today..” she muttered her observation softly.

“I know.. that’s why I sent you triple.” He said with a soft chuckle, he knew he would be more clingy, more of a pain. He hoped she was okay with it. That maybe it would become a regular for the two.

“I don’t mind it, Tae-Tae.. It’s peaceful with you.” She said with a soft smile while stroking his hair as Taehyung let out a breath of relief. He had felt the same, at peace. Maybe, just maybe, she felt the same way he did about each other.

He wrapped his arms around her small waist and pulled her closer to him and his heart raced as he took in her features, copying every detail into his brain. She was so beautiful, inside and out. His eyes traced over her face, before landing on her lips. So pretty and pink.

He couldn’t stop himself. He had convinced himself that he would rather try to see if something was there than sit months worrying and dreaming about could have been. So he leaned in closer to her as he licked his lips, and gently pressed his lips onto hers in a soft kiss.

She smiled against it immediately before responding, pushing herself flush against his chest as he tilted his head slightly to deepen the kiss. His hand went to her back, gripping it tightly as he held onto her like his life depended on it.

He pulled away after a while, breathless and his heart souring. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while..” he whispered, nuzzling his nose against her face.

“Me too..” she squeaked out, swallowing as she closed her eyes and kissed him again. His eyes closed as he relaxed into the affection, his feelings deep as they drifted off to sleep on each other’s arms.

~~

To his horror, Taehyung woke up alone the next morning. He could smell her candied, sugary scent but she wasn’t there. He could feel her sweet sugary lips still on his from the hours before. But she wasn’t there.

He sat up quickly, looking around and fearing the worst. What if she got lost in the complex? Or some crazy fan took her?

He raced to get his phone to do something, to figure something out. Only to be greeted with a notification that was received an hour ago.

Let’s stay friends. Just for now :)

[canidbld]

Feraveli: Tiktok and the "Therian Aesthetic"

Content warnings: oveuse of the word aesthetic (chat I am NOT a thesaurus 🙏), general ramble shenanigans, and it takes a bit to get to the point (very sorry)

Words: 1.9k

— Day 2 of Sol's November Writing Challange

Tiktok has been downloaded onto my phone since 2020, and I've been in an off and on dynamic with the app. There were periods where I'll be addicted to scrolling for months and moments where I'll just go cold turkey for equal amounts and in the time I've had the app, there's a lot of things I've learnt like what the app is about, how it works, why the algorithm is the way it is and why trends become trends and the users who make up the app. Not to say I completely understand the app at all, most of my opinion on tiktok are just patterns I've noticed which resulted into an assumed conclusion with no real backing and support other than a "I've had tiktok for 4 years"

In my opinion, Tiktok is an app that encourages consumerism and wants people to conform to a single box label and aesthetic and lifestyle, essentially encouraging you to make yourself a brand and it's because of the way the algorithm works. According to my boyfriend, the more you intensely focus on one certain niche, aesthetic, community or singular type of content, the more your account will be advertised to your desired audience/demographic that post or consume similar content. You can do things like following people who match the "theme" of your account, reposting content similar to what you want to post, liking and commenting on said posts as well and following and using hashtags that connect you to the content you want to make. All these actions, while necessary to build somewhat of a platform on the app, create a bubble at best and an echo chamber at worst. Everything you do on tiktok is anaylsed by the app to curate the "perfect" for you page (FYP) of all your interests and most content creators on tiktok are aware of this, that's why you see people who are stacked with merch of their favorite anime or why there are accounts who just post edits for a single franchise/character or people who post outfits under a single aesthetic.

The more you visually and materially show how dedicated you are to an aesthetic, franchise or community, the more people will see your theme and they'll follow you, want to be and look like you and then start buying products similar to the aesthetic you're advertising.

It's an app that's known to water down sub-cultures and aesthetics to the point that the origins and themes of these concepts become almost obsolete, favoring visual aesthetics over the true meaning of the sub-culture. Goth and Scene, for example, are one of the more obvious examples. Part of the reason sub-cultures with history dating back decades ago get so warped is due to the way the algorithm works and how tiktok and its users profits off of niche aesthetics and communities.

So, what does this have to do with therianthropy?

Tiktok therians have been a bit of a topic in the community. Talks of how tiktok is filled with misinformation and how the therians of tiktok just focus on the visual aspects of therianthropy rather than the experience. I've read from a lot of therians that were active during the 90's and 00's and the 10's that talked about how different therianthropy has evolved since back then when you could connect with other therians through forums and the era of essays that profoundly described their experiences about being a therian and the deeper meaning of what that meant to them.

For tiktok therians, on the surface, it seems the experience of being a therian is branded as making masks and doing quadobics. It's all tiktok constantly regurgitates. The "aesthetic" of being a therian is someone who wears masks and has those clip-on tails. It's being connected to nature and running and frolicking around in pretty meadows and exploring lush dense forests. Its muted greens and earth brown tones. It's the "therian bedrooms" with the fake leaf decor and the masks and tails hung on the wall. It's the slow-motion tiktoks of people doing quadobics.

What came with this aesthetic and branding came with tiktok pushing this content out to the millions of people who used the app and would come across these videos. Some of the people who saw these videos, who had no idea what therians were, would be introduced into a community that they wanted to participate in and so more people would post more content under this "aesthetic"

The aesthetic, of course, came with its downsides. The major focus on the the visual imagery of therianthropy would result in very little talks about the experience and introspection of being a therian and even less on the history of the community. Like I said earlier, tiktok can create a bubble and the therians who awakened through the app very rarely research past the tiktok search function which has resulted in a lot of misinformation and old debunked discouse rehashed passing through the algorithm like wildfire.

There has been efforts to push back against the misinformation through accounts that do talk about the history of the community and educate the therians on the app but the ratio between quadrobics and educators is unbalanced with quadrobics accounts being more in quantity. Doesn't help that tiktok favors quadobics content more, leaving the accounts that try to educate and talk more deeply about therianthropy and alterhumanity as a whole with little reach and a small platform. Even more is that some of the accounts that try and educate sometimes spread misinformation themselves.

Now, I want to add a disclaimer. You can absolutely enjoy quadobics and wearing masks, and not every therian is responsible for educating others when the resources for it can be found through Google. You don't need to explain your experience as a therian, you can just simply enjoy being a therian in however you express that and if it's through quadrobics and masks then you are just as valid and important as the therians who originated from alt.werewolf.horror.

The problem is how tiktok conflates this aesthetic of therians with the experience and identity of being one and makes it as if this is all the community is when it's not an accurate representation of the community as a whole. Honestly, it doesn't even touch the tip of the iceberg of therianthropy.

So when I came across an account that had recently coined the term "Feraveli," I instantly latched onto the label because I saw the potential in how important it is.

Feraveli was created in October 2024 and is coined by Solar (also known as @hellhoundtherian on tiktok). The summarised definition of feraveli is:

"People who enjoy the aesthetics of nature and animals"

Its a simple enough definition, made to be simple on purpose so people could build upon it themselves. This could mean liking certain habitats like forests or oceans or the dessert and the animals that inhabit them. It could mean liking concepts like the aesthetic of night and nocturnal animals. It could mean liking the mesozonic era of the past and liking the dinosaurs and animals of those times.

The term was coined to actually give a name to the tiktok therian aesthetic and that's why I think it's important for the term to exist because being able to give the aesthetic a name is the first step to being able to separate it from the experience and the therian identity as a whole. I believe that the term will give others the vocabulary neccesery to make it more easier for therians and alterhumans in general to vocalise more about their experiences allowing for more introspective conversations about how they feel versus the visual aspect of their identity. But more importantly, the term isn't just meant to be a term synonymous with alterhumanity. The term allows room for non-alterhumans to participate in the aesthetic without having to use nonhuman labels due to misunderstandings and misinformation.

Otherpaw is also a term that exists for similar reasons, to separate the aesthetic from the identity. The difference, I find, is that people who use the otherpaw label very rarely also identify as therians because they like the aesthetic of quadrobics and masks rather than actually identifying as an animal. Feraveli can also be that, but it's a term that wants to be explored and expressed rather than letting itself have a restrictive and rigid definition.

Feraveli can just be as simple as liking nature and animals but it can mean so much more than that to others who label themselves as feraveli.

In the feraveli carrd, Solar describes the different ways feraveli could be expressed, such as:

Dressing up as your chosen feraveli aesthetic (forest, nighttime, ocean) in whatever clothes you think represents that aesthetic

Decorating your room in items and trinkets and decor you think matches the vibe of your chosen feraveli aesthetic

Adopting other aesthetics and meshing it together with being a feraveli if it helps you express your feraveli aesthetic, such as taking aspects of fairycore, if you think it helps you express the vibes of the forest more

From an alterhuman perspective, I think feraveli can help other alterhumans express their alterhumanity more easily. For example, a bat therian who is a night feraveli, a fictionkin whose feraveli aesthetic matches the environment of their fictotypes media source or a robot kin that has a feraveli aesthetic centered around sci-fi and machines or even horrorkin who finds a feraveli aesthetic in environments like silent hill / foggy spooky areas. It's a lovely sandbox term, I think, that really thrives on creativity and expression more than anything and I'm so thankful the term exists.

For me, I'm a city and suburban feraveli. I like the aesthetics of the city and suburbs as I feel like it resonates with my canine theriotype. Both feravelis make me think of stray dogs and cats patrolling the streets which makes me feel euphoric when I picture myself as that. I express this feraveli type through dressing up more grunge and baggy because I think the style represents the vibes of the city. I wear blacks and grays for the same reason and created a playlist of songs that I think fits the aesthetic of the city. Another reason I feel so connected to these aesthetic feraveli types is because I also grew up and lived in these environments. I could talk about my personal feraveli more but I'd need more time to see what feels right for me under this label.

The term was coined recently, after all. Created only a month ago, not nearly enough time for the term to have solidified a culture for itself, but the beginnings of a community have sprouted on tiktok, and I hope that it continues to grow. It's exciting, to be honest, with feraveli being a newly created term to me. I'm excited to see the potential of it evolve like so many other terms such as copinglink, folcintera, and even the label therian itself as it has also evolved over time throughout the community. I'm even more excited to see and read potential essays about how others express feraveli and what the term means to them. I'm just excited to see how feraveli grows, and I hope anyone reading this will give feraveli a chance and incorporate the term towards themselves.

Feraveli carrd

Original coining post

Solar's (@hellhoundtherian) tiktok

[imaginesbymk]

❝ YOU ARE TOO KIND. ❞

Gotham One Shot

SYNOPSIS - It takes a while to finally get Jeremiah Valeska's attention and profess to him. It's all about being in the right place at the right time. Or rather, the wrong place at the wrong time... [ non requested ]

PAIRING - Reader x Jeremiah Valeska

TAGS - crime, violence, a bit of manipulative flirting

WORD COUNT - 1,520

TAGLIST - @moonlit-imagines @captainshazamerica

A/N - allow me to shamelessly brag about this one more time, but it was such an honour to meet cameron monaghan and morena baccarin at fanexpo canada back in august - been waiting almost a decade to meet at least one celeb from a tv/movie that i liked, at least a celeb i fawned over in my teen years. i was really active on tumblr writing jerome valeska imagines and a bit of jeremiah ones. this was a bit different than meeting joseph quinn or grace van dien two years ago. i felt quite satisfied.

it feels so good to be back here and writing ! please leave a like, reblog + feedback!!!

COMMISSION ME

SENDING A GIFT BASKET to the exact spot where the entire cult nearly destroyed a Wayne Enterprise-owned lab was probably the most laughable, embarrassing gesture you could ever put on. The gift basket was something straight out of Valentine's Day and you filled it with a bundle of joy... and explosives. The note stuffed in the bundle was signed, sealed and tied with red ribbon and written in black ink.

Count me in. - Y/N.

What were you expecting? A gift basket or a thank you letter in return? No. You expected, rather, a visit from the man himself. He's all over the news. Word-of-mouth and desperate demands for any leads to tip off to the GCPD... this man was everywhere, however since this whole week, no one could find him. Your attempts to summon him and speak to you was like summoning a ghost in a Seance.

He was just like his brother, kind of. Both evil. Both brought up to become a terrible threat to the city and yet... you wanted to find him. Or at least, in this case, you wanted him to find you.

This was Jeremiah Valeska, not Jerome. Jerome's dead. You needed to see Jeremiah. You needed to meet him, but you didn't know how. You didn't know where to start. You didn't even know where in the outskirts of Gotham was his underground maze bunker. Jeremiah's much more calculated and terrifying than Jerome, really. Your gestures and summoning needed to appeal and appear grand.

The gift basket was not grand at all. It was stupid and frilly and a waste of money.

You dropped the can of spray paint on the ground, letting it make a clanking sound on the wet pavement. You were done. After a whole package of spray paint, you made your last ditch attempt. Now to play the waiting game.

You stare up at the finished product on the wall. Perhaps it was missing something. Maybe Jeremiah's eyes needed to be a bit more wider. His nose had a bunk. Maybe it lacked his personality, maybe it filled up all the open space and you weren't able to write HA HA HA-

Hours of waiting spent for nothing. You waited all night inside the factory Jeremiah frequents and nothing even came near the wall except for a few giant rats.

A downpour starts and you watched cautiously as the rain failed to wash out the fine art. You sighed in relief and got up to give it a look-see, your hair creating a source of water droplets with your soaked coat and leather pants.

"Is that me?" said a voice so bored yet smooth, dripping with mockery.

You spun.

He was standing there so casually, but his gaze was intense, almost predatory, as if he was waiting for her with a hidden agenda.

The rain soaking her did not dampen her spirit. In a stark contrast, accompanying Jeremiah was a follower shielding him with an umbrella over his head to keep him dry, yet his spirit seemed to have washed away upon seeing the art attack on the wall.

"What in the artistic desperation is this?"

"It's you..." you say in awe and relief.

"Yes, I am me. But is that supposed to be me? What mediocrity. That gift basket was lovely, however," Jeremiah said. "Very lovely. How did you know I loved dark chocolate and dynamite?"

You didn't, actually. It came with the bundle. You fidgeted slightly. "You already knew... of course you knew... you liked the worship so you kept me on my toes and you waited until I went extreme. That's so you."

"Trying to achieve some validation from me with the use of vandalism is so..." Jeremiah trails off, his Reptilian-looking green eyes averting away.

So...?

"Amateur," he finishes, finally looking at you with pity. "You assume I share the same niche as my ridiculous, dead brother?"

"Isn't that what your followers have been doing since the beginning?" You grunted slightly with a crack in your throat, knowing you can't be snappy with Jeremiah Valeska. "I mean, they all dug up your 'ridiculous, dead brother's' grave when you impersonated him and fooled Detective Gordon."

He hums, a low passing sound that likely meant he was enjoying whatever this was. "Fair point, I'll admit. But my point remains. You're so desperate for a reaction from me, you feel the need to express your love through graffiti."

Jeremiah Valeska had a point. The twins had their different approaches to making a grand entrance and making themselves known. Jeremiah simply walks in, coining the impression of a dark, collective individual, while Jerome theatrically thrives in the room as if he was the main act at a rock and roll concert. Putting graffiti fan art on a wall is more likely to resurrect Jerome from the dead instead of impressing his twin.

"I guess you're right..."

Jeremiah Valeska stares.

"I was trying to get your attention," you say, standing up. "My way to grab an audience is through art."

"You sound like my brother. My brother's approach is unhinged and equivalent to a child scribbling on the walls with crayon. But anyway... you certainly have my attention now, sweetness. Did you just wanna show me your new drawing so I can hang it up on my fridge?"

You gulped. Now that he was really here in the flesh, you didn't really have time to think it through. You barely got to fantasize and rehearse your proposal to him.

"Please, slow down, you're speaking too fast," he mocks.

Calculated, collective and condescending.

You finally spoke. "I hope you don't think of this as some kind of trap, 'cause it isn't. I'm not working or helping the GCPD."

"Of course you aren't. With that posture? You appear dreadful."

You straighten your back.

"Tick-tock, darling. What am I here for, then? Are you here to put a bullet in my skull?"

"No-"

"Are you here to 'fix me'?"

"I want to be a part of something," you admit. "I wanna be your shadow. I need a leader. I'll be your follower."

Jeremiah stares... then his bright red lips parted to form a dry chuckle.

"What, job applications are full?" you nervously joke.

"Selective." He coldly eyed you up and down. "Very selective."

You scoff and yank away the rag tucked in your belt. "Don't you want some help? You've covered all of Gotham, but you could use the help. See how you influenced a commoner like me?"

"And what exactly do you have to offer that I don't already possess?" He asked. "Something as simple as… that, for example?" He pointed at the spray-painted wall. "Anyone can grab a bottle of spray paint and produce... that."

"There's not something unique I can offer, I can just obey and follow your orders. I'll be nothing but a robot answering to you. I'll be a great help."

"My cult doesn't 'help'... you make it sound like we run a fancy bistro. I'm reaching my wasteful brother's goals in a sane manner. My ways offer a much greater chance of reforming Gotham."

"And it's working so far," you nod. "It's done more than Jerome's-"

"What, have you made my brother a silly little drawing before I became the Successor... and failed?"

"I'm not sure why you cruelly criticize my graffiti portrait of you, Mr. Valeska. Your brother was an artist, and you are a creator, too."

"My question is left unanswered," he sighs.

"I have not."

Another dry chuckle. "So, he wasn't impressed, either."

"No, I meant I tried to meet him personally and I have. He just wasn't interested. The least he could have done was use me the way Theo Galavan used the Arkham patients or kill me out of annoyance."

Jeremiah Valeska grins. Your blood ran cold. "So now you are redirected to another agency, hoping they won't shut the door on you."

It didn't matter so much, wasting away to deform your purpose. Instead of boosting the GCPD's efforts, you sealed your fate with Jeremiah's hubris. You are willing to become a product of corruption.

"Jerome had charisma and a personality, but then again- and I might sound very passionate here- you are advanced," you profess. "I have no expertise in your field to give an engineer perspective, but you're quite the mastermind, Mr. Valeska."

"You are too kind," Jeremiah intoned, making his grand exit by simply walking away. His follower trails along, catching up so the umbrella doesn't leave his head.

"Wait!" You called over the loud rainfall. "So is that a yes?!"

Jeremiah stopped and turned his heel toward you. "You are to figure out the answer on your own. I already have everything I need with the exception of a pending Bruce Wayne, which you most certainly can't just plop right in front of me, now can you?"

He grins at you, a grin you yearned to see up close and personal from now on. "But until then, you are nothing but bacteria in this city's decay- and for Heaven's sake, it is putrid."

And he was gone.

END

[tryslora]

learning sentence level editing

It’s no secret that I hate editing.

I’ve told this story before: When I was in high school, I had an English teacher who told us on our first day of sophomore honors English that she would not give an A for a first draft. She had a rigorous outlining/drafting process that she was determined to teach us. Me, I had undiagnosed ADHD and was a dyed-in-the-wool pantser. So I resolved on that first day that by the end of my time with her, I would get an A on a first draft.

My final essay of junior year AP English (yes, same teacher two years in a row), I wrote about Victorian morals and literature. I read it aloud. I got an A. I only ever wrote one draft.

What that taught me was how to write very technically clean drafts, something that has stayed with me for almost four decades now. Which is great!

What it did not teach me was how to be patient enough to properly edit. And I have never really learned. In fact, that is one of my ADHD sticking points (yes, I know, that’s obvious from my reaction to her statement in the story above). I often feel that a large part of the reason I have never made it as a writer—have never broken into tradpub—is because I do not have the patience to not only write, but then create an outline from the draft, then rewrite, then do it all over again and fiddle with each sentence until it’s perfect.

I’m learning, but I’ll admit, I’m still not there, and I’m not sure I ever will be where novels are concerned. 

But right this moment, I’m feeling very accomplished and proud of myself. I had a short story that every time I worked on it, it grew. Every time I cut it, it felt like it lost its heart and like the taste of the words stopped feeling like mine. My voice disappeared.

I had finally worked out a version of it that was just under 7500 words long, and I thought it was decent. It got no traction, and I was frustrated. I put it up for critique on SFFOWW (a critique group site) while I was active there a year and a half ago. It was chosen for an Editor’s Choice review, and the first half of it got some great comments. Which I promptly had to ignore because I was dealing with other editing problems.

I returned to it recently, because I saw a call I wanted to send it to. The problem was, the call was for stories under 6k, and I wasn’t sure I could cut this story again and still retain its punch. But hey. The biggest feedback I got was about how I handled my descriptions and dialog, and the amount of repetition that slipped into my words. So I absorbed that, and I dug into the story, and I started ripping it apart.

I didn’t edit it, exactly, nor did I completely rewrite it. I printed it. I read it twice. Then I placed it on the desk and went a few paragraphs at a time and started with a blank file and filled it in. Some pieces went in verbatim. Most of it changed. Huge chunks disappeared, and a few new things appeared. Some of it got rearranged. The wordiness disappeared.

Here’s an example…

Before:

"You get one hour," Lana says softly. "One hour with him, and then you're leaving him behind. You're taking your fate and you're setting him free."

After:

"One hour," Lana says. "Then take your fate with you and set him free."

The new version of the story came in under 6k. I did it, and the best part is, I don’t hate it. In fact, this was sentence level revision of a style I had never done before. The closest I’ve come to it is editing flash fiction to be under very tiny wordcounts (or drabbles of exactly 100 words, which gods, those take me longer than writing a short fic!).

I’m not sure I could’ve done this without the editing I did for Into the Split over the last many months. I had to dig into that in ways I have never edited a novel before, and it prepared me to dig even more deeply into this short story.

I’m learning. I guess you can teach old dogs some new tricks.

[swugflower]

No one could say what was more surprising - that Bruce and Clark managed to stay alive for long enough to even get old or how long they managed to keep their relationship going.

For Clark, it was definitely the first. He never doubted that Bruce and him would be for life, once they finally managed to figure their shit out. Him being right, only made the thing about aging more terrifying.

It seemed to him as if it had happened overnight. One day Bruce was young, with no wrinkles and the strength of a young god, and suddenly, his hair was more grey than black, his face was sagging and he had trouble walking upright. Batman had taken its toll on him, even many years after he had given the active part up.

In reality, it had been many years and decades, of course. But really understanding the passing of time sometimes was hard, when the person in the mirror barely changed at all. There were still few wrinkles on Clark, and while his body wasn’t as toned anymore and his hair now had a salt-and-pepper look, he was almost still a young man.

It was terrifying and while Bruce seemed to be at peace with his demise, Clark very much wasn’t. Few things were able to kill him - but at his Ma’s graveside, he had learned that grieve might just be able to get the job done. He promised himself then and there that he wouldn’t let it end like that.

It was a day like any other when Bruce came up from the cave again.

“You know,” he said, as he gently lowered himself down on the armrest of Clark's chair. “I’ve been checking the inventory. Somethings don’t add up.”

“Oh?”

“There is some Kryptonite missing,” he said and looked down at Clark.

Clark swallowed hard. Often these days confusion and exhaustion of age clouded over Bruce's eyes, but in this moment they were clear. They were exactly the deep blue eyes with the dangerously sharp mind behind them, he had fallen in love with so many years ago.

“Maybe you have counted wrong? Or maybe one of the youngsters took some and didn’t write it down?” Clark suggested, his heartbeat heavy in his chest. It hadn’t been much. Just enough to be sure.

Bruce looked at him for some more moments, before leaning down to Clark and pressing a long kiss to the top of his head.

“You are right,” he said, before taking a shaky breath. “I’m sure that was what happened. What would I do without you?”

Clark suppressed the sob that wanted to burst out of him. How could have anyone ever doubted that they would stay together until the end?

[schizosamwincester]

So, November 5, in addition to being a) my birthday, b) Destiel day, c) @buncoreclown 's birthday, d) election day in America, and e) guy fawkes day, is also the fifth anniversary of my psychotic break. And just. Goddamn. Half a fucking decade.

For me, a delusion onset very, very suddenly. There were a few passing thoughts of it in the days before, but it pretty much hit all at once at about 5:35. The delusion came on really strong with instant, intense tactile hallucinations, and I started dissociating and never completeness stopped until I started T not even a month ago.

Schizophrenia is neurodevelopmental, so in a lot of ways I've been schizophrenic my whole life. I very much have always had the schizophrenic thought patterns. My brain has always grabbed onto ideas too hard, my thoughts have always been scattered, I've always been rambly, I've always been obsessive. That said, there's a huge difference between that latent schizophrenia and me being actively schizophrenic. All of those symptoms got worse in the after. And tomorrow marks 5 years of living as an honest-to-god schizophrenic.

Despite how much worse my symptoms are now than they were before, it's so much better to be living in the after because now I understand that none of it is normal and can deal with it and be gentle to myself about it. I'm not just incapable of getting my shit together—I deal with an actual thing called disorganized thinking that makes it incredibly difficult to keep a train of thought a lot of the time. I'm not just stubborn—I have actual delusions, so it is really hard to let go of ideas. And I don't just "babble," as my mother would say—rambling and tangents are how my brain works and I shouldn't have to stop that just because it isn't normal. Lots of people love hearing my long-ass rants.

But that's not really what I'm thinking about today. I'm just thinking about how despite the fact that November 5, 2019 still defines me and every facet of my current life was caused by what happened that day, it is now 5 years later. I've spent 5 years in the after. I've spent more time being "recovered" than I ever did in active psychosis. And it is just strange that something that happened a half-decade ago when I was still in high school is still so definitive. I have been living on my own for a year. I've been working as a CNA for 2 and a half years. My life is nothing like it was when I was a high schooler in my parents house (well, except for the fact that I still write and read too much fanfic), but I do still think about that event not necessarily daily, but at least weekly.

Five years is a long time, and I'm very glad to be alive and, despite everything, coping with it all extraordinarily well. Don't get me wrong. I'm still definitely disabled. I've got my life set up very carefully to work around my limitations, and I'm also just really lucky to have found about the one affordable apartment in walking distance from everything important in all of America (schizophrenia is why I don't drive). But still, like... I've made it to 5 fucking years out. Just being alive and functional by then was almost incomprehensible to me by like, November 8, 2019.

Five goddamn years. Given how hard it is and how much I just take everything one day and one week at a time, it is so weird to step back and realize I've been living with schizophrenia for that long.

Okay. That's all. Back to my regularly scheduled fandom bullshit.

[tarabyte3]

I read a fanfic about a month ago that didn't have a particularly compelling summary and had very few tags (only 2 beyond the pairing and the characters, in fact). However, I've been doing this for almost 3 decades. Unless there is something in the tags that I actively don't want to read, I will always give a fic a chance. So I read it anyway.

When I tell you I imprinted on this story.

It was beautifully written, sure, but there was something about the very specific tone and emotion that the author captured which spoke directly to my soul. I wanted to curl up in it. I wanted to consume it. Let it burrow its way under my skin. It was only ~1700 words long and, by the time I was finished, I wished I hadn't read it just so I could experience reading it for the first time all over again.

Then I saw that it was a series, and I wanted to weep. There was more! And you know what? The second part was just as good. It was set years later, but the author still captured that sense of nostalgia and yearning in the same way poetry does: what was left unsaid is just as devastating as what's there.

I also knew with all my heart that it didn't have nearly as many kudos as it deserved. I'm sure a lot of people overlooked it for the reasons I stated above, and, logically, I could understand why it didn't grab people's attention, yet still I raged against how unfair that was. That something so wonderful could sit in plain sight and people just scrolled by.

So I read it all again. And then again. I reread it and thought about it constantly, until I finally gathered my thoughts and left a gushing comment telling them exactly that.

I wasn't expecting a reply because the fic was more than 2 years old and they were writing for different fandoms now, and it didn't seem like they always responded. Which was fine. I didn't care or need one. I just cared that I let them know their work was beautiful and had been transformative for me. That it wouldn't leave my head. I wanted to say thank you for its existence.

But they did respond! And quickly! Both to say thank you and to let me know they've been thinking of writing a part 3 for the series, and my comment gave them the encouragement to get started. I have no coherent thoughts for how that made me feel.

Anyway, my point is, commenting on fics and giving feedback is important. Supporting authors is important. Giving fics a chance is important, and you're probably missing out if you refuse to engage with something based on a superficial set of stats. Further more, understanding that, just because your work doesn't get a lot of engagement, doesn't mean it's not incredible is important. Keep going. 💖

[sillyromance]

Hello! First time here

Could you do some Bayverse ironhide safe vore with human reader?

Where reader is a N.E.S.T soldier, squad leader and stuff, thhey are terrified of trains and one day during a mission on a abandoned train station, and when a deception appears reader just freezes in fear and only stares at the battle happening which almost lead to reader getting seriously hurt but since Ironhide was there reader left with only some small scratches

Later when coming back to base reader gets scolded by Lennox for doing absolutely nothing and calling her such names and giving her some days without battling as punishment, and Ironhide comes knowing this and tries to comfort them

If you're not doing anything with bayverse then you can do with gen 1 Ironhide I won't mind! Love your writing by the way

Hello, dear anonymous!

Thank you for your comment! That's such a beautiful trope! I haven't seen Bay movies themselves, but I've been interested in that version of transformers and the way they were portrayed there, so I know the charachters. I'm sorry for such a delay, and I really hope you'll like the story.

Have a good time and take care!

War and peace

WARNING: reader injury, mental hurt/comfort, strong language.

You looked up.

Stars were slowly disappearing, night sky getting paler bit by bit and turning from black into greenish blue. Birds sang loudly around the camp; high trees surrounded the station like spiky walls, and one could be eluded to think they were hopelessly separated from the rest of the world. In reality, you were just a few miles away from the city, though nature in that region seemed to come close to urban areas.

You threw a glance at the watch - it was already three in the morning, yet you hardly had any sleep through out the night. The squadron had been sent to this place to track and, possibly, neutralize a decepticon which had been hiding here… As far as it was heard from the locals, at least. Even though the station was abandoned decades ago, the place seemed to be a swampy one; wetness would rather spook such creature away. Besides, the crew hadn’t registered any suspicious activity in the area. So you started to think that might be just a false alarm.

Endless blades of railways twinkled in uneven light of the rising sun. If you looked carefully, you could see small drops of water on them – the evidence of a recent rain. It was pretty foggy, too: an old train station seemed to be floating in the air, drowning in thick violet foam.

As pretty as it looked, your mind wasn’t completely occupied by the view. You couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling off of yourself. Looking around, you saw nothing but old cracked concrete and rust sticking on metal constructions; thick smell of old leaves and rotten plants had gotten stuck in your nose, causing a throbbing headache. That did things only worse. Scarier…

Because, in fact, you were afraid.

No one knew of your phobia. You had been terrified of trains since childhood and, despite all the attempts to heal it, you couldn’t make any progress so far. That fear spread on everything connected to those machines, and it wasn’t a surprise when, previously at base, simple mentioning of where you were supposed to go made you flinch and tense instantly. However, the job was the job… And you had to do it as a good soldier you were, without any questions.

You felt tired, and irritated. Double stress wore you off; you impatiently waited for an order to clear the place and return home. Your comrades were exhausted as well; and some of them audibly announced it, arguing quietly, but dirty, just behind your back.

Equipment and clothes were heavy; you sat at the bench and put the gun aside, wiping sweat streaming down your forehead.

Nevermind. Soon you would be in your room again with nothing to worry in the world. Especially trains and railways.

– How are you, sir/ma'am?

You winced and looked on the right: a tall red-headed guy, Roger, stood nearby with an apologetic expression on his face covered in freckles like a meadow - in dandelions.

– Could be worse. – You replied with a weak smile and moved a little, so there would be place for two.

He approached and sat beside you, his fingers diving into the pocket of his trousers and revealing a pack of cigarettes.

– Do you think that guy will show itself? - He asked, lightning one up.

– I wish it didn’t. But if the alien is here, we must take them before it is too late... – You answered, wrinkling your nose at the smoke.

His hands were trembling. Roger was a newbe, just like you, and not the bravest one; he was good at math and making plans, but engaging in combat wasn’t really his cup of tea despite his good shooting skills. Sometimes you wondered how he found himself a N.E.S.T. soldier at the first place… Although, who knows where destiny will throw us at the next moment? Unfortunately, as it was written in one book, people can’t plan their future even for a miserable period of time…

You frowned.

That damn fog… You couldn’t see anything further than five meters clearly. Aside from being in a place that sank you in anxiety, you felt your guts tied in a knot, thinking of a huge, intelligent, armed machine for killing walking somewhere under the milky cover. You wouldn’t be able to see it, but it was very much able to see you.

You knew what autobots could do.

But a deception must be capable of thing much worse…

Just as you were thinking about it, a long whining sound tore through the fog. The noise escalated, fusing with a heavy, earthshaking thumps. Before anyone could react, a huge figure, wet and metal, jumped at the rails, washing people in dirty water drizzling from under its feet: two red eyes pierced right through you like bullets, and the next thing you knew was Roger’s scream as the decepticon smashed its large fist at the concrete platform.

-         Fire! Open fire! – Someone shouted at the background; their yelling stimulated the crew to send rows of shots in the beast’s direction.

You didn’t hear them – everything was mute after a deafing burst of stone and mud risen to the sky. You were lying motionlessly at the miraculously untouched half of the station; the shirt was ruined, cut in several places – there were stripes of raw bleeding flesh beneath. You didn’t know what happened to Roger – thank God if he was able to escape.

You knew you must do something: run, fight, help your comrades defeat this. Actually, you were the one to give orders. Hypothetically, you could, but your muscles froze. You felt impossibly strong wish to cry out for help, but your lungs atrophied. That thing, that… abomination – it was so freaking close! The monster with insect-like muzzle was starring directly at you, its disgusting claws reaching out to grab a helpless human.

Was that it? Was that how your life supposed to end?

Was that how death would come to you standing, tied up by your own terror, at the railway of stupidity and looking how it was rushing towards you without any intention to stop?..

In the end, your fears were right. You would be killed by a machine you couldn’t stand against.

The horrible, crooked manipulator covered in rust and blood was already looming over your head. Cool, sour air slammed your nostrils.

Closer…

Closer…

Closer!..

And then, a long shadow fell on you and the decepticon was gone. A crushing wave of air rolled you to the edge of the platform from where you fell in the grass and lost your senses…

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

You were walking down the corridor, shoulders up to your ears, your back bended and hands hidden in pockets of the jacket. Lamps on the ceiling threw cold, indifferent light at your crocked frame from above; sound of each step echoed too loudly in the shallow hallway.

 “Is this your way to have the job done – to stand still and watch as your people die?..”

Scenes of your last encounter with Lennox were constantly replaying in your head. She temporarily prohibited you from going on missions with others, so you could think about your behavior.

“I could never predict one of my soldiers to be such a miserable, pathetic mess… Be grateful that you are still here. You know, I should have banished you! Don’t even try to say anything now – all your reasons cost nothing, especially that human lives you put in danger by being incompetent…”

You couldn’t help it – tears ran down your cheeks, vision became all dark and blurry. You were swaying from side to side, feeling exhausted and sore: the injuries you got were not that dangerous, though it didn’t mean they didn’t hurt. And with your soul being torn apart with knowledge of your guilt, they hurt even worse.

Soon you came by the door you were searching for. You opened it and stepped on a gallery taking place right under the roof of a huge hangar. That was one of the biggest and the most protected sections of the base – a large room which could fit a full-sized plane, sealed under Earth’s surface.

The domain of aliens of iron and steel, armored giants from another side of the galaxy.

Some of them stayed in their disguises, resting, others held conversations with humans assigned to take care of the “foreign guests”, and some just minded their own businesses, like Wheeljack for instance: the goofy scientist was trying to create something with junk flooding the floor while his tiny robotic friends were jumping around him with funny squealks.

Two bots in their humanoid forms were standing in the farthest corner and talking . Those were Optimus and your friend, Ironhide; their voices rumbled lowly, almost inaudibly, overshadowed by white noise. Though it was difficult to read emotions on faces of those mechanical creatures, you could swear Optimus’ faceplate showed something similar to concern.

As far as you made yourself visible going down the stairs, he turned to you and made a gesture inviting you to come closer. Ironhide send you a look too, his expression seeming to… soften?

Must be just your vivid imagination.

You didn’t want to cause displeasure of such a powerful creature like Prime – it was more than enough troubles already for you – so you obliged, shortening the distance between you and the pair, trying your best to keep an eye contact with the leader while walking. He was good at reading body language, so you tried to mask your pain and shame. Meanwhile, when any of other bots happened to hide you behind their bodies, you used the chance to wipe your face, so, as you came close to Optimus and Ironhide, your cheeks were still red, but dry.

-         Hello there, Y/N. – Prime’s deep, husky voice never failed to send a swarm of shivers down your spine. And it didn’t help that he went down on his knee and his faceplate was just a few meters from you. – I have heard from my friend about the accident this morning. Are you all right?

You flinched.

-         Thank you, sir… It’s fine, sir. I’ll be over it soon.

-         Good.

Ironhide kneeled too, his tone gentle, but blue optics sharp, dwelling right into your heart.

Fuck.

 – I know, sometimes it’s hard to go against your instincts. Don’t let this all get into your head – I assure you, there will be time when you’ll get used to the things we are doing.

-         Yes, of course.

You wanted to leave as soon as possible.

Yet, you had one more thing to do beforehand.

– By the way… Ironhide… Thank you. For helping me.

The bot made a protesting gesture.

– Don’t mention it – It was my duty.

– Well, I don’t think it was your duty to carry me right into the hospital?

You said it without any teasing intention. However, the old soldier suddenly turned quite flustered, nervous even. You recognized the mistake only when you noticed thin streams of steam puffing from under his plates.

– Well… I couldn’t just leave you there unconscious!.. You know – you humans are so… fragile… and…

You could swear that Optimus gave his pal a look.

– Ok. I see. – Ironhide muttering amused you a bit; you actually managed to give him a smirk! – And still, I’m very grateful for what you’ve done. I could have been long dead... Now, sorry… I must go.

One by one, the bots straightened up. Optimus smiled slightly; something in the way he looked at you was wrong, but you didn’t have a wish to investigate. You send them a farewell salute and made your way to the exit.

“You are unworthy of pity! I really hope you understand that, Y/N. Maybe others will forgive you, but not me – since this day you are under my watch from dawn to dawn. And if I see more of your flaws…”

After throwing one last glance, which didn’t keep even a scrape of cheerfulness you sensed a second ago, over your shoulder, you walked out, sinking in the shadows again.

The shadows where you belonged.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

-         Hey, Y/N… Are you sleeping?

You sat up straight in bed, rubbing your sore eyes. No, you weren’t sleeping, but scrolling through your phone till that very minute your comm link unexpectedly came to life in the dead of the night. Despite everything you had gone through, helpful oblivion didn’t grant you its mercy – thanks to self-loath and anxiety holding you captive.

Only after a second or two you realized: the voice was familiar. Too familiar.

 -        …Ironhide?! For God’s sake! No, I don’t, but what’s the hell? Has something happened?

-         No, no! Don’t worry, it’s fine… Just wondering... Do you mind coming to the hangar for a chat?

You shrugged your shoulders, puzzled, but replied:

-         Sure… Are your comrades… awake, too?

-         Nah, they all are in deep recharge by now. I don’t think we will wake them up.

-         I see…

-         I’m waiting for you then. On the usual place. Over.

-         OK, over.

You switched the comm link off and blinked. It wasn’t like him. That bot wouldn’t bother anyone just because he didn’t have a companion to talk to. At least, you thought that way not so long ago…

There was no wish to climb off of the warm sheets, but you forced your feet down on the icy floor and, feeling as it was burning them, walked to the bathroom. Splashing a handful of freezing water into the face was painful, yet refreshing.

Looking at yourself, you couldn’t help but let out a small laughter at the red, huge-eyed human staring at you from behind the mirror.

Puny.

It didn’t take long to put on some clothes and find the way to hangar.

Ironhide was in his machine form when you found him: he signaled you with his headlights as you finally entered the room. Night lamps couldn’t give the hangar enough light, so the only effect they had was creating an illusion that the room rested at the bottom of the dark sea.

You let your intuition guide you, and very soon you were standing on the other half of the hangar, Ironhide being right in front you, his black armor barely noticeable in the shadows.

-         Hi again. – You greeted him, approaching your friend and putting a hand on his scratched bonnet.

-         Hello. – Ironhide whispered, trying to speak as quielyt as he could. – I was looking forward to see you.

-         Really? – You smirked sadly. – What’s the point in that? Aren’t you turning into a softie, huh?..

-         I’m not a softie. – The autobot grumbled, yet didn’t rolled away from your touch. – However… I think we need to have a talk. And discuss some events of the previous day you definitely remember, don’t you think?

Everything inside you yanked down as he let that out. You flinched and backed away, a look of hurt and misunderstanding frozen on your face.

-         Why would you want to bring it up? It’s over. Nothing can be changed now and…

-         I don’t care about what could be changed! It’s all about you, daisy!

-         What about me? Do you want to confirm it was all my fault, too? Thanks, others have already done that! I know it’s my fault, I know I’m a failure, but please, please… Leave me alone. Just… Am I not suffering enough?

You hugged yourself, turning away. Teeth clenched; eyes shut tightly. You didn’t want to hear all that again. You didn’t want anyone to blame you anymore, or even mention that horrible morning. Your comrades could have died! You knew that! Enough! Stop!

Stop!

STOP!

– Y/N. Please. Stop screaming.

Wow. Did you really lash those out?

– Let’s get somewhere…more  private. Shall we?

…Cool night air felt nice on the burning cheeks. You were sitting on the ground outside the base; a big tree sticking out from behind the metallic fence wrapped you in its curly shadow, rustling gently. Somewhere nearby you heard a ringing presence of a spring, scent of mushrooms pleasantly tickled your nerves; if you lowered your eyelids, you could think you were in the forest again. Although, now that thought was peaceful, intoxicatingly soothing.

Ironhide transformed and settled beside you, silent. His blue optics gazed at the clouds - black ghosts haunting the sky.

You leaned back on his frame.

– I believe, Lennox hasn’t been patient with you? I caught some rumors about her giving you a “break” from work.

It pulled a dry giggle out of your chest.

– …I see. What a b!tch! I mean… I can understand her, but if that thing popped up from nowhere in front of her, I doubt she would be that brave!

– Don’t worry much, pal. She is right…

– She is not, Y/N! She. Is. Not. You didn’t do anything wrong! Moreover: it is pure luck you are alive! If I wasn’t there… - His voice cracked. You couls see his servos turning into fists. – When I held you in my hands, you were a literal corpse!

– Don’t hyperbolize, Hidey.

You stroke his frame, feeling as it was rapidly heating up beneath your skin.

–All I want to say is… I was worried. The danger was real – whatever you would do, it would only end up worse for you than it did. She doesn’t get it right. I saw what those monsters could do to my kind! And, being honest, you humans are no match for them. It isn’t your war at all… She can’t punish a person who encountered a monster for the first time for their fear.

– But these monsters are invading my world now! Even though we are small and weak, we must do everything to protect our planet. I had to be stronger; now it’s the time when no mistakes are allowed.

– No one can grow without making mistakes. And neither she, nor you are gods to never make one. Enough crying over spilled milk! Hold yourself together. Guilt won’t make any difference. Only if you learn from your failures, they have any meaning.

Ironhide cautiously laid down, his arm shielding you protectively.

– And remember: only you choose who you want to be. You are a good person, Y/N. Don’t let anyone – especially Lennox – make you forget that.

When you heard that, choking sensation straining your ribcage since the very morning suddenly loosened. You pulled yourself closer to him, spreading your arms over his chest armor as far as you could. You were sobbing.

–Thank you, Hidey.

He brought his second manipulator from under his head, and soon you were sitting in an affectionate hug.

The bot was silent for a good while. Unnoticably for yourself, your head started nodding, mind sinking into light drowsiness. The night was so calm, and smooth steel you were pressed against was so warm…

– Feeling sleepy, little one?

You jumped slightly at his voice, disoriented, and gave him a sheepish look.

– Of course, you do – it’s your second night without proper rest. Come here.

The bot gently scooped your tiny form, then brought you to his faceplate, smiling a bit.

– Let’s get you somewhere no one will be able to hurt you anymore…

You hummed approvingly in response and didn’t struggle against him carefully putting you in his mouth, on the plushie glossa. As far as your head and shoulders touched its tender surface, you let go of yourself, completely submitting to the will of a being hundred times larger than you. Sore limbs were paralyzed by irresistible, long-sought pleasure; you couldn’t move for an inch even if you wanted to, and it didn’t help that saliva soaked you to the core almost instantly. Soft blue light pulsed steadily before you like a leading star, and you didn’t hesitate to answer its call, sliding deeper, obedient and trusting like a naïve lamb.

A ring of artificial muscles compressed you. One wet “gulk” - and a good half of you slipped into a glowing tunnel of the throat. Each new contraction pushed you further, and a second after you didn’t feel chilly air on your ankles anymore; Ironhide’s glossa playfully caressed your legs and guided them to the pharynx where they immediately vanished. You felt his digits trailing your decend down the throat - and that the was the last thing connecting you to the outside world.

And when you lost it, the world was gone.

Ironhide's sparkbeat filled you to the tips of your hair; gentle sounds of the bot’s body working flowed into your ears like music, distracting you from the pain and bad memories. Without any effort from your side, you slowly slipped down the esophagus, eyes closed, body - relaxed, light and powerless aka feather. Dreamy glow and cottony softness of his insides reminded you of those clouds chasing each other up in heavens.

It was peace.

It was freedom.

Eventually, the space around you decreased. As you arrived at the fuel tank, you didn’t waste any minute longer – and curled up in a small ball, tucking yourself in the floppy wall moving underneath your touch. Gurgling and bubbling of energon lulled you; you drifted off to sleep – which promised to be long, sound, and undisturbed. Alive bed tightened its embrace around your snoring form, cradling you, protecting you, reassuring you that from now on, no harm would come to you.

Ironhide sighed, relieved, as you plopped in his stomach and cuddled into its lining. His servo laid on his abdominal platings, and, though his armor was too thick for you to feel it, rubbed a few times at the spot where he could feel you snuggled up.

He missed this weight within.

The bot was tough, and distant, and harsh at times. He didn’t hesitate to kill and never sugarcoated things, being the source of brutal truth and the most reasonable transformer after Prime. But you… Your tears were his only weakness. Sensing you there now, right under his spark, hearing your tiny heart beating, your hands clenching at his flesh, he could forget about everything: war, death, misery of his kind. It was like being home again, and nothing had ever happened. You could only predict how much you actually ment, and he wasn’t able to bring himself say that out loud… Yet…

He would do anything to ensure you would live. Live happily, in the world where no monsters: metal or fleshy – could reach you with their sharp claws.

Tomorrow, he would pay a visit to Lennox and teach her a lesson… A sunshine like you didn’t deserve any of the shit you had to go through because of her.

Because of the strange aliens fallen on Earth…

Because of him.

He returned at the base. Every step he took was slow and deliberate – so you wouldn’t be jostled inside him too much. Despite the enormous size, he masterfully sneaked between his comrades to his corner where he sat still, bringing his knees up to the chest, closing his optics and concentrating on you.

At last, he was calm, too.  

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Neither Ironhide, nor you expected to be watched. Optimus was awakened by you yelling earlier, but didn’t want to spook you two, so he simply observed you from a far. He saw how Ironhide led you away through the main exit, then, after some time, he returned, alone – and sat aside from everyone, so big and strong, yet somehow vulnerable.

He talked only about you. He cared for you. He made excuses for you.

Prime knew what happened, or, rather, what had been happening. And he knew that would continue.

Was it bad? No.

Was it good? Maybe.

He wished it was. And prayed Primus to give time for this to bloom…

[natsumebookss]

Tragic Yuri or Tragic Yuri: On Female Autonomy, Reclaiming the Narrative, and 2011's Moodiest Magical Girls

(contains spoilers for Madoka Magica and Heartcatch Precure, very slight spoilers for Winx Club, topics of loss and depression, and the author screaming into the void about anime bullshit that happened over a decade ago)

If you've spent any amount of time in the Precure or PMMM fandoms, you've probably come across this quote. It's natural in many ways for Urobuchi to feel the way he does--imposter syndrome is intensely common for artists and I'd imagine attempting to write a subversion of a common genre while a piece of media from that genre is wrapping up a super successful run is challenging. While I won't pretend Heartcatch reached the levels of popularity that PMMM ended up at, it was the highest-selling season for years in terms of toy sales and many still remember it very fondly. (I'm a bit more critical of it, personally, but more on that later.) And so much was made of Urobuchi confessing he hadn't seen Heartcatch at the time of writing his own show, with PMMM antis saying that meant he had no real appreciation for the genre.

But what if I were to tell you that not only would PMMM have been significantly worse if he'd made it more like Heartcatch, but Heartcatch would've been better off if it had been more like Madoka?

A disclaimer before we go any further: I am not suggesting that Heartcatch should've retooled into a darker series, or that it even had the ability to since the shows were made pretty much in tandem. The damage done to Heartcatch, in my opinion, was already done before Madoka's finale even aired. This is purely an exercise in comparing two magical girls from roughly the same anime season (one ending about when the other was starting) and seeing what they could learn from each other. Also note that my title on my main blog is literally "Heartcatch Precure finale anti," so there will be some bias involved. With that out of the way, let us proceed.

Context

Pictured: a completely normal Facebook discussion about a kid's anime character from almost 15 years ago.

For those unfamiliar, Cure Moonlight has essentially built up a reputation for being the Leafpool of Precure. For those unfamiliar with Warrior Cats, this is one of the worst things you can be called in fandom--someone with legions of fans who got screwed over so badly that those fans will never shut up about it. Being a Leafpool is not merely being a tragic character, but being actively fucked over by the narrative at every possible turn.

Let's explore Cure Moonlight in a bit more detail before comparing her to Homura and how, I argue, Homura did a similar story path to hers better. Like Homura, Cure Moonlight is first seen fighting a massive threat to humanity inside our pink magical girl Tsubomi's dream. The dream cuts off before we learn her fate, but all we can see on her face is pure sorrow before it does. The minute she is introduced, she already knows loss.

Throughout the show's run, we get to know her as Yuri Tsukikage, a veteran magical girl forced into retirement after her transformation item has been shattered. She has half of the broken Heart Seed that remains, and her foil Dark Precure, who broke the seed, has the other. Yuri is intensely depressed for this exact reason: she has lost her powers, her duties to the world, her fairy companion (who died in the battle with Dark Precure), and her father has also mysteriously vanished. The audience first sees her as a friend of one of the lead's older sisters, a senpai who excels at both sports and academics, before revealing her to be a broken person inside. The goal of Yuri's narrative, seemingly, is to restore her Precure powers, allow her to confide in new friends, and find her missing father.

The first two are accomplished in a pretty straightforward but heartwarming manner--Yuri begins to find a new purpose in training her Precure kohais and eventually regains her powers through hard work and determination. Typical kid's show stuff, even if seeing Cure Moonlight reappear for the first time is indisputably badass. It's the third one, however, that I have the most problems with.

Frequent followers of my main blog @curemoonliite may be familiar with a term I have called "moonbitching." This is what I call it when I rant at length about the Heartcatch finale and what it did to Cure Moonlight's character, or even just allude to it in the tags. Since this post will already be long enough without it, I'll go light on the moonbitching, but do just enough of it to give you the facts.

In the last few episodes of the series, Yuri learns that her father was brainwashed by the main villain of the series, Dune, and that Dark Precure was cloned from her genetic material while he was brainwashed. This is legitimately a fascinating plot point that, by itself, I have no problems with. However, soon after learning about this, both Dark Precure and her father are killed off in the final battle and all Yuri can do is watch.

Her father sacrificed himself for her in a moment of clarity, she didn't even get time to really process that she's been fighting her sister all along, and she's lost everyone all over again. She started the show with just her and her mother, and the second she sees hope at having a family again, it's taken away from her.

Her kohai Tsubomi, upon seeing this, begs Yuri not to take revenge on the Big Bad that's stolen everything from her. This isn't the Yuri I know, she shouts. But somewhere along the line, we've lost the Yuri we know. All her development, all her growth, has been torn away the minute she's forced to lose everything again. Her path as a character is now uncertain, the narrative deciding it won't allow her to pursue even the slightest act of revenge.

And all Yuri can do is watch alongside us.

Homura and Yuri

The minute I saw this finale for the first time, I was reminded of how a classic piece of children's/family media handled a similar plot point. Allow me to be cliched for a moment, but if we look at someone like Inigo Montoya, we can see that his decision to pursue revenge is never really questioned by the narrative. This is something that's always bothered me about female characters in media, especially magical girl stories--a magical girl can never just say "give me my father back, you son of a bitch." They may want to, but due to sexist notions about women and violence, they're always expected to take the high road.

Oftentimes, this is done by using the magical girl leader as a mouthpiece to directly dismiss their teammate's desires--Bloom and Aisha go through something very similar in S4 of Winx Club when Aisha's fiancee is killed. Neither Bloom nor Tsubomi are naturally dismissive people, and the narrative tends to characterize them as kind, but they are briefly mischaracterized in moments like this to give the typical "revenge is bad" message that kid's shows tend to have. A message that is often distinctly missing from boy's cartoons, but I digress.

Aisha is at least allowed the dignity of separating from the main team for a few episodes to join some extremists, but Yuri doesn't even get that.

And Homura gets so much more.

I'll admit, I still have mixed feelings about Rebellion to this day, but what I do appreciate about it is that it isn't hampered by these restraints that magical girl media made for children seem to have. That villain arc the Facebook commenter from before said Yuri should've had? It was too late for her by the time the finale ended, but it wasn't too late for Homura.

Homura is, in many ways, an anti-Yuri, and a lot of that comes from her having autonomy within the narrative. Female autonomy is something we see discussed in the social justice sphere a lot, but not quite as much in the storytelling sense. Probably the main difference between the two is that Homura, as a time traveler, can stop the ones she loves from ever being killed. In fact, that's also her greatest weakness, as she wears herself down with the timelines so much that she can barely bring herself to care for anything else sometimes.

Homura's depression comes from the idea that she Can Stop The Thing, but can't figure out precisely how to. Yuri's depression comes from the fact that she Can't Stop The Thing, thinks she knows how to, and gets herself into more trouble along the way. One of these makes for an intensely more active character that doesn't feel unfairly dunked on by the narrative, and oddly enough, it's not the kid's show character.

Yuri, as a children's character, is kept from doing certain things by what that entails. Homura, however, has no such restrictions. She can travel through time and repeat everything over literally until she breaks herself. And that she very, very much does.

Homura doesn't have to be convinced in the finale to let Madoka go, she just peacefully comes to terms with it herself. That alone gives her more autonomy than Yuri had, even if we recall that Rebellion's ending was not the original one that Urobuchi had planned. However, Rebellion's ending serves as an ultimate rebuttal to the narrative that a magical girl must simply allow hardship and loss to happen to her. If the world isn't fair to her, if not even time travel works out, why not just remake it?

This action comes at the cost of stripping Madoka of a lot of her autonomy, sure. But it is, in a way, the natural conclusion of how magical girl leaders are often made to strip their "angsty" team members of theirs. Homura's fall from grace is a flipping of this script in every way possible, and even if it's far from the best decision for her to make, we can see that it's 100% fully her own.

The revenge is complete. No one is there to stop her. Even the writers don't really know what to do with her now. Homura has now transcended the fate of the purple magical girl, and that's the best thing that could've ever happened to her.

A girl who seeks revenge is a devil. A girl who cannot become a princess is doomed to become a witch. But ask yourself, is the fear of becoming these things worth becoming a spectator in your own story?

And, if that's the case, is it truly better to reign in hell than serve in heaven?

[michellekarnold]

Character Writing Exercises

The amazing @davycoquette tagged me in this, so I wanted to do this for an OC haven't formally introduced yet: Ryker. He works with my main protagonist, Mya, from my WIP The Bride of Betrayal. He is Mya's partner in a rebellion they are both allied to. So this will be interesting! Thank you @davycoquette for always including me on your tag list. I am trying to get to all my tags tonight. So if you tagged me in something, it will probably go out tonight or tomorrow!

Shuffle a playlist on your music player of choice. For whichever song plays, describe what you “see” with your imagination.

Mya's arms wrap around Ryker's waist as she throws her leg over the seat of his motorcycle. Taking her home is Ryker's least favorite part of the evening. His chest aches as he imagines another night spent in the bitter silence within the four walls of his room. Ryker's debilitating trust issues is the result of the gaping wound left by his mother and the absence of his father. These trust issues have created a threat of being alone, which has amassed into a insurmountable weight slowly suffocating him. When Ryker stops the bike in front of the house, the emotional reality of the empty room he is to return to catches in his throat as he tries to bid Mya a good night. Instead of wishing her farewell as he has done many times before, he reaches for her hand. "You're my only friend," he admits, almost choking on his words.

Describe a character by turning out their pockets.

A jack-of-all trades never leaves the house without a pocket full of tools prepared to take on the world. Ryker, being this way, empties a collection of trinkets from his pockets. A swiss army knife, a lighter, and a wad of cash being the most useful of his belongings, the other items seem to serve no purpose. However, to Ryker, even a measly paper clip and bobby pin can be utilized as a tool for devious activities such as lock picking.

An abandoned and unlocked phone (or wallet, if you wanna go back a coupla decades) has been discovered in a ratty little diner bathroom. What’s in there? What does it tell us about its owner?

In Ryker's wallet lies a glimpse into his innermost desires. The most revealing of the contents being a note Mya had left him from months ago. Every time he reads her hand written note, he can hear the softness of her voice and the delicacy of her touch as she slipped him the message.