#if grimes can do that fuckery then i can too

[kosakamatsuko]

naming my future daughter y/n

[chiwhorei]

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬

paring: kenny ackerman x fem!reader

genre: apocalypse!au, smut, dark content, 18+ mdni [cross-posted to Ao3]

word count: 3k

overview: kenny *i-wouldn’t-fuck-you-if-it-was-the-end-of-the-world* ackerman; but it is and you do . . . and you’ll probably do it again. or, if you read beyond the cut and wind up in hell that is legally not my fault.

tags: dymph does sacrilege once again, post-apocalypse au, blood, violence, zombies (only mentions of gore nothing specific), somnophilia, noncon, dubcon, degradation, smoking, insertion, sloppy oral, big age gap aka kenny is a nasty old man and reader is a sweet little virgin.

a.notes: happy *fucking* easter. this is for the smut pile’s apocalypse collab so go give everyone’s pieces a read, everyone has worked so incredibly hard. this is dedicated to @pleasantanathema​, who was both my beta reader and emotional support while stringing this together. here’s to the old man fuckery, cheers.

hymn: the seven deadly virtues - camelot

But stay awake at all times, praying that you may have strength to escape all these things that are going to take place, and to stand before the Son of Man. -Luke 21:36

                                      * * *

Wet.

A sticky kind of wet. Clinging on like thick clay, splattered across your neck— gore and sinew wrapped in a noose. Shades of decaying reds and browns are all you see these days. 

The seeping, molding kind of wet.

The smell is suffocating, the toll of death deep in your bones. You keep moving, you have to. One foot in front of the other, fingers fretting with the cross hanging between your collarbones. Counting your Hail Mary’s distracts from the ache in your soles and the burning feeling that you’re rotting away.

It was slow at first. The end of the world, the crashing, clattering end felt like a slow decent to hell. Pieces of the modern world falling away, the promise of tomorrow, the assurance of a cure. You refused to believe the dead could walk the earth until they were stumbling straight towards you. 

All of us, you think, are rotting away.

“Pick up the pace, kid. Are you trying to end up like the rest of those fuckers?” His voice rings from a few feet in front of you. The brush under your feet is dry, leaves crunching loudly with every weary step forward. 

Kenny always likes to remind you of your naïveté, insults about your rose tinted glasses barked crudely from around a cigarette. Your youth, your optimism, your beliefs-- useless traits in his opinion. What good is God in a world like this.

“Friends. They were our friends.” Your words come out in a whimper, the tone further irritating the man ahead of you.

He stops, turning around to catch your eyes, gaze piercing through the night like a knife. All that’s left of your composure is used to keep from crashing right into his chest.

“Ain’t no more room for friends in this world, baby doll,” a long pointer finger lifts your chin, the slightest touch still bruising, “thinkin’ like that is what’s going to get ya killed.”

Rose tinted glasses, cracked and splattered with blood, fall off and are lost to a world that no longer exists. Kenny let’s up and turns, pulling you farther into the thick brush. You could swear you feel the lenses as they splinter under your shoe.

                                      * * *

Kenny is a vile man. He knows his name isn’t on a reservation list at the Pearly Gates, he’s aware that a sinner lives on borrowed time. 

Nowadays, everyone is living on borrowed time. Even you.

You, he thinks, looking back to where you stumble over a tree branch, far to good for a world like this.

He can’t help but laugh, the absolute absurdity of his current situation. Escaping death by the skin of his teeth, watching any familiar faces burning in the remnants of a camp he couldn’t really call home. People that fought to the bone, melting or devoured or both.

And then there was you, standing in front of the flames, tears falling down the apples of your cheeks, stiff in shock and horror. He remembers the way your lips moved, mumbling a quiet prayer instead of trying to run. Stupid little thing.

It’s not the earth the meek inherit; it’s the dirt.

Was it pity that made Kenny pull you away from an infernal gravesite all those months ago? He’s never the hero of any story. No, it must have been something else.

Maybe it was the way you looked up with teary eyes, silently begging for help. Unwittingly making a deal with the devil. His teeth grind at the memory, the vision of how beautiful you look so completely helpless. 

Kenny leads and you follow, he hunts and you flitch at the sound of an arrow piercing flesh. The small squeak and proceeding thumb of meat as it hits the ground never fails to make you sick. When he’s not hunting for food, he’s hunting something else.

The sounds of death are all the same.

Some days you’re lucky, coming across abandoned hideouts or deserted cars. Snagging whatever hasn’t already been picked over; some ammo, the occasional can of peaches or pack of cigarettes. Kenny laughs dryly everytime, chucking the carton into his bag. Always the cigarettes, never the lighter. Most days, not so much.

Every night, you fall asleep to the flicker of a campfire, lulled by the steady sound of Kenny’s knife as it scrapes against a piece of wood. He’s always the last asleep. The woods are a dangerous place, the possibility of monsters circle at every moment. Under the veil of night, anything could happen. And it does.

He wipes his mouth, settling back into the harsh ground below him with a pleased hum. Your whimpers have settled back into a light snore. 

Kenny is a vile man, and you’re too concerned with the lifeless villain in the shadows that you forget about the one sitting on the other side of the fire.

Three months of waking up to aching limbs and misplaced panties can’t be a coincidence, can it?

                                      * * *

“Well ain’t this something.” Kenny pulls on the door, swinging it open with a loud creek. Your neck strains to look up at dark wood and steepled roof, the tall building hidden by dense forest, you two must be the first people to step inside in months. 

“A church.” You’d find comfort within these walls if you weren’t so positive that God had abandoned this world.

Statues of the Virgin Mary and Saint Joseph are empty behind their stone eyes, shadowed with an unsettling shade of red from the stained-glass windows. The moment is a time capsule, a vision of the congregation of saints bathed in blood.

A chill runs down your back, counting every vertebrae.

You push down the unsettling foreboding, focusing back on the instincts to survive instead of lingering on a religion that you can no longer make sense of.

“Hey kid, over here.” You pick up the pace, quickening footsteps away from holy symbolism and towards Kenny’s voice. You walk into the closest room off a dark hallway and find him leaning against the doorframe. The rooms are getting darker with the vanishing sun, but you make out shelves of cans and boxes, food, blankets, clothes.

“I bet they used this as a food pantry,” Your comment was probably an obvious assumption, but Kenny just hums in response, “there’s enough here to last up months.” 

Good samaritans in the first life are a saving grace is this one. Your cynicism lifts from heavy shoulders for just a moment. The lines between luck and divine intervention are fuzzy at best.

“I saw a well right outside too. Water’s probably cold as ice but it’s better than anything we’ve come across yet.” Kenny’s voice is even, but you swear he cracks a smile.

He was right, the water is cold enough to shatter your bones like ice. You shiver and chatter, teeth threatening to crack, but the feeling of being clean has you dumping bucket after bucket over your head. The grime and grit of your reality running down to seep into the grass below.

There’s no home to run to after the world ends, but water and food is more than you could imagine in recent months. Shuffling through boxes of donated clothes, you find a shirt big enough to sleep in. The fabric smells like moth-balls and dust, but the feeling of clean cotton against your skin is heavenly. 

You find Kenny in the clerical office, rummaging through the priests desk. The sun is replaced with a flight of candles, for the first time in forever, you don’t feel like death is standing right behind you.

“Would you look at that,” Kenny pulls a cigar from the desk, bringing it up to his nose for inspection, “Looks like father had his own little habit.”

Despite yourself, you laugh at his comment, rounding towards the large leather chair he’s settled into.

“Smoking kills you know.” You lean against the desk next to him. Your bare legs brush against his knee, the heat from your skin makes his mouth water.

“I think there’s more pressing concerns than tobacco, kid.”

There’s something different about tonight, even more than just the four walls and roof around you. There’s something about Kenny and the way his stare has followed you all night. You can feel a cord pulling taught, fraying in the middle before it snaps.

“Asshole.”

The plush of Kenny’s bottom lip is close enough to your cunt to be disastrous.  Friendly banter becomes laughing and swatting at his chest like a teenager. Communion wine and tension pulling you into him. The loneliness of this life becomes more apparent the closer he is to touching your skin. When did the man in front of you make your heart race so fast? 

Maybe you’ve always felt this way.

You feel it, the ghosts of last night, the night before. The ghosts of weeks or maybe even months. The familiarity of a touch you weren’t quite awake for. 

Ass arching off from where it sticks to the cherry wood, you want to feel it again. The laving of tongue and mouth against you. The devouring of your most intimate planes of skin, places no one else has ever touched before, places you were saving for your future husband.

The kiss as hot as hell.

“Awe, c’mon now,” His nose nudges against your clit, the movement pulling another cry from your throat to bounce against the high ceiling, “that’s not my name.”

“I’ve been tracing it into this precious cunt of yours every night,” each word is more unhinged than the last, no longer worried about the doe in his sights running away, “Do I need to spell it out for you again?”

There’s nowhere to run, pressed in between his canines.

Dreams of calloused fingers and a wandering mouth are now cementing as memories. The feeling of rough facial hair. The sounds of desperate moans and how they shake against you. 

The way his tongue curls like a signature. 

His mouth is flush against you again, sucking at your aching clit for only a moment before moving his attention to long lashes against your clenching hole.

“You must remember. You were moaning it so sweetly,” he nips at your puffy lips before drawing back. His chin is sheened in your arousal, slick refracting off the dimly lit space between you, flickering candles outline his features with a dance of orange shadows. Kenny’s eyes hold you captive, giving you one more chance to answer.

“What’s my name, kid?”

His tongue breaches you, a set of large, familiar hands keep your legs spread wide atop the desk. 

You remember— of course you do. You remember everything. The name stuck in your head like a broken record. The name you call for in a sleepy haze as your body is dragged into orgasm.

The name that’s spelled against you like a promise.

“K-Kenny please.”

That’s all that he needs, the only thing, if he’s being honest, that he’s ever needed.

“There’s my sweet little girl. Finally using your manners.” Two fingers come up to swipe against your pussy, stopping right before your clit and collecting slick to bring up to your eye line for inspection. You jump when the warm digits drag against your bottom lip, a silent prompt for your mouth to fall open.

Kenny sticks his fingers in, the intent to make you gag is clear but you take it. You’ll take anything he gives you. Your tongue swirls around the intrusion, running against each joint and suckling loudly. The sound is wet and lewd, the spit collecting at the corners of your mouth makes his head spin.

Your destruction, he decides, will be beautiful. 

Kenny’s fingers release with a wet pop. He runs callouses down from your cheek, over the curve of your tits and down your abdomen. Two fingers stop at your pubic bone to trace lightly against the skin in random patterns. 

“Your body is just as agreeable when you’re awake.” His words drip in sin, reminding you exactly how familiar he is with you. All of you.

Both thumbs come down to spread your lips, Kenny can’t help but take a moment-- just a beat-- to stare at your swollen, glossy clit and the quiver of your little hole. Your skin is soft, completely untouched by anyone else. He laid claim to almost every inch before you begged him to.

He sinks from the leather chair, kneeling in front of you. You’re the body and blood as far as a sinner like Kenny is concerned.

There’s a plea stuck in your throat. You want to beg him to slow down, it’s too much all at once, but you know if you cried out-- all you would do is beg him for more.

His tongue is long and flat against you, every swipe is punctuated with a growl. The rumbling from his chest is thrown against your clit like a current through cold water. Sharp, shocking, terrifying.

“Kenny, I- I want,” He sucks your throbbing clit into his mouth, rubbing the tip of his tongue against the hood. There’s no words in any language that make sense to you. There’s nothing but his name. 

“Kenny ah, I need, I don’t know how t—”

Your dangling over a fire, trying desperately to jerk away from the lick of the flames. 

“I know, kid, I know exactly what you need.” his breath is heavy and warm in fans across your skin. You're dripping down the sides of his face and onto the cleric’s desk. Kenny is covered in you, open mouthed kisses against the sweetest thing he’s ever had in his mouth. The tangy taste of your pussy mixing with the wine still on his tongue. 

If he spent forever between your thighs, it wouldn’t be nearly long enough.

“Such a sweet little thing, you’re insatiable.” All you can do is nod dumbly, eyes glazing over with a distinct look of teary submission. It’s so new to you, but grinding upwards and catching your clit against his chin seems like second nature.

The primal need for release is much stronger than any prayer of abstinence. 

“What would your little prayer circle think if they knew you spread your legs for a dirty old fucker like me?” Kenny coos against the apex of your thighs. His words knock on the hollow space behind your breastbone.

Your family and friends, the priest from St. Mary’s who baptized you, old man Jaeger from next door— all buried or burned to ash or so much worse.

Anyone you’ve ever loved is dead, maybe that’s why Kenny is still around.

There’s nothing that can hold you back anymore, the control you claw at slips from your fingers like watery silk. There’s no escaping the roughness of his stubble and an evil, serpent tongue.

“Kenny!”

You cum with a shattering cry, the sound ringing so loud in your ears you swear any enemy of the living in a 10 mile radius could hear you. In reality, what escapes is little more than a broken snivel. 

It hurts, muscles aching from the exertion of trying to keep from falling apart. Your body is a hairpin trigger, the comedown feels more like withdrawal.

“There’s my girl, my good little girl.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, doting while you fall back to earth. It’s a strange feeling, you’ve never found comfort in Kenny before, he isn’t the shoulder you go to lean on. 

But tonight he’s the chin you buck into.

The aftershocks run across your naked skin, already missing the feeling of his touch as he settles back into the cracked leather chair. 

His cock presses into the denim confines uncomfortably, the ache can wait though. Whether this is his last night alive or has all the time in the world-- he’s going to savor the glistening prize nestled between your thighs. Kenny’s fingers find the cigar where it lies next to your knee, bringing it up to examine while you squirm at the cold night air against your wet cunt.

“No one will ever make you feel as good as I do,” both legs kick out, falling to dangle on either side of his knees in surprise as the cigar comes down to trace your outer lips. He presses the tuck inwards, pulling out slightly so you cry out. The harsh texture of the wrapper mixes with the most minimal of stimulation, causing tears to clump in your waterline. 

“Why don’t you think of a way to repay me, hmm?”

You push past the heaviness in your muscles, sitting up to meet his incredulous stare. Kenny sticks the cigar between his teeth, striking a match from the desk drawer to light the cap. The cigar is stale, cheap tobacco. But every drag now tastes like you.

“I- I could try to--” Words are left unspoken on your tongue, even now, the intonation is poison in your throat. 

You expect Kenny to laugh at your bashfulness, instead, two fingers come up to curl around the Rosary around your neck. He drags you forward, exhaling smoke into your parted, quivering lips. You try your best not to choke. 

He pulls the cigar away, ashing it carelessly on the floor.

“Use your words, kid, tell me what you want.” His words are sleazy but his voice is soft around the edges. Prompting you to shuffle onto his lap. His free hand rests in the small of your back to keep you steady.

“I want--” Fuck, your voice feels like it’ll fail, you take a moment to breathe, “I want you to fuck me, Kenny.” 

Your plea is rushed, so quick to hit his ears he almost misses it. There’s no hiding anymore, there’s nowhere else in this world but the private quarters of a long-dead clergy member. The space between you and Kenny is foggy and tense, only inches between lips.

There’s no more penance in this world, no more time to sit and atone for his sins with prayer. The soft, syrupy feeling of your cunt wrapping around his cock is a slice of heaven, cut out and stolen right from the sky. 

“I thought you’d never ask, doll face.” 

✞ all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

[snarky-badger]

Snapshots 4/5

Grievous Fuckery part 4! This time with Smut! Lmao.

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Snarling, Grievous closed a hand around the thug's throat and shook him violently, vaguely aware that two of his Magna droid bodyguards had moved to flank him, electrostaffs held up in warning to the marauder's companions. "What did you do with her?!"

The thug clawed at the metallic hand that was cutting off his airway. ".....d-desert...! W-we dropped h-her.....-hrk!- ...desert!"

Bright yellow eyes narrowed in anger and worry. Being dropped into the deserts of Tattooine was a death sentence. Daytime temperatures were known to reach deadly levels. Dehydration could occur in less than an hour, death in two. Any person who ventured into the deserts unprepared was, more often than not, either found dead, or never found at all. And that was only if the vicious tribes of Sand People didn't come upon them first.

And his taisilee had been dumped into the heart of it.

"Give me the coordinates of her last known location, and, perhaps, I'll rethink my decision to have you all killed."

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His shuttle touched down three klicks east of the coordinates the marauder leader had provided, throwing up clouds of sand as it settled in the lee of a rocky outcropping. The ship's sensors were on maximum, struggling to find any life signs amongst the dunes. Topographical maps didn't encourage hope. While they had landed near a series of rocky mountains and outcroppings, the surface temperatures were well above dangerous levels. Dry gusts of sand laden wind were doing a good job of stripping the shuttle's outer hull of it's markings - Grievous didn't want to think about what it could do to unprotected skin.

He left two of his Magna droids at the shuttle, with orders to continue scanning for any signs of life. The other two flanked him as he descended the ramp, his rarely used white cloak billowing out behind him. The heat meant little to him, and even less to the Magna droids. The sand, however, was a different matter. Sand could damage sensitive joints, and in his case, irritate his still organic eyes.

But there was no telling how long the winds would last, or even how much time he had before an inevitable sand storm hit. He had to find Kyra. He only hoped he wasn't too late.

"You two, spread out," he growled to his two guards. "Search the outer ridges. Kyra wouldn't have strayed far from the shelter of the rocks. If she's here, the scanners may have difficulty finding her signal because of interference."

Grievous spun away as he finished speaking, his own sensors stretched to their limits as he sprinted towards a small canyon, stabilizers struggling to compensate for the shifting sand under his feet. Scans had shown a series of caves lining the shallow canyon's walls, the perfect shelter from the overwhelming heat and biting sands.

It was only when his talons hit stone that he stopped, his cloak whipping around him as he let his gaze cut across his new surroundings. Dark shadows dotted the sides of the canyon, outcroppings and shelves of stone making the walls look sharp and unforgiving. The wind buffeted his back, the sensation of sand grating across the back of his skull making him wish his cloak came with a hood.

He was just about to pick his way down to the canyon floor when something caught his gaze, his eyes narrowing as he walked over to crouch in front of a smooth boulder. There, etched into the reddish stone, was a rough copy of the emblem that was on the grey cloak he usually wore.

She had been here! Maybe, was still here.

"Kyra?!" His voice echoed through the canyon, even as he haphazardly jumped from outcropping to outcropping, darting from cave to cave. "Answer me! Kyra!"

Through the echoes of his calls, Grievous caught the telltale howls of hunting Sand People, the sound pulling a snarl from him as he rose his gaze to eye the horizon warily. Knowing time was short, he sped up his search, chemsensors and scanners tuned as high as they would go as he searched for the slightest sign of her, keen eyes cutting across his surroundings for any other possible etchings.

He was halfway through scouring the north side of the gorge when the calls from the Sand People turned into a completely different sort of feral cry. They had found prey. And judging by the sound of blasters, armed prey.

Curious, the cyborg climbed up onto the ridge, keeping low to hide his profile. Using the rough terrain as cover, he darted from boulder to boulder, slowing once he got within visual sight of the fire-fight. Five Sand People were taking cover behind a dune, only reappearing to take shots at a hidden opponent. Grievous narrowed his eyes at the second dune, catching sight of a barrel of a crude blaster before a very familiar glint of fire-red hair sent a shiver of recognition through him. "KYRA!"

She ducked as a shot grazed her cheek, rolling onto her back as she wiped sweat and dirt out of her eyes. The tribe of Sand People had been hunting her for days, having spotted her when she had headed into the canyon hoping to find shelter. While the caves there had given her an advantage - there were mazes of interconnected tunnels in the deepest caves - something had prickled her Force senses, drawing her out of her shelter.

It had been a stupid move. Kyra knew the Tribe had been watching her. She knew they were waiting for an opportunity to catch her. And despite that, she had let her Force instincts draw her out. Even now, while she was dodging blasts, her Force sense was still niggling at her. Though, considering that she had barely slept, and had gone without food for four days, and without water for two, it was possible that she was hallucinating.

With a tired sigh, Kyra rolled back onto her stomach and dared to poke her head over the top of the dune again, her index finger lightly tapping the trigger of her stolen blaster. A shocked gasp left her seconds later when she spied a familliar burnished white form moving amongst the Sand People, four lightsabers whirling with deadly precision.

Grievous dispatched the five tribe members in as many seconds, kicking the final body in disgust before he resettled his lightsabers into the hidden pouches in his cloak and turned towards the sound of shifting sands. Seeing Kyra rushing towards him, Grievous spun and loped down the lee of the dune, heedless of the unstable terrain as he ran over to her.

He reached her just as she stumbled, not slowing as he scooped her into his four arms, taloned feet digging deep into the sand to slow their momentum as he nuzzled his mask into her hair. "Taisilee."

Kyra wrapped shaking arms around him, curling her fingers around bits of his back armor. "I knew you'd find me," she whispered, hearing his low purr/growl as he brushed the lower part of his mask against her forehead, then against her cheek, his upper right hand rising to brush tears from her skin. "I knew you'd come."

"Always," he growled, his voice a low husky rumble. "Always, my taisilee."

Concerned at the pained tint to her scent, Grievous leaned back and really looked at her, a shocked curse leaving him when he saw the horrible sunburn that covered every inch of exposed skin. The marauders had stripped her of everything except a thin tank top and her pants and boots. She looked exhausted, dirty and dehydrated, with little cuts, bruises and scrapes marring her badly sunburned, and sand-grated skin. That she had managed to survive for a week without adequate coverings or water was nothing short of a miracle.

With a protective rumble, he shifted his hold on her, then sent a silent message to his guards, requesting a pick-up. "My shuttle is on it's way," he told her, meeting her gaze. "I made sure to stock some supplies for you."

She leaned into him, feeling him tighten his hold on her. "They took the lightsaber you gave me," she admitted softly, wincing a little when he tensed, a low snarl leaving his vocalizer. "I'm sorry."

Grievous jerked, surprise pushing thoughts of killing the entire lot of marauders from the forefront of his mind. "And why, my taisilee, are you apologizing for something that isn't your fault?"

"....feels like my fault," she murmured sourly.

"Kyra, I saw the state of those thugs. I know you fought them." When she frowned, he ducked his head and gently brushed the lower part of his mask against her chapped lips. "They drugged you, my taisilee. I found the darts they shot you with and had the contents analyzed. With the amount they gave you, you shouldn't have been able to move, never mind fight like you did. You killed three, and wounded seven before the drugs took effect. It was a lost battle that you were forced to fight, my taisilee, and even so, you still fought to the last. It is very..... attractive."

She shivered at the lust in his voice and eyes, blushing when he chuckled and pressed his forehead to hers. Deciding that two could play that game, Kyra lightly brushed a hand across his chest, using a bit of her waning energy to send a teasing thrum into him.

Another chuckle rumbled out of him. "When I get you home, I may just pay you back for that," he purred, snickering when the redness on her face and neck darkened. "All this time, and I can still make you blush, my taisilee."

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She passed out the moment Grievous gently set her down on a medical berth, and it took him several tries before he managed to pry her iron grip off of him. Once he was free, he busied himself with carefully slicing away her filthy clothing, tossing it into a waste compartment as he did so. Only then did he do his best to clean the dirt and grime off of her, scowling at the raw, and badly sunburned state of the skin on her face, arms, upper chest and shoulders. Every inch of skin that had been left unprotected to the elements was damaged, and by the sound of the soft whimper that left her, extremely sensitive. The rest of her body was decorated with sporadic bruises, and once he tugged her boots off, he found that she was sporting a badly sprained ankle.

The little first aid supplies he had weren't going to be enough to treat her raw and sunburned skin, and Grievous smothered a growl at the realization. Disgusted at his lack of insight, he settled for dosing her with painkillers and setting up an intravenous drip of saline to combat dehydration. Her body absorbed the water at a frightening rate, making him set up a second bag of the liquid, this time adding a liberal dose of vitamins and minerals that would help boost her recovery.

At the end of his medical knowledge, Grievous sighed and undid the clasp of his cloak, draping the material over her to hide her nakedness. Even though there were only droids on the shuttle, he wasn't about to let anyone other than himself see her without clothing. She was his. And he wasn't above admitting his possessiveness.

The medical scanners gave a warning chirp, and he spun to stare at the readout, hands clenching into fists. Her body temperature was dangerously high. Only one degree higher, and there would be a very serious chance of brain damage.

Cursing, he yanked his cloak off of her, talons shaking as he started to reach for her, only to hesitate mere centimeters from her skin. There was nothing on the shuttle he could use to lower her temperature. And if it edged just one degree higher.....

He whirled and barrelled out of the small room, storming up to the bridge, where two of his Magna droids were piloting the shuttle, eyes narrowing when he realized that they were barely out of the planet's atmosphere. "Why aren't we in hyperspace yet?! We need to get to my Citadel!"

One of the Droids turned crimson optics onto him. "We had to circumnavigate a sandstorm. We'll be in hyperspace momentarily."

"Re-route energy from the shields and weapons," he ordered, giving the console a quick glance. "Push the hyperdrive engines to maximum."

The second guard visibly stiffened before glancing at him. "Lady Kyra?"

Grievous didn't know if he liked the fact that his bodyguards had picked up how much Kyra meant to him. "She requires urgent medical attention," he answered gruffly, barely able to hold back a growl when the droid nodded and turned back to the controls. "Advise me when we land."

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He burst out of the shuttle before the ramp had fully lowered, clutching a still unconscious Kyra to himself as he darted into his Citadel and headed for the medical ward, bellowing for his Doctor as he ran.

The medical droid looked rather annoyed at being yelled at, until it spotted Kyra in his Master's arms. Whatever snarky remark it was preparing to give was wisely put aside as it stepped aside to avoid being run over. "Where did you find her?"

"Tatooine's badlands," Grievous answered, pushing past the Doctor and rushing into the cleaning area he usually used to wash the dirt, grime and blood off of himself after a battle. The cloak he had wrapped around her sailed out of the room, landing on the droids head and blocking it's view as the cyborg activated the water jets and lowered the temperature to as cold as he could stand.

It worried him to no end when Kyra didn't even twitch as he angled her under the freezing spray.

The Doctor knew better than to even think about looking at a disrobed Kyra, so it turned it's back to them, scanners running. "How long has her temperature been at such a level?"

"Exactly twenty-one minutes. I administered two intravenous saline drips, a single dose of painkillers, and a vitamin cocktail as soon as I got her onto the shuttle," Grievous told it, grimacing as the cold water seeped into his joints. But he pushed his discomfort aside and kept Kyra's body under the jets, tilting her face against his shoulder to keep her from accidentally inhaling any water. "She lost consciousness as soon as I brought her onboard. I haven't been able to wake her."

"....it has been documented that some Sith and Jedi can enter a sort of healing trance when they are wounded. She may have fallen into such a trance as soon as she found herself safe enough to do so. By doing so, she may have kept her temperature from rising any higher."

He mulled that over for a second. "What are the chances that she contracted brain damage?"

"Statistically? Twenty-five point two percent. However, my scans show an increase in brain activity, and there is a significant rise in theta waves."

"Theta waves? That's not Force related, is it?"

"Unknown. I do not have other scans to compare with. Though her body temperature has dropped oh-point-seven degrees since you arrived. I estimate that another ten minutes under the cold water will bring her core temperature back to a safe level."

Grievous felt some of the tension leave his frame at the information and slumped a little under the stream of water, holding back a curse as the frigid spray hit him in the face. Hissing, he shook his head, blinking the cold water away as he returned his attention to the woman in his arms, frowning down at her worriedly as he split his arms into four.

Three arms cradled her while he rose the fourth to her face, lightly brushing her soaked hair aside and panicking a little when his talons got caught in her tangled locks. With a dismayed growl, he carefully extracted his fingers, then cast his gaze around the cleaning area, grumbling when he couldn't find anything that was safe enough to use on delicate human skin.

"Here, sir."

Blinking, the cyborg glanced towards the medical droid, quirking a hidden brow when he saw the liquid soap container being held out to him. Grunting, he snatched it out of the Doctor's grip, re-adusting his hold on Kyra until his upper hands were free, his lowers keeping her cradled against him.

He spent the following ten minutes washing out her hair and gently scrubbing dirt off of her skin, taking great delight in running his upper hands through the fiery locks once he had worked out all of the tangles and knots.

And when his Doctor announced that Kyra's core temperature was only one degree above normal, he fairly launched himself out of the spray of water, nearly taking out the medical droid in the process.

A distinct lack of towels had him grabbing his cape once again, giving it a rough shake before he wrapped it around her, snarling at the droid in warning when it moved the edge of the cloak aside to look at her sunburn. "Don't even think about putting her in a bacta tank."

"But--"

"No."

The droid let out something very close to an exasperated sigh. "Then I'll prepare a bacta-infused salve for her burns."

"Good." He carefully reintegrated his arms back into two, then held Kyra tighter against him. "Is she stable enough for me to bring her to our room?"

"For the moment. Though I suggest you bring a portable medical scanner with you."

Could have mentioned that before I reintegrated my arms. Stupid droid. With a growl, Grievous split his left arm into two, snatched up the offered scanner, then stalked out of the medical bay, trying very hard to ignore the urge to behead the droid with a lightsaber.

.

.

.

Slowly, being careful of her sunburned back and shoulders, Grievous lay her down on their bed, pausing to brush her hair out of her face before he turned to fetch a roll of elastic bandage from her things. Once he had found one, he moved to the end of the bed and started to wrap her sprained ankle, plasteel talons glaringly white against the dark bruise.

When he had it wrapped to his satisfaction, he returned to her side, stretching out beside her and lightly brushing the fingers of his right hand across her cheek. Now that there was no audience, and thus no reason to hold back any longer, he gingerly slid his arms around her and gently rearranged her onto her side, curling his raptorine body around her as he tucked her as close as possible.

He murmured her name, one hand stroking her cheek as he stared at her face, practically willing her to wake up. "Please, taisilee," he whispered, brushing his curled fingers across her skin. "Please. Wake up."

.

.

.

Moving silently, Grievous slid into the steam filled bathroom, barely managing to hold back a predatory growl as he edged towards the enclosed shower, and the woman within. Her soft humming hid the low click of his plasteel talons opening the shower door, and he struck, cackling at her shriek of laughter as he wrapped his arms around her and pushed her further under the stream of warm water.

"You--!" Laughing, Kyra smacked him on the shoulder, knowing full well that the hit wouldn't harm him in the least. "Don't scare me like that!"

He chuckled, holding her to him with one arm while he playfully flicked her wet bangs out of her eyes with his free hand. "Where's the fun in that, my taisilee?" he teased, gently pushing her back against the tiled wall before he ducked his head and nuzzled his masked face against her neck. "Mm. Besides, I thought I'd help you clean up."

"Oh, is that your reason for pouncing on me?"

"I never need a reason to pounce on you," he retorted playfully, chuckling as he lifted her and carefully interspersed himself between her thighs, groaning happily when she tightened her legs around him, her knees snug against his sides. The stream of water poured over his back, the warmth seeping into his armor and joints as he used his body to keep the droplets from blinding Kyra. He shifted his stance a little to better support her, taloned feet finding purchase on the slick tiles. His hands dropped to massage her buttocks as he closed his eyes to focus on the sensations the sensors across his body was bombarding him with. "Ohh, taisilee...."

Smiling, Kyra wound her arms around his shoulders, placing a kiss on his mask just over his vocalizer and sending a little thrum of energy into him. His eyes shot open, a low growl leaving him as he met her sapphire gaze before his arms split into four, two continuing to support her while he rose the other two to frame her face with his hands.

Purring, he pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes again when she lightly stroked one of the sensors on either side of his head. "I want you," he growled, skimming his hands over her shoulders and frowning when he felt her tense, her breath leaving her in a pained hiss.

"Sorry," Kyra grimaced, dropping her eyes from his worried golden gaze. "My shoulders are still a little sensitive. I didn't mean to ruin the moment."

He rumbled and shook his head. "You've ruined nothing," he murmured, brushing her wet hair back so he could study her sunburned skin. "I can wait the few minutes it will take to treat your burns." At her curious look, he chuckled and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her chest flush with his and shivering as the sensors in his armor sang with pleasure. "I have a new batch of the bacta-infused salve for your burns. All this changes is that I'll treat your skin earlier than I had planned."

"Oh, really?" A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "And what else did you plan?"

Another chuckle left him. "Oh, this and that," he said evasively, snickering at the pout she gave him. Her fingers stroked the hidden seams in his chest armor, her touch activating rarely online cybernetic sensors and pulling a deep moan from him. Groaning, he nuzzled his face into her neck, his upper hands moving to knead her breasts. "Mmm. Shower's over."

Taking her breathy moan as agreement, Grievous shifted his lower arms and held her more securely against him, bringing her with him as he carefully stepped out of the enclosed shower. He paused only long enough to shut off the water and snatch up a couple of towels before he carried her out of the attached suite and into the bedroom.

It was only when he was standing at the end of the bed that he gently set her on her feet, brushing his mask against her lips before he knelt in front of her. He locked his arms back into two, glancing up at her playfully as he started to dry her off, starting at her ankles and slowly working his way up her body. He caressed and nuzzled spots of soft skin as he worked, delighting in the growing scent of arousal he picked up from her.

A purr rumbled out of him when she skimmed her hands over his shoulders, and up his neck to his masked face, sending little eddys of power dancing across his sensors.

"Keep your hands to yourself, taisilee, else I won't be able to hold back long enough to treat your sunburns," he chastised her, shivering when she smirked and leaned down to place a kiss on his cheek. "I'll tie you down if you don't listen."

"I'll get loose," she sing-songed, meeting his burning gaze when he surged to his feet and advanced on her, gently pushing her backwards until she bumped into the edge of the bed.

Unable to think of any restraints that wouldn't cause her harm, Grievous effortlessly tore the towel into strips, chuckling at her shocked look. "I did warn you," he teased, laughing when she tried to make a run for the bathroom. He lunged after her, cackling at her startled yelp as he slung her over his shoulder and carried her back to the bed, treated to a lovely view of the curve of her thigh when she tried to struggle free.

"I didn't think you were serious!" she protested, hands scrambling at his back armor as she tried to push herself upright.

"And who's fault is that?" he mused, snickering as he dropped her onto the bed and pounced on her before she could make another run for it. Crouching over her, Grievous deftly caught her hands and wrapped a strip of the torn towel around her wrists, leaning down to brush the lower part of his mask against her lips before he gripped her hips and flipped her onto her stomach.

"Oof!" Kyra tossed her head to get her hair out of the way and glared at Grievous over her left shoulder as he straddled her hips. The cyborg looked entirely too pleased with himself, eyes shining as he met her gaze and gave her an lecherous look, his hands already starting to caress her bare back. Grumbling, she focused on her bindings, giving an annoyed curse when she didn't recognize the type of knot. "This is massively unfair."

He chuckled and reached out to carefully move her damp and curling hair off her partially healed sunburned shoulders. "Behave, and maybe I'll let you go when I'm finished treating your burns," he offered, playfully trailing his plasteel talons down her spine and growling softly as he watched goosebumps break out over her skin.

Moving gingerly to avoid hurting her, Grievous braced himself and reached over the edge of the bed, picking up the jar of salve he had set there earlier before he resettled himself on his knees, still straddling Kyra's hips. The salve, he had discovered, had little to no scent, which, to him, was a boon. He had never understood why some humans obscured their scents with perfumes and chemicals. Certainly, he was glad that Kyra didn't use such things; he liked her natural scent.

"That stuff doesn't stink does it?" Kyra asked curiously, further endearing herself to him without even knowing it.

"No," he assured her, rubbing a hand down her back to calm her when she cast a wary look over her shoulder. "I would not have approved of it otherwise. You know how much I like your scent, taisilee. I'm not about to put some horrid smelling concoction on you. Now, lie still. I don't want your hair getting in the way."

She sighed and lay her cheek on her arm. "I really should cut it."

"Don't you dare," he scolded as he opened the jar and scooped some of the salve onto two fingers. Setting the jar to the side, he reached out to run his free hand through her hair, the locks curling around his digits. "I like your hair, too."

An amused chuckle left her. "Yeah, but you're biased."

He growled happily. "When it comes to you, my taisilee? Always. Now brace yourself, this is rather cool."

"You haven't actually touched my shoulders, have you?" she murmured wryly, shivering when Grievous rubbed the cold salve across her burned skin. The relief was almost instant. The heat and tightness vanished, the aching tension in her muscles easing. Even the painful over-sensitivity calmed, turning his gentle massage into something pleasurable instead of something she needed to endure for her own well being.

The blissful sigh that left her made him purr as he worked the bacta infused cream into her skin, feeling her relax under him. Every patch of skin that radiated heat, he covered with a thin layer of salve, lightly massaging her neck and shoulders. He used the opportunity to explore her back and sides, finding which spots made her bite back laughter and wiggle in an attempt to get away and which pulled pleased moans from her.

Only when he had treated every inch of burned skin did he fully indulge himself, splitting his arms into four and bracing himself on knees and lower arms as he leaned over her, growling as he nuzzled the nape of her neck. His upper hands slid up her sides and under her, to cup her breasts, his growl deepening to a guttural purr when she gasped out his name and arched her back, giving him better access to the side of her throat.

He rubbed his mask into her hair, drinking in her scent. "I have something I want to try," he rasped, shifting his weight back onto his knees so he could free his lower arms, hands brushing over the small of her back before he wrapped his left lower arm around her waist and tilted her pelvis up against his. His right slid around her, fingers finding her core, a low growl rumbling out of him when she mewled and rocked her hips into his hand. "But I want you to promise me that if you feel the slightest bit uneasy, that you'll tell me."

She moaned as he slid a finger into her, his uppermost hands still kneading her breasts as he pressed his chest against her back. "G-Grievous...."

"Promise me, taisilee," he purred into her ear, trying hard to hold himself back, despite how wet and hot her core felt around his finger. He could already feel an echo of her own pleasure starting to warm his innards, her thoughts brushing against his, building the odd loop of pleasure that let her bring him through his own completion.

"I promise!" she said breathlessly, hearing his low chuckle as he slid a second finger into her, slowly pumping his hand against her.

"Good. Now let me feel." Growling, he quickened his caresses, gripping her breasts as he pushed her down into the bed again, grinding his hips against her buttocks to push her pleasure higher, shivering when an echo of what she felt rippled through him. "I want to feel you, taisilee. Now."

Kyra gasped, struggling to reach out with her Force powers, brushing her thoughts against his and shuddering at the want and lust he openly sent to her. "Grievous!"

He hissed in pleasure and closed his eyes, fingers sliding deeper. "Yesss. Now."

A cry left her as her orgasm crashed through her, dimly aware of Grievous' arms tightening around her as her climax echoed into him. He snarled, a shudder wracking him before he moaned and hugged her, gasping for breath.

She was still trying to catch her breath when his comforting weight vanished, listening as he darted over to a small trunk and rifled through it. "Grievous?"

"One moment, taisilee."

Dazed, and with little aftershocks still going though her, she blew her bangs out of her eyes and tried to see what he was doing. That effort was thwarted when he caught sight of her and rushed over to toss a blanket over her head. "Hey!" She struggled to free her head, pausing when she heard a click followed by his low moan of pleasure. "What are you--?"

"J-Just a moment."

Frowning at the odd tone of his voice, Kyra used a bit of power to Force Push the blanket off of her, gasping when Grievous suddenly flipped her onto her back and stretched out on top of her, his eyes fairly glowing with excitement. "What was that all about?"

"I'll show you. But first," he playfully brushed his mask over her lips, all four hands exploring her body. "Eyes closed."

She blinked, but when he didn't elaborate, sighed and closed her eyes, shivering when he gently coaxed her legs open. She was still sensitive, unable to hold back a gasp when he leaned down to nuzzle her abdomen, sliding two fingers into her, going right for her g-spot.

"I wish I could taste you," he growled against her skin, breathing in lungfuls of her scent and purring in pleasure. "Even this won't fully make up for it."

"What--?" Kyra cut herself off with a moan when he grasped her hips with his lower hands, his uppers returning to her breasts. Instinct had her rolling her hips towards him, a startled cry leaving her when he chuckled and copied the motion, something long and hard sliding into her, stretching her.

Her eyes shot open, locking onto Grievous' burning gaze as he held himself above her, fairly trembling as he stared down at her, eyes wide. Unable to help the blush that spread over her cheeks, Kyra glanced down at their linked bodies before looking up at him again. "You didn't."

"Best technology available, after myself of course," he purred, bracing himself on his upper arms as he leaned down to nuzzle her. "It's connected into my neural net. And, oh, it feels so real, like I remember.... And you, ohhh taisilee, you feel incredible." He gently moved his hips against hers, growling at the sensations that shot through his body as his new 'member' was caressed by her core. ".....want you. So beautiful. Want to take you...."

Kyra gasped, automatically moving to meet his thrusts as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up until she was straddling him. Talons tore through the bindings on her wrists, letting her grip his shoulders for stability while he nuzzled his face against her cheek, panting heavily. She clung to him, crying out when he put a hand to the small of her back and changed the angle of his entry, hitting the spot inside her that nearly tipped her over the edge.

He growl/hissed and closed a fist in her hair, watching her face as he canted his hips to hers, shouting when she caught his gaze and smirked, tightening her muscles around him. It felt so real. As if his cock was flesh and blood instead of carefully crafted plasteel and circuitry. And, oh, the embarrassment of getting it made was worth it. It was perfect. Kyra was perfect. And his. Wholly his.

A snarl left him. "Mine," he hissed, tightening three arms around her, the fourth still gripping her hair. "Mine."

"Yours," Kyra echoed breathlessly, hearing his growl as he snapped his pelvis to hers, going even deeper into her. "G-Grievous! Please!"

He leaned further back onto his knees, legs slightly spread, lower hands going to her hips to pull her onto his thrusts, groaning when he felt her curl her legs around him. She was clinging to him, mewling his name as she leaned her forehead on his shoulder. He felt the familiar sensation of her Force abilities brush against his thoughts, and welcomed it, a shudder wracking him when he felt the echoes of her own pleasure.

Half a dozen more thrusts and Kyra cried out, arching her back as her inner muscles spasmed around him. The feeling sent shock waves through him, a strangled howl ripping it's way out of his throat as his 'attachment' sent overwhelming sensations into his neural net. He convulsed against her, eyes clenched shut at the long-missed sensations of true - if artificial - physical, completion.

Gasping, his breath coming in rasping pants, Grievous rose a shaking hand to brush his fingers across Kyra's cheek, meeting her warm gaze when she rose her head to look at him. "Taisilee."

She smiled weakly, still shivering as little aftershocks washed through her. "....I love you, too," she whispered, placing a kiss on his mask, just under his left eye and gasping when he pressed a hand on the small of her back and smoothly rocked his pelvis against hers. He growled and cupped her face in his upper hands, locking gazes with her as he started moving within her again, his lower hands holding her hips, encouraging her to meet his movements.

"You've given me back what I lost," he murmured, golden eyes staring into sapphire. "I accepted the changes to myself, but I trapped myself in the process. I lost everything. All I had was my rage, and my hate." Purring raggedly, Grievous pressed his forehead to hers, keeping up his slow thrusts into her. "You showed me that I wasn't just what I had become. That I didn't have to.... to limit myself. That I could have more. So, so much more." He punctuated the last word with a strong slide within her, rubbing up against the spot in her that made her gasp, her eyes darkening.

"You never treated me as anything but Kaleesh, never a cyborg, never a droid. You've given me everything I thought out of my reach. Friendship, a mate. That you'd let me touch you, let me find pleasure again..... trust me enough to even touch your thoughts to mine...." He slid his upper hands into her hair, gathering the wild locks into his fists and brushing the lower part of his mask across her lips. "I will never let you go, my taisilee. Never."

She shivered when he growled, expressive reptilian eyes fairly glowing as he pushed her down into the blankets, his hips churning against her, the new angle meaning that every deep thrust brushed her g-spot. He stretched out over her, hissing when she wrapped her legs around him again, letting him drive himself into her. Gasping for breath and mumbling Kaleesh endearments, Grievous locked his arms back into two and grasped her hands, pinning her arms above her head.

Her inner muscles fluttered around his cock, the sensation pulling a deep growl from him as he stared down at her, watching her as he drove her closer and closer to climax. She bit her lower lip as she met his gaze, sapphire eyes glittering, even as she brushed her fingers against his, sending a wave of energy dancing up his arms and across his chest. The pulse went straight to his innards, the pleasure echoing through him in an ever-growing shockwave until it was too much to endure.

He arched his back, roaring as his climax ripped through him, hips jerking against hers, dimly aware of her own cry of pleasure as her core spasmed around him. A long, drawn-out moan left him at the sensation, his heart hammering in it's protective gutsack.

Stunned by the overwhelming pleasure, Grievous slumped on top of her, face buried in her hair as he wheezed, struggling to regain his breath. Limbs twitched with aftershocks, each little movement accompanied with a small flash of bliss. Kyra was trembling under him, gasping, warm breath tickling the right sensor on the side of his head. Still dazed, he regained enough coordination to release her hands, sliding his palms down the length of her arms and across her shoulders in calming strokes.

After a few long minutes, he gently pulled himself out of her, murmuring endearments at her soft moan. Knowing he wouldn't be able to rest while it was tied into his neural network, he carefully reached down and, with a hiss at the pleasure his own touch caused, unlocked and slid the plate the sex-tool was attached to out of the thin groove of his pelvic armor.

He reached back to set the alloy tool on the bed behind him, grimacing when he set it down only for it to roll off and thunk to the floor. Kyra shook against him then, burying her face against his chest, and he glanced down at her, chuckling when he found that she was struggling not to laugh. "You won't be laughing if it's damaged," he teased, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her close.

Kyra snickered. "We made do before you got it," she smiled, placing a kiss on his chest. "Not that I'm complaining."

"No," he purred, brushing a hand across her shoulders and up to stroke her hair. "No complaints." He gently slid his free hand between them, palm pressing against her abdomen. "Did I hurt you?"

She reached up to press the fingers of her right hand to his mask, just over his vocalizer. "You didn't hurt me. Trust me, with how close our thoughts were, you would have known. You're not the only one who lost control for a moment there."

He gave a pleased, very male, growl and nuzzled her cheek, wrapping his arms around her to pull her into the curve of his body. "Good." Purring gutterally, Grievous curled his raptorine body around her, tugging a fur up over her bare back and shoulders to help keep her warm.

.

.

.

tbc

[wingsofkpop]

Finding SKZ - 5: ML98

pairing(s): Hybrid!Bang Chan x Reader, Hybrid!SKZ x Reader

genre: Hybrid!AU, Dystopian!AU, Angst, Fluff, eventual Smut

warning(s): Mature language, mentions of abuse, mentions of abandonment, mentions of death

word count: 4,6k

synopsis:  After rescuing an abandoned hybrid from his fate of death, he has one other favor to ask of you. Not only do you have to find his eight other hybrid brothers, but you have to keep them safe from the deadly dangers of your city: Miroh

chapter directory

“Wh-what?” 

The stranger doesn’t blink, almost annoyed by your obvious confusion. He exhales a deep sigh before repeating, “My name is Lee Minho. Are you deaf?” 

“But-but,” You shake your head frantically and lift your hands to grasp roughly at the roots of your hair. Too many things were running through your mind, you could barely hear the shake of your voice over the roar of your thoughts, “...How?”

“You ask way too many questions.” Minho rolls his eyes before glancing into the pitch black. “As much as I’d love to sit here and wait for you to get over whatever mind fuckery is going on inside that slow brain of yours, we’ve got to go. Unless you really do want to get arrested?” 

As much as you wanted to argue, Minho was right. You got really lucky that he was even here in the first place. And even though you were dying to know exactly why he was here, you bite your tongue and follow his advice. 

“Good choice,” Minho nods and gestures over his shoulder, “Follow me and stay quiet. They’re still inside the building.” 

“How are we going to get out-?” 

“-What did I just say?” You snap your mouth shut at Minho’s bark. The male deposits you one final glare before taking off into the darkness. Luckily, your eyes had somewhat adjusted so you could just barely spot his silhouette. You do as he said and trail right behind him. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a couple police officers investigating the fight ring in the center of the garage. Your stomach twists at the reminder of Chan, Hyunjin and Woojin. You really hope they made it out okay. 

Not paying attention, you accidentally bump into Minho when he stops. He shoots you a laser-like glance, then grabs your wrist and yanks your body forward. You stumble but catch yourself, now face to face with a hole embedded with the brick wall. It was barely big enough for you to crawl through and seemed to be attached to some sort of pipe or tube that led to the outside. It must have been a garbage chute or something along those lines. 

“Ladies first.” 

You gape toward the male, “You really expect me to slide down that?” 

“Not unless you have any other ideas.” 

You curse him for his sarcastic logic and with a face of disgust, begin to maneuver your limbs inside the gap. Luckily after you fit your legs and hips inside, it showed to be a lot more spacious than you thought. You tried not to think of what was waiting for you on the other side before pushing off and inhaling one last breath. 

You plunge into pitch black and you hope there were no critters living inside the pipe. The stench of garbage fills your nostrils, the smell making you both dizzy and nauseous. You had slid for maybe a minute when you land into a mass of trash bags and other garbage. Something slimy melds onto your palm and you try to not think of what it could be. 

Right behind you, Minho joins you in the dumpster. He doesn’t linger, grabs the edge of the bin and hauls himself out. You expect him to offer you a hand, but of course, he doesn’t. He sends you a strange look and tilts his head, “You planning to stay in there all night?” 

With an unimpressed glare, you climb out of the trash and throw yourself out of the container. Rather ungracefully, you tumble out and land painfully on your hip and shoulder. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Minho stifle a laugh. Your annoyance grows, somewhat distracting you from the ache in your bones. 

You huff, “Fine.” 

Minho raises an eyebrow and points to his hair, “You’ve got a little something there.” 

Gulping, you reach up to pull something out of your strands. Whatever it was, you didn’t want to know, but it was sticky and gross. Minho seems to take pleasure in your discomfort judging by the smirk that invades his lips. He shakes his head and chuckles, “Humans. You guys are so repulsed by anything.” 

“Ha ha. Funny.” You groan, wiping your hand on your jeans before sinking it into your pocket to pull out your phone. You find it empty, the realization that you had given your phone to Woojin just before Chan went in the ring hits you like a sack of bricks. With a deep groan, you pinch your nose and drag your hand down your face. 

If Woojin followed your guys’ original plan, he should have called them a cab and be back at your apartment by now. The only issue with that is you yourself have no means of communication nor transportation back to your home. Buses or trains don’t run in this part of Miroh. And you had no way of knowing that the boys did in fact get home safe. 

What the hell are you supposed to do now? 

“Hello… Earth to weirdo?” Your snapped from your thoughts as a hand waves in front of your face. Minho was staring at you with furrowed brows and a frown. He hums, “Still dealing with mind fuckery or something?” 

“I’m thinking about the others.” 

“Okay?” 

“Aren’t you the least bit concerned about your brothers?” You hiss, exasperated at his nonchalant tone. “They could be on their way to a euthanization hospital for all we know right now.” 

The male shakes his head, “No way. Woojin-hyung and Channie-hyung are way too smart to get caught. Plus, I don’t smell their scents anymore.” 

At his assurance, the heaviness of your chest somewhat lifts. There was still a shred of doubt pointed straight at your heart, but you needed to take what you could get. If Minho says the boys are safe, you have no other choice but to trust him. Let’s hope it doesn’t go wrong in your favor. 

“Okay…but what about me?” 

“What about you? 

“I have no way of contacting anyone or getting back home.” 

Minho shrugs, “And? How is that my problem?”

“God, don’t you have some sense of empathy?” A groan escapes your lips as your fingers fly to tug once again at your own hair. “I’m asking for your help.” 

“I already helped you. My job is done.” 

“But your brothers-”

“-Just because you’re helping them doesn’t mean I have to associate with you.” Minho glares in your direction. You’ve never seen someone look so hateful and loathing. He continues in a hiss, “You probably have some underlying plan anyway that ends with you selling all nine of us somewhere and making bank off bank.” 

Your expression becomes horrified, “What? I would never do that.” 

Minho sarcastically chuckles, “Uh huh. That’s what they all say.” 

“Who is ‘they’?” 

“The ‘nice’ humans.” Out of instinct, you back up as Minho stalks closer. His features threatening and irises as black as night. “The ‘nice’ humans that offer you food, clothing, and a warm place to sleep. They speak to you in that honey, sweet voice and tell you all you have ever wanted to hear after all the fucking shit you’ve been through.” 

“The humans that treat you like you’re human only to turn around and leave you on the side of the road with nothing but the clothes on your back and the damn question about what you did wrong.

“That is ‘they’.”

 Minho steps away, allowing your lungs to function again. When you’re caught up on your air supply, you turn back to the hybrid and shake your head, “That’s not me.” 

“Like I said, that’s what they all say.” 

Your anxiety grows as Minho starts to make his way down the alley, his form disappearing further into the darkness. You take off after him, “Wait! Where are you going!?” 

“I’m going to find my brothers, all of them, and get somewhere faraway where fucking monsters like you can’t find us.” 

“So you’re just going to leave me here!?” 

“Pretty much.” 

You watch as Minho’s silhouette fades further into the darkness. And whether it was out of desperation or quick-thinking, you call for him one last time: 

“You’re just like them, you know.” 

Minho stops cold at your comment. At his sides, you can see his hands balling into fists. He whirls his head around and rasps through his teeth, “What the hell did you say to me?” 

“You heard me.” You tilt your head, “You’re just like the humans who abandon their hybrids and leave them for dead.” 

“Don’t you fucking compare me to your species!” You barely have the chance to blink before Minho is in front of you again, fingers digging into the skin of your arms. His breath blows hot against your cheeks as he hisses, “Humans treat us like we’re shit. You have no idea what it’s like to be mistreated and abandoned like you’re nothing.” 

Your expression softens and before you can stop your tongue, you whisper, “Yes, I do.” 

Minho is silenced at your confession. The contempt within his eyes fades and he lowers his grasp from your arms. The two of you stare at each other for a moment before Minho breaks the silence, “...I’ll help you.” 

“Thank y-” 

“-But don’t think for a second I’m doing it for you.” Minho’s cold exterior returns in a flash. He turns back toward the end of the alley, waits for you to come next to him and starts to walk, “Channie-hyung seemed to really like you. So I’m doing it for him.” 

You shake your head, “How long were you watching us?” 

“Ever since you got out of the taxi.” Minho sends you a pointed glance before returning his gaze forward, “Seungmin-ah’s okay too?” 

“Yeah. He’s a good kid.” 

He nods, “Yeah. He always was.” 

You can’t help but feel this weight pressing down on your shoulders. And it only grows worse as both you and the hybrid continue to make your way through the darkness.

~~*~~**~~*~~

“So you’ve just been living on the streets?” You peer through the window full of grime, finding tons of hybrids scattered throughout the dimly lit alleyway. Minho, not wanting to draw attention to your mundane features, had snuck you inside what he called his “home” through the sewer system. And after spending a good five minutes in there, you’d take the trash chute again without hesitation. 

Minho lived in an abandoned apartment building that if you were able to guess, went up in flames during the war. The walls were covered in charred remains and the ceilings were stripped, exposing the rusted metal squares making up the roof. The floor was littered with soot, dirt and unsettlingly creaked when you took a step. Minho had set up his little sleeping area in the cleanest corner of the apartment, which basically consisted of a well-worn mattress, a couple ragged blankets and a dented suitcase. 

You couldn’t even imagine. 

“Pretty much.” A shuffle of fabric occurs over your shoulder. You turn to see Minho sort through his minimal array of clothing, folding the pieces that weren’t in complete rags. He places the folded clothing in the middle of a bed sheet, before tying it into a cute little bundle. An amused smile pulls at your lips, but disappears when you realize he’s intending to take those clothes with him. 

“You know, once we get back to my part of town, I can get you some new clothes. Ones that aren’t in tatters.” 

Minho shakes his head, “I don’t want anything from you.” 

Your heart drops at the rejection. With a sigh, you turn back to look out the filthy glass. Minho hadn’t told you much, but this part of the Forbidden was invested with hundreds of abandoned and runaway hybrids. This is one of the only safe places in Miroh where they’re able to live freely, but at the cost of homelessness and lack of resources. Minho had obviously been surviving off what little he could find, just like these other hybrids. You didn’t even want to think of how they’ve been keeping themselves alive, especially with how cold this winter has been. 

“How long?” You ask, watching a cat hybrid pass out blankets and coats to a group of shivering rabbit hybrids. “How long have you been living here?” 

“A couple months. I never stay in one place too long.” Through the window reflection, you watch as Minho places as many bundles as he could fit inside his suitcase. Those he couldn’t, he piles onto his bed and shoves into a trash bag. 

Your eyebrows furrow, “Where else have you lived?” 

“All over. The Capital, the Outskirts, anywhere I could find somewhere to hide.” Minho sighs, caressing the dent in the suitcase. “I guess I was hoping to find my brothers.” 

“I mean, you found Hyunjin, didn’t you?” 

The hybrid huffs, “Yeah, and then what could I do? It’s not like I could fight for his freedom like Chan-hyung did.” 

A moment of tense silence stretches between the two of you. Instead of keeping your eyes on the hybrid family outside, you return your gaze to your unlikely savior. His own gaze was centered on the wall in front of him, his back facing your direction. Out of nowhere, he slams his hands against the surface of his suitcase, effectively causing your body to flinch. 

Through gritted teeth, he hisses, “God, I hated watching those bastards throw him in the ring and allow his own brethren to tear him apart like a fucking chew toy.” 

“There’s nothing you could have done.” You sigh, “You would’ve only gotten yourself killed in the process.” 

Minho doesn’t respond to your statement, nor does he acknowledge you speaking at all. He continues to stare at the wall and scratch his claws alongside the metal container. You debate trying to get his attention again, but decide against it. Whatever demons Minho was facing weren’t like those of Chan, Woojin and Seungmin where you could brush them away with an excerpt of comfort. You’d call him cold, but you understood how that felt. 

You used to be the same way. 

“Tell me something, (Y/N).” The way Minho so harshly utters your name sends a shudder down your spine. You mask your physical discomfort with a raise of your eyebrows and an acknowledging hum. Minho purses his lips before asking, “Why are you doing this?” 

You shake your head, “What do you mean?” 

“All of this.” Minho gestures to himself then outside the window, “Why are you helping hybrids?” 

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” 

Minho’s sarcastic cackle has more shivers wracking your figure. Out of instinct, you back up to press yourself against the window, the glass cool against your skin. The hybrid stays where he is, caressing the claws emerging from beneath his fingernails. Goosebumps spread across your flesh as he angles his head to peer at you over his shoulder. Through the dim light, his eyes glowed a bright yellow. He murmurs, “You’re lying. Why are you really doing this?” 

“Because I want to help you.” 

“Bullshit!” Minho snaps at your repetition, turning his entire body to face you. His features were pulled into an ugly sneer, one that almost didn’t look human. You couldn’t remember what kind of hybrid Chan had said he was, and you were really wishing he would take his hood off so you could see his ears. “There’s always a catch! Humans aren’t capable of doing the right thing!” 

As much as you will yourself to remain calm, you were growing very angry. You understand Minho obviously has reason to loathe humans, and you couldn’t imagine what he and any other hybrid has been through, but that doesn’t give him the right to degrade you just because you were born human. Sure, the majority of your species are assholes and have no sense of compassion, but the rest of them don’t define the person you are. 

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” 

“The truth!” Minho hisses, “I want you to look me in the fucking eyes and tell me the real reason you’re rounding us up!” 

You seethe, leaving your place at the window to stand right in front of the hybrid. Staring straight into his piercing eyes just how he asked, you speak straight from your heart, “Just because you’ve been through hell and back does not give you the right to paint anyone who offers you kindness as a villain… Do you know how dangerous this is for me? So far, I’ve been cursed at, almost beaten and nearly arrested trying to save your brothers. And not to mention the fucking guilt I’d feel if anything ever happens to one of you. 

“Because guess what, Minho? Unlike others, I have a heart. And I may be foolish and a damn idiot for following it, but that’s the kind of person I am.” Minho’s eyes try to avert from yours, but you follow and force his focus to remain on you. With a deep sigh, you finish, “So don’t you dare compare me to ‘them,’ because you know what, I’m putting a lot at risk for you guys. And I’ll be damned if your bitterness stops me from doing so.” 

Another awkward silence uptakes the atmosphere. You felt a little bad for snapping at the hybrid, but then again you really didn’t. Everything you said is true. The boys may be in danger, but you are even more so. If you’re caught housing rogue and runaway hybrids, ones especially like these boys, you’d be in big, big trouble. You could spend years locked away in the Capital, disappearing like your grandfather did. Or worse. 

Minho sighs before meeting your eyes one last time, his irises back to their normal brown. He shakes his head, “You’re really doing this out of the kindness of your heart?” 

“I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do.” You nod, “Now, can you actually treat me like a decent person?” 

The hybrid says nothing and gathers his belongings. He throws the trash bag over his shoulder, dragging the suitcase across the creaking floor to the doorway. Minho pauses, tilts his head and hums, “You coming or what?” 

You sigh. At least he’s not threatening to leave you behind this time. 

~~*~~**~~*~~

“Stay close. If these guys figure out you’re human, you’ll never see the light of day ever again.” Minho pulls you into his side, his arm tight around your waist. Although you’re not too happy with the position, you don’t argue. As harmless as majority of the homeless hybrids seem, you know they wouldn’t hesitate to tear you apart. At this point, you just want to get home to the boys. 

Get home to Chan. 

“Don’t look at anyone. Just keep your head down, got it?” 

You nod, “Yeah, yeah.”

You allow Minho to lead you through the packed alleyway, uttering excuses to get through. It may have been your own imagination, but you swear you could feel dozens of eyes staring you down. You push closer to the hybrid, grasping the limb around your torso for comfort. The male acknowledges your anxiety with a gentle pat to your side. It doesn’t ease anything. 

Beads of sweat roll down your forehead, which is ironic because the rest of your body felt ice cold. You exhale a deep breath and watch the fog snake in front of your eyes. Panic lurches throughout your veins when you accidentally bump into someone in front of you. Before they could turn, Minho transfers you to his opposite side and apologizes for his clumsiness. You feel your tension recede when the person mutters something out of understanding and goes back to whatever it was they were doing. 

You and Minho manage to make it to the end of the alley with no faults. Wracked with heat and shivers, you shove Minho away and collapse against a nearby wall. You tuck your knees into your chest and shield your burning face inside your palms. Minho calls your name, but you can’t respond. 

It takes a few moments to ease the panic attack building inside your chest, but you manage to gain control of your own senses again. With a sigh, you uncurl yourself and climb shakily to your feet. Minho offers you a look of concern, one that surprises you, and questions, “You okay?” 

You nod and swipe a hand across your sweaty forehead, “Yeah, just needed a minute.” 

“Yeah, no, that’s fine.” 

You sigh, “Listen, you can’t tell Chan about this, okay? I don’t need him to worry about me.” 

“Yeah, no problem” 

“Thanks.” 

You don’t like the stressful edge of the silence. It fills your body with tension once again, and you can’t seem to meet Minho’s piercing gaze anymore. 

His next words strike something deep inside you, “Who abandoned you?” 

“Wh-what?” 

“Earlier you said you knew what it felt like to be abandoned. So who abandoned you?” 

You shake your head, “I don’t-” 

“-(Y/N)!” Before you can deflect Minho’s interrogation, sudden arms are sweeping you off your feet and lifting you into the air. You can barely breathe with how tightly this stranger was holding you, but luckily, they lower you back to the ground and allow you the chance to utter their name: 

“Chan.” 

“Thank god, I thought the police got to you.” Chan smooths back the strands of your hair before caressing your cheek. His skin felt good against your own, easing whatever worries from before had remained. “God damn it, (Y/N), whatever happened to sticking to the plan.” 

You shake your head, “I wanted you safe. Where’s Woojin and Hyunjin?” 

“Back at the apartment.” Chan answers, “I stayed to look for you. There’s a cab waiting for us a couple streets over.

“How did you get out? I mean, there were cops everywhere, (Y/N).” 

You chuckle, “Actually, I had a little help.” 

Chan follows your gaze, his touch immediately falling away from your body. His expression shifts wildly, first confusion, then surprise, then absolute joy. The biggest grin spreads across his face as he rushes toward the watching hybrid and sweeps the boy into his embrace. Laughter erupts from the two boys, the sound like music within your ears, as they cling to one another. Soon, chuckles and giggles fade and Chan parts from Minho to scan him up and down. 

He shakes his head with a laugh, “You were always a sly bastard.” 

Minho grins, “What can I say? I wasn’t born a coyote for nothing.” 

Chan sniffs, “It’s so good to see you, bro. So, so good.” 

“Same here, Channie-hyung. Same here.” 

Chan and Minho hug once again. You watch with admiration, loving how content Chan looked at having his long lost brother within his arms. How could the universe treat such a kind and beautiful creature like absolute shit? Chan deserves the world, so do the rest of his brothers. 

And like you said to Minho, you’d be damned if anything stops you from giving them that chance. 

~~*~~**~~*~~

“You really should have paid more attention, Chan. You could’ve been killed.” 

Chan groans, a mix out of frustration and pain. Carefully, you try to be more gentle in sewing the gashes on his arm. When you started, he claimed that it didn’t hurt, but the whites of his knuckles and gritting of his teeth told you otherwise. 

“How many times are you going to lecture me about that?” He sends you a teasing smile which shifts into a grimace as you pull the needle through his flesh again. “I still won, didn’t I?” 

You sigh, shaking your head with a huff. 

“What? You didn’t think I was going to win?” 

“It’s not that.” You finish off one of the wounds, tying the string with a small knot. You quickly clean off and sterilize the needle again before tying it to a new thread. Satisfied, you begin stitching the second cut, “I just really don’t like seeing you like this. I think I still have trauma from the time I found you.” 

“Well, it’s over and we have Hyunjin and Minho back. That’s all that matters.” 

You choose not to respond and continue stitching Chan up in silence. Although you’re completely focused on your work, you can feel Chan’s eyes watching your face. You try to ignore the flitters inside your stomach, passing it off as hunger pains.

You finish the second and third wounds, running a cloth over them to clear any excess blood. Chan raises his arm so you can wrap a bandage around it, his eyes never once leaving your face. With one final pat to his now bandaged arm, you nod, “Okay, I think you’re all set.” 

With a smile you meet his gaze, his sparkling brown eyes boring into your own. Your eyes avert to a splotch of dried blood staining just above his right eyebrow. You grab the cloth from before and warn, “Hold still.” 

You lean in to lift the moistened rag, swiping it over the smudge with soft strokes. Chan’s warm breath paints your cheeks red hot, and you notice the trembling of your hand at the proximity. Once the blood is gone, you move to retract your limb, but you’re stopped when Chan wraps his fingers around your wrist. 

Frozen with shock, you allow Chan to remove the cloth with his other hand. With your hand now free, Chan lowers it into his lap and spreads your fingers into a fan. His pointer finger traces the lines of your palms before lifting it to press a soft kiss to the exact center. His eyes closing in content. A strange heat rushes through your body, a cross between embarrassment and affection, and you make no move to stop him. 

When he removes his lips, your flesh feels strangely cold. His eyelids flutter ajar once again, and his dark gaze leaves your lungs without breath. Chan had never looked at you in such a way before, with such admiration and heart. And before you can stop yourself, your eyes are averting down to his lips. Have they always been that pink and plump before?” 

“(Y/N),” A shiver runs through your body as your name falls from his lips. You find yourself leaning closer, and you hoped he couldn’t hear how fast your heart was racing nor how you were absolutely shaking. Excitement floods through your veins when the hybrid leans in as well, ears falling to the side, his lips brushing over your cheek as he speaks, “You are the most beautiful human I’ve ever met…” 

You find yourself unable to reply, perched on the edge of threading your fingers in his soft hair. Your hand was still on his cheek, and you couldn’t help but think of how beautiful this creature was sitting beneath you. His glittering eyes. Smooth skin. Gentle hands. Everything screamed perfection, even the blemishes he had were perfect. 

You haven’t felt like this in a long, long time. And even though you were terrified, you couldn’t deny that you wanted to kiss him. You wanted to kiss Chan so badly. 

But just before you could, the bathroom door flies open. You jerk away from the wolf hybrid, clumsily climbing to your feet. Seungmin stood in the doorway, a grin on his face and his laptop cradled in his arms. Luckily, it seemed like he hadn’t seen anything, and you can’t tell if you were relieved or disappointed. 

“I think I found Felix! C’mon, you guys have to see this!” 

You follow the younger hybrid without acknowledging your previous companion. What were you thinking? Hybrid and human relationships are forbidden in Miroh, much less unheard of. Falling for Chan was like signing your death warrant. Not only could Chan be euthanized, but you could be executed as well. You can’t let that happen again. Not ever. 

Even so, you try not to think of how cold and lonely your lips feel. 

[acephysicskarkat]

2018: A RETROSPECTIVE IN FUCKERY

SO. 2018 IS ALMOST OVER, AND I THINK WE CAN ALL AGREE THAT IT WAS A WEIRD FUCKING GARBAGE FIRE OF A YEAR.

HERE’S A RETROSPECTIVE OF SOME OF THE WEIRDEST, DUMBEST FLAMES!

RACE TO THE BOTTOM: AUSTRALIAN CONSERVATISM’S LEGITIMACY CRISIS

2018 HAS BEEN A MEMORABLY BAD YEAR FOR THE CONSERVATIVE SIDE OF AUSTRALIAN POLITICS, DUE TO A SEEMINGLY ENDLESS STRING OF TERRIBLE DECISIONS. WHETHER IT WAS FRASER ANNING OPTING TO DEPLOY A FINAL SOLUTION LINE IN HIS INTRODUCTORY SPEECH, PAULINE HANSON’S DESPERATE ATTEMPT TO PANDER TO WHITE NATIONALISTS WITH A DUMBFUCK “OK TO BE WHITE” MOTION, FORMER PRIME MINISTERIAL HOPEFUL MARK LATHAM JOINING UP WITH PAULINE HANSON AND STANDING HER UP ON TV ALMOST IMMEDIATELY, NAZIS GETTING CAUGHT JOINING THE YOUNG NATIONALS EN MASSE, OR A SITTING POLITICIAN BEING CAUGHT LOOKING FOR LOVE ON A SUGAR DADDY WEBSITE, THE AUSTRALIAN POLITICAL SITUATION WAS NOTABLE FOR A SEEMINGLY ENDLESS CAVALCADE OF BAFFLING WEIRD SHIT FROM PROUDLY INCOHERENT BUFFOONS.

HOWEVER, THE GRAND PRIZE FOR THE MOST CLUELESS FUCKHEAD IN AUSTRALIAN POLITICS HAS TO GO TO PETER “THE POTATO” DUTTON, A WEIRD FASCIST WITH POSSIBLY NEGATIVE CHARISMA AND AN OPEN HOSTILITY TO DEMOCRACY. THE POTATO’S RECKLESS AMBITION LED TO THE OVERTHROW OF NOTORIOUSLY SPINELESS SITTING PRIME MINISTER MALCOLM TURNBULL, BUT HIS INABILITY TO COUNT AND INEPT USE OF BULLYING TACTICS LED TO HIM FAILING TO CAPITALISE ON IT, AND THE TOP SPOT BEING TAKEN BY THE NOTORIOUS HOMOPHOBE AND USELESS TRUMP WANNABE, SCOTT “COALFUCKER” MORRISON. THE GOVERNING PARTY HAS SEEN A ROBUST DEFEAT IN MOST OF THE ELECTIONS THAT HAVE BEEN HELD SINCE, AND ARE CURRENTLY LESS POPULAR THAN BULL ANTS WITH THE ELECTORATE, WITH A MANDATORY ELECTION EARLY NEXT YEAR.

BREXITICAL FAILURE: INCOMPETENCE IN THE UK

LITERALLY EVERYTHING TO DO WITH THE CONCEPTION AND EXECUTION OF BREXIT HAS BEEN A FARCE CARRIED OUT BY GIBBERING IMBECILES, AND WITH 2018 BEING THE YEAR WHEN PEOPLE BEGAN PREPARING FOOD PARCELS TO SEND TO POST-BREXIT UK (POSSIBLY IN EXCHANGE FOR NIGEL FARAGE’S HEAD ON A PLATTER), IT’S SAFE TO SAY 2018 WAS NOT AN EXCEPTION TO THAT. AS FOR THERESA MAY, AT THIS POINT, I WOULDN’T BE SURPRISED TO LEARN THAT SHE’D FOUND A LOOKALIKE TO TAKE HER PLACE AND RUN OFF TO A TROPICAL ISLAND SOMEWHERE.

DON’T WANNA BE AN AMERICAN IDIOT: PRESIDENT INDIVIDUAL-1

OF COURSE DONALD TRUMP WAS GOING TO HAVE A BAD YEAR. BETWEEN MIDTERMS THAT ENDED IN AN UNSURPRISING LOSS OF CONGRESS AND THE MUELLER INVESTIGATION CAREFULLY PREPARING A CAGE TO PUT HIM IN, DONALD HAS HAD A ROUGH TIME OF IT, AND I FIND I CAN BEAR HIS MISERY WITH TREMENDOUS FORTITUDE. NOT TO MENTION THAT HIS LEGACY IS ALWAYS GOING TO BE “THE PRESIDENT WHO PUT CHILDREN IN CAGES”.

HOWEVER, MOST OF MY READERS ARE AMERICAN, AND MOST AMERICANS ALREADY KNOW THIS, SO LET’S MOVE ON.

HIGH ACHIEVER: THE LIFE AND GRIMES OF ELON MUSK

IN CASE YOU WERE UPSET ABOUT ME TAKING A MALLET TO VARIOUS CLUELESS GOVERNMENTS, DON’T WORRY, I TARGET SUFFICIENTLY CHOWDERHEADED INDIVIDUALS AND CORPORATIONS TOO. 2018 HAS BEEN THE YEAR OF ELON MUSK FAILING. HE MANAGED TO MISHANDLE A HUMANITARIAN EFFORT SO BADLY THAT HE ENDED UP SUED FOR LIBEL, HE MADE THE MOST EXPENSIVE WEED JOKE IN HUMAN HISTORY, HE BECAME A LAUGHINGSTOCK TO EVERYONE BUT THE WEIRD STANS WHO WRITE OVER THE HUMAN THAT EXISTS IN FAVOUR OF THEIR IDEALISED TECHBRO HERO, AND NOW HE’S INVENTED A THING THAT’S LIKE A SUBWAY, IF SUBWAYS REALLY, REALLY SUCKED.

BUT HEY, HE GOT A GAME INVENTED SPECIFICALLY TO LAMPOON HIM, SO...THERE’S THAT.

WE EAT BLOOD AND ALL OUR FRIENDS HAVE STOPPED ANSWERING OUR PHONE CALLS: THE NEW WHITE WOLF DEBACLE

MORE OF A 2017-2018 SEQUENCE OF PRATFALLS, BUT THE ATTEMPT BY PARADOX INTERACTIVE TO RESURRECT WHITE WOLF PUBLISHING HAS BEEN NOTABLE FOR PROVING THAT EVEN IF PEOPLE LIKE YOUR GAME, IT IS STILL POSSIBLE TO FUCK IT UP CATASTROPHICALLY. STILL, THEY HAD MANAGED TO RIDE OUT THE TIME THEY HIRED A SERIAL HARASSER TO WRITE A PHONE GAME FOR THEM, THE TIME THEY RELEASED A SHITTY FUCKING ALPHA TEST, AND AN AVERAGE OF ONE FORMAL APOLOGY PER BOOK RELEASE, UP UNTIL THEY RAN OUT OF ROPE.

IN THIS CASE, THE STRAW THAT TURNED THE CAMEL’S BACK INTO A PARTICULARLY UNPLEASANT EXAMPLE OF VICISSITUDE WAS THAT FUCKING CHECHNYA CHAPTER, WHICH ENDED UP BEING BLUNTLY EXCISED FROM THE BOOK BECAUSE IT PORTRAYED THE INEXCUSABLE ACTIONS OF THE CHECHEN GOVERNMENT AS SOME SORT OF VAMPIRE FALSE FLAG ROUTINE. THIS NOT ONLY PISSED OFF A LOT OF PEOPLE, BUT MANAGED TO CAUSE AN INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT IN THE PROCESS, AND GOT THE CHAPTER IMMEDIATELY EXCISED WITH A RUSTY KNIFE, FOLLOWED BY PARADOX RUSHING OUT AN ANNOUNCEMENT ABOUT HOW THEY WERE REORGANISING THE COMPANY (PROBABLY IN THE WORKS FOR A WHILE, TO BE FAIR).

2018: A YEAR OF WEIRD, NONSENSICAL SHIT. LET’S HOPE THAT 2019 IS BETTER, BUT EVEN IF IT ISN’T BETTER, THAT IT AT LEAST MAKES MORE GODDAMN SENSE.

[weapon13whitefang]

TWD MidSeason Thoughts

Now that I've calmed down a bit, let me just explain WHY I'm so fucking infuriated.

I'm not just mad at this show. I'm mad at myself!

I know... I KNOW better than to fall for the hype announcement for shows. I have studied how networks like AMC operate. I went to school for theatre and cinema. I studied that shit. I GET how it all works. I understand having a hype man for the shows. Hype sells if you do it right.

The Walking Dead is one of the BIGGEST and most POPULAR shows on TV besides Game of Thrones and Outlander and Supernatural to name a few. It exploded onto TV and has been in the top 20s almost every year since 2010.

Since 2010, they've been hyping the show in one way or another.

I KNOW how this shit works... So you can understand WHY I'm mad at myself FOR FALLING for their fucking "stay tuned and be completely shocked" bullshit hype they threw at us the last two episodes.

I have been watching this show since 2010. Yes, I stopped watching for awhile, but it didn't take me long to get back and catch up again. I know its patterns. I know it's shtick. I know what makes people like it and hate it. I know this shit!

So since I know this shit, I SHOULD NOT BE AS PISSED OFF AS I AM RIGHT NOW.

It's not even about the fact that they're killing Carl off. I am not mad at that and in fact, I get it.

Chandler Riggs is a child actor and we all know - whether you're invested in television history or not - that being a child-star actor and growing up IS HARD. Being a kid on TV is hard. You hardly hear of any child star that didn't go through some real tough shit as they were growing up.

Want an example of some shit these kids go through? Look at all the weird sexual comments around Finn Wolfhard and Millie Bobby Brown from Stranger Things. Want to hear about some shit? Go listen to Lindsay Lohan / look at the shit she went through, or check out Macauley Culkin's stories, or fuck check out all the shit that happened to Gary Coleman! Growing up with a constant fucking camera surrounding you isn't all fun and laughter and games. You're literally under a microscope and have millions upon millions of fuckers watching your every mood and judging you like a science project. It's insane. Even older celebrities struggle with this shit.

Chandler is young. He's just graduated High School. Since he was 9/10 years old, Chandler has been a familiar name and face for every fan of TWD or anyone that picks up a magazine and sees a group photo on it.

The problem with being a child star is the fact that everyone will always see him as that one role. Chandler could've survived through the show until he was like thirty (dear god if the show ran that long...) and then tried to get new work and you know what he'd be known as? Carl Grimes. Not Chandler Riggs the actor. Carl Grimes. Baby-faced, runs away a lot, lost his eye... Carl Grimes.

So Chandler leaving now - IF THIS IS BY HIS CHOICE - isn't a bad idea. Chandler deserves to be able to go to college and experience things at his age he probably didn't really get to do because of being under the spotlight so much. He deserves to be able to try growing up and expanding his acting career. I can respect an actor for wanting to do that. I can respect a kid - a teenager/young adult - wanting to step away and try new things and experience life.

Now if Chandler was just killed off for shock value and didn't WANT to leave the show, then still this isn't bad for him. He can still have a chance. Other actors on the show - the bigger names at least - have been doing alright for themselves. Yeah some of them are not hitting big roles every year and yeah some of them have stepped away from acting for awhile, but they're doing okay. And Chandler was a large main cast member. One of the remaining Atlanta group members (which now it's the Atlanta three, which just doesn't sound as good as Atlanta five then... Sigh). He's got a chance to be a young man and then hone his skill and try jumping into it again. I got faith he can do that.

So I'm not upset that Carl is going to die because... This show has stakes. A favorite character must and will die. Unless you're the real cash cow and favorite *cough*Norman*cough**cough* you can die at any time (That's not me making a mean jab at Norman, by the way, that's just stating what we all know). I'm not upset about him being bitten.

WHAT I'm upset about is that I fucking BELIEVED that this show was going to give me something to ACTUALLY be surprised about. Carl getting bit IS STILL the equivalence of SOMEONE DYING! For fuck sakes, we all know that a scratch or bite from a walker MEANS DEATH. We established that right away with Morgan in episode one. You get bit or scratched up, there's no surviving and coming back. You're fucked.

THAT IS STILL THE SAME AS A MAIN CHARACTER BEING SHOT DOWN OR HEAD CUT OFF OR HEAD BASHED IN BY AN ASSHOLE WITH A FUCKING BAT!

THAT is why I'm mad. I'm mad because I was not "shocked". I was not "in disbelief". I'm FURIOUS and EXASPERATED and ANNOYED.

Sudden death or sudden shot to a character ISN'T SHOCKING ANYMORE ON THIS SHOW.

The only time I have been shocked by a character death was Beth Greene, Denise Cloyd (The way she died shocked me more than her dying), Olivia (that one angered me too though), and fucking Axel in S3. Those are the only times I have ever been shocked by a character dying when they weren't turned into a Walker. Fuck not even Shane or Sophia or Hershel or Glenn and Abraham dying shocked me. I was like "okay here we go" and moved on (Sophia did upset me though because I was hoping they'd find her alive).

I was hoping to see something amazing. Like the Oceanside coming to the rescue (Enid kinda killed that for me), seeing Heath again (okay that wouldn't be too shocking but it would've been better), the Scavengers deciding to stick with Rick and fight the Saviors, or fuck someone we thought dead showing up and causing fuckery for Negan! I don't know! I just was expecting something along those lines or more.

I'm sick and tired and bored of characters just being killed off during midseason finales or the finales in general. I am done with it. That isn't good writing anymore. I took fucking scriptwriting. I MAJORED in scriptwriting. What just happened tonight was bulllllshhhiiitt.

I'm annoyed. I'm still gonna watch the next half and I'm still gonna stay with the show. But my respect for it has dropped down to almost nothing at this point. I'm just... I'm angry. I'm so angry.

[lyonface]

World building, characters, and the DA Fandom’s propensity to ignore nuance.

I have borne witness to both some serious Cullen Critical posts and Pro Anders posts in the last twenty-four hours and...ugh. I feel the need to put something out there.

As people who have played the protagonists of the Dragon Age games, we are skewed to be more magic-leaning and forgiving than the normal, average joe of Thedas, and it’s disheartening and irritating that a lot of the fandom seems to have a very basic issue with noticing this and applying that mindset when they look at issues in the game, particularly with certain characters.

Under a Read More for length, and there’s a TL;DR at the bottom.

We started off as a member of a very misunderstood sect of warriors that dealt with a very vague threat that most people do not understand and were recruited into that militia/army/whatever 70% of the time due to committing crimes or somehow acting against an authority that forced us into the ultimatum between choosing the Wardens or death/imprisonment/banishment. In other words, we were Wardens only because we already were unsatisfied with the way things were, whether we were a City Elf murdering an entire estate of corrupt rapist humans or a Noble Human dealing with the politics and uncovered atrocities of their fellow countrymen. Or, you know, we could have started as a mage going through the Right of Passage and starting in the Circle to witness all that fuckery first hand. Basically, none of us were average by circumstance, otherwise we would never have become Wardens to begin with. Even then, the wealth of very diverse people we meet and fantastical circumstances we encounter educate us and change our mindsets regardless of our starting point.

Then we go to DA2 where we are just another run away Ferelden trying to escape the Blight. Again, luck and circumstance elevate us to extraordinary, and we are pitted firmly between fighting powers of protection and freedom, between Templars and Mages, among plenty of other shit. We, by that point if they had played Origins, are already predisposed to the plight of mages, we know to some extent what they can go through thanks to Wynne and Morrigan as our previous companions, doubly so if you play Awakening and meet Anders pre-Justice. Although Origins was decently framed as morally ambiguous between helping or hurting mages for various crimes (killing/helping the Circle mages or Keeper Zathrian or Jowain, etc.) we are forced to pick a side in DA2 and, not for nothing, but mages were the very clearly oppressed people in that game. It was a lot less ambiguous, despite the rampant blood magic because it was clear that most cases went to it out of desperation and not the pure desire for power over others. Meredith, no matter how she’s framed, is wrong with flexibly “good intentions” and Orsino is the only thing stemming the incoming tidal wave by Act 3. Origins is not ambiguous about the plight of elves, or the urgency of the darkspawn threat, or the danger presented in Ferelden’s political arena, but it leaves magic more or less up to you. DA2 does not.

In Inquisition, the civil war is in full swing and, if you were hot on the heels of it after DA2 like I was, the image of the Chantry exploding is one of the freshest things in your mind. By then, you understand at the very least the sheer power of magic when concentrated into one place, and you also understand that fighting magic with non-magic, by and large, does not work. You must use magic to curb magic. If you start Inquisition without playing the others, the prologue only further demonstrates this with your magic mark being the only thing that cures magic tears. In the beginning, most long term players go to help Redcliffe because of our nostalgia for it from Origins, or because we’ve known since Origins that Tevinter Magisters are shit and that’s only been reinforced for the last two games. If you’re new, Alexius is basically painted with a “Evil Bad Guy” brush and also time magic is terrifying; fuck the Templars, whatever their issue is isn’t nearly as bad. It’s a no-brainer. The only thing that really tests our understanding of things in Inquisition is nearly 90% about the Fade and magic and Elvhen history, a little less if you have Descent and you played it, then a bit about Dwarven history, but it turns out that just relates to Elves too, in the end. Magic is acceptable in Inquisition, as far as the narrative is concerned, and there is really no room for those that contest its merit or the use of it that can break that idea. The only character who comes close to being persuasive about Circles is Vivienne, and she harbors the middle ground and comes from a place of being a mage, but she has a high social status, so if you weren’t interested in playing the middle ground or being challenged, you can easily dismiss her.

Throughout the games, no matter where you start, the narrative increasingly treats magic as not only something that is normal for someone to accept but is harbored by people who are seen and generally treated as lower class, and thus are the most sympathetic and in need of assistance. Tevinter is an exception, but being a nation that uses people for sacrifices and slave labor can make it hard for people to find redeeming qualities in other practices. Before Dorian, all we saw of Tevinter were magisters that manipulated for power and elven slaves, so whatever their progressive stance on magic is gets covered under the oily grime of awful practices and racism. Dorian is an exception to his countrymen, even in Inquisition, and he’s framed that way in the narrative.

It’s easy to forget when we’ve been surrounded by magic and the Fade and spirits and shit for three games that mages make up just a fraction of the population of Thedas, and the Circle is just a concept to most of the people that live there. The average person in Thedas doesn’t encounter magic on a daily basis and isn’t educated or experienced in what mages are like or what the Fade does or how spirits work. In Ferelden, Orlais, and much of the Free Marches, the average citizen is educated through history and the Chantry which tells them that magic is dangerous and that Circles are to benefit mages by teaching them control and protecting them from hurting themselves or others. We have only seen the absolute worst case scenario for Circles, the one at Lake Calenhad and the one in Kirkwall, the former which fell apart and most only saw it in that state and the latter fucked up the second you reach the shores of the island. We’ve never seen a Circle function as its intended unless you played a mage origin in Origins, and that goes to shit real quick, so most players when proposed with the idea to reinstate them will obviously reject it.

Pro-Anders posts and Anti-Cullen posts seem to all stem from this predisposition about magic, both in terms of forgiving Anders for his terrorism and condemning Cullen for his words and mindset in DA2 and thus using it to dismiss his character arc in Inquisition. It is apparently very difficult to keep in mind what the normal, average, standard Thedasian thinks about mages and magic and I get that it’s stupid to dismiss what we’ve learned in the meta narrative, but it’s important to contextualize where characters are coming from and the application of their actions in the world they live in. Anders came from a place of oppression, pain, and fear due to his capabilities. Cullen came from a place of mental torture, pain, and fear due to the misuse of those capabilities. That helps to explain their actions, but it does not excuse them, and people like to excuse one and explain the other when they’re only showing their bias by doing so.

Let’s break down the viewpoints:

- Anders blew up a large facility that housed hundreds of people, including Chantry affiliates and leaders as well as low ranking sisters and other members of the faithful. These were people who had not contributed to the pain mages experienced in Kirkwall. Yes, they didn’t help them, but they didn’t help Meredith either, and remained neutral until their demise before Meredith or Orsino could argue their case to the Grand Cleric. Anders killed these people to make a statement, costing the lives of everyone inside that building for a political and social idea. In doing so, not only did he plunge the continent into civil war, he helped bolster the Andrastian narrative to the uneducated masses: that mages are dangerous, that magic can result in massive loss of life, and that people who wield it cannot be trusted at face value. An average citizen isn’t going to care about the oppression or tensions or abuse on either side, and they’re likely never going to hear about Anders’s good deeds in having that clinic in Darktown for all those years either; they’re going to care that their livelihood and their families are in danger as a direct result of his actions. That is why Varric speaks ill of Anders and why people do not forgive him for his actions en masse. No matter his agenda, murdering innocent people and thus causing the deaths of so many more due to some upheaval is not worth his intangible ideas.

- Cullen facilitated and assisted Meredith in the capture, torture, and deaths of mages and his fellow templars during his station in Kirkwall. No matter how you dice his conversations, particularly in Act 1 where he’s pretty fresh from the Calenhad Circle, he is terrified, severe, and staunch in his distrust toward mages and easily sanctions death as a punishment for blood magic. Meredith wants order, and he wants order, so he does what he’s told in eradicating rebel groups and assisting in keeping his men in line. Players seem to forget that Cullen gradually over the course of the decade starts to question Meredith more and more. When it becomes clear to him that she’s unhinged he tries to lie to himself about it until it’s far far too late. Normal Kirkwall citizens are going to see his actions as a good thing, despite the fear of Meredith. Once she uses her status to usurp control of the Viscount station is when they start to feel uncomfortable or afraid. The average person is either going to see Cullen as just another templar or recognize his services, and only a few will consider his actions to be against the common good. When he finally turns against Meredith, his loyal men follow him. He leaves the Order not long after that due to his disillusionment in what the organization stands for and what it actually does, including his own actions.

Thus, due to his previous ideas and oft-quoted “Mages aren’t people like you and me,” any chance that Cullen has for redemption is scoffed at despite his obvious change and his struggle to be a better person than he believes he’s ever been. Does his redeeming himself and being better excuse his actions? Of course not. Should his struggle to be better count for something? Yes, it should. Leaving behind his PTSD, his trauma, his lyrium addiction, the basic fact that he is doing better or attempting to be a force for positive change for the future of Thedas is a great thing and should at least be recognized, even if you don’t like him as a character for his past actions or his personality. Likewise, people can actively give Anders a pass in agreement or a chance to redeem himself as Hawke, but so far in the story we have not seen Anders or heard of him attempting to redeem his actions or reconsidering whether he did the right thing or not. By the end of DA2 and from what a romanced Hawke says in Inquisition, Anders assists Circles in disbanding to join the rebellion and aid the conflict in the civil war. At least for the foreseeable future, Anders continues to support his decision and assist in freedom despite the consequences to his fellows and to others.

Jesus this has gone on far too long. Let’s just...try and summarize whatever the fuck is in my head before this becomes a dissertation:

tl;dr - The average person of Thedas is told to be weary and distrustful of magic and mages and anyone who grows up in any place that isn’t Tevinter or a wandering tribe of Elves or Avaar is predisposed to think this way. We as players are in a unique position to see Thedas from many angles and thus experience and see things in the world that most people would never have the chance to encounter or understand. People don’t dislike mages because they’re unjustifiably prejudiced: they do it because there is a cultural and social predisposition to do so. Anders does not understand this, and thus only exacerbated the problem by committing terrorism, and continues to do so due to his continued assistance in the war effort without offering a proper solution. Cullen does understand this, but also learns that mages are not creatures to leash, and thus attempts to rectify not only his transgressions but help those that are being hurt.

Feel free to like/dislike either of these characters; I’m not here to police anyone’s opinions or their rights to have them. Just make sure that when you make an opinion and decide to stick to your guns that you’ve attempted to  consider everything that goes into it. Thedas has a lot of layers to it, just like any culture does, and no action from any character is as simple as “He hurt those people” or “It’s what needed to be done.” You don’t have to participate in character discussions or discourse either, but when you write something like that, expect criticism or responses. I always do.

[theseventhhex]

Love Ssega Interview

Love Ssega

Channelling a mix of New Wave, 80s hip-hop and NYC disco into smart modern pop, Love Ssega's music draws on an evocative point in sound and culture far removed from the Lewisham borough in which he was raised. Born to Ugandan parents and finding initial inspiration in the topical South London Garage, Bass and Grime scenes, Ssega finished school and landed a place at Cambridge University, where he studied Chemical Engineering. Returning to the musical forefront with a catchy range of stunning singles, Love Ssega’s creative outlet is sure win over a host of new admirers with his distinctive and optimistic energy in mind… We talk to the young virtuoso about trial and error, visiting Japan and Anthony Joshua…

TSH: What sort of expressions and perspectives have you primarily been drawn to voice with Love Ssega?

Love Ssega: I guess it’s my own life experiences. It’s that line in Out Here Looking “you don’t go where I was, haven’t been where I am…”. I happen to have found myself in some pretty incredible situations, and most were pre-Instagram, so I have to sing about them for people to believe me. Also, there’s a lot going on, so musically pop should be deeper than just about who Taylor Swift is beefing. Some things baffle me, so I think I should sing about them.

TSH: Is it key to not be too serious and to have a playfulness feel with your crafting process?

Love Ssega: YES! If I wanted to lecture people I would have stayed in academia. And if you think you’re the best musician since Beethoven took off his wig, then remember, Crazy Frog has probably sold more than you. Don’t be too serious.

TSH: In terms of gear, what sort of styles and techniques do you look to incorporate?

Love Ssega: The best ‘gear’ is live musicians. Bands are undervalued, so I’m on a crusade to show they matter. Think about it, no one pays a lot for a gig then shouts ‘that beat machine was so good’, whereas they might mention a bassist, or a drummer or lead guitar… There’s cost cutting, but I thought this was the entertainment industry, not Office for Budgetary Responsibility.

TSH: With your music, can it be as case of embracing spontaneity, as well as trial and error?

Love Ssega: In the early days spontaneity was the go to! It was called not having a lot of money for recording studios, so you pretend each take was a perfect take or intentional. Job done. And as for trial and error, let’s just say some major labels can pay good money for that too, so I’m not complaining! Nowadays it’s all meticulous and forensically planned.

TSH: What sort of energy and feel were you looking to imply with ‘Hot Electrolytes’?

Love Ssega: The opposite of “cold pizza” I’d say. I had a really long answer, but I think this one is even better.

TSH: Moreover, what does a track like ‘Out Here Looking’ signify to you?

Love Ssega: I love this track and I didn’t realise that it would come out with so much global fuckery going on, especially in the UK. Really geeky point, but I added some piano chords late in the process to uplift the second part, because through this all, we need uplifting, generally and through music. But this song is a little reminder that younger people are watching.

TSH: Thinking about your live offerings, what are the key incentives that you want to manifest?

Love Ssega: If you come to my live show, come to dance. Expect a 5-piece band and energy. Watch us and you’ll see us enjoying it on stage and you’ll see where the notes are coming from. If the band is having a party on stage, the crowd has to join in.

TSH: Are there certain emotions that you feel are difficult to articulate with your songwriting?

Love Ssega: I think that problem only comes about when you have songwriters writing for artists that haven’t experienced that emotion, so on a philosophical level, maybe the inability to articulate a feeling is the precise emotion. Then the song could be about naivety, innocence or maybe even insolence. Went a bit off piste, but maybe that’s a hint of more music to come…

TSH: Does the vastness of chemical engineering seep into your music in any way at all?

Love Ssega: Chemical engineering gave me more random words to use, so maybe subconsciously. Plus most parents love a bit of engineering chat, so I can revert to type if the Hot Electrolytes aren’t flowing around a conversation.

TSH: What were some of your highlights during your visit to Japan earlier this year?

Love Ssega: Speaking a bit of Japanese on stage to the crowd, visiting the Maison Kitsuné store in Shibuya, as they put out one of my tracks, and then seeing a life-sized Mario Kart driving around Tokyo. I love Japan and the fashion there is crazy.

TSH: How was time spent at London Fashion Week recently?

Love Ssega: London Fashion Week was great. I’ve never been, so I’ve always been an outsider, but I have a selection of British Men’s fashion shops that I always go to in London. To get a GQ invite to the Hogan x Aston Martin collection launch was pretty cool and being not so long after the London terror attacks it was good to see the city back on its feet celebrating something creative.

TSH: Which artist in recent times have you been most fond and respectful of?

Love Ssega: Bjork. From the prettiness of Gling-glo to the strange atmosphere of Medulla, and then she gets David Attenborough doing skits on Biophilia! Mad! I saw her show at Alexander Palace in London. Also, she’s making videos with more powerful computers than I had in my Chemical Engineering lab. Some people want to be ‘weird’ but Bjork has never been a-melodic. Her songwriting is ridiculous and that’s the key.

TSH: How would you sum up your range of emotions during Joshua vs Klitschko?

Love Ssega: I love boxing and Joshua is a new breed of individual popping up. As a young black Brit, I had to be proud and I like the way he carries himself. I had a full range of emotions from 6th to 11th rounds, but it’s that true grit that came through. Plus he played a road rap anthem on his ring walk! Love that cheekiness. Real champ and the People’s champ.

TSH: What sort of TV do you watch in your spare time?

Love Ssega: I wish I had more time for TV but I do watch a lot of YouTube Hip Hop interviews, mainly The Breakfast Club, because these guys were real stars. Before media training messed the whole game up and gave us dull soundbites and safe questioning. I need to watch the new Aziz Ansari (Master of None) and Donald Glover (Atlanta) shows though, as they are certified greats in my opinion. Plus they go against stereotypes, which is something you might have guessed I like.

TSH: For you musical endeavours, is it very much a case of making work that you feel challenges yourself?

Love Ssega: Jamie Oliver doesn’t go out and sell the same omelette all day, so yes, I should challenge myself too. Also, I wouldn’t congratulate people for selling the same product to the same people who like buying stuff multiple times. Each to their own, but I didn’t stop laser spectroscopy to be the musical equivalent of a double-glazing salesman. As profitable as that may appear.

TSH: Finally, is the following statement you shared on social media the type of advice that you feel matters a lot today – ‘It's not about winning people over, it's about showing them it can be done.’..

Love Ssega: Absolutely. If everybody sees what you’re doing and ‘likes’ it instantly, then it is unlikely to be paradigm shifting - it’s more likely to be a rehash of ‘common consensus’. And social media is great at amplifying common consensus, or worst still, the lowest common denominator. We’ve gone from ‘show and prove’ to ‘prove then show’ which is a bit baffling. Especially the ‘it’s hard to prove without showing’, meaning many ideas die before being shown because they didn’t have ‘sufficient social media numbers’. Before we had the “underground” - nightclubs, pirate radio, raves - to protect subcultures, freaks and geeks from the mass judgement until they “showed us it could be done”. Here’s to the subcultures, freaks and (chemical engineering) geeks.

Love Ssega - “Hot Electrolytes”

Hot Electrolytes - Single