#god tier intro

[soundandvisionsblog]

God tier intro. Timeless feel.

[lifemod17]

Unfathomable amount of SILLY!!!

🎥: livsigg | tiktok

Melbourne, night 2 || 11/13/2024

[into-the-fraymotif]

Fraymotif Introductory Megapost

Wow, cool, an intro post. 

This is a Homestuck blog, with a lot of spoilers. A LOT.

This is your warning.

So what’s this all about?

Fraymotifs are powerful battle techniques used by Sburb's Heroes. They are basically super god-like combo attacks between multiple Heroes of differing aspects. In canon, they are shown to be 2 to 3 player combos, but it is theorized that they can include up to 12 players.

Interactions between Classpects

The way I look at Fraymotifs is as a synergy between synergies. A Hero’s Class is how they interact with their own Aspect, while a Fraymotif is how two or more Heroes interact with each other’s Classpects (Jade, a Witch of Space, changing the space in which Dave’s, a Knight of Time, protection through time is used into a single concentrated bubble; slowing time within a bubble around Bec Noir via Adagio Redshift).

My Goal with this very ambitious blog

There are 144 unique Mythological Roles (Classpects) within Sburb, and a Fraymotif involves 2+ of them. Let’s do the math for a second. The equation to figure out the number of combinations there are between r elements of a set of n items, ignoring differing permutations, is: C(n,r)=n!/(r!(n−r)!). So, 144 choose 2 comes out to be 10,296. That's actually 10 thousand different Fraymotifs for just combos of two Heroes. It shoots up to 400k+ once you include combinations of 3. There’s probably a lot less when you disclude combos between Heroes of the same Aspect, but its still an astronomical number. On top of that, there are at LEAST 36 single-Aspect Fraymotifs, meant to be used by a single Hero, and I do not wish to cover those, simply as a personal preference for what I find interesting. Sorry, I’ve got enough on my plate with the 10k+ I already intend to do, and those are at least wacky goofy combos.

I wish to at least cover what I think ALL 2-Player Fraymotifs there can be, in this blog. That is over ten thousand, so I will be covering many at a time within a post. There also may be more than one possible Fraymotif per Aspect-Combo, but for the sake of brevity (the irony is not lost on me) I will limit it such that each Pair of Classpects only get 1 Fraymotif assigned to them. That narrows it down to a measly 9504, and I do not feel sorry for making each of them special.

I don’t know if I will have the brainpower to cover 3+ Player Fraymotifs as thoroughly, so I will only cover them upon request! So please ask if you really wish for my take! I will be glad to nerd out some more. Hell, you can ask pretty much anything you want about my efforts, that's what the askbox is for (^-^)b

The Fraymotif design process

Next I look at how the abilities of the Heroes interact with each other, obviously. A Witch of Space localizes the time powers of a Knight of Time, and constructively interferes with the powers’ purpose of protecting, keeping the Target trapped in a bubble separated from the outside world (Adagio Redshift). A Seer of Mind may use the Knight of Time’s protection as a guide to see through the various alternate outcomes to find a version of events where things went a little better, and the Knight would then lock-on to that timeline to bring their partner to refuge, perhaps re-doing a section they struggled on before (Assylum Dal Segno). It is mostly a case-by-case basis, but a HUGE part of Fraymotifs are the Motifs themselves, that is to say, a theme or recurring element. The motive behind a power or ability. A Knight of Time would have access to Time shenanigans (That’s the theme of their powers), but the leading motive behind them will be for Protection, even though they are a solid combatant by themselves.

This will develop the longer I run this blog, but as it stands now, I start by analyzing the Classpects of each Hero involved and take note of their abilities in their own right. Witch of Space naturally has control over the properties of physical Space so their abilities could localize and/or expand the area of effect of other physical powers, stuff like that. Of course, this requires a comprehensive understanding of Classpecting first. Classpecting as a magic system is defined in-world by flawed/biased narrators, so most of it is left up to interpretation. As a Mage of Heart myself, I am very Classpecting-pilled, and I feel as though I grasp the concept very naturally. For areas in which my understanding is a bit thin, I do like to reference Ouroborista’s take on the system, and I am especially fond of the Class symmetry proposed therein, albeit a bit contested throughout the community. But hey, most of it is up to interpretation anyway, so if you disagree, please let me know in the asks, I would love to hear your opinions! Classpecting is all symbology lol.

Edit: the class symmetries I use have changed since starting this project, I will cover this in THE SHIFT.

Edit: I forgot to mention that while non-godtiers are able to use Fraymotifs (See: Dave and Terezi with Assylum Dal Segno in [S] Collide), I will be designing these under the assumption that all participants are godtier. Some Fraymotifs will be simple, despite everyone's access to their full godtier kit, but seriously there's 9.5k of them they can't all be perfect.

There are obviously a few Fraymotifs that are defined in canon. But I mean. Come on. Canon is a tangible thing that can be messed with in Homestuck, and mess with it I shall. There are 11 2-Player Fraymotifs that we see in HS, and when you treat June and Rose’s and Dave and Terezi’s duplicates as a single Fraymotif each (as I will because they are consistent in how they utilize the abilities despite a different graphic (well, except for Rose and Roxy but that’s a whole different beast I will address in the next section)), that lowers it down to 7-technically-8 Fraymotifs that have been shown, and only 4 of those are named. I will try to keep-in-line with the Fraymotifs we actually do see, and interpret them in a way that matches the tone with the rest of the ones I design, because its 7-technically-8 out of 9.5 thousand, and I don’t see you out here doing this.

Following that is the fun part -- the name. Fraymotifs are music-themed, and thus have music-themed name schemes. Ivories in the Fire (Heir of Breath + Knight of Time), Mixolydian Maelstrom (Heir of Breath + Seer of Light), Fantasia's Inhale (Heir of Breath + Witch of Space), and Adagio Redshift (Witch of Space + Knight of Time), to name a few (that’s actually all of the named ones in-world). So keeping with that theme, I will come up with equally badass and/or ethereal names for the other 9.5k. Such as: Assylum Dal Segno (Knight of Time + Seer of Mind), Sostenuto Spotlight (Knight of Light + Mage of Heart), Flash Sforzando (Page of Light + Mage of Heart), etc.

Preemptively addressing my personal biases

Hussie outright stated that before the events of [S] Collide, Fraymotifs were a piece of throwaway worldbuilding, and are referenced as a hard magic system, despite the fact that it is anything but. This frustrates me to my core, like, fricking, for example: Both of June and Rose’s Fraymotifs shown in [S] Collide can be interpreted as the aforementioned Mixolydian Maelstrom, which is just varying forms of attacking with wind and lasers. And Dave and Terezi’s (Assylum Dal Segno) can both be interpreted as allowing a Target refuge in another, better timeline, because they both either bring Dirk back or send themselves to another timeline and both are actually part of the same series of events. So that’s all fine. But. The Lalondes. Rose and Roxy have two separate Fraymotifs together, one where Roxy does a Voidey thing and removes the nonexistence of a bunch of perfectly generic objects in a laser-cube made by Rose, and another where they just do a bunch of Aspect-related attacks.

In fact, a lot of Rose’s powers seem to just be “lighty magic attack:” when that is far from her role as a Seer, and goes against that whole “leading motive” theme I brought up earlier. It seems that she was just around to do laser stuff. Which is cool! In a fast-paced epic fight sequence! I liked it! But I want to get a bit more creative with these, moving past the “they hit them a lot with their Aspect” for those Classpects where they can do so much more than that. I said that canon was something to be messed with, and I’m going to tweak things as I see necessary because there are 7-technically-8 that are shown out of the 9.5 thousand I’m going to do so who cares.

Another thing I want to bring up goes more into the Classpecting side of Fraymotif design. In the 12 Aspects, they are aligned along the Time-Space axis, but something that I rarely see focused on is the Breath-Blood axis. Time and Space rule the physical world, but Breath and Blood rule the nonphysical world in a way I find really cool and interesting. I see Breath and Blood operating not only under their commonly understood Freedom/Bonds mechanics, but also messing around with causality. I think that Blood is very fate/destiny-coded and that Breath is very unrestricted from such matters. Karkat and Kankri both had a personal arc based around the fate/destiny of their people, and feeling responsible for it when all that got messed up, while Tavros and Rufioh both had a personal arc about becoming detached from who they were “supposed to be”, June especially becoming fully detached from deterministic causality with her retcon powers being able to mess with past events without dooming the timeline (and her being removed from who she was due to that broblorone making her transfem). You may be thinking “Oh, but Doom is for outcomes and fate” but really only with destruction and bad endings. Hope and Rage deal with positive/negative emotion but Heart does ALL emotion indiscriminately. When chopping up the whole universe into just 12 pieces (13 if you count Piss. (I do not count Piss.)), there’s going to be some overlap on account of there being more than 12 Things in the universe. Them’s the breaks.

Last thing here is the names. A lot of people, and I mean a LOT of people, look at Hero-specific names as being taken from a pool of words that have to deal with their Aspect. Like, a lot of people will interpret the name Ivories in the Fire (Heir of Breath + Knight of Time) as having the components "Ivories" + "in the Fire", where "Ivories" is a "Breathy word" and "in the Fire" is a "Timey word" and will just toss them around until there are like 50 "X in the Fire" Fraymotifs. I'm not a huge fan of that. Another way this is seen is in Land names, where people will read "Land of Maps and Treasure" and will automatically throw in "Maps" into a big grab-bag of Light words and "Treasure" into a separate bag of Thief words, as if this was a cheap flash name generator instead of a deeply specific thematic choice. Perhaps I'm being melodramatic (very real chance there), but I think that each name should be about what the Fraymotif does more than what it's made of. "Redshift" isnt specifically a Space word or a Time word, it's a phenomenon that is deeply tied to both Space and Time, and Adagio is a reference to the time-slowing effect of the Fraymotif. Obviously, with 9.5 thousand to come up with, there will be a lot of names that are similar, but they'll be on a case-by-case basis.

How in the world will I go about posting all of this?

There’s over ten thousand of these damn things, so I will come up with a whole bunch in one go, and make that one post, tagged appropriately ofc. These posts will be queued, so there will be at most 1 per day, and any asks will be answered as soon as I get them, skipping the queue (unless your request is in the queue, then you gotta wait :p).

Alright, thanks for reading, again please ask anything in the askbox, and I hope you enjoy my handiwork B)

There will be many Fraymotifs per post on some posts, like 15+ 12 max, so there will be at least 1.7-ish 2 years before this blog is full-up on Fraymotifs. Wack.

Edit: fixed the stats

THE SHIFT

When I started this project, I used Ouroborista's class symmetries to do my classpect analysis [Witch/Sylph, Knight/Maid, Page/Heir, Mage/Seer, Thief/Rogue, Prince/Bard]. However, even though Homestuck^2: Beyond Canon is dubiously canon at best, there have been some reveals as to truly canon details such as the Page's verbiage "one who fights to preserve" that do impact the symmetries I use. Fraymotifs posted before THE SHIFT follow the old pairings, while the new ones use [Witch/Heir, Knight/Page, Sylph/Maid, Mage/Seer, Thief/Rogue, Prince/Bard]. I also will have updated the old ones under the #THE SHIFT tag.

Edit: added THE SHIFT section

[blakeprinceofdoom]

The Beginning

Hi! This is practically going to restate everything in my bio, but, it'd be wrong to not make an introductory post, wouldn't it?

I'm Blake, AMAB, a minor, I go by any pronouns but he/him preferred. I've personally classpected myself as a Prince of Doom, which probably means I'm an asshole who hates myself. I find solace in my family and friends, programming, writing music, and playing games.

I'm a relatively new Homestuck fan, on my third reread after beginning it a couple years ago. I'm a big fan of MSPFAs, and hope to start one at some point. Standouts are Sburb.EXE, Voidbound, KGTAC. I've always loved how insignificant tiny narrative details feel in Homestuck, and yet how masterfully they're woven together. It's that exact idea that made me so dedicated to reading, and also so dedicated to the classpecting system.

I'm using this blog to hopefully spread some knowledge like the little classpect disciple that I am, hopefully informing people on classpects, quests, fraymotifs, god tiers, and SBURB itself.

This is my first time using Tumblr, so I'm open to any criticisms and please point out mistakes I've made. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy reading what I put out!

[palejavepeta]

low effort panel edit i made of me... its my kinsona and also my pfp! i will use this post as an intro post.

hi! im jade or archie, i am an alter in a system. im a fictive, but not comfortable disclosing my source. i am a fictionkin of jade harley, and moirails with a davepetasprite fictive in the same system! this blog will likely be run by both of us, and we will post about our media and source respectively, homestuck, along with things about systemhood, fictionkinning, and insys relationships/moirallegiance.

i use he/they/woof/bark/pup pronouns, while ollie (our davepetasprite fictive) uses they/she/he/meow/kit/purr/cat pronouns.

[zoethehead]

And essentially, here's an sburb for dummies crash course on prototyping your kernelsprite, and ascension to God tier.

If anyone wants to add on; go ahead.

Bonus quest bed, God tier, and death pose meme images

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚖𝚒𝚌’𝚍 𝚞𝚙 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which it’s just you, paige and a camera you forget is there

You’ve done this a hundred times—more, probably—but today feels different.

The studio is quiet except for the soft hum of LED panels and the occasional creak of your chair as you adjust your posture for the fifth time in ten minutes. Your assistant, Em, is in the editing bay making last-minute tweaks to the intro roll, but you can still feel her watching you through the glass with that knowing grin. She’s already teased you enough this morning.

“You’re fixing your hair again,” she says into your earpiece, voice crackling through the comm. “It looks fine. You look fine. Stop.”

You roll your eyes and shoot a sarcastic thumbs-up at the one-way glass, ignoring the slight heat in your cheeks.

Fine isn’t good enough today.

Because today, your guest isn’t just a guest. She’s the guest.

Paige Bueckers.

And yeah, sure, you’ve interviewed top tier athletes before—Megan Rapinoe, Candace Parker, even Serena Williams via video call once—but something about Paige is different. Maybe it’s the way she plays like poetry in motion. Maybe it’s how she carries herself—quiet, thoughtful, deadly on the court and disarmingly soft off of it. Maybe it’s just the damn smile you’ve seen in a hundred slow motion TikToks that fans lovingly post after every Dallas Wings game.

Or maybe, more realistically, it’s that you’ve had a crush on her since UConn, and you’re two hours away from sharing a couch and a mic with her for an hour straight.

“She Scores” has always been your passion project. What started as a niche podcast in your college dorm now pulls millions of listeners every week. You’re known for being sharp, knowledgeable, casually flirty without being pushy, and for asking questions no one else thinks to ask. But beneath all the polish and prep, you’re still just a massive women’s sports nerd who gets giddy when you get to sit down with the athletes who shaped the game.

You run through your notes again—childhood, UConn, transition to the W, off-day hobbies, rapid fire—but you already know you won’t stick to them perfectly. You never do. The best conversations happen when you let things drift. You’re just hoping you don’t drift too far into Oh my god she’s so pretty, stay normal territory.

Em buzzes back in.

“Just got word—she’s on her way up.”

You freeze for a beat, then rise from your chair and take a deep breath, brushing invisible dust off your vintage Lisa Leslie hoodie. You’re wearing sneakers that cost too much and jeans that hug just right, and your hair has been sitting at an intentional degree of messy for the past hour. Cool. Collected. Professional. Mostly.

The knock at the door is soft. You turn as your producer opens it, and there she is.

Paige Bueckers.

And she’s early.

You didn’t expect that.

She’s dressed in a simple grey zip-up and black sweatpants, no makeup, hair pulled back into a loose bun. Effortlessly beautiful. A little taller than you imagined—though that might be the sneakers. Her eyes meet yours, blue and steady, and she smiles.

“Hey,” she says, voice quieter than you thought it’d be. “I’m Paige.”

As if you didn’t know.

You step forward, trying not to radiate pure gay panic. “Hey! Welcome. I’m so glad you could make it. And you’re early, which automatically makes you my favorite guest.”

She laughs, short and real. “I was scared of LA traffic. Got lucky, I guess.”

You offer her water. She takes it. Her fingers brush yours for a second too long. Or maybe not long enough.

“You good to hang out in the green room for a bit?” you ask. “We don’t record for another half hour, but I figured it might be nice to talk first. Get comfortable.”

“I’d like that,” she says, and your heart taps out a Morse code you hope doesn’t show on your face.

You lead her to the smaller side room off the main studio, a cozy space with a worn leather couch, some plants that are somehow still alive, and shelves lined with sports memorabilia—signed basketballs, framed jerseys, candid photos with former guests. She walks past the wall and pauses when she sees the signed Sue Bird jersey.

“You’ve had Sue on here?” she asks, blinking.

You grin. “Yeah. She wore that jersey the first time we talked. She signed it after I beat her in a game of HORSE.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “You beat Sue Bird in HORSE?”

“Well, technically, I distracted her by asking about her some dumbass question, but a win is a win.”

She smiles again—wider this time—and sinks into the couch, folding one leg under herself.

“So, do I get the same treatment?” she asks. “You gonna ambush me with personal questions?”

“Nope,” you reply, sitting across from her. “I already know pretty much a lot. Twitter’s been over that since the UConn days.”

She groans softly, tipping her head back. “God. Twitter knows too much.”

You watch her for a moment, just… existing. Relaxed. Present. And you realize she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys small talk for its own sake. But you also don’t want to jump right into deep questions.

“You nervous?” you ask instead. Simple. Honest.

She shrugs. “A little. I’ve seen your podcast before. You don’t really let people off the hook.”

You smirk. “That’s true. But you’re in good hands.”

She looks at you, and something flickers between you. Not full-blown tension yet, but something.

You glance down at your phone, pretending to check the time. You’re stalling, which is dumb. You never stall.

“You wanna run through the outline real quick?” you offer. “Just to know what’s coming.”

She tilts her head. “Or… we could wing it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Winging it with a podcaster is dangerous, Bueckers.”

“I like dangerous,” she says, then blinks like she didn’t mean to say it quite like that.

You catch it. You catch everything.

“Well,” you say, standing, “let’s give the people what they want.”

She follows you back into the studio, her presence magnetic even in silence. Your team starts final checks—lighting, mic levels, camera angles. You settle onto the couch next to her, not too close, not too far. You adjust your notes, but your hands aren’t shaking.

Not anymore.

She turns to you, just before you go live.

“You good?” she asks.

It’s simple, but the way she says it—grounded, like she sees you—settles something in your chest.

“Yeah,” you say, meeting her eyes. “You?”

She nods once. “Let’s do it.”

The red light is on, the music fades out, and you smile into the mic.

“Welcome back to She Scores, the podcast that unapologetically talks all things women’s sports—from buzzer beaters to backdoor cuts and everything in between. I’m your host, and today… listen. You already know. I don’t even need to hype this up but I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You turn your body slightly, just enough to face her.

“Joining me in the studio is a certified bucket. UConn royalty. NCAA Player of the Year, ESPY winner, national champion, and now… Dallas Wings rookie and all-around media mystery—Paige Bueckers. Paige, hi.”

She’s already smiling, eyes wide and slightly amused. She leans forward, adjusting the mic with practiced ease.

“Hey. Wow. That was… a lot.”

You smirk. “Too much?”

“No,” she says, laughing. “Just… you made me sound way cooler than I feel.”

“That’s kind of my thing,” you tease. “Making legends sound approachable.”

She lets out a little breath, like she’s trying not to smile harder than she should. Already, the chemistry crackles—not obvious to the untrained eye, but fans at home are going to pick up on this. Especially the ones with compilation and edit accounts.

“So how does it feel?” you ask. “The WNBA. First season. First media tour. Sitting across from me. Try not to be overwhelmed.”

She laughs again, easing into her seat. “It’s surreal. All of it. Some days I wake up and still feel like I’m on a college schedule. Like I’m supposed to be running sprints at 6AM.”

“Trauma.”

“Literal trauma,” she confirms, mock serious.

You nod. “We’ll get into UConn trauma in a second. But first, let’s take it back. Way, way back. Minnesota. Hopkins. Little Paigey. What’s your first basketball memory?”

She pauses thoughtfully. “I think I was maybe three? My dad had this mini hoop in our living room. The kind that’s too low for anyone over four feet tall.”

“Unfair advantage,” you interject.

“Exactly. But I remember shooting on that every day. He taught me how to pass. We’d play these one on one games—he’d let me score just enough to keep me hooked. And then when I finally beat him for real, I cried.”

“Wait, you cried?”

“Yeah,” she says, almost sheepish. “Like ugly cried. I didn’t know what to do with the win.”

“That’s deeply poetic,” you say. “Beating the person who taught you. The origin story of a future number one overall pick.”

She shrugs, but she’s glowing a little. “I just liked the sound of the ball going through the net. I still do.”

There’s a moment there—small, golden. You don’t rush it.

“You talk about that sound like it’s music.”

She glances at you. “It kinda is, right?”

Your smile deepens. “See, this is why I’m glad this isn’t a live podcast. People would already be tweeting unhinged things. Like we’re flirting.”

She laughs, but there’s something in her eyes—a flash of interest, maybe curiosity. “Are we?”

“Dunno,” you say, flipping a pen between your fingers. “We’ll let the comment section decide.”

She leans forward a bit more, playful. “Dangerous game.”

“I like dangerous,” you echo, and there it is again—like you’re circling something neither of you fully plan to name. You redirect, but only slightly. “So when did it get serious? Like, serious serious. When did Paige Bueckers go from ‘cute kid with a mini hoop’ to ‘national recruit and Gatorade Player of the Year’?”

Her smile fades into something more grounded, thoughtful.

“Probably middle school. I was playing up against older kids. My coaches were honest with me early—they told me I had potential, but I had to want it. Like, really want it.”

You nod, sipping from your water as you watch her speak. “And you did.”

“I did,” she says. “I still do. I don’t think that’s ever changed.”

You scribble something in your notebook, not because you need to, but because you need to look away for a second. The way she talks—low, deliberate, with that quiet confidence—makes it a little hard to keep your cool. You’ve interviewed charismatic people before. But Paige? She’s that rare mix of humble and magnetic. The kind that makes you forget you’re working.

“Talk to me about Hopkins,” you say. “You were a walking headline by, like, freshman year.”

Paige makes a face. “Ugh. I was also a walking awkward phase.”

“You and every lesbian born in the early 2000s,” you reply.

She laughs, covering her mouth for a second. “I didn’t even know back then—”

“Oh, sweetie,” you say, deadpan. “We all knew.”

She tilts her head, pretending to be scandalized. “Are you outing me on my own episode?”

“Absolutely not. But girl, be so for real right now.”

“Wow,” she says, laughing, “this is targeted.”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Just doing my journalistic duty.”

The banter flows, faster now. She’s open, unguarded. You ask about pressure, expectations, media narratives. She gives measured but honest responses. You don’t grill—never do—but you go deep, and she meets you there.

You click your pen like it matters, but you’re not taking notes anymore. Not really. You’re just watching her speak—fluid, honest, careful in a way that doesn’t hide anything but still keeps a part of her close to the chest.

“So, let’s talk about it,” you say, leaning back in your chair, mic close to your mouth. “The elephant in the room.”

Paige raises an eyebrow, amused. “There’s an elephant?”

“There is,” you nod seriously. “Its name is Geno Auriemma.”

She laughs—light, warm, fond.

“Oh, God.”

“No, no, we’re gonna go there,” you grin. “Because we’ve talked about Minnesota, we’ve talked about middle school, we’ve talked about how you terrorized local basketball courts by age twelve. But I want to know—why UConn? Why Geno? You had offers from literally everyone.”

She exhales slowly, as if this is a question she’s answered before but never gets tired of answering.

“I think... deep down, I always knew.”

“Why though?”

“The legacy,” she says first. “The culture. The players who came before me. It wasn’t just about playing at a top program. It was about pressure. UConn has this... weight to it. You don’t go there unless you’re willing to be great.”

You tilt your head, lips curling.

“So you just wanted to be surrounded by greatness?”

She smirks back. “Yeah. Kind of like right now.”

You cough, trying to cover the grin that breaks out too fast.

“Wow,” you say, shaking your head. “Are you flirting with your host mid answer?”

“You started it.”

“Very unprofessional. I’m literally just doing my job.”

“And doing it very well,” she says, with zero hesitation.

You blink. The room feels warmer. Or maybe it’s just you. You pull it back together, even if it takes effort.

“Okay. Back on track before I combust,” you mutter. “UConn. Talk me through it. Year one. Year two. Everything.”

She exhales again, a little softer now.

“It changed me,” she says simply.

You let the pause settle. “How?”

She looks at the ceiling, then down at her hands, fingers lightly curled in her lap. “I think there’s this myth that when you get to a place like UConn, you arrive fully formed. Like, you’re already who you’re supposed to be. But I wasn’t. Not even close.”

You nod, gently. “None of us are at eighteen.”

“I was scared,” she admits. “I was confident on the court, yeah. But everything off it? The pressure. The expectations. The comparisons. It messed with my head.”

There’s no pity in your expression—just knowing. You’ve watched too many athletes burn out under the same spotlight.

“I got hurt, too,” she continues. “Sophomore year. That knee.”

Your voice softens. “I remember.”

“Everyone remembers. It’s weird, you know? Being reduced to a timeline. ‘Six weeks out. Six months. A year. Will she be back for March? Is she ever gonna be the same?’ I stopped being a person and started being... a question.”

You don’t rush in with sympathy. You just let her have the silence. She fills it naturally.

“But I had people,” she says, voice gentler now. “My teammates. The trainers. Geno.”

“What was he like through that?” you ask. “Because people love to paint him as this gruff, yelling machine.”

She grins. “He is. But also... he listens. When you let him. When I was quiet—too quiet—he noticed. And he pulled me aside one day after practice. Didn’t yell. Just said, ‘I know it sucks. But you’re still here. That matters.’”

You write that quote down before you realize you’re doing it.

You glance at her again, and she’s watching you with a kind of cautious ease, like she’s not used to people writing her words down without turning them into headlines.

You smile. “You grew up at UConn.”

She nods. “I really did.”

“Who was your rock while you were there?”

“Azzi,” she says immediately.

There’s a new kind of stillness in her voice. Familial, rooted, undeniable.

“Azzi was—she is—one of the most disciplined people I’ve ever met,” Paige continues. “Like, I’d be on the couch recovering and she’d come in from shooting for two hours and say, ‘Want to play Uno?’ Like it was nothing.”

You laugh. “What’s the Uno score between you two?”

“Oh, I stopped keeping track when I realized she cheats.”

“She what?”

“Allegedly,” Paige adds, eyes twinkling.

You grin. “I’m putting that in the episode title. ‘Paige Bueckers Accuses Azzi Fudd of Cheating at Uno.’”

“She’s gonna kill me,” Paige laughs.

“She’ll love it.” You hesitate. “It sounds like you really leaned on her.”

“I did,” she says. “But not just for the injuries or the hard stuff. For the little stuff too. Like, post-game takeout orders. Netflix recs. The stupid stuff that makes it all feel normal.”

“And what about team chemistry?” you ask. “Because from the outside, that UConn squad felt... locked in. Like you’d die for each other.”

“We would’ve,” she says softly.

You’re quiet for a beat. “That real, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, we had our fights. We had our off days. But we always knew how to come back to center. I think that’s what made it work.”

You sit in that. The weight of it. The warmth.

“What was the moment you knew,” you ask slowly, “that you weren’t just good—you were built for this?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her mouth moves around the air like she’s sifting through time.

“There was a game my junior year,” she says. “We were down at halftime. I’d missed, like, seven shots. Geno told me I looked like I forgot who I was.”

You smile at the phrasing. “Classic.”

“Yeah. But it hit me. Because he was right. I’d let doubt take over. So the second half, I didn’t think. I just played. And I think I had, like... seventeen points in the third quarter alone.”

You whistle. “That’s not just playing. That’s poetry.”

She shrugs. “That’s UConn.”

You glance down, heart still tight from the way she said all of it—like she left pieces of herself behind on that court.

“You ever miss it?” you ask gently.

She nods, quick. “All the time.”

“What do you miss most?”

There’s a pause. Then, “The routine. The locker room. The smell of old sweat and bad jokes. Running suicides and pretending not to cry. Group chats about who forgot to bring their shoes. You know—real team stuff.”

“God,” you murmur, laughing, “that’s weirdly specific and deeply nostalgic.”

She grins. “It’s the stuff no one sees that sticks.” You nod again, feeling it. You’ve never been a college athlete, but you’ve been on enough sidelines to understand how those echoes live in you long after the lights fade. “And I trusted my gut when I went there. I still do.” You lift your gaze. Her voice drops, just slightly. “It’s never let me down.”

Your breath hitches.

Something about the way she says it—low, unwavering, not for show—cracks open a tiny place in you. You mirror it without thinking.

“I know what you mean,” you say. Your voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.

There’s a beat. Neither of you look away. Neither of you speak. The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, not forced. Just... full.

If Em were in the room, she’d throw something at you. If your editor were watching live, they’d be marking timestamps for clips. You only break the stare because you have to. Not because you want to. You glance down at your notes, which might as well be written in a foreign language now. Nothing on the page matters as much as the thing still buzzing between you and her. When you look back up, Paige is watching you like she’s been doing it the whole time.

You clear your throat. “Well. That was a moment.”

She tilts her head. “Was it?”

“I think I blacked out.”

She laughs, soft and low. “You should trust your gut more.”

You smile, a little breathless. “I think I just did.”

The mics are still rolling. But it doesn’t feel like they’re there.

You ease into the next part of the conversation with practiced grace, but inside, your heart’s still caught on that last moment. The weight of her words. The look that didn’t blink. You’ve had sparks with guests before, but this… this isn’t a spark. It’s a slow burn, one you feel blooming low in your chest, rising like tidewater. Dangerous. Delicious. And entirely unprofessional. But you’re past the point of pretending you don’t enjoy it.

“So,” you say into the mic, voice steadied by muscle memory more than calm, “we’ve talked childhood. We’ve talked college. Let’s talk now. Dallas. Big city. New team. WNBA life. What’s that been like for you so far?”

Paige shifts in her seat. She’s a little more relaxed now—arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers absentmindedly spinning the cap of her water bottle. She smiles, slow and thoughtful.

“It’s... a lot,” she admits, almost laughing at herself. “There’s no other way to say it. It’s fast. Like, faster than I expected. Not just the game—though the speed of the league is insane—but everything. Schedules. Flights. Practices. Media. I feel like I live out of a suitcase now.”

You lean forward a little, eyes on her. “No more dorm room comfort zones.”

“Exactly. I miss knowing where everything is. My spots. The routine. But this—this is pushing me. It’s making me grow. I like that.”

“Tell me about the team,” you say, pen loosely tucked behind your ear, even though you’re not using it anymore. “Because that’s not just any locker room. You’ve got Arike. You’ve got DiJonai. That’s some serious personality to walk into.”

She laughs, head tilting back for a second. “It’s wild. In the best way. Arike’s got this energy that’s just... loud in the most joyful, chaotic way. She’ll walk into practice already roasting everyone. And DiJonai is the most stylish person I’ve ever met. She’ll show up in a full fit at 8 a.m. like it’s fashion week.”

You grin. “Do you feel like the rookie?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, smiling again. “They keep me humble. Arike made me carry her bag once just because I beat her at a shooting drill.”

“That’s hazing.”

“She called it character building.”

“Same thing.”

“She’s lucky I like her.”

“You like them both?”

“I do,” she says, with warmth that feels earned. “It’s different from college. You don’t have that built-in family right away. You’ve gotta prove yourself. Earn their trust. But they’ve been really supportive. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”

“Do you mess up a lot?”

She shrugs. “I think everyone does. But I try to learn fast.”

“And leadership?” you ask. “You were the leader at UConn. Now you’re the rookie again. How’s that shift been?”

She hesitates—just enough for you to catch it.

“It’s humbling,” she says after a beat. “At UConn, people looked to me. Now I’m learning to speak less, listen more. It’s weird, finding your voice again. In a new system. A new city.”

You nod. “For what it’s worth? You’re doing a good job here.”

Her eyes flick to you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ve got presence. And you don’t dodge the real stuff.”

A pause. Not long, but full. Charged.

“I think that’s the best compliment I’ve gotten all week,” she says, voice low.

“Maybe I’ll try to beat it before we’re done.”

“Now that’s dangerous,” she says, echoing the phrase from earlier, lips twitching at the edges.

The air between you pulls tighter, warmer. You push forward before it swallows you whole.

“All right,” you say, clearing your throat like that’ll clear the heat in your chest. “Walk me through a day in the life of Paige Bueckers. Not game day. Just... a random off-day in Dallas.”

She exhales like it’s a relief to shift gears.

“I wake up late,” she admits, eyes flicking to yours like she’s confessing a crime. “I’m not a morning person unless I have to be. So maybe 9:30, 10?”

“A rebel,” you murmur.

She smiles. “I stretch. Journal sometimes. Depends on the mood. Then maybe a walk. I like walking. Especially in new places.”

“City walks? Nature? What’s the vibe?”

“City. I like the noise. Headphones in. No destination.”

You hum. “You people watch?”

“Always.”

“And the music?”

She smirks. “What do you think I listen to?”

You blink, caught off guard by the pivot. “Oh, we’re flipping the interview now?”

“Just curious,” she says, but there’s a glint in her eye. “What does your gut tell you?”

You lean back, arms crossed, mock-thinking.

“You strike me as an R&B girl,” you say. “Smooth, layered, a little introverted. You’ve definitely got some SZA in rotation. Maybe Summer Walker. Some old Alicia Keys when you’re feeling dramatic.”

She raises an eyebrow, impressed.

“But,” you continue, slowly, “I also think you secretly listen to sad Taylor Swift songs on planes.”

That does it. She laughs so hard she folds in on herself, hand over her mouth.

“I—how did you—”

“I knew it,” you say, victorious. “You’re a ‘Clean’ or ‘The Archer’ type, huh?”

She’s still laughing. “You don’t miss.”

“You are the archer,” you tease. “Careful aim. Hidden feelings. Lowkey brooding.”

“Oh my God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You’re exposing me.”

“You exposed yourself, Bueckers.”

She grins. “You’ve been studying me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just doing my homework.”

“Dangerous,” she repeats again, softer this time.

You catch her gaze, and there it is—something wordless passing between you. Not scripted. Not planned. Just real.

Em’s voice crackles in your ear piece again, distant but amused, “Tell them to get a room.”

You cough. “Sorry, my producer says we’re flirting too hard.”

“Is she wrong?” Paige asks, still smiling.

“Isn’t that for the audience to decide?”

You both laugh. But it’s different now—layered. Knowing. You glance back down at your outline and realize, again, that you haven’t touched it in ten minutes.

“Any hobbies?” you ask, lighter now. “Other than walking with your headphones in and contemplating your entire emotional landscape through sad pop lyrics?”

She groans. “Stop.”

You grin. “Never.”

“I read,” she offers, regaining composure. “Mostly sports bios, but sometimes fiction. Stuff that lets me disappear a little.”

“And when you want to reappear?”

She looks at you, half-tilted smile, eyes softer. “I guess… I come back to things like this. Conversations. People who see me.”

You weren’t ready for that one. You blink, breath catching in your throat.

“Well,” you say, voice suddenly a little unsteady, “hi.”

She mirrors your tone. “Hi.”

And for the third time in less than an hour, you forget entirely that there are cameras on.

You lean back into your chair, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“All right,” you say, tone shifting into something more playful, “you’ve survived the deep dive. You’ve given us poetry, heartbreak, growth arcs. But now it’s time for the real journalism.”

Paige raises a brow, lips twitching. “Oh no.”

“Rapid fire round,” you announce, adjusting your mic dramatically. “No overthinking. Just say the first thing that comes to mind. You ready?”

She nods slowly, suspicious but smiling. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Favorite cheat meal.”

“Chick-fil-A. Spicy deluxe.”

You fake a gasp. “Problematic and spicy. Bold choice.”

She snorts. “Gotta be honest.”

“Pre-game ritual?”

“Getting lost in the music. Right sock on before the left.”

“Superstitious or just vibing?”

“Superstitious. Like, irrationally.”

You make a note. “We’ll revisit that in therapy.”

She laughs, shaking her head.

“Biggest pet peeve?”

“People chewing with their mouths open.”

“That’s fair. What are you bad at?”

There’s a pause, a beat longer than expected. She licks her lips, almost shy.

“Texting back,” she admits.

“Oh?” You lean forward, faux serious. “We’ve found the flaw.”

“Hey,” she says, defensive but laughing. “I read them! I just… don’t reply. Or I do, like, in my head. It’s a problem.”

“You know,” you muse, “that’s dangerous behavior for someone flirting on a podcast.”

She meets your gaze, eyes gleaming. “Who says I won’t reply to you?”

The silence after that is louder than anything you’ve recorded today.

You raise your brows, smirk playing at the edge of your mouth. “We’ll circle back.”

She grins. “Looking forward to it.”

You break eye contact because if you don’t, you’ll fall face-first into it again. Instead, you shuffle your notes, breathe slowly, and shift the tone with practiced ease.

“So,” you say, quieter now, “can I tell you something?”

Paige blinks, surprised by the sudden turn, but nods. “Yeah.”

You rest your elbows on your knees, fingers laced loosely. The studio feels smaller now, intimate. Like the lights have dimmed without anyone touching a switch.

“I started this podcast in my college dorm,” you begin. “Borrowed mics. Blankets tacked on the walls for soundproofing. No sponsors. No following. Just… this need to make space for women’s sports. For athletes who were always doing the most and getting the least attention.”

Paige’s expression shifts—softer, listening in a different way.

“I was mad,” you continue. “That no one was talking about it. Mad that I had to dig through forums and niche blogs to find out when a W game was airing. Mad that girls were breaking records and getting two seconds of coverage between football updates.”

You glance at her, and she’s not smiling anymore. She’s just watching you, gaze warm and unwavering.

“So I built this,” you say. “One episode at a time. And now we’re here. You’re here. And it means a lot.”

She sits with that. Doesn’t rush to respond. Just lets it breathe.

Then she says, quiet and sincere, “Thank you.”

You look up. “For what?”

“For doing it,” she replies. “For caring. For showing up. For giving people like me space to be more than stats and soundbites.”

It hits you harder than you expect. You swallow, nod.

“Sometimes it feels like yelling into the void,” you admit.

“Well,” she says, voice steady, “I hear you.”

And God, the way she says it. Like it’s not just about this podcast. Like she sees more than you’re willing to show. Like she’s been listening to you, even before she stepped into the studio.

The moment lingers. Longer than it should. Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. You’re the first to shift, eyes flicking down to your notes. But your voice is soft when you ask the next question.

“All right. Last one. No pressure.”

She leans back a little, sensing the shift. “Hit me.”

“What’s something people always get wrong about you?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Paige’s gaze drops to her hands, fingers twisting the cap of her water bottle again. She breathes in slowly, then out.

“That I’m always put together,” she says finally.

You don’t speak. You just let her keep going.

“I think people look at the highlights and the press and assume I’ve got it all figured out. That I’m calm. Collected. That I don’t break down. But I do. A lot. I get nervous. I overthink. I put so much pressure on myself it sometimes feels like I can’t breathe.”

Her voice doesn’t shake, but it thins a little at the edges.

“I smile through it, because that’s what people expect. But inside? I’m scared all the time. That I’m not enough. That I’ll mess up. That they’ll stop believing in me.”

You nod, slow. “That’s real.”

She exhales. “Yeah.”

You glance at her, and your tone gentles even more.

“Me too,” you say.

She turns toward you.

“I get nervous before every interview,” you admit. “Even now. Especially now.”

Her brows lift slightly. “With me?”

You nod. “Yeah. You’re… more than I expected.” That makes her smile again. Small. Honest. “You’re doing great,” you tell her.

“So are you,” she replies, and something shifts again in the air—like a curtain pulled back, or a room getting quieter when someone important walks in.

The lights haven’t changed. The mics are still on. But everything feels different. You don’t need to say anything else. You just sit in it. Together.

You’ve never wanted an interview to end less.

It’s not just that the episode’s been good—though, objectively, it’s been one of your best. The pacing, the banter, the rhythm. The intimacy that crept in somewhere around the midpoint and never left. It’s all been magnetic. Electric. Like your favorite kind of story, the one you fall into so deeply you forget you’re holding the book.

But time’s up. You feel it before Em signals it in your ear. Before the last question fades into a silence thick with things unsaid.

You tap the edge of the mic once and clear your throat, voice calm but low.

“Well… that’s gonna do it for today’s episode of She Scores.”

Paige’s eyes are still on you, softer than they were an hour ago.

You glance at her, smile twitching at the corners of your mouth.

“Paige Bueckers, thank you for coming through, for sharing your story, and for ruining all other guests for me from this point forward.”

She laughs under her breath. “High praise.”

“I mean it,” you say, more serious now. “This was special.”

She doesn’t speak right away. When she does, her voice is quiet.

“I had fun,” she says.

You nod once, throat tightening for some reason you don’t have time to name.

“I’m your host,” you say into the mic, still looking at her, “and if you need me, I’ll be rewatching this episode on mute just to study eye contact.”

She lets out a full laugh—quiet, disbelieving, charmed. You don’t break the stare.

“And as always,” you finish, voice slow and warm, “thanks for listening. We’ll see you next time.”

The red light clicks off.

The studio doesn’t move right away. It rarely does. Your crew’s used to your pacing, your cadence. They let the moment breathe. But eventually, lights dim to neutral, camera arms swing away, and a few muted voices pick up as people begin unplugging cables and shutting down feeds.

You lean back in your seat, drawing a slow breath.

She stretches her legs slightly, then looks over at you. “That went fast.”

You nod. “That’s how you know it’s good.”

She stands first. You do the same. Neither of you rushes.

Em walks past the set, holding a half-rolled cable over her shoulder. She catches your eye and smirks. You ignore her.

Paige lingers by the couch, hands in her pockets, looking around the studio like she wants to memorize it.

You don’t say anything. You just watch her watching everything.

After a beat, you walk over and gesture toward the door.

“I’ll walk you out.”

She nods. “Cool.”

You step into the quiet hallway side by side. The air’s cooler here, and the low hum of fluorescent lights follows you down the corridor until you reach the side exit near the green room. You stop there, under a small overhead light. It's soft. Pale. Like a halo waiting to happen.

Paige turns slightly and leans back against the wall, her shoulder brushing the cool brick, arms crossed loosely.

“You’re really good at this,” she says.

You tilt your head, amused. “The podcast?”

She shrugs. “All of it. This space. The way you talk to people. It feels... safe.”

That takes the wind out of you a little. In the best way.

You take a small step closer.

“You made it easy,” you say, voice low.

She smiles again. Not wide. Just real. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then—without a word—she pulls out her phone and holds it toward you, screen lit up on the contact page.

“In case I need help prepping for interviews,” she says. You take the phone, eyebrows raised. “Or something like that,” she adds, teasing but quiet.

You type in your number, thumb hovering for a second before you hit save. You don’t add an emoji or anything extra. Just your name. Clean. Simple. But your heart’s not moving simple. It’s skipping. Tripping.

You hand the phone back and she looks at it for a second, nods once, then locks the screen and slips it back into her pocket.

“Well,” she says.

“Well,” you echo.

The silence stretches again, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Just unfinished.

You don’t hug. You don’t say too much. You don’t have to.

She opens the door and steps out into the early evening light. You watch her walk down the path toward the lot—hair catching gold from the sunset, one headphone already in.

She doesn’t look back.

But you stay there, standing in the doorway, your hands tucked into your pockets like maybe they’ll keep you from feeling too much.

A moment later, Em walks up behind you, pausing in the doorway.

She glances at Paige’s retreating figure. Then at you. “You are so down bad.”

You exhale. Slow. A smile cracks the corner of your mouth.

“I know.”

You don’t deny it. You just watch the door swing slowly shut, and try not to already miss her.

It’s just past 8:30 p.m. when a knock comes.

You’re on your couch, bare-faced, in sweats, hair tied up in a lopsided bun. The post-interview high has settled into a quiet hum in your chest, the kind that doesn’t want to fade but also can’t be sustained. You haven’t eaten yet. A half-empty glass of wine sits on the coffee table. The remote’s resting on your stomach. You were debating rewatching the episode clips Em already sent you—Paige’s soft laugh on loop, her eyes lingering on yours like there was more she wasn’t saying.

You haven’t even touched your phone. You’ve been too afraid to find out whether she texted or didn’t.

The knock happens again.

You freeze.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Not food delivery, not friends, not—

No.

No way.

You rise slowly, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears, and pad barefoot toward the door.

When you open it, you forget how to breathe.

Paige Bueckers is standing on your doorstep, backlit by the hallway’s overhead glow, a bunch of wildflowers in one hand and two overfilled grocery bags in the other. She’s wearing joggers and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair down, glasses slightly crooked, like she threw the whole look together in a rush.

You stare.

She blinks, then offers a crooked smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, dumbly.

She lifts the flowers a little. “So… I might’ve told Em I wanted to see you again and she might’ve given me your address.”

You narrow your eyes. “That little traitor.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘She’s down bad so don’t mess this up.’”

You groan into your hand.

“You’re not the only one,” Paige adds, laughing.

You step back and open the door wider. “Get in here before someone sees you and sells the story to DeuxMoi.”

She steps inside. You take the grocery bags from her hand, eyes scanning their contents—pasta, wine, garlic bread, salad mix, two pints of ice cream, and a suspiciously expensive-looking block of parmesan.

You blink. “This is… a lot of food.”

“I panicked,” she admits, cheeks pink. “I was going to ask you out for dinner tomorrow, but then I realized I didn’t want to wait.”

You look up at her.

She shrugs. “Is that weird?”

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s—God, it’s not weird. It’s really not weird.”

“Good.” She shifts the flowers in her arms. “Because I was kind of already halfway here when I realized I didn’t actually ask.”

You reach for the flowers. “Consider me asked. And saying yes.” You pause. “Like… yes, yes.”

“Yeah?” she asks, a little breathless.

You grin. “Yeah.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re both barefoot in your kitchen. She’s stirring the sauce while you try, and fail, to open the bottle of wine. Soft music plays from the speaker you usually reserve for sad Sunday cleaning sessions.

There��s flour on your cheek, red sauce on her hoodie sleeve, and an entire salad still untouched in a bowl because the two of you got distracted talking about pre-game pump up songs and you accidentally brought up her Rookie of the Month highlight reel with a little too much enthusiasm.

“I knew you watched that ten times,” she teases, hip bumping you lightly.

“I was doing research.”

“For what? Your dreams?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

She sets the spoon down and turns to you, leaning her hip into the counter. “This is nice.”

You nod, heart thudding against your ribs. “It is.”

You’re quiet for a second. Not uncomfortable—just full again. The kind of silence where things settle without losing spark.

Then she tilts her head.

“I didn’t want the night to end,” she says, voice lower now. “After the podcast. I kept thinking about everything I didn’t say.”

“Like what?” you ask, careful not to move too fast.

She meets your gaze. “Like how I didn’t want it to be just one interview. Or one conversation. Or one night.”

Your breath catches.

She steps a little closer, the space between you narrowing to something charged.

“I know we’re both busy,” she murmurs. “Schedules. Travel. Different States. Media stuff. But I wanted you to know that I meant it—when I said you made me feel safe. Like I could be myself.”

You swallow. “You were yourself.”

“Because of you,” she says, no hesitation.

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of her, the steadiness in her voice. Her hand brushes yours on the countertop.

“So,” she says softly, “if this is just dinner, that’s okay. But if it’s something more—if it could be more—I’d like that.”

You don’t speak. You just lean in and press your forehead against hers, eyes fluttering shut, everything inside you humming.

“I’d like that too,” you whisper.

Her fingers graze yours, then hold.

Outside, the city keeps moving—cars passing, lights blinking, lives rushing past. But in your kitchen, time slows down. The sauce simmers. The wine breathes. And for the first time in a long time, so do you.

[hellsitegenetics]

Hello hellsitegenetics! I’m a TA for an intro genetics lab, and they’ve got two final reports and an exam coming up in the next two weeks. Can you BLAST this ask so I know in whose name we should sacrifice fruit fly virgins to manifest good grades on their finals (and make my grading easier shhhh)? (if this comes up as any fruit fly I will lose my entire mind but D. melanogaster would be a god-tier pull)

String identified: tgtc! ’ a TA a t gtc a, a t’ gt t a t a a a cg t t t . Ca AT t a a acc t g t at g ga t a (a a gag a )? ( t c a a t t t . agat a g-t )

Closest match: Sulfurospirillum diekertiae strain JPD-1 chromosome, complete genome

(image source) Note: this image is of Sulfurospirillum halorespirans, a member of the same genus.

[https-bobreynolds]

six strings to save a god

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds x enchantress! reader

summary: bob nearly blew his cover in an undercover mission where you both absolutely cannot use your powers at, so you save him with metallica instead.

author’s note: rewatched stranger things and got inspired by THE eddie munson, you will be missed💔

UNDERGROUND CLUB BELOW THE VIENNA STATE OPERA HOUSE, WESTERN EUROPE - 11:32 PM

private auction night

the air tastes like ozone and old bourbon. velvet curtains cover cracked plaster. there’s an antique chandelier above the bar flickering with blood-red LED bulbs, casting shadows like broken glass across the crowd.

somewhere in the crowd: mercs, arms dealers, hydra defectors, and warlords who don’t technically exist.

and at a table just beneath the second mezzanine, is robert ‘bob’ reynolds, looking perfect in a slim-cut black suit, nerves unraveling by the second.

you sit beside him, swirling untouched whiskey, watching him come apart thread by golden thread.

“he’s looking at me,” bob murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “he knows. the madripoor guy in the corner, he keeps- he’s not blinking.”

you glance up.

the man in question tilts his head, one brow raised. hands drifting way too slowly toward the holster under his coat.

bob’s about to snap. you can feel it under your skin like the low thrum of the void stirring.

“we got what we need, we have to leave this place now.” you whispered, giving him a look.

you didn’t say anything more, but he understood quickly, giving a nod.

“under any circumstances, do NOT engage and do NOT use any of your powers.” you remember bucky say, right before the mission.

you cannot let sentry, void or enchantress lose it here.

this is not the place for sun gods or eldritch abominations, so you do the only thing that makes sense in a room like this.

you stand, smooth as static, and quickly vanish into the shadows behind the stage, where a two-piece synthwave duo just finished their eerie, looping set.

and waiting backstage, among broken amps and stolen crates, you see it:

a scratched jackson king v custom.

you pick it up. test the weight. check the strings.

you walk out slow.

the crowd goes quiet for a beat. spotlights flicker to follow.

you nod at the DJ, who knows not to mess with it.

then, you slam into the intro to “master of puppets.”

the distortion screams.

the riff punches through the smoke like a fist. dirty. loud. real.

people down on the floor cheer, some boo, some start laughing in disbelief.

the suits look confused. a few start pulling out phones.

one of the auction security guards near bob’s table mutters, “what the hell-“

bob exhales like he’s been underwater for five minutes, he slinks out with the crowd’s attention squarely on you.

and you?

you shred.

“end of passion play, crumbling away

i’m your source of self-destruction…”

you sing like it’s prophecy, like the world’s about to burn and you’re the one lighting the match.

heads are banging, drinks are spilled, the tech auction upstairs is forgotten.

that guy from madripoor? he’s now two whiskeys deep and head-nodding like you’re doing a private concert just for him.

your fingers blaze through the solo like they were built for this. the guitar’s raw, snarling. just perfect.

and in the dark corner of the second tier, where no one’s watching anymore?

bob slips through a side door. free and clear.

you hammer the final riff with one last scream of strings.

“MASTER! MASTER!”

silence crashes like a wave behind it. the crowd roars, half of them think you’re just the best part of the party, the other half are too dazed to care.

you bow low, tossing the guitar off-stage like a mic drop.

and walk out like you own the world, panting as you slam the door behind you.

“you-” he starts, breathless. “you just-”

“i shredded,” you say, breathless and smug. “and saved your ass.”

he huffs a laugh, still dazed.

“i was gonna blow it,” he admits. “i could feel it coming… like the whole thing was about to fall apart.”

“well,” you smirk, brushing your hair back. “good thing i know how to play the hits.”

he looks at you, really looks at you.

the city glows behind you, the music still ringing faintly from the club.

and he says, “you’re kind of unreal, you know that?”

you shrug. “takes one to know one, sunshine.”

you look at each other for a second too long.

and somewhere in the club behind you, the next DJ starts spinning, but nothing could top what you just did.

tag list:

@lovetoalll

[juniper-petunia]

Her feet shuffled along the sidewalk, pace brisk but not fast enough to be a jog, as Gwen made her way to the last townhouse on the block. Of course her sister didn’t listen to her pleas not to go out tonight, theater kid party or no you just never know how safe a party can be. She herself had heard horror stories, drugs slipped in drinks, girls passed out on couches, skeevy men rubbing their grubby fingers all over… she didn’t want to think about this happening to her poor sister. She had never really been to a party, other than a couple right at the beginning of her college career, and she much preferred small groups or one on ones, or, most often, studying alone (there was always something to study for). No, she liked to tell herself this was the reason, and maybe in some small part it was, but it’s not like she had a chance to find out considering she was never really invited.

Gwen dismissed the thought, passing by multiple two tiered townhomes, porches on both levels and most of which sporting greek letters crudely cut out of pressboard painted in bright colors and nailed to the outer face of the homes. Music blared from inside each, loud bass heavy rap from this one, twangy country in that one, until finally reaching the last house on the row, sporting not greek letters but commedia masks and blaring, inexplicably, showtunes. Fucking theater kids. Sat on the stone steps leading to the front porch was her sister, right where she had said she’d be when she called, and next to her some boy sporting a button up and bow tie. Fucking theater kids, jesus. Spotting Gwen the boy stood up and tapped Julie on her shoulder, and Julie groaned in response lifting her head with a sickly look on her face. Gwen felt horrible for her, she hated seeing her little sister in pain like this, and she knew just how much she hated throwing up so she must be miserable. She did also feel a slight bit of smugness, preparing herself for an “i told ya so” as soon as they were on the way home.

The boy made his way over to meet Gwen right out of earshot of Julie, and now that she was close she could see just how tall this boy was, almost a whole two heads above her, and he spoke to her with a bit of an affectation to his voice.

“You must be Gwen!”

“That’s what they call me.” she replied unamused.

“Thank god you're here, poor Jules had maybe one cup too many of the jungle juice but don’t worry, I was with her the whole time- I even held her hair back for her when she-“

“Who are you, exactly?”

Gwen felt herself going into guard dog mode, who is this boy that thinks he knows Julie… knows her well enough to call her Jules… held her hair? God, she bet he was some perverted asshole misogynist that-

“Oh, sorry sorry, I'm Julien! I met Jules in our Intro to Theatre class, we kinda bonded over our names being, like, the same kinda so we, like, hang out after class sometimes, well me her and my bf Jeremy, we like to go to this boba shop that’s, like, totally-“

Oh, duh, he’s gay. She was too focused on protecting her sister to even consider that boys could be gay for a minute, especially theater boys. Thank god she didn’t make a bigger fool of herself, still keeping the stern look on her face anyways as the boy prattled on, no reason to drop composure.

“Well, listen,” she said, cutting him off from describing yet another time they had hung out after class, “I should get her home, she needs to hydrate and rest.”

“Oh yeah totally I-“ he stopped, hearing a spiraling piano tune through the air and a man over the speakers saying ‘It’s because of you there’s a giant in our midst-‘, before his mouth started gaping, “OH MY GOD, ITS MY SONG I GOTTA GO!” rushing back, saying goodbye to Julie with a little pat on the head and rushing inside half yelling half screaming, “WELL IT ISN’T MY FAULT I WAS GIVEN THOSE BEANS-“

Fucking theater kids. Jesus fucking christ.

Gwen sauntered over to where Julie was sat, head once again slack between her knees.

“Well well well,” Gwen began, “if it isn’t the consequences of underage drinking. How you holdin’ up Jules?”

Julie didn’t respond, nothing more than a groan. Jesus, she must be really sick.

“Hey, hey Jules, you uhhh- you good?”

Julie groaned again, and put a thumb up to her sister, still not looking up at her.

“Uhhh… ok good… listen I’ve already missed enough studying. Maybe we should start heading back home?”

Julie finally looked up and, god, had she been crying? Her face looked pale, her eyes red and shining in the dim streetlight, streaks of mascara around her eyes and down her cheeks. She sniffled and nodded at her big sister, standing up on unsteady legs like a newborn deer.

“Are you sure you can walk ok?” Gwen asked, now feeling a little foolish at wanting to make her sister feel bad.

“I’ll-“ she gagged, “I’ll manage… I think.”

Julie’s voice sounded pitifully small, this poor girl must’ve felt like absolute crap! Gwen stood for a moment just looking at her, surveying her state, before gesturing for Julie to follow and beginning to walk. Julie was a bit slower than she’d like, but they were still steadily making their way home. All 10 blocks between here and home.

The first few blocks passed without much incident, not even any idle conversation, Gwen walking a few steps ahead of Julie. The sounds of students and tourists alike bustling on main street were little more than whispered echoes here, even though they were only two blocks down from it, walking along a parallel street. The street lamps lit the sidewalk in an amber hued fuzz, mosquitos and bats flying overhead around them, it was barely April but already the air was warm and humid, sticking to their skin. This was another excuse to not go out for Gwen, she hated the heat, the humidity, sweating her ass off despite just walking a few blocks, she was pissing herself off.

No, this was because of Julie, if her sister had just listened to her she could be at home, cozily plopped on their couch, AC blasting and headphones on noise cancelling mode. That, she thought, was the only way to live in such a climate. Unfortunately this daydreaming only made her more upset, and she let out a loud huff.

“You know,” Gwen began, without thinking, “I told you this would happen. I just don’t get why you don’t listen to me! Like, god, are you stupid? Do you think I would just, fuckin, make shit up? Girls get raped at parties, you know that right? I’m just trying to keep you-“

A loud smack of skin on pavement behind her.

Gwen turned around quickly, seeing Julie in a heap on the ground, uneven cracked concrete having tripped the girl. Julie didn’t look up, she just started sobbing.

“I- sniff- I- I’m sorry!!” Julie wailed, face still facing the pavement as she lifted herself on her hands, “I’m sorry I’m sorry, I fucked up I’m sorry.”

Gwen felt horrible. She knelt down to the girl, the glowing amber bulb making a spotlight for them in the darkness, and reached to take her hands. Julie jerked away at Gwen’s touch.

“No, don’t try to make me feel better,” she said through a sob, “I fucked up, I deserve this, I fucked up your studying and I should have listened to you and I’m stupid so I’m sorry ok?”

Shit, she had let her temper get the best of her, blame it on the heat or stress whatever you want but she still felt like an asshole. Gwen reached her hand out again, slowly, towards Julie’s face, cupping her cheek and lifting the girl’s gaze towards her.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I just- I… I don’t want…

I shouldn’t have yelled. You’re sick and you’re already feeling like crap so… that’s punishment enough.”

“But- but,” Julie stuttered, “but what about your studying… I shouldn’t have called you…”

“NO! I- I mean… I don’t want you to feel like you can’t call me for something like this. I’m not mad, I think I’m just… it’s late… I’ve been studying for the last 5 hours anyways. I just,” she hesitated, “Just please call me if anything like this ever happens again, I don’t want some creep to take advantage of you or whatever. You did the right thing.”

Julie looked at her sister, and Gwen stared back, their eyes locked on each other, neither breaking the silence between them. There was an energy buzzing between them, something was different, Gwen felt Julie almost imperceptibly lean into her hand, her eyes flicking down to Gwen’s lips before returning to her eyes again. She felt a blush light up her cheeks and she quickly stood to hide it, she didn’t need to add temptation to the list of emotions she was feeling tonight. She offered her hand to Julie, and the younger girl used it to steady herself to stand up. Once she was standing Gwen could see the twin scrapes on her knees, not too bad but still enough to sting horribly and bleed a bit. Julie went to let go of Gwen’s hand but found that the girl wouldn’t release her grip.

“I don’t want you to fall again… it’ll slow us down even more. Just… just let me keep you steady,” Gwen said, turning as to not look Julie in the eye while saying it.

“You know,” Julie said wiping her face with her free hand, “if you wanted to hold my hand you coulda just asked, hehehe!”

“Ok you're definitely still drunk, freak.”

“You’re not letting gooooo,” Julie replied in a sing-songy voice.

“W-whatever, let’s just go.”

With that Gwen and Julie began walking back home, hand in hand. Gwen adjusted her hand to interlock their fingers together, and Julie took that moment to lean into her big sister, grabbing Gwen’s arm with her free hand.

“I love you, sis.” Julie said as they walked.

“Yeah yeah… I love you too, Jules.”

Gwen felt her stomach tie into knots, her face once again a warm crimson. God, she thought, I’m so fucked.

[thewertsearch]

@typhoontroubadour asked: Lord English appearing OUT OF Doc Scratch sure is surprising the first time through! But, to be fair, we've known since the beginning that he's an excellent HOST ;) @askcharlierobinson asked: Scratch has said it before, but he is indeed an excellent host. HA HA HEE HEE HOO HOO @elkian asked: We can finally say that Scratch has been warning us all along - he's always been an excellent host. (Sidenote: check what Tavros uses when he plays Troll-kemon in his intro sequence.) @acappellacantabile asked: What is it that Doc Scratch always says, again? Oh, yes. "I am an excellent host." Suckers. Anonymous asked: THE CHORUS REPEATS IT, AS MY LEAL SERVANT DID: HE WAS AN EXCELLENT HOST. @ben-guy asked: I wouldn't be surprised if a few people have already pointed this out, but Doc Scratch repeatedly referred to himself as a Host. Consider the other definitions of that word, and the manner in which Lord English emerged from within him :]

I cannot get over this fucking pun. God.

@manorinthewoods asked: What an excellent host. Why do you think Callish is so green and skeletonny? ~LOSS (31/12/24)

I suppose the default answer is that English is the same species as the rest of the Felt. They are all time manipulators, so maybe he started his career as simply a particularly powerful member of their race - an overpowered mutant, perhaps, like Sollux or Equius.

The fact that the God Tier Clock is tied to his summoning makes me think he might be a Sburb Player. Now, if both of those things are true, then maybe his native Felt powers are synergizing with his Sburb-granted Aspect abilities, creating a monster greater than the sum of their parts.

That theory's completely off-the-cuff, but I like it. It's got legs!

[midnight1nk]

So, this week's episode...

[spoilers below cut]

OH we technically guessed it right, we are getting an episode with 3 after all. Hell yeah! For that, friends, we each get an ice cream (gonna get myself some mint chocolate chip)

Now that we have our snack, let's enjoy the episode, shall we?

(the following is my live reaction:)

(god i love the intro so much, it makes my brain happy like :3 I'm telling you it's my Saturday morning cartoon)

YOOO are we getting more of 3 and Bob dynamic? oh HELL YEAH!

You gotta admit, we've been waiting for interesting character dynamics!! This was the ones I was on my list ever since the "No TV Make Mario No Okie Dokie" episode (but fr can they be money-loving besties? for me specifically?)

"sugar" right......

Well..... I mean, they are pretty valuable. Which ones were they? Someone pass me some thin mints

Bob: "And I took those cookies from you!" Why do I imagine 3 pulling the whole "taking candy from a baby" scenario and steal a wagon of those cookies from a Girl Scout? Either that or 3's scout leader for the SMG4 Kids, Girl Scout being gender neutral. Eh, probably the former, but could you imagine? *secretly writes this down*

Y'know it would be crazy if it was in the daycare and it was the kids

their lil brave march into the daycare, that really got a giggle out of me hehe

Bob: "These are dangerous guys." He's not wrong, they can be scary sometimes

the RETURN of Gooby4.... oh....

*WOTFI 2024 flashbacks* 😶 huh. (let's just move on, ok?)

(update: yeah don't think I didn't see 3 with the brainrot smh)

3: "I'M TOO YOUNG AND GORGEOUS TO DIE" PFFT HAHAHA that seriously got me, that's good ......wait. y'know how I said that 3 might be insecure about his self-image? huh. well, guess what's gonna be a new addition to the tier list :D

MEGGY?

ah, that makes sense 😊↕️ look at her, she looks so happy like :>

oh gurl, not that you would know but that's not what they meant /lh

YAY the M&M (sibling) duo is here! ofc he would be

"sugar rush" HAHAHA man they really do be saying some great lines this episode

oop that little bit of animation with 3, love that they sneak those lil bits in

welp, worst person you can have to teach about how "sharing is caring" haha (if anyone's going to bring up the endorsement usb, that didn't count, let's be clear on that)

wait, hang on, I got another bit of these:

writer Ink: "...And then the rat gang surround Bob and pull out their cheese swords." producer Ink: "Wow, I get it'll be tough for him to get out of that situation." writer Ink: "Actually, it's going to be easy, barely an inconvenience!" producer Ink: "Oh, really?" writer Ink: "Yeah, he's just going to show off how hot he is and then the rats would die from his attractiveness. Like they would say 'Oh no, he's hot!'" producer Ink: "Every one of them?" writer Ink: "Every one of them." producer Ink: "Wow, I'm glad he was able to defeat them with the power of gay awakenings... or something, I can't tell." writer Ink: "I mean, is anyone in the SMG4 universe really a 100% straight and/or cis?" producer Ink: "Fair enough! But what about Francis?" writer Ink: "Hey, shut up (he's dead)"

/silly

anyway, look how happy 3 is, enjoying that story :)

as someone who watched all of the final destination and saw movies, 3's not wrong

me likey :D

hold on, how come the kids get a free cappuccino? I want one! I wanna try 3's coffee >:( /silly

Bob: "Please go the fuck to sleep" OMG I haven't heard this audio for SO LONG, it was bc the I was rewatching a 64 Blooper "Shoot to the Observatory in the Sky". For what? uuuh it's confidential for the time being, folks. anyway this really hit me with nostalgia like you have no idea

PFFT HAHAHAHAHA I might pass out oh fuck

idc what anyone says, this is the joke of all time

oh i hate that png of Mario and his teeth /lh

NO MARIO THAT'S NOT IT

AY now Mario can match with Pirate 4 from the "Mario PC Virus" episode

btw he's so sweet with the kids like 4 does 😭 (just unfortunately putting them in dangerous situations unintentionally, whoops)

*head in hands* naurrrrr

*wheeze* the cutaway from that tho

yep, everything coming together, huh boys?

c'mon Bob, you got us in this mess, just give them the money!!

😦 and we're fuuuuuuuuuucked

OUGH I felt that to my core. stepping on legos are the worst smh

YES lesson here, folks: adapt on the battlefield

OUGH i felt that AGAIN

See? Bob was right, kids are dangerous (if you give them the right stuff) 😊↕️

goddammit we were so close

the boss? MARTY?! OH SHIT HE'S BACK, I TOLD YALL

ik 3, ik but that's GOOD, for me specifically

I gotta love this moment bc genuinely Marty is a menacing villain if you think about every crime he's ever done but because he's a cardboard cutout, most of us in the audience don't really take him seriously. For 3 and Mario tho, being in WOTFI 2023 and the poisonous pasta sauce fiasco, they know what he's capable of but they can always kick his ass again, just like last time

please puzzles, can you recruit marty? it would be cool i swear

oh, is Marty going to be mad about what 3 did?

*blink blink* wha?

Oh, I guess we're gonna have to go with that narrative. Like I said, we gotta adapt. it's time to improvise!!

Marty: "I'll let this sugar incident slide...this time." 👀 this time?

OOP and the cops got him. wait. WAITWAITWAIT HE'S GOING TO JAIL! maybe not in the same row but MAYBE he's with Puzzles rn in the same jail!!

sorry, this is just so adorable to see 💙

one day, we'll get "I need a hero" (shrek 2 cover) on an episode *cough cough* PV plus *cough*. Hey, if I was able to manifest the "Friends on the Other Side" into the show, we can do this

😨 OWWWW THIS IS WORSE THAN THE LEGO I FELT THAT SOMEHOW

sidenote: I do love 3's sunglasses here, slay honestly! It kinda reminds me a lot of Shadow's from the Sonic calendar art, strange for me to just say that but it's true (one day I'll have "Mario in Sonic 3". one day.......)

YUP this is a different jail from last time!! Not that this would stop him from escaping but wouldn't it be cool if we... gee idk... have him recruited for some revenge thing. perhaps 👀

(Team, if you pan to the right and we see puzzles, I would scream)

Oh, but trust. the cardboard kid is gonna come back somehow. Probably not alive bc the one who did it for Marty was Mario (y'know, aka the Avatar), but this cutout's going to be important somehow

Congrats to ElisCZ for your art being featured in the end credits! 🎉 And anniversary fanart for Puzzlevision no less, hell yea!!

(hey Team, why Puzzles? Not that I hate the choice but any particular reason why? hmmm *sits cutely* /silly)

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

Wow, this was such a silly and fun episode! Seriously Team, you've done a great job, yall got be CRACKLING throughout the whole thing which isn't an easy feat. AND a 3 + Bob dynamic? I LOVE IT!! This was so good and I really hope we get to have more episodes like this, either with team-up dynamics or character exploration (like 3 in particular).

Now, as for my tier list I mentioned earlier, here's the updated version from the first one:

yep, 3's self-image issues are definitely in the "it keeps me up at night" pile 😌↕️

Anyway MARTY IS BACK!! Oh man, I'm REALLY hoping Puzzles would also recruit him into the revenge plan. He would be, dare I say it, perfect for it. Ok ok, you guys gotta see my (creative) vision here:

we will need Marty to transfer to solitary confinement row with Puzzles, or just have them in the same building, either one works

Then, for the next arc around June, WPNZ breaks Puzzles out of jail (and Marty uses the opportunity to get out of there too with his "son"), and then our two antagonists get a chance to have a whole arc for themselves to bond. y'know the whole strangers to friends to breakup (read: divorce) to reconciling. Hell, the Crew doesn't even need to be part of it at all, and that way we raise the stakes higher for the future. Side note: they didn't know Marty was in jail.

WOTFI 2025 would have Marty as the main anatagonist but this time, the whole Crew (yes. even Karen) would be there and once he's defeated but not killed, Puzzles would come and recruit him. Idk, probably for Marty losing his son or something bc of them.

THEN we get Puzzlevision Plus/IGBP 2 (+ the ultimate test of 3's character development if he gets recruited right before it)

😎 eh eh? how's that? *crickets* .....yea, like that's ever gonna happen hehe. I'll just uh. leave this in my concept vault and hopefully I'll get the fic out before the next arc. I wouldn't even count that tho if I were you. I really don't have much to say for this review other than that this was such an enjoyable episode, so have these instead:

Look at the cuties ^^. That's all from me, folks! I'll see yall in the next one, and remember: numbers always go first!

[rohvee]

The steampunk adventure au intro 🤎

The Piltover Academy auditorium was not the temple of quiet lectures and theory it usually was. Gone were the tiered seats where professors once pontificated beneath stained-glass oculi; the space had been gutted and reimagined in brass and linen.

What now sprawled was a great and haphazard bazaar of invention. Long rows of demonstration tables jostled for attention on the marbled floor, each bearing strange apparatuses like altars to rival gods. Arc-lamps, strung from wrought-iron gantries above, hissed and flickered, casting long shadows over polished gears and oiled levers. The scent in the air was thick: scorched copper, varnished mahogany, the faint sweetness of ozone.

This was the Distinguished Innovator’s Competition—an annual tempest of ambition and vision, where the Piltover Academy’s finest, or at least its most desperate, unveiled the inner machinations of their minds to the city’s elite. The auditorium was a throbbing cacophony: a din of overlapping demonstrations, raised voices, hydraulics, and the occasional alarming hiss from a pressurized pipe.

A mechanical arm attempted to knit a sock and promptly strangled itself with yarn. A self-boiling kettle shrieked like a banshee and spat steam in the face of its inventor, who bowed anyway. A student demonstrated an atmospheric condenser that quietly turned fog into ice within the glass lungs of a humming cube.

The judges floated through this chaos in clusters of three and four—academy staff in pressed uniform, trade lords with silver-topped canes, and venture financiers with toothy smiles. They murmured, took notes, and occasionally raised a brow to devastating effect. Some candidates blanched as they approached; others straightened spines and grinned too wide.

For those gathered here, it was not merely a contest. It was stage upon which a single brilliant moment might secure a lifetime of funding, patronage, and renown—or else consign an idea to obscurity and student debt.

This was Piltover’s true theater, and the curtain was already rising.

Jayce stood at his table, posture straight as a rifle barrel, but his fingers betrayed him—twitching at his sides, drumming anxious patterns along the seam of his coat. He’d polished his boots twice that morning. Now they scuffed restlessly against the gleaming tile, unable to keep still. The judges were one table away.

He glanced sidelong toward the neighboring exhibit and immediately regretted it.

Dmitri. Of course.

Dmitri and his stupid ponytail already grinning in his direction. The man beamed, raised both thumbs in an encouraging gesture that practically radiated good will.

Jayce scowled.

Top of the class. Preternaturally polite. Unfailingly kind. And always, always looked at Jayce like he'd hung the moon in the sky. Jayce loathed him with every fiber of his being.

He rolled his eyes and turned sharply back to his own table.

Jayce’s exhibition lay at the center like a reliquary in a chapel. It rested atop black velvet, arranged with ecclesiastical care: a gilded cradle of finework brass and filigree. It resembled some celestial device—an orrery or diviner’s scope more than any earthly thing. And yet at its heart nestled the true marvel: a gemstone, glistening blue, teardrop-shaped, clenched in golden teeth no wider than a compass needle.

Wires spilled from the contraption’s flank like viscera, snaking toward a tall mechanical limb to its right—elbow-jointed and claw-tipped, folded like a mantis in patient wait.

Jayce stirred at the movement in his peripheral. The judges had begun to bleed away from the neighboring display, and his heart climbed into his throat like a stowaway. He adjusted his stance, smoothed a wrinkle from his lapel, gave his curled moustache a twist, and composed himself.

They approached his table in a cluster.

A vastaya in pince-nez and brocade, fur combed sleek as gunmetal. A chirean of considerable height, nails lacquered and spats spotless. A man with a breathing apparatus of polished brass and wet, hissing filters—the scent of brine and antiseptic trailed him like perfume.

And last, the Dean of the Academy himself: Professor Cecil B. Heimerdinger, who had not missed a single competition in sixty-three years. The yordle's snowy mustache was a sculptural wonder that Jayce often envied.

Jayce inclined his head. “Welcome, honored gentlefolk,” he said, enunciating each word with theatrical clarity, though his pulse thundered in his ears. “I am Jayce Talis, son of the late Caetano Talis—explorer, inventor, and the first man to chart the skies beyond the Shadow Isles in search of the legendary Camavor.”

There were a few mutterings of recognition and approval. Everyone knew of Caetano Talis. His name held a weight that Jayce had every intention to exploit.

Jayce reached to the core of his device and delicately unseated the gem from its cradle. It caught the lamplight and held it like breath in a bottle—blue and infinite.

“On one such expedition, my father unearthed a most curious mineral—what he called a hexstone. Though it may appear unassuming, this is no ordinary gem. Within it pulses a force that defies steam, coal, or even combustion. Colleagues, this stone may offer what the engines of progress have long cried out for: clean, inexhaustible energy.”

There was a rustle among the onlookers. Heimerdinger’s eyebrows gave a subtle twitch. Nearby students—fellow inventors and visitors both, began to collect in a small crowd.

Jayce returned the stone to its golden housing and flipped a switch.

There was a moment’s silence—then the machine stirred.

Light welled up inside the hexstone like a sunrise in deep ocean. It crackled—delicate arcs of lightning leapt along its cage. The arm beside it unfurled like a serpent stretching after sleep. Servos whined. The claw rotated, then lowered with ritual gravity toward the metal block on the table.

A beat.

Then: a searing beam of blue lanced forth from the core of the claw. The table glowed with it. The metal block sizzled. Half the observers flinched.

Jayce kept his hand outstretched like a showman before a curtain drop.

“Laser cutters, as you know,” he said, “require immense power to operate—usually fed by great quantities of coal. And yet, this cutter is powered by a single hexstone.”

The beam sliced cleanly across the block, leaving a line of molten silver.

The judges stirred like deepwater fish sensing heat. There were sharp murmurs and the fevered scratchings of fountain pens.

Jayce cast his gaze over the crowd.

His eyes locked with another’s: a young man in the Piltover Academy uniform, leaning on a cane, a year his senior from the color of his cravat. His face was sharp, arresting, his expression one of quiet intrigue. Amber eyes held Jayce’s gaze with disarming steadiness.

Jayce faltered, momentarily thrown off course.

Then he gave a quick shake of his head, cleared his throat, and turned back to the judges, recovering his rhythm quickly.

“Alas,” he went on, “this is the only hexstone presently known to exist.”

A pause. Just long enough for the drama to curdle.

“My father left no coordinates, no records of the site where he found it. That is why I ask for your support. Your patronage, sponsoring an expedition of discovery. With it, I will retrace my father’s steps across Runeterra to find the source of the hexstones. To bring back more, and change the—”

A sudden noise interrupted him.

Wet and sparking, like a metal lung collapsing.

The generator hiccupped. Then rattled. The golden cradle hissed as veins of lightning began to crawl across its arms like restless centipedes. The gemstone's light shifted—brilliant, then flickering, then too-bright.

Jayce’s smile died.

“No—no no no, not now—”

The machine shrieked. The cutter arm twitched, spasmed, then swung violently to the left.

A student’s project—an elegant clockwork aviary—was reduced to burning feathers and melted brass in a blink.

The cutter jerked again. A nobleman’s hat halved neatly by the beam. Its owner screamed, clutching his scalp and dignity alike.

Jayce lunged for the controls, but the machine was not yet finished in its path of destruction.

The arm rose—higher, higher—then slashed upward in an arc of glorious light.

Right through the gantry.

There was a sizzle as the beam kissed iron. The structure groaned. Weld-points glowed red-hot. A shout echoed across the hall.

“Clear the floor!”

Panic moved like gas through a breached hull.

Innovators scattered, skirts catching, boots slipping on tiles gone slick with spilled oil and tea. The judges fled, coats flaring behind them. The gantry gave a final metallic shriek—then fell.

Arc-lamps burst like supernovae. Wires lashed. Sparks rained.

Flame found silk. A row of tables blossomed fire. Black smoke rose thick and cloying. Screams followed.

And at the center of it all, framed in the infernal glow of a dying dream, Jayce stood in shock.

He stood like a statue carved in the moment of tragedy. Mouth ajar. Blue in the strobe-flashes of the dying machine.

Professor Heimerdinger stepped through the ruin with the quiet dignity of someone who had weathered worse. It wasn’t the first Distinguished Innovators catastrophe—not by far. His waistcoat ends were scorched. His whiskers stood on end with residual static.

He stopped before Jayce, who glumly lowered his gaze.

“I am sorry, my boy,” Heimerdinger said, not unkindly. “It is a grand dream. But I fear the technology of our time is not yet ready to house such wonders.”

He touched Jayce’s hand—a ghost of reassurance—and turned to follow the tide of scholars, sponsors, and engineers streaming toward the exits beneath the alarm-bells.

Jayce remained a moment longer.

He moved then, stepping back to the smoldering remnants of his table. Amid scorched velvet and crushed metal, the hexstone lay still—dull and dormant. He lifted it from the debris, cradling it in his palms.

He turned to go, casting his miserable gaze to the smoke rising toward the fractured oculi far above, carrying his dreams away with it.

Jayce sat on the Academy steps with the slack posture of the thoroughly defeated. His coat was singed at the hem, and soot had settled in the folds of his collar like old guilt. In his hands, the hexstone glimmered faintly.

Behind him, the world carried on: fire-brigades doused the auditorium with hissing foam. Students clustered on the lawn, their voices low, scandal-bent. A few spared glares for the man on the steps. Some pointed accusatorily. One threw a crumpled flyer.

Jayce ignored them. He turned the stone over in his palm, as if a new angle might reveal something salvageable. It did not.

“Sorry, Papa,” he murmured to the stone. “I suppose I’ve fucked everything up again.”

There was a clap on his shoulder, startling him out of his melancholy.

“You’ll get it next year, mate,” chirped a voice like sunshine in a bottle.

Jayce didn’t have to look to know it was Dmitri: stupid ponytail bouncing, optimism radiating from every pore. “You were brilliant right up until the bit where everything exploded. And I’m sure you’ll get that part sorted. Just needs a bit of tinkering!”

Jayce said nothing. He didn’t even scowl.

Dmitri gave his shoulder a squeeze, then bounded off to go join their fellow students.

Jayce sighed. He reached for his coat pocket—and froze.

He patted it. Then the other side. Then rummaged through his satchel. Panic prickled.

“Shit,” he breathed.

His notebook was missing.

Years of equations, test notes, frantic breakdowns, errant sketches scrawled in midnight ink. Obsessions, revisions, half-formed revelations. His life’s work—every fevered inch of it. The thought that it all might’ve gone up in smoke filled his gut with a cold, rising horror.

“Looking for this?” said a voice, each syllable rolling with a thick accent—

Jayce turned—and startled.

It was the man from the crowd. The one with the cane and the amber eyes.

He stood a step above Jayce, idly flipping through a familiar leather-bound book. “I must say, Mr. Talis; I’ve never met anyone who signs every single page of their notes. A little egotistical, don’t you think?”

“Give me that!” Jayce scrambled upright, indignantly lunging for the book. He was a full head taller, but the man was quick and unconcerned. He pivoted with a deft flick of his cane, holding the notebook just out of reach like a matador taunting a bull.

“They were impressive pyrotechnics,” the man said, still leafing through. “But this ‘HexTech’ theory of yours—I’m far more interested in that.”

Jayce faltered mid-grab. “I—pardon?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “It worked, did it not?”

“I… suppose so,” Jayce muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I can’t stabilize the output. It always hits a runaway threshold and overfeeds the system.”

“Have you tried increasing the frequency?”

Jayce blinked. “I’ve always focused on dampening the oscillations.”

The man stopped at a page. “Ah, and therein lies your issue.” He drew a pencil from his vest pocket and scribbled a few marks. “Here—see this? You are thinking in terms of suppression, but the stone will only stabilize at high frequency.”

Jayce leaned in. His eyes widened.

He took the notebook, staring down at the page, wonder flooding his veins.

“So… I have to crank it,” he breathed.

The man blinked. Then gave a soft laugh. “Yes. You have to, eh, crank it.”

“It certainly works on paper, but...” Jayce breathed. “I must test this immediately.”

“A tad troublesome with a melted generator,” the man noted.

“I’ve another at my workshop,” Jayce replied. “A prototype. Not as refined, but it’ll do what we need it to do.”

“We?”

Jayce smiled—wide and sincere—then reached out to clap a hand on the man’s narrow shoulder, who raised a curious eyebrow at the contact.

“You solved the issue,” Jayce said. “You ought to see it through with me.”

The man regarded him. Then, with a shrug, “Lead on, then.”

Jayce turned, eagerly bounding down the steps with renewed purpose—then paused, glancing back.

“I realize I don’t even know your name.”

The man gazed at him for a moment, a slow smile crossing his face.

“It’s Reveck. Viktor Reveck.”

[farfromstrange]

Okay, so, I am putting my thoughts under a cut. HEAVY spoilers for both episode 1 and 2 of Daredevil: Born Again. They are scrambled, and I’m gonna need a day to actually write something coherent, but I need to talk SCREAM ABOUT IT.

WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUUUUUCK

SCREAMING CRYING DYING FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

Cancel MARVEL CANCEL DISNEY CANCEL THEM ALL FUCK THEM

They fucking killed Foggy. That last bit of hope I had shattered when his fucking eyes stayed open and his heart stopped. I started sobbing the moment Karen started begging him to stay with her. She was sobbing, MATT sobbing, I think we were all sobbing. The way he just… stopped fighting when Foggy died. The way he CRIED against DEX like his fucking heart just shattered, and we could all see it. I can’t-

The world ended the moment he died, for both Karen and Matt and everyone else who loved Foggy, and part of me doesn’t want to believe it, but if it is a fake-out, it’s the best one in history because I do not believe he’s still alive. Not after what I’ve seen, but I’d love to be proved wrong BECAUSE THIS CANNOT BE THE FUCKING END. It just can’t.

Matt threw Dex OFF THE ROOF! He WANTED him to die, or he was taking that chance. That blank look on his face just said “Nothing matters now anyway” and he abandoned all his principles because his best friend got killed. He loved Foggy, and now he’s dead. What kills me most is that Karen had to watch Foggy die—she held him in her fucking hands with his blood all over her—and Matt HEARD him die. How is that fucking fair?!

Quick side note about the intro: We’ve got the original theme slightly modified and I actually kinda like the imagery of the statues breaking! It’s as devastating as it is cool.

Anyway. We learned that Karen left for San Francisco. Matt and Karen kind of stopped talking, which, after what happened, I understand. I did NOT see coming though the fact that she’d go so far. Of course, their relationship didn’t have much of a future after that because people deal with grief differently and they both had to get out, but it was devastating to witness Matt being desperate because his world fell apart, and Karen just looking so, so broken for the same reasons. I mean, Matt begging her to give him just five minutes to talk? He sounded so soft. So… God, I can’t even put it into words. They’re both so broken oh my god.

What also got me was her keeping the horn and then giving it to him. (And later he fucking put the ‘in memory of Foggy Nelson’ card in his coat when meeting Heather. He’s always keeping him close to his heart, I’m crying.)

My thoughts are a mess right now. Matt started a firm with Kirsten, and I mean, good for him but everything just fell apart, and they (Matt and Karen) don’t even have each other anymore because they’re fighting their demons on their own. I can’t deal with this. Matt is alone in that big ass apartment with that piece of paper from Foggy’s memorial, cooking and watching the news and trying to move on from everything that happened, and he’s just so goddamn miserable. But who wouldn’t be?

Ben Urich’s niece! That’s all I’m gonna say.

Kirsten setting Matt up was the highlight for me because it made things a little lighter, but that man also needs serious therapy. At least we got him being a flirty flustered little shit though!!

I don’t think I have to say more about the diner scene. It was as intense as it was refreshing to see them talk like that without trying to kill each other.

Mayor Fisk!! Vincent’s performance is top tier! Love how he’s having a marital dispute with Vanessa and now Vanessa’s basically Kingpin and he’s yearning to get her back 😭

And the kiss at the end?? Why’s he so fucking hot and charming? Jesus Christ I almost forgot I was devastated.

I can’t even put into words the things I’m feeling right now. I- I need a few hours of sleep and a clearer mind because I’m still teary-eyed.

Another thing. They portrayed his senses surprisingly well, but Charlie also did an impeccable job. God, that man can ACT! Not that I ever doubted it. There is no better Matt Murdock than him. And he just proved again why I love this character so much.

Onto the second episode!

WHITE TIGER! Amazing introduction of the character. 10/10.

Love seeing Fisk being mayor and trying to do things the legal way, but we all now that’s not gonna stick. Not really.

Corrupt cops! And Matt jumping in to help Hector! That’s my man! He’s still Matt, he cares about injustice, so how can he not help? He can never give that piece of himself up, and I love that he refuses to. Seems like it’s finally giving him a purpose again. Seeing him in court again, being a lawyer, is so refreshing (and hot).

I absolutely love that they made sure that Ben Urich’s legacy lives on in his niece (BB) and GIRL does she seem determined. But I feel like she might get herself in trouble, especially with Fisk and his history with Ben. That’s gonna be interesting! Hope her and Matt get to meet, too.

Could that boy talking to Heather at her book signing (pop off by the way, we love a successful queen) and asking her for help be Muse? I don’t know much about that character, so I’ll let myself be surprised. Makes me scared for what’s gonna happen to her though. I don’t know how much more loss Matt can take, especially since we know he’ll choose to pursue something with her, romantically.

BACK TO FHE FLIRTING! Dinner date? Talking about traveling and having Mai tai’s? Having a future together? Oh, he’s so into her! And he’s smiling and laughing and God he needs that. Also, Matt being so ready to get a taste of Heather? I’m screaming. Choking on his drink and “I’ll take the check, please” AND “I’ll pay you back, in interest” SIR! YOU CANT DO THIS TO MEEEE!

I did not expect Fisk and Vanessa to go to Heather for couple’s therapy but honestly it’s kind of funny. Also curious to see where this goes, especially if/when Matt finds out.

HE STOOD OUTSIDE A CHURCH! I REPEAT, HE STOOD OUTSIDE A CHURCH! But he didn’t go in, so another crisis of faith, Perhaps?

HOLY FUCK! That fight?? Matt beating the shit out of these corrupt cops without any suit or gear to protect him, breaking fucking home WITH THOSE WILD EYES?? And the scream HOLY SHIT FUCK I NEED HIM AHHHH

Okay, that’s all. I need to give myself a moment to breathe now.

[oacest]

oacest scholars, do you have any gcest fic recs for a beginner?

we decided to answer this in brief and limit ourselves to three recs each or, as evidenced by past failures to answer this same simple and straightforward request from other people, we'd spend forever quibbling about our choices and never actually post the dang thing. here, in no particular order, are some good jumping off points:

trill's recs:

1) @snickfic's baby, you're gonna be the one that saves me, aka my fave fic (technically series, it's got two parts) in this entire fandom. in which liam gets knocked up in the mid 90s by someone who's not noel, to noel's intense anguished jealous heartbreak mild dismay. even if you're not really into mpreg this one is well worth it. the characterization is god tier. bal and i insisted that jackie, who staunchly doesn't like mpreg, read it and even she was converted.

2) i could be your lover, you could be all mine, by hapaxlegomena. a collection of unconnected porn ficlets. lots of extremely tasty stuff in here, i reread random bits of it regularly.

3) the D'YA WANT SOME? series by one of our own triumvirate, bal! im sure she's squirming in horror that im including it but it is by far the best, most well-written, most well-characterized, thoughtful, hilarious, hot, fascinating work in this whole fandom imo, and is a perfect intro to the whole concept of pre/early days oasis and what noel+liam might have been getting up to behind the scenes (as it were) before they were famous.

bal's recs:

1) Filmstar, an orphaned fic on Ao3. This one gets recced plenty but for good reason. It's very funny in a deadpan way and the Liam in it is such a perfect little weirdo. It's a great fic to start with, readable even if you don't know all the lore and whatnot.

2) outta sight and outta mind by lustmord. this author writes Trauma and specifically the brothers' trauma in a way I find endlessly compelling. (for all that Everyone Knows about their shitbag dad, it is still such an unspoken and often unpredictable presence in the room; you can't really get into them without tangoing with it in some fashion)

3) Let Me Be The One, by @savageandwise. absolutely fantastic Liam voice, this author just GETS him. I often think about this quote as a literal thesis statement for Noel's whole insane deal:

You think he's perfectly willing to allude to it in public if he's the one pulling the strings. Cause he thinks he's cleverer than the rest of the world. He thinks it's edgy and rock and roll when he does it. It's his brand of anarchy. And when you do it you're just stupid and embarrassing and determined to destroy everything.

jackie's recs:

1) Trying To Find A World That's Been and Gone by @storyshark2005. my colleagues graciously let me be the one to put it on my list because this is Thee fic. as we were all getting into Oasis initially, this fic was our constant companion and teacher, holding our hand as the fixation unraveled within us. it's a present-day fic that beautifully and masterfully unpacks the entirety of their relationship from the glory days to the estrangement and it is so jam-packed with research and details, you can just assume that everything that's being referenced is based on something that actually happened. in my opinion, this is where any new fan should start.

2) If I Had a Gun by @savageandwise. it's probably cheating to put another fic by this author when bal's already done it, but... I don't care lmao. in many ways we're splitting hairs because all this author's fics are worth your time. but I do hold a special place for this one because it so wonderfully captures the tenuousness of their dynamic at any given moment. how they could go from fighting to flirting to hating each other to needing each other in rapid succession. it feels so true.

3) Here's Looking At You, Kid by RedheadAmongWolves. don't be thrown off by the fact that this is one chapter away from completion, it's still totally worth it. the characterizations are great, the vibes draw you in, the UST is delicious. honestly, this is really meant to function as an overall author rec. there were several here I could've chosen. [ETA: this fic is now complete!]

[hpowellsmith]

Project Amble intro reveal: 6 days to go!

In the dark fantasy setting of Project Amble, gods and demons have existed on earth for as long as history can remember. Where they manifest they create both blessings and catastrophes; some can heal, some can control human minds, some can create objects out of nothing.

Here in Amikya, the steppes that are your home, lives Vastan the tiger god. Her blessing heals and nourishes those around her, causing magical fruits and flowers to grow and sustain those around her.

But for the moment, Vastan lies dormant. As powerful as gods are in this world, they're not invulnerable.

You know this better than most: you're one of the isolated few who care for her in her weakened state.

Because a hundred years ago, she was nearly killed.

From the Project Amble writing playlist: Plague Awake Here by Mushroomer

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Subscribe to any paid tier on my Patreon to find out what Project Amble is all about early, and subscribe to Sneak Preview to get romanceable character introductions before anyone else does from 12th February onwards!

Check out what else is coming up in February here!