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Can everyone read The Murderbot Diaries please? It's so good!!! I'm sure many people will find SecUnit super relatable!! Book was was so good, I immediately wanted to buy all of the other books (only reason I didn't was because money)
I read UpTo book 5 : Network Effect. I kinda wanna reread it immediately
Excerpt:
In a corporate-dominated spacefaring future, planetary missions must be approved and supplied by the Company. Exploratory teams are accompanied by Company-supplied security androids, for their own safety.
But in a society where contracts are awarded to the lowest bidder, safety isn’t a primary concern.
On a distant planet, a team of scientists are conducting surface tests, shadowed by their Company-supplied ‘droid―a self-aware SecUnit that has hacked its own governor module, and refers to itself (though never out loud) as “Murderbot.” Scornful of humans, all it really wants is to be left alone long enough to figure out who it is.
But when a neighboring mission goes dark, it's up to the scientists and their Murderbot to get to the truth.
There are gonna be people who won't like hearing this but if you want to live in a world where mixed marriages, families, and adoptions (particularly POC adopting outside their "race") aren't maligned and discriminated against, then you have got to get more chill about seeing someone partaking in something cultural that you don't think fits the "race" you perceive them as.
It's a vague memory now, it was a vague memory even at the time I made this post, but I think what sparked this was remembering stupid comments I saw about a Chinese-American cookbook that were complaining about it being written by a white woman and then I looked the white woman up and the briefest research showed she was adopted as a child into a Chinese-American family and just....
*pinches nose*
Fellas, is it cultural appropriation to inherit your family's culture but you don't pass the blood quantum test?
All of you are literally just racist. You've come full-circle. You're working under the belief that people are supposed to "keep to their own kind" and that means the socially invented concept of "race", and "race mixing" of any sort is unnatural.
I'm gonna say it, I do think that even the laziest person imaginable should have a roof over their head, food in their stomach, and access to healthcare
“What if there’s no good reason for them to be lazy?” It’s a free country and I refuse to think about anyone’s decisions for how they live their life that do not impact me in any meaningful way
i DO believe that a good writer can make mischaracterization work. oh there's a character who doesn't normally cry? figure it out!! disect the character. make the situation cryable for them. make that character cry ugly tears even if it goes against their very nature. YOU CAN MAKE IT WORK!!!
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Conservative beauty standards are back with a vengeance which means it's especially important to go out this summer with bellies out and bodies unshaved. Also be unapologetically disabled with mobility aids and wearable medical devices and stim toys and ear defenders and all that stuff. You need it. People need to see it. Everyone needs to be reminded that life is unquestioningly more enjoyable when you're not living inside an arbitrary set of rules created by people who are offended by all the wrong things.
A 75 yo man proudly came into the cafe wearing an Ultra Maga hat. I excused my barista from the register to handle the transaction.
"The hat is customizable," he said, struggling with the velcro patch on the front. "If I need it, I have an ICE one too. I pick based off the business i walk into."
"Customizable is an important hat descriptor," I said. "what can I get you?"
"You wouldn't believe how offended people get these days," he said. "And I'm supposed to do something about it if you're offended? You chose to be offended!"
"We all have hundreds of thousands of decisions everyday," I said. I thickened my accent. "That's what my stepdad always said. But I can make one easier - we have a delicious Ethiopian roast available."
"Like if I told you you have a bull ring," he said, "because bulls have rings in their noses. Is that offensive?"
I laughed. "I've heard that before."
"It's a joke, but people get offended. Maybe you're offended."
I looked at him. I smiled. "You aren't trying to offend me though, right?"
Of course he was. I was being friendly and the friendlier I was, the faster he switched topics. He was saying anything inflammatory he could think of to see if I'd take the bait. After about 20 minutes of my redirecting and deescalating, he settled into a more normal interaction. He took up too much of my time showing me a product I'd feigned mild interest in to get him to stop talking about getting accused of inappropriate behavior at work. When we finally disengaged, he spent 10 minutes trying to catch my eye again. When he failed, he left.
There's this new breed of customer who insists on trying to incite political conversation through their clothing and, when that doesnt work, their snide little comments. If I owned my own business, maybe I would have given the guy the fight he wanted. But I work for a corporation and I love paying my bills so I deescalated.
Anyone wearing that type of shit and preying on workers for their own spank bank material is a brainless fucking sheep.
something i want to mention because i’ve seen it growing as a trend online is that not only do people do this just for their own gratification, but watch for glasses. smart glasses are a growing segment of the consumer market, and creeps like this are harassing people in public in order to gather content without the victims being aware they’re being filmed
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cw: mdni. mild violence and blood. suggestive content. cursing. reader is gn and called “dove” once. wc: 733. notes: this is an old, reworked drabble for my beloathed’s birthday!
The honed edge of your dagger kisses his carotid pulse.
Lightning cracks through your veins and sets your nerves ablaze, a storm brewing in your mind as you stare down the Harbinger you’ve pinned against the wall. One hand grips your weapon, the other splays across his throat in firm warning. He’s hot to the touch—almost burning, a solar flare—tiny clusters of stars and constellations floating across the milky expanse of his skin.
Nonplussed, Tartaglia chuckles. His freckled cheeks are flushed, dimples boyishly framing his smile. “To what do I owe this pleasure? It’s not often that I’m greeted so intimately.”
The saccharine lilt of his voice vibrates through your starsilver blade; your fingertips prickle. His flippant tone stokes your temper, words burrowing beneath your flesh. It’s all a game to him—you know this, yet the flames of your anger merely grow, licking up your spine. Keep your cool, you think to yourself. You inhale deeply to steady your breath.
“Why are you here?” Venom coats each syllable of your question, though it’s not enough to fell such a foe.
He grins despite being at the mercy of your blade: knife-sharp teeth gleaming, mien that of a beast on the hunt—predatory. His azure irises, fathomless as the Abyss, glow in the gloom.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
If looks could kill, he’d be nothing more than an oozing heap of meat on the floor. You apply more pressure to the dagger, the delicate skin of his neck stretching, blood welling just below the surface. If nothing else, he’ll have a nice bruise tomorrow to remember you by. “Don’t play coy. How did you get into my bedroom?”
Breezy laughter peals in the air and echoes in your ears; his Adam’s apple bobs against your sweat-slick palm. “That’s a steep accusation, dove. Don’t work yourself up so much—this is an innocent misunderstanding.”
“Shut the fuck up,” you spit. “There’s nothing ‘innocent’ about you breaking into my home in the middle of the night and watching me sleep like a gods-damned psychopath.”
His face contorts in mock-hurt. “Psychopath? You wound me.”
“I’ll do worse than wound you if you keep being a smart-ass. Now tell me how you got in here and I’ll—”
Cutting you off mid-sentence, Tartaglia surges forward and grabs your wrists, forcing your weapon to fall to the floor in a clatter. Taking advantage of your shock, he flips you around and shoves you against the wall, slamming your captive hands above your head. A lithe leg slips between your thighs to further pin you in place. You can’t even take a breath before his lips clash with yours.
The kiss isn’t an embrace so much as it is a spar, a violent scuffle of frustration and fervor. It’s impossible to tell where one mouth begins and the other ends; you blur into one another, saliva and ichor mixed and mingled, pushed back and forth between teeth and tongue. You bite down on his bottom lip, savoring the vibration of his groan, then lap up his blood. Ugly and raw, you duel out of pride…
(You linger, however, for the warmth that blooms low in your belly, aided by the insistent grind of his thigh.)
When the two of you part, it’s at the same time: an impasse. Your lips are swollen and bruised—an embarrassing badge that you’ll deal with later, after the thrill subsides—a red thread of spider-silk still tying you together.
“How was that?” you murmur.
Instead of answering your question, your lover leans down to lick up the mess of fluids that smear your chin. “Mmmm.”
You roll your eyes with a huff as he releases your wrists. “I can’t believe this is what you wanted for your birthday, Ajax. You’re a sick freak.”
Cupping your face, he examines you closely. You squeeze your eyes shut and scrunch your nose.
“Well, you agreed to this, so: pot meet kettle,” he coos. “Archons that was so sexy…You’re lucky I have excellent self-control—I nearly ended it about half a dozen times to fuck you.”
“I had no idea,” you deadpan, brushing against the tent in his pants.
“Well, are you going to help me take care of it?”
Pretending to think for a moment, you hum. “Hm…Convince me.”
“Oh?” His touch wanders downward; he wears a smirk that spells trouble. “Gladly.”
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DEATH KNELL
usurper! ajax tartaglia childe x reader
cw: semi-graphic depictions of violence, death, suggestive content. reader is gn + bites back. intentional shift from past -> present tense marked by divider. wc: 1223. a/n: an attempt at writing action (a thinly-veiled excuse to write my beloathed bastard).
A single, moonless night of carnage—that’s all it takes for the usurper to seize control of the royal palace and slaughter its inhabitants.
(You heard it uttered frantically until dawn, over and over with crescendoing fear—a death knell:
Tartaglia. Tartaglia. Tartaglia.
Tartaglia. Tartaglia. Tartaglia.
Tartaglia. Tartaglia. Tartaglia.
His name conjured an image in your mind: a hulking figure with a gnarled face and bludgeons for hands; a man who is more beast than human—who listens to no reason but his own, who rapes and pillages until all that he wants is crushed in his grimy fists.
You’ve had the misfortune of meeting many such brutes.)
Roused at midnight from a fitful slumber, you awoke to find the servants’ quarters in pandemonium. Shrill screams echoed through the stone walls, and steel clattered with steel in the distance. Smoke hung in the air like a funeral shroud. There was no time to pack, no time to look around, no time to ask questions; you had to act. You left your chambers in only your thin nightdress and the electric desire to just survive thrumming through your veins.
The kitchen was your first stop. It was a disaster: strewn with stinking animal parts, trails of grains and spices, and piles of burning dishes. Thankfully, you knew what to look for, grabbing the weathered handle of a dirty butcher’s knife. You plucked a mealy apple from a toppled heap of produce, hoping to appease your grumbling stomach.
After inhaling the fruit, core and all, you slunk through back halls and hidden passageways, evading most of the action—though distant shrieks of pain resonated in your bones. Every time you stumbled across a corpse, be it nobility or fellow servant, you said a silent prayer for the departed; if the gods did indeed exist, hopefully they would accept the poor souls in the afterlife.
Surely the monster behind such an atrocity wouldn’t heed burial customs.
For several hours, Lady Luck guided your bare feet through the labyrinthine corridors—until she tired of you.
Now, you peer up at a masked man who appeared out of thin air. You stare for a beat too long—breath still, eyes wide as a doe’s—before darting around him. Bounding through the nearest entryway, you find yourself in the throne room, met with an identical man in a mask. You squeeze the wooden hilt of the knife so hard a splinter lodges itself beneath one of your fingers. Impossibly, flames materialize midair, sparking and dancing around your foe.
What on earth?
Perhaps the gods are amused by your antics, because your limbs move automatically, mind filled with white noise. You charge at the man in front of you, dropping to your knees to slide across the cold tile, just beneath the ring of fire. Standing up, you kick him in the groin as hard as you can. Then, as he doubles over in pain, you slice his neck with your pilfered knife—carotid to carotid—a fine mist of blood spraying your face.
The corpse falls to the floor with a dull thud. You whirl around, reflexively hurling the blade at your other assailant. It impales his neck with a sickening squelch. All he can manage is a gurgled gasp before he slumps over in a heap.
Heart thumping rabbit-quick, you stumble backwards, the metallic tang of ichor coating your palate, smoke strangling your lungs. It isn’t until your pulse slows that you hear applause; you didn’t realize you had a captive audience.
Helios has begun his ascent: light filtering through the brilliant stained glass windows, prismatic rays kissing the gilt throne. Lounging lazily in the seat, legs spread, is a young man with coppery locks and freckled cheeks. A sinister smile splits his boyish face in two. The crazed curve turns your stomach.
“Are you the one behind this bloodshed?” The anger that’s been brewing within your chest boils over, scorching your tongue and bubbling past your lips.
Self-preservation, it seems, is off the table. You’re already in the belly of the beast, after all.
His grin cracks even wider. “Let’s trade secrets,” he drawls, leaning to rest his head in his hand. “You tell me where you learned that, and I tell you who I am. Quid pro quo.”
“I don’t bargain with murderers,” you spit.
He gestures to the lifeless bodies behind you; you scowl at the insinuation. “Self-defense doesn’t count, asshole.”
Rising to his full height, he walks towards you.
Cautiously, you back away from him. “D-don’t.” You hate how your voice shakes. You take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. “Don’t come near me.”
“Or what?” He circles you with a laugh: a predator appraising his cornered prey, feasting on your palpable fear. “Gonna kill me with an imaginary weapon?”
Shit.
Your knife is still buried in a man’s neck, and you refuse to focus on anything but your current opponent. Gritting your teeth, you hold your ground.
He stops a mere pace from you. His irises are shockingly blue: the sparkling sea on a cloudless day. They unnerve you in their clarity and depths. Chuckling—perhaps at your resolution—he edges even closer.
“Yes,” he finally answers, gaze never wavering from yours. “I’m your new king. So,” his lips curl into a smirk, “if you beg for mercy, I’ll consider forgiving you for your crimes.”
You spit at him instead.
The wad of saliva lands on his cheekbone. Gloved fingertips dart to the puddle, scooping up the clear liquid. You grimace in disgust when he pops the very same digits into his mouth, swallowing with a hum.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“You have such a filthy mouth for a pretty thing.” His words make you aware of how dirty you are, covered in sweat and blood—of how your nipples are surely visible through the flimsy fabric of your sleepwear. You cross your arms. “Now I’m even more curious to know who you are and how you acquired your skills.”
“It’s none of your concern,” you snap.
“Of course it is. You’re one of my subjects, after all.”
You eye him dubiously. “Surely you plan on killing me.”
“Why would you think that?”
You can’t stifle your scoff. “Because you and your gang of thugs have slaughtered every life within the palace’s walls.”
“Every life but yours.” He reaches out, knuckles grazing your jaw. You flinch at the contact of the supple leather, and—so quickly you almost miss it—the marble edge of his jaw clenches.
“Tartaglia.”
Two soldiers rush into the room. They’re in the same garb as the men you fought earlier. If they’re surprised by your presence, you can’t tell. Tartaglia doesn’t move; he simply looks past you.
“It’s Your Majesty, now.”
One of them clears his throat and bows. “My apologies, Your Majesty. Lord Capitano has arrived with reinforcements.”
Tartaglia snorts. “Not a moment too soon. What a shame—he missed all the action. But the more the merrier: we have to make this dump habitable before the wedding. I’ll meet with him at once.”
His eyes flicker to yours. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, alluding to a secret. He wraps a strong arm around your waist and addresses his men as you’re frozen in place.
“Bring my betrothed to my chambers and stand guard until I return. If I find so much as a single hair on their body disturbed, I’ll have your heads.”
