#if you'll believe it i cut several pages out of this

[clovers-housetree]

Activities for Regressors Without Caregivers! (or just fun regression activties!)

(Although you're always welcome here if you'd like any form of comfort anyway! ^w^)

This one's kind of a long one, after the few tips I list, I've mentioned an app I use called Finch, which will be talked about below the cut.

Since that's the case, I'll put my little ending message here instead:

Knowing how to take care of yourself can take a lot of work and practice, but I believe it's worth the effort, because then you'll be a happier and healthier you! Especially if you can find ways to make it fun!

I'm more than happy to be here for you and offer my support in any way I can, anyhow! I'm proud of you for doing what you can, I know it can be very hard.

I myself don't have a caregiver for when I regress, so most of the time I end up taking care of myself! Here are some fun activities and things I do when I regress to keep myself calm and happy! ^w^

Paci mentions/pics not long after the first section for those of you who'd rather not see 'em.

♥ Arts and crafts! I absolutely LOVE coloring and making bracelets with beads, something not too complicated for little hands, but also something fun!

With coloring, you can buy coloring books, or draw something of your own to color in- even printing out a page you find online, coloring digitally, or tracing over something to color in could work! I prefer coloring more than drawing personally because I don't draw all the time, but I bet I could learn a little thing or two from the artists around here!

For bracelets (and other jewelry), strings can be hard to knot with little hands (at least they aren't those small, slippery clasps!!), but the beads shouldn't be too hard to handle if you're careful! Even just planning out patterns is fun!

Here are some My Little Pony bracelets I made, and the decorations I did for my pacis!

♥ Making playlists! Dancing is fun, and a good way to get the zoomies out, but you can just make playlists for any occasion! I have playlists that help me pet-regress, songs with sounds I like, adventure playlists... (Well- a lot of these are still in progress, but- you get the point!)

I also love those playlist videos on YouTube! Animal Crossing, Super Mario Galaxy, Minecraft and music box music are typically my go-to to help me settle or just make for comfy background music! Here's one of my favorites, shadowatnoon has lovely Nintendo music mixes!

♥ Playing with your plushies! You can take them on adventures, or make your own!

Like Toby, climbing The Great Pillow Mountain!

(This is Toby by the way, he's one of my best friends and a VERY good hugger!)

You can play games with them, too! Toby's REALLY good at hide and seek... Maybe you can find him for me? :0

♥ Finding shows to watch! I really like Paw Patrol and Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles at the moment. Plus, you can look at agere content and fics from shows you like! People make really cool stimboards and moodboards, for example, and I like reading through all the fun stories people write!

Here's a silly picture of Rocky I found! :3

Finch

Finch is a self-care app where you take care of your very own little bird friend by taking care of yourself!

You can set daily goals, or for each day (or more specific ones as well I think.). By completing these goals, you give your bird energy to go on adventures! They usually come back with a funny little story or silly questions, because they're learning, too!

Through completing these goals (or daily, at least), you can get Rainbow Stones, which you can use to buy clothes for your bird, make them different colors, or give them furniture for their house!

They're also LGBTQ+ and disability-friendly!! :3

This is my little bird, Honeydew! You're welcome to friend me as well if you'd like, my code is: Z3E2T7VRK6

It's helped me learn a lot about taking care of myself and keeping track of my goals, and I get little rewards for it! I've used the app for several months now, and it's helped me out a lot!

"Fluttershy protects this blog! SFW interaction only, please and thank you! ^w^"

"Wouldn't show a kid? Doesn't belong here!"

[daniigh0ul]

simblr story recommendations pt 1/?

hi i have been reading a ton of stories in this community for the past several months and i thought it'd be fun to recommend some of them to you all! these are sorted by genre with a small blurb for each! i also included if the story is still being updated or if it's a finished story! :) i didn't include content warnings because most, if not all, have warnings listed on their pages, ty! this post is long but i didnt want to put anything under a read more cut so !!

fantasy/supernatural

@madebysimblr the princess and me status: complete

cordy steele is in college and not taking it very seriously when raina comes into her life. while they may not get along at first, it is a pleasure and a joy to watch their friendship form and grow with them. this story made cordy my favorite from coffee's SIMnematic universe, and i hope she will become yours, too. :D

crime/mafia

@earthmoonz wifey status: ongoing do you want to read about a queer relationship forming while both deal with their grief with the backdrop of crime in london??? then read this!! it is so cinematic and well-done!!! i am rooting for max and lena til the end

royalty, baby

@nexility-sims 1992 status: ongoing

follow leonor as she navigates grief in the public eye--this is a prequel/spin-off of n's main story, which is also very good, and reading both gives you extra context and i fully believe 1992 is worth the read for the cinematic nature of it as well as the wonderful prose. if you support women's wrongs, i highly recommend you read this.

@armoricaroyalty the house of st. fleur status: ongoing

do you want to watch a family push each other's buttons while navigating royal life? do you want to support women's wrongs and become apart of the Worst Man's hate club? then this story is for you!

@bridgeportbritt simdonia status: ongoing

follow along as bria wu marries into royalty life and all of the ins-and-outs of that new life as she navigates her family life, her relationship with her new husband, and as her kids grow up and navigate their own relationships and lives. the drama is so good and it's such a blast to read!

slice of life/legacy

@lynzishell star sign legacy status: ongoing the story starts with phoenix as a teenager, and follows him into his adulthood--we follow along as he navigates love, loss, anger issues, and a little bit of trauma go a long way, but what i really love is how the relationships form over time, whether they be romantic or platonic and now i am too invested in phoenix and the people in his life!! and i hope you will be, too! @elderwisp tessellate status: ongoing this ensemble cast are navigating their twenties and their relationships, but secrets and tensions lie underneath--will anyone get what they want? girl i don't know but it's fun to watch everything unfold and it's beautifully edited so 10/10 do recommend @honeyjars-sims safe harbor status: ongoing do you want to follow along as three siblings navigate their young adult years while dealing with trauma and the complicated experience that is navigating your early adulthood? then read this !! there are drag queens, a nightmare, and love--romantic and familial and platonic--and i guarantee you will become invested in these's characters' lives. @hannahssimblr lucky girl status: complete

evie is probably the most relatable girl you'll ever read about. she's insecure, she's in love with a boy, some of her friends suck, others don't. as we follow her through her young adult years, we watch her navigate her love of a boy, her naivety and later, her wisdom, as she grows up. and will she get the boy in the end?? you'll have to read it to find out !! @sirianasims the duchelli legacy status: ongoing i think my favorite part of siri's storytelling is reading about her sims navigate their family relationships--usually in the form of a parent getting their act together for their kid(s)!! but there's also space travel, romance, friendships, and general chaos and it's such a fun read so i highly recommend it!!

[songoftrillium]

so I've been considering running a W5 game for some friends of mine who have been having a blast with our V5 campaign. We'd have to use a *severely long* list of houserules and lore to make it anything other than a massive trash fire of...well, everything that W5 is now. Unfortunately it's likely to be W5 instead of W20 due to the players bouncing off the x20 rules HARD. Any suggestions as to what gaping holes I should focus on first, rules-and-lore-wise?

I apologize for this essay of a response. In terms of the major mechanics holes to focus on, a friend of mine, Kaidan, was a game playtester that ran a number of games at Gencon, and has done the emotional labor of reading through the entire W5 corebook and identifying ways to make the game playable. For house rules, I'd start there.

The rest of this post is LONG, so buckle up and get a drink before reading on under the cut.

Regarding Gaia's Howl, which isn't addressed in the book, I'd look to the Mind's Eye Theater: Werewolf: the Apocalypse, the last corebook in OWoD that furthers the world metaplot. I believe the mark that was missed in a big way in w5 was that the Age of Apocalypse in that book more or less encompasses exactly what they were trying to achieve in terms of the worldwide destruction of caerns, the death of many old canon NPCs, and the Last Words of Gaia, which was a prophecy laid out by King Albrecht in his final moments of life while destroying the Storm Eater:

“Hope is not sundered; wake me, and a new age of harmony shall begin.”

Nuff said there. You shouldn't really need this corebook to play, but if you can find any information on the Age of Apocalypse online, I recommend using that as your kickoff point to explain how we got here.

Now, on to lore.

As the Storyteller, there are few ways around it; you'll have to read some old materials to construct your own chronicle. A little-known piece of information is that no one edition of Legacy Werewolf was ever meant to supersede the other. All the editions contain uniquely valuable information and were meant to build upon each other, requiring a holistic approach to the old materials: take what matters and use it.

I don't blame your players for balking at the old materials. The first editor that volunteered to help with my big project had never picked up a WoD book in xis life, and when he signed up I asked xim to read enough of the W20 corebook to grasp how to make a character. After struggling with the material for a week, they returned and said, "I'll be honest. That's almost a hundred pages. I'm not reading all that." And I don't blame them. And I don't know if you noticed, but W20 also includes no tools for Storytellers to construct game chronicles. Indeed, no 20th-anniversary edition book across all the splats really does. Since the writing team at PDX didn't use any book other than x20 to construct W5, that only further deepened the reality that Storytellers have been completely forgotten. All Meat, no Potatoes. For all the good content W20 includes, a broad number of items would be decidedly unfair to force players to wade through if you wanted to, and there's also so much of it. If you have yet to notice, the old books have laughably useless indexes, so researching and knowing which books to research to create a good game is incredibly complicated. So, you're right that your players shouldn't have to read any of the old stuff, and you shouldn't necessarily have to run a legacy game to provide a game of meaning.

Now, on to the stuff, you, the Storyteller, need to put together a bombastic chronicle. I have a bibliography of books across multiple editions that really get to the heart of the deepest lore and covers the full width and breadth of what the game has to offer. You don't need to read all these books, but having them gives you all the reference material to have a top-down overview of lore you can pull into your game world that you see fit.

Werewolf: the Apocalypse Storytellers Handbook (1994)This edition was published during a time when White Wolf was still establishing what the World of Darkness represented. It was drafted during 1st edition and came out shortly after the 2nd edition core rulebook came out, making it a hybrid that shares stats between both editions, including renown conversion guidelines between 1st and 2nd editions. You’ll find three essays and a section from it reprinted in this very book, but even those are just a fraction of the value this book offers Storytellers. Beyond what I carry over here, this book includes expanded Garou culture, setting, and enemies, dedicated sections on kinfolk and kami,  and a dedicated chapter on making talismans (fetishes). It even includes a dedicated section for 1st edition to 2nd edition renown conversion and a chapter dedicated to building a custom chronicle suited to your tabletop! Definite must-have and must-read.

Werewolf: The Apocalypse Storytellers Vault Style Guide (2018)Beyond a collection of well-written tales, this book includes a chapter devoted entirely to metaplot. In that way, this section serves as a roadmap towards getting a good feel on which books across which edition may best serve you. It breaks down three different approaches to Metaplot (Passive, Reactive, and Proactive), the pathos driving each edition, and following those threads, one can more easily find which books and editions are best suited to each purpose and tailor their own Storytelling library to best suit their style accordingly.

A World of Rage (2000)

This book is indispensable for learning about the world at large where the game is set. It covers every region published and really cuts out the fat in terms of delivering setting information and systems just about anywhere you’d like to set your game.

Players Guide to Garou (2003)This one’s a home run for any table. Expanded tribe societies and unique gifts? Check. Merits and flaws and expanded fetishes? Check. MOOT MECHANICS? That’s right, check. Moots are the lifeblood of Garou society, and there are structures for this! If you ever wondered what the typical phases of a moot look like, what roles different auspices play, and what your pack of players may be doing during any given time, it’s all laid out here in plain words. Even the Ragabash has (arguably the best) role to play during these events.

Guardians of the Caerns (2000)Ever wondered what exactly werewolves do all day? Wonder no longer. Guardians of the Caerns is the sourcebook of septs and caerns, detailing the sacred places and the Garou communities that guard them. It contains information on sept offices, tribal septs, caern logistics, defensive tactics--even an in-depth look at those who must grow up strictly as Garou, the crinos-born. This is the book for anyone who wants to understand what they're fighting for. 

Book of the Wyrm (1st Edition, 1993)While acknowledging the latest edition of this book, this gives a lot more specific insight into the ins-and-outs of the Urge Wyrms and Maejlin Incarna, who have taken a faceless investment in this chronicle. Understanding the ubiquity of their influence helps to understand not just these entities themselves but also their hierarchies, as they are mirrored across each of the many heads of the Wyrm.

Book of the Wyld (2001)It includes information on the naming of spirits, stats on the Nameless, information on caern abscession, and the not-so-subtle recommendation to write a chronicle surrounding the final days of an ancient caern. It offers insights into this not-understood aspect of the Triat, including many that aren’t in print in the 20th Anniversary Edition. Some enemies come from the woods, after all.

Rage Across the Heavens (1999)

Meet the Gaian Pantheon, all the celestial incarnae to be found across the Tellurian may be found across this book, including unique powers associated with them. This also includes a chronicle encompassing the emergence of the red star Anthelios, believed to be a portent of the end times.

Hearthbound (2023)

That's right, ya girl wrote a cross-edition book this year, and I highly recommend it! This is a good answer for players looking for a drop-in solution to confront the systemic issues in the lore directly in-game. The problematic features of the Garou nation were always meant to be confronted by the tabletop, and this sourcebook offers a turnkey approach to doing just that. It details many of those issues up-front and lays bare many of the not-so-pleasant aspects of the Garou Nation in plain English, including several story seeds on how to work this new tribe into any chronicle.

Lastly, on language and tabletop terminology. It's best to treat U****a and W*****o as tribes separate from the Galestalkers and Ghost Council. They are different enough that you can't easily move the names over and call them such. That said, they are named after things considered extremely inappropriate to use in a tabletop setting, so I recommend presenting them using two Conlang terms I constructed for my games. For U****a I recommend Hapil, and to rename their patron to The River Serpent. For W*****o, I recommend Kalaril, and to rename their patron to Old Windtooth.

Lastly, if you'd like to know how to scare the piss out of your players' characters, I wrote an essay on how to do just that. Good luck!

[those70scomics]

Fictober Day 7: "follow me if you want to live"

That '70s Show Fanfiction

On Saturday, Eric and Donna drove into Point Place from their home in Appleton. Donna was getting a one-on-one babycare lesson from his mom. He thought they were jumping ahead; she'd probably forget everything five months from now when she would still be mobile and much closer to their child's birth date.

But pregnant Donna's will was like unpregnant Donna's will times a hundred. So Eric acquiesced and ended up in the backyard with his dad. Cold. Doing manual labor, trimming back hedges that were beginning to change colors.

"The first Saturday in October, son. That's when this work's got to be done," Dad said.

"I don't see you hefting heavy hedge clippers."

"You'll be hefting a lot more once your kid is born."

Eric cut off a knotty part of hedge. Dad chucked it into a garbage bag, but Eric scoffed. "You didn't."

"I might've worn gloves, but I cleaned your bare ass whenever I was home from work. The image isn't pretty for me either, but I actually lived it, and so will you. Just like the four a.m. feedings. The one p.m. pukings. The sleep-deprived irritability. Looking at your tiny face then your mother and remembering how much I ... well, you get the picture."

Eric snipped a snarled clump of yellowing leaves from the hedge. His whole life would change in a matter of months. His relationship with Donna. He wasn't ready. He didn't know how to get ready. "It's only October seventh. Why are we doing this now?"

Dad raised his eyebrows, and they disappeared into his wool cap. "So that sweeping up tree leaves in a month won't kill my back. Preparation and forethought. You can't predict everything, far from it -- but what you can, you take care of."

The memory of a winter over ten years ago surfaced in Eric's mind. While Eric fantasized about making out with Donna at Jackie's ski cabin, his dad was instructing him how to free his car from ice. "How did you learn to be like that?" Eric said. "To be prepared?'

"Surviving war. Two of 'em. But raising kids is a hell of a lot easier ... and harder."

Eric leaned his back against the hedge. "I'm not sure I'm cut out to be, you know, a dad."

Dad laughed. "Oh, you're not."

"Thank you. Thanks for that boost in confidence."

"Neither was I until I had to be." Dad dropped the garbage bag onto the grass, placed the clippers atop one of the hedges, and said, "Follow me if you want to live."

He entered the garage through its side entrance, and Eric followed.

"Good. You want to live." Dad pulled out a stool from his work table and patted its cushioned seat. "Go on."

Eric sat while Dad rummaged through a drawer in his tool chest. He returned with a thick, dusty book with a blue cover. He passed it to Eric.

"What is this?" Eric said, but Dad's expression told him to open it.

The first page said in professionally printed font: Baby Book. Above that text was Eric's full name in his dad's handwriting. Eric turned to the middle of the book. Dates and notes were also written by his dad.

"I can't ... I can't believe you did this."

"Believe it. I like knowing what I'm dealing with, where I screw up, and figuring out how to fix it. Consider that a beginners' manual to child rearing, and watch out for my mistakes so you don't make the same ones."

Several memories collided in Eric's brain. His dad wondering where he'd "failed" with Eric. Their honest talk while hunting together on that deer blind, high in a tree. Dad firing him from PriceMart. "You just wanted the best for me."

"Want, son." Dad clasped Eric's shoulder. "I might not always go about it the right way, but your safety, your -- " he swallowed -- "happiness is what I aim for. Miss the target, even now, but I hope I scored a few bull's-eyes."

Eric hugged his baby book to his chest and forced his own eyes to stay dry. He was almost thirty and a father. He had to be a man. Finally.

"It's okay, Eric." Dad patted his shoulder once before releasing it. "You'll see in that book I cried, too. Out of frustration. Fatigue. Fuck-it-all ... and something a lot softer."

"Okay, have I been sucked into a mirror universe?" Eric glanced around the garage. "Why are you admitting all of this?"

Dad shrugged. "You'll be too freaked out to mock me while Donna's pregnant, and you'll be too busy being a father for eighteen years or more with your own children giving you trouble. It was the right time."

Like trimming back the hedges today. Eric got it. Experience was usually the best teacher, but so were one's parents. Dad had given him far more than he'd ever realized, and Eric was grateful -- enough to burn him only behind his back for a while.

[vikenticomeshome]

Cyberchase - "Who's New?" Promotion

Cast your mind back to the Spring/Summer of 2004. Cyberchase was just starting its third season. This was an important time for the show, as they were about to introduce several new characters.

Nero the Animal Hero (debuted in Season 3 Episode 1 "Ecohaven CSE")

Slider (debuted in Season 3 Episode 2 "Borg of the Ring")

Mister-Z (debuted in Season 3 Episode 3 "A World Without Zero")

Sheldon and Roxy (debuted in Season 3 Episode 4 "A Piece of the Action")

Creech (debuted in Season 3 Episode 5 "The Creech Who Would be Crowned" )

At the time, the Cyberchase was updated with a promotion called "Who's New?", which served to introduce the characters. You can see it promoted on the website in this capture from June 9th, 2004. I believe the promotion started sooner than this, as all of those episodes aired in May. However, the Internet Archive has a gap between February and and June of 2004.

We start with a title page.

Five new episodes of Cyberchase will be on TV in May!

Check your local listings for the exact dates.

In their latest adventures, Matt, Jackie and Inez make new friends and explore new cybersites like the jungle of Ecohaven. And the CyberSquad returns to one of their favorite places, the skateboarding cybersite Radopolis.

Figure out their names and you'll get a printable "puzzle poster."

We get this panel, which looks like a title card for a 70s cartoon. We also get Matt trying to be mysterious.

Here's the main panel, showing the upcoming characters.

We get riddles to solve to get each letter of the character's name.

Here's some fun facts about Slider.

Lives in Radopolis

Loves to skateboard and is really good at it.

Can fix anything.

Here are some fun facts about Creech.

Lives in tropical Tikiville.

Really fun and spunky.

Her family used to rule Tikiville until they lost the crown in a race.

Here are some fun facts about Nero the Animal Hero.

Travels all over Cyberspace, but especially loves the jungles of EcoHaven

Has his own cybertv show 'Nero the Animal Hero.'

Can soothe savage beats by singing to them in Spanish.

Here are some fun facts about Mister-Z.

Live in glamorous Gollywood.

Occupies a very important place.

Has a special value not everyone sees.

Here are some fun facts about Roxy.

She's a Scritter.

Lives underground in Eureeka.

A very loyal friend.

And here's some fun facts about Sheldon.

He's a Scritter.

Lives underground in Eureeka.

Loves to jump.

Sure enough, you get a printable puzzle piece for each of these six characters.

I used GIMP to cut out the pieces and put them together into one image.

If anyone here wants to actually print this out and assemble it, here's an Internet Archive upload of the six pages extracted in full quality. it also contains a bunch of other goodies from archives of the old website.

The game itself has been submitted for inclusion into the Flashpoint Archive project.

So, we get an interesting selection of characters here. Of course, Creech and Slider show up on the show all the time. However, as far as I am aware, Mister-Z, Nero, Roxy, and Sheldon have not appeared since their debut episodes.

I didn't know that the Scritters lived underground, and I had forgotten that "A Piece of the Action" took place on the cybersite Eureeka.

[iwonderwh0]

Fic ideas that I'll never write #6 (? I clearly have no idea, not sure why I keep trying to keep a count)

Below are just some incoherent thoughts with no specific whatsoever born from my love for the concept of a single mind occupying multiple bodies. I don't know why I post something so vague, but huh, my blog – entry to my brain fog, I just need it out of my system ↓

Not DPD, but possibly some organisation on the shady side of the law. Hank as an undercover agent for some fucking blockbaster-level operation with assigned android partner(s).

"Let me introduce to you, CyberLife's latest prototype and your partner – Connor"

Hank looks at the small crowd of identical looking men in strict clothing.

"Which one of 'em?"

"All of them. But for this operation he's just one human."

"Hi, I'm happy to be working with you!" one of the clones goes ahead and extends a hand for a handshake. Hank looks at him, then at all the other clones, about seven of them in total, which are looking back at him and simultaneously on all of their faces smile melts into some miffed disappointment as the one in front of Hank puts his hand down, realising that there'll be no handshake.

"Is this a joke or something?" Hank asks.

"This is a high risk operation that requires one person to be literally at several places at once, and we also expect to loose a few of them. All their knowledge is shared among each one of them at all times, so they don't need additional devices to communicate, which is perfect for us."

"Why am I here?"

"You're our cover, ensuring that he'll pass as human. He would look suspicious on his own even with human credentials, so he will be seen with you, and if anyone asks, you'll be ready to dispel any suspicion."

A folder of files is moved acrossed the table to Hank.

"Here's his cover-up human identity. Make yourself familiar"

Hank flips through the pages.

"This will all become useless the moment he bleeds blue."

"Connor?"

One of the clones goes ahead and rolls up one of his sleeves, takes a knive handed to him by one of the others, and then draws its blade across his bare skin. Red blood starts to flow from a cut.

"What the fuck!"

Hank stands up and steps back.

"Looks convincing, isn't it?" asks the clone with cut hand.

"But they're all androids, right?"

"All except one," says one of the clones.

Hank looks from one face to another, trying to spot any difference, but they all look completely identical

Clones smile proudly.

"You believed me, didn't you?"

"Point proven," another clone puts a hand on Hank's shoulder.

"Don't fucking touch me," Hank shakes the hand off his shoulder.

"Sorry," says another clone, not the one who touched Hank.

--------

During the first days of operation Hank is getting accustomed to the thought that all of those androids are ultimately the same one that somehow is spreaded evenly across several bodies, making it possible for one to continue the conversation where the other one left it.

The hotel the "two" of them are checked in provided them two-room number, but it still feels really crowded even though there are rarely more than three Connors at once.

At first it was weird and annoying when different clone answered Hank's question adressed to another. It was hard to adjust to the thought that they're all the same exact entity.

"What happens when one of you will get destroyed?"

-----------

"As long as we're sharing the same network it doesn't matter until there's at least one of us left. No information will get lost. As you can see, I'm fault-tolerant"

----------

Connor is trying to act friendly and involve Hank in dialogue, but the man seems cold and rather annoyed by this company, so he switches his friendly attitude to more confrontational one, trying to argue with Hank instead, and ironically enough it works, and Hank turns far more talkative when he is trying to prove something. Being annoying becomes more preferable way to interact with the human than to be polite and friendly. Sometimes it backfires but overall it provokes more reaction and becomes kind of a game in itself.

"Oh no."

Two models got destroyed and appeared to be completely calm about going somewhere they knew they'll not return from. Everything is going according to the plan until there's another situation that will result in a loss of yet another one of the Connors. But this time something is different.

"What, remembered something?" Hank stops and turns around.

"I'm offline. I'm not a part of the network."

"So what?"

Connor grabs Hank by hand and looks genuinely terrifyed.

"I don't want to die."

Hank looks at him, trying to understand if it's supposed to be happening. Other times the android didn't seem to bother, not even a little, but this...

Time was running out. At this point there was no important information to loose with this specific Connor model, and saving him would partly compromise the mission. He must be aware of this, usually he was insufferably precise about following the plan to the point of being a headache, so him suddenly saying anything like that was... unusual.

Hank knows, that according to the plan he would better ensure that android goes where he was supposed to go, whether he wants it or not, but fuck.

"Okay, let's go. Quick."

They escape using the path that was supposed to be for Hank only and the whole time this Connor is terrified. He keeps thanking Hank then acts anxious about jeopardizing the mission, all while clinging to Hank's hand as if his life depends on it. Hank doesn't have it in him to ask to let his hand go. When they are far enough to be safe Hank is trying to calm the android down but he keeps panicking about being outside the network and that it could only mean one of two things – whether his connection somehow got broken or all the other Connors are destroyed and he's the last one. This version, however gets resolved fairly quickly as Hank reaches the place where, according to the plan, he must've been met by another model. And he is. Another Connor looks at him, then at Connor that came along with him, and now he looks just as terrified.

He goes ahead and the two androids touch hands, skin retracting as they interface. The one that was waiting for Hank looks at him closely

"You shouldn't have done it," he doesn't brake the eye contact as he follows it with "Thank you."

-----

From now on their previously tense relationships get a lot warmer. They have to do some explanation to their superior, but they cone up with some convincing enough story, hiding what actually happened. There'd be no sympathy for an android compromising the missing out of fear of its own death – something that shouldn't even be a concern. They both know it.

"You're all back online, right?" Hank asks at some point.

Connor doesn't act as smug as he used to before and instead of being annoying little shit who's quite inconsiderate to Hank's human needs he gets instead really attentive. Doesn't try to exhaust Hank with dialogue either, finally getting accustomed to the sound of silence.

"I am, yes" one of the Connor's says

"But I am still not sure what happened," another follows.

"Has it happened before?"

"No. At least...not that I can remember."

"What, I thought you are incapable of forgetting anything."

"Currently I have five different versions of the same timeline, of course I have to sacrifice some memories if they serve no purpose – it would be wasteful to save everything"

"How do you know what's important or not?"

"Usually I can tell."

"What if you're wrong?"

"Then I guess I'm wrong. I'd better be right more often than not or else..."

"Else?"

"I'll be deactivated"

"For forgetting something important?"

"Not exclusively, I meant more general mistakes, like deviating from original plan or not being able to follow through all the way due to some obstacles. I should be able to improvise if necessary, and if I can't be effective at least in 96% cases then I should be removed from the mission."

"That's...a really specific number. But, hey, even following the plan sometimes things just don't work up, right? Not necessarily because someone fucked it up, I mean, shit just happens."

"It only reveals imperfections in original plan, which is a mistake, still."

"Well, it's only human to make mistakes."

The two clones smile at him sadly

"Yeah, you're right – it's only human."

-------------

I don't have any idea of what is it about or how should it continue and end, so I'll just leave it here as any other #Fic ideas that I'll never write

[meimi-haneoka]

Might be a stupid question that needs clarification. Why do you think Sakura perpetually activated Record after Chapter 46? As much as I would like to agree, she also summoned Record in Chapter 57 to show the book to Kero and Spinel and wanted to "talk" to it again, so I think she activated it sometime after that instead.

Hello and thank you for sending this ask, anon!! Thank you because there are several parts of latest chapter that I would've wanted to explain better, but due to the length that the master post had already reached, I had to cut (otherwise people will be scared away from reading such a long post).

Let's see why I think Record was asked to start recording everything back in chapter 46.

If you zoom in the very first panel where we see the "recording" that the Card is showing, you'll realize that in the background (blurry, but they're there) there's the door and the couch of Syaoran's home (indicated with red arrows). Sakura, back in chapter 46, went to Syaoran's home after school and in that occasion she confessed and showed to Syaoran the dreams she was having precisely using the Record card, on Syaoran's own suggestion. 👇

As you can see, the scene is the same. Syaoran and Sakura are in the living room, in the same position, in front of the couch, with supposedly the door in the background (not shown here). Sakura got of course her Dream Staff out. So it really leads me to believe it's a continuation of this scene.

But that's not the only reason.

If we check this page from chapter 73 again, and analyze all the scenes featured in the film strips, you'll realize that they're all scenes coming only from chapters after the 46th one. There's only "Dragon-chan" that could arguably come from the earliest chapters, but maybe it's actually coming from when Sakura showed Syaoran her dreams with the Dragon in chapter 46. Then we see scenes from chapter 49 (Kaito's attempt at stealing the Sakura Cards), and many from the play. We even see the major scene from chapter 50 with Momo, so Record was able to store even recordings of events that were rewound due to Kaito's time magic. This leads me to believe that Record is showing Sakura events only after the 46th chapter because *that's* when it was activated.

You rightfully pointed out that Sakura summoned Record again in chapter 57 to show Kero and Suppi about Akiho's "Alice in Clockland" book (I had forgotten about that 😂), but nothing actually prevented her from "interrupting" the recording for a short moment, summoning Record, showing what she needed to show and then sending it back to "stealth mode". 😉

Like,

I don't know if this was intentional (and if it was, dammit CLAMP! You really took care of everything!), but Sakura in this scene summoned Record without summoning her staff. Yes, the staff is nowhere present in this scene!! I know she's uber powerful so she probably doesn't always need it to call her Cards, but if Record was really already active in the background, then it would make even more sense that the Dream staff isn't in this scene (and CLAMP are too pro for me).

[blazehedgehog]

My take on the Twitch "brand guidelines" situation, which I've been believing more and more over the last 24 hours:

StreamElements is a popular site that hooks in to the Twitch API and lets you create custom alerts (those fancy animated graphics that pop up on stream) for when people subscribe/cheer/follow/donate. Tons of streamers use them! I use them!

Very recently, like within the last three months, StreamElements has launched a new Sponsorship tab. If you use StreamElements, it's impossible to miss, because they've been sending me 7-10 emails a week about each new sponsor offer I have.

Generally they'll tell me how I could make "up to $900" by doing a sponsored stream with a list of requirements and goals I'd have to meet in order to earn my payout. There's a lot more to it than that, but we'll get to it.

The thing is, this StreamElements Sponsor system is an almost direct clone of a system Twitch already has: the Twitch Bounty Board. But there's a twist: The Twitch Bounty Board is only available to the upper-crust of streamers who hit consistent and moderately good viewership numbers. And the higher numbers you pull in, the bigger bounties you get with bigger payouts.

StreamElements Sponsorships aren't anywhere near as high profile. A Bounty might have a streamer order food from Dominos, comp them the price of the meal, and have them eat and talk about it on camera. A typical StreamElements Sponsor is a gacha mobile game you probably haven't even heard of.

And that "up to $900" claim on StreamElements is just the hook. Once you actually read the terms, you'll learn that the minimum payout is $15, with $900 being the maximum possible earnings. And usually, just to earn that measly $15 minimum, you have to stream for multiple hours, across multiple days, with special overlays, a special chat bot, while also requiring several viewers to use your offer code and also play for multiple hours.

It creates a discrepancy where Twitch Bounties have a higher barrier of entry but a much higher success rate, and the StreamElements sponsors have a much lower barrier of entry and probably a much smaller trickle of money.

The thing is? Twitch likely gets a cut of the bounty payout, but StreamElements doesn't have to pay Twitch anything for a sponsor. And even if the StreamElements sponsor program has lower payouts and more difficult/nebulous requirements, slots still fill up quickly. That's a lot of money changing hands on Twitch that is not necessarily feeding back in to Twitch itself. And it is through a system seemingly designed to devalue something Twitch is already doing.

Twitch slapping down all these rules about "burned-in advertising" were undoubtedly about pulling people out of StreamElements. After all, the new guidelines said it was fine to link things around the video, like in the description/bio below the stream. Since Twitch literally owns the website, in theory it probably wouldn't have been too hard for them to reskin a streamer's entire page for a bounty integration. There are already plugins and things to generate widgets that aren't burned in to the video and hover over the player's HTML.

It's not hard to imagine a scenario where you accept a Twitch bounty for Mountain Dew and it adds a special Mountain Dew Widget over your stream that's part of the video player code itself, something StreamElements would probably never be allowed to do.

Further evidence for this comes from the fact that, just a few weeks ago, Twitch added a feature to let you generate stream alerts from the Twitch dashboard itself. StreamElements literally started their entire business on robust and highly customizable stream alerts, and once StreamElements started pushing their own bounty board clone with Sponsorships, suddenly Twitch starts testing its own in-house alerts generator.

Twitch was obviously trying to head this off at the pass and provide users as little reason to use StreamElements as humanly possible, but they obviously didn't get there fast enough and were more than a little overzealous.

[cha-melodius]

If there are still slots open for the Christmas prompts, may I ask for 6. “Is that present for me?” with Lokius? (or 3. “Your lips are cold.” as a backup number). Thank you and I hope you'll reach the 1 000 000 words (also, just saying, that's very impressive!!).

(Ok, so I might have cheated a liiiiiiittle by combining two prompts into one, which was inspired by the fact that @okilokiwithpurpose had prompt #3 as a backup. But hopefully the fact that this fic is 4x as long as most of the others in this challenge makes up for it! I had written a tiny bit of this AU, but never shared, and somehow as I was looking at it again these prompts just slotted into place. So here you go, an actor AU, which I can't believe no one had written for these two before, with some fake dating thrown in for fun. I hope you all enjoy! Also: @an-asgardian I wasn't sure if your AO3 name was different, but let me know and I can gift it to you there if you like!)

True Hollywood Romance

Read it on AO3 (M, 8.1k)

Toronto International Film Festival, early September

“You cannot tell me you’re intending to wear that,” Loki blurts, in lieu of a greeting, the moment he opens the door and sees Mobius standing on the other side of it.

Mobius glances down at his outfit: a grey suit that, yes, he has worn to more than a few previous events. Not that anyone would notice. No one ever asks who Mobius is wearing, he’s never appeared on any fashion lists (best or worst), and that’s the way he likes it. He knows he’ll be comfortable, and he doesn’t have to worry about hurridly-sewn seams failing or a jacket being mistakenly cut too tight across his shoulders. He hasn’t so much cultivated his look as actively not cared about it, and he’s gotten to a point in his career where people were inclined to let him do as he wished.

Until now, it seems. Loki is still staring at him in something akin to horror, which is a bit much. It elicits a knee-jerk reaction to get defensive and dig in his heels, but Mobius shoves it down and forces a tight smile onto his face. This is to be their first official public appearance, and it wouldn’t do to start things off on the wrong foot.

“You have a better idea?” he challenges, raising his eyebrows.

“Go back in time and get a suit that’s properly tailored,” Loki opines, before he sighs, gesturing Mobius into the hotel room. “You can’t wear that shirt.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Loki gives him a withering look of disdain that is definitely pushing it. “It’s boring, Mobius. Take it off, I have one that will work.”

Mobius sighs out heavily through his nose, trying not to grind his teeth together, and reminds himself that he agreed to this. God knows why. Your career is stagnating. No one’s talking about you, Ravonna had said. You need to shake it up, and this is the perfect opportunity. Then his agent had delivered the final blow: If you want that movie green-lit, you’ll do it.

Fucking Hollywood. Odin Borson had one of the biggest production companies on the block and a troublesome, wild-child son who needed an image rehabilitation. Who better to play the moderating influence than someone who’s never been a front page headline in the tabloids in his life? The TV actor who’d been beloved in the same role he’d played for over a decade, but boring in every other respect? Even when he’d come out several years ago, the news had barely made a ripple. He’s been trying to get this movie made for years, though, so a few months of pretending to date the producer’s kid had seemed like a small price to pay.

He’s not so sure about that anymore, though.

He follows Loki through the palatial suite to an entire walk-in closet of clothes—how on Earth could he have so many, they’re only here for a few days—and waits as the other man roots around a collection of shirts. Loki pulls several out and frowns at them before tossing them away, heedless of where they land. Sequins, ruffles, lace, one that seems to be hot pink— Christ, Mobius needs a drink. 

“I really doubt any of your stuff is going to fit me,” he tries in a last-ditch effort.

“It’ll be close enough,” Loki says, waving him off dismissively. “Keep your jacket buttoned on the red carpet and no one will notice.”

Mobius sighs, again. He has a distinct feeling that his life will be easier if he just lets Loki do what he wants. Within reason. “I’m gonna have a drink. You want anything?”

Loki’s mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. “Not allowed to drink before these things anymore,” he says stiffly, still focusing on the shirts in front of him.

“Oh. Noted.”

Possibly they should have actually talked more before this, but Mobius had counted on film festival red carpets being relatively low pressure when it comes to interviews. Loki has a small part in one of the movies from Odin’s production company, hence the appearance, but he’s not a lead, so no one expects the press to want to talk to them that much. They’ve been provided a few essentially scripted lines about their relationship to use when someone inevitably asks: they met on a ski slope in Vail, hit it off over coffee, etc, etc. Never mind that Mobius has never been to Vail. He doesn’t even ski, unless you count a jet ski.

Mobius briefly wonders if he should also abstain out of courtesy, but he figures Loki would say something if it was going to be a problem. Hopefully it won’t, because there’s no way Mobius is gonna get through tonight without at least one Scotch. He’s pouring a healthy portion into a crystal tumbler from the room’s wet bar when Loki appears at his side again.

“Here. This one,” he says, thrusting the garment into Mobius’s hands. It’s a rich, cerulean blue, and when Mobius holds it out he sees it seems to be a mock turtleneck and also…

“Is this… sparkly?”

“It’s a subtle shimmer,” Loki corrects superciliously. He hesitates for a second and looks away, avoiding Mobius’s gaze, and when he continues his voice is oddly tight. “It will bring out the blue of your eyes.”

Mobius swallows. Loki’s not actually dressed yet, still wearing a bathrobe, the fronts of which have by now slipped open down to where it’s belted at his waist, revealing a tantalizing swath of smooth, sculpted chest and abs that Mobius has to force himself not to stare at. Look, he’s not a monk, and Loki is a very attractive man. That fact may or may not have swayed his decision to go along with this circus. Still, this is all fake. Loki is way out of his league, and he’d do well to remember that.

Of course, he hadn’t banked on having to deal with Loki’s chest all night. It turns out he’s not wearing a shirt at all, only the trousers and jacket of a deep green tux with tails so long and elaborate they’re reminiscent of a skirt. He looks, to put it simply, stunning, and Mobius can’t help but feel a bit dull beside him. Even in a shimmery turtleneck, which, ok, did look better under his suit than what he was planning on wearing.

The appearance goes off without a hitch. They walk the red carpet, talk to a few reporters, smile like they’re enjoying themselves. Loki sleeps through the screening of his own movie, but Mobius is enthralled. He’d never really seen much of what Loki had been in before—mostly a number of prosaic runs as villains in genre flicks and their sequels—but in this he’s utterly arresting. He steals every scene he’s in, few though they might be. It makes Mobius wonder what happened, how he got so off track in his career, because clearly he deserves a lot more.

Halfway through the movie, Loki’s head tips onto his shoulder, and he doesn’t have the heart to move him. Loki jerks awake at the audience’s applause when the credits roll, going red as he realizes that he’d been using Mobius as a pillow. His eyeliner is slightly smudged and his hair is mussed, and the whole picture is far too soft and endearing. Even though they’re surrounded by a couple hundred other people it feels remarkably intimate, and something twists in Mobius’s gut.

This might be harder than he previously expected.

~~~~~

Hollywood, California, late September

“Is that a present for me?” Loki says, a teasing note in his voice and a grin on his face as he slips into the seat opposite Mobius.

They’re sitting outside at a cafe in Hollywood, in full view of the paparazzi that lurk unsubtly across the street. Odin’s people called them, of course. Another of their scheduled appearances, this time a casual lunch. Mobius tries to smile like he doesn’t care that his every move is being documented. He’s never elicited this kind of attention during his entire career, and he’s not at all disappointed about that.

“The very one provided by your manager,” Mobius answers dryly. It had been delivered to his apartment with a note explaining that he was supposed to give it to Loki at the arranged time. “I take it you purchased this for yourself?”

“Mm,” Loki hums as he eagerly tears the top off the box and pulls a luxurious green silk scarf out of it, winding it around his neck. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling. This a thoughtful gift from my dear beau.”

Mobius feels his face go hot at the fake pet names and blames the sun. “How can you wear that right now? It’s scorching out here today.”

“I’m always cold,” Loki tells him. “So. Honey. Dearest. Beloved,” he says, grinning over the menu at Mobius’s huff as he gets more flustered by the second. Turns out bearing the full brunt of Loki’s charm is a lot. “What looks good?”

Once they get settled in things get easier, though. They actually talk, really talk, for the first time since this whole thing started, and Mobius finds out that Loki’s not only insanely good looking but also sharp and engaging, talking excitedly about this or that project, going off on long tangents about random topics that interest him. It’s so unlike the haughty, stand-offish demeanor that he’s known for that Mobius is thrown off for a second, but he ends up enjoying himself too much to think about it too hard.

“The worst place I’ve ever had to film was definitely actual Siberia,” Loki is saying. They’re now undergoing the actor’s rite of passage in getting to know one another: sharing filming horror stories.

“Oh, that was The Void, right? The post-apocalyptic one,” Mobius says without thinking.

Loki blinks at him. “I thought you hadn’t seen any of my films.”

Mobius’s chewing slows to a halt as he realizes what he’s just admitted. “I mean. I’d seen a couple.” And if, since TIFF, he’d watched all of them, that was his business and nobody else’s.

“No one’s voluntarily seen The Void, Mobius,” Loki teases, a slow grin spreading on his face. “It’s not even on any streaming services.”

That is true. Mobius had had to buy the damned thing, and even finding a copy had been trying. Which was actually a shame, because yes, the movie had been terrible—abysmal writing, with a hackneyed love story forced in at the end—but Loki’s performance was exceptional. He’d played several different versions of the same character, each twisted a little differently, and it had been a bit of revelation.

“Musta caught it when it came out,” Mobius mumbles as he shrugs, avoiding Loki’s too-mirthful gaze. “Anyway, it’s gotta be more fun than always filming on a soundstage. Fifteen years of it gets real old, let me tell you.”

“All those places you traveled to? Pompeii? Those couldn’t have all been sets,” Loki says, which surprises Mobius enough to pull his eyes off his plate again.

“Now who’s been watching old TV series?” Mobius shoots back. “You can’t expect me to believe you saw Murders in the Multiverse when it aired.”

Loki sniffs, trying his best to look as if he hadn’t just been caught out. “Those are all on Paramount Plus,” he says dismissively. “I just put them on in the background for research. Barely paid attention.”

“Right. Research,” Mobius huffs, amused. “Well, they were all sets. Even Pompeii.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad, though,” Loki says, tipping his head slightly. “You stayed for a lot of seasons. Even through that miserable amnesia arc.”

Mobius snorts. “Never overestimate the pull of a steady paycheck. I still get decent residuals from that show. But after a while they didn’t want to pay me what I deserved, and I got bored playing a time cop. Wanted to do something new and different. Get out of my comfort zone.”

“Which is why you’re here,” Loki says, a flat, difficult-to-read expression on his face. If Mobius didn’t know better he’d almost say Loki looked upset, which doesn’t make any sense.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Mobius allows. He picks at his food as they fall into an awkward silence, until finally he decides to just say it. “It’s been nice getting to know you, though.”

Loki looks up at that, slightly surprised, before a careful smile spreads across his face. “Yes. It has.”

~~~~~

New York Film Festival, October

“This is inhumane,” Loki whines the moment they step out of the limo and onto the red carpet.

“You’re the one who insisted on wearing a backless outfit,” Mobius reminds him. “I warned you.”

Not far away from where they stand, the fans lining the barricades are bundled up against the frigid wind of the unseasonable cold snap that had hit New York a day before the festival. Even Mobius is uncomfortably cold, and he’s wearing a wool suit. A new bespoke Italian wool suit that Loki had insisted upon for the festival. He almost wore a scarf, too, before Loki objected. Even though it was a nice scarf. Mobius had thought the outfit was pretty sharp, actually.

Clearly, Loki has somewhat warped views on what is appropriate for the weather, because he’s wearing some kind of shiny something that Mobius doesn’t even know how to describe—like a pair of trousers with a backless waistcoat attached on top, and nothing else. Christ, this man is dead set on ruining him. Especially because he huddles close for warmth, and Mobius has really no choice but to wrap his arms around him as hundreds of camera flashes go off from the press corps area nearby.

They’ve never been this close. Mobius has pressed a hand to his lower back, and Loki has draped himself off Mobius’s elbow, casual signs of affection that are easy, but this is quite beyond that. His hands splay over Loki’s bare skin as Loki tucks himself against his chest, and suddenly their faces are bare inches apart.

“You should kiss me,” Loki murmurs.

Mobius’s brain experiences a full shutdown, and it takes several moments to reboot. “What?” he manages, his voice strangled.

“We haven’t kissed for the cameras yet.”

Mobius does not remind him that they have not kissed at all, because they’re not actually dating. They don’t have to kiss. Lots of celebrity couples keep those things more private. Certainly plenty of them have never locked lips on the red carpet. Of course, Mobius knows as well as Loki that there have been rumors—blind items, chatter in the tabloids—that their relationship is just for PR. Which is true, but that’s not what they want people to think. A kiss would help sell it. That’s all this is.

No more than a few seconds can have passed, but it feels like an eternity before he manages to give a small nod. Loki is taller than him, so he has to stretch up on his toes a little as Loki dips his head to meet him. It doesn’t need to be more than a chaste press, but Loki’s lips, slightly tacky from the gloss he’s wearing, move softly against his and linger with the barest tug on Mobius’s lower lip as they part. It very effectively punches all the air from his lungs and leaves him reeling, which is kind of suboptimal because they’re still standing on the red carpet. Then there’s the fact that Loki just stares at him after they part, his eyes slightly wide like he hadn’t really meant to do that.

“Your lips are cold,” Mobius blurts, somewhat nonsensically, because he has no idea what else to say.

It turns out to be the right thing, though, because Loki laughs softly. “Can’t imagine why,” he drawls. He pulls away slightly, and Mobius tries not to feel disappointed about that. “Can we go inside now?”

“Just a few more minutes, sweetheart.” The endearment slips out, and he can feel Loki staring at him, but he doesn’t look over.

Instead, he does his job. Slide to the side so Loki’s outfit is visible. Lace their fingers together when Loki grabs his hand. Smile for the cameras.

Ignore the massive, hard knot settling into his gut.

~~~~~

Paris, France, November

“Yeah, I got it,” Mobius says over the phone as he wrestles his suitcase through the narrow hallway. “I’ll read it soon. It does look interesting.”

“The director specifically inquired about your schedule,” Ravonna tells him. “This is a very good sign, Mobius. You’re on people’s minds.”

“I know,” he sighs, because he’s tacitly admitting that she was right.

Even if this movie isn’t what he’s after, the fact that people are actually interested in him for the first time in… well, he can’t remember—it’s definitely good. And a little surprising. It’s not that he didn’t think the plan would work, but— ok, he didn’t really think this plan would work. Apparently he was wrong about that.

The numbers on the door to the hotel suite that’s been booked for them are ornately wrought in gold leaf, and he blinks at them for a moment before fumbling with the key. To say he doesn’t stay in places like this would be vastly understating things. The concierge had looked almost offended when he said he could handle is own bags. He’s a simple guy, not built for a life like this. Ravonna is rambling in his ear as he finally manages to get the door open, but when he steps into the suite he interrupts her without a thought.

“Ravonna, I’m gonna have to call you back.”

It’s huge, of course, and outfitted in Rococo fashion, with a large sitting area, what looks to be an office-slash-library, another sitting room, a bathroom larger than his first apartment, and a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed. One bed. He’s still staring at it when Loki pops up from where he’d been reclining on one of the couches and walks over to him.

“Where’s the bellboy?” he asks, peeking around Mobius’s back as if one might be hiding there. “I was going to send for champagne.”

“It’s ten in the morning,” Mobius protests, only half paying attention.

“Mimosas, Mobius. Catch up.”

“Sorry, is that the only bed in here?”

Loki pauses in his route to the room’s telephone and looks back at him, confused. “Of course. Didn’t they tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“One of those blind items about us was definitely leaked by a hotel staff member. The one about separate rooms? We can’t afford those kinds of rumors. Hence.” Loki waves his arm at the bed, then blithely continues on to the phone.

It makes sense of course, they would be sharing a room and a bed if they were really dating, but that doesn’t make it any easier for Mobius to deal with. “I guess there are a lot of couches,” he allows. None of them look like they’ll be great for his back, but it’s only a couple of days.

Loki frowns at him. “You can’t honestly be planning to sleep on a couch, Mobius,” he scoffs. “The bed is plenty big enough for the two of us. Plus, the cleaning staff might notice.”

“Yeah, of course,” Mobius says, biting down on an exasperated sigh. He’s jet lagged, and exhausted, and being reminded of how much of an act this whole thing is frays his last nerve. “It never ends,” he groans.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this,” Loki counters. “It’s not that big of a big deal.”

“Heaven forbid we actually get some moments where we don’t have to be performing, even when we’re alone!”

Loki goes stiff, his mouth narrowing in to a hard line, and Mobius knows he’s made a mistake. “Well. I’m sorry that this is so difficult for you,” he says, his voice cold and calm in the very worst way.

“Now wait a second, it’s not about—” Mobius tries, but Loki cuts him off.

“Excuse me, I need to use the restroom,” he says, then turns swiftly on his heel and marches into it, slamming the door behind him.

Mobius winces. Christ, he mucked this one up good. They’d been getting along so well that it’d been easy to sell that they enjoyed each other’s company, but this certainly isn’t going to help things. This trip was supposed to be a ‘romantic Parisian getaway’ for the two of them. Now it seems like they’ll be testing the limits of their acting ability. Bitterly, he thinks that Loki’s clearly a good enough actor that he shouldn’t have any trouble.

The bathroom door stays firmly shut for a long time, so Mobius the only thing he really he can. He unpacks the clothes that will wrinkle and puts them out to be pressed, pokes around the library for any interesting books—which he discovers must be mostly treated for show, given that they clearly haven’t been opened in quite a long time, and anyway are all in French—he even orders a bottle of champagne sent up, along with some fresh squeezed orange juice for good measure. After a while, when Loki still hasn’t emerged, Mobius hesitantly approaches and knocks softly.

“Loki? You ok?”

At first it doesn’t seem like there will be an answer, but there’s a soft curse, then the door flings open and Loki stares at him blankly. He’s wearing a bathrobe, and his hair is wet.

“Were you showering?” Mobius asks without thinking. It’s not really any of his business.

“I was in the bath,” Loki answers, his voice even. His face his carefully arranged, neither upset nor relaxed, but still, Mobius can’t help but feel like they took three steps backwards. “Did you want the shower?”

“Actually, yeah, if it’s not too much trouble. Planes, you know,” Mobius tries, offering a tentative smile.

“Right, of course,” Loki says with excessive politeness. “It’s all yours.”

“I ordered that champagne you wanted, by the way,” Mobius offers. “Orange juice too. Dunno if there was any other fancy stuff you wanted.”

That seems to take Loki by surprise. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Look, I’m sorry about earlier,” Mobius says in a rush, wanting to get it out before Loki can interrupt him again. “I was just— well, tired from all the travel, and I reacted poorly. You’re right, the bed is huge. And for what it’s worth, this isn’t difficult for me. I mean, spending time with you. I enjoy it.”

Those words have the curious property of being simultaneously entirely too honest and a massive lie, because this has in truth become incredibly difficult for him. Difficult not to give himself away. Difficult to reconcile what they do in public with their actual relationship. Difficult to keep from falling further and further in love with Loki every moment they spend together.

Loki’s expression softens, stuck somewhere between disbelief and relief before one corner of his mouth finally tugs upward. “That’s— well, that’s nice of you to say.”

“It’s the truth, Loki. You’re a great person.”

“That’s not a common opinion, I’m afraid,” Loki says dryly, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Well, they’re wrong,” Mobius insists. “They don’t really know you.”

“And you do?”

Mobius nods confidently. “I do now. And I know I’m lucky to be your… friend,” he finishes, just managing to avoid saying something absurd like boyfriend or partner. They’re friends now, that’s not a stretch to say.

For some reason Loki flinches at that, though, so subtly it’s almost invisible. Then he’s smiling quickly to cover it, falling into his usual teasing tone as he says, “You’re right, you are lucky, Mobius. Two days of basking in my glorious presence. How will you survive?” Barely, Mobius thinks, but he chuckles all the same. “Hey, you wanna go out after this? I’m famished, and we could see some sites?”

“Sure you want to?” Loki asks, his expression sobering a touch. “We could just order room service. I mean, if you want some time off from performing…”

Yup, Mobius is gonna regret saying that for a long time. He can’t explain that it’s easy for him to act like he’s Loki’s boyfriend. That he’s not actually pretending when he ends up giving him smitten looks from across a cafe table. (Mobius has seen the paparazzi photos in the tabloids. Photographic proof of how utterly gone he is, which is all fine because that’s what they want the world to see. People don’t realize that Mobius isn’t that good of an actor. Not this time, anyway.)

Instead, he says, too honest once again, “No, I want to. Do you come to Paris a lot?”

“Yes.”

“Then show me your favorite places, ok?”

“All right,” Loki says, slowly smiling again. A genuine smile this time, pleased, like no one’s ever asked him for something like that before. “It’s a date.”

It is a date, so much a date that Mobius has to remind himself frequently that it’s not real. They eat crêpes at a café, their legs tangling together under the table, then Loki drags him off to obscure museums and tiny yet stunning churches. They stroll through the Tuileries hand-in-hand as Loki eats gelato despite the cold, and Loki leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth as they sit by the Seine. (The thrill Mobius gets at that is severely tempered by the fact that he can see the paparazzi photographing them from across the river. It’s just a photo op. It’s always a photo op.)

It’s dark outside by the time Loki leads him to the catacombs, which Mobius is pretty sure are actually closed. Not that that makes much of a difference when you’re as famous and filthy rich as Loki. What it means, though, is that they have the place to themselves, which is actually pretty creepy considering they’re surrounded by row upon row of stacked human bones.

“Of course this would be one of your favorite places,” Mobius laughs.

Loki scoffs in obviously put-upon offense, pressing one elegant hand to his chest. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How often do you come here?”

“Every time I’m in the city,” Loki admits, grinning at him.

He’d walked a bit ahead, but now he comes back to stand by Mobius’s side as he stares up at the vaulted ceiling near where they’d entered. Mobius is so distracted by their surroundings that he doesn’t notice Loki reaching out until a hand slips into his, linking their fingers together. His head snaps to the side in surprise, but Loki is looking resolutely away.

“There’s no one here, you know,” he ventures, because apparently he can’t let himself have nice things.

“I know,” Loki says. He flashes a quick smile Mobius’s way before turning back to their surroundings. His fingers loosen a bit, as if giving Mobius the chance to pull away, which is of course the last thing Mobius wants to do. He tightens his own grip, and thinks he sees Loki’s lips quirk into a smile before he starts tugging him down a corridor.

Loki talks animatedly as they walk, telling stories about the catacombs that may or may not be factual, but Mobius finds that he doesn’t really care. He spends more time looking at Loki, anyway, at the way that the warm light reflects off the walls and illuminates the cut of his cheekbones and the curve of his lips. Maybe parts of this aren’t real. Maybe Loki isn’t really his, not in the way he wants, but Mobius wasn’t lying when he said he was lucky to call him a friend, and he decides then that he’s going to enjoy the time he does get, no matter how much it hurts in the end.

~~~~~

Torino Film Festival, December

Mobius doesn’t walk the red carpet in Torino; his flight is due to get in late, and Loki is busy with a press event for his movie anyway. He’s due to meet Loki later for some exclusive party, but in the mean time he has work to do; his agent managed to score him a dinner meeting with a director he’s always admired but never dreamed he’d get to work with, and who’s got a new, hush-hush movie entering pre-production soon. He refuses to get his hopes up, but the meeting goes really well, even if it does take an unexpected turn near the end.

“I hear you’re involved with Loki Odinson now,” the director says conversationally.

“Yeah,” Mobius confirms, a little uncomfortably. He’s never sure what to say when people start asking about his personal life, and it’s even more awkward now. “Do you know him?”

“Oh, yes. He was supposed to be in one of my movies a couple of years ago.”

“What happened?”

The director gives him an inscrutable look. “The official reason was scheduling,” he says after a moment. “But we couldn’t insure him.”

Shit, Mobius should have known. A ‘couple of years ago’ was when Loki started sliding off the rails: partying endlessly, walking off sets, publicly picking fights with his golden-boy actor brother. Loki generally doesn’t talk about it, so he knows very little but what was in the press, which is probably half bullshit and anyway definitely not the whole story. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say, how much he should know, but in the end he doesn’t really need to say anything.

“You seem good for him,” the director continues. “I always did think he just needed someone to really believe in him. I’m glad he found that.”

“Er, thanks,” Mobius manages, his throat abruptly tight. “I don’t think I have a lot to do with it, though.”

“Come now, Mobius. Don’t you know you’re in the film industry? Never sell yourself short,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

Mobius is still pondering his words while he’s waiting near the entrance to the party for Loki to arrive so they can go in together. He’s running late, of course, so Mobius ends up so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice Loki’s approach until the other man is nearly in front of him. When he does, though, his mouth nearly drops open. Loki is wearing what amounts to little more than minuscule black hot pants with a sheer body suit over them, the gossamer fabric spotted with green crystals and black lace that resolves somewhat into snakes and foliage as he gets closer. Very few people could pull something like that off, but Loki is absolutely one of them.

Now Mobius understands the emerald green jacket and black silk shirt Loki had sent him to wear. They actually look like they belong together, complementary but not too matchy-matchy, though Loki still outshines him by several megawatts. Loki smirks at his no doubt stunned expression, reaching up to unbutton several the shirt almost halfway down his chest, then drags his hands down Mobius’s front and leans in close to his ear.

“It’s a party, Mobius,” he murmurs before Mobius can object. “Live a little.”

They’re extensively photographed standing in front of some kind of wall made of dense shrubbery before finally they can go inside. There, at least, there won’t be any press or paparazzi, though still plenty of eyes on them. It should be relatively low pressure, and it is at first; they chat with the other guests, and though Loki knows more people than him, he does run into someone he did a movie with years ago and who he has a nice time catching up with. But then, as the night gets later, Loki insists on dragging him onto the dance floor. Mobius doesn’t dance. It’s just not in his makeup, but there’s no saying no to Loki. That’s what he tells himself, instead of admitting that he’s a complete pushover where this man is concerned.

Mobius does his best to try to move to the beat, which makes Loki laugh at him and grab his hips in an attempt to get him to swing them, or something. It’s definitely not going to work. What’s worse, though, is when Loki gives up and just starts grinding against him. Christ, Mobius doesn’t know where to put his hands, and he knows this isn’t supposed to be a big deal but it’s a lot to have Loki pressed against him like this, and if he keeps it up things are going to get really uncomfortable really fast—

“Need some air,” Mobius gasps, wrenching himself away and stumbling off the dance floor.

He has no idea where he’s going, but he finds an exit into some kind of enclosed courtyard. There are a few people scattered around, mostly smoking, but they pay him no attention as he hurries past them and finds a relatively secluded alcove behind a bush to collapse into. It’s quiet outside and no one disturbs him, which is why he jumps a mile when a hand lands on his shoulder a short time later.

“Mobius?” Loki asks, staring at him in concern. “Are you ok?”

“Oh yeah, fine and dandy,” he lies with an admittedly weak smile. “Just got a little tight in there, is all.”

“We can leave, if you want.”

“Only if you’re ready. I don’t want to cut your night short.”

Loki sighs, and leans against the wall next to him. “These things are never quite as fun when you’re sober.” He shivers almost violently in the winter chill, crossing his arms over his front, which does precisely nothing when you’re wearing as little as he is.

Mobius doesn’t really think, just says, “c’mere,” and pulls him into his arms, wrapping him up against the cold, and Loki tucks himself against him. It’s like New York all over again, except there aren’t a hundred cameras and screaming fans around them. Just them. Just Loki’s face, so close to his. Without planning to, he reaches up and presses a thumb to the side of Loki’s lower lip, and it still feels warm against his finger but he wonders if it would be cold against his mouth.

“Mobius,” Loki whispers.

He doesn’t know which of them moves first, or maybe they both move at once, but those lips are on his again, and it’s nothing like the brief, press-approved pecks that they’ve shared before. Loki tips his head and slots their mouths firmly together, parting his lips, licking past his teeth almost tentatively at first and then with more confidence when their tongues tangle together. They kiss and they kiss until Mobius’s lungs are burning, but he doesn’t dare pull away, doesn’t dare to break the spell. Then Loki shifts in his arms, and the press of their bodies together draws a low groan from his throat that finally makes Loki withdraw. Mobius is prepared for regret, or excuses, or an attempt to laugh it off—anything but how dark his eyes are when they meet Mobius’s.

“We should go,” Loki says, and the low, rough tone of his voice reaches all the way into Mobius’s gut and tugs.

It’s a miracle that they make it back to the right limo, and no sooner has Mobius settled into the back than Loki is climbing directly into his lap. There’s a broad, mischievous grin on his face before he ducks down to kiss a path along the edge of Mobius’s jaw and onward to work a spot below his ear in a way that Mobius is almost certain is going to leave a mark. Christ, it doesn’t matter, though, because it’s so damned good. His hands slide up Loki’s thighs over the lace bodysuit until his thumbs hit the crease of his hips, and when he digs his fingers into the sides of his ass Loki moans and his hips grind forward against the rapidly tightening region of Mobius’s pants.

“You want me,” Loki murmurs near his ear, punctuating it with a little nip to the taut muscle of his neck before he sits back with a teasing smile.

“Of course I do, you absolute demon,” Mobius groans. “Look at you.” He plucks at the lace. “This isn’t clothes. I swear you’ve been trying to drive me insane.”

“Is it working?” Loki asks, bending down close to the side of his face again.

“What do you think?” Mobius growls, then captures his mouth in another bruising kiss.

Getting up to the hotel room is a fucking trial, mostly because Loki refuses to detach himself from Mobius. Thank god there’s a discreet, private entrance to the hotel and an elevator that takes them nearly directly up to their suite. Somehow Loki manages to shed the bodysuit almost instantly—Mobius doesn’t even understand how it was fastened—leaving him in just the skin-tight booty shorts, and Mobius short-circuits briefly at the sight of all that bare skin. Then there’s the way his half-hard cock is straining against the fabric, which sends a jolt of white-hot desire surging deep into Mobius’s gut. Loki turns and walks toward the bedroom, swinging his hips in a way that should be illegal, and by the time Mobius manages to scramble after him he finds Loki perched on the edge of the bed and leaning back on his hands.

“Come here,” he says, his voice nearly a purr, and Mobius’s feet obey before he even registers the request.

He stands between Loki’s spread legs as the other man looks up at him through long eyelashes thick with mascara, and feels like he’s standing on the edge of a precipice. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he murmurs, letting his fingers trail lightly across Loki’s cheek. It seems impossible, but there’s no mistaking the hungry look Loki is giving him.

“Why not?” Loki asks, one perfect eyebrow arcing upward. “You want me. I want you. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

Right. It doesn’t have to mean anything, he might have well said. Which is true. It doesn’t have to. It can just be two people finding pleasure in each other’s company. Friends with benefits are a thing. Not a thing that Mobius has ever done, but a thing nonetheless. Loki is offering everything he wanted (not everything), everything he never thought he’d get (not even close).

Why not, indeed?

After all, it’s simple enough to lean down to kiss him in answer, to let Loki’s nimble fingers efficiently divest him of his shirt and trousers. It’s simple to lose himself in the eager slide of hands and the slick heat of Loki’s mouth; so very simple to push him backward into the bed and take him apart with mouth and fingers until he’s begging, to press inside him and surrender to the pleasure that floods through his body and overwhelms all of his senses.

What’s not simple is how he feels afterward, when Loki sprawls sleepily across his chest and tangles their legs together under the covers. When they spend all night like that, wrapped up in each other’s arms. When, the next morning, Loki acts like absolutely nothing has changed, like he hasn’t just completely upended Mobius’s life.

Mobius lays in the bed for a while, just watching as Loki blithely prattles on about their schedule for the day while he rifles through his wardrobe, and then he knows: it’s going to be fucking complicated.

~~~~~

Hollywood, California, New Year’s Eve

Mobius doesn’t know what he was expecting after Loki texts him and tells him to come over early before the party, that he should bring his suit and get ready at his place, but it wasn’t for Loki to drag him inside by the collar and press him against the wall by the door. Certainly he wasn’t expecting to be kissed breathless, or for Loki to lean in close and whisper, “Will you fuck me before we go tonight?”

They’ve slept with each other a few times since Italy. Usually after one of their scheduled appearances—which Loki now fills with suggestive innuendos and hidden, risqué touches because apparently his new goal in life is to make Mobius’s life as difficult as possible—but once Loki showed up at his house in L.A. in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a silk robe and a wicked grin. Sex with Loki is frequently playful and teasing, sometimes tender (Mobius tries not to think to hard about those moments), always mind-blowing, but it’s never been like this. Desperate. He doesn’t know what to do with that, but he also doesn’t know how to say no to Loki, so he nods and lets himself be dragged off toward the bedroom.

For someone who’s main goal seemed to be sex, Loki is surprisingly fully dressed in black slacks and a plain white button-down, as if his unexpected request was a last minute decision. He allows Mobius the handful of seconds it takes him to hang up his suit for tonight on an empty hook in the closet before he pounces, pulling him into another bruising kiss as his hands drop to Mobius’s belt. It’s overwhelming, frankly, but not so overwhelming that he doesn’t feel Loki’s hands tremble as they fumble with the buckle, and that yanks him firmly out of the hazy, lust-fueled fantasy.

“Hey, hold on a second,” Mobius says as he traps Loki’s hands with his own. “What’s going on with you?”

Loki actually whines in frustration, trying ineffectually to tug out of Mobius’s grip before fixing him with a scathing glare. “Nothing. I’m fine,” he growls. “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

“Actually, no. Not if you don’t tell me what’s gotten into you,” Mobius tells him flatly, punctuating it with an unimpressed look that makes him turn his face away. “This isn’t like you, Loki.”

“How would you know what’s like me?” Loki snaps, finally yanking his hands out of Mobius’s grasp and storming across the room. “A few months and you’re an expert now?”

“I think I know you pretty well, yeah,” Mobius counters, “and I know when you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Loki hisses in a way that does nothing to sell that assertion. “I’m just tense about tonight and need something to take the edge off. If you’re not interested, I’m sure I can find someone else.”

Mobius can’t quite suppress a wince, but he summons what mettle he can and stares defiantly back at Loki. “Sorry, not buying it.”

The look Loki gives him is pure ice. “You think I can’t? That I couldn’t call up any number of people and have them here at a snap of my fingers?”

“Oh no, I believe that part,” Mobius says with a humorless chuckle and an utterly mirthless smile. He makes himself stroll casually over to where Loki stands, getting into his space again. “I’m sure you could get just about anyone. I don’t think you will, though, because you won’t violate the agreement.”

The agreement—worked out between Loki’s people and Mobius’s people, and which they had precisely no say over—specified that neither of them would sleep with other people for the duration, no matter how discreet they thought they could be, because the potential for a leak was just too great. For Mobius, it certainly wasn’t going to be a problem. He didn’t fool himself that it would be the same for Loki. After Torino he’d written the sex off as a fluke, a moment of madness on Loki’s part perhaps, but when it kept happening he figured that the only reason Loki was sleeping with him now was because he couldn’t have anyone else. It made more sense than the alternative, that Loki actually wants him, of all people.

Loki stares at him for a long moment, his eyes dipping to Mobius’s lips in a way that seems almost involuntarily before he drags them back up again. When he speaks again his voice is so low it’s nearly a murmur. “How do you know I haven’t already?”

“Because I know you, Loki,” Mobius answers, just as quietly. “Maybe you are tense about tonight, but that’s not all of it. So I’m gonna ask again: what’s going on?”

Another beat. Loki looks off across the room, biting his lower lip so fiercely Mobius thinks he’s going to draw blood, and when he finally turns back he looks… shattered. “Tonight’s your final obligation,” he says, his voice unsteady. “Must be a relief.”

“…What?”

He swallows and sniffs, tipping his chin up in a weak pantomime of indifference. “No more performing. You won’t have to pretend any longer.”

Mobius can’t help it: he laughs. He doesn’t mean to, especially since Loki’s clearly upset about this in some way that he can’t quite figure out, but the whole thing is just absurd.

Predictably, Loki looks taken aback at this response. “What’s so funny?”

“Loki, I haven’t been pretending for months,” Mobius sighs. At this point, it seems silly to hold anything back. He might as well know. “I’m in love with you. So if you think tonight is going to be a relief, well. You couldn’t be more wrong.”

In all the ways he might have pictured Loki reacting to such news, he never expected him to look utterly baffled. “But…” Loki trails off, searching Mobius’s face; for what, Mobius doesn’t know. “You can’t be.”

“Oh, I assure you, I can,” Mobius says, smiling a little miserably. Loki’s just staring with his mouth hanging open, so he forges on. “Look, I know you didn’t want things to be complicated, and this is the exact opposite. I never wanted to put you in this position—”

The rest of whatever he was going to say is cut off when Loki kisses him again, and there’s some desperation in it, sure, but not in the same way. Not even close. Loki’s hands are holding either side of his face, long fingers digging into his hair, his kisses slow, deep, and utterly all-encompassing. Mobius has never been kissed like this, with such focus and care, with such pure emotion poured into it and leaking out with every gasped breath. Even when Loki finally breaks the kiss he presses their foreheads together, like he can’t bear any further space between them.

“Please, complicate it,” he breathes into the narrow gap, shifting his head slightly so their noses brush together.

“Does that mean…?” Mobius trails off, because it kinda feels like a stupid question, but still. He’d like to be sure.

Loki pulls back so he can look him in the eye as he says, “I’m in love with you, Mobius. I just never thought…” He glances down and gives his head a little shake. “You’re one of the few genuinely good people in this business, you know that? I don’t deserve you.”

“Hey, no. None of that,” Mobius says, cupping a hand around Loki’s cheek and urging his face upward again. “I won’t have you talking badly about the person I love,” he teases gently.

“Mobius,” Loki groans as he rolls his eyes.

“You are good, Loki,” Mobius insists, his expression sobering. “You are.”

He honestly expects more arguing, but Loki just looks off across the room, the corners of his eyebrows thoughtfully quirking upward in the middle. “I wanted it to be real,” he says quietly. “But the further things went, the more I convinced myself it never could be. That you’d never… never really feel that way about me. Even now, I feel as if this is some kind of fever dream. I’m going to wake up tomorrow and you’ll be gone.”

“I won’t be,” Mobius promises, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind Loki’s ear. “Is that what this was all about? One last hurrah before the end?”

“Something like that,” Loki admits wryly. Perfect white teeth dig into his lower lip as he slowly drags it through them. “I wanted it to be hard and rough. I wanted to feel you for days afterward.”

“Jesus Loki,” Mobius huffs, gaping at him in disbelief. He swallows hard, unsure of how to respond to that. “And now? What do you want?”

Loki lifts a hand to Mobius’s face, dragging a finger lightly along his hairline and down to the crest of his cheekbone. “Just you,” he murmurs. “In whatever way you’ll have me.”

How about that? It turns out that it is simple, after all.

[eievuimultimuse]

been rotating some thoughts around about 07 verse SF and his mental health for the past while, so i finally decided to write it down. placed under a cut for others' comfort. please heed the tags; readers' discretion is advised. ALSO disclaimer: this will not come up in RP as per my own rules under 'subject matter'. this is purely for the purpose of exploring and fleshing out his character in this verse.

it is an undeniable fact that the loss of baxter deeply and negatively impacted SF. he never got over his 'death,' and it is his direct motivation for many of his decisions following his death. one major concerning aspect to this, which SF has never spoken aloud himself, is that he genuinely feels that he can never be truly happy again without his father.

it's worth noting that SF's reaction to his father's grief is consistent with several symptoms of prolonged grief disorder. such symptoms include: "Identity disruption (such as feeling as though part of oneself has died," "Intense emotional pain (such as anger, bitterness, sorrow) related to the death," "Difficulty with reintegration (such as problems engaging with [family], pursuing interests, planning for the future), and "Intense loneliness (feeling alone or detached from others)." PGD is also diagnosable in adults if the subject of their grief passed away a year ago. SF has long since passed that threshold, given that it's been several years since they lost baxter.

SF also seems to experience complicated grief. symptoms include (not including ones shared with PGD): "Focus on little else but your loved one's death," "Extreme focus on reminders of the loved one or excessive avoidance of reminders," "Intense and persistent longing or pining for the deceased," "Problems accepting the death," "Lack of trust in others," "Inability to enjoy life or think back on positive experiences with your loved one," "Isolate from others and withdraw from social activities," "Experience depression, deep sadness, guilt or self-blame," "Believe that you did something wrong or could have prevented the death," and — and this is a major one — "Feel life isn't worth living without your loved one" (note: it's unclear to me if this is completely separate from PGD or if it's an umbrella term or what. in any case, this page brought up points not listed on PGD that i wanted to address since they were relevant, thus it gets its own paragraph)

following the complete catastrophe that was his revenge scheme, resulting not only in his failure to carry it out but also causing his siblings to leave him out of revulsion of his actions ( which also nearly cost two of them their lives ), SF enters a significant depressive episode. the primary symptoms of this are self-isolation, feelings of emptiness and loss of interest in most if not all typical activities. in regard to the symptom of self-isolation specifically, a phrase that you'll see me repeatedly say in regard to 07 SF, especially during this depressive episode, is that if he doesn't want to be found, he generally won't be. the first few days following his siblings leaving him, he was completely off the grid with no one knowing his whereabouts nor if he was safe. he was thankfully found safe and well, though it was by pure chance.

as touched upon when mentioning the symptoms of complicated grief, SF does unfortunately experience suicidal ideations. typically, they are passive ideations, and have been a persistent issue throughout his time following baxter's 'death.' he has had one instance of active ideation, but it is very important to know that he has not, nor will not, ever consider acting on any of these thoughts.

just to end things off on a lighter note, however, he does eventually grow better and starts recovering once he learns to let go of some of the bitterness he feels and recognizes that some of it has been misplaced. he does also stop being to detached which allows him access to an actual support system rather than trying to face his demons alone.

[nalyra-dreaming]

Question about the vampire powers in the show. (love all your posts, they have been super helpful!) I have only read up to QOTD, but at that point, Lestat was already powerful enough to withstand the sun because he drank from Akasha, right? How come that's not the case in the show? Shouldn't he already be functionally immortal? It's been awhile since I read any of the books but what they do to him in ep 7 really shouldn't incapacitate him for very long...which makes me wonder if they have worse planned for him later on

Hey nonny!

So glad you like all the posts :)) Glad to help! Little spoiler for the next book you'll (maybe^^) read!

Ok, so no, he was not powerful enough to withstand the sun before QotD. He (kinda) doubted he was after, even, since he (tells himself at least) that he is committing suicide in Tale of the Body Thief. (Even though he also admits that he doubted it would be enough, deep down.) Lestat has two "Akasha-encounters" - I believe they left the first encounter in The Vampire Lestat more or less intact, only adapted to the new timeline. Rolin Jones said in the podcast that QotD was still to come, as well as TotBT. So that event has not been shown yet. (It likely has already happened in modern Dubai though.) And while the first encounter was a severe power-up, it was the second one that kicked him out the stratosphere, power-wise. He likely became functionally immortal then.

Lestat reminisces in The Vampire Lestat that Claudia probably would have succeeded without that first boost by Akasha and Marius. But you are right, they left him... errr... "unattended" for far too long, he was too strong already for a "simple" death like that - if that is what happened. Which is... unlikely imho.

Claudia's recorded words do not match, the pages detailing the fight with Lestat are cut out. Louis is fabricating a story, for himself or for Daniel is obviously open for debate, and it pulls everything we got to see into doubt. (There was a very good Gizmodo article on this here.)

There was also that bts photo of them finding the swamp location... it might have been a ruse (this show is exceptionally good in toying with us on all levels (I adore that tbh)), but then we have only half the story, to quote Armand. If you go by the book then we... might still get to see/hear the "true" fight. I'm not sure if they'll show us or if they'll imply it. But either way Lestat will have things to do in the second season. I believe his arc with what was will likely be expanded, as well as what happened in Paris. If that is worse... or if it is worse what really happened at Rue Royale... I don't know. It probably was for Louis. Will be, too. The scene in the book was terrible, worse indeed than what we got to see, since Louis drenched that scene in Lestat's acceptance. Lestat in the books begs Louis to put him into his coffin and calls out to him 11 times... and Louis doesn't.

[graciliss]

Young Cadaver's Foxtrot - short story out now!

surprise everyone! I finally released some writing 🥴 this is obviously just yk. a small thing but it's a story I've kinda had lying around for a while and since it otherwise was gonna decay in my docs anyways I thought "fuck it, why not post it."

you can read the story right here!

it's a short horror story detailing a teen named luke and his brother, noah's move to a new neighbourhood and a mysterious line of dancing children spotted in the woods near their new home. the phenomenon and events following it fundamentally shake luke and his family.

feedback is much appreciated! below the cut you'll find some of my own commentary on the story, but please do read things first as this contains the themes and means of interpretation I personally put forth for this.

additionally if anybody wants me to post it on Tumblr too please let me know.

first of all I'm mad I spelled the word 'cadaver' wrong for the title page 💀 I only learned recently that it's cadaver and not cadavre so I'm malding. I'm so professional (/s)

however. onto actually author's notes:

the process

the idea kind of came to me all at once, really. it was roughly a year ago, I was at work and Kikuo's Corpse Dance was looped in my head while doing tasks and the ideas came from there. it was one of those stories that seemed a lot cooler in my head as fragmented key scenes LMAO. needless to say I wasted zero time getting the plot jotted down, and I believe I managed to finish the core story in a matter of two or three days.

what took me so long was the editing lol. the editing of this story was kind of hellish, with me trying to snip a few things out and failing to do so. however, the main change was the characterisation of noah.

he was written too.... normally in the beginning, and with the direction I was planning to go for the story, a relatively well-adjusted kid would not be the kind of person I had in mind as a victim to the dancing frenzy. instead, I decided upon writing him as already being established to be rather unstable.

what I additionally changed from the first draft was the dance itself. it seemed too comprehensible, too executable in the first draft (and I didn't want it to resemble Kikuo's MV too much). other than this, most changes were minor.

the ideas and themes

I had several concepts swirling about in my head while writing and editing this, though I don't know how I feel about the execution.

the main ones at play here, I'd say, are suicide, its signs leading up to it and the aftermath. you already know what happened to noah, and you now need to watch it unfold. the signs leading up to everything are obvious as a reader and is purposefully made to be agonising in this way.

additionally, there's luke and the fact that he was a bitter, angsty 15 year old. he makes incredibly stupid decisions... because he's 15. the amazing thing is I can blame everything on that (/j), and you then get the commentary of a now 20 year old luke on top of it, along with the guilt he continues to feel for everything, including things that ultimately were out of his control and not really his fault.

---

this commentary isn't really coherent icl. however I hope it does provide a little more insight to my writing process at the very least 👍 enjoy

[goblinfaggot]

Here are some things I would like to say in response to this:

1. The idea that having someone to proofread your work or give feedback is a financial issue is laughable, especially in the context of an event originally designed as "just get as many pages out as you can for a first draft instead of worrying about editing etc". Those 'certain phases' of the writing shouldn't really be a part of the event, and if they mean something other than those 'certain phases' I don't know what they could be cos all you actually need to write is a decent pen, enough ink, and a pile of paper (add a computer with a browser the internet for specifically doing an official nanowrimo entry).

2. Ai doesn't have emotions, or even know what anything is, and cannot provide real feedback beyond "this is the kind of thing people say when they give feedback" or "this is more or less similar to another piece of writing" or "the order you put the words in is similar to the order those words were put in other places".

3. The stuff about ableism reads like it was written by an ai and has several weird errors - "not all brains have same abilities" is nonstandard grammar that makes most sense if it's mocking people with lower literacy and "...all writers "should" be able to perform certain functions independently or is a position..." is nonsense that suggests they had another thing to say but edited it out (and nonsense when the functiobs are things like "think of a story, convey it in words", you might not be a 'good' or popular writer but you'll actually be writing). Both of these would have been caught by a regular non-ai spellchecker, or probably by anybody proofreading them (assuming they had the financial means to click "spellcheck" or ask a friend to read over it).

4. If you need ai to "brainstorm or spark inspiration", you might just not be cut out for writing. Go look at a leaf or talk to an old person or something.

5. As I said before, the point of nanowrimo was originally to get past "get[ting] hung up on finding the perfect way to say something" by just writing roughly what you mean or a note to come back to it and keeping going.

6. "Quinn entered the dark and cold forest" is not a boring sentence it is just a concise one, and the fact that I wrote "quinn entered the cold dark forest" before checking it shows that the phrasing has a distinct quality that wouldn't necessarily be there if it was written by someone else or an ai. The rephrased sentence contains more adjectives but is not better for it and reads as indulgent and patronising to me. I also don't believe an actual person wrote the ad.

7. You're the writer, you decide what happens, and you don't have to be a writer. If you need ai to make your writing more interesting so that you can manage to not get too bored writing drafts for ai to change based on the story an ai came up with for you, maybe just don't be a writer. If you don't have any stories to tell and don't want to tell them, simply do something else. It's really easy to not write a novel. If you just want the kudos for writing a novel, or you like the idea of "being a writer", simply get used to the idea that you have to actually do a thing to be recognised for it. If you want to write to make money, eat shit and die.

NaNoWriMo, the competition whose raison d'etre is making people write actual words for a month, declaring that you can do writing with AI is a predictably inane choice. But coaching their statement in social justice language about how banning AI is classist and ableist, now that elevates it to the sublimely dopey

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"ROB CITY BANK OF $12,500, SHOT FIRED BY ROBBER," Toronto Star. September 1, 1943. Page 1. --- Three Men, One With Rifle, Loot Bank of Montreal Branch ---- HIT POLE IN FLIGHT ---- "We got enough. alone! Let's go!" eave them With these words, one of three armed men, who robbed the Bank of Montreal branch at Royce and Symington Aves. of $12,549 today, stopped one of his companions from shooting Lewis Cameron, the teller. The man had already fired one shot before his companion stopped him. It had narrowly missed D'Arcy Richardson, the accountant, and R. C. Purton, the relieving manager. One man carried a rifle, the others revolvers.

An intensive police hunt was started in the district, with police cruisers and detective cars from all divisions being ordered to concentrate on the bank area.

Police believed one of the robbers suffered a severely cut hand when he broke a pane of heavy glass, either over the cashier's grille or in the bank's front door.

Mrs. Lewis Cameron, wife of the bank teller, gave the alarm when she heard a shot as she was doing her housework in the apartment above the bank.

As the speeding car in which the trio made their getaway swung north on Symington Ave. from Royce it sideswiped a pole, was damaged, but kept on going.

Police were given a license number by Mrs Cameron, and were checking a car with a similar number reported stolen a few days ago.

"ARMED TRIO ESCAPE WITH $8,000 IN DAYLIGHT BANK ROBBERY," Toronto Star. September 1, 1943. Page 2. --- SAW ROBBERS Alex Stuart, 18, of Jane St., saw the three men enter and later flee the bank.

SCENE OF ROBBERY ON ROYCE AVE. Three armed men walked into this Bank of Montreal branch, Royce and Symington Aves., and escaped with more than $8.000 after herding the bank staff and several customers behind the counters.

CUSTOMER THREATENED Miss Jennie Copithorn, a depositor, was forced, with the bank staff, to lie on the floor.

"BANK MANAGER DEFIES THUG WON'T OPEN DOOR OF VAULT," Toronto Star. September 1, 1943. Page 2. --- Threats Fail to Move Him Robbers Flee With Cash ---- AT ROYCE AVE. BANK ---- Scores of police squad cars combed a wide area in West Toronto today for a stolen car carrying three men who robbed the Bank of Montreal's Royce and Symington branch of $8.000 to $10.000 shortly before noon today.

The three men, whom witnesses described as well-dressed and in their mid-twenties, herded the staff behind the counter and forced them to lie on the floor.

Besides the relieving manager, R. A. Purton, and the accountant, T. G. Richardson, there were in the bank. Miss M. Stitt and the teller, Lewis Cameron. Another woman employee. Miss F. L. Price, was down- stairs in the vault at the time. A third girl employee was out to lunch.

Refused to Open Vault An official of the bank's Toronto head office, said one robber told Mr. Purton: "Go open that vault."

"I won't," the bank official quoted the manager as saying.

"You'd better or it will be too bad you," the robber said.

"I don't care what you do. I won't open the vault. If you shoot me you'll hang for it anyway."

The bank official said the shot was fired following this conversation, the bullet going above the manager's head. The man then rushed to the teller's cage and scoop ed the money from there.

Miss Jennie Copithorn, Antler St., was the only customer in the bank at the time. She, too, was herded with the staff behind the counter and forced, with threats, to lie on the floor.

"It was about five minutes to 12. I was standing at the counter by the window with my back to the manager's office signing a cheque. I heard loud rough voices and turned to see three men, Miss Copithorn said.

"I heard one of them say, 'Stick up your hands, I mean business. They then got everybody to lie on the floor, but first they fired a shot over the head of the accountant into the door of the vault.

"The three men were about 25 or 26, I guess, and all pretty well dressed. One was dressed in gray trousers with a gray checked coat. He was about 27. He was carrying a gun. I think it was a rifle. Another was shorter and very dark, and dressed in a brown suit. His hand was badly cut. I think it was from the glass on the manager's door. The third man, whom I did not see closely, was dressed in gray also.

"The dark one, that is the one in the brown suit, appeared very nervous. His gun kept waving around. A couple of them went behind the counter and one went through the teller's wicket and scooped up all the cash he could. Another went into the vault. Then they all ran out and jumped in a car and drove away. I could not see the car because I could not get to the door in time, but I do not think the whole thing took more than three or four minutes."

All Trying to Get in Car Mrs. Lewis Cameron, wife of the teller, who lives in the apartment above, was the first to 'phone the police after she heard a shot.

"I was working in the kitchen when I heard a great deal of shouting and then a shot," she said. "I knew it was in the bank downstairs and I rushed to the front of the apartment and looked out. I saw three men trying to clamber into a car at the curb. They were all trying to get in at the same time. One finally got at the wheel and shouted to the others to close the door. The car started off in such a rush that the open door was banged against a light standard and smashed."

Mrs. Cameron said "the men appeared drunk, or highly nervous, as they were wobbling when they ran to the car." She said one man appeared to throw a leather pouch on the sidewalk as he ran.

"I did not see a gun," she said, "but I remembered to get the license number of the car as it went away. Then I went to the phone and called the police right away. I gave them the license number of the car."

Mrs. Cameron said she was alarmed after hearing the shot that the men might try to get up to her apartment. The stairs leading to the apartment are right inside the bank," she said.

In Bank Only Few Minutes Alex Stuart, 18, witness, said: "They came along Royce Ave, in a dark green 1941 sedan and turned sharply at Campbell Ave, and came back to the bank. They stopped right in front of the bank door. They jumped out of the car and walked into the bank fast. They were in only about five minutes. When the first one came out he had a brown paper bag in his hand. The last one had something in his hand but my vision was blocked and I couldn't see what it was. They pulled away up Symington without closing the car door."

The license number given police was that of a man living in Napanee. Police said the description of the robber's car does not tally with that registered under the name of the Napanee resident. Instead, they suggested, the license number was likely one similar, that of a car reported stolen several days ago.

The man with the rifle was described at 24 or 25 years, five feet 10 inches, slim build, dark hair, pale complexion, gray suit. The second man was between 22 and 23, about five feet eight, dark hair, round full face, dark trousers and a tan shirt. The third man was described as being only about five feet, between 24 and 25, wearing a brown suit and no hat.

The robbers took a bank revolver with them when they fled.

[beckleysbooks]

We're Better Off Now, Right?

Welcome and thanks for checking out my blog. While this is my first official "blog", I actually began "blogging" back in 1989/90. I didn't know that I was "blogging", one might consider it a "Pre-Historic Blog". God bless Cara Ogier, my personal assistant at the time. She religiously faxed my famous "Gary's Ticker Tape" messages to all my real estate colleagues several times a week, for years on end! It was my way to inform all of my co-workers of my real estate listings and the odd "coming and goings" of the trade. Nobody else "blogged" at the time; it was unheard of. I just knew that I had to make the most of this latest cutting edge invention, the fax machine. I even faxed my colleagues whilst on my holiday in Honolulu in 1988. Cost me $10USD to simply say, "Having a great time", but it was worth every cent to be on the cutting edge of technology.

Fast forward to 2023 in warp speed, and here I am "blogging" again. Put this down to my recently released historical fiction, "Oh! Susannah". Yeah, it might seem like warp speed, but in reality, ten years' worth of research went into this 700+ page book, and then there was the two and a half years of diligently putting pen to paper and crafting the storyline. Yep, that's right. The facts came first and foremost, then the fictional storyline was woven. Devon from the prestigious "Loganberry Books" stated in his review of my work, "Beckley effortlessly weaves fact and fiction ... (and) if you like Alex Haley, you'll like Gary Beckley." Ok, I never expected that, but all my efforts were focused on bringing to life my third great grandmother, a woman who gave her short life in devotion to her family. Susannah Reigle Beckley is the person who was responsible for instilling in our family the principles, which have held firm and true down through the generations. And yet, there was no acknowledgement of her contribution. For God's sake, nobody is for sure even where her final resting place is. I have a clue. I believe from my research, that she rests unknown in an unmarked grave in an elevated sunny plot within the Arabia Cemetery in Carroll County, Ohio. You can purchase the book on my website: www.beckleysbooks.com or through Amazon and Barnes & Noble to learn more.

But, I digress. We're better off today, right? Susannah was born in 1830, married on June 17, 1852, and died November 23, 1869, a mere 39 year old lass and mother of 9 children. My website is where you will see gobs of pictures of people, places and things within the photo gallery, which mirrors the chapters in the book. I've been told that my research and writing brings the reader to the front and center of what it was like in the 19th century as a woman. Do you want to know my biggest surprise from my research efforts? Women weren't necessarily forced to live the subservient role back then, many of them embraced it. Brought up to fulfill "The True Womanhood" model from the age of twelve, 19th century women fashioned their life around the upbringing of their children in hopes that the children would reach heaven and that as mother's they would be remembered. This simple desire, and knowing that nobody knew anything of Susannah Reigle's life and contribution, convinced me that I just had to tell her story.

So, what was it really like living life in rural northeast Ohio during the civil war? Was it that much different than the life we lead today? Well, yes and no. When it comes to relational matters within the family, married frontier women had transitioned from an equal partnership with their husband to a subservient role and had accepted the fallacy that they were only capable of achieving a singular result from their efforts, either focus on their family or divert their attention and resources elsewhere at the expense of the family. The follow up to this perceived truth was the accepted notion that women had no standing within the law, not even the rights to their own children! It was an all too familiar and easy slip down the societal slope then, of embracing the feeble, emotionally and physically weak perception of women as a whole. It was an accepted arrangement that worked well, particularly for the men at the time, for if it hadn't been for the "womenfolk at home" embodying the glue that held the family together, there would have been no functioning family unit.

It doesn't surprise me that today women are still the main, and sometimes, sole caregivers to their children. When it comes to instilling life principles and ethics, often that falls upon the mamas of today too. Back in Susannah's day, the sole guardian of reproduction rights fell upon the woman. I address this in my book in the chapter labeled, "The Birth Control Battlefield". Is it much different today? Newspaper editors back in the 19th century printed advertisements from the local pharmacist specifically aimed at young new-to-be brides. Carefully coded, but clearly understood, verbage and instruction of what products she would need to collect from them before her wedding night. Abortion was a recognized and frequently used option by women of this era. In many instances, self administered "folk" treatments were attempted by pregnant women. The results of some of these self harm methods affected these women for the remainder of their life. Sadly, I address this topic in my book too, but, what about today? Are we any better off today than those women 170 years ago? Last year the United States Supreme Court put in motion with their historic overturning of the accepted law of the land, Roe V Wade, a cataclysmic shift in the life of today's women. It brought in focus the question of the rights of a woman over her own body and her reproductive rights. The ripple affect of this decision across the nation washes ashore in Ohio tomorrow, as buckeyes vote on a statewide issue concerning the rules regulating the amending of the State's constitution. So, what does that have to do with anything? Simply put, one political party wants to alter the standing rule of the simple majority, when it comes to constitutional amends, to exact a 60% clear majority to make the change. Rumor has it, that if this "issue" doesn't pass in tomorrow's election, "women's rights activists" may persuade just enough voters in the November election to codify the woman's right to an abortion.

Allow me to unpack this matter from an historical perspective. Difference of opinion and political philosophy has existed from the very birthing of this country. In 1840, parties were officially formed and recognized as convenient conduits to package and push the party line. In my humble opinion as a political scientist, the only reason political parties exist is to fan their base with the particular "truth" the party faithful want to hear and believe. Cue the 19th century. Men and women lived their lives back then believing in what they wanted to be the true and right social norm. I couldn't help responding to a recent post by a woman online of the persuasion that she and everyone she knew should vote "yes" on Issue 1 because "the majority should rule". I asked a simple question of her, "What does one call 50.1%?"

I'm not here to debate the pros and cons of abortion, just to point out from a broader perspective, that both political parties are experts at packaging their message to their base, who in turn are encouraged to recruit others to their cause. Where does these arguments, though, leave the pregnant woman in today's society. What options does she have in this circumstance? Alas, I apologize for digressing once again.

We're better off now, right? I'd love to know your thoughts. Don't be shy. Your opinion counts here on my "ticker tape" blog. I may or may not agree with you, but I'd love to hear what your thoughts are. Imagine on any given Sunday morning across this great land of ours, in the sanctuaries of all the churches that abound, preachers could be interrupted during their sermon and questioned, and congregants could express their opinions on the subject matter at hand, as opposed to being "preached" to. I certainly don't want my blog to resemble or reflect me "preaching my gospel", so, let's have some discourse. Who knows? From discussion of differences, on a whole, we might come to better understanding of one another, and in doing so, perhaps we'll be able to answer the question - "We're better off now, right?"

[anghraine]

“per ardua ad astra” - chapter six

I’m so glad everyone is reading this for domesticity, emotional ineptitude, and EU-ignoring headcanons.

last chapter:

He probably wasn’t used to people sticking around, either. For the Rebellion, sure. But she hadn’t saved him for the Rebellion. She saved him because she didn’t want him to die.

On some unclear instinct, Jyn smiled back, still more cautiously. “I haven’t got us this far for you to fall apart on me now.”

this chapter:

Welcome home flashed into her mind, her memories flung from that dimly-remembered apartment in Coruscant to the Rebel base on Yavin. Maybe he meant the Rebellion, but she hadn’t. It wasn’t the Rebellion who stuck by her at Jedha. It sure as hell wasn’t at Eadu. It wasn’t the Rebellion who marched at her side after the snarling fight on the ship. Or ever.

chapters: one, two, three, four, five

Ten minutes after swallowing the sedatives, Cassian still peppered Jyn with questions. He wanted to know every word she spoke to the quartermaster, the doctor, the NCOs in the mess hall. He wanted every name she’d heard, no matter how trivial. He wanted every detail she’d manufactured about Isidar Lyr, every hint of a hint from Bodhi. He wanted directions to everything she’d seen, her estimates of distances and descriptions of architecture.

In any other circumstance, Jyn would have told him where he could stuff his questions. But he needed to know, if not all of it at this exact moment.

“Do sedatives not work on you?” she finally demanded. She could almost believe he’d built up some sort of resistance. Maybe Draven just dosed his people until they turned immune or dropped dead.

“They’ll work,” Cassian replied, with the slight lilt she was starting to recognize as amusement. “Eventually.”

Jyn rolled her eyes and flopped back on her bed, one knee propped up. After everything, there was an odd relief in annoyance.

“My turn,” she said.

“I have been unconscious for almost two days,” said Cassian. “I know nothing you have not told me.”

His voice steadied as he spoke, flattened into his usual sober practicality. Maybe more. Definitely more. Well, he wouldn’t like that, would he? Jyn knew that Cassian trusted her, probably more than any other living person, but it didn’t mean he cared to depend on information from an untrained third party.

He could talk about agents lacking information, and it might be true enough for most of them. But not for Cassian himself. He wasn’t some foot soldier—whatever went for foot soldiers among spies. He had status and authority, when he chose to use them. He’d raised the forces for their mission before Jyn or anyone else had any idea it’d happened, the Alliance leadership knew who he was, and he seemed to know just about everything there was to know about everyone. She didn’t believe for a single moment that he had a habit of depending on others.

Another thing they had in common. Those were racking up, really. At this rate, they’d turn out to be twins separated at birth.

Ugh.

“You know nothing about the Death Star, maybe,” said Jyn. “But I’m curious about Willix. I’ve never seen an identity slice like it. And I’ve seen some good ones.”

“Have you?”

On the point of answering, she scowled. “I didn’t think you hurt your eardrums. I said Willix, not Hallik.”

Cassian didn’t reply, which could mean anything from finally starting to drift off to simmering anger. Jyn chose to take it as compliance.

“I checked his profile,” she went on, “and I don’t know whether to be more impressed or disgusted. Who put that thing together?”

“Disgusted?” said Cassian. “By what?”

Another one of his non-answers. Relevant this time, though, so she let it pass.

“You, or someone—probably multiple someones—went to enormous trouble with Willix,” she told him. “That level of detail … it’s incredibly difficult, and dangerous, too. Easier to get caught that way.”

“Yes,” he said, tone betraying nothing.

“And then you chose Cassein for your secret spy name? Really?” Even lying down, she shook her head. “And I thought Lyr was bad.”

“I did not choose it.” Somehow, his unchanged voice managed to sound slightly offended.

“Well, who did?”

“The Willixes, I assume,” he said.

After one bemused moment, her thoughts adjusted. “He’s real?” That made more sense—the risky accumulation of detail, the easy clearance. “You stole the entire identity of an actual Imperial captain?”

Not as impressive, to be sure. But in another way, more so.

“Mm.” He yawned, and she didn’t know whether to take it as a good sign or misdirection. “The name is common on Alderaan. That we share it is … happy coincidence.”

“You don’t quite share it,” she remarked.

“A dialectical variation.”

Misdirection, Jyn decided. She felt pretty sure that nobody with that many drugs in his system should be able to think the words dialectical variation, much less say them.

Though, common on Alderaan—now that was a distraction. But it kept coming up. Princess Leia of Alderaan, the Rebel spy en route to the Death Star. Her father, the senator from Alderaan who’d founded the Rebellion and actually listened to Jyn’s speech. Cassein Willix, an Alderaanian farmer turned Imperial officer. When she thought about it, she felt as if she saw something out of the corner of her eye, something she should pick up but couldn’t quite make out. Presumably not as happenstance as it seemed, in any case.

She settled for, “Seems odd that the Rebellion would go after some random officer out of Alderaan. It’s as friendly territory as you’ve got, isn’t it?”

Dialectical variation ran through her mind again. Cassian-Cassein. His accent when he dropped into Willix—not much different to her ears, just more pronounced, an easy method for soothing Coruscanti superiority. The way he spoke of Princess Leia, respect and familiarity blended together. He’d weighed in on her appointment, analyzed her strengths and weaknesses, been told when and where she was supposed to be.

“Unless they wanted an Alderaanian,” Jyn said, before he could reply. “Specifically.”

“It was not … essential,” Cassian said. “Preferable, yes.”

“Because of Princess Leia?” asked Jyn. “The Rebellion wanted someone to keep an eye on her?”

“To assist her,” he corrected.

“Right. So they used Willix as her … aide or something?”

Cassian said, “No. An Imperial officer is not an aide to a civilian. But one might occasionally be placed to, ah, protect a senator suspected of Rebel sympathies.”

“Might be?” Pointlessly, she tugged at the grey material loose about her thighs, rubbed the material between her fingers. One of the higher quality fabrics she’d ever worn, really. “If spies whispered in the right ears?”

“Yes.”

If she got out of here, she was burning this uniform. And Cassian’s. But a laugh tickled her throat, too.

“I suppose said spies suggested that an Alderaanian princess might be more likely to lower her guard around an Alderaanian officer,” said Jyn. “Such as, say, Cassein Willix.”

“So I hear,” Cassian replied. “Of course, I was not personally present.”

“Because you had to be Willix.” Despite everything she’d done and lived, her head still swam, a bit. “A Rebel spy, pretending to be an Imperial spy, pretending to protect a different Rebel spy while in fact keeping tabs on her for the Empire, but actually doing it for the Rebellion because she’s invaluable but unreliable. Is that it?”

“Almost,” he said. “The princess’s temperament was a consideration, but we would not expend these resources simply to monitor her. The primary concern was that any transmissions she sent or received would be intercepted. By the nature of her assignment, the Rebellion needed direct contact with her, yet could not risk it. And there were other agents in Imperial City struggling to coordinate under the conditions there.”

Then, she understood.

“You were the Alliance liaison,” said Jyn. “Right there in Imperial City. And that place is a cesspool.”

Cassian replied, “I spent two years there and would be happy never to return.”

“They couldn’t send just anyone, could they?” Not to Coruscant. Otherwise, delivering messages seemed a bit below his pay grade, if he was paid at all. But then, Cassian set loose in Imperial City probably got up to far more trouble than misinformation and passing orders.

She would, anyway.

“Thank you,” said Cassian. He yawned again. This time, she suspected it might be real.

“They needed someone who wouldn’t slip up,” Jyn said, more to herself than him. She thought of the shifting accent again. “Once the Alliance stole Willix, they … what? Looked at their best agents and picked the closest to the real thing they had?”

“More or less.” He definitely sounded sleepy now.

“Let me guess,” she said. “A real Alderaanian wasn’t essential, but preferable. You had the right skills and looks, so you got to be Willix. That must have been a fun conversation.”

“Very exciting,” muttered Cassian. “General Draven said ‘Andor, we need someone to be this Alderaanian farmboy we’ve turned up. You’ll be posted in Coruscant to support Princess Leia.’ And I said, ‘yes, sir.’ ”

That startled a laugh out of her. She had no difficulty whatsoever believing it a precise account, though not one he’d have related in a clearer frame of mind. Most people, of course, grew less careful as they drew near sleep, but she wouldn’t have thought Cassian one of them. She certainly hadn’t noticed anything of the kind back on his ship.

Then again, back on his ship, he hadn’t been twenty minutes into a heavy dose of Imperial soporifics, either.

“Any chance of Willix showing up somewhere and mucking things up?” she asked.

“No,” said Cassian, with utter certainty.

Jyn decided she didn’t want to know.

They fell into gentle silence, the room quiet but for the low hum of electricity and their own breaths. Even Jyn, her nerves well-honed after a life on the run—not to mention two days on the Death Star—found herself relaxing as Cassian’s breaths evened out. She didn’t feel sleepy, just a peculiar sort of peace.

When his head shifted, Jyn looked over at him. “Cassian? Are you awake?”

“Yes,” he said, drowsy but coherent. “At the moment.”

“I need your advice.”

“You?” He opened his eyes and blinked at her. “From me?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said. “I mean your, er, professional expertise.”

Cassian squinted. “What?”

“In your line of work,” said Jyn, “do you try and pick up as much information as you can, wherever you find it, or focus on getting everything you can from a few good sources?”

“Both,” he replied through a yawn. “If only one is possible, though, a reliable source is worth a hundred gossips.”

She’d been afraid of that.

“Why—”

Unconvincingly, Jyn said, “I was just wondering.”

“Mm.” Even the tired murmur managed to sound skeptical. But the drugs had finally done their work. Cassian closed his eyes, and in another moment, slept.

On the bright side, Cassian slept like the dead. He didn’t snore, or talk in his sleep, or toss and turn.

On the dark side, Cassian slept like the dead. After he’d nearly been dead. The quiet was one thing with both of them alert and attentive, but quite another with Cassian unconscious and silent. Every few minutes, Jyn surrendered to the urge to go over and make sure he still breathed.

Inevitably, he did. If anything, he seemed better: not limp and fragile, not strained and pale. Each time she checked, more colour had crept into his face, more lines smoothed themselves away. He was fine, she told herself. The ribs would hurt, but Esten had pulled him out of danger. Esten and Force knew how much bacta and Jyn, getting him care and getting him out. He’d live. As long as the rest of them, anyway.

Her stomach growled for an hour before Jyn worked herself up to leaving. Even as she headed to the mess hall, her thoughts whirled. Bodhi—she’d not heard a word from him since before she extracted Cassian. It probably didn’t mean anything, except that he had no news, or no solitude. But it might. He might be suffering treatment harsher Saw could ever dream up.

This didn’t help, Jyn told herself sternly. There was no reason to torment herself over things which hadn’t happened, and which she couldn’t affect even if they had. Bodhi possessed more nerve and wits than either of them had given him credit for; he wouldn’t do anything foolish, and he’d at least try to contact her if something went wrong. On their end, she and Cassian were resourceful and resolute. Jyn knew how to survive, one step after the other. Cassian knew how to turn each step towards an end. If a way out of this existed, they’d find it. And if a way out of this didn’t exist, they’d face that when it came.

Nevertheless, Jyn ate as quickly as she could manage in the mess hall. It was only half-full at this hour—tomorrow she’d see what she could do about cultivating people. For now, her own calculations occupied her.

She ran through the cons of the situation, obvious as they were. Trapped in the Death Star. Princess Leia captured and dragged onboard by Imperial Chirrut. Her forthcoming torture. The fact that Imperial Chirrut existed at all. The fact that the best case scenario had all four of them blown to smithereens. The possibility of getting caught and either killed, themselves tortured, or both, at any moment. No method of escape except a ship, which they had no immediate way of acquiring.

Pros, she told herself. Supplies, medicine, and secure quarters—all obtained without suspicion. Bodhi absorbed into the stormtroopers and already picking up valuable information. Cassian able to walk, on the mend, and fully functional intellectually. Jyn no worse for the ordeals of the last three weeks, not to mention the last three days. They had a top-notch shot in Jyn and an honest-to-the-Force sniper in Cassian, and a full case of blasters. If they did manage to fly a ship, they had two pilots, Cassian good and Bodhi excellent.

Could be better. Could be a hell of a lot worse.

Jyn tossed away the tin dishes, stalked back to the quarters as fast as her legs would take her, then checked on Cassian for a seventeenth time. Still asleep, still fine. Crawling into bed, she willed herself to sleep.

After twenty minutes, it worked. She slept like a steel beam, and didn’t wake up until a drawer rattled by her head the next morning.

Someone was muttering, “Toçè an aqqi d’estida i anayà—”

Jyn recognized the voice, however breathless, if not the words. What the …?

“Cassian?” She rubbed her eyes.

A few feet away, he bent down with stray equipment in his hand and clothes draped over his arm. But he was already showered and uniformed. His other hand pressed against his side until he glanced up at her.

“Jyn,” he said civilly, and went back to picking up clutter.

She jolted upright. “What are you doing?”

“Inspection,” said Cassian.

Her heart thudded. “Now?”

“No.” Straightening up, he dropped wrinkled uniforms into a bin she hadn’t noticed. With an unpleasant sucking sound, the floor of the bin vanished and the clothes slid down a chute. The floor slid back into place. “If there is one.”

Whatever amount of sleep she’d gotten, it wasn’t enough. Jyn gave up on de-coding him and said, “Cassian. Use whole sentences and stop straining your ribs.”

Cassian replied, “I think they are better.”

“Sure they are,” said Jyn. “What were you talking about?”

“Imperial bases usually hold regular inspections.” With the kits in his arms, he made his way over to the narrow closet near the door. He set them out in neat lines. “On a base of this size, with this many troops, I do not know. If we do get inspected, though, and are in violation of code, it may raise suspicions.”

Oh. She had no difficulty believing him compulsively neat by nature—his Alliance quarters looked it—but this had seemed excessive and then some. Pragmatism, though, she could respect. Getting up, Jyn turned to him.

“Right,” she said. “At the least, it might draw attention. Fine, but I don’t know regulations and you … stop. I’m going to get dressed and then I’ll do it. Don’t touch my bed.” His was already neat, folded at precise angles. “Actually, don’t touch anything. Just sit.”

She didn’t seriously expect him to sit down. Sure enough, although she took the galaxy’s shortest shower and didn’t even try to figure out her jacket beyond a few buttons, she emerged from the fresher into pristine quarters. All the pairs of requisitioned items had been divided between each side of the room, every one exactly opposite to its brother. The blaster case had disappeared. Nothing but her rumpled bedding interrupted the blocky regularity of the place. It made her want to do something stupid, like carve JYN ERSO WAS HERE into the wall.

Cassian leaned against his dresser, datapad in hand, just as he’d leaned against the terminals in the Rebel council room. A little more stiffly, but all things considered, it seemed a good sign.

“Not much for orders, are you?” she said, and regretted it as soon as she spoke. That had been one of the odder twists of their fight after Eadu—I disobeyed orders! It should have been the pillar of his defense, the fact that he had defied the command she accused him of following. But even with every observation warped by rage, she couldn’t misunderstand the horror in his voice. Not at the Alliance, not Draven, not even Krennic, but at himself for balking at a pointless murder.

That was before, Jyn reminded herself. In the end, he defied all those generals and senators for her, personally shot Krennic. Really, it meant more that he’d done it despite his temperament, not because of it. Yet she felt certain those veins would always run through his character, an underlying inclination towards devotion and obedience.

Not that she didn’t have her own. If something in him never stopped whispering there are rules and you have your orders, something in Jyn never stopped urging her look after yourself, no one else will and just keep running. She knew perfectly well that it’d get louder when not drowned out by overpowering necessity.

If Cassian’s mind followed the same direction as hers, he gave no sign.

“Orders?” he repeated. “It depends on where they come from.”

The moment’s ambivalence passed. Jyn snorted.

“Don’t think about trying to call all the shots just because you outrank me here.”

“I outrank you everywhere,” said Cassian, with a suspect quirk of his mouth.

All right, she might have brought that one on herself.

Absent a good rebuttal, Jyn said, “If you’re going to help me with these, then help. How am I supposed to do the folding thing?” She tugged the blankets and sheets off her bed, and looked at them in some dismay.

Setting down the datapad, Cassian walked over to stand beside her. He snagged one of the blankets in her arms.

Jyn scowled up at him. “That was a question, not an invitation. Actually, go lie down. I can follow instructions, when it’s worth my time.”

“Moving helps with the breathing,” he said. When she looked skeptical, he added, “I will not break. You can do the worst of it.”

“The analgesics would help more,” she grumbled, but went along with it.

Together, they shook out the sheets, and Jyn tucked them around the mattress according to the Empire’s absurd specifications. The pillow had to be precisely centered in its case, equidistant from each end, and the blanket folded six centimeters from its edges. If anyone had told her two weeks ago that she and Cassian Andor would end up making beds in the Death Star—

Somewhere between appalled and bemused, Jyn held up the blanket while Cassian measured out the edges. She could barely see him past the top.

“Here, take this,” he said, holding out the folded edge to her.

Jyn reached for it, even as she did her best to keep the middle held high. “Must have been a pain to do yours by yourself.”

“Yes,” said Cassian. He looked over the blanket at her, and in an instant, the bizarre domesticity of it all just struck her as funny.

“I’ll admit it. I did not foresee this,” Jyn told him.

Though she couldn’t see Cassian’s mouth, his eyes crinkled. “Nor I.”

For some reason, the quiet—which had settled comfortably as they worked—turned heavy once more. Hastily, she said,

“So Willix is supposed to be some farmboy who got picked up by Starfleet and made a career for himself?”

“He was, yes,” said Cassian.

Jyn thought of asking if he’d killed the real Willix, or if someone else had done it. But she supposed it made little difference, in the end. Cassian would have pulled the trigger, even if he hadn’t done it this particular time. And she didn’t exactly have a habit of weeping over Imperial officers. The lower ranks were one thing, and civilians, but the officers—the Krennics—they saw it all. They knew what they did.

“I take it you weren’t actually a farmboy,” she said, because she couldn’t imagine it in a million years. “From—what was it, Seraiah? The place you talked about when you were lying your head off in the elevator.”

“Sareia,” said Cassian, gesturing for her to help fold the blanket down the middle. “No. I come from Vaesda. No farms.”

“We had them,” Jyn said suddenly. “I don’t remember the planet much. But it was green. My parents had a farm. More an experiment than anything for Papa, I think, but Mama liked to make things grow. When we left the house, we’d see fields for miles and miles.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt disconcerted. More than disconcerted. Those scraps of happiness before the Empire ripped it all apart—she never spoke of it. Not ever, to anyone. Yet she’d found herself talking without hesitation, as if there were no barrier between her memory and her voice. As if the walls shut out danger instead of trapping them in it.

They shut out people. The next best thing, she decided, calming as she looked over at Cassian. He didn’t count. Not—of course he counted as a person. Just not a threat.

To her, anyway.

For several moment, Cassian worked in silence. Then he said, “Would you go back?”

No sprang to her tongue, without thought. But she did think.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It’s not … I wasn’t born there. I’m a natural citizen of Coruscant.” She held the folded middle while Cassian measured the other edge. “You already knew that, I’m sure.”

Too worn or too himself for an explanation, he only said, “Yes.”

“So there’s not much point, with my family gone. But I don’t know.” It was home, for that little while. The only one she ever had, really. Somehow she didn’t imagine that the dim early years under Krennic’s thumb had been anything like a home.

Welcome home flashed into her mind, her memories flung from that dimly-remembered apartment in Coruscant to the Rebel base on Yavin. Maybe he meant the Rebellion, but she hadn’t. It wasn’t the Rebellion who stuck by her at Jedha. It sure as hell wasn’t at Eadu. It wasn’t the Rebellion who marched at her side after the snarling fight on the ship. Or ever.

When she murmured I’m not used to people sticking around when things go bad to Cassian, she meant it for him, thanks and explanation and apology rolled up together. As near as she got to any of them. He had to know that. He did know—he’d tilted towards her as she spoke, leaned in to listen and to promise, their steps falling into sync from opposite directions. She never saw him do the same thing with anyone else, not with his soldiers, not Bodhi, not Kay. It wasn’t Captain Andor who told her welcome home.

Jyn still didn’t know exactly what Cassian meant. She wasn’t sure Cassian knew what he meant. But it had something to do with the fact that they stood in the Death Star, Jyn all but twitching with nerves while Cassian concealed what must be agony, and they felt something like safe.

“If we live,” she said, “maybe I’ll go, someday. See if it brings anything back. They get harder to remember—the good things.” She could feel the weight of the crystal in her pocket, even as she took the blanket and carefully laid it down.

“Yes,” said Cassian once again. Jyn thought she heard something rough in his tone—maybe just weariness, maybe more.

“If your people didn’t have any farms,” she said, “I guess Willix’s district would be pretty far off from yours.”

“Three thousand miles away, in a different country,” said Cassian, the harsh edge fading into mere annoyance. Not with her, Jyn suspected. “I never saw it in my life, except pictures.”

“I thought it might be something like that.”

He smiled at her, more easily than usual. “Also, Vaesda was four thousand feet higher.”

“Up in the mountains, huh?” Jyn had little knowledge of Alderaan, beyond the chain of spies spun out from Bail Organa. But she’d heard about the mountains.

Though he didn’t seem offended, he only said, “Pull the blanket towards the foot. About three inches. Yes, there. And now left—your left.”

Jyn sighed. But she didn’t doubt that any Imperials who passed by would prove at least as obsessive. She tugged and straightened the material, bent the corners into correct shape, and ignored Cassian’s retreating steps.

“There,” she said. “Good?”

When she turned, she saw that he’d returned to his dresser, and now had a nutrient milk in one hand and pills in the other. Green pills—those would be the analgesics, not the sedatives.

Cassian gulped down the medicine and walked back over to examine the bed. He glanced from one end to the other.

“Good.”

“Another trial survived,” said Jyn. “Barely.”

She didn’t want to think of how much he would endure before voluntarily taking Imperial drugs. Maybe he was just being sensible again. But probably not.

“You pull us through again,” Cassian replied, as lightly as he ever said anything. But he looked at her with an even more intense expression than usual, his gaze very steady.

Jyn didn’t say you’re welcome; she didn’t need to. She just nodded, and silence fell again, perhaps the easiest yet.

The quiet only broke when Cassian said abruptly, “The Anduçelos.”

She started. “What?”

“The Anduçelos Mountains,” he said, his voice very even. “Vaesda was up in them, yes.”

He took a drink of the milk, his gaze flicking away. Uncertainty, she’d have thought, in anyone else. Maybe in him, too. It should have punctured the peace—but didn’t. Cassian himself seemed taken aback by his words, as if he hadn’t meant to say them. No more, Jyn thought, than she’d planned to babble about her parents’ farm.

She hazarded, “Those are the ones surrounding Aldera?”

“Yes.” He shifted his weight. Just a little, but even that much was unusual, from him. “They have ilum deposits. At least, in Vaes District they do.”

That focused her attention. Ilum, inert in itself, turned explosive under treatment. Jyn didn’t know the details of the process—she never took after her father that way—but she knew varying amounts of it went into blasters, starship cannons, bombs, just about anything. Saw kept his precious stores sealed up tight, but he showed a cache to her once and told her all about it. He told her, too, that Galen used to experiment with the stuff. Now, she felt sure that had been for the Death Star. There probably wasn’t enough ilum in the galaxy to power this thing. But on the smaller scale, it had incredible power. Ilum mines could level the towns that prospered around them.

“Damn,” said Jyn. “I thought Alderaan didn’t have weapons.”

“It doesn’t,” he said, with a touch of satisfaction. “We are good Imperial citizens. We do not use the ilum, we sell it.”

And funnelled it to the Rebellion, no doubt.

“What is it like? I mean, Vaesda,” she asked, trying to replicate his pronunciation. “Not ilum. I know what that’s like.”

“I am sure you do,” said Cassian dryly. “It was … I do not remember very much. I was very young. I remember the nyrfa—a sort of cattle that lives up there—and the mines and the cold.” He paused. “Mostly the cold. The snow never went away, and the mining towns were filthy. But it could be beautiful, away from the cities.”

Thinking of the farm, she said, “That usually helps.”

He shrugged. “Your world was green, you said. Mine was white. On bright days, everything shone.”

“Didn’t it blind you?” Jyn asked.

“Yes,” he replied, an unfamiliar animation lighting up his face. “My sister and I had goggles to shield our eyes, but only hers worked right. She was older and always climbing something, so she kept the good set, and I would take mine off. That was why I missed rocks and sticks in our way, and Rana when she jumped down behind me, and the clonetroopers.” Before Jyn could do much more than register that one of these was very unlike the others, Cassian said quickly, “Your jacket is wrong.”

“What?” A clumsy detour, but of course, the jacket was wrong. She’d only bothered with a few buttons, since it never hung right, in any case. “Oh, these ones are too small. I don’t know why, I gave them the measurements—”

“The pleats,” he said, and reached for her shoulders.

She stiffened. Though Cassian must have noticed, he pretended not to, just caught his fingers under the awkward folds of material and adjusted something, then tugged a little. The whole thing immediately loosened—still not exactly smooth, but at least not tight.

“That’s better,” admitted Jyn. “I suppose I should have guessed that even Imperial jackets have procedures.”

“Yes. They do, that is.” With an odd twist to his mouth, he added, “Also, the buttons go behind the flaps, not through … and …”

“Oh, fine. You fix it.” She unbuttoned the jacket all the way and unbelted it, rather amused that his gaze swung up to her face at the first button, and fixed there, despite the layer of (regulation!) undershirt beneath the jacket. Though, for a fully dressed woman, she herself felt exposed in some odd way.

Cassian looked profoundly uncomfortable, but without further hesitation, pulled one side of the jacket to her shoulder, and held the material taut. He didn’t try anything, of course, touch her in any way that the requisitions droids hadn’t, but Jyn nonetheless felt blood rise to her face. Cassian wasn’t a droid. And he could be—unsettling, even as he said in a dispassionate voice,

“It has to be completely smooth, no wrinkles, or the jacket will not hang correctly.” He pulled the other flap over, fastening it. “Here, you button from beneath, only through the one layer. The top one must lie flat.”

As he buttoned the jacket to her waist, Jyn glanced down, pretending to something like detachment as she watched Cassian’s fingers move down her body. Even trivial mistakes could be dangerous, she reminded herself. If anyone had paid attention to the jacket, it might well have been as disastrous as recognition. That was all.

Anyway, he had broken ribs.

Jyn cleared her throat. “I suppose I had better go down to the mess hall and”—her lip curled—“make friends. Is this supposed to be that loose?”

“You fold at the waist,” said Cassian, reaching down to tuck down pleats she hadn’t noticed while Jyn lifted her arms and thought virtuous thoughts. “It is stiff enough to hold, so the belt does the rest.”

Thankfully—for a certain value of thanks—he stepped back, and Jyn buckled the belt herself. He didn’t correct her, so she supposed she did it right.

“Am I a proper Imperial now?” she asked.

“You look like it,” said Cassian.

He could split too many hairs, but she’d take this one. Jyn smiled, a little unsteadily.

“Jyn.”

When his hand touched her shoulder again, she nearly jumped. Instead, she just returned his gaze, while Cassian searched her face for—something.

Quietly, he said, “Be careful.”

She nodded. “I should be back in about an hour. Don’t assume I’m dead unless it’s three, and you haven’t heard from me. Get some rest.”

As she ducked out of their quarters, into the hall, she glanced back over her shoulder. Cassian hadn’t moved, just stood there by his bed, frowning after her.

“Don’t worry, captain.” Jyn allowed herself a smile, slight but genuine. “I won’t do anything you wouldn’t.”