#my storyteller brain never rests

[molar-bear-sims]

...so she met up with the club's founder as soon as she got back from work. after all, she needed some friends who didn't have scales!

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Against Lore

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

One of my favorite nuggets of writing advice comes from James D Macdonald. Jim, a Navy vet with an encylopedic knowledge of gun lore, explained to a group of non-gun people how to write guns without getting derided by other gun people: "just add the word 'modified.'"

As in, "Her modified AR-15 kicked against her shoulder as she squeezed the trigger, but she held it steady on the car door, watching it disintegrate in a spatter of bullet-holes."

Jim's big idea was that gun people couldn't help but chew away at the verisimilitude of your fictional guns, their brains would automatically latch onto them and try to find the errors. But the word "modified" hijacked that impulse and turned it to the writer's advantage: a gun person's imagination gnaws at that word "modified," spinning up the cleverest possible explanation for how the gun in question could behave as depicted.

In other words, the gun person's impulse to one-up the writer by demonstrating their superior knowledge becomes an impulse to impart that superior knowledge to the writer. "Modified" puts the expert and the bullshitter on the same team, and conscripts the expert into fleshing out the bullshitter's lies.

Yes, writing is lying. Storytelling is genuinely weird. A storyteller who has successfully captured the audience has done so by convincing their hindbrains to care about the tribulations of imaginary people. These are people whose suffering, by definition, do not matter. Imaginary things didn't happen, so they can't matter. The deaths of Romeo and Juliet were less tragic than the death of the yogurt you had for breakfast. That yogurt was alive and now it's dead, whereas R&J never lived, never died, and don't matter:

https://locusmag.com/2014/11/cory-doctorow-stories-are-a-fuggly-hack/

Hijacking a stranger's empathic response is intrinsically adversarial. While storytelling is a benign activity, its underlying mechanic is extremely dangerous. Getting us to care about things that don't matter is how novels and movies work, but it's also how cults and cons work.

Cult leaders and con-artists know that they're engaged in mind-to-mind combat, and they make liberal use of Jim's hack of leaving blank spots for the mark to fill in. Think of Qanon drops: the mystical nonsense was just close enough to sensical that a vulnerable audience was compelled to try and untangle them, and ended up imparting more meaning to them than the hustler who posted them ever could have dreamt up.

Same with cons – there's a great scene in the Leverage: Redemption heist show where an experienced con-artist explains to a novice that the most convincing hustle is the one where you wait for the mark to tell you what they think you're doing, then run with it (scambaiters and other skeptics will recognize this as a relative of the "cold reading," where a "psychic" uses your own confirmations to flesh out their predictions).

As Douglas Adams put it:

A towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Magicians know this one, too. The point of a sleight is to misdirect the audience's attention, and use that moment of misattention to trick them, vanishing, stashing or producing something. The mark's mind is caught in a pleasurable agony: something seemingly impossible just happened. The mind splits into two parts, one of which insists that the impossible just happened, the other insisting that the impossible can't happen.

You know you've done it right if the audience says, "Do that again!" And that's the one thing you must not do. So long as you don't repeat the trick, the audience's imagination will chew on it endlessly, coming up with incredibly clever things that you must have done (a clever conjurer will know several ways to produce the same effect and will "do it again" by reproducing the effect via different means, which exponentially increases the audience's automatic imputation of clever methods to the performer).

Not for nothing, Jim Macdonald advises his writing students to study Magic and Showmanship, a classic text for aspiring conjurers:

https://memex.craphound.com/2007/11/13/magic-and-showmanship-classic-book-about-conjuring-has-many-lessons-for-writers/

There's a version of this in comedy, too. The scholarship of humor is clear on this: comedy comes from surprise. The audience knows they're about to be surprised when the punchline lands, and their mind is furiously trying to defuse the comedian's bomb before it detonates, cycling through potential punchlines of their own. This ramps up the suspense and the tension, so when the comedian does drop the punchline, the tension is released in a whoosh of laughter.

Your mind wants the tension to be resolved ASAP, but the pleasure comes from having that desire thwarted. Comedy – like most performance – has an element of authoritarianism. You don't give the audience what it wants, you give it what it needs.

Same goes for TTRPGs: the game master's role is to deny the players the victories and treasure they want, until they can't take it anymore, and then deliver it. That's the definition of an epic game. It's one of the durable advantages of human GMs over video game back-ends: they can ramp up the epicness by "cheating" on the play, giving the players the chance to squeak out improbable victories at the last possible second:

https://wilwheaton.typepad.com/wwdnbackup/2009/03/behind-the-screen.html

This is so effective that even crude approximations of it can turn video-games into cult hits – like Left4Dead, whose "Director" back-end would notice when the players were about to get destroyed and then substantially ramped up the chances of finding an amazing weapon – the chance would still be low overall, but there would be enough moments when the player got exactly what they'd been praying for, at the last possible instant, that it would feel amazing:

https://left4dead.fandom.com/wiki/The_Director#Special_Infected

Critically, Left4Dead's Director didn't do this every time. As any showman knows, the key to a great performance is "Always leave 'em wanting more." The musician's successful finale depends on doing every encore the audience demands, except the last one, so the crowd leaves with one tantalyzing and imaginary song playing in their minds, a performance better than any the musicians themselves could have delivered. Like the gun person who comes up with a cooler mod than the writer ever could, like the magic show attendee who comes up with a more elaborate explanation for the sleight than the conjurer could ever pull off, like the comedy club attendee whose imagination anticipates a surprise that grows larger the longer the joke goes on, the successful performance is an adversarial act of cooperation where the audience willingly and unwillingly cooperates with the performer to deny them the thing that they think they need, and deliver the thing they actually need.

This is my biggest problem with the notion that someday LLMs will get good enough at storytelling to give us the tales we demand, without having to suffer through a storyteller's sadistic denial of the resolutions we crave. When I'm reading a mystery, I want to turn to the last page and find out whodunnit, but I know that doing so will ruin the story. Telling the storyteller how the story should go is like trying to tickle yourself.

Like being tickled, experiencing only fun if the tickler respects your boundaries – but, like being tickled, there's always a part where you're squirming away, but you don't want it to stop. An AI storyteller that gives you exactly what you want is like a dungeon master who declares that every sword-swing kills the monster, and every treasure chest is full of epic items and platinum pieces. Yes, that's what you want, but if you get it, what's the point?

Seen in this light, performance is a kind of sado-masochism, where the performer delights in denying something to the audience, who, in turn, delights in the denial. Don't give the audience what they want, give them what they need.

What your audience needs is their own imagination. Decades ago, I was a freelance copywriter producing sales materials for Alias/Wavefront, a then-leading CGI firm that was inventing all kinds of never-seen VFX that would blow people away. One of the engineers I worked with told me something I never forgot: "Your imagination has more polygons than anything you can create with our software." He was talking about why it was critical to have some of the action happen in the shadows.

All of this is why series tend to go downhill. The first volume in any series leaves so much to the imagination. The map of the world is barely fleshed out, the characters' biographies are full of blank spots, the mechanics of the artifacts and the politics of the land are all just detailed enough that your mind automatically ascribes a level of detail to them, without knowing what that detail is.

This is the moment at which everything seems very clever, because your mind is just churning with all the different bits of elaborate lore that will fill in those lacunae and make them all fit together.

SPOILER ALERT: I'm about to give some spoilers for Furiosa.

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FURIOSA SPOILERS AHEAD!

Last night, we went to see Furiosa, the latest Mad Max movie, a prequel to 2015's Fury Road, which is one of the greatest movies ever made. Like most prequels, Furiosa functions as a lore-delivery vehicle, and as such, it's nowhere near as good as Fury Road.

Fury Road hints as so much worldbuilding. We learn about the three fortresses of the wasteland (the Citadel, the Bullet Farm, and Gastown) but we only see one (The Citadel). We learn that these three cities have a symbiotic relationship with one another, defined by a complex politics that is just barely stable. We meet Furiosa herself, and learn something of her biography – that she had been stolen from the Green Place, that she had suffered an arm amputation.

All of this is left for us to fill in, and for a decade, my hindbrain has been chewing on all of that, coming up with cool ways it could all fit together. I yearned to know the "real" explanation, but it was always unlikely that this real explanation would be as enjoyable as my own partial, ever-unfinished headcanon.

Furiosa is a great movie, but its worst parts are the canonical lore it settles. Partly, that's because some of that lore is just stupid. Why is the Bullet Farm an open-pit mine? I mean, it's visually amazing, but what does that have to do with making bullets? Sometimes, it's because the lore is banal – the solarpunk Green Place is a million times less cool than I had imagined it. Sometimes, it's because the lore is banal and stupid: the scenes where Furiosa's arm is crushed, then severed, then replaced, are both rushed and quasi-miraculous:

https://www.themarysue.com/how-does-furiosa-lose-her-arm/

But even if the lore had been good – not stupid, not banal – the best they could have hoped for was for the lore to be tidy. If it were surprising, it would seem contrived. A story whose loose ends have been tidily snipped away seems like it would be immensely satisfying, but it's not satisfying – it's just resolved. Like the band performing every encore you demand, until you no longer want to hear the band anymore – the feeling as you leave the hall isn't satisfaction, it's exhaustion.

So long as some key question remains unresolved, you're still wanting more. So long as the map has blank spots, your hindbrain will impute clever and exciting mysteries, tantalyzingly teetering on the edge of explicability, to the story.

Lore is always better as something to anticipate than it is to receive. The fans demand lore, but it should be doled out sparingly. Always leave 'em wanting more.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/27/cmon-do-it-again/#better_to_remain_silent_and_be_thought_a_fool_than_to_speak_and_remove_all_doubt

[vellichor-of-the-solivagant]

With Them, Who Swallowed a Star

PAIRING: Professor!Task Force 141 X F!Student!Reader WORD COUNT 5.3k CONTENT WARNING: NSFW! group sex, age gap, fingering, cunnilingus, oral sex, handjobs, facefucking/blowjobs, unprotected sex, p in v, anal sex, slight usage of nicknames, reader is a pianist/student, tf141 are professors, smut with plot SYNOPSIS: A musician is a storyteller in their own ways. You had told yours and captured the sights of men you never expected to pull when you stepped inside an academy. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I tried to be poetic. This fried my brain and I'm not going to write something like this again. That's a lie because I have a series that has 5 love interests. This one was supposed to have Graves as well since he's actually my inspiration for writing this shit, but I ended up not adding him. I might do it on Drabbles if someone asks though. And yes, I have changed my username from DontFearTheReaperAzura. Here's the Masterlist for more! Also on Archive of Our Own

Your fingers fluttered slightly as you lifted your hands to the keys, blocking out the rustling from others as they sat in the grand auditorium. Long and drawn, you began to tell a tale you had held for a long time. Notes swam in the air, old friends that played with your tresses and caressed your skin.

The story started slowly, the sound of the beginning, the beginning of the end. Longing clashed with trepidation, your fingers sang a song of despair. You swayed with the music, lost in the whims of unspoken words—of a world you owned. Quicker and quicker, the notes climbed in sync with your heart, growing joyful in hopes of masking the mournful melody surrounding you.

It filled the emptiness deep within your chest for a moment, before like the heavens shed tears upon a barren land, you showed—you poured out the lore of your world, and with heavy reluctance to leave what you created, you played the last few notes.

For a few moments, you kept your eyes closed, and when a series of claps reached your ears, only then you opened them. You were shackled back to reality just as you held back your work.

You looked at the people, who in your eyes were nothing but shadows at the beginning, now enamored, yearning for the rest. You knew they felt it, too. Pulled, as though you were the center of the system. Like the Sun, a star.

And one man stuck out more than others, gazing at you, blue eyes almost ravenous. But it didn’t last for long, just like a song in the wind, he faded among the standing crowd, drowned out in the flurry of praise.

You breathed out a sigh as you stared at the towering structure before you, now your second hell—in replacement of the ramshackle place you call home—after you had gotten a scholarship to this prestigious university after years of a couple of years of working your ass off. Students rushed past you on their way in and out of their classes, but you stood frozen.

Suddenly you felt awfully unprepared for this unfamiliar place, of socializing and strangers, and of university. Of life. What did Google say about socializing with people your age again? How about impressing a professor? Good lord.

You shrugged off your thoughts and sauntered to your class. A large lecture hall welcomed your sight and you found an empty seat at the front row. Not the perfect place for observation of the whole place, but good for listening to the professor.

The sound of expensive shoes echoed throughout the hushed room and you kept your eyes down as you took out your notebook and pen. As the quiet dragged on, you glanced at the professor and found your brows raising at his sight.

He was tall, seemed to be fit, and in his thirties. He had a few wrinkles, a beard, and brown hair, but no sign of graying.

Above all, you could remember those eyes. An endless swirl of blue. The man at the concert hall.

You put your gaze down as the professor looked down on you, your heart hammered against your ribs, sudden nervousness springing in your nerves. You wished he wouldn’t recognize you, but at the same time, you hoped he did.

Yet, the silence remained, and in curiosity, you looked back up. Your breath hitched as your eyes met his, gaze shining with something you couldn’t decipher, and a smile formed on his lips.

You forced yourself to mirror it and batted a glance at the door. You wanted to get out.

The professor introduced himself as Jonathan Price, and told the class a few things about himself, before diving straight into the first lesson of Philosophy.

Time seemed to flow fast throughout his class and you kept your fingers busy, writing down his words. He was easy to understand, bringing out intricate details in his lesson, and asked questions now and then if he was going too fast while walking around the room.

You couldn’t help but notice his slacks fit in a certain area. Then again, that thing wouldn’t give you a brain cell even if you suck it off.

The bell chimed and you gathered and stuffed your notebook and pen inside your bag, jolting up to your feet. But as you approached the exit, his canorous voice called out to you.

“Pardon me, young lady.”

You turned to face the professor, keeping a respectable distance from him, which he closed off, only standing a couple of feet from you.

“Yes, sir?” You asked in a small voice when he remained silent, his eyes studying you with disconcerting intensity, just like how he gazed at you at your performance.

Finally, after an uncomfortable silence, he asked. “What’s your name?”

You spoke of your name in a steady voice, equally confused and intimidated, you gripped on the strap of your bag. Everyone had already left, now bringing quietness to the hall.

He smiled once again, his head tilting a bit to the side. “A pretty name.” His voice sent goosebumps on your skin, making you breathe in deeply, inhaling the scent of his pleasant cologne. “Such a shame I couldn’t catch it after your performance a couple of weeks ago.”

He remembered you.

Your cheeks began to burn.

Oh, how he yearned to caress your tinted cheeks, place a kiss on them, and mutter praise against your soft skin.

“Ah, you were there, weren’t you, sir?” You offered him a smile and a pause. “I think I caught a glance of you in the front rows.”

“Correct.”

“Thank you for watching, sir,” you said, not knowing what to speak of next, and nodded at him, reaching out to the knob to leave. But he reached for the door, making you blink at his unexpected actions, caged between the door and him.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you,” he fessed, bodies now closer to yours that you almost touched, and you gulped. “You were magnificent.” He opened the door, a hand motioning at you. “See you on Wednesday. And I hope we see more of your performance.”

We?

You jolted awake at the loud laughter of a raucous group outside of your room and grunted at the sudden pang of pain in your head when you stood up. You glanced at the alarm clock by your bedside and muttered a crisp curse, hauling your bag. You burst out of your room, slipping past students in the hallway like a breeze, hurried apologies were called out to those poor victims she bumped into.

The morning had been long and tiring, and you decided to take a nap earlier, only to end up sleeping for a couple of hours. Now, you were about to get late for your next class, and the usual ten-minute walk turned into a five-minute run and an uncalled exercise.

You glanced from left to right in the hallway, glancing at your phone to make sure you were in the right building, and turned to the right, following the signs. You halted before a room, strangely closed even though the class was supposed to start in five minutes.

You used your phone as a mirror and patted down your hair, before turning the knob and opening the door. You walked into a softly lit room and realized the mistake you had made as you spotted a man splayed down on a couch across the room. A hand behind his head and over his stomach, and over the lower half of his face was a black mask.

Inside was a personal office, belonging to one of the professors.

You immediately turned away, about to exit the room when an angry voice echoed.

“Have you got no manners?” The man rose to sit, a scowl painted on his face.

For the nth time in your sorry life, you wanted to bury yourself alive. You dipped your head low in embarrassment. “I’m very sorry, sir. I thought this was the room my class was in. I didn’t mean to intrude.” You frantically fumbled on your phone, inputting the wrong password one time, and read your schedule.

You read the room number wrong.

Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.

The professor fixed his crooked mask. “What class were you supposed to go to?”

“Uh, a math class of Mr. Simon Riley,” you read on your phone, keeping your head low.

A hum escaped past the man’s lips, making you glance up at him. His dark blond hair slightly ruffled from his apparent nap and coat a bit crooked. He ran his hand on his hair, fixed his coat, and patted down the invisible wrinkles on the fabric.

He stood up and you inched back, surprised at his stature. A tall man with broad shoulders and arms noticeably strong, (massive honkers) and eyes like a pool of honey, swirling like molten gold under the light.

“You’re in luck, sweetheart. I’m Simon Riley. You’re in my office, our class is in the next room.” Unlike earlier, his cold voice had turned a bit softer, but the fact that he was your professor made your sweat run cold.

You nodded, inwardly wincing at your dumbass. “Again, I apologize, sir.”

He stood before you, next to the opened door. Gladly, there were no students passing by in the hallway.

“What is your name, love?” he questioned, his hands going to his pockets. His eyes narrowed at the way your head dipped, refusing to meet his gaze. Like a meek little bunny, scared of the world and what all those pretty eyes could see.

He wanted to place a finger under your chin and lift your face up to look at him.

You never knew introducing yourself could feel like an interrogation until now. You told him your name, averting your gaze down at his shoes that shifted slightly. “Nice to meet you, Sir Riley. I’m sorry it wasn’t under the best circumstances.”

He hummed once again and stepped out of the office. “Pleasure’s all mine."

You followed him out of the room and he swiftly closed the door behind you, his being a bit closer to you than comfort.

With a nod, Professor Riley led you to the classroom. Dozens of students had already occupied the room and you silently made your way to a vacant seat on the second row, placing your bag next to you.

Just like Mr. Price, the masked professor went straight to the point, briefly introducing himself to the crowd, and began his lesson. He, too, was easy to understand, repeating the equations some couldn't get well, and was kind enough to let the class take a few minutes of break, before continuing. You had also come to notice he would fix his mask every once in a short while.

And when the bell chimed, he bid his students goodbye, yet called for your name. You halted on gathering your things as he approached you. His eyes glanced at the students who last left the room before he spoke.

"Feel free to come by my office whenever you have a question or need anything. Can't have you lose your way again, do we?" He asked, a bit of amusement in his voice as he leaned close.

You smiled at his offer. "Thank you, sir."

Sure as shooting, you asked him where your next room was for Chemistry. By good fortune, he knew where it was and who the professor would be.

"Ah, there he is." Sir Riley abruptly came to a stop, making you halt in your tracks as well and follow the direction of his gaze, to see a man with a mohawk.

"Simon!" The man jogged towards the two of you, a grin playing on his lips in contrast to the man who never took off his mask. Another person with blue optics, but his were bluer as though someone took a piece of the briny deep and placed it in his optics.

He kept a smile as his attention swept to you. "And who's the little bird?"

You frowned a bit at the nickname, nonetheless gave him your name, and watched his eyes light up with fascination. The man began to tell the pull he felt by the notes of your music, how enamored he was by the unspoken words of your tale.

He was there, too and Sir Riley was along with them.

Your face flushed as he ranted and they both noticed, taking note of the shades painted on your skin, bashful of the sudden recognition.

"He is John Mactavish, your Chemistry professor," Sir Riley piped in, placing a hand on the other man's shoulder, before bidding his farewell at the moment, marching down to his next class.

Left all alone with Professor Mactavish, you turned to him. He grinned at you and he beckoned at you to follow him. The man was, well, talkative and wasted not a second expressing his applause of your performance and how he never expected to see you in the university.

You could only mutter small words and nod, already feeling exhausted. But it was pleasant to hear him compliment you. You could get used to it.

And you could get used to his enthusiasm for teaching. His first lesson went straight to an experiment and dragged you to his side as his assistant, instructing you to mix chemicals. Occasionally, his fingers brushed over yours as you passed vials.

Your eyes met, and sparks flew all around.

Literal spark.

And fire.

Professor Mactavish pulled you to the side, hand remaining on your arm as the chemicals were set ablaze.

With a couple of ticks of the clock, a giggle erupted from your lips and like there was a pull, his chuckles followed.

In the sea of awes, his laughter floated on the surface.

You sprinted on the hall, navigating through the winding routes of the structures, and arrived at one of the most exquisite auditoriums you had ever set eyes on. Your eyes took in the magnificent chandeliers and the divine paintings stretched across the ceiling.

The sound of a throat clearing pulled you from your stupor.

“Are you just going to stand there?” a voice called for your attention to where he stood near the stage. The man basked in the warm glow of the concert hall, skin as though molten caramel, and eyes like embers.

“Oh, forgive me, sir.” You straightened yourself up like a soldier before a superior. “I was just, well, this place is beautiful.” You couldn’t help but glance around once again.

“Isn’t it?” A soft smile crawled its way to his lips and he approached you. “I am Mr. Garrick and you are . . .” your name rolled out of his tongue like a serenade, gentle to the ears, a sight to see the way his lips moved, and he extended a hand to you.

You clasped it gently before realization dawned on you. “Pardon me, Garrick as in the Kyle Garrick?”

In a flash of a moment, something sparkled in his eyes and searched yours. “Yes, it is me.”

You nearly squealed and ran around the room in excitement. “Oh my God. Wow. I-I’m a huge fan, sir. You were such a huge inspiration to me—and, and, I wished I could have watched your performance at the concert before, but I was busy preparing for mine. Oh, that must be why Mr. Price, Mr. Riley, and Mr. MacTavish were there! You are friends!” Your words tumbled out of delight.

"Yes, well, thank you for the kind words." His hand sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, his smile becoming wider.

You gazed at him for a few moments before you snapped out of it, your brain slapping it to your face that you just rambled in front of this gentleman. "I'm very sorry, that was unprofessional of me."

"No need for apologies. But I do want to get a feel of your play today as soon as possible." A hand landed on your back, his warmth slipping through the fabric as he led you towards the grand piano patiently waiting for you at the stage.

Your fingers itched in anticipation.

Sir Garrick gave you a comforting smile and sat on the front row seat. "Feel free to play whatever your heart desires."

What your heart desires.

With a shaky breath, once again, you began to tell a tale, the notes sounding like a human voice as it wove its sonorous song.

A ballad to tie what dream your heart made. An andante at first and increased tempo at each heartbeat.

Lightning striking and thunder howling, Kyle was consumed with the way you swayed from one note to another. He couldn't peel his eyes off you as though you had him in your grasp, a puppet for you to control. And only when the last of the music hung in the air, could he snap free of the strings.

He walked towards you and dropped to his knee, taking one of your hands in his palm. "You were truly astonishing."

"I'm telling you, she was marvelous," Kyle exclaimed, pacing around Price's office and pointing at his fellow professors. "Blimey, if only you guys were there the other day, you'd feel chills."

Simon kept a straight face as he sat on the couch, legs spread, his knees bumping with Johnny who took a seat beside him, sipping from his mug of coffee. Whilst, Jonathan inclined on his chair behind a mahogany desk, decorated with intricate carvings and souvenirs he had gathered as they traveled across continents.

"I get that you're delighted, but could you quiet down?" Price grumbled on his desk, a pang of pain shooting his head.

"No, I am not shutting up." Kyle raised a hand, shaking his head. "She recognized my name. My name.” He pointed at himself.

“Anyone would recognize your name if they’re yer fan or hater,” Johnny quipped and placed the mug down on the coffee table.

Kyle turned to him. “You don’t get it, mate. She said she’s a fan of mine. I was a huge inspiration to her—”

“Was a huge inspiration to her,” Simon echoed, leaning back against the couch. “Used to be, not anymore.”

Kyle glared and stomped towards the masked man, grabbing his collar when the other merely raised his brows in a challenge. “I swear to God, Simon, I swear to—”

“I swear to God if you three don’t shut the fuck up—” Price paused, straightening himself from his chair as Kyle shook Simon, and glared at them— “I’ll have you asinine blokes chopped into bits!”

Kyle let go of Simon, who simply fixed his crooked collar and tie, and raised a brow at the man behind the desk. He sat down on a vacant chair, his eyes not leaving Price, and asked, “Are you jealous she recognized me, Price?” he was answered with another glare, which he shrugged at. “Or not.” He definitely is.

For a few moments, they sat in silence, each lost in their train of thought. All centered on a certain lady, whom they had watched from afar, now within their grasp. They only acted as though it was their first time meeting you.

Each born to a wealthy family, presented interesting things which soon died down as they broke them down into pieces, they had grown bored. And had found that there were only a few they could put their trust in this world. Though not related by blood, they shared everything since they were younger. They knew one another strengths and weaknesses. Their faults. Their passions.

Their desires.

A knock pulled them out of their reveries.

Johnny being the closest to the door, got up and opened it. A smile was brought to his face as he found you. “Hello, bonnie. C’mon in.” He swung the door open, a hand motioning at you.

You hesitantly stepped in as you saw your professors inside the office, eyes all settled on you. You put a hand on your other arm to hold down your nervousness as the door behind you shut.

Four men who were strangely overly friendly to you. You could think of a couple of reasons. The first being a musician they had watched and the second, being their student.

A hand landed on the small of your back, guiding you further in, making your face flush. “Have a seat,” Sir MacTavish waved a hand at the sofa, where he and Simon sat. 

You kept your gaze low as you obeyed him, sitting between him and your math professor, red cheeks going in a deeper shade as you met Kyle’s gaze. Embarrassed, you finally faced Price, and asked, “What is it that you called me for, Professor?”

Price put his elbows over his desk and intertwined his fingers. “We have a proposition for you . . .” Your name rolled sensually out of his tongue.

The proposition was to be their assistant. Given their overlapping schedules these days, it was hard for them to handle them. At first, you refused the offer, telling them you had a part-time job to do, along with practicing your skills in piano. But they had already thought about that and said they could pay you for your work.

A tempting proposal. Perfect for a student like you who got into this prestigious school through a scholarship.

You tapped your pen on the table and heaved a sound sigh, slouching on the chair. You were in a cafe near the school, in an attempt to change the atmosphere and help you write a report for Sir MacTavish's and Sir Price’s classes, but it didn’t seem to be helping at the moment. A pleasant music came from your earphones to block out the background noises and you closed your eyes to lull yourself.

When you opened your eyes, you jolted up your seat. “Shit!” your hands immediately flew to your potty mouth and straightened your spine at the sight of one of your professors, Simon, across the table. “Ah, uh, I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t notice you—”

“Why do you apologize so often?” his rough voice was low and he placed a cup of tea on the table. His eyes landed on your notebook, full of notes, written clean as though it was printed.

You pursed your lips, unable to think of an answer, and ran your tongue over the soft flesh, catching Simon’s attention. “I . . .”

Simon glanced around the empty cafe, the only other person within the area was the staff over the counter, who kept her eyes on her phone. And you had perfectly picked a secluded spot. He looked back at you and reached out a hand, placing it under your chin. He lifted your face to bring your eyes to his.

Your heart raced at his actions.

“An angel as brilliant as you are should carry yourself with confidence, sweetheart.” His thumb caressed your lips. “Perhaps, we could teach you that.”

Your lips parted at his touch, warmth pooling at your stomach. You knew this was strange—wrong, and yet you didn’t want him to stop.

But he let go and leaned back, and you found yourself gripping on your thigh. “Have you thought of our proposal last week?”

You nodded, clearing your throat. “I have, sir.”

“What do you say?”

“The offer is good, and I don’t think it will clash with my schedule under normal circumstances, either.” You paused, letting him wait for your answer as you gazed into his caramel eyes. “I’ll take it, professor.”

You were fond of puzzles. You were interested in mysteries. And you were drawn to danger.

Being their assistant had more perks than you initially thought it was. You talked with them about their terms and added some of yours, and they seemed to be pretty considerate about it.

Maybe, a bit too much.

You had moved to an apartment they got you, so you wouldn’t be distracted by your roommates. When you had breaks, they would call you to their offices and give you desserts and snacks.

And more often than not, their touches lingered, turning into hugs, caressing, and pinching when in private. To close, seemingly the start of a taboo, a risk, and yet when Professor Price had you pinned between him and Professor Garrick in his office one late night when most of the people at school had gone home, you didn't want them to stop.

You wanted the heat to rush over you, like a forest fire, unwavering.

Didn't pull back when he planted his lips on you. Didn't stop the very professor you looked up to as a musician to bunch up your skirt and grind his dick against your ass. Didn't stop even when the other two entered and Sir Price had his hand rubbing against your clothed cunt. Didn't stop when Professor Riley locked the door behind him as Sir Mactavish joined in.

Johnny’s snaked a hand around your waist, a bit harsher than the ones he’d always done, but you didn’t mind it. Not when his lips were gentle against yours, patient and exploring as he led you on his lap when he sat on your couch, stealing you from Price and Garrick. He drank on your gasp as you felt another pair of lips on your nape, dusting kisses along your flesh.

Simon breathed against your shoulder, hand grasping the swell of your breast and performed maddening massage that got your nipples pebbling under the fabric of your top. You flinched when he took them by fingers, the rolls languid, and shifted on the other man’s lap as you felt a poke underneath.

Johnny groaned against you, parting the breathtaking kiss. He removed you from his lap, only to turn you against him, now facing the professor who had shed his mask. His fingers dipped under the band of your panties, into your untouched bud and your wet folds. He rubbed with a hum, spreading your filth.

“You're so wet, hen,” he commented and inserted a digit, rubbing it against your slick walls.

Your teeth sunk to your lower lip, biting back a squeal at the sudden intrusion.

Simon placed his fingers under your chin and leaned down on you, his tongue running over your lips, something he had always wanted to do before. “Don't bite your lips. That's something we're supposed to do, yeah?” He whispered on your lips and explored your mouth, savoring the echoes of your pleasure, and left to plant his marks on your collarbones. Hands gathered your shirt and lifted it, exposing your chest to his sight.

His mouth dropped to the nipple, sucking while his hand went to work on the other. 

Johnny began to pump faster, making you throw your head back to his chest, moaning out in pleasure as you shot a glance at other professors.

“You are not so innocent after all, hm?” Price took your jaw and ran his thumb over your lips, before pushing it in, muffling your cries.

“No one's that innocent nowadays, Price,” Garrick remarked, watching the frown on your face and the flutter of your lashes at every jerk of Johnny's hand made and Simon’s tongue did. His tongue ran over his lips, hand cupping over his hard-on, palming himself through his pants.

You began to suck on Price’s finger, making his dick twitch in his pants—his brain wondering how good your mouth would feel around him. He pulled his hand away to work down on his belt and pants, hands pulling out his shaft. He gave it a few pumps, chuckling when he noticed the way your tongue ran over your swollen lips before a groan escaped from it as Simon planted a bite on your neck and Johnny's thumb began to work on your clit.

Price brought his tip to your mouth. “Open up, dove,” he demanded and grunted as he pushed his shaft in, breath hitching at the warm feeling of your tongue and your throat. Your face twisted a bit at the taste of his precum. He let you adjust for a couple of seconds, hand going to the back of your head before he began to thrust.

One of your hands flew to hold onto his hip as you let him use your mouth, eyes fluttering closed and focusing on breathing through your nose. Out of the blue, Johnny pulled his fingers out and Simon stepped away, eliciting a whine from you. Vibrations ran down Price’s body and he groaned.

Unbuckling of belts echoed in the air, and you were pulled away from Price, making him curse. The next thing you knew, you were staring into the eyes of the man you had admired for so long.

“Sir—”

Kyle put his thumb over your lips, cutting off your words. “Not sir. Call me Kyle.” He positioned his cock under your cunt, rubbing the tip on your entrance.

You gasped at the sensation. “Kyle . . .” Your jaw slacked as he slowly went in, hands pulling you closer to his clothed body, fingers running on your flesh, gentle just as how he played his instruments. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, hands sliding down to your ass to guide you up and down on his length.

Now, he made music out of you.

It didn’t take a few ticks of the clock until they fucked you with all they had.

Simon’s cock was buried in the confines of your mouth, fingers tangled on your tresses, watching the curls of your lashes get soaked by the tears that rolled down on your cheeks as they relentlessly pounded on you—Kyle on your pussy, Price on your ass, and Johnny on your grasps. You had never felt so full, so complete.

You feel your legs shake—the sign you have reached the pinnacle of pleasure and exhaustion when Kyle hits the spot deep in you. You whined against Simon’s cock, groaning as beg for the overdue orgasm that they had been keeping from you.

You felt a hand slide down your thigh, finding your swollen clit, before the rough pads of the fingers rubbed aguishly gentle and slow. If they weren’t your professors, you would have cursed at whoever the one was doing it. But your wish had been heard and he picked up the pace until you were crying, arching your back.

But they weren’t done.

You felt Kyle and Price become rougher at each of their thrust, Simon tugging on your hair harder, and Johnny losing his rhythm on your hands, until they all pulled back, coating your skin with their cum.

You slumped on Kyle’s chest, limbs like a stringless puppet as you ride out the aftermath of your orgasm. Your heavy lids fell close, tired from the deed, but you fought back the drowsiness, not wanting to fall asleep in the state you were in.

“You did good, love,” Kyle cooed into your ear and planted a soft kiss on your temple.

Johnny leaned down and pressed a kiss on your shoulder. “Yer amazing, bonnie. Can’t wait to have more of ya.”

A hand caressed your flushed cheek, swiping the transparent mix of tears and sweat. “Let’s bring you back to your apartment, dove,” Price said in a gentle voice.

Gentle fingers scraped your scalp, gaining a hum from you, must be Simon with how his fingers feel on your head. An unspoken apology about the way he tugged on your locks.

Like the sky glowing, your skin glittered in the ruins they drew up. A masterpiece you were, vulnerable, vincible in their sight, like walls that had fallen. And yet as though a book which held thousands of words, they still had more things to know about you. 

Like every start of a relationship. How fortresses were made. Each beginning of a story. 

You basked in the echoes of their praise, letting their words bring you comfort and slowly help you regain your mind and strength.

Like after a fire, new maps were drawn. A new tale was written, with them, who swallowed a star.

Taglist: @itsyellow

[gffa]

When it really comes down to it, no, I don't think the Star Wars prequels were "better" than the originals (if we absolutely must pit them against each other), I don't think the prequels could have legitimately Changed Everything in the genre in the same way that the originals did, I don't think the prequels were as polished and well-done in the same way as the originals, but I also think the prequels tickle something in my fandom brain that the originals can never hope to replicate. The worldbuilding and themes of the prequels have so much crunch to them that I want to chew drywall about the smallest of details, I've got it so bad for the prequels that I have listened to every George Lucas interview I can get my hands on because I want to know what was going on in that three-ring circus brain of his, every ridiculous choice and every brilliant choice he made and hell I even want to know about every mediocre choice he made and the bad choices he made, I want to know the narrative intention of Star Wars because it enhances what was shown on the screen, that it threads the needle between being a fairy tale and something with solid political and thematic foundations that are actually being woven into the storytelling of the prequels. The originals are a foundation and frame to build a house on that the prequels can never compare to, but the prequels are adding in architectural structure and decorative setting that's the stuff I'm actually going to stare at every day for the rest of my life and constantly fiddle with, in a way that the originals can never reach the same heights of. They both fulfill a function that the other can't, that without both of them I wouldn't be here, but also that's why I spend all day talking about one more than the other.

[fanaticsnail]

Okay, so I've been slowly working on 'The True Bride' retelling but lately I've been feeling run down and low. Babysitting 3 - THREE! - Duracell batteries (aka kids) leaves me very little brainpower or energy and the days I'm off... I just want to do nothing but rest and be a couch potato. I thought I'd send this little request this way, you know, legal channels and all that.

Could you do something fluffy and sweet (smut can also be added if you'd like!) with either Shanks or Sanji? I'd throw in Law but these two currently are taking all the brain space.

The way I cannot wait for your contribution to the Storyteller Au! It's gonna be so much fun! I feel you on the Duracell babies, my two have been off like a rocket from about 5am (as per the norm). Shanks was not cooperating, so Sanji gets some love this morning. May a little bit of suggestive, sweet domestic fluff ease the burden for you, love.

By Feel

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,300+

Synopsis: You challenge Sanji to demonstrate his impressive knife skills for you by chopping up vegetables while blindfolded. He becomes flustered by the amount of attention you give to him.

Themes: Sanji x gn!reader, established relationship, domestic fluff, flirting, knife skills, kissing, blindfolded Sanji, flustered Sanji, suggestive ending.

As soon as the shroud covered Sanji’s eyes, all other senses were heightened. His nose pricked up with the fragrance of sweetness and spices, his tongue tasted the steam in the air wafting from the pan, his ears heard the rough pops and crackles rising in the pan from the contents being of an elevated temperature.

Most of all, his hands were hypersensitive to every soft ridge and divot in the chopping board in front of him, and his connection to his blade felt more sturdy and intentional in each motion. 

“Show me then, Chef,” you tease him, the playful tone in your voice propelling him to prove himself to you. He smirked and impressively twirled the blade in his hands before dropping it in the board. The knife stuck out and wobbled slightly beneath the light as Sanji sought out the carrots and his favored peeler with his fingers.

“Oh, I’ll show you alright,” he picked up one of the carrots in his hands and his peeler, “You watching closely?” Even without the blindfold, you could absolutely see the wink he shot your way beneath the material. 

Leaning forward on the bench, but still lingering far enough out of his way to continue, you witnessed him take the peeler with his dominant hand and wave it backwards and forwards along the length of the carrot. Each moment the blade end of the peeler almost reached his palm, he instinctively knew when to draw it away. Rotating the carrot within his fingers, he continued to drag it back and forward until he felt the flesh of the carrot glisten its dewy juices in his hand.

“Still watching?” he teased at you, his fingers hastily collecting all of the lengthy offcuts of the bitter skin and sliding it into the scrap bin beside the sink. You rolled your eyes before giving him a soft, “Uh huh,” in response. He smiled, shaking his head and collected his blade from beside him: still in the place where he left it.

“Alright then,” he scoffed, his light chuckle found in his tone, “Doubting me?” You shook your head at him, more to scold than to doubt him. 

“No doubts, Chef,” you slowly walk behind him, Sanji’s ears picking up and hearing the soft taps of your shoes on the wooden surface behind him. “Never doubted you to begin with.” As you slowly approach behind him, your hands reach out to collect his hips in your hands. He hissed a soft breath through his teeth and threw his head back as your hands caressed his skin. 

“You gonna let me show you what I can do?” he gasped, his breathing heavy as your hands teased at the waistband of his pants, “Or are you going to distract me on purpose?” You hum a soft chuckle through your lips before placing a soft kiss on his spine. He moaned at the softest touch, the deep rasp in his throat coming out with his breath hitching. 

“I won’t distract you. I just wanted to take a closer look,” you admit, looking down his arms from your position over his shoulder. He gulped his nerves, instinctively leaning his head away from your face in the hopes for more brushes of your lips on his skin. You laugh tight-lipped through your nose at him before tapping his hips to draw his attention back to the task. 

“Okay,” he uttered snarkily, twirling the blade and seeking out the carrot once more. Lining it up with the tip, he exhaled a huff of breath before immediately rocking his arm back and forward, slicing the carrot first into a long, rectangular shape. The ‘shinkt,’ sound of the blade colliding with crisp flesh at a hastened pace had you arch your brow, still watching intently as he expertly placed hasty ridges into the carrot. 

Turning the orange object, he began slicing the vegetable at a different angle. The diagonal cuts never tapped the board, holding it a whisker’s length away from the base of the carrot. As soon as he reached the tip once more, he turned in your arms with the rectangular carrot in his hands. Your hands never left his hips, holding him steady as he gave you a cocky smirk. 

“Watching closely?” he whispered to you. You hum in confirmation at him as you look at the orange figure in your hands. Drawing apart his hands, the length of the carrot extended into a lace pattern. The carrot was still intact, but the knife skills demonstrated by the blonde created a webbed net from the vegetable as he held his arms out to the side. 

His grin only broadened when he heard your gasp, your hands gripping his waist tighter in awe caused a rosy blush to rise in his cheeks. With the blindfold still fixed over his eyes, he lowered his hands with the vegetable reforming into a rectangle. 

“Something you wanna say to me?” his brow arched up under the shroud of the mask. You lean up on the tips of your toes and brush your nose with his. He gasps at you, fluttering his eyelashes beneath the woven material. 

“You are the best chef in the world, and can even craft mastery blindfolded,” you dull your tone, mocking his voice with a smile on your lips. He scoffs at you, moving his head away from yours and purses his lips up in a light pout. You giggle, reaching up to cup his cheek and turn his head back to face you. 

“You don’t have to make petulant bets to prove anything to me. I already think you’re amazing, Sanji,” you press your lips to his unoccupied cheek, your sweetness igniting a swell of heat pooling in his face and almost burning your lips with the intensity. Giggling against his cheek, you pulled away to witness him freeze in place with his lips parted. 

No matter how long the two of you had been together, it never ceased to make you smile with the amount of fluster you could bring to your partner. A simple touch, a soft caress, a gentle compliment all had that soft hue rise to his face, and you couldn't get enough of it.

“Th-Thank you,” he stuttered, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed back his nerves. You decide to press him further, enjoying his light fluster. 

“C’mon, pretty boy,” you praise up at him, hovering your lips over his and tasting the warmth of his sweet air, “Show me what else you can do just by feel, hm?” He immediately whimpered, placing the carrot down behind him as he hastily reached for you and surged his lips forwards to engulf your own in them. 

His kiss was raw, intense and desperate. Lips mouthing and swirling against your own, hungry to consume all you had to offer him in the kitchen space of the Going Merry. The shroud over his eyes had him feel everything: the taste of your lips, the scent of your perfume, the sound of your soft moan, and the feel of your eager reciprocation. He simply couldn't get enough.

Reaching up, he carded his fingers over the back of your scalp and cradled your neck to deepen the intensity. Each press of his lips, swirl of his tongue, and whimper you collected from his mouth within yours had you smile and balance his expression. The flicker of his tongue brushing against yours had the softest taste of metal lingering from his frenulum piercing. The balled circlet brushed against you as he performed his sensual isolation, consuming you entirely.

Pulling away and panting briefly, he finally removed the blindfold to take you in. His eyes were glazed and glassy, lips bruised and swollen, and cheeks dusted with the frosting of a bright pink. Gently caressing your cheek with his palm and fingertips,he leaned forward to press his forehead against yours. 

“Satisfied?” he chirped breathily at you. You chuckled back up at him, nuzzling against his forehead before pulling away to gaze into his eyes. 

“Hardly,” you smiled, “But there’s a remedy for that. Your quarters or mine?” He replaced his forehead with his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your skin while muttering his suggestion. 

“Yours.” 

“Perfect,” you quipped at him, reaching down and taking him by the hand, “Bring the blindfold, but finish what you're cooking in the pan first before it burns.”

"Yes, boss," he uttered snarkily, quickly turning to finish off searing the vegetables and placing it in a pot to simmer low and slow with a variety of meat. His anticipation only grew when he heard every slow and deliberate step taken towards the door.

Hastily completing his duty, he rushed to your side and eagerly followed you like a needy pup towards your quarters, where he showed you exactly what he could do by feel alone.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady

[velvet-vox]

The russian worker drones family; murder drone's greatest small scale tragedy.

As long as I can recall there has never been in my mind a story quite as painful and heartbreaking and yet quite as engaging as the tragedy of Doll, Yeva, and her husband, who's lack of a clear name doesn't detract from the impact of this story or the death of the other two.

The last time such an emotional impact was left in my brain was with Noximilliem Coxen the Watchmaker from Wakfu, who I will assuredly make a comparison post with Doll, as they both hit extremely similar themes and ideas while still having such different execution and story beats that it almost makes you question why would you even compare them in the first place.

Tragedy is deceptively hard to write right and make meaningful, as just crippling your characters won't do, because at that point it just becomes drama porn and as boring as a low effort pre-schoolers program. Seemingly unfeasible in a show such as Murder Drones; an horror/comedy/romance where an abused child repaired and made friends with a robot only for said robot to cause the destruction of her planet and... something else.

Buckle up cause these robots emotions might not even be considered real inside the fictional setting but our pain allows what would otherwise be a pretty standard horror scenario to transcend into the bane of my existence as we take a look at the small, inconsequential tale of the russian worker drones family.

Yeva

Starting off with Yeva as the oldest member of our family in terms of chronological relevance, we get our first peek into the way this story plays out due to Yeva being seemingly mute by choice or programming, which retroactively sets up the storytelling method used; Yeva doesn't speak a single word in this scene or the one that precedes it, but we still get a clear rendition of her character by her standoffish behaviour juxtaposed with her caring and nurturing nature, it's debatable whether or not her and Nori are sisters, but you wouldn't be blamed for thinking that judging by the way Yeva tends to Nori after the banishment of the solver, being chained up and experimented upon didn't stop her from staying positive in the midst of adversity and could theoretically be the reason why she was the only correctly patched drone in the facility.

During the V attack she sacrificed her own life in order to protect Doll. An act that, in the long run, ended up being whortless, but that cemented Yeva has an unyielding positive influence in a world stormed by negativity and death.

The father

We know jack s##t about this man but that won't stop us from analysing him. The most interesting things about him are his relationship with Yeva and the fact that the picture of V seen in episode 2 was made by him. He's, admittedly, a white canvas for head cannons, but thematically he keeps a recurring motif that this post will touch upon in his final entry:

Doll

And now, for the crown jewel of this family. The protagonist's dark reflection. Not many people can claim to have been messed up as hard as Doll was. Sure, death is still death, but with it comes a certain sense of finality and rest. Instead, by contrast Doll's death is so brutal and devastating because although it's something that she has been calling upon herself since she started to consume other drones for her goals, it's just so heartbreaking because she managed to achieve absolutely nothing despite being one step forward everyone else in the story; she never got better, never reademned herself, made their parents sacrifice worthless, died almost entirely off camera completely alone and scared, and as her last compensation act she managed to give Uzi a barely useful warning before having her probably still alive consciousness eaten by an eldritch atrocity. At the end of the day, she was deemed worthless by the main antagonist and quickly brushed aside.

And we go back to a certain reoccurring theme regarding this family: Yeva never speaks. Her husband is never given a name. Doll is literally a toy name. Their story plays out in the shadow of the main plot. Every single aspect regarding them paints their existence as worthless and inconsequential (classic eldritch horror), yet are given enough spotlight to leave an impact on us, to have their presence felt, and to give us the impression that, despite their bad luck, if they only took certain decisions in certain key moments, maybe they would have survived and received a much better ending than the one they got.

Want more?

[fernsnailz]

HI . GET ON THE DISSECTION TABLE. taking your brain RIGHT NOW OH MY GODDDDD. OH MY god ,,, everything in the zine,,,,,

obviously the quality of your work, the art itself is so good ,,,, but OUGHHGGGGHGH i need to bang my head into a wall until im unconscious . like the title itself, starting off . woe mama we are in for a fucked up roboty treat . your comps . your writing . in the most respectful and awestuck tone possible . i need to kill you

my favorite i think is how you draw gemerl ,, all the robots you nail their expressiveness but oughh ,, him in particular makes me kick my feet . 'you are everything i fear becoming' makes me actually tear the fucking floorboards up the themes of autonomy ,,,,,, ,,, and how you storytell through your comic panels,,, the 'what a fool you are to think the doctor is gone' panel set makes me drink 2 Monsters and eat glass

THE . THE IMPOSSIBLE GOAL COMIC RAGHHHHHH. FAV FAV FAV . geninely shaking and trembling looking at it like jesus thats so fucked up ,,, your mind . your writing is so everything !! i would love to get any insight for how you workshop it because it is consistently breathtaking it sticks with me so heavily,,, one time i accidentally stole a line of dialogue word for word from your Never turn back zine comic and had to change it dfhjd,,,,, (wow this line is so cool ! ...a little toooo cool. squint.) but yeah god the last comic wow,, your panel compositions are banger after banger you are so good at consistently writing evocative stuff,,, tragic, rlly funny, hopeful, its so inspirational

thank u so much for putting together such a cool zine, would love to have it physically one day !

GOD. THANK YOU SO MUCH THIS EDIT IS KILLING ME. this is such a rewarding ask to get, i'm so glad you picked up on these things!!

my writing work shopping style is. hm. a bit all over the place. i have a lot of thoughts about it i'll put under a cut if you're interested. there's a lot of little things i've picked up that help me out so so much that i would really love to share!

ok FIRST i should note that it took me so goddamn long to write this thing. like i had the very very VERY first concepts for metal sonic good future like. a year ago. the first scrawlings are literally in a notebook right after some thumbnails i was using for dance in fire and i was editing dialogue up until two days ago. i'm ill

BUT!!! there are a few things i like to keep in mind when i write/edit that have really helped me!

GET OTHER PEOPLE TO READ YOUR STUFF. ESSENTIAL STEP. i get stuck in holes with my work a lot and having beta readers and other eyes on this thing made it like a million times better

sometimes you have to kill your baby. there will be certain lines or moments that you ADORE that simply don't fit into the larger piece, and you gotta just cut it out to make it better sometimes. but usually this gives birth to an even cooler and more epic baby. or sometimes your killed baby is also resurrected later to be used in a different scene. does this make any sense

figuring out what emotion you want a scene to make people feel is very important - with this in mind, i also pay really close attention to how my writing or scene concepts make me feel physically. i think this is the thing that has helped me most with work shopping anything i want to be evocative. does a line make me tense my jaw? make my teeth vibrate? make my chest tight? do i suddenly feel the blood in my hands? if it makes me feel something within my body, i try to draw on that physical sensation when forming the rest of the scene.

ok this last one is. stupid. as i was wrapping up this thing i went through a final edit phase i'd call "Garten of Banban Vision." Garten of Banban is an indie horror game that has uhhh kinda mid dialogue. a lot of it focuses on exposition, and any emotion in it feels a bit hollow. with this in mind, i read through everything one last time and imagined like all of the lines were from a Garten of Banban game and spoken in the character's monotone voices. if the line felt like it could fit a little too well in the Garten of Banban world, i considered editing it. but if i started thinking "oh shit this is pretty good for a Garten of Banban game" i knew it was fine. do you understand what i was alluding to when i said my writing process is a bit all over the place

in conclusion. writing hard

[joydoesathing]

IT NEEDS TO BE SAID!!!

Joy… Lets just… appreciate your brain.

Like, in OG tnmn if a guys is wearing a tie, you manage to put in in the gender bend’s design (Agnes’ necklace, W’s necklace, Izabelle’s scarf, Francis’ dress she wears under the milklady coat, arlenes scarf etc etc)

You stick to their OG colour pallete! Like how Martins tie has the polka dots (ref to Margerettes dress) and Raffael’s Hawaiian t-shirt!

Hair. THE WAY YOU DESIGNED EACH CHARACTERS HAIR. I LOVE IT!

THE WAY YOU DRAW SHOES. I COULD NEVER!

You actually stick to like, 50s fashion. Like, accurate 50s fashion.

Your artstyle itself is just gorgeous

They just LOOK like their genderbend’s genderbend. You can easily tell who’s who without confusion

Character design isn’t even the SURFACE of your creativity.

YOU MAKE EXTREMELY GOOD LORE FOR YOUR CHARACTERS!!!

Im being fr, you’re a really good storyteller.

You see the characters as real life people with actual stories and views.

YOU DO RESEARCH!!!!!! THIS IS ONE OF THE THINGS I APPRECIATE THE MOST! You actually research and understand facts about the 50s and its customs and what they considered normal!

Something else I like about the characters is that they’re realistic, yes I’m extremely delusional and want Frances x Nacho to be together but they aren’t exactly made for eachother, which is why they aren’t together. WHICH MAKES SENSE!

YOU WOULD WILLINGLY CHANGE A CHARACTER’S LORE IF SOMETHING NEW IS DISCOVERED IN THE GAME! I’m mainly talking about Dr. w and Michael, you changed their age (27 to 36) when the th project document got solved, and you said youd change some things up abt Wil’s lore again in campaign mode

Okay, so this might be controversial but… I really appreciate how You didn’t draw NSFW of Nacho x Frances. Yes, they’re your characters and you have to power to draw whatever you want with them (chelsea in the corn outfit lmao) But you chose not to draw NSFW of the 2. FRANCES WAS SEVENTEEN! Imho, you made a good decision.

YOU ACTUALLY UNDERSTAND ALL THE BIASES! Martin was judged because of his eye, Wilma was judged because she was a WOMAN, and Anatolii is judged because of not having a mother and glenn and arlene are judged for their race.

THE CHARACTERS ARE REALISTIC! NONE OF THEM HAVE A ‘PERFECT’ LIFE. THEY ALL HAVE FLAWS AND PROBLEMS THAT THEY’VE FACED. I WOULD LIST THEM ALL BUT THAT WOULD TAKE FOREVER!

Okay thats chap 1 of me talking abt how much i appreciate ur au.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

My heart cannot- thank you for appreciating the effort that i invest too much into the characters 💗

when I made this AU, I initially did it for making genderbent designs for them but afterwards i thought that it would be more fun for the neighbors to have they're own individual traits and detailed stories!

i value putting in all my effort I can give to make sure everyone is their own character at the end of the day.

not to be judgemental but i kind of find it very unsatisfying when there's only certain neighbors that are given so much emphasis and detail and the rest are treated like "props" or their personality, dialogue, actions and drive are solely built around the certain character/s with a lot of detail to make them look better or have story development while the "prop" characters themselves remain stagnant with no interesting traits to them or only one-dimensional traits

and honestly for me, i feel like the characters would be more interesting and fun if they were kind of realistic ,aka have some kind of character development and have faced struggles and biases on the way, so that from there, the neighbors, while coming from very different backgrounds and lives, can still connect, empathize and make bonds with each other via similar struggles in their lives :))

so in conclusion: my enthusiasm for making genderbent designs for them + wanting all of them to be actual characters with character gave birth to what is known as my genderbend au. it became my little isolated platform in the tnmn fandom where i can go crazy with these expectations and wants for the neighbors without necessarily conflicting with the hcs that people have for the OG neighbors

(also I don't mind if you make a whole ass list)

[comicaurora]

Hey Red!

I have a writing question I’d like to ask, if that’s cool with you!

When it comes to starting a new story, big or small, pantsing or structuring, with black tea or chamomile, do you have any tips for, er, actually pulling the trigger and beginning? I don’t mean the “accusatory blank page”, I mean in getting to the “I genuinely believe this is a story worth telling and that should be told by me” mindset sufficient to commit. (Insofar as there’s a difference.)

Asking you because you’re someone who has excellent and proven skills in showwomanship, creativity, execution and all-round good storytelling vibes. Cuz while I’ve studied story structure and writing advice aplenty… It’s hard to take the dive when you’ve only ever been in the kiddie pool, so to speak.

Thanks either way!

Aw shucks!

I kinda feel like there's an intermediate stage here that I usually hit first, which is when I've been telling a story for myself for so long that I start feeling like I don't want to keep it to myself anymore.

A lot of the stuff I write or draw is just for me - stuff where I enjoy the act of creation or use it to flesh out and play with a concept I've been toying with. Sketchbook stuff that doesn't have an outside audience in mind, just stuff that I like. These aren't stories that have the end goal of sharing them - hell, half of them are just comic or prose adaptations of story beats that stuck with me that I wanted to play around with as practice and for fun. The rest of it is sketch pages of characters, doodles of scenes or snippets of prose writing built around a single scene or concept.

I think that the creative urge, when examined, should be subdivided into two extremely distinct subsections for clarity; the desire to make, and the desire to share. Not every person shares both in equal measure - in fact I'd say it's much more common for them to exist independently. The desire to share isn't limited to art you yourself created, either - fandom is constructed from a massive excess of the desire to share, passing around a story for examination and discussion because it is inherently fun to share the experience, and most of us can relate to the burning need to talk about this thing that's in my brain. And there's plenty of art that results from the desire to make that has none of the desire to share, ref cit everything in a sketchbook or every private writing exercise done for the joy of it. Neither element can be forced, and there's nothing wrong with either one existing without the other.

For me at least, the desire to share builds slowly for the larger projects. I might be eager to share a doodle or a sketch I think people will get a kick out of, but something bigger and more complicated will stay in my brain for much longer, and might never make it out. For me, Aurora started as just a playground for me to write and draw in, but over the years it built up to something I wanted to share - something I felt I'd be betraying if I let it sit in my head. It kind of just grew naturally, and if I'd tried to force it beforehand I would've felt self-conscious and uncomfortable rather than getting any joy out of the act of sharing.

[these-godforsaken-halls]

a rare talent indeed

Grian doesn't have Ren's storytelling gift, but he can search for memories of artifacts to taunt the pirates with. A magic mirror with three wishes to grant, a mermaid's comb in the hoard of the dragon Kyto, a flower called a never-bloom that dances round the island — perhaps most tantalizing of all, a moonstone, tucked into the heart of the fairies' own pixie dust tree.

“How’s this, little fairy,” says the captain, leaning forward where he sits, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes are dark and clever, fixing Grian with a stare. "Win a bet with me, and I’ll let you have your choice — any piece of treasure on this ship, any one of them at all, is yours.”

alternative summary: grian makes bad decisions and gets horribly fucked up: the fic. (there will be a happy ending, dramatic rescue included, but oh my god.)

featuring, of course, a whole lot of convexian bc that's all my brain knows how to write anymore

this fic was written for the @mcytblraufest summer 2024 event, and is fully pre-written! the next 3 chapters will drop over the next 3 days!!

inspired by the beautiful art of @sarcasticcryingobsidian which is just- no words. so gorgeous. fills me with infinite whimsy fr and i have done my damnedest to capture that sense of whimsy in writing.

[translatemunson]

Effie! I’ve been thinking… Since I know you love Taylor Swift and if you have requests open, can I request Brains and Buck + …Ready For It? 😊😆

casey! omg my first the tortured firefighters department request (and also my first writing request on tumblr!). i took a few days to elaborate this idea, and i really hope you like it!

touch me and you'll never be alone • ttfd

a blurb from the universe of the tortured firefighters department

| check the masterlist |

cw: i fear you might need to read chapter six of the series so you can better understand what's happening here, pov changes, fem!reader, afab!reader, no descriptions of reader, two oblivious idiots, mentions of drinking, mentions of going on a date, feelings talk, not proofread (lmk if i forgot something)

One day, Buck would come home and finally have the guts to ask Brains out. For a firefighter, it was odd to see him afraid of doing something. Rescuing people in tall buildings, walking through fire to make sure everyone was out of danger, putting himself in any danger just to get people safe and sound. But he insisted on tiptoeing around the girl he had a crush on.

He very briefly mentioned it to Maddie, and it was enough to have his big sister telling him he should go for it. Even though he didn’t mention Brains when he brought the subject up, she said that if he really felt something, he should risk it. Maddie believed the feelings were mutual — or maybe she knew something he didn’t.

Anyway, it was almost three weeks ago, just a few days shy from when Buck helped Brains during a crisis. His courage to ask her out was shying away, and he didn’t think a good opportunity would come up soon.

Buck inserted the key on his door and took one glance at Brain’s apartment. Her door unlocked and he held his breath. She ditched her usual clothes, and was wearing the same green dress she wore to that dinner at Maddie and Chim’s.

“Hey, Buck!” She waved. “Leaving for a shift?”

“Coming home, actually. Going somewhere, Brains?”

“Yeah, I’m,” she fixed her dress, “going on a date.”

Buck had to hold his reaction quickly, blurting a “He must be a catch if you’re switching your books for him.”

“We can talk about my books, so I think it’s a win-win situation,” she said, putting her keys inside her purse and walking to the elevator. “See ya, Buck. Have a nice rest.”

“Have fun, Brains!” He almost ran to get inside his apartment.

Fuck. He missed his chance.

+++

You dropped down on one of the beach chairs someone left on the rooftop — and never came back to retrieve them. You should’ve gone straight to bed, but you needed a moment alone, without the books and ghosts.

Stephen was a nice study buddy and the time would fly when you were sharing a table and notes in the library. You couldn’t say the same about the two hours you’ve spent together with him. Not that he wasn’t a nice company or only talked about statistics during the date, actually he was a pretty good storyteller and very polite. He just didn’t bring a spark in you during the date.

What actually really happened was that you couldn’t stop thinking about someone else. You sat down for two hours and had to force yourself to look at Stephen and imagine him as someone you would spend more than just study sessions together. And you couldn’t do it. Stephen’s face would never be the one on the dozens of scenarios that crossed your mind. Someone else had already claimed that spot.

“Date went well?”

Buck plopped down on the chair next to yours. He wore his lounger clothes, and you were surprised he wasn’t deep asleep by now.

“Wouldn’t say I’ll be going for a second one,” you admit, the taste of wine getting a little bitter in your tongue. “But it’s fine, tho, I wasn’t expecting much.”

“Do you need me, Chim and Eddie to give the guy a lesson?”

“Not necessary, but thanks for the offer.”

“So, do we know him?” You looked at him, pushing yourself to believe he was asking you about it. “Or her. I don’t judge,” he added, once your silence became too much.

“No, he’s someone from my classes. It’s just, yeah, no, nice classmate, I’ll give him that. But I felt nothing during the date. Not even that small pinch to jump head first, damn the consequences,” you explained.

“You’re really an adrenaline junkie,” he made fun of one of the very first things you talked about, months ago now. “No, but I think it’s fair because if there’s no spark, why commit at all?”

“Right? I mean, some relationships take the slow burn road, just like the books and movies, you know, but I only believe in that if the people involved have known each other for like months. Or maybe years. There’s a true bond in like being a friend first, lover second.”

“And you did that for your relationships? Because I didn’t.”

“Maybe the guy I dated after highschool, because we were friends, but after that I didn’t had much time to have a slow burn.” You played with the hem of your dress, pushing it further to protect your legs from the night breeze. “And also that brief relationship with Alex was a nightmare.”

“Oh yeah, Alex,” Buck laughed, the memory still fresh. “So maybe you’re not ready for a relationship right now?”

“No, I,” you measured your words, “I think I have someone else in mind, but it’s not like… nevermind, the wine is making me think too much about stupid things.”

“What do you mean by stupid things?”

“My feelings, I guess.” You kept shoving everything aside, trying to focus on your main goals. It wasn’t a crime to have you mind wandering a never taken road, but it was tough. “Sorry, I think it’s past my bedtime.”

That was a stupid excuse, and you both knew that. Buck gave you a puzzled look. Oh no, you were reaching a dangerous zone. As soon as you anchored your arms to get up from the seat, he reached out and stopped you. You were caught in the headlights — and the stupid siren lights down the street.

“I once had this idea that I’d have to be ready for a relationship, so I thought avoiding real connections was a solution.” He referenced his own addition, something he happily left behind. “But for the months I’ve known you, Brains, I can definitely tell you’re gonna find the relationship you’re looking for when you least expect it. Or maybe you already found it. Anyway, your feelings are not stupid, and I hope you understand it.”

“Thanks, Buck.” You smiled. He let go of your arms and you finally got up. “You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met. And I know we were talking about me, but I hope you found someone who will love you as much as you deserve it. I’ll see you later, ok? Right now I really need to sleep.”

You squeezed his shoulder and left the rooftop, taking the stairs as fast as possible and locking yourself in your apartment. Your feelings creeping under your skin, making you feel like you were gonna be tortured by them for longer than you expected.

[madeofvoid]

NORFOLK WIZARD GAME SPOILERS + non relevant rambling about The Gothic Horror RPG set in My Hometown.

I'm in love with this campaign. This is honestly more entertaining than HTP especially when the monkey(little agent/fierce?) is "on screen." I think it's just. Built this way. Like all of WoD is made so you have to play absurdism completely straightfaced and while HTP is a MASTERWORK of storytelling that I recommend to everyone I meet within 5 minutes of talking, it's just. So much funnier to know that all of the myriad Horrors that Big D and His Sons have gone/are going through, are happening at like, the same fucking time that an /x/ poster, an art student, and a fucking monkey are doing a Cyberchase.

And this is made explicitly funnier for me because like, during the time that this is set in the universe of the setting, I would've been some kid living just across the river from this shit going down. In short, the Gothic Horror RPG is indeed Set In My Hometown and I think that's really, really, neat.

In length? I can imagine exactly where the mousepad or the knickerknackery would've been. Norfolk--explicitly downtown/waterside district just screams "there's some magic shit goin on here" for myriad reasons, ESPECIALLY in the early-mid 00s.

Waterside had a sort of almost-liminality to it that came from the Y2K era crashing over itself like the waves against the docks where the giant ass paddleboat ferries would stop. Where glowing orange jellyfish the size of shopping bags haunted just beneath the surface of the water that my mother warned would poison me if I so much as dipped a toe in. I never saw any fish in the Elizabeth River like in the James or York. I always chalked it up to pollution. Nothing but those ghostly jellies can live here, I thought. Then I'd walk past a statue of a faceless, half-chololate half-weathered-copper mermaid mid stroke and just wonder at the dichotomy that it struck between the waters so murky I couldn't tell if it were a few inches or a few miles deep, and the haunting, blank visage of a creature that should represent, if nothing else, that the waters are pure and full of life. Or, at least, that they were during some point in the dubiously vague, vignette toned past that perhaps my grandmother or my great grandmother(rest her soul) knew of. I always thought that maybe they saw the mermaids in the water, but I felt it too childish to ask. (Either that or the acrid smell of old people in my great grandmother's house burned all thoughts but leaving from my brain every time I would've brought it up.)

Idunno, I'm fucking rambling about Y2K-era Norfolk now and all of it is to say that yeah, that is the PERFECT place for a World of Darkness game to be set in. I doubt there's anywhere else in america beyond the Seven Cities that would be a better fit for the setting and all it contains. Maybe Metairie or Tampa, but those lack the leviathan of NATO HQ lurking in the shadows.

Idk if SpeakerD/OgrePoppenang/Alfabusa live here, but they've picked a great setting.

[vidavalor]

So... I made a key lime pie cheesecake thingy with toasted marshmallow topping, and something that was meant to be mint choc chip cake but ended up as mint choc chip brownie (task failed successfully?) with mint buttercream and candied violet petals on top -- have a slice of each!

Also, GO thoughts:

Restoration of angelic status: obvious BS offer in s2, foreshadow/Chekhovness for s3???

If the Bookshop was literally burned in s1 and got un-burned a couple of episodes later, and was metaphorically 'burned' in s2, five gets you ten it'll be un-burned by about halfway into s3. Reason one, parallel storytelling. Reason two (I think it was @ao3cassandraic's 'compassion fatigue' meta that talked about this), Azzy's never been shown much gratitude for the good stuff he does, so he's due a heaping helping of positive karma -- Anathema doing witchy stuff? Gabriel wanting to repay what he sees as some sort of life debt? Muriel wanting to repay his kindness? Azzy's old platoon remembering seeing him desert and deciding their respect for him outweighs their fear of punishment? Reason three, Good Omens is a fundamentally optimistic show written by a very talented storyteller who loves and cares for the characters, so the bad shit ain't gonna stick around forever and the good stuff is allowed to happen and persist without being cancelled out by gratuitous Drama(tm) and Angst(tm) (this isn't Game of Thrones, or a J**s Wh***n project). When Aziraphale quits the Bookshop for the South Downs, it would I think be out of keeping with the themes of the show for it to be anything other than his free, genuine, un-manipulated/forced/puppeteered choice, where he's had time to think things through and make arrangements for a proper handover.

If Gabriel could remember parts of Everyday even after removing his own memory, because of the strong positive emotional wossnames after less than four years, how much more might Aziraphale retain in his subconscious after an attempted memory wipe, given his bloody-minded stubbornness and 6000+ years of Crowley?

...it's too warm here rn and my brain is going wibbly and giving me Emotions(c)

Hi @jotun-philosopher! Hope you're having a good week so far, dear. Your kitchen adventures sound delicious. 💕

-On b.s. "Metatron" offer for Crowley foreshadowing restoration of angelic status in S3: I think, by the end of it, that Aziraphale's fall leads to the characters banding together to try to challenge it and overthrowing The Metatron in the process. They might all find out that it's The Metatron behind the concept of a demon and it's all b.s.. The demons will wind up restored to "full angelic status" by way of the fact that they'll realize they've really had it all along. Evil exists (Satan, The Metatron) but the rest of the angels and demons are, for the most part, just different shades of moral grey, like the rest of us. I think that would go along with the ideas of personal power that you mention and not letting others define you that I see in the series a bit. We'll have to see what happens though.

-On bookshop "unburned" in S3 & it being Aziraphale's choice to leave it: It's funny that you mention the fact that it was burned two different ways-- on fire in S1 and as a safe place in S2-- and how that fits in with the idea of mirrored storytelling because I was musing about what that could look like continued into in S3. I was thinking of the idea of "unburned" and I think there is an element of that. (Would also not be surprised if it's burnt a third time-- this time, by a burnt orange paint job lol.) I feel like it probably does remains an embassy. Have a meta in the ol' drafts folder about the bookshop, that its an embassy, and the cottage idea & where I can see already where the cottage idea might weaved into what's going on in S2 (besides the potential Jane Austen connection) so more on that when I get to finishing that one at some point between now and 2027 lol.

I do agree with your thoughts on the tone of the show and how it deals with dark stuff but in a way with a lot of humor and an overall positive tone. It'll have a good ending. You're right about Aziraphale being overdue for some good karma-- I think S3 will take care of him pretty well before all is over.

-On Gabriel's memory loss foreshadowing that Aziraphale might remember some things: What Gabriel could remember and when was really interesting. It played to me a lot like retrograde amnesia, which can really happen to some people who experience traumatic events. The mind puts caution tape around anything associated to the trauma and doesn't let the person engage those memories so, as a result, they lose parts of their identity. Suffer severe enough or all-encompassing enough trauma, like Gabriel did, and the mind can cause itself to forget its own identity completely in an effort to protect itself.

Gabriel's recall is also in keeping with that. He knows things like how to take himself to the bookshop and the lyrics to "Everyday" (and, some of us suspect, remembering Bildad!Crowley during the protection miracle scene) because part of his mind is whispering to him "these things are safe" since he considers the people associated with the memories safe but the context isn't safe enough to fully remember because of how Aziraphale, Crowley and Beez are tied to the traumatic event he's undergone.

There's also that Gabriel remembers more when he feels safe enough and trusts enough to do so. Crowley is more successful at helping him remember things once they've talked and the tone is less antagonistic and it's Beez, of course, who can bring him back in full.

I think Aziraphale will be the same if he loses his memories for part of the story. There will likely be things he remembers without full context. It will be fun to see what those are. One scene I think foreshadows his memory loss in general is the one below but I go back and forth on what it might be suggesting regarding what of Crowley Aziraphale can remember at first. The mirrored storytelling we mentioned would mean it could go either way, really, but I can only think of one, other character who could genuinely be described as a skinny latte, can't you? lol

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Nightfall

"There's a voice I haven't heard before," Sidey called out to the mumblings in the dark. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"That's right," the shadow replied, his words slow and careful. "I've come up from Haylington, and Chinford before that."

The new voice wore not a hint of Chinford accent - more north than south, to Sidey's ear - but that was no matter. The clocks had been reset when darkness came. This was a time of new beginnings. He couldn't fault the man for wanting to start again: a new home, and a new life to go with it.

Everybody knew where they were when the lights went out. It had been the last thing any of them seen, after all: the last visual memory, a tableau seared into their consciousness. Of course, most also hadn't travelled far since. It made sense, to cling to the familiar: towns where they knew the layout, homes that they could feel their way around.

That made travellers all the more impressive. What had once been a short journey - up from Haylington, say, or wherever he'd really been - was now treacherous, an odyssey on foot over roads of abandoned cars and feral animals, with no guarantee of reaching the intended destination.

"So what brings you to our neck of the woods?" Sidey asked him, conscious to keep polite. Strangers could be dangerous. There were rumours that some people had gone feral, too, the nightfall awakening a darkness in their hearts. It had never been easier to kill, nor to vanish before facing justice.

There were rumours of roaming cults: men who believed the sky had fallen, or that this was the afterlife, walking around with silver coins placed over their eyes. Sidey hadn't encountered any cultists himself, but he could believe they were out there. The shadows did something to the human brain, he knew: the constant sense of threat, the vulnerability, every instant screaming to know what was up ahead. It would have been easy to lose his mind, having lost sight of everything else.

"I'm a storyteller," the darkness said. "In search of fresh ears again. The people back home know all my tales by heart, you see. They know how they end."

"Oh, how wonderful!" Sidey exclaimed, his misgivings already forgotten. That was truly welcome news. With precious little entertainment in the dark, singers or storytellers were prized by their communities, as much as those whose trades kept them alive. There had to be something worth living for. "Will you be staying long?"

"As long as it takes," the storyteller replied, well aware of his power: in the land of the blind, the golden-throated man was king. Without appearances to go by, in a world without beauty, a silver tongue and honeyed words could take a man a long way - wherever it was he'd started from. "You can be my first listener, and be the judge for the rest. Shall I begin?"

[rydiathesummoner]

JILL IS STRONGER THAN WE THINK: No I'm serious, here's why (all the spoilers)

When I finished FFXVI my feelings about Jill were… ok she's fine. We got her in the party after her time in the Iron Kingdom so she was physically weak. Even her powers were not as strong as Titan or Bahamut. She shone bright when killing Imreann, but then seemed relegated to the background for the rest of the game. She's even captured twice and requiring her boyfriend to save her. In 2023 that's so tropey it hurts.

However after too much overthinking, I think she's pretty great. She's well thought out. The problem is that sometimes the storytelling is too subtle and as an overtired and always stressed modern gamer I missed a few things about Jill.

Thinking back, how was Ultima defeated? Why couldn't Ultima posess Clive? Not because of Clive's physical strength or his massive pecs, but because of his Will. In the end, Clive's Will did not break or falter. Ultima fights with physical strength sure, but he usually gets what he wants throughout the story by breaking people's Will.

Jill's Will never breaks. Not once. Even when facing death from Kupka. She lives through torture and abuse but always remains in control of her Eikon. A broken Will is an Eikon out of control.

Ultima causes Clive's Will to break at Phoenix Gate. He also loses control with Garuda.

Joshua's Will breaks after seeing his father killed.

Benedikta's Will breaks after losing Garuda. Garuda gave her a sense of power and control, especially over men (who had hurt her in the past).

Kupka's Will breaks by eating the mothercrystal to gain more power. He did this at the suggestion of Harbard, who worked for Barnabas, who, well…

Dion's Will breaks after constant frustrations with his family, and Ultima manipulating him into killing his father. It should be noted that Ultima had to work pretty hard for this one.

Barnabas had no Will the entire story. He volunteered it to Ultima. Arguably the most physically powerful Eikon was the weakest when it came to Ultima's machinations. He genuinely thought Ultima would let him be reborn.

Obviously this leads to Cid, who also has an unshakeable Will and maintains control during his short time in the game. Both Cid and Jill influence Clive to strengthen his own Will. So why did it seem to me the Cid was a strong dominant, but Jill was just kind of meh?

I feel like this is an area the writing could have used some tweaks. Cid showed his strong Will by defying everything Valisthea stood on and creating an entire movement about it. This was a huge part of the plot. There are scenes where Jill could have primed out of control to save herself (Kupka and Barnabas's abductions for example, a yellow-eyed eikon could probably break crystal fetters) but the game doesn't really put that idea into the player's head. "Oooh is she gonna go crazy before this big dude cuts off her head and destroy Rosaria?" like they could have shown her struggling, or her eyes turning slightly yellow before regaining control of herself.

Or since Barnabas was Ultima's puppet, the scene on the ship could have been used as a way for Ultima to try to break her Will, but she resisted. In both cases, her resolve didn't seem tested and she seemed more like a plot point. I don't think this is intentionally how her character was written, but a side effect of making Clive the entire focus.

Our human monkey brains tend to lean into a Might Makes Right mindset, but physical strength was not what Valisthea needed. It needed the strongest Wills to save itself.

[love-kurdt]

Swooping, Sloping, Cursive Letters: 26

word count: 454

PLEASE READ THIS IS ME TRYING FIRST, AS THIS STORY RELIES HEAVILY UPON THE CONTEXT OF TIMT

August 15, 1989

Dear Will,

When I look into your eyes, I see the rest of my life. Poetic, I know. It kind of came out of nowhere. You know I’m not much of a poetry kind of guy, I’m more of a storyteller, but the thought hit me in a dream I had about you, and I just had to write it down in one of these letters.

God, that makes me sound like a creep. I have only pure intentions, I swear. Actually, that’s kind of a lie. Because we’re all aware by now that having feelings for a boy while being a boy myself is impure. But honestly, I think I’m physically incapable of giving a fuck because when I’m with you, all of the bullshit fades away. It’s just you, me, and your eyes. They’re so green. I look into your eyes and see us, but older. I see myself in your arms, curled up against your chest at night, huddled under blankets for warmth during the chillier months. I see you getting up before me, because Coffee and Contemplation, obviously, and standing at the kitchen counter as I walk up behind you, wrapping my arms around you and faceplanting into your shoulder. I see us holding hands as we walk down the sidewalks of some big city– maybe Chicago, or New York, or San Fran. 

That was what my dream was about, actually. We were walking home from some music festival, and we arrived at our apartment (our apartment!!! crazy) at, like, one in the morning. We got inside, and you shut the door behind us. But then, you grabbed me by the hand, turned me around, pushed me against the door, and pulled me down to kiss me. It was madness. I distinctly remember telling you that I loved you, multiple times, and you could only smile. I think it was difficult for my brain to get you to say something you’ve never told me in real life. Which kind of makes sense. And I know it will never happen. But a guy can dream. Literally. Haha. I’m a comedian. Someone send me to Zany’s, I’d make a killing.

All jokes aside, that dream confirmed once again that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Which, like, is such a daunting thing for many, many reasons. You don’t like me back. We live in a world where that can’t happen. I can never say any of this to you out loud. Only in letters that you’ll never see. So you’re just gonna have to bear with this lovelorn idiot on paper. You won’t, actually… enough with the logistics, though. I love you.

Love,

Mike

-

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