#but obviously with a low focus span

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

some landolove 🫶✨🧡

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Between Dreams and Sugar

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: Your screams will haunt his dreams until the day he dies.

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Torture, gore, angst, violence & death, suggestive joke, fluff, happy ending, rescue fic but who rescues who...>:)

A/N: Guys, I have a confession - I don't think I can write Ghost properly lmfao. This is horrifically mid.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

There was so much blood coating your body that you had forgotten where the wounds were and weren’t. It flowed from you like viscus water—a homogeneous mixture of congealed shades of red like rubies except for the simple fact that this was not beautiful; it was not desired or sought after. 

 On the ground, soaking in indistinguishable pools of crimson, ripples are sent out when your limp foot twitches mutely in its clutch. That was all you could do now. Twitch. Writhe. They didn’t even bother tying you to the chair anymore—just let you slouch half out of it like a school kid who had gotten too drunk the night before. 

Hell, you wished you were drunk. 

“Sergeant.” 

You wished you could feel your fingers. You wished you could move your neck up from its bend position as if it was a wilting flower; hair stuck to your skin. Blood dribbles out of your mouth. Drip…drop…drip…drop. 

You’d bitten your tongue open in a vain attempt to stop yourself from screaming, hadn’t you? You…you can’t quite remember.

“Sergeant!” Groaning long and low, the violent chills that wrack your form only serve to make yourself bleed out faster, tension forcing precious life fluid out from burst veins and slashed ankles. 

Cuts far span your legs and shoulders. Your back is nothing more than a painting of burns coated with sweat and infection; puss sticking you to the backrest of the chair like yellow-colored adhesive. Your clothes are the opposite idea of modesty. Tattered, torn by blades to create harm. Fuck, could you even breathe properly anymore?

Lungs only create a wheeze—you’re not getting enough oxygen to function. 

A dark growl bounces off the walls.

Ghost struggles against his binds, uniform also in a state of disarray with very obviously broken ribs and bruised chest. Splotches of yellow-white mounds signal blunt trauma over the pale skin that’s already laced with old scars. 

They’d all but anchored him to his chair—and even then the red marks that blister are a signal of the brutality of the large man as he peels back his skin to try and struggle himself out. 

You whine, the loftiness stuck in your brain addictive; to pull back that curtain was as much of a struggle as staying awake. That harsh Manchester accent was something to draw closer to, though, professionalism a key to the lock on your failing consciousness. The reminder of companionship.

“G…” Your vocal cords fizzle, “Ghost…” 

“Open your eyes.” Every word was enunciated, deep and guttural.

Parting your lips, more blood drowns your lap in thick globs, and soon your battered throat vibrates with coughs that make you see stars, mild panic the moment you realize that you can’t breathe. 

Jerking forward, you gasp, eyes snapping open as your neck bends ahead in desperation. Mucus and other bodily fluids spray over your lap, tinged scarlet, but the blockage in your throat is dispelled as your broken ribs quiver in agony. 

Whimpering like a kicked dog, you wonder how long it’ll take for Ghost to realize getting you to focus on him was pointless. If this all continued, you’d be dead within the day. 

But you entertain him.

Head slowly balking back as your jaw hangs loose, you rest it on the wooden frame behind you as softly as you’re able with a most likely concussed brain and a fractured skull. Only one eye opens, and even then it’s half-glued to your cheek with dried blood. 

Ghost’s balaclava had been ripped off. It felt wrong to see him in the open like this. Exposed. It was quite obvious he disliked it just as much as you did. 

Blue eyes blazed at you; blonde hair going this way and that as crimson fell down the swell of his Adam’s Apple from a very broken nose. That gaze was unrelenting, and even with your blurry vision, you knew it would be unwise to look away. 

His stubbled jaw sets as a heart can be seen skipping beats in his breast. You were totally out of it, enough so that you missed the way his lungs slightly released when you had pulled yourself back to the present. 

The gulping sigh.

“That’s it, Sergeant.” You cough once more, wet and haggard, and your head falls back to your chest before you have to force it back up on shaking muscles. It was getting harder. “Easy does it, then…Thought I lost you.”

“C–can’t,” the useless feet flicker over the ground, sloshing through fluid in unstable jumps as you slur out, “Hurts, Ghost.”  

A slow and dark inhalation meets your ears before a sudden grunt of a struggling body; jerking arms as the chair squeals with old nails being torn out. 

“I know, Birdie, I know.” His tone is lesser now as he bites back a curse as the blisters on his arms pop, the rope burns turning a vile color as his muscles strain, “But you keep those pretty little eyes on me, yeah?” 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

Black Operations were dangerous, yeah, but never had the Lieutenant been so down in the gutter as he was right now. Mainly because of you, no, entirely because of you. He could withstand months of torture—mental and physical—with no problem. He’d done it countless times before. 

But never had he been forced to watch someone hurt you instead of him.

They would come in every day, these pitiful excuses for German drug runners, and would make him watch as they ripped open your skin with blunt knives and other tools coated in rust. Questions would be asked—questions that Ghost knew he could not answer even if it was you who would get punished. 

Every time you would flinch when the door to this concrete basement opened, it was harder to keep his tongue from wagging. He was watching you die; letting it happen. 

Fuck, it made him sick.

Ghost violently reems a shoulder up and down, not caring about the long stripes of now oozing blood on his forearms or the pain that the action brings bone-deep. There was so much scarlet flowing from you. Too much.

What he knows for certain is that he can’t let you die here. He’d never forgive himself for that.

How is she still conscious? The question was utterly genuine as Ghost’s dead eyes narrowed dangerously, sparking with urgency at the uneven risings and fallings from your chest. 

“Fucking hell,” the Lieutenant growls, each word punctuated by a desperate attempt to free himself. He had to get you out of this. You were his responsibility; his team. 

His…Ghost pants, sweat dripping down his arms.

You didn’t abandon him, how could he do the same to you? When questioned you hadn't given up his true name, hadn’t blabbered to save your own skin so you could avoid a horrible amount of pain. Pain that Ghost knew well. 

Pain that was never supposed to be known to you.

Your screams would haunt his nightmares until the day he died. 

“Ghost,” blue eyes freeze, snapping away from the sight of the bone around his wrists becoming visible through a thin coverage of remaining flesh. He pauses like a guard dog. Your optic was glinting, flicking with failing consciousness. The movement of your chest sputtered as the man clenched his teeth together. “You’re hurtin’ yourself.” 

“‘Bout to do even more damage, yeah?” he gets back to it, working enough blood into the rope to make it slick; dripping. “If it’ll get me out of these bastard things.” 

The weak smirk on your face gives his brows a deep furrow, sweat glistening on his forehead.

A part of him hated you. Hated you for the way you had this effect on him. He shouldn’t care if you lived or died—that wasn’t his cross to carry. 

But you’d made him soft these last few months. Soft, and weak, and disgustingly concerned for your safety. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t Ghost. 

“Gonna b…bleed out, y’know.” Your tongue slips, mind so loose that anything that comes to the front slips out like water from a slip-and-slide. Fingers twitching, your limp body grows so cold that you shiver. 

“Negative.” Ghost barks, slipping one hand partially under the restraint and his flesh, acting as a zipper, starts to go with it. He hisses under his breath, body hot and spilling. Mutilating himself. “Shut your damn gob.” Blood splatters to the floor, “I’m gettin’ us out of ‘ere.”

“Tell me a joke.” Blue eyes flicker, blonde lashes slipping over pale cheeks. 

You feel another wave of pain shutter through you—one that makes you whimper as quietly as a soft breeze on a summer day. 

“Joke?” Ghost hisses, glaring over at you without heat. “The fuck are you on about?” A wobbling eyebrow raise is all he gets. 

He grunts feral-like, evocative of a bear that hadn’t gotten his supper. Your lid droops and panic spikes.

“How long can a fish breakdance for?” Ghost slips a hand free, snarling in the back of his mouth as the entirety of his left hand is left ripped open, the fissures itchy and welling. Wasting no time, the limb goes to assist the other, pulling with ripped-off fingernails at the tight knot. A side-eye is sent your way.

Only you weren't moving. Lips snap in a moment of obvious concern, not only by the tone but by the way the man jerks forward in the chair—no matter if one arm and both of his legs were still restrained.

“Love!” The door handle rattles with screeching chains, but Ghost is occupied with raging at you. Ordering you to stay awake with terrifying eyes. It was as though for the first time in a long time there was true fear in his throat. True hatred. 

Chucking voices heat veins that he had long since thought were cold, and the Lieutenant composes himself with a sharp pause. He leans back slowly into the chair; jaw so tight his molars almost crack in the back of his mouth like candy. Your face is tilted downward, and Ghost memorizes the make of it, trails his gaze slowly over every slash and cut that mars you. Feet slap off the concrete as multiple people enter the room, but it was like a switch had flipped internally, walls going up.

The mask was still there, even if all that physically remained of it was the black paint in his sockets.

He’d return every mark, from a bruise to an open wound, tenfold. But you needed to wake up first. You…you needed to.

You had to be okay.

Three men encircle the two of you, faces hidden and obviously enjoying a bit of their own product.

“Look at this, Lutz, the man got a hand out of the binding.” Blue eyes travel to stare dead-on into a pair of blown pupils; mind gone. 

The second man goes to grip your hair, forcing your head up in inspection. Ghost’s vision immediately travels over, biceps going tense like a dog with its hackles raised and vision going red. 

“Don’t worry about that. It’s one hand, what can the Bastard do?”

“Oh,” another laughs, though his body is wound tight, “careful with the woman, Alric—the beast looks like he’s about to snap at you.”  

The three share sly looks. Alric, the one with your hair in his grip, shakes your head back and forth, blood flying around in the air as your limp body jerks. Ghost lunges, but he only makes it as far as the chair allows him before he’s shoved back by a hand on his chest. 

Moving quicker than an animal, bone snaps, and an agony-laced scream echoes off the walls not a millisecond later. 

Ghost had gripped that hand and twisted, making the wrist joint completely flip on itself. Blank blue eyes watch with glints of sadistic glee as the man wails, grabbing onto himself and falling back onto his ass.

The one holding you instantly releases your hair and rushes to his friend. 

“Holy fuck!” Everyone divulges into frantic German curses, Ghost making out a command to leave and go see a doctor.

“Cheers. Good luck with that, ya’ Bastard.” Grumbling under his breath, the Lieutenant realized he was probably enjoying this more than he should, but always his attention shifts back to you. How you hang limb, battered face covered by your hair, and loss of blood steadily leaving your hands curling into the palms—

Ghost’s eyes widen slightly as the two still try and calm down their companion. Your hand. It wasn’t curled because of onset rigor mortis. You were holding a blade. 

The Brit’s large chest swells with pride; jaw going somewhat slackened as he stares at you. So you were faking it….Fucking hell, Sweetheart. 

Slowly, his vision peels to the empty sheath on Lutz’s belt. It wasn’t a big knife—nothing more than a three-inch blade on the end. But you were still conscious enough to hear these goons show up before he had; had used sleight of hand that anyone else in your situation would have just given up on. 

It was hard to hold back a low chuckle, but he managed. Fuck, you were something else.

The two unmaimed men shove the third out the door, shouting down the hallway as his sobs and sniffling nose reverberate even as he’s out of sight. 

Grunting, the Brit shifts his hips, lips pulling in a snarl at the bouncing electrical wire that goes up his ribs. Many were broken; along with his nose and a dislocated shoulder, but he knows he can deal with it. Getting you out and to the Evac point was his top priority—his wounds weren’t over-the-top life-threatening unless they went too long without treatment. 

You on the other hand. 

Lids narrow on the way the knife-holding hand shakes with exertion when simply applying pressure. If this was going to happen, it had to happen now.

“That was a nice little show,” Alric growls, standing in the middle of the two in the chairs and keeping a considerable distance farther from Ghost than you. Blue eyes blink blankly, emotions swiftly wiped away. “One-handed? I’m impressed.” 

Ghost raises a single blonde eyebrow, “More where that came from.” 

Alric smiles.

“Emil—get the gun.” Legs slowly tense, but other than that there’s no outward display of nervousness. 

Seconds later a barrel is level with Ghost’s forehead, the chilled metal pressing deep into his blood-coated skin. He doesn’t balk back, he doesn’t even flinch, just watches with a dim flicker in his optics that remains even after he blinks. Like a cat’s slitted pupils. 

It would be no use shoving the gun out of this man’s hands—he would fire before the Lieutenant was able to steal the weapon for himself. 

“I’m getting sick of this game, Soldier. We’ve been through this day after day.” Alric swipes at his nose, white powder stuck under his nostrils. Ghost can’t stop the small tick of his mouth. “Tell me who you are,” the gun swivels, and the Brit’s heart seizes up. It points at your abdomen. “Or the girl gets a nice new stomach.” 

Lips thin into a small line as hidden fury swells. 

“Alric…” Emil seems nervous, his feet shifting and hands twitching. The aura Ghost was emitting was like a dark cloud around the room; sheer size and indistinguishable emotions rose to drown out all else when a threat to the beast’s bird was brought into the picture. There had been multiple times throughout the days when the men had been scared to touch you at all for fear of the look that had been leveled their way. Those eyes…fuck it was like a demon was stuck in flesh. In blue so close to gray the color was more like the concrete of a prison cell. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Tell me.” Alric growls as Emil gets closer to you. Ghost stays silent, unblinking as his fingers curl into fists. His knuckles crack from the force. “Tell me!”

Emil bushes your shoulder and you lunge. Bringing the blade into his chest, your form brings the both of you to the floor in a splash of scarlet and twin screams of pain. 

The Blonde’s heart seizes at the sound in an aggressive bounce.

Alric whips around, eyes widened and gun loose in his grip. Ghost wastes no time, trusting your judgment, and shoves himself forward. A shot goes off as the Lieutenant rams his shoulder into the man, but the bullet bites into the far wall instead of your back as you dig your knife into Emil’s throat; wrestling for life. 

The chair still attached to Ghost was a problem, but his body weight was used to his advantage. Sinew bunched as a growl exits his lips, Alric and him slamming to the floor in a flurry of rabid intentions and the likeness of wolves caught in a trap. Ghost’s eyesight goes red, remembering every cut and beating you went through for him in the reflection of Alric’s eyes. That pathetic drug runner had made you bleed. 

His bird doesn’t bleed.

Teeth and nails are tools kept for animals, and now that the gun was too far from grip and you were limp beside the gargling body of Emil, Ghost decided that being a bit insane might do him well at the moment. 

He had to get you out of here. And in no world was this man going to get away to live one day more.

“Please, don’t,” Alric begs, clawing at his behemoth build, “I’m not—I wasn’t—!” 

Blood-stained teeth snap into the thin flesh of a visible neck as dead blue eyes keep you in sight like a dog does the moon.

—

You don’t recall anything after slashing one man’s neck and even that is a blur of flashing colors; instances of one waxing expression waning into another. Trapped between bouts of failing consciousness and pain that could rival someone getting their bones snapped one by one. 

But you know the feeling of moss on your cheek. The shadow that sits above you and the fingers that prod at your back, pressing cooling salves of Silverweed into the burns and cuts. Your eyes weakly flicker, a low moan stuck in your throat. 

Every limb is a cinder block.

“Stop your moving.” The command was stiff but quiet, and the pressure on your spine increased. Flinching, the sensation of tight bindings all along your body became apparent to you, slowly but surely. 

“That…hell?” You cough, throat bare and dry. Sweat drips down your temple. 

Blinking rapidly, you try to focus on the cold wind whipping past your bare skin, the trees in the distance of what appeared to be a glade. The sound of a running stream makes your ears perk.

A canteen was suddenly shoved to your lips and you grunt in surprise, water slicking your closed lips.

“Drink.” You don’t argue, peeling back your lips and letting the liquid drip into your mouth, most falling to the moss under you and getting re-adsorbed into the earth. “...There’s a girl.” 

The metal container disappears just as quickly as it showed up, and you lick at the corner of your lips, cheeks burning at the comment.

Ghost kneels above you, bar a shirt, and you narrow your lids to focus on the black and blue splotches completely covering him. He still doesn’t have a mask, and you glance over the blonde stubble; the scars, and the aggressive set of his eyebrows. The blood had been washed away, and you wondered if the stream in the background of this place was still stained with crimson and the telltale black of eye paint.

“Simon,” whispering seemed appropriate, though you don’t know why. Your voice was better now but still, your body refused to listen to your instructions. Every plea to move your arms or legs was denied, sharp needles poking into your flesh that made you shake. “What…?” 

Blue eyes blink down at you, something hidden in the depths. A finger curls to flick a stray hair from your face slowly. Skin brushes skin.

“Snagged what I could before I ran off. Wasn’t much.” That harsh voice, the gravel in it. You frown weakly, your lids heavy. “Bandages. Extra shirt. Blanket I used to stop the bleeding.”

He won’t tell you he was begging you to wake up when he’d been stuffing old fabric into your open wounds. 

Coughs wrack your frame, whole body jerks that overtake what little peace there was to be found. A hand tilts your head back to the ground, patient as the other grabs your hair, peeling the strands away as a flood of vomit escapes your mouth. 

Eyes burning and face hot, you sputter as a thumb runs deep circles over your scalp. 

“Easy…” Ghost whispers, tattoos like obsidian in the darkness of the world around the two. Late afternoon and this was the first time you’d woken up since he’d been carrying you. A nail was taken out of his heart. 

Seeing your eyes flicker, even filled with the tears as they were, was a blessing he’d thank whatever God that was out there for. “Easy, Sweetheart. Breathe for me.”

“Fuck,” you gasp, shaking more than a leaf. “Fuck it hurts, Simon.” 

He shifts you slightly away from the bile, the familiar words burning his lungs. 

“Evac point is four miles.” It felt like a death sentence to you, your eyes going buggy at the thought. “I’m carrying you there.” 

“Bullshit,” you pant, wheezing. “Your arms are destroyed.” 

Ghost blinks before scowling, sending a glance to his limbs. They’re both raw and skinned, just like his fingers; red with burst blisters the size of rocks. One hurts far more than the other.

“They’re nothing.” 

“Nothing pretty to look at,” blue eyes narrow on you in annoyance, but the dry-humored Brit doesn't miss a beat.

“Seems you’re in good spirits, Sergeant. Fancy walking on your own?” Your lips flick, delirious and high off of whatever pain meds that Ghost had found when he had been carrying you out of the basement of that house. 

Try as he might, the feeling of your dead weight was worse than he ever could have imagined. So, outwardly, he stayed numb but knew that every little look from you was as beautiful as a sunrise. 

“Want me to try?” Palms begin to shift, a hand pressing deep into the moss that bends and yields to your form. 

Ghost snaps forward.

“Fucking Bastard!” He puts weight on the back of your shoulder as you hiccup dull chuckles, “Quit it! Else I’ll leave you here to annoy the damn plants.”

The threat was empty, and your eyes softened as they spread their fatigued gaze over the span of the Brit’s visible skin, glee leaking out. Ghost sighs, shaking his head sharply at you, agitation stuck in his skull as it always was.

So beastly, this man, but his hold on you was about as gentle as you could imagine. 

Your attraction to him was anything but one-sided. You knew his emotions as well as your own; it was quite obvious to everyone but him. The long looks, the concerned glances. His touch freely given.

He had given you his name and, to you, that was about as close to a proposal as a ring was. You’d kissed; you’d shared beds and shared skin. You knew when he was being horrible to himself deep in the confines of his head.

“Simon,” you whisper, and a blue gaze stays stubbornly away, glaring at your burns with venom. A tired smile peels your lips. “Simon.” 

A huff is all you get, a bush of skin as breath wafts over your bare back. Your hand goes to touch his knee, brushing softly over the torn fabric. The flinch would not be noticeable to anyone but you. Brows pull slightly tighter. 

“I had a dream about you, y’know.” Speaking hurt, but the attention that is finally brought your way was worth it. Birds chirp in the distance.

“What’s that?” 

“Hm,” you lightly nod, cheek ruffling moss as you take down slow inhalations. Staring into each other’s eyes you for a moment forget the agony under your skin. “You were trapped by a giant fish underwater.” 

A Blonde eyebrow raises, slow smirk unable to be hidden. It was impossible not to be entirely taken by you. How you speak, how you breathe. Even like this, you had placed a spell of black magic over him, binding the darkness that made up Simon Riley—Ghost—to your every action and whim.

“That right, Sweetheart? What happened, then?”

Chuckling, Ghost’s hold goes to your neck, massaging the skin so delicately that you lose your train of thought for a moment as shivers erupt, “I had to save you.”  

Lips press to your scalp, a bent nose digging despite the shifting cartilage as lion limbs shake with a want to drag you to him. Such a rabid beast that devotes himself to your life.

“You tend to do a lot of the savin’, Love.” It’s muttered into your hair, softly, lowly. Compliments are rare—Ghost prefers actions above all else—but they’re treasured. 

You know what he means.

“Yeah, I love you, too, you brute.” Deep chuckles dance in your ear, and you both stay there for a while, simply breathing in each other as the sky bleeds into the earth. So content, your heart had slowed, the salve in your wounds and the bandages compressing the areas with the most problems and forcing them to be numb. 

When you had nearly fallen asleep, Ghost had peeled back to look down at you; eyes malleable as they slipped over your battered body. 

“Hm,” he hums, reaching to his side and grabbing for the shirt he had stolen. After a few minutes of quiet curses and apologetic kisses, the large piece of fabric was over your top. The Lieutenant had begrudgingly admitted that the scraps of pants you had on now would have to do until you got proper attention. 

“Giving the squirrels a show, then, Simon?” The man rolls his eyes deeply at the sarcastic comment, rubbing up and down your legs to keep circulation going as he readies to move you.

“They better keep quiet ‘bout it,” Ghost grumbles, running a hand through his hair, “Else I’ll have to rip a few tails.”

“So violent,” You wince when your shoulder is gripped, neck limp as your upper half was rotated. Gnashing your teeth, the Lieutenant shushes you comfortably, raising your body to rest in the crook of his large arm. Muscles tense and loosen, your cheek now resting on your Lover’s pec. You hear him hiss silently at the pressure on his broken ribs as guilt hits you. “Not the squirrels’ fault.” 

“It is if they keep looking at ya. Only I get to see you like that.” Your pain-laced laugh is cut off when you’re lifted, large hands under your knees helping equalize your body. 

A strained whine exits your lips, straining to get air as you pant and clench your eyes shut. Ghost wasn’t doing much better—gritting his teeth and tilting his head back. 

Feet stumble before righting themselves, lids opening as lashes flutter over bloodless cheeks to stare down at you. 

The word seems to stop.

“...Tell me you’re alright.” You heard that for what it was—Tell me to keep going, because if you don’t then I won’t be able to. 

Blinking up at him, your nose slots under his chin as you feel him shake with exertion, lips pressing deep into his raging pulse. You swallow down saliva as his grip on you tightens, pressing you closer; giving you his body heat.

“I’m okay, Simon. Not…not lost yet.” 

“Good.” He lets his eyes close for a moment, taking you in as he lets his nose be coated in your scent, the flesh under his fingertips. Ghost knows some of your wounds reopen, and, thus, his bare feet start off into the woods. His men would still be at the Evac point waiting for them. Price would have given the order. “...I’ll be needing you ‘round. Might lose my head otherwise, eh?”

“You do seem to have a few loose screws when I’m not near.” 

“That was an exaggeration,” Simon grumbles. 

You scoff, trying not to puke at his limping steps. The word swirls, but the man carrying you stays ever clear. “No,” you whisper, “No, it wasn’t.”

Scared lips pull up, but the birds respond for him. 

Less than ten percent out from the Evac point is when you drop a tidbit of a thought to the man.

“Y’know what I want, Ghost?” The large Brit side-steps a downed tree, sweat dripping down his chin to splatter to your skin.

“What is it?” He pants, sparing you a glance as his eyebrows are constantly furrowed in concentration. Your talking made it easier to push on.

“A fucking cake. A big one.” Blue eyes blink and his feet nearly stumble to a stop before he forces on. A gasp of a chuckle makes your heart skip a beat as voices start up from the next tree line.

“Keep talking to me, Love, and I’ll buy you the whole bloody bakery.” Soldiers burst from the bushes, and Ghost calls out identification as everyone gapes. Guns immediately lower.

Medics rush forward, but still on high alert, the Lieutenant snaps at them, bringing you closer into his hold as he pushes onward. 

“Where’s the fucking heli?!” Everyone stops and points. Huffing, Ghost shoves forward. 

“The whole bakery?” You slur, giggling and feeling the kiss on your head. 

“Every bastard pastry’ll be yours. Count on it.” 

—

“Simon, you promised.” Your wheel-chair bound form pouts as the man in question deadpans from behind you, leaning on the handles. His balaclava can only hide so much.

The air is sweet with the scent of desserts and bread. 

“Birdie, you can’t eat all ‘O that, you’ll explode like you took a .308 round to the head.” The woman behind the counter pales, pulling at the collar of her shirt with her smile becoming strained.

“Is that a challenge?” You glance over your shoulder, smirking wide. 

“No,” Simon blanky states, the skin over his nose bridge and under-eye completely black and blue. 

“I think that was a challenge.” 

“It wasn’t.”

The customers grind their palms into their eye sockets, some tuning around in line and leaving entirely.

“Simon,” you intertwine your hands and lean to show him, eyes wide and pleading. “Please.” Drawing out the word, you smile with everything you can. 

The both of you connect in a battle of wills—you with that infectious innocent and sly nature, and Simon with a tight glare and tired eyes. A blatant will to please you in every aspect and a need to see you happy at all times. This goes on for a full minute before a loud sigh echoes off the walls, shoulders deflating. A hidden kiss is pressed firmly to your head.

You giggle loudly at the authoritative order.

“One of everything.”

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[doumadono]

(Sinful Sunday)

Karaku with lactation Kink. Y/n has just recently given birth to his baby and complain about sore chest so Karaku offers to help her by sucking them. Obviously not in front of the baby who happily sleeping

SINFUL SUNDAY

You and Karaku have embarked on a journey of exploration together — venturing into desires mutually shared and fantasies that each of you yearned to try before your paths converged fully. Now, you've discovered a comfort in exploring these facets with each other.

For Karaku, a particular desire lingered in his mind — he harbored a keen interest in tasting breast milk directly from the source. Despite the challenges you faced in conceiving, the two of you found pleasure in dry nursing. The sensations brought forth by his skillful mouth and tongue were almost orgasmic for you, and your moans, in turn, stirred a powerful response from him, making his cock hard within seconds. This intense connection often led to a swift conclusion of the nursing session, yet neither of you voiced any complaints.

Your deep care for him extended into various aspects of your time together, but the act of breastfeeding remained elusive. The moments you shared never seemed enough to satisfy the yearning for the regular, daily suckling that both of you craved.

Then, as if a miracle unfolded, you discovered you were pregnant with Karaku's child. As your pregnancy progressed, a tangible transformation occurred — your breasts grew rounder and more substantial. Karaku, captivated by this change, couldn't divert his gaze from the captivating sight before him.

Following the successful delivery of your child, a process marked by the intricacies of labor that relied solely on the benevolence of Karaku's counterparts, considering you resided with demons outside any human village, your recovery spanned several days.

Upon commencing the nursing of your newborn, a welcome revelation unfolded — luckily, you encountered no impediments with lactation. Your breasts swelled with milk, providing a nourishing source of sustenance for your unique offspring, a blend of demon and human heritage.

One evening, after Karaku gently placed the baby into a meticulously crafted wooden crib, a creation Sekido graciously assisted him in preparing for the child, he found you nestled on a futon, tears streaming down your face. Concern laced his voice as he inquired, "What's troubling you, my love?"

"My chest… I mean, my breasts, they're incredibly swollen, and it's painful," you expressed, revealing the physical discomfort you were grappling with.

In that moment, Karaku swiftly discerned a method to alleviate your discomfort while simultaneously satisfying his deep-seated desire for the nourishing milk. "I can suck them for you, if you don't mind?" he proposed.

Responding with a wry smile, you remarked, "Somehow I knew you'd suggest that; I'm not even surprised. Okay, let's give it a shot."

You gradually unveiled the nightgown that adorned your form — a thoughtful gift from Aizetsu — exposing your breasts to the gaze of your beloved.

Karaku observed them intently before delicately cupping them in his rough, clawed hands, applying a gentle squeeze that evolved into a soothing massage.

Your response was evident — a moan, a blend of pleasure tinged with a hint of pain, escaped your parted lips.

Karaku grinned, continuing his skillful manipulation, while leaning down to trace the tip of his tongue around your aureolas. Each area received the precise amount of attention, heightening the sensations coursing through you.

With your hands finding their way into his hair, you engaged in a gentle massage of his scalp, deepening the connection between you and Karaku.

Karaku shifted his focus to your left nipple, encircling the bud with his lips, creating a subtle suction while simultaneously applying a gentle squeeze to your breast. The sweet, fluid essence spilled over his tongue, eliciting a reaction from him as a low growl of anticipation escaped his lips, and a noticeable twitch in his hakama pants revealed the impact of the intimate encounter.

Karaku continued to suckle, varying the pressure and squeezes on your tender breast, immersing himself in the act as if he were an infant seeking nourishment. The audible pop that followed marked the release of your bud from his mouth. "Damn, baby, your milk is exquisite. Every part of you is delectable, from toe to head!" he exclaimed.

Amused, you giggled and playfully urged him to indulge in your other breast, a request he readily fulfilled. His lips enveloped the bud, initiating another round of sucking. Simultaneously, his hand ventured down into his hakama pants, and you bit your lower lip witnessing him palm his dick within the confines of his clothing. Occasional grunts punctuated the air, and he would intermittently nibble on your nipple, each bite gentle enough not to cause any discomfort.

"Just like that," you encouraged, your fingers gently stroking his nape. "Holy shit, it feels so good, Karaku…"

He persisted until no more milk flowed into his mouth. With a final, fervent suck, a groan escaped him, and with blush covering your cheeks, you observed the formation of a damp stain in the center of his pants — an unmistakable testament to his climax.

A moan escaped your lips as you drew him into a passionate kiss. "You've really eased my discomfort, my love," you whispered, gazing up at him with a grateful smile. "Thank you. My breasts feel so much better now."

Karaku grinned, gently pinning you down onto the futon. "Well then, let me continue having some more fun with you, my sexy mommy."

[whysperingwoods]

Ethics in Witchcraft: Empowerment vs Cheap Tricks

Witchcraft is mainstream-- a reality I never would have imagined ten years ago. With that rise comes a surge of offerings on various platforms, from spellwork to tarot readings, along with it the need for deeper questions: What's real? What's empowering? What crosses ethical lines? I want to explore the ethics of witchcraft, and how we can empower ourselves without resorting to cheap tricks.

The Etsy Dilemma: Quantity Over Quality?

What inspired me to write this article was setting up my Etsy shop. A few years ago, when this blog as last active, I sold tarot and fire readings on Etsy, and I was curious to see how things had changed since then. So, I decided to do a little research and see what other people were offering.

I was surprised to see how much the popularity of not only tarot readings, but spell work has skyrocketed in the last few years. Initially, I thought "Great! People are more open to witchcraft and divination!" But a closer look at the listings-- the quality, the prices, the speed of turnaround-- my excitement faded.

Let's take a look at some of the top listings that come up when you search for "tarot reading" on Etsy:

Most of the top results use stock images, some are obviously AI generated. The turnaround times are incredibly fast, and the prices are strikingly low. It's hard to imagine the quality of a 12-month tarot reading done in under an hour for a fraction of the usual cost. Now, let's look at the highest-selling listing:

The listing has racked up around 51 thousand sales in only 1200 days. That's 41 readings per day, just for this one listing (and this shop has several). Can you imagine providing 41 readings per day? It raises important questions: How much personal energy and focus can truly go into each reading when it's churned out at such a high volume?

When I adjusted the price range to being between $25 and $100, the listings were much more realistic. Photos of real people, with reasonable turnaround times and expectations. Phew!

What if we look at spellwork? This is where things get even more complex.

We see the same trend we saw with the tarot readings: Quick fixes, AI-generated images, extremely low prices.

Any experienced practitioner knows how much time and energy can go into a spell. Everyone has their own personal style-- sometimes I favour small workings that can be done in the span of a breath, and other times I like to prepare something elaborate that will take weeks to prepare and execute. But it raises a critical question: Can real intention be poured into something that’s mass-produced and requires only the click of a button?

At the heart of witchcraft is intention. Without it, what are we really practicing?

Love Spells and the Ethics of Consent

I would be remiss if I didn't talk about love spells here. This topic easily warrants its own post, but let's touch on some key points. Love magic is one of the most popular types of spells on Etsy, and I wouldn't be surprised if it holds true on other platforms. A quick glance through old grimoires and folk traditions reveals countless examples of love magic. In a world where connection feels more elusive than ever, it makes sense that these workings are in such high demand. But where do we draw the line?

Navigating consent in magic is tricky-- where do we distinguish between influencing the world in our favour and infringing on someone else’s free will? It’s a deeply personal question, one that each practitioner must answer for themselves. It's easy to tack on an "and it harm none" at the end of a spell and hope for the best. But that sidesteps some important questions: What is harm? How far do we take that? Sometimes, giving one person favour inevitably affects someone else. For example, casting a career spell to improve your chances of a promotion may unintentionally take an opportunity from another person. Can that not also be seen as harm?

This is why it's important for practitioners to reflect on what level of harm they are comfortable with. It's not an easy question, and the answers may shift over time and with experience. Ideally, none of us want to harm others, but that's something we have little control over. Maybe a better framework to consider is reducing suffering, rather than trying to avoid harm altogether. For example, while aiming for that promotion, you could also wish for your competitor’s contributions to be recognized in other ways. Instead of trying to avoid all harm, perhaps the goal can be to soften its impact and ensure that success isn’t gained at the expense of someone else's misery.

Rather than an “and it harm none” approach that could render a spell ineffective, asking ourselves how to minimize harm while still achieving our goals can lead to more balanced, thoughtful outcome-- ones that benefit everyone involved.

When it comes to love spells, another way to navigate this ethical grey area is by focusing on influencing your own circumstances rather than someone else's free will. I see this as putting something in the person's path, and allowing them to approach it themselves. Rather than casting a spell to make someone fall in love with you, how about casting a spell to increase your confidence, making yourself more noticeable, or drawing more positive attention your way? These types of spells empower you without infringing on someone else’s autonomy or agency.

Final Thoughts

At its core, ethical witchcraft is about empowerment—honouring the free will of others, practicing with intention, and ensuring that our magic comes from a place of authenticity. As practitioners, we have the power to shape our craft in a way that’s meaningful and respectful. Let’s choose paths that uplift and empower us, and the people around us.

I'd love to hear your thoughts. How do you approach ethics in your own craft? What ethical issues have you had to navigate, and how did you handle them?

[icyrambles]

hi friendly reminder that everything said in this post is my personal opinion. i actually really enjoyed earthspark season 1 and i was really really excited for season 2. i do not expect a piece of children’s media to be a perfectly written masterpiece but good lord was the bar low. anyways extreme spoilers below the cut. proceed with caution :3

i do not think it an untrue statement to say that the writing quality went down significantly between seasons. the plot, while not perfect in season 1, was far more fleshed out and actually took a whole season's worth to complete. meanwhile we had a plotline with much higher stakes get finished within the span of about a third of what the first season got. additionally while many of the episodes had some sort of connection to the wider goal of this batch of episodes, that being reclaiming the emberstone shards, many of the episodes did not focus specifically on the emberstone itself, instead sidelining it to a background plot or merely having characters randomly finding bits and pieces of it just lying about.

i would not think this a bad thing had the episodes not felt so rushed. starscream's plotline of obtaining all the emberstone shards should've taken the whole season, not just 9 episodes. the rushed writing reeks of corporate interference and slashed budgets and i have nothing but praise for the writers who scrambled to try and salvage a story that should've gotten 1, if not 2 seasons for a well rounded plot. however this does not stop me from wishing that they had tried to focus on creating a plotline that felt at least marginally more connected and tonally sound

it's an issue that i noticed throughout the first season where the dialogue and general morals of the show seem to be marketed towards a much younger audience and then the actual content of the show is not at all suited for children. obviously rampant child endangerment is a common theme in a lot of children's media (steven universe, she-ra, literally every tf show to ever feature a child character, etc...) but it's very strange to me that so few of the adult characters seem to care or understand how much danger mo and robby are in whenever they are part of an active combat scene.

neither dot nor alex seem all that concerned that their literal children are fighting alien robots who are more than twice their size and could easily maim or kill them without much trouble. obviously they have plot armour because they are the main characters but even then that's not a very good excuse when it's been established within the show that the characters are in highly dangerous situations that could get them killed and yet mo and robby's parents simply stand by and let their very young, elementary/middle school aged kids throw themselves into the line of danger.

and it's specifically the tone issue when it comes to the violence. if the combat in earthspark was treated as though no one could get hurt seriously and everyone would be okay, like it is in many prior transformers shows (like G1, TFA, and cyberverse) then i wouldn't have any issues with this. but it's not. fighting the decepticons is treated like it's a majour risk and that mo and robby could die every single time they leave the house to go on patrol. but their parents, beyond a few verbal warnings, do not do anything to keep their kids out of the way. they do not question why their children must be the ones to fight the decepticons, instead of leaving it up to the much more capable autobots.

it was bad in the last season but at the very least most of the fights then were simply due to the maltos being caught up in combat they weren't actively seeking out. but now, they are actively hunting down and searching for pieces of the emberstone that frequently lead them into situations that could risk their lives.

another issue i have with the tones of the show is how it treats injuries. hashtag seemingly gets very badly injured in the first episode because of aftermath and we, as the audience, are supposed to be very worried for her. however this lasts for all of about 10 minutes before she's back on her pedes and rolling around just fine, which once again leads to the confusing question of whether we're supposed to care if characters get injured. 

in transformers animated as an example, i was never particularly worried when characters got injured because of the allspark key. it was functionally a fix all tool used to repair any cybertronian character who got injured. therefore, whenever there was a majour battle, i never was in disbelief when a character would get seriously injured because it was previously established that the characters have a tool that can fix them should they require such drastic medical care. and it even tied into ratchet’s character arc and him learning to trust newer forms of technology.

wheeljack is another example of tonal dissonance when it comes to injuries. he gets stabbed in the face by a weapon called the cyberslayer. he then passes out and his optics turn completely black. we see dot grabbing him and looking very worried and then we don't get to see him again until the very last episode (which takes place two episodes after when he first gets injured) where he only appears for a split second fighting nova storm. no one mentions the fact that he got grievously injured, not even characters who saw him get hurt, like twitch, who has a strong emotional attachment to him and should likely care about him getting injured. 

mind you beyond a cybertronian’s frame going completely grey, their optics are how their physical and emotional state are often portrayed to most animated audiences. it’s not like in the comics where they can be covered in gore and lose limbs without consequence of scaring a young child. so seeing wheeljack’s optics go completely black and having people be worried about him and then never mentioning him again for two fucking episodes is really poor writing. 

and speaking of characters getting grievously injured. let me talk about spitfire and aftermath.

i do not enjoy the fact that they were killed. in fact i am appalled that they took two characters who were maybe less than a month old and then had them killed in what is to be implied to be an extremely painful manner. i’m unsure as to why the terrans are treated as though they are fully grown cybertronians when they are clearly not. they may have fully developed frames but they have the minds and personalities of children. additionally the way the chaos terrans are treated makes me deeply uncomfortable considering their age and the way they were brought into the world.

it is implied that the emberstone brings terrans into existence depending on the situation and in both cases of a chaos terran being created, that situation is combat. aftermath was created when breakdown fumbled an emberstone shard and it landed in a puddle of water. he was then immediately hit by a truck and began attacking the rest of the terrans. spitfire is much the same, being created when a shard of the emberstone was tossed into a thunderstorm while twitch was being chased by laserbeak. 

the way that the maltos talk about the chaos terrans, addressing them as evil and corrupted versions of the other terrans is deeply unsettling to me considering season 1’s themes of acceptance and understanding for those around you. it’s very weird to have jawbreaker go from being buddy-buddy with aftermath in one episode and then upon meeting spitfire in the next episode, distrusting her. obviously aftermath did betray jawbreaker’s trust by stealing the supply of cave water, but it feels incredibly out of character to see jawbreaker, who is friendly, kind, and unrelentingly positive, suddenly stick his nose up at spitfire, an individual he has never met before in his life. 

i’m aware that the terrans are proven right about aftermath and spitfire but it’s so gross to see characters who are less than a year old get thrown under the same bus as the decepticons who have committed literal war crimes. 

and then there’s the fact that they were killed by starscream. now to be clear, i did not expect starscream to be a good person in this season. i was tentatively hopeful that he would get a redemption arc of some kind considering megatron’s whole deal, but i was fully expecting him to be the main antagonist of season 2. however… it feels bizarrely out of place to see starscream quite literally murder two newborn babies and then not have said babies get revived at the end of the season. 

aftermath and spitfire are dead. just straight up gone. and it’s a waste of potential in my opinion. 

these are two characters who could have gone from side antagonists to genuine fan favourites given enough time and proper development. that’s what i though their plotline would be to be honest; i assumed that we were going to see them grow and develop over the course of the season (not just the first nine episodes) with the two of them eventually leaving the decepticons to join the autobot side. 

instead they are murdered in front of four main characters and banished the realm of never having had existed once again. there is the possibility of them being revived but i am highly unsure of that being the case considering how their existence sort of depends on the emberstone being shattered into several pieces. 

additionally, going back to starscream, i honestly do not want him to get a redemption arc now. there is no way in my mind that the writers can make him a good guy after he murdered two children. like, zero chance. unless they just bumped it under the rug, it’s fucking impossible to go “yeah starscream, the guy who killed two babies and then tried to destroy an entire town full of people, yeah he’s a good guy now!” 

that just would be tone deaf.

okay i’m moving on to the various plotholes and open ended questions that have been left on the floor now because if i keep thinking about how the chaos terrans were treated it’ll make me sadder

so first big question. why are the cons bad now? no genuinely, i would like to know why exactly the decepticons suddenly turned evil. the excuse of “oh that’s just how cons are” is not an excuse, it’s a fucking shame explanation that goes entirely against the themes of the first season. like even a fucking line of just “oh we tried peace but like many of our past ceasefires our ideologies just clashed too much” or something along those lines. 

and it’s been a whole year since season 1. something must have happened for the decepticons to have suddenly flipped sides on a dime. it’s so weird to me seeing a character like breakdown finally have the opportunity for something tangentially related to peace and then become a con once again despite having zero reason to actually stay with them. 

like ghost is gone (which is another thing i’ll bring up later) so why wouldn’t he chill with the autobots where he’s not in active combat and being starved for resources. like i can understand soundwave, shockwave, and starscream leaving considering their ties to megatron, and novastorm and skywarp leaving because of starscream seems about right. 

but swindle? hardtop? the insecticons? why the fuck do they care about the decepticons? surely those individuals don’t have the same loyalty to the cons as the others? and it doesn’t help that the insecticons get no lines this season and swindle and hardtop get like 6 collectively. we don’t learn anything about them or their motives. we can’t deduce anything because the narrative doesn’t care enough about them to actually explain or show why they’d choose to stick with the decepticons over the autobots. 

and starscream’s motives are another really weird thing. we’re told it’s because he wants to build a new cybertron but that feels so wildly out of character when he’s shown to generally just dislike megatron and his rule. why would he want anything to do with earth? 

“oh well shockwave hasn’t found anything that says cybertron is still around” 

well he hasn’t found anything that says cybertron is gone either. like one blown up spacebridge would not fucking explode an entire planet. and it would make far more sense for starscream to be building a new spacebridge powered by the emberstone instead. and the decepticons being the antagonists instead because of them wanting to go home quicker and not wanting to be patient and resorting to violence. 

like you’re telling me that shockwave couldn’t build a fucking space bridge when agent croft and mandroid could. pathetic. he would probably do it faster and with better materials because he knows what he’s doing. 

additionally if we got a space bridge up and working that would mean getting to see cybertron which would provide a lot of really good character building for the terrans! like it would be very fun to see them getting to explore and grapple with their cybertronian side!

ignoring the whole mess that is decepticons are the bad guys again because of “reasons”, i wanna talk about the carnival episode

now overall i actually enjoyed this episode. like beyond the whole crush plot not really being my thing (which is more a result of me not enjoying romantic subplots within kids media to begin with which is in it of itself just a result of me being aroace and disliking unnecessary romance in media) i actually really liked this episode! i enjoyed seeing the terrans interacting in an environment that isn’t a fight scene. and the use of their bond in regards to robby’s crush is actually a really cute concept that i felt was well executed. 

absolutely zero thoughts on robby’s crush. other than they both deserve jail for that food crime abomination of a funnel cake. but to each their own i suppose. 

but now comes the questions… what the fuck was up with cosmos man?!

from his dialogue about not knowing that megatron was an autobot we can assume that he’s been trapped there for minimum of like… 40 years give or take. and that’s a fucking horrifying thing to think about. he’s trapped in his altmode for decades without any way to communicate with his allies all while this random human uses him as a method of making money. 

i don’t particularly know how those altmode devices work, but surely his spark signature would still be recognisable correct? did the other autobots just assume that he was dead? did they not care? were ghost preventing the autobots from rescuing him? 

so many questions that will probably not get answered because having weird al voice him probably increased his budget several times over. 

oh and also are we going to learn where fairemestro got his tech from? did he just get it all from swindle over the years, that would seem the most logical, but also maybe he was working with ghost, that could be an interesting plot threat if the writers decide to bring him back. 

the quintessons are another group that leaves me with a lot of questions. like clearly they’re being set up as the main villains of the rest of the season but it’s so weird to me that they’re not set up earlier than that. 

why on earth make starscream the villain if you’re going to just get rid of him nine episodes in. surely it would’ve been easier to simply dedicate the time and energy into building up the quintessons in the first batch of episodes, with the decepticons as minour supporting characters along with the autobots and then have the rest of the season be about fighting the quints. 

it feels so oddly structured and rushed. 

i understand that time constraints and budget cuts most likely caused them to cram everything into season 2 because season 3 might not be a guarantee but considering how big of a threat the quintessons are likely going to be, having them get their own season to fully realise their goals and/or plans is a better writing decision than a singular episode of setup that immediately got forgotten for the rest of the episode batch. 

and okay, personal bias here. the quintesson executioner model was ugly. it was weird and it was gross and it’s fucking limbs made of jelly energon was just not it man. like give that thing some tentacles with blades on the end. not whatever the fuck that creature was. 

and also small tangent, i don’t like quintus prime. i do not like the fact that he enlisted two literal children to do his bidding and then having the writing team puppet said children around saying “yes quintus prime is our friend :)” while he has done nothing to earn their respect or trust. he’s a fucking dick who is leaving his mess for two kids to clean up. 

mo saying to the executioner “but quintus is my friend” pisses me off so much because he’s really not. he appeared in one vision for about 3 minutes and in that time he got angry at mo for being scared about her brother being in mortal danger. that’s not friend behaviour. 

additionally alex’s nonchalance about the quintesson executioner is so strange to me. he literally saw his probably 9-10 year old daughter getting hunted down and just doesn’t do anything afterwards to ensure that it won’t happen again. no sitting down with dot and saying “honey maybe we shouldn’t let our children do this anymore. it’s clearly dangerous.” nothing of that sort??? really??? do neither of these parents care about their children now???

season one dorothy malto would never do this. she would be furious that her children are regularly throwing themselves into life or death situations. 

not to mention the fact that these kids are still in school, actively!!! mo finding the quintus temple is literally only because she has to do a history project on witwicky, meaning she’s actively in school during the season. so that means that not only are these kids in school during the day, but they’re also training, going on patrol, and fighting beings roughly 2-3x their size on the daily????

how are they not exhausted physically and mentally? how have their teachers not noticed something is off? do they just not have any connections with their classmates? do they merely just go to school, go home, work, and then repeat?

this problem could be easily fixed by just saying they’re homeschooled or that it’s the summer. but nope, they’re in public school. 

okay end tangent. moving onto characters. 

i’ve already talked about the assassination of characters like dot, who is suddenly a background mom who seemingly doesn’t give a shit about her seven kids throwing themselves into life and death situations and the same goes for alex, but there was a noticeable lack of character time from pretty much every majour character from season 1. 

like bumblebee, someone who lives with the malto family and was their teacher and mentor in season 1. he’s just fucking gone for 90% of the season. he has like three total scenes and most of those are dedicated to him being comic relief. it baffles me that he’s just missing. everything from season one, his silly moments with alex, his awkward dynamic with optimus and megatron, his love and dedication with the kids is just gone. 

it breaks my heart because bumblebee was one of the highlights of season 1. he was silly, kind, caring, strong, and the perfect mix between the bumblebee’s of tfa, g1, and cyberverse. 

megatron, arcee, and grimlock also got almost no screentime. arcee and grimlock i can sort of understand because even in season 1 they were relatively minour background characters who featured in only one or two episodes… but megatron, fucking megatron, mr. i’m an autobot now. mr. i’ve changed for the better???? why is he not more prominently featured as a potential mentor for the chaos terrans. 

he of all bots would understand what they’re going through? why does he just brush off spitfire? why is he not more concerned when the chaos terrans are merely left to the side and dehumanised like the rest of the decepticons?

it’s so strange to see him become this random guy who says almost nothing and is mostly in the background when he played such a prominent role in season 1. and it’s especially weird that he’s also just okay with the terrans and malto kids collecting the emberstones by themselves. like he was very clearly protective and caring towards them in season 1 so why the sudden shift in character in season 2?

starscream is also such 180 from season 1. like did i expect him to be a perfect little angel who can do no wrong? fuck no. i was fully expecting him to be mean, ornery, and snippish when he interacted with megatron and the autobots. but to have him go from “look out for yourself” to hashtag and then straight up murder two children for a plot point that barely makes any sense is just so fucking out of line. 

i’m a firm hater of most starscream’s that are just evil guy for the sake of evil. i fucking hate what skybound did to him good lord. so to see him suddenly flip from being relatively sympathetic (i say relatively because he’s not like a good person. i fully understand that he was actively part of the group that invaded earth and probably killed a lot of humans) but having him just straight up kill two children… no man. i will not accept a redemption arc after that. 

he had so much potential to be a good character, who actively struggled with becoming a good person and dealing with his trauma in a healthy way and to see that potential get tossing into the trash just makes my blood boil. 

zero thoughts on soundwave and his team. he got like three lines and was mostly just a cardboard cutout of his season 1 self. weird that we never got to see frenzy considering laserbeak and ravage got scenes. is she just dead now? 

shockwave betraying (or at least not listening to starscream’s orders) was pretty interesting. i’m ready to see what he’s going to do in the rest of the season. then again there’s a good chance that he’ll just be cardboard cutout later on. 

skywarp and novastorm. nothing much. they’re fine. i like the few interactions they got. i enjoy the fact that skywarp is allowed to be a little stupid like her g1 counterpart and her fight scene with elita-1 was pretty nice. i’ve seen people complain that they didn’t change enough about her to justify the pronouns change but i subscribe to the notion that cybertronians do not use pronouns in the same way that humans do, so like, i don’t really give a fuck about the she/her usage. it’s a silly thing to get hung up over in my opinion. 

insecticons are nothing burger characters. swindle and hardtop are boring as hell. also someone get hardtop a new arm for fucks sake. it’s been a year. surely they could manage that. 

another dropped plot was the combining concept. like it gets put into an episode and then it gets dropped only one episode later. i honestly did not like how jawbreaker was portrayed in the episode that he features more prominently in. he’s upbeat and happy sure, but even he isn’t that emotionally dense. you’re telling me that while combined with aftermath he really couldn’t figure out why aftermath was so pissy. or that he was going to end up stealing all the cave water? really man?

additionally i’m not a massive fan of combination as a concept in tf to begin with. it feels very much like a toy marketing scheme and after idw1 i just cannot bring myself to give enough of a fuck about such things considering how massive combination was in the comics. it especially feels out of place in earthspark. i did like the scene where mo and robby devour like three plates of food after combining, that was really cute!

quite literally zero thoughts on hashtag picking out a new altmode. it was cute but it felt highly unnecessary to be perfectly honest. also i genuinely hope that her ai doesn’t turn evil like i’ve seen some people saying that it will. i prefer the interpretation that hashtag is now plural and the ai is simply her headmate. hashtag’s new model is just fine. i don’t like her helm though, it feels too naked for me. but the colours and everything else. fine. no notes. 

in terms of animation i honestly don’t have too much to say. most of the models felt oddly stiff. like the people in charge of animation didn’t get paid enough to properly emote them during scenes beyond moving their mouths and maybe stretching their eyes. (this is a gross exaggeration. there is a lot of time and effort that goes into rigging and creating 3d models and i understand that on a tight budget it’s probably very hard to try and make every character as expressive as possible.)

the fight scenes felt so weirdly rushed and/or oddly choreographed. like it might just be a me thing but most of the scenes felt either too slow or too fast with the rare exception (i like spitfire and twitch’s scenes. they were good)

aftermath’s model is overall pretty good. besides his helm. it feels a bit too small. 

already stated my opinions on the quintesson executioner model above. it’s shit. i don’t like it. 

terratronus is honestly pretty good. the detailing is nice. don’t like her glorification of quintus prime though. like it’s in character but that doesn’t mean i have to like it. she wasn’t around long enough to make a big enough impression on me. she feels like a lore exposition dump and that’s about it. 

alright this thing is getting too long. like 4k words long. before i go, let me say something. 

i did actually enjoy watching season 2. despite my paragraphs and paragraphs of criticism and questions and annoyances with so much of the season, i think it’s perfectly fine by itself. but in comparison to season 1, it’s a poor fucking sequel. it fails on almost every level and i think more people should be more comfortable with admitting that it’s just very bad. that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it, that doesn’t mean you can’t like what it did. i just think that people shouldn’t sweep the massive issues these episodes have with pacing, dialogue, and animation simply because some parts of it were decent. 

i’m probably going to watch the rest of the season when the episodes drop (purely because prowl is there tbh. if he’s there at all.)

[persianflaw]

i've been feeling a little embarrassed lately by how my attention span has dwindled when it comes to reading. i can still focus on other hobbies more or less the same, but those hobbies are more physical (cross stitching and making miniatures are my main two right now) and i often have music or a video playing in the background for additional stimulation. which i don't think is a bad thing, i actually find that i'm more attentive to both tasks when i do this, it just means that my ability to focus there isn't really representative.

i think some of it is anxiety-related; i find that i am more inclined to seek familiar stimuli of all kinds when my baseline anxiety levels are higher. and when i'm going through a period of higher inattentive behaviors, i struggle to initiate activities that require sole focus (as opposed to a creative project where i'm using my hands while listening to a podcast). same reason i have a bunch of movies and television shows stagnating on my watch list. obviously my adhd is a major element, arguably the underlying one. but adhd can be managed better and it can be managed worse, and this does feel like a decline.

cutting the rest for length because somehow this post ended up longer than i thought it would lol

this really stood out to me when i decided, last minute, to scrap my yuletide WIP in favor of reading a totally different book my recipient had requested and writing a fic based on that. it wasn't especially long, only 348 pages in the print version, but it took me maybe a week to get through when back in the day i would have knocked that out in an evening. of course, work was a factor, as well as the fact that i was having some medical procedures done, and the book itself was somewhat complex (an arthurian murder mystery with a lot of similarly-named characters whose relationships with each other are a complicated but extremely plot-crucial web). hell, even the fact that i had more or less assigned it to myself as homework probably contributed. but i didn't like the feeling of picking it up and feeling like i was dragging my heels. reading has never been a chore to me. i was an early reader and i took to it like a duck to water. this is not a pleasant experience.

(i HAVE noticed - and this is kind of funny - that font size totally impacts my reading process. i read very, very fast, and tend to process text in chunks (not skimming, it's just how i've always done it), so if the font is too large it slows me down a lot, which i think in turn tells part of my brain "this is a non-preferred task because it is going slowly". that's why i had trouble with e-readers at first: different font size than what i was used to in print books. but my eyesight is also getting worse as i get older, so i've had to size up text in digital formats, and i'm still finding a balance.)

all this to say that i want to work on my reading this year. i don't know if setting a specific book goal will energize or paralyze me, so i'm not sure if i'll do that or not. maybe... twenty-five books? i do have a lot of other hobbies in addition to working and attending college part-time, so i don't think that's unreasonably low. i also want to get back into reading short stories, so maybe i'll work out some kind of equivalency system there. i don't want to overcomplicate things. i just want to read like i used to.

[castlebyersafterdark]

https://www.tumblr.com/captain-evil-bastard/765076050038472704/honestly-i-dont-think-mileven-is-endgame-at-all

nah, f this, we better get a kiss (and obviously I’m hoping for something more 😜)

byler needs to clear be and undeniable, without a kiss historians will still say they were really good friends 🙄

I understand why folks are cautious, but we shouldn’t have to settle for scraps‼️

Yeah... I choose to live and enjoy life and media with less caution, holding the show to higher standards than "avoiding backlash" and I hope they wouldn't pander story telling to a falsely perceived audience demand. I feel like they stick to their instincts and artistic intent and will portray their vision in full. Implied/open ended isn't going to work for Will's character. It's the physical expression of his sexuality that's required for his storyline or history will show that these creators are cowards.

The "many characters" excuse is thin. The episodes are long. They've developed relationships in the span of time of a season and Byler has been the series long arc. And Will is a big focus this season. He needs the meaty, weighty storyline. To be honest - shows like this rely on a romance. We're there at different stages for most others. A "get together" makes for compelling TV. Robin/Vickie will be one as well, but they are second tier characters. Mike and Will are mains. A breakup is interesting, a new relationship is interesting - so that's also narratively what Byler also serves.

I'm keeping my answer pretty level here because there's so much I can get into about continuously feeling distressed about the gay relationship in the show always being downplayed as "it'll be totally fine if they're just implied, open ended, subtle, maybe the characters will go separate ways and meet in the future, we don't have time, they'll never show them super romantic" WHY can't they be afforded that arc??? Like everyone else. We know why, I know why. So I'm not gonna relent to accepting that as to protect myself. I'm out here and totally chill with expecting a raised bar with these two. Not gonna settle for low expectations and scraps either 😘

[thevoidlookedback]

Ready, Set, Go…

What’s your favorite Hozier song? Why? No, you can’t say all of them. And don’t choose something stupid like cherry wine (there’s nothing wrong with cherry wine. Obviously. But gods man, have an actual opinion).

You are, however, perfectly welcome to list a handful in no particular order. Here, I’ll start,

Wildflower and Barley ft. Allison Russell

“(I feel as) useful as dirt, put my body to work.”

If this song does not fill you with the incredible longing to fall in love with life, and love, and dirt, you are listening to music wrong. I am sorry, you are beyond redemption.

To Noise Making (Sing)

“Your head tilt back, your funny mouth to the clouds. I couldn’t hope to know that song and all it’s words wouldn’t claim to feel the same it felt the first time it was heard.”

“Was it that or just the act of making noise that brought you joy?”

Enjoy the moment because it will not last, but rejoice in the knowledge that more are coming, as similarly meaningful and unique and impossible to duplicate to the one you are currently living!

Make music. Make bad music. Make music for the sake of exaltation. Make art because if you don’t then what is the point in living! Make art because one of the first things a child learns is to take marker to a wall, or pudding to a carpet. Make art because it is an expression of self. Make art because it is proof of life. Live.

Too Sweet

“Don’t you just want to wake up, dark as a lake? Smelling like a bonfire, lost in a haze?”

Get drunk with your friends and skinny dip off a pier. Ignore the rules, what are they for anyway? Find meaning in how you see it. Confront the wild beast in the woods and let it merry meet the one in you.

Those church bells in the background- Are they ringing in a wedding, or a funeral? A simple Sunday Service, or acknowledging the hour? Life goes on, always. It’s the one continuity. It never stops. So what are you doing with it?

Moment’s Silence (Common Tongue)

“A cure I know that soothes the soul, does so impossibly. A moment’s silence when my baby puts the mouth on me.”

“When the meaning’s gone, there is clarity, and the reason comes on the common tongue of your loving me. And it’s easy done, our little remedy…”

Hot.

What, I can’t like music with an…oral focus? Too low brow? The beat and flow of the music takes you on a sensual journey as much as the lyrics.

Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene by Hozier, Fiachra Kinder, and Rory Doyle

“Jarring of judgement and reasons defeat, the sweet heat of her breath in my mouth, I’m alive.”

“With her sweetened breath, and her tongue so mean…”

“With her straw blonde hair, her arms hard and lean, she’s the angle of death and the codeine scene.”

I’m gay. Extraordinarily queer. Do I need to elaborate? This sound sounds like a death march. It sounds like the echo in your ears as you dance yourself to death. Years passing away in the span of a single dance and you don’t care, as long as she is your partner. You can’t manage to rip your eyes off her to save your life. You won’t.

Almost (Sweet Music)

“I’m almost me again…she’s almost you.”

It was Almost Sweet Music. We were Almost something. I’m Almost able to be normal about this song. Seperated by a pair of parenthesis, kept apart and yet part of the whole.

Foreigner’s God

“Her eyes look sharp and steady into the empty parts of me. But still my heart is heavy with the hate of some other man’s beliefs.”

“I’ve no language left to say it, but all I do is quake to her. Break it if I try to convey it, the broken love I make to her.”

If you, somehow, have missed the message that Hozier’s music is incredibly political- If you have ignored Nobody’s Soldier, Eat Your Young, and oh, I don’t know, just about 70% of his discography… What do you think this song is about?

It’s also just a really fucking good song.

[causeitsagame]

Fic: The Cat in the Box (2/?)

Summary: After someone truly dies, Hajime takes it as his responsibility to keep everyone else alive. With an unexpected discovery, he realizes he can go even further than that. Warnings: Character death, obviously. (There will actually be a lot of character death, but most of it won't stick.) Ships: Assume basically everything. But like in the warnings section, most of them won't stick. I'm shameless and will focus the most on my favorite characters, though. Notes: Well, this took a while! I didn't expect my work life to explode right after writing the last chapter, but these things happen. Before the AU nonsense begins, I obviously needed a long conversation between Hajime and Fuyuhiko. Obviously.

-----

As Hajime soon discovered, universe-spanning technology was very slightly tricky to figure out.

"C'mon," Kazuichi wheedled. He'd promised to stay quiet inside the small facility room that Hajime had claimed for this work. Naturally, he'd broken that promise. "Let me take a look at it? Please?"

Ignoring him, Hajime leaned closer to the device. The closest comparison that came to mind was a spark plug, if that plug was nearly a meter tall, glossy white, and festooned with readout panels and gold wire connectors. Oh, now that he'd gotten close enough to really study it, he noticed something interesting. Gold wasn't just found in those ribbon wire connectors, but was inlaid into the surface itself. Though the narrow gold lines were oddly shaped, their design still looked purposeful.

"Come on," Kazuichi repeated, now close enough for Hajime to feel his breath as he leaned forward.

Hajime's hand shot out and gripped Kazuichi's wrist before he could make contact. "Don't. I need to understand it, first."

Kazuichi stepped back and gestured to himself in a show of protest. "Hey! Ultimate Mechanic, here! I know what I'm doing!"

The low itch that had driven Hajime to pick up this computer now wanted everyone else out of the room. Especially the man whose first instinct at seeing any interesting device was to dismantle it. "Explain quantum physics, then."

Kazuichi moved his beanie and scratched his head. "Uh, I… could probably figure it out. Just give me a minute."

Abruptly, Hajime realized what the gold lines running across the device's surface reminded him of. Folding his arms, he archly added, "And explain the use of kintsugi."

"Kint… kintsugi? It's… uh… probably to… lubricate the—hey!"

As Kazuichi fumbled through his uncertain response, Hajime began steering him to the door. "I promise, I will let you look at this later. But I need to handle it right now," he said, and closed Kazuichi outside.

Now that he'd put the name to it, those inlaid golden lines running across the surface really did look like kintsugi pottery. Hajime knew how to use that technique, of course: collect the shards from broken pottery and rejoin them with liquid gold. It was a delicate process, but with the gleaming golden veins it added, resulted in a piece of art that could look even more beautiful than the original work.

But while kintsugi pottery had irregular chunks joined by golden repairs, this computer case's lines were rigidly geometric and clearly planned. With such precision, the golden lines were so thin that Hajime had been able to overlook them until just now, right up close in this well-lit room. Hmm. Did the organization of the pieces indicate how to use this machine, or was it the layout of the golden lines themselves, or…

Some time later, Hajime realized someone was standing behind him. "I told you: you can play with this once I've gotten it figured out."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'll pass."

That wasn't Kazuichi. Hajime felt himself struggle up from analysis mode like a deep sea diver returning to the surface: slowly, and dazzled by the bright light waiting for him up top. He blinked a few times until he could focus on the face in front of him: Fuyuhiko. For some reason, Fuyuhiko was here. "Oh, uh, hey. What's up?"

Fuyuhiko's thumb gestured backward over his shoulder. "I thought you'd want an update on how those special drugs went."

The drugs? The drugs for Nagito, right. Hajime pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, suddenly realizing how long he'd been focused on those tiny lines. He needed a few hard blinks to (mostly) clear his vision. "Right, thanks for letting me know. How's Nagito doing?"

Fuyuhiko didn't respond for long enough that Hajime began to worry. When he did speak, his too-careful tone worsened that concern."Well, Mikan did get one of those vials into Nagito. It seemed like some pretty serious business. She needed to use an IV line instead of a syringe."

Hajime nodded impatiently. "That makes sense; these were drugs of last resort. By definition, they're serious business. But how's he doing?"

Fuyuhiko paused again before answering. "An hour or so after she got it into him, they both decided to have her hit him with a dose of knockout drugs. It sounds like the plan is to keep him out for a while. However long that ends up being."

Anesthesia? What on earth? The bizarre explanation was enough to make Hajime rise from where he sat. "That's… what happened, then? Seriously, is Nagito okay?"

With a few quick jerks, Fuyuhiko folded his arms across his chest. His good eye flashed with deeper annoyance than usual, and he'd ripped off the eyepatch that usually covered his scarred one. That likely indicated a bad enough mood that even the thin tension of elastic over his skull was too much to handle. "'Okay?' Is that something you give a shit about, now?"

Hajime's frown deepened. "Huh? The whole reason we ran that mission was to help Nagito. Of course I care if he's okay."

One of Fuyuhiko's arms unfolded, and he whipped that hand forward to poke Hajime in the chest. The strike was precise, and landed hard. "Do you give a shit about whether everyone is okay, now?"

Ah. Well, that move might have ruined some stitches. Hajime didn't bother to hold back a wince as he rubbed the spot where Fuyuhiko had poked him. It was right where he'd taken a grazing gunshot in the facility assault, and Hajime was unsurprised to see pinprick spots of blood staining his fresh shirt. "We don't have an infinite supply of clothes, y'know."

"Clothes aren't the fucking point, Hinata. I'm still pissed about you throwing yourself into the line of fire. Peko told me everything that went down in that building." Fuyuhiko's finger threatened to repeat its violent point on one of Hajime's many other shallow wounds. "You're officially off field duty. You're only running support tasks, now."

Unwilling to argue with one of their self-appointed mission directors, Hajime clarified, "So, I can't go onto the field?"

"Right. Not until I give you permission, and that's not coming any damn time soon! And that permission's gotta come from me, you got it? Not Sonia! She wasn't there when you pulled that dumbfuck move!"

Hajime nodded. "Got it. So, all I can do is stay on the sidelines and do… tech support?"

Fuyuhiko's frown deepened over the pushback he wasn't getting. "Uh. Yeah. Right."

That sounded perfect. All Hajime wanted to do for the foreseeable future was work with the quantum computer until he'd teased apart its very last secrets. "Great, sounds perfect. You've got it. But really, is Nagito okay?"

After a few more mute, visibly frustrated seconds, Fuyuhiko relented and nodded. "Yeah, mostly. From what Mikan said, that stuff hit him like a combination of—"

"In practice, like a combination of multiple corticosteroids and a near cousin to a chemotherapy regimen," Hajime finished. Feeling that Fuyuhiko hadn't fully understood the drug supply he'd located, Hajime further explained, "With aggressive properties to reduce problematic tissue, while simultaneously sending the body's reparative functions into overdrive to—hopefully—recover and repair existing damage. It's about the only shot he's got left, so if it's not working…"

"No, for what it's worth, I think it's working," Fuyuhiko admitted. "But it left the guy feeling like his body was being ripped apart and put back together again. From the sound of it, it hit him a hell of a lot worse than anyone knew to expect. And it's not like the guy can't handle some serious pain, so…"

After a moment, Hajime uncomfortably concluded, "You mentioned that Mikan put Nagito into an induced coma, at least for a little while. Did… did the medicine leave him feeling that bad?"

"…Yeah." Fuyuhiko stared at nothing in particular as that sank in: Nagito's only salvation, which they'd worked so hard to get, felt more like damnation. "He, uh… how often is Nagito going to need this shit, anyway?"

The underlying meaning of that question ached. These drugs were the only chance Nagito had to stay alive. But every time he took them, his life would apparently become so agonizing that chemical oblivion was the only solution. How long would Nagito need to be unconscious before his body tolerated each new dose? Twelve hours? A day? A week?

"How often?" Fuyuhiko repeated.

"Every month," Hajime admitted. This cycle would need to happen every month.

Sighing, Fuyuhiko pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck. Is this really the only…?"

Hajime sighed, too. "Yeah. Unless we take over one of the top hospitals left somewhere and have its research staff work on him for six months straight… yeah. We're pretty much out of options."

"And I'm betting a hospital wouldn't roll out the red carpet for us any time soon," Fuyuhiko darkly concluded. He stayed silent for a while before adding, "I wouldn't do it."

"Take over a hospital?" Hajime wondered, befuddled.

"Take that medicine. Live a half-life like that, needing to be put under until I stop puking my guts out each month. I'd end it all, first." Despite those bitter words, Fuyuhiko's tone wasn't cold, but certain. Confident, even. "And I wouldn't let you risk yourself for me, in the first place. It'd be better to just end it."

Though the tone wasn't cold, Hajime felt frozen where he stood. "We are not giving up on anyone," he spat like he was talking to a stranger. Was this his Fuyuhiko, or a flickering shadow of the Remnant who'd sent his family's legacy against the meat grinder of the Japanese military? They'd thought the worst memories of Despair had been faced and grimly, painfully handled, but would more bubble up, even after so long? "And Nagito did say that we shouldn't risk ourselves for him, and I'm the one who said there was no question about it! So if you try to—"

"For fuck's sake," Fuyuhiko said, with wry humor that finally sounded more like him. "I didn't say to stop what you're doing, Hajime. I just said that I'd take myself off the board before I dealt with that shit. Me. For myself, not for anyone else."

"Oh." Hajime paused, then admitted, "Yeah, I guess you do like to go for the big dramatic sacrifice moves."

"Watch it." Fuyuhiko glared at him through his narrowed eye before continuing. "And if anyone's a fan of 'big dramatic sacrifice moves,' it's Nagito."

It wasn't hard for Hajime to anticipate the question he was about to be asked: how'd you convince that guy that he 'deserved' a risky mission for his sake in the first place? And that was a fair question. Nagito still acted like there was a separator between him and the rest of the group; between his self-appointed 'worthy' versus 'unworthy.' And Nagito, of course, remained unworthy, even after so long. "Yeah, he didn't want us going on that mission. Not for his sake."

Fuyuhiko's eyebrows raised, prompting a finish to that explanation.

"I lied that it was for my own sake," Hajime admitted. "That I wanted to see if I my talents could fix his medical issues. You know, with all of that…" His mouth twisted with the label a group of self-important monsters had given to him. "Ultimate Hope."

Fuyuhiko studied him. "Bullshit."

"No, really. I don't think Nagito totally believed me, but it worked well enough as an excuse that he gave in and said yes."

"I didn't mean that. That 'bullshit' was that when you said it was for your sake, that you lied." Seeing Hajime's confusion, Fuyuhiko continued, "That was no lie. It's just like I said before the mission: you still think Nekomaru was your fault. You can't take feeling that again, not so soon."

Hajime stayed silent for a while. "Yeah, and?"

"And… and nothing, I guess. I just don't want you lying to yourself about something. Especially something this big." Sympathy began to creep into Fuyuhiko's voice, mingled with real concern. "The only way we all got through, y'know… everything was by owning up to it, and moving on as best we could. That means it could be dangerous if you get too deep inside your own brain and don't come up for air."

When Hajime didn't reply, Fuyuhiko eventually continued, "Kazuichi whined about you kicking him out. He thinks this… whatever it is looked interesting. Are you sure it wouldn't be better if you let him in, instead of sitting in here alone?"

"I… look. I will, eventually! But this is like nothing I've ever seen before, and Kazuichi's first impulse is always to dig into something's components and see how they all piece together. I need to start with a lighter touch, is all."

Fuyuhiko's lips thinned. "Fine. What is that thing, anyway? The Imposter went quiet about it, and no one else knows why you've closed yourself in here." His eye flicked to the side and surveyed the computer, quickly but with keen attention. "It looks like an expensive piece of garbage."

Hajime laid a protective hand on what he'd come to think of as his computer. Yes, some of the elemental plugs had clearly been jury-rigged, but for a prototype, it looked damn good. "It's, uh."

"Uh?"

"If I tell you this, will you promise not to run off and tell Kazuichi? That's gotta be why the Imposter kept quiet."

"Sure, fine," Fuyuhiko impatiently sighed. "So?"

"As near as I can tell, it's a quantum computer that functions by…" Hajime hesitated, bit his lower lip, and continued, "That functions by accessing additional processing capabilities in…"

"Yeah? In what?"

"In other dimensions." Seeing Fuyuhiko frown in continued confusion, Hajime added, "Other realities. Timelines. Whatever you call it, it doesn't just run in our own dimension."

"That's… what the hell?"

Inspiration struck, and Hajime snapped his fingers and leaned back down to the computer. His fingers trailed lightly over the thin gold lines wrapping its surface. Perhaps his mental label of a kintsugi process had been more insightful than he first thought. Using gold to join multiple pieces back together? Maybe… "Look, let me explain it this way: what did you have for breakfast this morning?"

"I skipped it."

Hajime frowned at Fuyuhiko.

"What? Teruteru was pissing me off."

"He always pisses you off, but you still need to eat breakfast." Hajime held up his hands. "Never mind. Fine, you skipped breakfast. But tomorrow, you might decide that you're hungry enough to deal with him, right?"

"Sure. Whatever."

"Okay… well, in some other version of today, you decided to deal with Teruteru instead of skipping breakfast." His point didn't yet appear to be made, and Hajime considered it for a moment more. "How else to put this… before we ran the mission, you told me that you were ready to call it off. You could have decided to do that, right? You could have been too worried about letting me go on the field, or that I was putting Peko at too much risk?"

Fuyuhiko nodded. "Sure. It was a close call; I was ready to pull you all back."

"What would have happened if you had?"

"Well… I guess Nagito wouldn't be on all those knockout drugs, but he'd still be dying. And you wouldn't have that pile of trash on the counter, there."

Hajime sighed. It wasn't a pile of trash. It did look like a weird spark plug, sure, but a graceful, glossy white one that Apple would price like an automobile. "Right, exactly. Well, some branches of theoretical physics—stop looking bored, this is important."

"I'm not bored, I'm impatient. Get to the damn point."

"Right. Under certain theories, for each time we make a decision this way and not that way, a parallel dimension is created. Sometimes, the changes are small, like whether you skipped breakfast or grabbed some food. Sometimes, the changes are huge, like whether we save Nagito and get that computer."

Dubious, and making no attempt to hide it, Fuyuhiko clarified, "So under this bullshit theory, there's supposedly a whole new dimension created for every decision? Made by everyone? You might as well say that—"

"That there's an infinite number of possible dimensions," Hajime concluded with satisfaction. And in many of them, the conditions would be in place for one of these quantum computers to be built. Not all of them would ever be simultaneously in use; not when the word 'infinite' was part of the equation.

That, then, explained the kintsugi design on the computer's surface. The disparate pieces it joined together weren't really the glossy shards on a computer cover, but connections to the same machine in other dimensions. Any individual unit, like this one, only had a few hundred connection areas. But if each unit had a slightly different array of connections, then the potential number of processors was… unlimited.

That had surely been the intention of the designers. A supercomputer with unlimited processing power was a world-changing goal, all on its own. But with Hajime able to bring together multiple theoretical perspectives like no one else on the planet could, he could see an even bigger use for the machine in front of them.

Fuyuhiko took a while to reply. When he did, he sounded as cautious as Hajime had felt when he heard Fuyuhiko sound so casually dismissive about those last-resort drugs. They all knew to keep watch for the return of very dangerous habits. "And what're you planning to do with all of those other places, huh?"

Hajime started tracing golden paths over the machine's surface. Where did this map lead, exactly? "Somewhere, based on some combination of decisions and circumstances and dumb luck…"

"…Yeah?"

"Somewhere… maybe in a lot of somewheres… Nekomaru is still alive."

Fuyuhiko's eye closed, and he sighed. "And there it is."

"Don't give me that! If you knew you could save someone… if what you needed to do it was sitting right there on the counter, you'd do it!" Hajime gestured toward the closed door, and all of the people beyond it. Out there was Peko and the Imposter, who'd eventually bring Akane back into the fold of running their dangerous missions. Nagito, currently comatose with painful medical issues that could only be managed, not fixed. Ibuki, who'd come within seconds of choking to death while her struggles almost went unnoticed. "And I can do it! This is what I'm supposed to do, Fuyuhiko! Its what I was—"

Silence hung heavy after Hajime cut off. Levelly, Fuyuhiko finished, "Made for?"

Hajime grimaced. Yeah, he'd recognized the uncomfortable phrasing a few words too late.

Silence returned. This time, it stayed long enough that Hajime began to focus on the thrum-thrum-thrum of the overhead fan. An irregularity was barely audible, too quiet for even Kazuichi to notice during his visit, but Hajime should probably adjust a screw to correct its balance.

"I'm calling this mission," Fuyuhiko sighed, and broke eye contact.

Hajime blinked. "Huh?"

"Whatever you're doing… whatever you're thinking of doing… don't. That's an order."

Hajime fought down an initial, sharper reply. He wasn't sure exactly what words would have come out, but knew he'd regret them. "Fuyuhiko, this isn't a mission. You're not handling any planning and logistics, here. And so you don't get to tell me that."

"What I just heard is that someone who's spending time alone, getting obsessed with theories that only he understands, thinks he has access to… to fuckin' infinity." Fuyuhiko still wouldn't meet Hajime's eyes. "One of the things we've all gotta prioritize is keeping a handle on ourselves. Whatever you're doing, it's a bad idea."

Hajime's jaw set. "Keeping everyone safe is my job, and that's what I'm going to do."

"Hajime…" Fuyuhiko shifted his weight, looking more uncomfortable than he ever normally showed. The two of them were supposed to be on the same team, understanding each other like few others did. But that all meant that when they did argue, they knew exactly where to aim. "Sure, I can believe that Kazuichi would wreck your computer. You're right, he loves to tear things apart. But the Imposter has been keeping quiet about this thing, just like you hoped. You'd be fine if they came in here while you worked, right?"

"The Imposter?" A sigh of annoyance escaped Hajime. "They don't know about software, there'd be no point. I'd just be distracted."

"When you were explaining all those dimensions and shit to me, I saw you suddenly get inspired over something. I wasn't a distraction."

"I had just figured out why all of that gold is inlaid on the surface," Hajime admitted.

"Right. Hajime is better when he works with other people. If you can't stand being around people while you work, then I'm gonna worry that someone else is the one really digging into all of this quantum bullshit. So if you're staring at goddamn infinity, and you want to work alone… I'm calling this."

The overhead fan continued its thrum-thrum-thrum. Hajime really did need to fix that. "Yeah. Fine. The Imposter can be in here. They understood the basics, anyway, so they'd be good for me to bounce ideas off of."

"Fine," Fuyuhiko sighed, and ran a hand over his hair. He'd just recently cut it as short as it ever went, and he didn't seem to consciously recognize how much he touched it when the trim was fresh. "Research your damn computer a little more… but Hajime?"

"Yeah?"

"Nagito's the priority, remember. See if you can learn something from somewhere else that makes his life a little less shitty. Because… people die. It happens. We deal with it. But afterward, it's more important to focus on who's still here."

Hajime nodded slowly.

Fuyuhiko looked at him sidelong. "…You're about to pull something."

"Well." Shrugging, Hajime pointed out, "A priority is what you focus on. It doesn't have to be the only thing you do." Nagito had a problem, but he wasn't the only one. Nekomaru was dead, and it was Hajime's job to fix things.

"For fuck's sake! So what if there there is another Nekomaru out there? His heart would be about to give out too, yeah?" They'd both done the unforgivable as Remnants, but even before that, Fuyuhiko had never known a life without death surrounding him. It was no wonder that he could mourn, and then grimly let life continue.

Hajime flinched. He, on the other hand, still felt untrained with death. "I… I don't know. I don't know! But think of Akane. Wouldn't it be better for her to have the chance to say goodbye, instead of finding his dead body?"

Fuyuhiko's lips thinned, and he said nothing.

Hajime risked taking a slow step forward. "And if a Nekomaru is out there, somewhere…"

"…Yeah?"

"If I could find a Nekomaru… if Akane could say goodbye to him… maybe I could find a Natsumi, too."

Every line of Fuyuhiko's frame went rigid, and for a breath, it seemed like Hajime had made a terrible misstep. A moment later, Fuyuhiko looked away and the fists he'd instinctively clenched went limp. He stayed silent for a few more seconds, staring at the wall with unfocused eyes, and bit his lower lip.

Wouldn't it be better to have the chance to say goodbye, instead of finding a dead body?

"Nagito's the priority," Fuyuhiko muttered. The words came out thick and rough until he swallowed hard. "Just keep that in mind. I'll go find the Imposter and send them in. And if you ever start flying solo with this again, Hajime… I'm calling it."

Hajime nodded, then promised, "I can do this."

Fuyuhiko still wouldn't meet his gaze. "I'm not telling Akane what you're working on. I can… I can take it, if you don't get it done. In fact, I'm betting on it, since this all still sounds like a load of horseshit. But she'd get her hopes up."

"I can do this," Hajime repeated, hitting each word hard. Because I fix things.

[theeccentricraven]

My Writing Journey

I'm still writing my NaNoWriMo Novel in late March, with April right around the corner. Almost 200,000 words now.

How did I get here?

I chose to be a writer when I was eleven. By the time I was eighteen, I had three incomplete novels, a thick packet of writing notes, and a long list of story ideas I wanted to write before I died. I also had a short attention span that I can blame on my ADHD and ASD, a declining love for reading due to required school reading, and competition with distractions like the internet/social media. I was able to devote a good deal of my spare time on my prize WIP, a unique fantasy titled The Keeper of Maralla. I didn't spend as much time writing as I should have. My writing confidence was low. After I earned my first bachelor's degree in Child Development, several amazing things happened. First, I worked briefly as a custodian (aka janitor or caretaker depending on what part of the world you're in) when I got the idea for my current primary WIP, The Blood Cleaners. At that time, I thought TBC would be an urban fantasy. A few years later, I realized the story worked best as a post-apocalyptic dystopia. I personally feel that you don’t find the stories; the stories find you. Such was the case with TBC. Then, in 2008, I won my first NaNoWriMo when I wrote the first draft of The Star House Club, an MG/YA urban fantasy. It meant the world to me when I finally had a complete novel in my hands, even if the writing was really bad. My next complete novel was finished in 2009, a Christian historical fiction novel called Miriam and Yosef. Then, from 2010 to 2011, I wrote my first really long novel, my sci-fi first contact story called Columbus Day. It was 170,000 words long! The best part was when I wrote my first complete second draft by rewriting Columbus Day. I saw how rewriting really can make things better, even if only a little better. It was also at this time that I earned my second bachelor's degree. I earned my post-baccalaureate degree in English. Then, things kind of shattered. I lost all of my confidence in my writing. I almost gave up completely. I also stopped reading. I've learned that the less you read, the worse your writing is. I went nearly a decade without reading and writing. There were some pluses that happened during that time, such as getting a technical writing job with my current employer. For the most part, I had little ambition and few goals. That was until early 2023, I experienced some epiphanies. I went through some religious/spiritual experiences that allowed me to realize I was meant to be a writer. I needed to get my ideas down on paper before I died or else the world would never know them. I opened up my old writing notes to get to work. I thought about which of my WIP's I would make my primary WIP. It was hard when I felt passionate about a half dozen of them, knowing I would regret failing to finish and publish either. I was hit hard with reality when insomnia hit me. I had been in denial about my need to read. Just as I had to get back to writing, I had to get back to reading. I wanted to say I had read enough and needed to spend time writing. When I discovered reading was the best medicine for insomnia, I realized what I needed to do for both my physical health and writing health. I read about 15 books in 2023. The more I read, the better my writing got. My best read was Scott Westerfeld’s Uglies, a book that reminded me of why I love the dystopia genre. By July, I made the decision to focus on The Blood Cleaners. I spent four months brainstorming and outlining. I began drafting in November for NaNoWriMo. I wrote 50,000 words in 30 days, but the story wasn't over. That brings me to where I am now. My manuscript is almost 200,000 words long. I hope to finish in the next few days. I can’t wait to rewrite and cut this thing. Writing is hard, but it's worth it. My journey isn't over, obviously. I can’t wait to see where this journey goes.

[mischiefmodig]

Unpopular Opinion \ / @fellstcr \ / not accepting

🔥 (their parents) 🔥 (loki, character) 🔥 (mcu fandom??) 🔥 freebie!!

I have a lot of ground to cover, but here we go!! (apologies in advance, the last one gets p long)

Frigga is not as good of a mom as everyone wants to say.

Now with that being said, Frigga is a good mom... but that's pretty much only regulated to Loki rather than both Thor AND Loki |D I have a lot of headcanons about Frigga being his main caretaker especially when he was a baby. And as Loki grew up he just had more of her temperament and obviously, his being magically inclined helped a lot in them becoming so close as well since she was able to able to teach him her own gifts with sorcery, essentially passing down her teachings to him.

But it's so clear in the films just how much she struggles to connect to Thor in the same way. She does her best but considering even she believes that Thor + Odin cast big shadows and that Loki learning her magic was his light, indicates pretty clearly to me that she never properly bothered to connect to Thor on his side of things. That and she can't comfort Thor properly when they are together, but she is literally able to read Loki like an open book.

Now I do think that of course, she loved both of her kids. Thor is actually her child, and I don't think she ever fully meant to favor Loki over him. It's just kind of how it happens when it feels like one child needs more attention than the other - That and I'm sure at some point Odin was taking a much greater role in Thor's life (which Loki was clearly envious of to a degree) and I think she absolutely would have been the biggest advocate for both of their well beings. (and ofc in terms of Thor she was his biggest support with Jane and I think that's very good of her to do too)

But let's not forget here. Frigga was just as complicit in lying to Loki about his heritage as Odin was. And I think personally if Odin did not love Loki at all he would not have hesitated to make it clear that Loki isn't his son at all times. I just think it's too easy to make Frigga out to be the better parent when she played favorites as much as Odin is perceived to. (lbr Odin of course was going to train Thor more than Loki. Thor is literally the oldest who was always going to become king. That's just how the system works and Loki knows that. I do think Odin neglected to give Loki enough affirmation, but people act like Odin was a fantastic father to Thor too when he really just wasn't.)

Loki would not be as interesting as a character without Thor.

They are the sun and moon. Hot and cold. Darkness and Light. Chaos and Order. At their best, they are an unstoppable team, and at their worst they are enemies. But no matter what, by blood or by oath they are brothers. B R O T H E R S.

Speaking strictly to Loki: he has never known his life without Thor in it. He was saved from death (NOT TAKEN) from Jotunheim and has spent his entire life since as a son of Odin. Where Thor struggles, Loki fills in his weaknesses, and vice versa. I see people get caught up in "Loki being weaker" and thus tearing down Thor in the process, but that couldn't be further from the truth. (also tearing down other characters to raise another up is actually lowering the bar for the second character to succeed and doesn't make them look better at all. In fact, it makes them look worse because the standard is now so low :))

Where Thor is very easily heated, Loki can help him focus. While Thor is a tank in combat, Loki is swift and able to take out enemies with precision and speed. Thor is intelligent particularly when it comes to people and he is very compassionate, while Loki focuses on being book smarts and being keen in debates and negotiations. It's SO obvious they really were meant to rule together, with Loki as an advisor to Thor as king. They have a dynamic with each other that is so neat and a bond that spans hundreds to a thousand years. You can't just tear that apart just because you like one character over another. Their stories are tied to each other, and in Tom's words "You can't have Loki without Thor, or Thor without Loki."

Has Thor done Loki wrong? Yes, absolutely. But Loki has equally done wrong by Thor, he is not innocent in that either. Being a shadow is not a bad thing, it's really not, in fact, I could absolutely argue that it is where Loki thrives tbch. But ultimately his origins are found in Thor, and trying to erase that is doing Loki a huge disservice.

Thorki is incestual in nature.

I'm not going to lie to ya, the fact that you ever have to say "Well technically they're not brothers" to ship them, I think makes it pretty clear that it's actually not a good ship LOL

Every time I mention that this is a thing to people not in fandom or in the Thor fandom, they are consistently appalled by it. And as they should be! I've actually seen fan-made comics of when the boys were kids crushing BEFORE THEY EVEN KNEW and that is just //gags

I really also need people to tag Thorki properly so that my filters can block those posts. I don't want nothin to do with that and I don't want it on my dash anymore <v< but that's kind of a whole other thing. I cccccan see why people do it, and I personally think Loki is attracted to people who are similar to Thor (i.e good hearts, heroes, sunshine personality, hopeful, kind, etc.) which is also why I don't think Sylki works as a ship either outside of the selfcest - but I could go on a whole other tangent about them tbh.

Gimme my good wholesome brothers who are just doing sibling things. Not every single pairing of people needs to have romantic inclinations, they can just be very close as friends or family. The boys grew up together for a thousand years, and you're seriously trying to tell me that suddenly both of them abandon their roots to be romantic?? Buddy that is not how that works and don't make no sense at aaaaaall.

Platonic soulmates are just as valid as Romantic ones.

TVA Loki and MCU Loki are not the same, and I won't be gaslit into thinking otherwise by directors who don't care about Loki in general.

I don't know why this is a trend at all, but it seems like the character of Loki keeps getting handled by people who don't care for him in the slightest. Waititi completely sidelined him in gagnarok (in favor of totally misunderstanding Thor and Odin's dynamics) when that film needed to be about the boys properly recovering from the past decades worth of issues. And then in the Loki show that director stopped making him the main character AT ALL as soon as Sylvie showed up.

Anyways, the whole entire point of the Loki show, is that there are multiple dimensions (which they call timelines stupidly) in which multiple variations of every exist. The people in them are supposed to be similar but clearly have slightly different characteristics (see Boastful Loki or Croc Loki) while they all have the same events. And in the show, he straight up does not act the same as he does in the Thor films.

And with that said, we go back to the main topic which is "these two Loki's are actually not the same person."

- First of all, Loki is not a narcissist. A narcissist is defined as "a person who has an excessive interest in or admiration of themselves." which Loki has NEVER had. Ever. In any of his film appearances. Being ambitious (and occasionally selfish) is entirely different, but Loki does not admire himself to an unhealthy degree. The only thing the show gets right is that Loki is deeply fearful and insecure, but the fact that he says it outright is just bad writing. - Second of all, Loki is not flighty or talkative. Loki is famous for having a silver tongue, but that does not mean he rambles on and on about a point or uses big words just use them. Actually intelligent people do not need to fake it to prove that they are smart. Loki uses his words exactly when he means to, and doesn't use metaphors/hyperbole at every given opportunity. ( do not confuse Fanon Loki with what Loki is actually like in the films. ) Loki can quip but he never does it excessively. In the show, Loki is constantly moving and fidgeting something fierce when he is typically very still and planted. - THIRD of all, Loki has never been someone who relies on magic as much as TVA does in the second season. Loki is an Asgardian warrior, trained by the best of the best to be an absolute master at combat. Loki primarily relies on daggers using the Ice pick technique (which is actually extremely difficult to master btw), which allows him to be swift in a fight and take out his opponents with deadly precision. Of course, Loki uses his cleverness and magic in battle too, but he isn't out throwing balls of magic fire willy-nilly or making a big scene. Loki has never needed his magic to be good at fighting or keep up with Thor. Frankly, that is an impressive feat in itself that too many people put down for no reason. I'm all in favor of magic characters doing their magical thing, but high key Loki is so much cooler because he is strong enough to rely on magic that he has already mastered too. But this is not true for tva!loki who uses magic literally all of the time.

Now we could call all of this him being out of character, however, I think in the scope of the show it would make more sense to just have him be a different Loki entirely. Which would be fine, if they didn't try to constantly make him out to be exactly like mcu!Loki. They give him the memories of Avengers onward and then speed-run his development in like first episodes to make him have the same emotions WITHOUT actually any development.

Even if we are led to believe that tva!Loki and mcu!Loki started off the same, then they sTILL could never become the same as the Loki we know from 10 years' worth of films. mcu!Loki got to mourn for Frigga in the moment, sacrifice himself for Thor+Jane, lie about it again and take the throne from Odin, pretend to be Odin for several years, see him die, fight his crazy half-adopted sister, watch Asgard be destroyed, and then ultimately sacrifice himself AGAIN to save Thor ending his life.

tva!Loki watched it on a screen... and clearly was emotional about it, as one would be. But none of that is the same as Loki actually being able to experience it. I think I would like tva!Loki SO much more if they treated him like he was legitimately still in Avengers and still in the mindset that he wants to be king to prove to his brother/father that he could do it and is good enough to be a part of the family. And that he was a different Loki entirely.

Instead, the show completely erases his history and his character in favor of an annoying mix of taika!loki and fandom!loki and it's just cringy to watch honestly. The Loki show is just so bad in terms of writing, lore, characterization, humor, and continuity, and now that they're getting rid of Kang the Conqueror, the whole show is completely obsolete! :D

[avissapiens]

Jockbull Summer Week 2 (19/11/23-25/11/23)

Model used is Tsonghan Wu

1

Went hard with the push ups this week. It gives me such a euphoric rush. I’ve built my chest in the gym normally so by the time I've got a pump from doing a single set of push ups I've got my own set of stress toys to flex and play with. The highest score for this week was 36 with no backtracking. One notable Session involved Scandinavian_King(of Set C fame) pushing me harder and harder to keep doing sets past my first one. Each time to failure. I get so easily riled up with shit like that. Guys taking advantage of the muscle lust to push me harder. I think that night I got a total of 90 in a 5 min span.

2

Muscle related competition was a bit sparse this week. K was out sick so no push up rival. I did end up trying to beat my great friend Teal’s record of 50. That did not work. But I'll get there. Need to get there. Need to fucking win.

3.

This is a fortnightly task but I have noticed an issue. It is related to the problem of me defaulting to these shitty pieces of clothing just cause they are there. I wear them, they make me feel like a dysmorphic trash bag and then because I wear them they are dirty and get put in the wash basket. Which interrupts me being able to instantly put them in the Task box. Luckily I've got some Rawgear stuff coming to pad out the wardrobe before I get to those pieces.

4.

This was the first time I actually got to practice the accent with Jockrs. Truth be told, I'm fucking great at that kinda stuff. I’ve always had a natural ability for voice modification and accent work. So i put it at like a 5/10 on the intensity scale for the whole time we were on the call. Jockrs didn’t fare as well. Obviously it’s a little harder to go from Aussie to Cali than my more neutral “trans-atlantic” mess. One thing i'd like to overcome in this whole process is the Irony poisoning. I spent so much of my life as a Snarky sarcastic dweeb. So much of my life being ���Ironic” and joking about without taking things to the genuine core of me. So even this task it’s difficult to get started because in the first couple minutes you’ve got that awkward Irony block for doing something that feels affected. It was such a fun experience tho. After a while the voice just flows through you and it is such a flowey, breathy voice. So fluid and easy.

5.

Rather than describe every BtG episode I'm going to focus on different things that I love and how this show absolutely scratches some old fantasies from my days as a dumb teenager in the musclegrowth kink community. Episode 3 where Baki is placed in a normal high school athletics test, and because of his sheer strength and inhuman physique is completely out of bounds and therefore almost flunks. Absolute Muscle RP fuel. Add to that all the gore and viscera in the other scenes. It’s very itch scratchy and possibly kink forming if you’ve got the abyss already bubbling away.

6.

I am a glutton for punishment and I made an extra task for myself in each of the sets. I did this by drawing tarot cards. Letting the universe speak to me to guide my journey. For this set I drew a Wheel of fortune which talks about fortunate initiative, spontaneity, random success, equality of souls.

And i translated that to "Take more chances with guys in the gym" I hopped on this one quick too. 

I had to kinda work myself up for it but this really chill seeming asian dude with nice curly hair who has legit been at the gym the same time as me for i'd wager 80% of my workouts.

He was just resting and I asked his name and stuff complimented him and asked his goals.

His name is Adrian, he used to do a lot of sport and was focused on strength gains back in high school, but now he's in uni and is more focused on just looking good.

He goes to my school but does law and commerce so unlikely we'll ever share a class or even be there at the same time.

He asked some of my stuff yada yada.

And he kept saying super low under his voice like "you're so huge dude. So huge"

And then when he was leaving he came and said goodbye. It seems small, I know but it’s a big achievement for me every time I make a gymbro. It’s hard making friends in this country.

[abcd-em]

Talk Shop Tuesday: because you are a marketing girlie, eye would love your thoughts on the idea of fanfic marketability as it relates to popularity/traction. It’s one of those things that’s rarely ever gets put into words (except to be derogatory) and is undersold as a part of what makes a fic “take off” I’ve known plenty of fantastically written fics that never get their time to shine just as I’ve know abjectly terribly written things become the most kudos and recommended fic ever.

How much of marketing are /you/ thinking of, if you’re thinking of it at all, when it comes to publishing a fic?

(And bonus: what’s the reason you think your underrated WIPs aren’t doing as well as the others?)

As the second person to ask me that, of course I can!!!!!

Fandom, as with any other community on the Internet, goes through trends of what they like to see and how they like to read. I'd argue that it's impossible to truly predict when a fic will 'take off' bc of this but there's definitely things you can assume.

The marketability of a fic rarely stops me from writing what i want (obviously there are exceptions), but its something i keep in mind when planning to ensure theres little hooks here or there. There's things that I know in the back of my mind, that I know almost for certain (for my writing and what's I've observed at least):

- kid fics will do well (or more low stakes, domestic fics)

- fast paced [blank] to lovers will do well vs. A slower burn (I could say this has smt to do with fear of fic abandonment and maybe attention span)

- MCD will not (at least in mcu petermj)

- platonic or character driven stuff can be a mixed bag

- etc.

Your fandom, your tropes, the bare bones of your fic (not the actual words just the vibes/direction) can definitely have an impact on reach and inevitable audience size - not forgetting that HOW ur fandom interacts with content should be considered. Example:

My Insomniac fics didn't get many hits bc it's a smaller audience (though i tend to find more of those hits also equal comments). From that, My Peter/Harry centric fic got more engagement and interaction VS. My peter/MJ centric fic - I knew this would happen when I was writing it BECAUSE the main thing talked about after the release of the second game was Parksborn. (Understandable I was also consumed by the brainrot)

Not to get SEO about it but tags and summary are also going to impact these things. Themes and tropes all have their own popularity innit. Your tags are there to give an overview (AND WARNING!!!) about the contents of your fic. Boiling all your plans down to the right tags will help it appear to the right people that WANT that kind of story, and exclude it from others. Your summary will also help with that (and from my experience main characters & romantic hook/tease is what gets most attention). This is probably where I consider marketability the most tbh and why I struggle so much with summaries bc why am I thinking of work when I'm writing fic???

But tags and summary definitely impacted Forever: there's a big tilt towards 'sadder' tags bc I want to be transparent about the topic. And the summary is very focused on Peter and Gwen (which is why I added the little line about MJ and Peter at the end).

The focus on Peter and Gwen also impacted the divorce AU. I didn't anticipate that fic getting as much traction as it did, but It wasn't until chapter 8 or something that it really began to take off.

Also. As with anything on the Internet. There's the 'right time, right place' effect where something just CLICKS, the perfect storm of a few small things that gets swept up to huge numbers and its difficult to pinpoint a single one.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: creating content for the sole purpose of marketability will make it less fun and kill your joy

Talk shop tuesday

[heygutlcssa]

I figure out why Bernardo's apartment has so many freaking windows. It spans the entire back of the building. So it's two bed rooms, living room, kitchen (obviously fully fitted since the water heater is in the kitchen which would explain how they could afford a refrigerator[~400$ =$4,374.43 today] and stove[~200$ = $2,187.22]). So does every floor only have two apartments then? Since you can clearly the stairwell is the center of the hallway.

Since we know that the average rent for low income housing is generally between 50$ ($546.80) and 75$ ($820.21) a month and the minimum wage is 0.75 cents ($8.20 which is more than minimum wage is today at $7.25 dollars), i find it hard to believe that that apartment is at that price bracket or even affordable when overcrowding and an actual housing crisis was a severe issue at the time. Given their status as persons of color Bernardo would makes 67% less than the average white man at whatever job he chooses and Maria...

( she's 18 and was taking care of her sick dad for the last five years I would be surprised if she has a high school degree, not to mention that the average drop out rate in the USA is at 25% of all high schoolers while in Puerto Rico the drop out rate is around 75% with the average level of education per the 1940 census is the third grade and the ninth grade. there's a whole debate about kids being forced to speak English in all public schools up until the middle of the 1930s fueling a distrust in the public school system, but I do not have enough valid sources to confirm or deny that accusation. We do have return to school statistics for those who migrated to the mainland being at around 50% but we don't know the completion rate versus GED completion which was fairly new at the time.)

...would probably be making minimum wage tbh since its a cleaning job. Now Anita has an advantage if she chooses to pass within the work force as an African Americanwoman. The average white woman makes about 30-50% less depending on the profession and the average AA woman made 50% less than a man. A Hispanic/latina woman made ~70% less than a white man. No wonder she has multiple jobs.

( Noted I do need to find more consistent resources for all of this as most of the statistics for this time period focus on white and black men, not women of any kind. So take all of this with a grain of salt and do your own research because mine may be a bit flawed.)

[cerullos]

to be fair, there are definitely also broader concerns about increased screentime reducing students’ (and adults’!!!) attention spans overall, which imo are demonstrably true. when i worked at a public elementary school, we were told our lesson plans should only focus on a given topic for three minutes max before moving on to something new or we risked losing students’ interest. on top of this, many younger students are behind academically and aren’t properly socialized due to attending school virtually during the initial pandemic, and it’s especially important for these students to focus on understanding classwork & collaborating with their peers.

i do think allowing students to use their phones during lunch, arrival and dismissal, etc. is fine and in my experience teachers do tend to be lax about enforcing this rule during free time. obviously very much not in favor of students’ phones being confiscated since it’s important for them to have a line of connection to family, but i do think you generally see less phone usage during class when there’s a blanket ban (as in, you can bring your phone but you can’t use it during school hours), even if in practice the rules are often bent.

anyway, i think it’s fair to say the peripheration of smart phones DOES pose unique challenges for teachers, it does heavily impact student concentration, it does need to be addressed in some way, and it isn’t beneficial for us (or for them) to pretend otherwise. i would argue that none of the examples given here contribute to any kind of longterm reduction in focus, you’re just talking about kids fucking around! sure you can argue that other devices have historically served a similar function (walkmans, ipods, video players, etc.) but none were as widely used, or anywhere near as ubiquitous as the modern smart phone.

realistically, you won’t be permitted to use your phone on the clock at most entry level jobs, even teachers are often told to avoid any kind of extended phone usage during class/in front of students, and i think it’s fine to prepare students for this by getting them in the habit of detaching from their phones early and focusing as much as possible during school. the problem is when at the individual level teachers come down on students too hard for flouting these rules (which, y’know. kids will do, it’s not that serious!) it’s a school rule that, like any other, should be enforced with empathy, understanding and conditionality. unfortunately underpaid, intensely overworked teachers tend to be a little low on nuance in their day to day dealings with students, but that’s a whole different conversation lol

"kids don't pay attention in class anymore Because Of Phone" is so funny as an argument. students haven't paid attention in class since school was invented. my parents' generation were in there making flipbooks out of the corners of their notebooks and doodling random shit instead of taking notes. and they didn't have phones.

[dankusner]

What if the Attention Crisis Is All a Distraction?

From the pianoforte to the smartphone, each wave of tech has sparked fears of brain rot.

But the problem isn’t our ability to focus—it’s what we’re focussing on.

What’s awkward about the debate over attention is that “attention spans” aren’t something that we can measure, independent of context, across time.

There are awards for the year’s best films but not for its best TikTok videos.

That’s too bad, since 2024 yielded several tiny masterpieces.

From @yojairyjaimee, a flawless, minute-long re-creation of some bizarre 2009 stage patter by Kanye West (who now goes by Ye).

From @accountwashackedwith50m, twelve seconds of chocolate-covered strawberries, filmed from the vantage of a saxophonist in an R. & B. band.

From @notkenna, seven seconds of a dog made to look, with preposterously low-budget effects, as if it were flying on a broomstick.

Such Internet gems are what the poet Patricia Lockwood has called “the sapphires of the instant”; each catches the light in a strange, hypnotic way.

Just don’t stare too long.

If every video is a starburst of expression, an extended TikTok session is fireworks in your face for hours.

That can’t be healthy, can it?

In 2010, the technology writer Nicholas Carr presciently raised this concern in “The Shallows: What the Internet Is Doing to Our Brains,” a Pulitzer Prize finalist.

“What the Net seems to be doing,” Carr wrote, “is chipping away my capacity for concentration and contemplation.”

He recounted his increased difficulty reading longer works.

He wrote of a highly accomplished philosophy student—indeed, a Rhodes Scholar—who didn’t read books at all but gleaned what he could from Google.

That student, Carr ominously asserted, “seems more the rule than the exception.”

Carr set off an avalanche.

Much read works about our ruined attention include Nir Eyal’s “Indistractable,” Johann Hari’s “Stolen Focus,” Cal Newport’s “Deep Work,” and Jenny Odell’s “How to Do Nothing.” Carr himself has a new book, “Superbloom,” about not only distraction but all the psychological harms of the Internet.

We’ve suffered a “fragmentation of consciousness,” Carr writes, our world having been “rendered incomprehensible by information.”

Read one of these books and you’re unnerved.

But read two more and the skeptical imp within you awakens.

Haven’t critics freaked out about the brain-scrambling power of everything from pianofortes to brightly colored posters?

Isn’t there, in fact, a long section in Plato’s Phaedrus in which Socrates argues that writing will wreck people’s memories?

I’m particularly fond of a hand-wringing essay by Nathaniel Hawthorne, from 1843.

Hawthorne warns of the arrival of a technology so powerful that those born after it will lose the capacity for mature conversation.

They will seek separate corners rather than common spaces, he prophesies.

Their discussions will devolve into acrid debates, and “all mortal intercourse” will be “chilled with a fatal frost.”

Hawthorne’s worry?

The replacement of the open fireplace by the iron stove.

It’s true that we’ve raised alarms over things that in retrospect seem mild, the Carr-hort responds, but how much solace should we take in that?

Today’s digital forms are obviously more addictive than their predecessors.

You can even read previous grumbling as a measure of how bad things have become.

Perhaps critics were correct to see danger in, say, television.

If it now appears benign, that just shows how much worse current media is.

It’s been fifteen years since Carr’s “The Shallows.”

Now we have what is perhaps the most sophisticated contribution to the genre, “The Sirens’ Call,” by Chris Hayes, an MSNBC anchor.

Hayes acknowledges the long history of such panics.

Some seem laughable in hindsight, he concedes, like one in the nineteen-fifties about comic books.

Yet others seem prophetic, like the early warnings about smoking.

“Is the development of a global, ubiquitous, chronically connected social media world more like comic books or cigarettes?” Hayes asks.

Great question.

If we take the skeptics seriously, how much of the catastrophist’s argument stands?

Enough, Hayes feels, that we should be gravely concerned.

“We have a country full of megaphones, a crushing wall of sound, the swirling lights of a 24/7 casino blinking at us, all part of a system minutely engineered to take our attention away from us for profit,” he writes.

Thinking clearly and conversing reasonably under these conditions is “like trying to meditate in a strip club.”

The case he makes is thoughtful, informed, and disquieting.

But is it convincing?

History is littered with lamentations about distraction.

Swirling lights and strippers are not a new problem.

What’s important to note about bygone debates on the subject, though, is that they truly were debates.

Not everyone felt the sky was falling, and the dissenters raised pertinent questions.

Is it, in fact, good to pay attention?

Whose purposes does it serve?

Such questions came up in the eighteenth century with the rise of a disruptive new commodity: the novel.

Although today’s critics rue our inability to get through long novels, such books were once widely regarded as the intellectual equivalent of junk food.

“They fix attention so deeply, and afford so lively a pleasure, that the mind, once accustomed to them, cannot submit to the painful task of serious study,” the Anglican priest Vicesimus Knox complained.

Thomas Jefferson warned that once readers fell under the spell of novels—“this mass of trash”—they would lose patience for “wholsome reading.”

They’d suffer from “bloated imagination, sickly judgement, and disgust toward all the real business of life.”

Popular writers took a different view, as the English professor Natalie M. Phillips explains in her book “Distraction.”

They wondered if unstraying attention was healthy.

Maybe the mind required a little leaping around to do its work.

“The Rambler” (1750-52) and “The Idler” (1758-60), two essay series by Samuel Johnson, exulted in such mental wandering.

Johnson was constantly picking up books and just as constantly putting them down.

When a friend asked whether Johnson had actually finished a book he claimed to have ���looked into,” he replied, “No, Sir, do you read books through?”

As the mascot of multifocality, Phillips presents Tristram Shandy, the hero of Laurence Sterne’s “The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman,” published between 1759 and 1767.

The novel starts with Tristram’s conception.

His mother’s sudden interjection—“Pray, my dear, have you not forgot to wind up the clock?”—at the moment of his father’s sexual climax leaves Tristram congenitally scatterbrained.

Even his name is the product of broken attention.

It was supposed to be Trismegistus, but the maid tasked with telling the curate got distracted and forgot all but the first syllable.

Tristram relates this tale of woe in a tangle of digressions, punctuated with breathless dashes.

In nine distracted volumes, Tristram never manages to narrate his life.

Yet readers found his rollicking thoughts captivating.

Perhaps they also found them liberating, Phillips suggests, given the tendency of traditional authorities to demand unwavering focus.

“What is requisite for joining in prayer in a right manner?” a widely used Anglican catechism asked.

“Close attention without wandering.”

Samuel Johnson’s dictionary noted that “to attend” had multiple meanings.

The first, to focus on, was related to the second—to wait on, as a servant.

A recent history of attention in the nineteenth-century United States, Caleb Smith’s “Thoreau’s Axe,” draws out this point clearly.

Across centuries, thinkers have sought to fend off distraction.

But the loudest calls to attention have been directed toward subordinates, schoolchildren, and women.

“Atten-TION!” military commanders shout at their men to get them to stand straight.

The arts of attention are a form of self-discipline, but they’re also ways to discipline others.

By the nineteenth century, some had grown wary of the intense forms of concentration that industrial life demanded.

The psychiatrist Jean-Étienne Dominique Esquirol introduced a new diagnosis, “monomania,” which was doled out with the faddishness that A.D.H.D. is today.

Esquirol felt it to be the characteristic disorder of modernity.

Herman Melville made it central to “Moby-Dick,” in which Captain Ahab’s fixation on a white whale brings ruin.

Hypnosis, an intense form of focus, became an object of widespread concern.

It was Paul Lafargue, Karl Marx’s Cuban-born son-in-law, who rolled this trepidation about attention into a political program.

(His essays have been reissued recently by New York Review Books.)

Focussing on one’s work and suppressing one’s natural instincts, Lafargue argued, in the eighteen-eighties, was no virtue.

It was, rather, to “play the part of the machine” on behalf of one’s own oppressors.

Revolutionary consciousness meant asserting “the right to be lazy,” Lafargue insisted.

Workers of the world, relax.

One daydreams of a Lafarguean resistance, in which the youth are recruited with samizdat copies of “Tristram Shandy.”

But would they read it?

I assign my college students about half of what I was assigned as an undergraduate twenty-odd years ago, and many professors have felt the need for similar scaling back.

“I have been teaching in small liberal arts colleges for over 15 years now, and in the past five years, it’s as though someone flipped a switch,” the theologian Adam Kotsko writes.

“Students are intimidated by anything over 10 pages and seem to walk away from readings of as little as 20 pages with no real understanding.”

Whatever thoughts past writers have had about the virtues of attention, pessimists would argue that the problem is different now.

It’s as if we’re not reading books so much as the books are reading us.

TikTok is particularly adept at this; you just scroll and the app learns—from your behavior, plus perhaps other information harvested from your phone—about what will keep you hooked.

“I wake up in cold sweats every so often thinking, What did we bring to the world?” Tony Fadell, a co-developer of the iPhone, has said.

As a baseline, Chris Hayes points to Abraham Lincoln’s debates with Stephen A. Douglas, in the eighteen-fifties: three-hour exchanges of orations about a momentous topic, slavery.

He marvels at how complex and layered the speeches were, stuffed with “parenthetical and nested clauses, with ideas that are previewed at the beginning of a sentence, left for a bit, and then returned to later.”

He imagines what “sheer stamina of focus” Lincoln and Douglas’s audiences must have possessed.

Those audiences were large.

Would voters flock to something similar today?

Not likely, Hayes says.

Information now comes in “ever-shorter little bites,” and “focus is harder and harder to sustain.”

Hayes has seen this firsthand.

His illuminating backstage account of cable news describes thoughtful journalists debasing themselves in their scramble to retain straying viewers.

Garish graphics, loud voices, quick topic changes, and titillating stories—it’s like jangling keys to lure a dog.

The more viewers get their news from apps, the harder television producers have to shake those keys.

This situation is, in some sense, our fault, as the whole system runs on our own choices.

But those choices don’t always feel free.

Hayes distinguishes between voluntary and compelled attention.

Some things we focus on by choice; others, because of our psychological hardwiring, we find hard to ignore.

Digital tools let online platforms harness the latter, addressing our involuntary impulses rather than our higher-order desires.

The algorithms deliver what we want but not, as the late philosopher Harry Frankfurt put it, “what we want to want.”

Getting what we want, not what we want to want: it could be the slogan of our times.

Hayes notes that it’s not only corporations that home in on our baser instincts.

Since social-media users also have access to immediate feedback, they learn what draws eyeballs, too.

Years ago, Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and Kanye West had hardly anything in common.

Now their pursuit of publicity has morphed them into versions of the same persona—the attention troll.

And, despite ourselves, we can’t look away.

“How many more cubicles do you think he’s going to annex?”

The painful twist is that climate change, the thing we really ought to focus on, “evades our attentional faculties,” Hayes writes.

“It’s always been a problem,” the writer and activist Bill McKibben told him, “that the most dangerous thing on the planet is invisible, odorless, tasteless, and doesn’t actually do anything to you directly.”

Global warming is the opposite of Kanye West: we want to pay attention but we don’t.

The trouble is “attention capitalism,” Hayes argues, and it has the same dehumanizing effect on consumers’ psyches as industrial capitalism has on workers’ bodies.

Successful attention capitalists don’t hold our attention with compelling material but, instead, snatch it over and over with slot-machine gimmicks.

They treat us as eyeballs rather than individuals, “cracking into our minds” and leaving us twitching.

“Our dominion over our own minds has been punctured,” Hayes writes.

“The scale of transformation we’re experiencing is far more vast and more intimate than even the most panicked critics have understood.”

What’s awkward about this whole debate is that, though we speak freely of “attention spans,” they are not the sort of thing that psychologists can measure, independent of context, across time.

And studies of the ostensible harm that carrying smartphones does to cognitive abilities have been contradictory and inconclusive.

A.D.H.D. diagnoses abound, but is that because the condition is growing more prevalent or the diagnosis is?

U.S. labor productivity and the percentage of the population with four years or more of college have risen throughout the Internet era.

The apparent decline of reading is also not so straightforward.

Print book sales are holding steady, and audiobook sales are rising.

The National Center for Education Statistics has tracked a recent drop in U.S. children’s reading abilities, yet that mostly coincides with the pandemic, and scores are still as good as or better than when the center started measuring, in 1971.

If reading assignments at top colleges are shorter, it might be because today’s hypercompetitive students are busier, rather than because they’re less capable (and how many were actually doing all the reading in the old days?).

What about Nicholas Carr’s insistence in 2010 that a Rhodes Scholar who didn’t read books heralded a post-literate future?

“Of course I read books!” that Rhodes Scholar protested to another writer.

Today, he holds a Ph.D. from Oxford and has written two books of his own.

After decades of the Internet, the mediascape has still not dissolved into a froth of three-second clips of orgasms, kittens, and trampoline accidents, interspersed with sports-betting ads.

As the legal scholar Tim Wu argues in “The Attention Merchants,” the road to distraction is not one-way.

Yes, businesses seize our attention using the shiniest lures available, but people become inured and learn to ignore them.

Or they recoil, which might explain why meditation, bird-watching, and vinyl records are in vogue.

Technology firms, in fact, often attract users by promising to reduce distractions, not only the daily hassles—paying bills, arranging travel—but the online onslaught, too.

Google’s text ads and mail filters offered respite from the early Internet’s spam and pop-ups.

Apple became one of the world’s largest companies by selling simplicity.

Besides, distraction is relative:

to be distracted from one thing is to attend to another.

And any argument that people are becoming distracted must deal with the plain fact that many spend hours staring intently at their screens.

What is doomscrolling if not avid reading?

If people are failing to focus in some places, they’re clearly succeeding in others.

One place they’re succeeding is cinema, which is in a baroque phase.

A leading Golden Globe winner this year, “The Brutalist,” exceeds three and a half hours.

The average length of a Top Ten grossing film grew by more than twenty minutes between 1993 and 2023.

Hollywood’s reliance on sequels and recycled intellectual property—we’re a hair’s breadth from a crossover in which Thor fights the Little Mermaid—may have been terrible for cinema.

It has, however, made for complicated movies tightly packed with backstory and fan service.

The same goes for narrative television.

It was once entertainment for the inattentive, with simple plots, broad jokes, and a tropical bird interrupting to shout about Froot Loops.

Yet that changed with cable, DVDs, and streaming shows (the first hit streaming series, Netflix’s “House of Cards,” débuted in 2013).

As writers stopped worrying about viewers losing the thread, their shows started resembling ultra-long films.

Viewers responded by binge-watching, taking in hours of material in what Vince Gilligan, who created “Breaking Bad,” has called “a giant inhalation.”

Or consider video games, which have grown mercilessly long.

Years ago, in these pages, Alex Ross described Richard Wagner’s “Ring of the Nibelung,” a cycle of four operas spanning about fifteen hours, as, “arguably, the most ambitious work of art ever attempted” and “unlikely to have future rivals.”

In 2023, Larian Studios swept the video-game awards with Baldur’s Gate 3, a noticeably Wagnerian affair with rival gods, magic rings, enchanted swords, and dragons.

Two hundred and forty-eight actors and some four hundred developers worked on it.

Playing through Baldur’s Gate 3, an unhurried, turn-based game with complex rules, can easily take seventy-five hours, or five “Ring” cycles (and more than twice that if you’re a completist).

All the same, it has sold some fifteen million copies.

Even the supposedly attention-pulverizing TikTok deserves another look.

Hayes, who works in TV, treats TikTok wholly as something to watch—an algorithmically individualized idiot box.

But TikTok is participatory:

more than half its U.S. adult users have posted videos.

Where the platform excels is not in slick content but in amateur enthusiasm, which often takes the form of trends with endless variations.

To join in, TikTokers spend hours preparing elaborate dance moves, costume changes, makeup looks, lip synchs, trick shots, pranks, and trompe-l’oeil camera maneuvers.

What’s going on?

The media theorist Neil Verma, in “Narrative Podcasting in an Age of Obsession,” describes the era of TikTok’s rise as beset by “obsession culture.”

Online media, by broadening the scope of possible interests, have given rise to an unabashedly nerdy intellectual style.

Verma focusses on the breakout podcast “Serial,” whose first season, in 2014, followed the host for hours as she pored over the details of a fifteen-year-old murder case.

But deep dives into niche topics have become the norm.

The wildly popular podcaster Joe Rogan runs marathon interviews, some exceeding four hours, on ancient civilizations, cosmology, and mixed martial arts.

A four-hour video of the YouTuber Jenny Nicholson dissecting the design flaws of a defunct Disney World hotel has eleven million views (deservedly: it’s terrific).

Hayes himself confesses to spending hours “utterly transfixed” by watching old carpets being shampooed.

Are we, in staring at carpets, ignoring weighty political matters?

Hayes makes much of the Lincoln-Douglas debates, but the pair spoke without microphones to boisterous crowds numbering in the thousands, so it’s highly unlikely that their audiences followed every word.

(The events included flowing alcohol.)

It’s also hard to admire the moral seriousness of a debate about slavery, held on the eve of the Civil War, in which neither side proposed abolishing it.

If the history of totalitarianism teaches anything, it’s that long-winded orations do not always signify political health.

Anyway, political verbosity, as measured by State of the Union addresses, has risen during the twenty-first century.

Donald Trump once spoke to CPAC for more than two hours.

Famously, his digressive speeches require deep immersion in right-wing lore to comprehend.

“I’ll talk about, like, nine different things, and they all come back brilliantly together,” Trump has boasted.

The linguist John McWhorter has said, of Trump’s convoluted style, that “you have to almost parse it as if it was something in the Talmud.”

We blame the Internet for polarizing politics and shredding attention spans, but those tendencies actually pull in opposite directions.

What’s true of culture is true of politics, too:

as people diverge from the mainstream, they become obsessional and prone to scrambling down rabbit holes.

Following QAnon takes the sort of born-again devotion that one expects of a K-pop fan.

Democratic Socialists, vaccine skeptics, anti-Zionists, manosphere alphas—these are not people known for casual political engagement. Some may be misinformed, but they’re not uninformed:

“Do your own research” is the mantra of the political periphery.

Fragmentation, it turns out, yields subcultural depths.

Silos are not shallows.

Hayes worries that the Internet’s political enthusiasms distract from global warming.

And yet, conspicuously, it is young people, the most online of us all, who are leading the charge against climate change.

The Gen Z activist Greta Thunberg is so good at publicizing the issue that media scholars write of a “Greta effect.”

She’s been raising hell online since age fifteen.

If people aren’t losing focus or growing complacent, what’s the panic about?

Complaints about distraction are most audible from members of the knowledge class—journalists, artists, novelists, professors.

Such people must summon creativity in long, unsupervised stretches, and so they are particularly vulnerable to online interruptions.

Instagram vexes them in a way that it might not vex home health aides, retail salespeople, or fast-food employees, to name the three most common types of U.S. workers.

A larger part of the knowledge-class problem is that cultural creators, especially those in legacy media, fear that smartphones will lure their audiences away.

In this, they don’t seem vastly different from eighteenth-century priests decrying novels for turning women away from prayerful obedience.

Is the ostensible crisis of attention, at bottom, a crisis of authority?

Is “People aren’t paying attention” just a dressed-up version of “People aren’t paying attention to me”?

The suspicion that all this is élite anxiety in the face of a democratizing mediascape deepens when you consider what the attentionistas want people to focus on.

Generally, it’s fine art, old books, or untrammelled nature—as if they were running a Connecticut boarding school.

Above all, they demand patience, the inclination to stick with things that aren’t immediately compelling or comprehensible.

Patience is indeed a virtue, but a whiff of narcissism arises when commentators extoll it in others, like a husband praising an adoring wife.

It places the responsibility for communication on listeners, giving speakers license to be overlong, unclear, or self-indulgent.

When someone calls for audiences to be more patient, I instinctively think, Alternatively, you could be less boring.

In a sense, what attention alarmists seek is protection from a competition that they’re losing.

Fair enough; the market doesn’t always deliver great results, and Hayes is right to deplore the commodification of intellectual life.

But one can wonder whether ideas are less warped by the market when they are posted online to a free platform than when they are rolled into books, given bar codes, and sold in stores.

It’s worth remembering that those long nineteenth-century novels we’re losing the patience to read were long for a reason: profit-seeking publishers made authors drag out their stories across multiple volumes.

Market forces have been stretching, squashing, spinning, and suppressing ideas for centuries.

Realistically, the choice isn’t commodified versus free but which commodity form suits best.

For Hayes, what makes the apps awful is that they operate without consent.

They seize attention using tricks, leaving us helpless and stupefied.

Yet even this argument, his most powerful, warrants caution.

Our media have always done a weird dance with our desires.

Although Hayes argues for the profound novelty of our predicament, the title of his book, “The Sirens’ Call,” alludes to a Homeric tale from antiquity, of songs too alluring to resist.

This isn’t always unwelcome.

Consider our highest words of praise for books—captivating, commanding, riveting, absorbing, enthralling.

It’s a fantasy of surrendered agency.

(“A page-turner”: the pages turn themselves.)

Oddly, the thing we deplore in others, submission, is what we most want for ourselves.

The nightmare the alarmists conjure is of a TikTok-addled screen-ager.

This isn’t a full picture of the present, though, and it might not reveal much about the future, either.

Ours is an era of obsession as much as distraction, of long forms as much as short ones, of zeal as much as indifference.

To ascribe our woes to a society-wide attention-deficit disorder is to make the wrong diagnosis.

Which is unfortunate, because our relationships to our smartphones are far from healthy.

The mediascape is becoming a stormy sea of anxiety, envy, delusion, and rage.

Our attention is being redirected in surprising and often worrying ways.

The overheating of discourse, the rise of conspiratorial thinking, the hollowing out of shared truths: all these trends are real and deserve careful thought.

The panic over lost attention is, however, a distraction.