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Kimby the R+ Postmodernist

Who wrote a delicious fanfic, translated German literature, cooked up something sweet, petted a cat, educated the masses, listened to Rammstein and hasn't cried once today?
This moi! > w <

[Occupation: a) English Literature, b) Philosophy, c) Creative Writing student]
[Career Prospects: Starving to Death, as a result of a), b), and c)]
[Runs #pointlessfactsbelowrammpics / #messerstein / #tillchardfans]

[Or are you looking for Daft Punk fanfiction??]

Apr 25 '14
itslowrend:

I made some French fries. If you want to use then for anything just credit me please. That’s all I ask :&gt;

itslowrend:

I made some French fries. If you want to use then for anything just credit me please. That’s all I ask :>

Apr 24 '14
becausebirds:

feiens-snowden:

"Nothing better than a big cup of tea in the morning."


bird on the cup

becausebirds:

feiens-snowden:

"Nothing better than a big cup of tea in the morning."

bird on the cup

Apr 24 '14

kkaroushi I’m not so sure that Tabula Rasa!Thomas is all that naive. This is a really weird thing to be saying because god you’re the author kimbk if you’re not sure who’s sure *headdesk* but I’ve just been mulling over it and I seem to have written him as, ahem, slightly naughty aesthetically-wise:

As Thomas makes to flip over the pain-perdu Guy shivers and tilts his head back, finally blotting the moisture out of his hair and draping the second towel around his shoulders when he’s done. His skin is faintly pink, the slight flex of his spine aesthetically pleasing, and as he walks back to the bedroom the android takes note of how his backside curves beneath the towel, taut and smooth.

Heat circulates slightly faster within him, pooling close to his face and specifically near the two spots where he loves being kissed. Thomas raises a hand to his face, uttering a soft ‘oh’ quite without noticing that he’s doing so, cautiously brushing his fingertips against the curve of his chin and then to his cheek, thinking of his master’s body. It’s his first time truly experiencing it, but this is a phenomenon that he has observed in the other before, where his cheeks redden and heat up during times of embarrassment or pleasure.
When that happens in Guy, he calls it a ‘blush’. He too will call this a blush, in that case; the context seems appropriate enough.

That’s a pretty significant development for a robot that started off as a blank slate. Sure human intimacy would confuse him, but I get the feeling that if I ever manage to work anything out in that field (god knows when that’s going to be) he might be very down-to-earth and quite chuffed about learning as his notions of pleasure are not too different to Guy’s.

</entirely too many words about Thomas blushing>

Apr 24 '14

sandyfrank:

here have some transparent punks

- From 1984, George Orwell, Part 3 Chapter 5

'In your case, the worst thing in the world happens to be rats… The rat,' said O'Brien, still addressing his invisible audience, 'although a rodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of that. You will have heard of the things that happen in the poor quarters of this town. In some streets a woman dare not leave her baby alone in the house, even for five minutes. The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time they will strip it to the bones. They also attack sick or dying people. They show astonishing intelligence in knowing when a human being is helpless.'

[…]

The mask was closing on his face. The wire brushed his cheek. And then — no, it was not relief, only hope, a tiny fragment of hope. Too late, perhaps too late. But he had suddenly understood that in the whole world there was just one person to whom he could transfer his punishment — one body that he could thrust between himself and the rats. And he was shouting frantically, over and over.

'Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia! Not me! Julia! I don't care what you do to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. Not me! Julia! Not me!'

I’m sorry guys I saw mice and this is literally the first thing I thought about
I need my head checked

Apr 24 '14
existentialism/humanism.txt

existentialism/humanism.txt

(Source: om-shakti-om)

Apr 24 '14
Apr 24 '14

kkaroushi:

kimbk I just wanted to tell you you are 1000% right about the avocado thing. I love avocado and particularly guacamole and no two people can see to agree on what it tastes like. My boyfriend for instance is insistent that raw avocados taste slightly of egg, but I have no clue what he is talking about since I’ve never thought that at all?? That whole fic just made me want to eat bread like holy shit ;-; But ugh god I just love Thomas and his robotic innocence and curiosity. 

This helps practically 0% in my quest to figure out the taste of avocado
I can never seem to get them when they’re ripe I CAN’T TELL WHEN TO EAT THEM SOMEBODY HELP ME.

I am clearly a self-responsible adult yes that’s me
Did you enjoy the food porn?

Apr 24 '14

Thanks to Daft Punk ficcage in the past two months my follower count has doubled from how it was before (225 gained from Jul 2012-Feb 2014)

Woooo

I have reason to believe most of you are following because ficcage
I don’t post interesting pictures or draw and I don’t post or discuss unmasked, it’s… buh, not like I do anything else apart from ramble ;_;

… I don’t say it much but I really am grateful for everyone who stops by and reads my stuff. I really am.
So… >////<

I love you guys

Apr 24 '14

Upcoming stuff

Make Love - cephalodoodles this is your request. Human!DP I’ve decided. Can’t give away too much right now re: content, please excuse me.

Indo Silver Club - 이건 tbanggman님꺼 ㅋㅋ Might be human, might be bots, not telling.

Lose Yourself to Dance - I’ve had the remnants of this for ages now, even before Pierrot Lunaire, so it’s about time I finally got rid of this one from my drafts. It’s Robot!DP purely with a guest.

All of these are short pieces to get me going through exam season, which is going to be absolutely brutal… so yay I guess? (Exams, not the fics. None of them are angst or depressing.) At least fanfics keep me sane, that’s almost the only consistent reason why I write them regardless of if anyone likes them or not.

Apr 23 '14
Need For Speed II Soundtrack - Cerebral Plumbing

Pairing: Guy-Manuel/Electroma Car/Thomas.

There’s no read more; set post-Electroma I guess.
Probably a lot more depressing than you think, I don’t know wtf either

—————

"See you soon," he said before he blew up, but God damn me if I knew what he meant. Am I reading too much into a farewell, or did he mean for me to follow? Short of my arms spontaneously growing a few inches, that’s impossible. I can’t do much about you having died, Thomas, but you’ve left me in a mess here.

Everything is silent after total devastation.
Nothing does anything after devastation because there is nothing.

(Present day, present time, a walking/talking number-station screams, receiving only static in return.)

Stuck here with no friend and no way out. I wonder how our Ferrari is doing. “A real beauty,” I remember Thomas exclaiming as he first showed her off. “you’re going to like this girl, a top-class darling. I don’t understand humans - a few scratches and a couple of broken windows, and that apparently warrants just abandoning her! Key slotted in the lock and everything. It’d have rusted away if I hadn’t found her, you know? And she’s all ours.”

"Paint job like silk, luxurious leather seats, great start-up, a regular sex machine. I don’t say that lightly. A four-wheel drive like a data rush when we interface, turbo-charged desire - oh, Guy - step on the accelerator, take the surging gearstick in your hand, lean back, spread your legs. You ramp it up like you’re hurtling headfirst into the Autobahn, she shifts gears, and - bang! Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo has died and gone to heaven!”

It’s not as if he was wrong about that last bit, metaphorically speaking.
But now that this has happened - oh, Thomas. I only wish.

(Present day, present time, I am Sputnik in its lonely orbit begging to burn up and rejoin with Earth.)

Then I get an idea. I walk over to his remains. We kept the Ferrari in top condition, even having a black box installed. I never understood why Thomas insisted on that last one, seeing as we robots can’t even claim insurance - but as I straighten up, his own black box sifted out from the ashes and atop my hand - by God, I actually might, now. I clutch it tight and look out over the horizon. It’ll be a long way back, but I’m sure I can sneak back into the town.

The car key is still in my pocket.
Let me fix you, Thomas. Let me fix you, baby doll.

(Future night, future time, the static gives way to blissful silence.)

It’s a pain (especially because I’m running out of battery) fixing up the car on my own. I don’t even have that many tools on me save for what I can improvise, but I appear to have deduced Thomas’s intentions correctly at least. With my charger plugged into the lighter-receptacle and a cable connecting my helmet to the GPS, it is with great relief and exhaustion that I start up the car and his voice flickers on. Hello, sweetheart, he chuckles. Thank you. It’s nice to be back, even just for a while.

"You bastard. I missed you so much.”

And I did, too. But you kept me safe and warm.

"So what does it feel like," I say. "you know. Being a car."

Happy. Comfortable. Sleek. Sexy. Wanted.

"You could have told me earlier you had a plan. I thought I had your blood all over my hands."

I had to figure out a way, he says with that heartbreaking laugh he used to have. Take me for a ride, Guy. Take me for a ride, let’s talk about the good times.

(Sometime past, at the beginning, two number-stations awaken holding hands.)

We talk a lot on the way; strange, we were only parted for maybe two or three days in total, but we find plenty to talk about what happened during that time. We need that time to say all the farewells we deserve, and even then, eternity wouldn’t be enough. I tell you what, though. If we can’t have eternity, one last road trip with my darling will do just fine.

He drives smooth, noiseless apart from his voice keeping me company. Turn left at next junction for Death Valley, he says, and I nod a yes and throw my charger out of the window before steering us left. Every thrum of his engine, his quiet laughter, and the tracks he leaves on the sand makes me fall in love all over again. It is the most primitive printing-press, a bold universal headline that traces our path, telling them that we were here, that we lived, that we were together.

(Someday past, sometime past, one number-station turns to the other and says - here I am - and the other responds - so glad you are.)

"Looks like this is the end," I finally say one night in the middle of the desert. It’s raining, we’re out of fuel, and my scans tell me that we’re both nearly gone. "and I want to ask one more thing of you."

Fire away.

"Forgive me as I have forgiven you a long time ago."

You are forgiven, he echoes. An hour and forty-eight minutes to Heaven. Once the engine dies, he too will shut himself off. A warmth travels down my body and I know he is caressing me goodbye.

Merci. See you soon, Thomas. See you soon, baby doll.”

I love you, Guy.

The GPS shuts off and only the radio is left.
How beautiful it is to die in rain, especially where it is so rare. Rain doesn’t discriminate. If you’re under it, you’re getting wet - there’s no stopping rain and its egalitarian nature. Soon the rain becomes a veil over my optical sensors and beyond, encasing my consciousness in its gentle rhythm. I fold my hands over my chest and lean backwards, safe in Thomas’s embrace. Somewhere deep inside me another sensor beeps, but I pay it no mind; it only means that I will soon be gone.

Where I am going, all that I have lost remains there; I will find them unchanged and unharmed, and feel my lover’s arms around me. The darkness comes and I let it wash over me, melding into the final strands of the music on the radio, never alone again.

(Present day, present time, a station playing static crackles and shuts off.)

Apr 23 '14
RZK - Chickens (EmiGREAT)

reeshhh:

arfpuppyschneider:

RELEASE THE CHIKONS

WHY MUST THIS BE A THING

(Source: romanfnreigns)

Apr 23 '14

larytadaftjustice asked:

Ok first of all, I think I almost jumped out bed and started dancing all over the place when I saw tabula rasa had a second chapter. I read it last night and I'm still hungry because it's such perfect food porn. Plus congrats on making this fic even better, I thought it was impossible. Loving this story so much. Can't wait for the next chapter ♥

This is actually a big part of why I can’t give up the human side of DP as easily. FUCKING FOOD PORN I LOSE THAT ASPECT WITH ROBOTS. THEY’RE FRENCH THEY’RE PRACTICALLY OBLIGED FOR FOOD PORN

Delicious food, man. Food makes the world go around.

I’m so happy that you enjoyed that piece! I’ve been rather grim recently and wanted to sweeten things up a little. It’s going to be that way for the next couple of weeks probably, should be good for everyone’s sanity ; w ;

Apr 23 '14
Daft Punk - Steam Machine (Human After All)

ampersand-et:

Daft Punk // Steam Machine.

more-like-electrauma:

Thomas was a robot of many voices, and so was Guy; being far freer with their speech than most humans, they could freely exchange voices and mimic each other to their hearts’ content if they wanted to. Thus, despite their countless voices, it was actually harder to pinpoint if there was one that was unique to themselves - at least, again, to the average human being. Guy knew that the other had one, and oh, what a fantastic voice it was.

The silver robot almost never used it. The times when he did so were to be considered notable and not always in positive ways; it was a low voice, counter to the usually higher-pitched and musical hums he more often resorted to. It was difficult to describe, but on the surface it was a hoarse whisper of sorts, conveying either allure or an underlying threat depending on the context. This was possible because it was still more than just a whisper, Guy supposed, and leaned back to recall it in his mind.

[Ste-e-e-e-am-]

And there it was. A voice ageless and intense, husky and male, but at the same time woven throughout with a kind of metallic frigidity that betrayed the identity of its owner. Despite all this and the lack of any kind of vocal cords Thomas could mimic a breathlessness in that voice, half-gasps and almost-moans twisting into melody or words, elongated melismasta.

Perfect for when they were both in the throes of longing, or for when he was in his own passions. It was a voice of desire, of danger, of precision.

[Machi-i-i-i-ine-]

A shiver ran down the length of Guy’s spine as he remembered, tingling where the self-destruct mechanism within him was housed, and he shakily reached behind him to caress what he could.
The song of Thanatos. Yes, that was what Thomas’s voice was like.

———

You’re very welcome, my-queen-over-there-as-opposed-to-here :3

Apr 23 '14
Daft Punk (Fic below, please don't delete it) - Fresh (Homework)

For sarascara for giving me the idea.
Human!Guy/Robot!Thomas, coming to terms with the delightful phenomenon of the early-morning boulangerie and its baked goods.

Everything about this piece is excellent, because 1) it is not soulsuckingly depressing and 2) it is set during Tabula Rasa. (This takes place between ‘pain in cufflinks’ and Guy’s personal crisis, so it’s more an ‘extra episode’ than a sequel.) Contains copious amounts of food porn and fluff.

————-

Even in an increasingly-modernized France some things have remained the same, including the bakeries, and this is an immensely good thing. “As good an incentive to get up in the morning as anything,” Guy’s fond of saying in the mornings. “it’s been like that for ages now, and I hope it’ll stay that way. That’s not a sin against progress, is it, Thomas?”

"I don’t know enough about human morality to comment, Guy, but we’d at least be sinners together," is what the android tends to respond with, and that always makes Guy laugh and squeeze his hand affectionately. Coming from a robot, it is also a deeply heartfelt sentiment, they know that all too well.

For years now, Guy has begun his days by heading to the local artisan boulangerie - guaranteed fresh, as by French law all bakeries must bake their own bread - at half five in the morning. It’s only in the last couple of months that Thomas has joined him; subsequently, those outings have become his main way of gaining knowledge of the world around them. Guy always buys a baguette (on average sixty-five centimetres long), and if he’s the mood he’ll also buy something small to go with it. That something varies by day - pain au chocolat, apple tart, macarons, cream gâteau, et cetera. Every day, he bundles them tight to his chest as they leave the bakery, a determined look on his face, as if to swear on his honour that he won’t have a single bite before they’re home. Every day, he fails to uphold that promise. Guy loves to snack on the ends of baguettes, reaching over meekly to tear a small piece off and nibbling on it as they walk; Thomas carrying the bread hasn’t deterred him from this habit. The android can sense the childlike embarrassment within Guy whenever it happens, but he actually finds that to be something endearing about his master, and he wouldn’t want it any different for the world.

He fondly remembers the first time that he’d been allowed to accompany Guy in his early-morning strolls. He’s always home from work by six o’clock in the evening, but him being a scientist he is never truly at rest from his field at any time, often working late and through the night; at the time Thomas had been observing Guy struggling with a scientific paper for several hours, and it had been four forty-three in the morning when he finally wasn’t able to take it any longer.

"Mock on, Searle," Guy had exclaimed in disgust, throwing down his papers. "computers compute, there’s no cure for that! Shallow! Illogical! Ridiculous. I’ve had enough, I’m going for a walk-” then he’d glanced at the clock, raising his eyebrows in half-bemusement. “- oh, I see. I might as well pick up a few things on the way. Thomas. Would you like to come along?”

Thomas had nodded straight away, curious to see what this routine that he’d always seen and never partaken in entailed. “If you’d have me.”

"Of course I’d have you, Thomas, who else? Let me put my scarf on."

And that’s how they’d ended up walking down the streets, Guy dazedly-awake and in his labcoat with his robot companion by his side, drawing curious looks from those who occasionally passed by. (Thomas has replayed this particular memory over a hundred times over, and despite his not-as-developed notion of aesthetics, he has to grant that they made for a somewhat mismatched sight back then.) “You were having a difficult time,” the robot had commented, scanning over the other’s form and the dark circles under his eyes. “it’s Saturday, Guy, please take a rest when we’re back home. It can’t be healthy for humans to run continuously on a single charge - non, I meant - sleep cycle.

"Not as unhealthy as letting anti-AI views permeate our subconscious to this day," Guy had sighed. His breath was briefly visible in the air as a pale condensed stream. "we made artificial intelligence, we worked our way up from mere automatons to robots to persons like you. That’s amazing no matter how you look at it, and it’s irresponsible to reject that. Oh my, it’s brioche weather.”

At first Thomas had thought that to be something nonsensical said out of exhaustion, but he has since realized that it’s not quite that simple. It had been a pleasant and bright morning that day, reflected in the rich-yet-uncomplicated brioche that Guy purchased alongside his usual baguette and ate with a generous dollop of golden-acacia honey. Other such weathers and corresponding baked goods exist: when it rains, his master sits by the window and muses, nibbling absent-mindedly on a croissant with sweet-sticky almond filling peeking coyly from between paper-thin layers of pastry; when the wind is particularly strong it’s a madeleine or two, taken with jam and hot tea and lemon ‘the way the English do it’, and so on. The logic behind how various weather conditions and pastries link together in Guy’s mind is just shy of incomprehensible to the silver robot, but he knows that there are consistent patterns, and he’s sensitive enough to recognize and internalize them.
What’s not to like, brioche weather indeed.

Read More

Apr 22 '14

dread-wonder:

wwhatevver-ampora:

moewave:

ohh-tedbundy:

A true warrior.

I can’t believe he defeated Mr.Incredible

I love how he fuckin fuckin STOMPS on Fred Flintstone

It knows how to swing a weapon haha

(Source: notienedesperdicio)