#can you believe I'm doing this for a fanfic??

[tossawary]

Every now and again, I'll come across some fanfiction in which an emotionally conflicted character will consult (usually kind of trashy) romance novels or in-universe fanfiction for advice or information. And it almost always snaps my suspension of disbelief.

If it's some terminally online teenage geek character or a hopeless romantic bookworm character? Sure! And, of course, there's great humor to be had in a sporty jock struggling with his queer awakening hesitantly picking up the bodice-ripper that his mum left on the coffee table. There ARE scenarios where "romance novels and fanfic as research" tracks just fine. I also understand the existence of the "I want to give this character I like the hobbies I like" / "I want to poke fun at this type / genre of fiction" aspect on the author's side.

But in any scenario with some normie adult man? Some straight, cisgender guy with normie dude hobbies and no evidence that he even CAN read, much less that he enjoys reading? Then it's a "not only would he not fucking do this, I honestly don't even believe he'd know this course of action exists" characterization situation.

Like, there are an astonishing number of people, especially dudes, who could not even name a romance novel to save their fucking life. No, not even a Jane Austen novel or "Twilight" or something. Their eyes glaze over that section of a bookstore. They are mentally filing that shit out to leave more room for sports or first-person-shooter video games or something. They have no respect for this type of fiction, if they're into reading fiction at all! They unconsciously or even explicitly believe that making eye contact with a bodice-ripper will permanently damage their masculinity, and they would flinch away from touching one like most people are scared of scorpions. They don't know aaaaanything about it! They have no concept of "the good stuff" versus "the bad stuff"; it's all soap operas and pornography to them, not a source of information.

And lots of people still don't even know that fanfiction is a thing. They go through life blissfully unaware of fandom wank. Or if they do know of fanfiction, it holds no appeal for them. Playing with other people's characters, or writing fictional stories about real people, is weirdo fanatic behavior to them! Not a source of information.

(And, to be clear, I'm not saying this tracks for all female characters. No, obviously, plenty of women don't like romance novels or fanfic. Plenty of women who do like those would never look at them as sources of information either, for a variety of very good reasons. It's just really funny when a story has the most normie bro guy to ever bro engage with this type of fiction.)

So, like, no, there are some characters whom I cannot be persuaded would ever read any of this stuff. (Speaking as a terminally online fanatic!) And honestly, there are plenty of more realistic and far funnier options for some normie dude character looking for love advice.

A) Friends and family. Or else colleagues and coworkers. It is almost always hilarious when a character goes up to someone else and says, "Hey, hypothetical scenario: [the stupidest shit you've heard in your life]. Any advice for that?" Also, you can have sincerely emotional conversations between friends! Or else good angst if the friend or family member reacts in a hostile manner or gives bad advice!

B) A magazine or chick flick movie. I can easily be persuaded that a normie dude would at least know these exist, or have one left at his house by an ex-girlfriend who made him watch it one time. Normie dudes are also more likely to consider these big publications more legitimate for advice than random romance novels or fanfic.

C) Some random advice column blog or non-fiction self-help book. Could be legitimately good advice for specific situations by a thoughtful professional, could be a money-grab scam written by a quack! How is some lovesick, emotionally dense guy supposed to tell by a book cover?

D) On that note: a relationship advice TikTok influencer or YouTuber or some random advice forum, probably Reddit or the like. The pros and the quacks are unhelpfully everywhere now! And possibly even have a live chat acting as their studio audience to make airing dirty laundry more toxic than ever. Potentially, you will find the kindest person alive with a terrible username willing to gently walk you through therapy, the online equivalent of meeting a figurative angel in a dive bar, but probably not. Bad advice is much more likely.

E) Doing no research, remaining uninformed, and blustering through the situation based on random pre-conceptions if anything. Honestly, I think some of these guys would just ignore the problem, even a potentially deadly problem, rather than touch a Harlequin romance novel, much less AO3 fanfiction. Sexism and internalized homophobia are a hell of a drug. It's just not happening.

I don't have a clean conclusion for this, it's just a funny thing that I've noticed every now and again. There ARE guys who like these types of fiction, of course! There ARE male characters who own an e-reader full of rom novels, sure, and don't give a shit what anyone else thinks. "This [normie male character who is both pretty offline and worries about appearing sufficiently masculine in a pretty toxic way] is reading a lot of romance novels and/or fanfiction as a form of research!" Yeah, no, that's really hard to pull off. If this guy is touching the internet at all, he's far more likely to make the most ridiculous Reddit post you've ever seen and then start belligerent fights in the comments.

[corviiids]

hello! how do you find consistent friends in fandom? as in, how do you find people who stick with you through different fandoms and listen and read your work. also, how long have you been writing for and how long did it take you to get so good at writing and character analysis.... your work is such an inspiration to me, genuinely one of my top 3 authors across ao3. i hope the writing goes well!

hey! this is really sweet, thank you very much for your lovely kind words. 💖

re: friendship: i don't mean to be a downer about this so i hope it doesn't come across this way, but i do think the concept of friends where you follow each other through all your fandoms and continue to read each other's work etc kind of... either doesn't exist or is just a rare phenomenon and not a 'type' of friend per se more than it is something that just happens out of luck. i am lucky enough to have friendships which have persisted through all of us changing fandoms, but the reason those friendships last is actually because we found connections that went beyond common interests. i think sharing a fandom/interest is great as an initial point of connection and a way to meet, but for a relationship to last, you need to have a deeper bond than both being into the same thing--so contrary to what you've asked about (oops sorry) those friendships im speaking of only last because we didn't follow each other into different fandoms, really. we didn't have to. along the same vein, i'd respectfully argue that it wouldn't be productive or fair of me to group 'reading my work' in as an element of friendship, so to speak--i definitely don't expect my friends to read my fic and vice versa, we all understand that we can support each other in our creative pursuits and lives in general / in the abstract without needing to be a fan of the same things or even necessarily being fans of each other's work (although of course it's always nice). i know this doesn't really answer your specific question but i hope it doesn't come across as pessimistic as it might sound. i truly and genuinely believe it's a positive thing that the idealised friendgroup traipsing through fandoms together doesn't really exist (or if it does exist, it's luck and not something to shoot for in itself), because this just tells me to look out for these great opportunities to form bonds that last beyond superficial interests.

in terms of how to make those friendships to begin with, im honestly even less help. my friendships kind of just happened to me. im actually quite terrible at reaching out to people and i am notoriously difficult to reach myself hahaha so honestly all the credit for my friendships goes to my friends for being patient and sticking with me despite that. i am honestly just very lucky in that i've been able to talk out loud into the void and have had wonderful people reach out to me because of it, but that's hardly a reliable strategy... i guess i'd encourage you to be more like my friends, who are the anime protagonists wielding the power of friendship to my prickly antagonist, or whatever. oh another thing to remember i guess is that some friendships just don't last this way and will stay within fandoms and may peter out, and that's ok. i don't consider those relationships less real or valuable for being less lasting.

re: writing: i want to caveat that i don't think i'm fairly able to say (or comfortable saying) that i'm particularly good at writing or character analysis, certainly not to an extent that i'd be willing to hold myself up as an example of it, but i really appreciate that you feel that way about my work and am incredibly honoured to be considered an inspiration in any capacity!!

with that disclaimer made, i'll do my best to answer for whatever it's worth. i've liked writing ever since i was a very little kid, but i will credit any actual progress i've made in developing the skill to writing fanfic because i think that being able to focus on building character and logical flow in plot progression over other things like creating characters, worldbuilding, inventing plots wholesale, etc--which has allowed me to sort of expedite those skills in particular and which i think are helpful in writing more broadly. (this also answers the 'character analysis' part specifically--when you don't have to/get to invent a character, you have to spend more time taking them apart.) anyway, i started writing fic about twelve or thirteen years ago, and there have been periods within that where i've progressed faster or slower depending what's going on in my life haha. i do think time played a massive role in any skill developments i've made, but i also know people take less time or more time to make similar progress (caveat again: progression is subjective, this is very approximate), so i think the other key ingredient besides time is engagement. if it's helpful, i went into that a little bit more here, but as stated i have a lot more to learn and would never present myself as an expert lol

[heidilylovely]

𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐎 𝐍𝐎 𝐘𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐒𝐎𝐊𝐔 - 𝐌𝐘𝐃𝐄𝐈 𝐗 𝐅.𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑! Prologue

Words: 5000

Genre: G.N Reader (Fluff, Angst!)

Summary: Mydei, the Undying Man of fights!, crashed into a strange world of pink blossoms after a unknown accident.... Bloodied and broken, He now is in...place where they say GLORY TO THE ALMIGHTY SHOGUN OF INAZUMA BAKUFU, NARUKAMI OGOSHO, DESTROYER OF OROBASHI, RAIDEN SHOGUN BAAL, AND HER EVERLASTING REIGN AND PURSUIT OF ETERNITY.

This is my first fanfic, I'm so sorry if I made his character a lil too annoying. (Yes, This is a isekai fic)

Carelessness will be one's downfall…

Oh, isn't it just? Isn't that what he always said, the one who spoke such wisdom? A prophecy spoken by lips now cursed, now enshrined in their own wreckage. But who was he? A fool who dared speak of carelessness as though it could be avoided, as if such a thing existed outside of the grand, terrible dance of fate. A dance you don’t lead, and neither does he. He. The one who had the audacity to believe that he could avoid the inevitable. Mydeimos, the undying. Or should I say Mydei, warrior of Okhema, knight in cursed armor, the one who would never escape his own destiny, even if he tried. A man marked by chaos, for his existence alone is anarchy incarnate.

If you wish to understand him, to seek the core of who he is—watch. Watch him as he fights, as he rips apart those who dare cross his path. Witness him, for he’ll let you in. He’ll let you see the poison that courses through his veins, the curse that binds him in ways even he doesn’t fully understand. Watch him—fight him if you must—though I wouldn’t advise it. He’s not someone you defeat. He is the fight, the war, the consequence.

Kremnos. The land swallowed by mist, drenched in endless fog that hides more than it reveals. A city torn apart by its own violence, riven by the wars of its people, its rulers, its gods. A place where blood runs like rivers, and not all of it is the blood of the innocent. Oh no, not at all. Patricide runs in the veins of the royal family, stained deep. A god watches over this land, and that god is the harbinger of calamity itself. Their name, their very presence—destruction, inevitability, chaos—what else could Kremnos be but a living nightmare, forever bound to its dark fate?

But Mydeimos, he stands apart from the rest, doesn’t he? Oh, he’s a lion among sheep, a beast with a hunger that none can tame. The undying one, cursed by immortality, walking the path that leads to nothing but suffering and madness.

Ah, but who speaks of the prince of this land? Who speaks of the heir to the throne of Chrysos? The one who seeks the Coreflame of Strife, who would chase that burning heart of war like a moth to a flame. His path is laid before him, one of bloodshed, violence, agony. For Mydeimos, fate is not just cruel, it is demanding. He will suffer a thousand deaths, each one a testament to his unbreakable resolve. He will wade through rivers of blood, as the bodies of those he has slain litter his way home. He will carry the madness of his fate like a crown, because to be great, one must bear the burden of madness alone. Only by slaying a god can one become a god. This is the truth he faces, the truth he cannot escape.

The iron-hooves of his warhorses pound relentlessly across the land, shaking the earth beneath them. Their march is a harbinger of doom, a warning that nothing can stand in their way. And yet, despite the thunderous sound of their coming, they too are doomed. They too will be stained by the blood of their homeland, for nothing is sacred in this war. Not even the soil beneath their feet. They march ever onward, though they know not what they will find. Only that they must march, and march, and march.

Ah, the prince. The prince of Kremnos. They sing his name in whispers, in fearful reverence. All hail the prince. They say it, they shout it, they tremble in the wake of his footsteps. But what do they know of him, really? They only know the surface, the child’s play of it all. They do not see the man beneath the crown, the one who fights not for glory but for survival. They do not understand the weight of the crown upon his brow, the madness that burns in his veins. They think him untouchable, but oh, how wrong they are. If they knew what it took to be him, they would understand that the true fight with Mydeimos is not in the clash of steel, but in the wreckage that follows. The aftershocks alone would break them.

He despises the hero. The brave, cocky hero who believes that he is the answer to everything. The one who stands before Mydeimos with wide eyes and false conviction, spouting lines of nobility that mean nothing in the end. Oh, that hero, so energetic, so full of life—but a fool nonetheless. A fool who thinks he is invincible, who believes that his curse is just a test of his strength. He’s a man of his word, sure, but what good is a word when it’s bound to the chains of fate? What good is honor when fate itself is a liar?

But Mydeimos, he knows this. He knows what it is to be bound by a curse. A curse of death, a curse of life. His very existence is a contradiction, a mockery of life itself. He is Mydeimos the Undying, cursed to die, yet unable to escape his immortality

He needs to… eliminate Nikador… But why isn’t he healed yet? Why does it still linger, this stupid curse?

He is Mydeimos the Undying, the very name carved into legend, and yet—his curse is dying. A paradox. An irony he can’t escape. The irony of being immortal, yet NOW! He can't heal now, of being trapped in the agony of death that never comes. He was supposed to be....—but now, he can’t even repair the damage done to his body. The curse—

What happened? How did it all go wrong? He was just trying to kill the invader, to protect what little remained of his fractured world. And then—the Titans. There was a power overload. A surge. It was like the heavens themselves had cracked open, and from that rift, the orb was created.

But now he can’t even remember the details. The shock of it all, the chaos—he was just trying to defend his.....citizens...

Perhaps there was a spell cast on him, something that twisted his fate, that altered the very core of who he was. Could it be? The Garden of Recollection. The invader was from there, wasn’t he? The garden, where memories twist and time is but a fragile illusion.

The invader got angry, didn’t he? Mydeimos remembers that much—rage, intense, raw, as if the very air itself burned. And that’s when it happened, when everything spiraled out of control. The magic, the power. Something triggered a chain reaction. And now, here he stands, caught between two impossibilities—immortal yet dying, a warrior without a cure. He doesn't know. He doesn't know how to fix it.

This… this is his nightmare. A fate worse than death. To be undying, yet unable to heal...

And then—flooding.

Flooding, like an overwhelming tide that rises from nowhere, drowning everything in its wake. Not water, not anything earthly—but something worse. Something vast, something cosmic. It began to pull him in, like a force beyond comprehension. The cosmos. He was no longer bound by the soil of Kremnos, no longer confined to the realm he knew. His body, his mind, his very soul were swallowed by something greater, something unrelenting. The stars themselves began to flicker as he fell through the void, spiraling endlessly through a cosmos that had no mercy.

It was red. The light, the hue—it consumed everything. The very fabric of reality bent under the weight of the red, as if the stars themselves were bleeding. And then came the cubes. Strange, geometric forms, glowing with an eerie intensity, reaching out, surrounding him, pulling him into their grasp. They came from everywhere and nowhere. They took him. They took him, not to save him, but to prevent something. Something far worse than the curse of dying. Something that only he could understand.

He fought against them, tried to break free. His body screamed in defiance, his will more potent than ever..

He fell, deeper still, spiraling through the burning fire, the light swallowing him whole until—silence.

The fall slowed. The fire faded, replaced by a soft, unexpected calm.

The world around him shifted, and for a moment, he thought he was trapped in some endless, deceptive dream. The place he landed was unlike any place he’d ever known.

It was... peaceful.

He hit the ground with a sickening thud, his injured body scraping across the earth. His limbs screamed in agony, the damage from his battles still fresh, his curse a constant, gnawing ache beneath his skin. But this new place—the one he found himself in, sprawled on the ground—was an insult to his very being. A place of serenity, of gentleness, when he had known nothing but war, chaos, and the blood-soaked battlefield.

The ground was soft, carpeted with pale pink petals. They scattered across the earth like delicate confetti, fluttering lightly in the wind. It took him a moment to realize what they were—sakura petals. Soft, beautiful things that danced in the breeze, mocking him with their tranquility.

He hated it. He hated how peaceful it was. He wanted nothing more than to destroy the calm, to tear apart this place that made him feel so out of place, so weak. He had never known peace, never truly understood it. The soft petals beneath him were a cruel reminder of everything he had lost, everything he would never have.

The landscape stretched out before him, like a dream of gentle beauty. Tall trees, their branches heavy with blossoms, stood like silent sentinels, as though guarding a secret he could never access. The petals from the trees fell lazily, blanketing the air in a soft pink hue that seemed to glow against the pale blue sky. The atmosphere was calm, still, as if time had paused altogether.

But none of it mattered to him. It was foreign. Wrong. The gentle hum of the wind, the stillness of the space—it grated against his every instinct. He had fought for his life, fought to survive, and now, here he was—broken and battered, lying in a place that begged for rest. Rest? Rest had never been an option for him.

He tried to push himself up, but his body refused to cooperate. The effort was futile. The pain was too much. His injuries were too severe. His cursed immortality had brought him here, but it couldn’t heal him, couldn’t save him. He wasn’t sure if this was a prison or some twisted joke of fate.

There was something wrong about the stillness, something unsettling in how the beauty seemed to mock him. His hands, bloodied and bruised, gripped at the ground beneath him, but there was no fight left in him. The world around him hummed with an eerie peace that cut through him like a blade. He was a warrior, a prince—and now, here he was, lying in a world that expected nothing but submission, nothing but quiet acceptance.

He gritted his teeth, his breath ragged. The petals scattered around him, soft, delicate, and utterly useless. They couldn’t save him from the chaos that boiled inside, from the rage he had carried for so long. He didn’t want peace. He didn’t want calm. He wanted destruction. He wanted a fight.

He stood. Slowly, unsteadily, as if the weight of the world had been placed upon him. His body was battered, broken, barely holding itself together. Bloodied hands, stained and trembling, gripped the earth for support. And there, in the delicate, mocking stillness of the sakura grove, Mydei, the undying prince, felt more vulnerable than he ever had before.

His royal attire, once a symbol of his unyielding power and noble heritage, now seemed like a distant memory. The golden armor, intricately forged and gleaming with the authority of his bloodline, was no longer regal. It was tarnished, dirtied, like a warrior who had long since forgotten how to fight. The ornate details that had once shone with the brilliance of his status now looked dull and faded, as if the very essence of his former grandeur had withered. His royal robes, normally pristine and fit for a king, now hung off him in tatters, dust clinging to the fabric as though he had been dragged through some forgotten battlefield.

The tattoos on his skin, symbols of his divine strength, seemed to mock him now, no longer radiant but faint, as though the power they once represented was slipping away. They traced his arms and chest like the faded marks of a god long dead, each line a reminder of the strength he no longer had.

What happened to him?

His gait was unsteady, almost stumbling, every step an effort. The same warrior who had once stood tall in the heat of battle, who had commanded armies with the force of his presence, now walked like a shell of himself. His once assured steps, filled with the strength of a thousand battles, were slow, labored. He could barely lift his feet as he moved, blood leaving dark stains on the ground beneath him.

He hated it.

This weakness.

He wanted to scream. To rage against the world that had brought him here. But his voice, once commanding and fierce, was reduced to a hoarse whisper, barely audible beneath the sound of the wind. Why? Why had fate chosen to crush him so completely? Why had the GODS abandoned him to a fate of endless struggle, leaving him a mere shadow of the prince he once was?

The sakura petals continued to fall around him.

What happened to him?

Step. Step. Leap.

Mydei moved forward, his body screaming in protest with every motion. His golden armor, once pristine and untouchable, now bore the weight of dust and dried blood, dragging against his every movement. He should have been walking with power, with authority—but no, he was staggering, leaping forward just to keep himself from collapsing. His boots sank into the dirt, his vision swayed, but he refused to stop.

The pink petals still fell around him, still mocked him, as if whispering that he didn’t belong here. That he was something too violent, too cruel, too scarred for a world like this. And maybe they were right.

Then, voices.

He slowed, his breath uneven, as he saw them. A woman and two children.

The woman was scolding the kids, her voice sharp but not unkind, reprimanding them for something foolish. The children shifted under her gaze, embarrassed but unafraid. It was such a normal sight, so painfully ordinary, that Mydei felt something in his chest twist.

Why is this here?

A world like this—a place with warmth, with normalcy, with people who didn’t wake up every day to war and bloodshed—felt foreign. Unfamiliar. Wrong.

He should walk away. He should ignore them. They weren’t his problem.

But his throat was dry. His body was too weak. And against every part of his pride, against the bitter voice in his head that screamed at him to keep moving, he found himself walking toward them.

Water.

Just a sip. He needed something. His cursed body wasn’t healing. His wounds weren’t closing. If he didn’t get something, he would collapse where he stood.

But the thought of asking—of lowering himself to beg—was unbearable.

He stopped a few steps away, fists clenched at his sides. The words wouldn’t come out. The pride in his blood wouldn’t let them.

No.

No. He would rather die than ask for anything. He was Mydeimos the Undying. He had killed kings, broken warriors, burned cities. And now? Now he was nothing but a ghost, a man barely standing in a world that didn’t know his name. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—stoop so low.

He turned, his tattered cloak dragging behind him. He would leave. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anything.

Then—thunder.

A sound like the wrath of gods split the air, sharp and unforgiving.

Lightning crackled in the sky, and when he looked back, he saw them.

Two figures, emerging from the mist, their weapons gleaming with malice. He recognized them—not their faces, not their names, but the way they moved, the way their bodies coiled with the instinct to kill. They were predators. He never seen something like that.

And they were going to attack.

The woman didn’t notice. The children were right there.

Mydei could have walked away.

He should have walked away.

But he didn’t.

His body moved before his mind caught up, and in the space of a breath, he stepped forward and slammed his fist into the ground.

The earth split.

A violent tremor pulsed outward, and from the cracks beneath him, molten heat surged forth. A jagged web of lava crystallization erupted from the dirt, red veins surging like living fire, spearing toward the attackers in an instant.

The enemies barely had time to react. The crystallized eruption struck them mid-motion, knocking them back before they could so much as lift their blades.

The force of the attack sent a blast of heat through the air. It burned away the peaceful scent of sakura, replacing it with the sharp tang of scorched earth.

The children fainted. Their small bodies crumpled to the ground, overwhelmed....The woman—she had seen it. She had seen him.

And when Mydei lifted his gaze, their eyes met.

She stood frozen, her body stiff with fear, or awe, or both.

She had seen him.

Not just his attack. Not just the power that flowed through him, even in his ruined state.

She had seen him.

The blood smeared across his body. The weight of exhaustion pressing into his stance. The gold of his armor, dulled by dirt and war. The sharp lines of his face, the cold fury still lingering in his gaze.

And for the first time since he arrived in this cursed peaceful place, Mydei saw himself reflected in someone else’s eyes.

He hated it.

Hated the way she looked at him....

The moment his shout tore through the air, the ground cracked beneath him.

Red crystals—jagged, wild, and brimming with something uncontrolled—surged outward in a violent eruption. They clawed their way up from the earth, growing like hungry fangs, spreading in every direction with terrifying speed. Lava pooled beneath the crystalline formations, bubbling, pulsing like a living, breathing thing, turning the peaceful landscape into a battlefield of fire and ruin.

This never happened before.

He had always been in control. Even when his anger flared, even when his power felt like an untamed beast beneath his skin, he had always wielded it, never let it wield him.

But now, the power wasn’t stopping. The red crystals weren’t listening. They rose like an executioner’s blade, curling around him, surrounding him—trapping him.

What is this? What is happening?

His breath was ragged, his body trembling. He tried to take a step forward, but the crystals moved with him, circling, shifting, growing taller, sharper—like they had a mind of their own. A prison of his own making.

He clenched his fists. No. No, this isn’t—

Then—

A breeze.

Soft. Slow. Carrying the scent of those damned pink blossoms.

The storm of his power didn’t vanish, not immediately, but something in the air shifted.

And then—

She moved.

The maiden.

He hadn’t noticed before—hadn’t cared. But now, the sharp red crystals, the suffocating heat—she stood, walked..

The wind carried her movements, slow and deliberate, like she was part of the air itself. Her white and red robes fluttered gently, untouched by the chaos around her. The sleeves of her attire trailed elegantly, flowing as if they, too, were dancing.

She was moving towards him.

His breath hitched, his body still too weak, too out of control—but the moment his gaze locked onto her, something in his chest settled.

It was maddening.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity—he wasn’t burning.

The anger, the exhaustion, the ache in his bones—none of it vanished, but for a split second, it stilled.

Her dance continued, slow, deliberate, unnatural. She wasn’t afraid. She should be afraid. He was a monster right now, surrounded by the destruction of his own making, yet she approached him like she had nothing to fear.

He could feel it—something else in the air. Something cooling, something ancient.

She wasn’t just walking towards him. She was calming him.

The wind shifted again, carrying the scent of sakura blossoms, wrapping around his still-burning power like a quiet lullaby.

His head felt light. His vision swayed.

And then—

The world flipped.

What—?!

There was a force—sudden, swift, merciless.

He barely had a second to process it before the world spun, his body flipping upside down with all the grace of a dying fish.

One second, he was standing. The next, he was in the air.

His dignity, however, was long gone.

The ground rushed up to meet him—no, he rushed down to meet it. The last thing he saw before impact was a blur of red and white fabric, the shrine maiden’s expression unreadable.

Then—

WHAM.

Pain. So much pain.

The world was spinning. His head was reeling. His entire existence had been flipped upside down.

What. The. Hell.

He lay there, limbs sprawled like a broken marionette, staring up at the sky, dazed. His pride—his royalty—was in shambles.

He was Mydeimos the Undying. He had led armies. He had burned cities.

And just now—he had been THROWN.

BY A HUMAN.

A. MORTAL.

A mere maiden.

He didn’t even know HOW she had done it. She hadn’t even touched him.

His brain tried to process the physics, the logic, anything—but all it came up with was sheer, unfiltered BETRAYAL.

He groaned, covering his face with one hand, as the last pink petals floated mockingly down toward him.

This was, without a doubt, the worst day of his life.

Darkness swam in his vision. The world was still upside down. Or maybe he was upside down. His dignity certainly was.

Somewhere, through the haze of pain and exhaustion, he heard a voice. Soft, but firm.

"The Shogun’s army will be here any moment."

Great. Just what he needed. More enemies.

"I need to drag… you."

Wait. Drag?

His body twitched in protest, but he was too weak to move, too tired to resist. A shadow loomed over him.

"Stranger…? Monster…? Demon…? Oni…? Tengu…?"

The shrine maiden’s voice wavered as she listed off every possible category of supernatural disaster, as if she were trying to diagnose what, exactly, had just fallen out of the sky and turned her peaceful little world into a molten warzone.

And Mydei—Mydei wanted to respond. He wanted to tell her that he was none of those things. That he was Mydeimos the Undying, last prince of Kremnos, wielder of power beyond mortal comprehension. That he was a warrior, not some yokai out of a bedtime story.

But all that came out was:

“Ghhrgh.”

Which, unfortunately, was not a coherent sentence.

Or even a word.

His mouth refused to work. His body refused to move. He was still sprawled in the dirt like some pathetic wreckage, the pink petals drifting lazily down onto his face like nature itself was mocking him.

His vision blurred, his mind spinning.

And then—he felt it.

A hand.

Gripping his wrist.

Dragging.

No.

No, no, no, no—

Was she—was she actually dragging him?!

Like a sack of rice?!

His pride, what was left of it, let out a dying wheeze.

The shrine maiden, still muttering something about needing to hide him before the soldiers arrived, was actually dragging him across the ground, his golden armor scraping against the dirt, his regal, battle-worn form now reduced to dead weight.

The world tilted again. His last thought before darkness fully consumed him was:

"I would rather die."

Then—

He fainted.

The first thing Mydei became vaguely aware of was the muffled sound of giggling.

Was he dead?

No. Of course not. He wasn’t that lucky.

He groaned softly as his head swam back into consciousness. His vision blurred at first, but then the soft, almost comforting sound of children reached his ears.

"Uncle? He looks old..."

The voice was bright and curious.

Mydei’s eyes snapped open, just enough to make out the blurry outline of two small figures leaning over him. He winced as he tried to lift his head, but the pounding headache made him flop back down like a ragdoll.

Uncle?

Was that… was that what they saw when they looked at him? Some poor, battered stranger who was now just a casualty of whatever this was?

The kids giggled again, clearly oblivious to the fact that the "uncle" in question was on the verge of passing out from sheer embarrassment. One of them, a little girl with pigtails, leaned closer, squinting at him like she was trying to figure him out.

"Don’t be mean! He seems young like big sis!"

Mydei blinked. Young like her?

Was she… referring to him?

Young?

His ego, already battered from the throw earlier, shuddered in indignation. He was not some young man. He was Mydeimos the Undying. The Last Prince of Kremnos. His age, whatever it was, was marked by the weight of wars and bloodshed.

But no. This child… this child was calling him....?

He felt a chuckle threaten to escape his lips, but it died before it could form. He was still too tired, still too weak, still too embarrassed.

The woman—no, the shrine maiden—was still nearby, standing with her hands on her hips. She cleared her throat, catching the attention of the children.

"He wasn’t trying to hurt us, kids." Her voice was calm, soothing, yet there was an edge to it that made it clear she wasn’t in the mood for their antics.

The boy, a little older, tilted his head, his innocent curiosity turning into suspicion.

"The Shogun ordered to kill anyone that is unknown, right?"

The shrine maiden nodded.

"Yes," she replied softly. "But we’ll handle it. He’s injured, and the Shogun’s men won’t be an issue for now. I don't think he was the one The shogun was looking for."

She turned back to Mydei, and then, to his utter mortification, she started to lift him.

“Shush, annoying kids,” she muttered under her breath as she tried to shift his massive, barely-conscious body into a more manageable position.

The kids were still watching, but they weren’t being as loud now. They were, however, looking at the shrine maiden as if trying to figure out how she was going to manage this.

Then, out of nowhere, the girl piped up again, her voice sweet but filled with absolute innocence:

"You’re a shrine maiden, right? What are you going to do with him? Heal him?"

The woman froze.

Mydei, now in an awkward half-sitting, half-lying position, tried to focus enough to catch her reaction. He was half sure she was about to lose it right then and there.

But instead, she sighed deeply, like the weight of the universe rested on her shoulders.

“Shush,” she muttered, clearly at her wit’s end with the kids. Then, with a certain finality, she hoisted him onto her back, folding him like he was a giant bag of flour.

A very heavy, very annoying bag of flour.

The kids stared.

“Lady Guuji isn’t even impressed with you, you know.” The boy’s voice was laced with that innocent yet piercing honesty that only children could get away with.

The shrine maiden’s eye twitched.

“Shush,” she said again, almost venomously this time. She struggled, adjusting her hold on Mydei’s limp form, trying to secure him in place.

As she did, Mydei caught sight of the ridiculous position she had him in: his body was folded in half over her back, his arms limp, his head lolling to the side like a ragdoll. The sight would have been comical if it weren’t for the sheer level of discomfort it caused him.

"Guuji should not be impressed with me," she muttered to herself, completely unaware that the kids were still watching her every move, waiting for her next line.

"Yeah, but I think you’re doing great. You’re carrying him like he's a bag of rice," the girl said matter-of-factly.

The boy nodded vigorously. "Yeah! You’ve got him all bundled up! Just like how my mom carries the sacks of flour when we need to move them. It’s so funny!"

The shrine maiden turned, her face completely deadpan, and with one last, deep sigh, she began to move—her arms awkwardly clutching the ragged Mydei as she stumbled her way toward wherever she planned to hide.

“Shut up, kids.”

Dragging what could only be described as the most awkwardly slumped hero ever seen, Mydei thought, for the first time in his life, that maybe—just maybe—this day would be one for the history books.

A warrior prince carried like a sack of rice. By a shrine maiden. In front of a bunch of kids.

It really couldn’t get any worse.

[silverlining-ships]

truthfully sometimes it's... really really hard to believe that she would actually like me. like I have so much faith that she likes who i am in the canon of the show, but sitting here drawing or when I'm doing work it's. really hard to believe that she would CARE like that. because she's jasper. and all the really gushy "your f/o would try to take care of you when you're depressed!" stuff just kind of goes over my head because.... would she really?

i have a terrible terrible problem with everything having to be 115% in character and so 99% of the time I'm writing this beautiful romance story that means EVERYTHING to me, but like.. I'm looking at it from the outside. she likes this fanfic version of me, but the version that's sitting here at my desk?

i guess the only words I can find for it is I am such a service top lol. like I care so so much about her and how I can make her feel better and how she can feel safe but completely neglect how she would feel the same about me.

[magnimoon]

Bumblebee Art - War for Cybertron Trilogy

I wanted to do a complex one, as practice. Also sorry for the delay, I was doing homework!

-UPDATE- The completed version is ready, check it out here to see it!

This design I believe also appears on some IDW comics? (I have never read them) But it is very similar to the G1 version, but with grills on the cheeks in case Bee wants to do some carne asada. Here's the bigger version:

Personally, I like this design. Maybe I'll do at the end a top 5 designs or something now that I'm really analyzing Bee's designs. Time for the poll:

[thatswhatsushesaid]

i think fandom spaces would become much more enjoyable across the board if people stopped flipping their pancakes over other fans enjoying characters that they don't like. or, god forbid, like them but in 'the wrong way.'

[toxintouch]

how do you think the lis would respond if mc sheepishly asked if they could fondle their tiddies? (even mhin, even though i KNOW they'd shank a bitch.)

Here ya go, Anon!! :3 They pronouns & non-specific language/MC used. Suggestive, but no other warnings.

AIS:

Pretends he doesn’t hear them.

“Hmm?”  He holds a hand to his ear, a toothy little smirk on his face, his scarred eyebrow raised.  The way he’s making direct eye contact is an unmistakable challenge.

“You wanna what now, Sparrow?” 

He knows exactly what MC said and they can tell.  He just wants to see if they'll say it again.  They didn’t sound so sure about whatever that request was just now…

His smirk grows when– (if?? But c’mon he’s so clearly saying yes, please) –

His smirk grows when they don’t back down.  He spreads his arms out in invitation, haori splaying open.

He’s patient for as long as he can stand once they get their hands on him but it isn’t long before he finds himself grabbing them by the wrists, pulling them closer.  Pressing his palms against the back of their hands to encourage them to make full, firm contact.  Haven’t they been warned?  He’s awfully greedy.

(And: if he purposely presses their touch against his heart for a moment, no one needs to know but him.)

VERE:

He gives them a blank look– a look unsettlingly similar to his hungry, flat eyed stare.  Though, it’s gone in an instant–so quick they might even be able to convince themself that they imagined it.  One blink and his entire expression is different, his tail swishing elegantly and with a flourish that can only be described as pleased.

“Well,” he purrs, “aren’t you just adorable?  I did tell you to ask next time you wanted to touch…  Very well then.  I’ll reward your ability to follow simple instructions.”  He relaxes luxuriously into the cushions of the divan that he’s resting on.  “Come along, then.  Fondle to your heart's content.  Don’t leave me waiting.”  He beckons to them with a crooked finger, tempting them closer, a haunting echo of their first meeting. 

Survival instincts be damned…he did give them permission…

He breathes a chuckle out as they touch him, his mouth hot against their ear as he buries a grin into their neck.

In the space of another breath, he’s flipped the two of them, leaving them pinned against the divan.

“You didn't think you were getting a single thing for free from me anymore, did you?  Tut tut.  After you treated my generosity so callously before?  From now on, I’ll be expecting payment in kind.  Quid pro quo, darling.”

KURAS:

He looks at them, eyes crinkled with amusement.  “Am I to take it that your interest is academic?  Studying anatomy, perhaps?  I do have a few select texts I could offer you which you might find quite beneficial.”

The embarrassed look on their face seems to amuse him further, the corners of his lips tugging up as he takes in their expression.

“Of course, the benefits of a more hands-on method of scholarship should not be overlooked.”  He takes pity on them, beckoning them over as he takes a seat on the doctor’s stool, right next to the cot where they first met him.  He neatly removes his coat, folding it and laying it to rest beside him.  Despite their fears, he doesn’t start listing out the anatomical names for things as they lay their hands on him.  His eyes slip shut as they rest their hands on his  shoulders–he’s still so tall, even sitting on the low stool–sliding their hands down, admiring the sturdy form and shape of him.

His own hands come up, clutching around their waist with surprising strength.  His eyes are bright and intense as he looks up at them.  They expect him to say something but he merely squeezes them–Possessively?–

Like he might be able to trap them in this moment with him forever, through will alone.

He closes his eyes again; his grip loosens. His self-control back is back in its necessary place, and he finds himself repentant.

“Forgive me.  You are quite endearing.  I simply find you…difficult to resist.”  He admits.

MHIN:

You are so correct anon.  Shanked immediately.  But MC bonks their head into Mhin’s chest on their way to the ground, so…  Achievement Unlocked? Or, for MC’s sake, I’ll assume that they have earned a level of trust/intimacy with Mhin that makes Mhin a lil' less likely to get stabby.

Mhin’s eyebrows furrow as Mhin crosses their arms, physically creating distance between MC and their…

Mhin’s cheeks go a little red as they realize how obvious their body language is, their pale eyes darting to the side as they worry about what other things they’ve accidentally telegraphed to MC. How many of Mhin's true thoughts and feelings are they privy to...?  Shaking themself mentally, they quickly snap out of it, pinning MC with a pointed glare.

“If you value your life at all, you’ll never ask me that again.”  Mhin marches away.  “Staying at the Wet Wick–around Leander–has ruined your brain.  You need to get out of that place while you still have some grey matter left.”

. . .

Later, escorting MC back to said Wet Wick, ducking through the lesser known and narrower streets after a long day of following dead ends together, Mhin finds the thought ruining their own brain.  It must be the heat of MC pressed against them in the alleyway, the comforting, all-consuming scent of them, the memory of MC’s flushed face while they were asking Mhin’s permission...  MC’s much braver than them, Mhin thinks bitterly, so much more willing to let themself have what they want, despite their cursed hands.  Mhin sighs, stopping abruptly.  Turning.  Pinching the bridge of their nose.

“Look–you can–”

Mhin feels themself blushing all the way down to their chest.  They open their mouth and close it a couple of times, attempting to articulate what they want.  They make a noise of aggravated frustration.  Carefully–very carefully, and very slowly, so that MC knows exactly what they are doing, they reach for the bandaged hands at MC’s side.  They rest MC’s hands lightly on their chest, shivering as they feel the brush of fingers against their clothed ribs, thumbs pressing into their sternum.  They bite down a noise that would surely make them perish where they stand.  Stars above, how long since–

“...Does your heart always beat this fast, Mhin?”

“Quiet.”  They snap.

Wow Mhin.  Right there in the alleyway huh?  Well ok then. I see what ur about.

LEANDER:

The two of them are alone in the room at the Wet Wick, just sitting together innocently on the bed when MC asks.

Well–they try to ask.

He hears them start the question and his coat and shirt (and tiddie belt) are coming off before they can even finish.  He gives them a quiet chuckle, blushing as his shirt(s) get caught at his shoulders. 

Though the perfect way it frames his boobs might convince them he did it on purpose…

“You meant skin to skin, right?”  He laughs again, leaning back on his hands and looking entirely too appetizing–is he arching his back a little more than necessary? 

“I don’t mind at all! Though, if you could help me with…”  His eyes crinkle as he smiles at them, head tilted like a puppy, waiting expectantly.

They get up from the bed to help him discard his remaining topmost layers of clothing, standing above him in order to better assist.  His eyes are pinned to theirs the moment the fabric barrier is fully cast aside.  “I…can’t say this is a bad view,” he admits, eyes roving along their form, tongue darting out to wet his lips.  Then, more sincerely: “I’m glad that you asked me for this.  Don’t be afraid to touch, all right?  Nothing bad will happen to me, promise. Remember: whatever you want.”

They find themself feeling along the edges of his scar, tracing the line of it across his pectoral…  His breath catching when they accidentally scratch him a little with their nails (MC is just a little clumsy–that was completely unintentionally, really) is dangerously addictive.

“Ah... Anywhere else you’d like to touch?  It would be a shame to waste this opportunity…”

If they're feeling shy, he could offer a few suggestions.  He really, really wants to help in any way he can. :)

BONUS!ELYON:   “You can, but I will have to charge.”

[doodlejoltik]

grass knot

[~4.5k words, read it here or on Ao3. tagged with Volo and Lance since they appear as prominent characters; Rei-centric]

Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

Rei, caught in the stirrings of a new arc, tries to rise to its call, but trips over the past at every turn.

A full rewrite of that Mysterious Stones chapter where Volo first shows up, from Rei’s POV, plus a bit more. Written mostly before the Arceus Arc began.

(Setting expectations: a lot of this fic is just Rei Thinking About Stuff haha. Love getting into his head! His characterisation is a little bit different/more nuanced compared to the other Rei oneshot I wrote; hopefully you'll still be along for the ride if you've read that one!)

-

“Show me thy bond.” It echoes inside Rei’s skull, down to the very bone, the same as in his earliest memories. He nearly buckles under its weight, but it's a welcome feeling.

After so long without direction, this is a relief. Arceus has finally spoken.

The words fit perfectly with the half-remembered fragments Rei had received some weeks ago in the middle of the night. Why hadn't they been intelligible then? What makes now different? The sync stones ultimate are one factor, of course. Maybe Arceus draws power from them, which is strange to say of a deity, but from what he knows of the Plates, it might not be so far-fetched.

Prince Lear disperses the murmuring crowd; so, the audience all heard it too, not just those on the arena floor. Professor Bellis congratulates Bettie. Cynthia, Lance and Steven whisper among themselves. And his mind still whirls with new theories as they gather together.

What does Arceus want? 

‘Seek out all Pokemon’ had meant completing the Pokedex. At least, that’s what he’d assumed. Now, this time, Arceus likely means for them to showcase bonds with their Pokemon, given the context. But what does that actually entail?

Cynthia’s words cut above everyone else's. “Rei. Was that voice…?”

All eyes are on him. He breathes deeply, steeling himself, as the familiar weight of it settles in. Things are moving, now. 

“Yes. I'm certain. That was —”

“Indeed! That was a message from Arceus!”

His words catch in his throat. Off-balance, suddenly, as all his thoughts fall away, replaced by a swooping feeling he can't quite identify —

He whirls around.

Volo is here.

He takes a few steps back, an involuntary half-stumble, before remembering himself. 

Those flashes of movement he's been seeing, the feeling of being watched, a Togepi, unattended: they’re all now terrifyingly validated. He'd half thought them a product of his overactive mind.

“Excuse-moi, pardon me… but who are you?” Professor Bellis ventures. 

“I'm Volo — a humble merchant who loves history and mythology!” With that, he flashes a winning smile. Rei could laugh at the sheer audacity of it all, but his thoughts are still strewn across the dusty ground, scattered, and they slip from his grasp as he tries to gather them up. Whatever sense of gravity he’d felt upon hearing Arceus’ voice has completely lifted.

“But more importantly!” Volo continues. “When the arena shone brightly, I also heard that voice.” He brings his hand up to point at the air with enthusiastic emphasis, a gesture still so terribly familiar. Rei clenches his fists, feeling the nails dig into his skin. Not really out of anger. More as a reminder.

The last time he’d seen Volo had been. Well. Memorable. But that isn’t the image that smiles back at him now, tripping him up. He's in Gingko uniform again, complete with ridiculous oversized backpack, which Rei had thought discarded, up there on the peak. Apparently not. Had Volo returned later, still seething, to collect his things? The concept is strangely hilarious.

“I wonder… these sync stones ultimate… might they be some sort of test from Arceus? If we could show him that ‘bond’ he desires —”

“Sorry, test? Arceus?” Cynthia interrupts with a frown, holding a hand out. “What makes you say that?”

“Why, it's quite simple. Arceus' presence was summoned by these stones, in this exhibition, and he requests us to further show our bond. What else could he desire?” Volo says, gesturing widely. 

Rei finally pulls himself upright — scrapes his thoughts together into something resembling coherence. The initial shock has drained away, settling into a distant sort of apprehension. He watches silently. Volo’s not really saying anything too unreasonable, but where is this leading? 

There’s so much he doesn’t know. What has Volo been doing, all this time? How long has he been on Pasio? What does he hope to gain, approaching them like this?

He’ll let Volo continue, then. It's an opportunity for some of those questions to be answered.

(And it gives Rei time to think of what to say.)

“Well, put that way, that does make sense,” Steven nods along. “Should we organise for more trainers to try the stones, then?” 

“Oui, I would love to gather more data!” Professor Bellis answers. “However, the stones are still quite volatile. There is progress on this, yes, but for now, I would like to limit their use, capisci?” 

At this, Bettie speaks up. “Yeah, it was weird.” She runs a hand through her Pikachu’s fur, the mouse curled up lazily in her arms. Nobody in Hisui was quite that affectionate with their Pokemon. Certainly not Akari, though she'd grown closer with her own Pikachu over time. As for himself, Decidueye had been standoffish, averse to being carried even as a baby Rowlet. Well, actually — as his distracted mind digs deeper into memory, he recalls — there had been Volo and his Togepi. 

He casts that errant thought away, buries it deep once again. Bettie is still speaking.

“And it was like nothing was there, at first, and Pikachu and I had to concentrate really hard. And then — whoosh! Wow! Overwhelming,” she shifts Pikachu’s weight to one arm to gesture with emphasis, “and all at once.”

“And this is when Arceus spoke,” Lance asks. 

Bettie nods, now subdued. “It was a rush! I think you guys could handle it, but I dunno if everyone could.”

“If I may,” and all attention returns to Volo. “It seems the stones can currently be used by trainers with particularly powerful convictions, and bonds with their Pokemon,” he gestures with a smile to Bettie. She blushes. 

At the casual flattery, Rei can't help the small frown that twists onto his face. It seems innocent enough, but compliments and niceties can so easily mask true intent. 

Especially with Volo.

Volo continues. “Perhaps we might solve this by way of a tournament, of sorts. Allowing Arceus to witness our talent and dedication, with the victor bestowed the honour of using the stones! Of course, the winner of such a competition would have the fortitude necessary to handle such power.”

Well, taking that to its logical end… Volo wants to win, and be granted this ‘honour’ he so conveniently proposed. But why go to all this trouble? The stones appear out in the streets quite often — apparently, found even by preschoolers. Volo should have no trouble obtaining them.

Does he know something they don't?

“Bettie here led the first winning PML team, did she not?” At this, the girl in question smiles Mareepishly. “And that is why she was the one to demonstrate the stones, I presume,” Volo inclines his head towards the Champions.

Informed guess, or something more? He thinks back on half-seen, furtive movements, and wonders. 

“That's right,” Steven confirms. “Bettie is a shining example to us: a leader of the next generation. We decided there was no better choice.” 

“So you suggest we hold another tournament,” Lance says thoughtfully. “Well, there is precedent. Prince Lear,” he turns to the Prince, whom Rei had honestly half forgotten was there. “What do you think?”

Before Lear can reply, Volo reinserts himself into the conversation. “It would be a grand tournament, truly fitting of Pasio's reputation. Why, perhaps, the deity Arceus might even be compelled to descend —”

Ah. So that’s what he intends. “Aren't you getting ahead of yourself there?” Rei interrupts. He means to sound stern, but it comes out sounding more incredulous. Not at the idea itself, but at how brazenly it’s admitted.

“Perhaps,” Volo says with a careless shrug. He doesn’t acknowledge Rei any differently than the others, still maintaining their inadvertently shared ruse. “It's only speculation, of course, but it is exciting to think about!”

“Hmph! I believe I was the one being addressed,” Prince Lear declares, arms crossed. His red shades flash dangerously, eyes hidden under their glint. Directed at him, it's almost like the full glare of an Alpha Pokemon.

Rei’s face flushes with heat to the tips of his ears. Great time he picked to enter the discussion. He quietly ducks his head down; the Prince is in charge, here, after all. He'd rather not test his patience. 

Meanwhile, Volo just smiles, seemingly unfazed. 

There's a part of him that really wants to know how Volo does that. It's just — he's so confident. How can he be so sure that everything will work out in his favour?

“A grand tournament,” Prince Lear ponders, tapping his foot. “And what could be grander than the second Pokemon Masters League?”

“Indeed!” Volo beams. “I'm sure the audience would love to see the clash between a king and a deity, would they not?”

Lear's tapping stills. His guarded stance loosens; he's taken aback. Volo emphasised king, and oh, Lear's official title is Prince. Hm.

There's something more deliberate about it beyond just casual flattery. 

Lear uncrosses his arms and seems at a loss, for a moment, on where to put them before straightening up with his hands on hips. “Is that so?” He laughs. “I like the sound of that!” A pause, unnecessarily dramatic. Nobody breaks the silence, not even Volo. 

The Prince looks around with some satisfaction and continues. “Very well, then. The winning team of the second PML will be granted the honour of using the sync stones ultimate.” He grins, sharply, red shades flashing once again. “Which will include me, of course. Hahahahaha!”

“You have a real gift for making quick decisions!” Volo says cheerfully. The tension breaks. Chuckles arise from the rest of the group, and Rei can only stare in disbelief. That — that has to be mockery, right? But everyone else seems to take it as light teasing, even the quick-tempered Prince himself. 

Against his better judgement, his gaze catches Volo’s. 

He doesn't know what he expects to see: amusement? Satisfaction? Triumph? And there's some of that, but it's a wry, knowing sort of look, like a joke shared only between the two of them. 

Already the others are starting to animatedly discuss between themselves. Bettie makes a teasing comment to Lear, who scoffs. Professor Bellis says something about checking in on the sync stone technology. Cynthia, Lance and Steven form their own little group again, speaking in low tones, and he can't quite follow their discussion. 

It seems like he's the only one who notices Volo quietly slipping away, and he's got half a mind to do the same. 

Would it be incredibly ill-advised to follow him? Probably. But he still has questions. And it’s possible that Volo will let his guard down when they're alone. 

(Even to him, that seems incredibly optimistic. But there’s things between them that he himself would rather only unearth in private. Maybe Volo feels the same way. And even if not, perhaps he'll gloat, or tease playfully, and let on something of use hidden in the thorned barbs.)

It's not like he has much left to contribute here. Tournaments and competitions and organised displays are foreign to him. The Neo Champion Stadium had felt so different from the kind of battles he’s used to… which, in part, could be why he lost. 

He needs to train. If everything rests on the result of this tournament, he has to be ready. 

The group seems to be naturally dispersing, at least — Professor Bellis just excused herself — so he won't be missed. With some quick words, he, too, turns to leave. They can handle this part, and Rei will do his. 

Prince Lear had mentioned a winning team, and Pasio battles are generally three on three, from what he's seen. Who could he ask? There's Akari, of course. And the clan leaders, but it would feel strange to team up with only one and not the other. A little bit too reminiscent of another time. 

His steps carry him nearly to the edge of the arena.

Besides, he's getting ahead of himself. He still has to… well, he should explain everything to them. About Volo.

Even all these months later, it still aches. He had buried it all, hoping to let it rot away, to be free of that thorny mass of contradictory feelings that arose every time he dwelled on it. 

But the longer he waits, the more impossible it seems to explain — to explain not only the events of that fateful day, but also his own, confusing silence on the matter. Though he’s tried to plough the field, turn it all over and start anew, it still lies just beyond the surface, and a single misstep is all it takes to snarl him all over again. Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

(Akari is unquestionably the one person he's closest to. But there was a time when that singular title wasn't so clear cut.)

There’s a sort of tunnel that leads out of the stadium, a long darkened archway that passes under the audience stands. He's about halfway through when he hears footsteps from behind, swift and purposeful strides. 

His breath catches, for a moment. But Volo left first, and the arena had been flat and wide, with no corners to lurk in. Besides, it's too loud. Clearly telegraphed.

Cynthia, maybe? 

He turns. The face that greets Rei is slightly less familiar. “Lance,” he acknowledges the Champion. 

“Rei,” Lance greets in turn, stopping a few paces away. Arms crossed, silhouetted against the light of the arena and framed by the tunnel’s dark, arching walls, his tall figure is — intimidating. 

He can’t help but wonder whether that's deliberate. 

“You left before I could ask,” Lance says, and there's a pause. “As someone who has prior experience with Arceus, what do you think of all this?”

A fair enough question. But the way it's said… sounds a little too carefully worded. Casual, but purposefully so.

What sort of answer does Lance expect? 

“It sounds reasonable enough,” he decides to say. As much as he hates to lend credence to Volo’s proposal, he can't think of anything better. It somehow seems to suit their needs perfectly, which he's sure is no accident. “Back in Hisui, I was told to seek out all Pokemon, so I helped with the Pokedex. In the same way, I guess this could help fulfil Arceus' new request.”

Lance nods along, but his brows furrow. “You sounded more sceptical, earlier,” he points out. 

Ah. Not really his intent, but… “That was about the more…” he casts about for the right word, “speculative part of it. I don't know if it would really call Arceus down, or anything like that.” Though honestly, he doesn't know that it won't.

“What do you think will happen, then?” Lance asks, with clear curiosity, and, well. He doesn't really have a good answer to that. 

“... I don't know,” he admits. “I never actually completed the Pokedex, so I'm not sure what happens after Arceus’ request is fulfilled.” He had been close, but there had still been so many minor tasks that needed finishing, things to busy himself with, to arrange and get in order before he had to face Giratina again. 

He hadn't been ready, yet. Maybe Arceus had grown impatient, and brought him here to confront his problems directly. Maybe it cared. Maybe it didn't. 

(Seeing Giratina with Cynthia had felt a little like he was the punchline of some divine comedy.)

Lance purses his lips and looks off into the distance, out of the stadium, past Rei. He wishes he could read the man’s expressions better; as it is, the set of his brows calls to mind Kamado, and everything else tangled up with it. 

Finally, Lance’s gaze turns directly to Rei once again, and he speaks. “That Volo… you two know each other.” 

It’s not a question, but even then, the expression of unguarded surprise he can’t hold back might be answer enough.

Lance has one hand on his hip, the other, at rest, is framed by the drape of his cape. He looks down at Rei as he states plainly, “His clothes aren’t of modern make, so the logical assumption would be that he’s from Hisui. Cynthia confirmed my suspicion. And, historically, Hisuian communities were few and quite tightly knit. It’s more likely than not.” 

He tries to keep his expression carefully neutral, as logic digs deeper, dangerously close to things unexplainable. And the earth is already recently disturbed, soft, friable. He can’t offer much resistance. “I've seen him around,” he concedes.

“But why did neither of you acknowledge the other?” Lance looks confused; frustrated, even. “Even a passing acquaintance would be notable, with both of you being here in the future.”

And here — this is familiar. The accusations. The questions he can’t answer. But it’s different; it’s not that he doesn’t know the answers. He just can’t seem to put them in an order that would make sense, to anyone else.

(Does he really understand, himself?)

But eyes are on him, and he needs to explain, in whatever unsatisfactory way he can. “Volo and I… it's complicated,” he laughs weakly, tugging at his scarf. “He genuinely does love history and mythology, you know. I guess I wouldn't be that surprised if he was right about Arceus.” All those times they’d pored over ruins together, Volo excitedly babbling on about whatever legend this one related to — there had to have been the seed of something real, something genuine, in that. 

It’s not really an answer. Lance can obviously tell, because he crosses his arms. 

“Is he bad news?” he asks bluntly. 

There’s no twisting his way out of this one.

Some of the panic he’s feeling must bubble up onto his face, because Lance’s expression softens, just a bit. The man sighs. “Look, Rei, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but us Champions need to have all the relevant information. This tournament, the stones,” he gestures around them, “affect everyone here on Pasio. So I’m sorry about involving myself in your business, but it's necessary. Should we be keeping an eye on Volo?” 

It’s obvious what the correct answer is. And every second he delays responding makes him seem all the more untrustworthy. He questions, a little hysterically, why this of all things is what he stubbornly roots himself for, risking this place he’s made for himself in another unfamiliar land. 

But his jaw works, and all that slips out of his throat, past the thorny tangle, is a “Maybe.” The most ground he can concede. “Volo’s… passionate about Arceus.” Which is perhaps the biggest understatement of both this century and the last. 

There's an expectant pause. He almost leaves it at that, but it seems it's too unfinished a sentiment for Lance. “He wants to be seen by it.”

“The same way you are?” Lance says sharply. Arceus, he picked up on that fast. Rei hopes he leaves it at that. A rivalry fallen apart, twisted into bitterness and jealousy, nothing more.

Nothing world-ending. 

It’s not like he doesn’t trust Cynthia, and by extension the other Champions. It’s just… he can deal with it himself. It’s what he was probably brought here to do, anyway. The thought of someone else turning him over, and finding him lacking — fighting his battles for him — makes him uneasy. 

“Yeah, something like that,” he answers, with a painful swallow. 

Besides, he hopes he can resolve this peacefully. He’d beaten Volo before, even after he’d flipped the rules of battle on their head. And this time Volo can’t upend the script; one good thing about tournaments, he supposes, is that the rules are rigorously upheld. A different sort of battleground.

He wants to laugh at that. Suppositions and wildly optimistic thoughts are his only foundation, and yet it’s enough for him to reject all possibility of outside help.

Then again, if he can’t even bring himself to tell Akari, what chance does he have of breaking that self-imposed silence, here, on less familiar ground?

Lance hums, assessing this. He uncrosses his arms. “If that friend of yours does anything drastic, tell us, alright?” he says. It’s said warmly, but there's something serious to it. An undertone. “Our job is to help out wherever we can, so don’t hesitate to reach out.”

Rei tries for a smile. “Understood.”  

Lance nods, and looks Rei up and down, though it's only a subtle flicker of his eyes. His gaze lingers on the scarf at Rei’s neck, which Rei realises he’s been fidgeting with unconsciously. He lets go with faint embarrassment, feeling caught out. 

The other man sighs. “You can go, you know?” There’s resignation in his voice. Maybe even something apologetic. In that moment, he seems more like Kamado than ever.

Rei doesn’t want to turn his back to him, but he wants to be here even less. So he nods, stiffly, and turns himself around, continuing the dark walk through the tunnel and out the stadium at a steady pace.

He doesn’t run.  

(But his hand hovers by his satchel, where Decidueye's Pokeball rests.)

It’s only when he’s walked for a good while, out into the harsh sunlight, through the town outskirts and to a more forested spot, that the tension drains from him. He sits at the base of a large tree, feeling a little lightheaded.

That was… an interrogation, to put it bluntly. And he can’t really fault Lance for it. To anyone, he's sure, his actions are confusing at best.

Unfortunately, he’s found that he’s less than clear headed when it comes to Volo. He turns over Lance’s final words. That friend of yours. It’s not surprising Lance phrased it that way; everything Rei had said had been carefully woven to lead him to that conclusion.

Except it hadn’t been misdirection, not fully. He does still think of Volo as his friend, despite everything.

He slumps backwards, against the trunk of the tree, feeling the rough bark dig against the base of his skull. 

What is he supposed to do with that?

Apparently, one of the worst days of his life isn’t enough to uproot over a year of growing camaraderie and budding friendship. Too many memories knot together, a stubborn tangle impossible to pick apart. He’s tried not to think about them too hard, but they tighten their hold once again, from where they lay dormant and buried.

Many of them have been forcibly recontextualised. He’s second guessed every helpful gift, every directly admiring word, every coincidental and fortunate appearance, as something deliberate and cultivated. But some of it, it seems, doesn't fit so neatly with that singular goal.

One day, they’d watched Togepi use Metronome for an hour, ostensibly for Rei’s surveying purposes. Important documentation of a seemingly random phenomenon, and all that. In actuality, they laughed the entire time, with no useful or coherent records to speak of, as the results became all the more improbable. 

They’d camped together, those last months, as the search for the Plates got wilder and more exciting. He knows Volo’s favoured way to build a camp-fire, and how he wakes up unreasonably early in the morning, and that he prefers sweet foods over savoury, unlike Rei himself. A hundred mundane familiarities shared, taking root in fallow ground.

Once, Volo had been his only friend in the entire world.

Is it surprising, then, that he can’t lay this friendship to rest so easily?

He wonders what it means, that the hand offered to him at his lowest point was the same one that always meant to drag him back down. And what it means that he still wants to reach for it.

Had any real feelings been sowed there, on Volo’s part? Or was the entire thing a carefully constructed weaving, an intricate field of grass knots laid around Rei, ready to catch him in their snare? 

He can’t quite strangle the hope that something of their friendship still exists, even if neglected and overgrown. And that’s the part that scares him.

He has Akari, and Adaman, and Irida. He has Professor Laventon and the Captain, though they’re far away. Then there’s the Wardens, more friendly faces: Mai, Sabi, Ingo, and all the others; there's Zisu and Pesselle and Beauregard and everyone else in Jubilife. New friends here on Pasio, too. 

He pulls out Decidueye’s Pokeball from his satchel, and rolls it around in his right hand. He has his beloved Starter.

He has friends. He has bonds.

Why can’t that be enough?

The Pokeball he’s holding isn't the original. He'd had to break that well-loved possession in two, and recapture Decidueye in this modern device. It's a distant echo of its predecessor, wooden grooves and clunky iron replaced by smooth metal and near imperceptible seams. The weight of it is all wrong. 

But despite that, it's still his partner, and that's what matters.

(The two broken halves sit in his satchel, too, carried on his person at all times. It's yet another thing he can't bring himself to let go of.)

He sighs, tracing formless shapes in the dirt. His hand finds one of the sparse clumps of grass that grow here, directly under this wide and mighty tree. Deprived of proper sun, it’s a miracle that there’s any at all. 

It seems more and more likely that he’ll end up looking for Volo on his own. To get answers: not only about the stones, and the tournament, and Volo’s intentions with Arceus, but also for his own ends. 

Maybe there’s still something there. A single glimpse of life in this scorched earth between them.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do then.

Where he sits, what little grass there is has grown long and ragged, as their leaves stretch and reach for the sun. He sets Decidueye’s ball down and plucks two long blades. With a few simple loops and twists, they’re deftly woven together into a knot. He considers it, looping it around his fingers; tightens it, pulling on both ends, until he can feel the entire construct threaten to snap from the force. He stops. 

The thing is, no matter if it was never meant to be real, deliberately sowed, intended ultimately for harvest — it’s all the same, to Rei. He wants to keep it alive. He’s hopeful. Naive. Selfish.

For a single, impossible moment, he wonders whether this is what Arceus meant by bonds all along. 

The knot goes in his satchel, where it will turn dry and brittle with time. But kept safe, unbroken, regardless. Maybe his future self will laugh at his sentimentality. Maybe, he won't remember why it’s there. 

Wouldn't that be for the best?

He tucks Decidueye’s ball away, with care, then hauls himself up, both hands braced against the dusty ground. There’s dirt under his fingernails. From under the tree’s darkened canopy, he squints into the afternoon sunlight.

There’s a lot that needs to be done. He needs to train for this tournament, for one. Learn more about modern battling. Pull together a team. With that, ask Akari, and perhaps Adaman or Irida. Confront Volo, somewhere in all of this. 

After that? Only Arceus knows.

One step at a time. 

He finds his footing, around gnarled roots. The grass crunches underfoot. And he steps into the light.

(So maybe I was just snared by the grass knots you laid in my path. But if I wove my own, would you fall for it too?)

[necrotic-nephilim]

Do you have any more ideas about the dead dove vampire!dickxtim au you wrote a while ago? It's lived in my head ever since and I'd love to know more.

first of all thank you so much that's so sweet! second of all, i have SO many ideas you have no idea. that fic ate at my brain for like a month before i found the time to write it so i had plenty of ideas i didn't fully explore. i'm adding a read more just bc. that was one of my more fucked up fics so i don't want to subject anyone to a necro kink jumpscare

so one of the big ideas i've thought about with that fic is Tim dealing with the aftermath of it, right. bc he's of course going to hide it from everyone. the Batfam all just neds to hold onto the hope that they can save Dick somehow, and knowing what Dick did would kill any lingering hope that there's anything left of Dick Grayson in the walking husk that he's become. so Tim has to deal with the worst of it alone, probably not even mentioning he ran into Dick.

the fun part tho is that above everything else, Tim wouldn't be able to let go of Dick's comment about fantasizing about Tim before being a vampire. Tim knows the comment was made just to get in his head, but that doesn't stop it from working. he spends hours pouring over old footage of him and Dick training, hanging out, on patrol, anything he can find. just to like. try to find evidence of Dick's gaze lingering. it eats Tim alive not knowing one way or the other if it was a lie. if it's true, at least it makes it easier for Tim to move on from the memory of Dick. but not knowing is worse. and he never finds anything that satiates the question so like. that'd destroy Tim the most. (the real answer is that Dick genuinely didn't feel attraction to Tim before being a vampire, *but* Dick is convinced he did bc being a vampire fucked him up so badly that he's become his own unreliable narrator. so it's both true and untrue, and in the end, it doesn't matter either way bc Tim is fucked up by the thought of it and even if they "fixed" Dick by curing him, i think Dick's romantic feelings would linger in the horror of what he did.)

i'm really just. in love with Dick's feelings toward Tim in the fic. the most difficult part of the fic was figuring out how to end it, bc sure as a sexual fantasy Dick is obsessed with killing Tim, but he's also deeply in love with Tim, so it's difficult to follow through on. Dick wants to make Tim a vampire more than anything, but he is genuinely worried about how well it'd take for Tim. the fic doesn't really go into who's on Dick's side as a vampire, but i personally believe he's turned most of the Titans. probably some of his own rogues as well, i could see him turning Slade. i can't explain why, those are just the vibes.

it is important to me just how much of Dick's feelings for Tim are based in him not wanting Tim to live under Bruce's thumb. like the whole vampire brain has convinced Dick that Bruce is somehow the villain in this, and it was Bruce's control keeping Dick from being the person he wanted to be. it's a very warped reality and if i continued the fic i'd love for the second part to be from Dick's perspective just to have fun with the unreliable narrator of it.

back to the porn tho. Dick would seek TIm out again. probably in Tim's own apartment, just bc he wants to destroy every safe space Tim has. getting into Tim's head is an important part of breaking TIm down. the fear of Tim fighting back against being a vampire is one that Dick is trying to figure out how to manage and his current plan is to break Tim mentally. it's why he brings up wanting to sleep with TIm before being a vampire. he *knows* it's gonna fuck up Tim. and the more he puts these little cracks in Tim's psyche, the more he's sure he's breaking Tim down enough to be able to turn him. so going to Tim's apartment and proving that at any point, Dick can easily find Tim and fuck him. always holding the threat of killing Tim over his head. and Dick knows Tim didn't tell anyone when days pass after their first meeting and no Bat comes after him so like. Dick really just pushes the limits. i think he would brand Tim just bc he can. i also got a comment on the fic that mentioned Dick stabbing Tim and fucking the wound and i canNOT get that image out of my head either-

and the necro/snuff kink just. Dick playing the long game, so it takes maybe months of stalking Tim, going after him. sometimes he fucks Tim, sometimes he just fights and taunts him. and all the talk about killing Tim fucks with Tim's head a little bit. i think it'd be fun if it killed Tim's ability to have vanilla/normal sex with someone else, like Kon. it's hard for Tim to understand anyone being attracted to him in a way that doesn't involve him being a dead body. i don't think he develops the kink fully, but he does end up convincing himself being a corpse is the only way he's attractive bc of all the things Dick has said to him. it all plays into Dick psychologically breaking Tim.

i am a lover of fucked up/unhappy endings so. for me. the ending would be Dick following through on his plan to kill Tim and turn him. it'd take months for Dick to work up the courage bc TIm was absolutely right when he pointed out that Dick was too scared to actually follow through on his fantasy. Dick tries, multiple times. he convinces himself no less than five times that this is going to be the one. this'll be the time he really does it. but just as Tim starts to die, Dick panics. i think it's especially fun if once Dick even gives Tim CPR bc of his cold feet. so Tim does "die" for a second and has to brutally come back while Dick is buried inside of him.

but when Dick does it, his fears manifest in that Tim does *not* take being a vampire well. he's constantly trying to kill himself (in the time it takes for Dick to break Tim, Tim probably does figure out what poison can kill a vampire) and Dick ends up having to keep Tim locked up so Tim doesn't kill himself. would truly love to try to write Tim as mentally shattered as possible. part of him loves Dick, but he's fighting himself so hard he's not even sure if it's the vampire side that loves Dick or the human side. he's kept like a human pet, bc Dick is convinced he'll get Tim to accept it sooner or later. just a very fun, very fucked up sort of ending. i say this about all the fics i write but this one specifically i do *really* want to continue someday. i know exactly the direction i'd take it, and it could turn into a pretty long fic with a lot of fucked up porn, a lot of unrequited love, and an eventual mind break for Tim.

[leveragehunters]

An alternative to google docs

To paraphrase a recent post: google docs is pants as a writing tool.

I'm suggesting MS Word as an alternative. Yeah, I know, it's not perfect, but it is (IMO), better than google docs.

But I'm not just suggesting Word when I suggest Word. I'm suggesting a free Microsoft account, which gives you Word and OneDrive.

It only takes a minute or two and a free account gets you:

Word in the browser

A OneDrive with 5gb of storage - now, 5gb might not be much holistically but in terms of text based documents, it's decent. My entire 'Fic' folder is 2.11gb. That's everything I've ever written and all their drafts, wips and their multiple drafts, betaed fics, ideas, writing refs and guidance, archived drafts/fics, AND the 500+ fics I've downloaded as epubs from AO3).

Excel, Outlook, Teams, OneNote - basically the whole Microsoft365 suite - in the browser

I use Word exclusively, both for fic and for work (where I write extensively), and the online version does everything I need. It autosaves, has version control/reversion, and sharing (if that's what you're into), and you can seamlessly copy and paste from Word into AO3's rich text editor - no formatting adjustments required.

Anyway, it's something to think about. If you want to give it a try, the simplest way is to create a new OneDrive account, which will also give you everything else.

Go here: https://www.microsoft.com/en-au/microsoft-365/onedrive/online-cloud-storage (clickable link)

Click 'Create a free account'.

Click 'get a new email address' and follow the prompts (recommended but not required) or use an existing email address. If you create a new email address, don't actually use it for email. It's just the umbrella the account sits under.

That's it; you're done.

[manderleyfire]

The Prince of Darkness took me in his arms. And I almost gave myself the works. But I haven't let it go to my head. <...> Hey, what happened back there? Someone declared war.

Inside Daisy Clover (1965), directed by Robert Mulligan

[trappedinafantasy37]

Today is a sad day. I have officially written the last chapter of To Be Free From the Gods. Three full notebooks in which I wrote every single chapter, and roughly 60GB of video footage for references, and now it's finally done. I actually cried while I wrote the last few paragraphs. I've been working on this since March, bridging from one single thing that I had wished was different in the base game. I honestly never really intended to post it anywhere. And when I did, I did not anticipate anyone actually liking it. Nor did I anticipate people falling in love with Daedra, and her relationship with Minthara. Already had a couple people tell me that Daedra and Minthara are on their lists of favorite ships.

To everyone who has followed me through the story and kept up, thank you. There are not enough words to describe how much I love you and appreciate you. All of the feedback I have gotten has only encouraged me to do more, and I want to do more. Even though I am good at writing essays, I've never really considered myself to be much of a creative writer, nor particularly good at it. So, it makes me happy that people do like my creative writing, just as much as my analytical and argumentative stuff.

With that being said, there are still plenty of chapters left for me to publish so it's not over quite yet. Once I finish publishing TBFFTG, uploads on I Want This One will be more frequent as I will soon have the time to put more attention to it. But uploads will not be as frequent as TBFFTG, nor will I stick to a strict schedule like I used to. I want to give each chapter the proper attention and care, and will upload them when they are done. It will also be a long fic, but I don't intend on it being as long as TBFFTG (although, I never intended for that one to get as long as it did either).

I also do intend on getting over to my Shadowheart x Minthara fic. I have the framework written out for it, but only up to Act 3. I still need to finish my Shadowheart origin run before I start writing anything for it, which I might get back to within the week. I also have a small queue of stories that I do intend to get to as well so.

Love you guys!

[dreamingaboutsakuratrees]

Dear God how I fucking hate when people dismiss s character's traits because "that's just a facade! you as the reader have to see underneath it!!" like yeah no fucking shit Sherlock, a well written character has more than one (1) defining trait but that doesn't mean their most prominent one or the one most recognized by fandom ISN'T there

yes this is about people thinking dick grayson isn't actually a ray of sunshine, that it's just a mask. he's much more than the happy one, of fucking course, all batfam members (when written well) are, but that doesn't mean that being happy and bright is not a crucial part of his personality. he brings light to people's lives, he's a beacon of hope, that's what Robin was born for, as a light to Batman's darkness. That's what Nightwing is. He can be serious, sure. He's smart, an amazing strategist, incredibly good at fighting, he can be manipulative and morally gray and sometimes an objectively bad person. But he's ALSO funny and quippy and bright and sunshine. BECAUSE HE'S WELL WRITTEN.

Like Jesus stop making him so sad and wrong all the time just because you want so bad to go against "fanon". It's not fanon if it's literally his core trait. It's not fanon if it's what the character was BORN AS. God.

[thegrantwater]

new fic alert!!! new fic alert!!!

finally posting something after almost another year long hiatus from writing. i got a little more in depth about where i've been and what it's been like to write this in the end notes of the fic, so if you're curious go there, but i'll definitely be posting about it on here soon. so in the meantime....

we fill the gaps (you and me make three) chapter 1 is posted on my ao3! i've been dropping little hints about it for months, and my story for last years sqsn was the main driving point behind this fic (and yes the title for both fics comes from the same song, in my mind strange birds is a predecessor or sort of outline to this). the intro of strange birds was actually ripped straight from the draft for this, because i started rewriting season 1 almost two years ago and at the time had written some pre-henry-curse regina analysis to tie into it. this first chapter covers the events of s1e1 to about s1e19, and the rest of s1 up to the curse breaking will be chapter 2. consider its length both a treat and a warning that this is going to take a while.

love you guys <3

[0dotexe]

Oh, I forgot to mention this, but I made a P03 fic. If you're a minor don't even bother looking at this, I'm completely serious.

I try to not set deadlines for myself so that I can manage stress, but if I can get Crank That pt 2 out before Yule/Christmas that'd be pretty baller.