#All that material is so so clear on what was a layer more obscured in the actual book

[2189114reads]

Finished house of leaves Feeling abnormal

[maypiles]

💌Words are easy but the truth always speaks from the heart🫀

Pick Up a Pile: What Are They Not Telling You?

❗This is a collective reading so remember to take what resonates and leave what does not❗

🌹Pile One🌹

Darling, let’s cut to the chase—your special person is dancing with their shadows, and they’re not exactly extending an invitation for you to join. The Devil reversed tells me they’re wrestling with their own demons, trying to break free from old chains. But let’s not swoon just yet, because the Tower reversed? Oh, sugar, they’re dodging the chaos they desperately need to face. Avoidance isn’t sexy, no matter how you frame it.

The Two of Wands suggests they’re teetering on the edge of a choice—a life with you, or whatever half-hearted fantasy they’ve concocted to keep themselves "safe." Meanwhile, that Ace of Swords reversed and 5 of Swords? They’re withholding the truth, perhaps even twisting it into something unrecognizable. If words are their weapon, you’re not hearing the full story.

And the 8 of Wands reversed? Everything is on pause, like a breath held too long. Their hesitation is screaming louder than their actions, even as the 10 of Cups teases a dream of happily-ever-after. But the 3 of Pentacles reversed says they’re not playing as a team—too much ego, not enough collaboration. It’s giving foolish with that Fool reversed; they’re terrified of risks, even the ones worth taking. Right now, the 4 of Swords hints they’re retreating into themselves, licking their wounds, avoiding confrontation.

Now let’s indulge the shadowy bottom deck. The Moon reveals their secrets are still shrouded in mystery, obscured by fear, doubt, and illusions. With the 9 of Cups and King of Pentacles, it’s clear they’re clinging to their comfort zone, their material security, while feeling trapped (8 of Swords) and emotionally disconnected (Ace of Cups reversed). That Knight of Wands reversed and 5 of Cups? They’re impulsive yet paralyzed by regret. Their walls are up (9 of Wands), and the truth (Justice) is a bitter pill they’re not ready to swallow.

As for the Romance Angels, darling, the cards are practically shouting: Deception and Pay Attention to the Red Flags—need I say more? Yes, there’s potential for New Love and True Love, but only if you Keep an Open Mind about what this connection really is, not what it could be in your fantasies. The lingering Codependency warns against becoming tethered to their indecision.

The split cards? Very Soon, my dear. Clarity or closure—whichever it is, it’s on the horizon.

The verdict: they’re a puzzle of contradictions, hiding behind half-truths and indecision, longing for something real but terrified of what it might cost. They need to grow up and face their mess before they can offer you the love you deserve. Until then, remain your enchanting, unattainable self, and let them prove they’re worthy of your time.

🌹 Pile Two 🌹

Ah, my darling, the story here is layered, tangled, and undeniably intriguing—just how I like it. Let’s dissect it, shall we?

The 7 of Pentacles opens the scene, showing your person waiting, watching, calculating their next move. They’re in the shadows (Moon), keeping their intentions veiled, hiding their uncertainties. With the Page of Wands reversed, their passion flickers but refuses to fully ignite—hesitation masked as restraint. Add the 6 of Pentacles reversed, and suddenly, we’re dealing with someone unwilling or unable to give you the reciprocity you deserve.

The Tower reversed? They’re tiptoeing around a necessary upheaval, afraid to let it all crumble, but we both know nothing worthwhile comes without a little destruction. They’re juggling too much (2 of Pentacles)—emotions, priorities, maybe even people. And oh, the 3 of Cups... social entanglements? A third-party energy? It’s all very suspicious.

Yet, there’s that 10 of Cups, a glimmer of an ideal they can’t quite commit to. They crave victory (6 of Wands) but lack the courage to leap (2 of Wands). The 9 of Pentacles suggests they value their independence, possibly too much to risk it for deeper intimacy. The Page of Swords watches, curious but cautious—like they’re studying you from afar, analyzing every move.

The Hanged Man and World suggest they’re suspended in a state of limbo, on the brink of closure or transformation. The 2 of Cups paired with the Empress? Oh, darling, they see you as divine, as their perfect counterpart, their muse. But the 9 of Swords and 5 of Cups reveal their inner torment—regret, fear, and a heavy heart. The Ace of Swords shows they know the truth but struggle to voice it, while the 7 of Wands highlights their defensiveness.

And at the bottom of it all? The Hermit. They’re retreating inward, lost in self-reflection, seeking answers they’re not ready to share.

The split cards (Lovers reversed, Star reversed, 5 of Wands, 4 of Wands reversed) speak volumes: they’re grappling with inner conflict, disillusioned about love, battling expectations versus reality. Their foundation feels shaky, unsure.

The Romance Angels deliver a mixed bag: Pay Attention to the Red Flags warns you not to ignore what’s glaringly obvious, yet Flirt, Make the Effort, and Give Your Relationship a Chance suggest there’s still potential—if you’re willing to navigate their complexities. Worth Waiting For? Perhaps, but only if they rise to meet you.

The bottom (True Love) and split (Keep an Open Mind, Finances and Career, Healing Family Issues) reveal layers of external pressures and past wounds influencing their behavior.

The Verdict: Your person is torn, haunted by their past and hesitant about the future. They see you as everything they could want (Empress, 10 of Cups, 2 of Cups) but are riddled with fear and indecision. If you’re patient, if you’re willing to wait, this connection could blossom into something extraordinary. But beware, darling—you are a goddess, not a savior. Let them prove themselves before you extend your hand.

🌹Pile Three🌹

Ah, my darling, this pile feels like the bloom of spring after a long, hard winter. Your partner—yes, partner, I must've said it instead of SP for a reason—is holding back, but their heart speaks a language that cannot be silenced. Let’s unravel this tale together, shall we?

The Ace of Pentacles opens the story with a promise—a seed of opportunity, a tangible offer of stability. This is someone who sees potential in you, in this connection, and they’re serious about it. The 9 of Pentacles confirms they admire your independence, your grace, your self-made strength. But the Queen of Pentacles reversed hints they might feel insecure or unworthy, fearing they cannot match your level.

With the 7 of Pentacles, they’re carefully evaluating the future, pondering how to nurture this bond. The Page of Swords reversed suggests they’re quietly observing, perhaps struggling to articulate their thoughts or gather the courage for that honest heart-to-heart. And then we have the World, signifying completion, fulfillment—a readiness to close old chapters and step boldly into something new.

The 6 of Wands? They want this to succeed. They crave victory with you. The 3 of Cups adds a celebratory tone, suggesting joy, camaraderie, and shared happiness. Yet the 2 of Wands reversed shows hesitation; they’re still grappling with a choice or direction. But ah, the 2 of Cups and Lovers—this is a connection of deep, soulful alignment. To them, you are not just a partner; you’re the one.

The 9 of Cups echoes this sentiment—pure emotional fulfillment. But with the 5 of Pentacles, they fear rejection, abandonment, or being left out in the cold. Still, the Queen of Cups shows they see you as compassionate, intuitive, and emotionally nurturing. They trust you with their heart, even if they’re slow to hand it over fully.

At the bottom of the deck, the 9 of Swords reveals their anxieties—sleepless nights, overthinking, and self-doubt. But the Temperance split assures you this connection is about balance, patience, and divine timing. They want to make things right, but they’re pacing themselves.

The Romance Angels tell a positive, tender story: Stay Optimistic About Your Love Life encourages you to embrace hope, while Let Go of Control Issues reminds you to release expectations and let this unfold naturally. Retreat and Heart-to-Heart Conversations suggest a need for intimate, honest moments to deepen your bond. Wedding, Honeymoon, Forgiving and Learning—oh, my dear, this connection is destined for growth, healing, and something profoundly meaningful.

The bottom (Chemistry) and split (Very Soon, Worth Waiting For, Let Your Friends Help You) reaffirm that this relationship has depth, passion, and divine timing at its core. For some, as channeled, this could be a second marriage—a union born from lessons learned and hearts mended.

The Verdict: Your partner is brimming with hope and love for you, though they may be holding back out of fear or uncertainty. They see you as their ultimate match, their dream come true, and they want to build a future with you. Trust the process, darling, and let this unfold in its perfect time. You are worth every ounce of their effort, and they know it.

(For this pile Eastern European accent could be significant)

[sleepingdeath-light]

dance with the devil ; 18+

requested by ; nobody (sweet seduction rewrite)

word count ; 2554

content ; one night stand, wet dream, unprotected sex

fandom ; black butler

pairing ; sebastian michaelis x female reader

read also on ; ao3

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

It took you quite a few moments to realise what had happened to you, half-asleep mind and bleary eyes struggling to catch up with reality as you slowly — ever so slowly — woke up. The first thing your dulled senses registered was the smooth, almost slippery, surface of the material you were laying in, layer after layer of the rich feeling material sliding under and over your body, a silky cocoon that should have been alarming in how cool it was to the touch. Then, when you stretched out one of your legs, you half consciously realised that there was barely any fabric over your private parts, the only barrier between your sex and the sheets beneath you being a thin and flimsy layer of what felt a bit like lace. Finally, when you sighed and rolled over onto your back, you began to pick up a scent that you knew had no business being in a bedroom — saffron.

That caught your attention, causing you to sit straight up as your sleep-blurred eyes darted around your distinctly unfamiliar environment: to the four strong, black quartz pillars that seemed to extend upwards into an endlessly murky dark sky; to the four intricately carved ebony posters that dotted the corners of your queen sized bed, itself covered in sheets of crimson and obscured behind half pulled-back translucent red curtains; to the lone, stone archway that faced the very end of your bed and the two glowing pinkish eyes that peered menacingly out from it.

With no idea where you were or how you got there, all you could do was freeze and pray to whatever higher beings you could think of that this was all just some vivid nightmare — or a well executed prank by a friend. But that small crumb of hope was quickly dashed when the figure spoke up in a deep, smooth tone that sounded somewhere between familiar and wrong. So perfect it was inhuman.

'Well, my lady,' the creature began, those eyes narrowing into slits as it stared at you from the shadows, 'I must admit that your interest in my last contract is most flattering. Your efforts and your results are incredible... for a mortal, at least,'

'Who are you?' You just about managed to spit out, your voice lacking the confidence that you'd tried to convey and coming out as something much closer to a squeak or a whisper.

'Perhaps a more appropriate quotation would be "what am I", ' it joked, a rumbling chuckle punctuating its statement before it continued, 'but I suppose I could humour you for your forwardness. We do not have names as you do, we simply go by whatever title we are given by our masters. You have names, we borrow them,'

'Then what are you?'

'I thought I'd made it apparent enough,' it sighed with seeming annoyance before it began to slowly move forwards, it's next words punctuated by the clacking of what sounded like heels, 'were the decorations I chose not a dead give away? Is the endless night above your head not a clear enough sign? What about the red lace you're wearing, did you think that was just coincidental?'

Bit by bit the entity emerged and you felt the blood drain from your face. It was tall, taller than anything you'd ever seen, and yet it felt close to human in height — a paradox only befitting of a creature of its calibre. A swirling cloud of black ink and blacker feathers circled its form, moving both as tranquil as water in a stream and as frantic as dust in a hurricane. Two large wings, their feathers perpetually falling and charred, sprouted from its back and curled around its humanoid torso — which itself was pale and covered in a leather uniform that wouldn't be out of place in a bondage scene. It's legs, long and slender and strong, were covered up to the knee by those heels — dark and leathery and high, making its own naturally towering height even more apparent.

And then there was it's face: pale, flawless skin that was too smooth and soft to be human; thin lips quirked upwards into a mocking smirk whose overwhelming mirth reflected in its cat-like fuchsia irises which regarded you with curiosity; a sharp jawline framed by straight black bangs and hair that looked too soft for its nature. Human features stapled together to form something decidedly not.

'A demon,'

'Well done, my lady. Though with your incessant prodding into my past I had assumed you'd have caught on quicker,' it gave a faux pout before chuckling again and approaching the bed, answering each of your questions cryptically as your mind raced to piece together the puzzle laid out before you.

'Your past? I've never seen you before,'

'Correct, you haven't seen me until now,'

'I don't study demonology or theology, I'm a historian!'

'Indeed you are, my lady,'

Then, just as the toes of his boots tapped the edge of the bed-frame you realised what he'd meant and blurted out the name he had 'borrowed'. The name you'd been looking into just a few hours earlier.

'Sebastian Michaelis,'

The demon smirked and reached out to grab your hand and press a kiss to your knuckles.

'At your service, madam,'

————

‘You’re a demon?’ You reiterated, still unsure of what was happening to you.

‘A crow demon specifically, my lady,’

‘And you brought me here for what reason exactly?’

You started to play with the sheet beneath you, fingering the hem whilst you anxiously awaited his response, breath catching in your throat when he finally spoke.

‘To reward you for your determination,’ he tilted his head and leaned forwards on his hands, now half on the bed in front of you, ‘After all you wanted to learn about me, did you not?’

You paused for the briefest of moments before giving a small nod, not quite trusting yourself to respond.

‘There are things that textbooks and letters won’t teach you — surely you of all humans must understand that basic principle?’ Another nod and you swore his eyes flashed that pinkish colour again, ‘Then consider this me filling in some gaps. If you’d like me to, at least?’

Finally having found your voice you managed to croak out a quiet question. ‘And what would that entail exactly?’

He raised his eyebrow and looked between you and your bed before he spoke. ‘Surely I don’t need to spell it out for you?’

‘And if I don’t want to?’

‘Then I send you back,’ he offered nonchalantly, ‘I’m not forcing you to be here, I’m merely offering to expand your knowledge of myself, that is all,’

And after taking a minute to consider, you finally came to a decision.

‘I… I think I’d like to stay,’

After all, opportunities like this were rare to come by, and you were hardly going to turn him down. Not when he looked like that.

————

In a fraction of a second, Sebastian had scaled the bed and was on top of you — pouncing the moment he was able like a wild animal faced with fresh prey. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before he had crashed his lips to yours, burying his fingers (claws?) in your hair to hold you still whilst you moaned and gasped in shock against his lips — groaning when you felt him press his hips harshly down against your own and felt the full size of his bulge.

He was massive, far larger than any you’d taken before. But you hadn’t the time to consider it as your mind was soon preoccupied by the heat and passion of the kiss as well as the faint stinging of him occasionally pulling your hair in his efforts to keep you in place. Only willingly pulling away when you started to feel your lungs burning for air and roughly pushed on his shoulder.

Even then it was a slow and minute movement. Barely noticeable but just enough to let you breathe whilst he took in your messed up appearance, dark eyes glinting with a sinful mixture of pride and lust.

After he parted the kiss, there was only a thin string of saliva connecting your open mouths that soon broke when he suddenly reached up and began to play with your chest. Smirking down at you whilst he groped the meat of one breast and chuckling when he started to roll and pinch your nipple and you started gasping and arching your back up into your touch. And once he was satisfied with how much attention he’d given it, he repeated the process with the other.

Alternating between right and left whilst teasing you with sly remarks that had your skin heating and your core throbbing with need.

‘You feel amazing,’

‘A perfect fit, it was like you were made to be used,’

‘Oh yes, keep making that sound,’

‘Keep on moaning like a whore and I’ll treat you like one,’

‘Eager, are we, kitten?’

After a few minutes of this, however, the demon seemed to grow tired of it and abruptly stopped and moved to tear your thin panties off of your body. Quick enough to startle you into silence as he spread your legs further apart and settled himself comfortably whilst pressing the tip of his thick cock just against your soaking wet entrance.

Then he paused for a moment, not pushing it in and instead just slowly sliding his length along your slit. Gathering more and more of your slick with each go around and taking more and more of your patience with it until you finally snapped with a huff and a glare.

'Oh for God's sake just fuck me already!'

Your outburst made him chuckle darkly to himself, looking down at you with mirth before promptly complying with a simple 'as you wish' being his only warning.

Sebastian entered you in a single fluid movement, filling you to the brim and beyond, not giving you even a second to adjust before he started to thrust into your soaking wet cunt. His pace was fast and rough, merciless and unrelenting as he pounded into you — long, thick cock bullying into your pussy in such a way that it had your eyes rolling back and your mouth falling open in a silent scream of overstimulation.

It was all so much, and it only compounded when his large hands pushed your legs back up towards your body, practically folding you in half in the process. Your new position allowed him to reach even deeper into your pussy and every minute movement sent new waves of white hot pleasure racing through your veins.

The room was filled with a veritable cacophony of the lewdest sounds possible: the wet slapping of skin against skin as he thrusted into your dripping wet cunt, the low echoing grunts and growls that spilled from his lips and caused the room around you to tremble, the moans and screams that escaped you as he continued to ravage and use you. It was booming and overwhelming but in the state you were in you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Especially not when he reached down with his free hand and started to play with your neglected clit in time with his thrusts. Circling, rubbing and flicking the bundle of nerves whilst continuing to rock his hips inhumanly fast against your own.

A delicious cocktail of sensation that was rapidly bringing you closer and closer to your release. Brought closer with every thrust and flick and grunt and phrase you couldn’t understand solely because it was coming from him — and at this rate you knew you wouldn’t last.

And, indeed, with the combination of his cock filling you and his skilful fingers toying with your sensitive clit, it didn't take much longer for you to fall helplessly over the edge of climax. Completely, deliciously, at his mercy as he relentlessly pounded into your pussy, abusing your g-spot with the same relentless precision that he used to rub and circle your clit in just the right way to have your mind going completely and helplessly blank.

Your vision erupted into a blurry mosaic of watercolour reds and blacks broken up by spots of pure white. Your body was being wracked with wave after wave of intense pleasure that had you arching into him and trembling in place as your waist and thighs started to ache. Your mouth fell open into a perfectly slutty 'o' as a string of whorish moans and groans and expletives spilled from your lips, each one earning rougher treatment and more degrading dirty talk from the man above you that you were in no state to even register.

Your mind was blank and yet you were only able to think of him: his cock, his fingers, his lips, his voice. Just everything about him.

And Sebastian, as if able to read your thoughts (which he may very well have done), smirked and leaned down just enough to bring you into a passionate kiss as he continued to fuck you through your orgasm. Leaving you helplessly overstimulated and yet wanting nothing more than more of what he could give you.

More. More. More.

————

You woke up with a start, sitting straight up and looking at your surroundings with sleep-blurred eyes. Mind still catching up and trying to comprehend where and when you were as you reeled from the intensity of your orgasm. Then you shifted your leg slightly and felt the pool of wetness in your panties and came to once more.

You were back in your home office, exactly where you were when you fell asleep. Still in your work clothes with piles upon piles of books and papers and notes scattered haphazardly across the surface — one of which was unfortunately dampened at one corner from where you'd drooled on it in your sleep. Lovely.

It was rare for you to have such lucid dreams and part of you was disappointed that it was just a figment of your imagination. Apparently reading about long dead butlers would make them pop into your unconscious mind as a sexy demon, who knew.

With that humorous realisation, you made quick work of reorganising the bomb site that was your desk. Neatly stacking your books and filing each bit of paperwork away with a system you'd devised at the start of your project. But then you caught sight of something that most certainly hadn't been there before; a small piece of parchment adorned with the most beautiful cursive you'd ever seen.

'Dear human,

Your determination and tenacity in your attempts to research the tragedies that befell the Phantomhive lineage are highly admirable. The efforts you made to check and confirm your sources are something that other mortals should strive to emulate.

Though your flexibility and stamina would be hard to match, kitten, both in your work and in other areas — for which I should hope I am the only witness.

We'll speak again tonight, we have much to discuss.

* also it was Michaelis, not Micheals, darling'

You scoffed at the correction before smiling to yourself and carefully folding the paper once, then twice, and putting it in your breast pocket. That was one you were going to keep.

Maybe it wasn't just a dream after all.

[eclipsecrowned]

+6 NEW MUSES ADDED!

Baldur's Gate update pack, including two PCs and four canons, spanning from the original games to 3. All have been added to the Mobile Muse Page, but the bios will also be posted under the cut. Like for me to approach you to plot with any of them!

Viconia DeVir (Canon, Divergent as of BG3 ; FC TBD ; Drow ; 300+ ; Pansexual ; Cis woman, She/Her ; Cleric ;  Darkness calls to her. She rejects it, too, in her own ways, wearing Gods like statement pieces to be doffed when the new trend arrives. Raised a priestess of Lolth, Viconia found herself heretical in her refusal to sacrifice an innocent or to offer her own neck to saveh er House. Fleeing to te surface after life in the Underdark became untenable, life on the surface proved its own special layer of the Hells. Yet there was always opportnity for a woman of her wits and beauty, and falling in Shar's faithful was the first turning point in her life under the sun. The second was falling in with a team of adventurers, led by a young Bhaalspawn who could easily play both protector and pawn to Viconia. An able Cleric and an acerbic wit, she wears her disdain as armor and refuses to let others near enough to hurt her. Yet much can change in the flow of time, and the world might see one last divine betrayal on the part of Menzoberranzan's prodigal daughter.)

Ismail of Candlekeep (Player Character ; Haaz Sleiman ; Human ; 20-50s ; Bisexual ; Cis male, He/Him ; Wizard ; The Bhaalspawn of legend, who rose up against his own blood to fight for Faerun. Though his journey began inauspiciously, as a young man thrown into the world for the first time, he carved out a name for himself as mage and alleged hero. Though his methods and morality might be controversial at time, his pragmatic approach to the world has a way of opening doors and keeping alliances flexible, which serves his own ends neatly. Upon emptying the throne of Bhaal and seeming to smite his divine father, he retired from adventuring for a time, returning to the road only when his family was threatened. As of the Absolute crisis, the man has been dead for nearly a century -- but his tale, it seems, does not end there, or with any peace.)

Haer'Dalis (Canon ; FC TBD ; Tiefling ; Appears late 20s ; Bisexual ; Masc, He/Him ; Bard ; One troupe's visionary is another company's madman, and one plane's rebel is another plane's monster. Haer'Dalis has always been adept at walking between poles, the son of an Elven planeswalker and a lady Fiend, claiming to be Tiefling when skewing a bit closer to Hell than most can imagine. Still, there's whimsy in his darkness, and fire in his veins that calls for adventure. How lucky, then, that he crosses the path of a seasoned leader intent on saving the Material Plane from threats beyond the understanding of most. Acting as fool and advisor in equal measure, Haer'Dalis rises to the occasion to play hero. It's just one of several roles he has been called to perform, and he relishes the opportunity. If he can find new connections among the happy troupe, whatever shape they might take, then so much the better.)

Miruna Blackthorn (Player Character / Companion ; Julia Ormond ; (Alleged) High Elf ; 35 ; Pansexual ; Femme, She/Her ; Bard ; Divine blood is not the only kind that runs. Rivers of it lie in her wake, innocent and enemy alike, with a sundered mind that was once cold and clear as a diamond. But ambition was her folly, both her own and that of her companions. All she knows now is the Nautiloid, the crash, and the ghost of kills from another life. There is a beast in her demanding to be fed, and in a world so full of horror, she finds it hard to argue for resistance. Yet if she is not the leader of this merry band, she is content to throw her lot with those who know more than she does, and act according to what benefits the needs of the group. Yet try as she might ot obscure her darkness under beauty and song, it gathers in her eyes and clots her throat. A horrific mystery, Miruna does what she can to understand her past and discover who she was -- and whatever she might become.)

Thaniel (Canon ; FC TBD ; Nature Spirit ; Ageless, appears as a child ; No ; Masc, He/Him ; Mage-Adjacent ; Once, there was a boy who dwelt among his father's dominion, singular upon the earth, a living splinter of the Heartlands. Bound to that same land, he pursued life with all a child's demanding, seeking companionship and challenge. It was the sort of life from a storybook, but every fairy tale has its ending. Another father's loss was the downfall of Silvanus' rule of the region, and the Oakfather's son fell into the shadows. Yet one of his friends never forgot him, and a part of him lived on in the remains of what had been Thaniel's home. After one hundred years, new pages are written into the story, promising potential rescue and hope for the future, and to reunions of both friends and self. Never you mind his queer ways, his young voice speaking of slaying tyrants. He is no true child, and was not wrought of mortal hands, and a hundred years is as long to him as it is to mayflies like his saviors.)

Vellioth the Martinet (Canon ; Jeremy Irons ; Half-Elf / Vampire ; Ageless, phys. 50s ; Bisexual ; Cis, He/Him ; Fighter ; His name is torn from the histories, his portraits burned on a pyre, but Vellioth will never be simply a memory. He is as much a part of the Szarr estate as the stones, and not just in metaphor. A mercenary whose history has been lost, he came to serve Donella Szarr exclusively in his prime, and was favored and broken by his lady over the years til she saw fit to make an 'equal' of him. Serving the Szarrs even in undeath, he lost his connection to his god, his community, and even himself. But it was a trifling price for immortality, and his god did demand that some serve while others rule. It was only on a whim that the Szarrs were destroyed but for a single boy, that Vellioth usurped his Maker and ruled her shadow empire. Once secure in his power, he focused on expanding his influence as Master Vampire and Banite, enforcing discipline among the Spawn. Yet the Szarr boy he spared rose up in due time, as is the way of the world. A third death followed, but even this was not peace. Bound to the estate he once served and ruled, Vellioth's spirit lingers there, whispering of his killer's failures, watching with joy as the boy turns towards slavery to the infernal for what he calls true power.)

[slacktron23]

Exagmination Round His Factification for Incamination of Joyce, Sandwiches, and Christian Nationalism

(excerpts and title by James Joyce)

It should go without saying that are layers to this image. Well, yes, those, we're not talking about those. Or those either! We're going to be talking about the semantic layers of this post, the various meanings and half-meanings, some obvious and some obscured.

Perhaps the most delicious aspect, or at least the one that I find most personally satisfying, is that the "represents" relationship being explored here, is, presumably accidentally, presented in a backwards state. The sandwiches are meant to represent the genitalia, the genitalia does not "represent" the sandwiches, Mrs. Mayers. It is possible, and in the opinion of the author, most likely, that she meant to use "resembles" here.

That is the more prosaic analysis.

In semiotics, the signifier, is an expression of the signified. In the situation of the sandwiches representing the "vaginas [sic]"[1], the sandwiches are are the signifiers, and the "vaginas" are the signified. By flip-flopping the relationship, by making the sandwiches the signified and the genitalia the signifiers through an apparent mis-use of 'represents', we enter into Baudrillard's hyper-reality[2], where "reality" and the simulacra have crossed over. Aside from the semantic and semiotic confusion, it also reads as a spell being ritually cast, an attempt to exert the will through the medium of social media such that the deli-meat based simulacra, like the voodoo doll stuck with pins, informs the physical reality of the specific genitalia being invoked.

"Mr. Bloom asked for a sandwich. The meat, unfolded, bare, a pink tongue. Jingle. If he. And she. Not to think, no. Milly, representing the bread. Taylor Swift they call her. Reminiscent of a vulva. Two labiae. Majora, minori. What's home without plumtree's potted meat?"

Of course media is a major player in our shared cultural perception and language around female genitalia. It is crucial to understand that the "chaste" or barely visible vulva that is posited here to be the desired or ideal state of female genitalia, as represented by the daughter of the poster, is something that has been created and elevated as such by pornography[3]. This prurient vector remains the only mass-market source for visual depictions of genitalia, even with the apparent contradiction of "immoral" materials informing the "chaste" ideal of genitalia.

This is, however, consistent with the visual messaging and depictions of the body in the context of modern American Christian media. It seems to be necessary, within this context, to have a visual message that is as clear and simplistic as possible in order to prevent misinterpretation, even if by doing so the actual meaning to be conveyed gets turned on its head.

Let's give an example. The most common visual depiction involved in American Christianity is by far, the crucified Christ. This is the single most important moment for Chrstianity, the sanctification of humanity through the physical sacrifice of the deity itself. A major theme of the crucifixion is the strength of Jesus Christ to go through with the act, a strength that is then transubstantiated as a virtue to his flock. Such strength is of course, mental, spiritual, internal, separated from the overly physical realm.

So how then, to represent this strength?

The strength must be externalized. The signifier has become so prominent that again, we are in the realm of hyper-reality, where Jesus' strength to allow himself to be sacrificed has become externalized in the representation of physical strength to such a degree that his strength is now preventing the sacrifice.

Then, we should ask ourselves, what is the representation of the Taylor Swift vulva, what is it that is supposed to be immediately obvious to us visually?

"And he asked for a sandwich and I said what arent I sandwich enough for you men they all want a sandwich when theyre already married to one and poldy never even knew how to fold the meat and how to unfold it and refold the fold just under the bread to kiss it and then yes to bite and chew and swallow and lick just like he once licked me but I told him to stop and the sub was shining and people could see that night when I was singing the Taylor swift song and I could feel his eyes on my stockings and yes and i dont suppose its not the reason they preach christianity the poor fools they are always trying to find a woman with a vajajay thats not blown out and O as if they ever will"

The clear intention is that the sandwich is to represent female genitalia that have been used, sexually, and used enough that they have taken on an externally obvious state to indicate as such, and that they are, now, apparently not "fit for service"[4].

There are enough bewildering levels of nonsense to this that it's honestly difficult to know where to start.

Stepping off of the curb with what should be perhaps the most obvious issue, is that there is absolutely no mechanism proffered, or extant at all, as to how this relationship to the internal and external parts of genitalia would work, if it exists, which it doesn't. It's magical, the lady has sex, her genitals change, abracadabra.

Secondly, genital morphology also doesn't work this way. There are vagina-havers, many of them, who have external genitalia, who are virgins. This is entirely taking the completely normal and naturally-occurring state of many people's private parts, and making up a story from whole cloth. If sex is something that is so important to your culture, if it must be controlled, surely then you should at least try and have the most basic understandings of how it appears and functions. (The answer here is that sex doesn't really matter. It is the appearance thereof, the signifier again is promoted to greater importance than the signified.)

Thirdly, nobody seems to have been able to actually prove the old canard of a vagina becoming somehow less suitable for sex by having had sex[5]. It has been just accepted as fact, probably because it does reinforce the American Christian general take on female sexuality (and the overall narrative of the necessity of control of female sexuality, for many reasons, determination of ancestry being only one).

This disconnection from reality though, is less of a problem than it might appear. It might even be the point.

It is not a misunderstanding or misinterpretation of sexual physiology. It is a denial of it, similar to how so much modern politics functions. It does not matter how things seem, or how they work, it matters what the right people say. That is the way and the truth and the life.

"What manner of food was then consumed by the two compatriots? A sandwich. Which sandwich was consumed by whom? The left sandwich: Stephen Dedalus. The right sandwich: Leopold Bloom. What did the sandwiches represent? The sandwiches did not represent anything, in fact it was Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom who, as sexual beings, represented the sandwiches."

[1] - Firstly, there are no vaginas or vulvas here, there are only sandwiches. That said, the representation here is not of vaginas, which are an internal portion of genitalia, the representation here is of vulvas, a crucial anatomical difference which is notably completely elided from reactionary commentary on human sexuality.

[2] - https://www.mlsu.ac.in/econtents/2289_hyper%20reality%20boudrilard.pdf

[3] - https://whv.org.au/resources/whv-publications/new-research-finds-porn-and-online-media-are-fuelling-significant-anxiety

[4] - 'Service' is the absolutely correct word here because it works to indicate firstly, that a woman's (w)hole sexual worth is based on her ability to service her husband, and that her sexuality only exists as a service, to Christianity (and to whiteness, that's another tumblr post though).

[5] - https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/325890#sex

[blackwoolncrown]

For the past few days, a heatwave has glowered over the Pacific Northwest, forcing temperatures in the region to a record-breaking 118ºF. Few people in the region—neither Americans nor Canadians—have air-conditioning. Stores sold out of new AC units in hours as a panicked public sought a reasonable solution to the emergency. Unfortunately, air-conditioning is part of what’s causing the unusual heatwave in the first place.

We came close to destroying all life on Earth during the Cold War, with the threat of nuclear annihilation. But we may have come even closer during the cooling war, when the rising number of Americans with air conditioners—and a refrigerant industry that fought regulation—nearly obliterated the ozone layer. We avoided that environmental catastrophe, but the fundamental problem of air conditioning has never really been resolved.

Mechanical cooling appeared in the early 1900s not for comfort but for business. In manufacturing, the regulation of temperature—“process cooling”—controlled the quality of commodities like cotton, tobacco, and chewing gum. In 1903, Alfred Wolff installed the first cooling system for people at the New York Stock Exchange because comfortable traders yielded considerably higher stock returns. Only in the ’20s did “commercial cooling” appear. On Memorial Day weekend 1925, Willis Carrier debuted the first centrifugal air-conditioning system at the Rivoli Theater in Midtown Manhattan. Previously, theaters had shut down in the summer. With air-conditioning, the Rivoli became “the talk of Broadway” and inaugurated the summer blockbuster.

-another direct tie to capitalism. Everything born out of colonio-capitalism carries its toxic mark. Article totally not under the cut for those who can’t pay for Time. It honestly paints a really clear picture of the situation. Bolding mine.-

“It’s time we become more comfortable with discomfort. Our survival may depend on it.“

Before World War II, almost no one had air-conditioning at home. Besides being financially impractical and culturally odd, it was also dangerous. Chemical refrigerants like sulfur dioxide and methyl chloride filled most fridges and coolers, and leaks could kill a child, poison a hospital floor, even blow up a basement. Everything changed with the invention of Freon in 1928. Non-toxic and non-explosive, Freon was hailed as a “miracle.” It made the modernist skyscraper—with its sealed windows and heat-absorbing materials—possible. It made living in the desert possible. The small, winter resort of Phoenix, Arizona, became a year-round attraction. Architecture could now ignore the local climate. Anywhere could be 65ºF with 55% humidity. Cheap materials made boxy, suburban tract housing affordable to most Americans, but the sealed-up, stifling design of these homes required air-conditioning to keep the heat at bay. Quickly, air-conditioning transitioned from a luxury to a necessity. By 1980, more than half of all U.S. homes were air-conditioned. And despite millions of Black Americans fleeing the violence of Jim Crow, the South saw greater in-migration than out-migration for the first time—a direct result of AC. The American car was similarly transformed. In 1955, only 10 percent of American cars had air-conditioning. Thirty years later, it came standard.

The cooling boom also altered the way we work. Now, Americans could work anywhere at any hour of the day. Early ads for air-conditioning promised not health or comfort but productivity. The workday could proceed no matter the season or the climate. Even in the home, A/C brought comfort as a means to rest up before the next work day.

The use of air-conditioning was as symbolic as it was material. It conveyed class status. Who did and didn’t have air-conditioning often fell starkly along the color line, too, especially in the South. It conquered the weather and, with it, the need to sweat or squirm or lie down in the summer swelter. In that sense, air-conditioning allowed Americans to transcend their physical bodies, that long-sought fantasy of the Puritan settlers: to be in the world but not of it. Miracle, indeed.

But it came with a price. As it turned out, Freon isn’t exactly non-toxic. Freon is a chlorofluorocarbon (CFC), which depletes the ozone layer and also acts as a global warming gas. By 1974, the industrialized world was churning out CFCs, chemicals that had never appeared on the planet in any significant quantities, at a rate of one million metric tons a year—the equivalent mass of more than 500,000 cars. That was the year atmospheric chemists Sherry Rowland and Mario Molina first hypothesized that the chlorine molecules in CFCs might be destroying ozone in the stratosphere by bonding to free oxygen atoms and disrupting the atmosphere’s delicate chemistry. By then, CFCs were used not only as refrigerants but also as spray can propellants, manufacturing degreasers, and foam-blowing agents.

The ozone layer absorbs the worst of the sun’s ultraviolet radiation. Without stratospheric ozone, life as we know it is impossible. A 1 percent decline in the ozone layer’s thickness results in thousands of new cases of skin cancer. Greater depletion would lead to crop failures, the collapse of oceanic food systems, and, eventually, the destruction of all life on Earth.

In the 1980s, geophysicist Joseph Farman confirmed the Rowland-Molina hypothesis when he detected a near-absence of ozone over Antarctica—the “Ozone Hole.” A fierce battle ensued among industry, scientists, environmentalists, and politicians, but in 1987 the U.S signed the Montreal Protocol on Substances that Deplete the Ozone Layer, which ended Freon production.

The Montreal Protocol remains the world’s only successful international environmental treaty with legally binding emissions targets. Annual conferences to re-assess the goals of the treaty make it a living document, which is revised in light of up-to-date scientific data. For instance, the Montreal Protocol set out only to slow production of CFCs, but, by 1997, industrialized countries had stopped production entirely, far sooner than was thought possible. The world was saved through global cooperation.

The trouble is that the refrigerants replacing CFCs, hydrofluorocarbons (HFCs), turned out to be terrible for the planet, too. While they have an ozone-depleting potential of zero, they are potent greenhouse gases. They absorb infrared radiation from the sun and Earth and block heat that normally escapes into outer space. Carbon dioxide and methane do this too, but HFCs trap heat at rates thousands of times higher. Although the number of refrigerant molecules in the atmosphere is far fewer than those of other greenhouse gases, their destructive force, molecule for molecule, is far greater.

In three decades, the production of HFCs grew exponentially. Today, HFCs provide the cooling power to almost any air conditioner in the home, in the office, in the supermarket, or in the car. They cool vaccines, blood for transfusions, and temperature-sensitive medications, as well as the data processors and computer servers that make up the internet—everything from the cloud to blockchains. In 2019, annual global warming emissions from HFCs were the equivalent of 175 million metric tons of carbon dioxide.

In May, the EPA signaled it will begin phasing down HFCs and replacing them with more climate-friendly alternatives. Experts agree that a swift end to HFCs could prevent as much as 0.5ºC of warming over the next century—a third of the way to the goals of the Paris Climate Agreement.

Yet regardless of the refrigerant used, cooling still requires energy. According to the U.S. Energy Information Administration, air-conditioning accounts for nearly a fifth of annual U.S. residential electricity use. This is more energy for cooling overall and per capita than in any other nation. Most Americans consider the cost of energy only in terms of their electricity bills. But it’s also costing us the planet. Joe Biden’s announcement to shift toward a renewable energy infrastructure obscures the uncertainty of whether that infrastructure could meet Americans’ outrageously high energy demand—much of it for cooling that doesn’t save lives. Renewable energy infrastructure can take us only so far. The rest of the work is cultural. From Freon to HFCs, we keep replacing chemical refrigerants without taking a hard look at why we’re cooling in the first place.

Comfort cooling began not as a survival strategy but as a business venture. It still carries all those symbolic meanings, though its currency now works globally, cleaving the world into civilized cooling and barbaric heat. Despite what we assume, as a means of weathering a heat wave, individual air-conditioning is terribly ineffective. It works only for those who can afford it. But even then, their use in urban areas only makes the surrounding micro-climate hotter, sometimes by a factor of 10ºF, actively threatening the lives of those who don’t have access to cooling. (The sociologist Eric Klinenberg has brilliantly studied how, in a 1995 Chicago heat wave, about twice as many people died than in a comparable heat wave forty years earlier due to the city’s neglect of certain neighborhoods and social infrastructure.) Ironically, research suggests that exposure to constant air-conditioning can prevent our bodies from acclimatizing to hot weather, so those who subject themselves to “thermal monotony” are, in the end, making themselves more vulnerable to heat-related illness.

And, of course, air-conditioning only works when you have the electricity to power it. During heatwaves, when air-conditioning is needed most, blackouts are frequent. On Sunday, with afternoon temperatures reaching 112ºF around Portland, the power grid failed for more than 6,300 residences under control by Portland General Electrics.

The troubled history of air-conditioning suggests not that we chuck it entirely but that we focus on public cooling, on public comfort, rather than individual cooling, on individual comfort. Ensuring that the most vulnerable among the planet’s human inhabitants can keep cool through better access to public cooling centers, shade-giving trees, safe green spaces, water infrastructure to cool, and smart design will not only enrich our cities overall, it will lower the temperature for everyone. It’s far more efficient this way.

To do so, we’ll have to re-orient ourselves to the meaning of air-conditioning. And to comfort. Privatized air-conditioning survived the ozone crisis, but its power to separate—by class, by race, by nation, by ability—has survived, too. Comfort for some comes at the expense of the life on this planet.

It’s time we become more comfortable with discomfort. Our survival may depend on it.

[sisterdivinium]

What do you think Suzanne’s view of Lilith is like? Do they have a good relationship? It’s like… I’m just wondering if Suzanne is low-key glad Lilith didn’t get the halo even though she’s next-in-line because she sees shades of her younger, brash and impatient self in her. Like, of course she would not want a repeat of that disaster and become the next Mother Superion to die because the halo-bearer is high on halo-induced power.

Hello!

As with the previous question I received, dear anon, yours demands that we tread slowly, for the show provides no direct answer to your query and we must dig it out of whatever information we do possess. We will, therefore, proceed in parts, building our interpretation as we go, attempting to base it on as much of the source material and on as little fancy as we can.

(beware, this is an image-heavy post!)

a) On Suzanne's view of Lilith as an individual

If there is one constant in Suzanne's character, it is her utter devotion to the women of the OCS; hiding it beneath layers of sternness or expressing it openly, that never changes within her. Whatever her own obscure objections to Ava when she first arrives at the Cat's Cradle, this unwilling halo bearer who rejects "the gift" Mother Superion had been denied, the nun's aversion to the newcomer is also tied to Ava's seeming contempt and disinterest for the girls she so loves and for their mission.

As it so happens, Lilith is among this select group of women under Mother Superion's wing. This alone would be enough to place her somewhere in Suzanne's good graces, but we also see Lilith "team up" with her in antagonising Ava at her first arrival. They complement one another, encircling, trapping Ava between them, as a hunter and a trusted hound cornering prey.

This cooperation, as despicable and unfair as it might be to us, betrays a convergence of values — to what degree, exactly, we cannot tell, but they are quite clearly on the same side, seeking a common goal.

Now, Lilith has probably never received a more maternal type of affection from our then emotionally stunted "Cruella de Jesus", but some level of approbation is highly likely. Association alone would have garnered her as much, but there is also the question of devotion to the cause that they both share and which we know is of the greatest importance to Suzanne.

Whether Mother Superion (or even Lilith herself) can at this point tell what the real motivation behind such devotion is has not the greater relevance of the fact that it is there — if Lilith truly believes in divine calling or if she's only trying to be loved by mummy dearest doesn't affect the end result that is her dedication. Even Suzanne's own reasons when she was halo bearer aren't necessarily clear to us; we know only that these are women with a drive and that this unites them for now.

Dedication, then, brings us to our second point:

b) On Suzanne's view on Lilith as halo bearer to be

Lilith is competent, skilled, prepared. Nobody denies that.

Yet it isn't a secret that she has a few character flaws one wouldn't usually expect from a nun, warrior or otherwise, and as much as she might have tried to hide these traits from her superiors, we know there is at least one less than ideal demonstration of them that Suzanne witnesses — and halts herself.

Simon has spoken of how father Vincent and Mother Superion oversaw the operations of the OCS, so we could assume that Lilith as next in line was something they both agreed on...

However, two other details might raise questions about how organically she gained such a position. First, Beatrice's recalling "the politics" of denying Lilith the halo as Vincent intended to do and, second, Duretti's involvement and insistence that all be done to ensure Lilith succeeded Shannon at once.

This could indicate exterior pressure for Vincent and Suzanne to nominate Lilith as next in line.

Which isn't to say Lilith didn't have the chops — it might just not have been the appropriate time, especially considering how easily she might give in to certain provocations tied to vanity. Arrogance, when belched out too frequently, is a marker of self-esteem issues rather than confidence — among other examples, Lilith's clear distress at being called "heartless" by Mary shows us just how dependent on other people's opinions she is, how vulnerable, even immature in a way.

The pride young Suzanne displayed and the one shown by Lilith appear to be of two very different origins: the former was cocky because she seemed to already know what she was worth (and so the halo's rejection later on stings even harder), whereas the latter is still searching. Lilith trains harder than anyone else because she is more lost than anyone else; to her, perhaps the halo might just buy her a mother as well as an identity.

Maybe these different natures of "pride" are also what allowed Lilith to be chosen despite any reservations Mother Superion might have had based on her attitude (if in fact she and Vincent had a say in it). Moreover, Lilith does appear to be more of a team player than young Suzanne ever was: feeling annoyed at how Ava leaves her behind during the "test", stepping in front of the tarask, heeding Beatrice's counsel at the catacombs instead of insisting...

That's a far cry from how young Suzanne temporarily incapacitated one of her own sisters before marching gloriously into her own downfall.

Would Lilith have acted differently had she been carrying the halo? We can't tell, it would all be conjecture. From what we've seen, for the most part, this Lilith we know would, as Beatrice would say, trust her team.

For that reason, leaving aside any wild speculation on what would have happened had Lilith been the warrior nun to free Adriel (if that would have even happened at all), I think Mother Superion had as good a relationship with her as either personality could allow for.

Then again, we know that Lilith's path deviates entirely from all that had been planned out for her and thus we arrive at:

c) Season two

It's unnecessary to recall how the two characters in question didn't really interact with one another in the course of these eight episodes, so this section will be short because from here on out we're on our own trying to decipher the nature of Suzanne's current perspective on Lilith.

One thing we learn for sure is that she ends the season rather contented and proud of Ava as the warrior nun — it's with her that she has found common ground now, it's with her that she shares common values.

Lilith, on the other hand, had started out without checking in with the nuns and ends up going out on her own, lonely way. Where once she exulted in following directives (at least when Duretti not so subtly gives her the green light to rip the halo from Ava's back...), now anything of the sort is odious to her.

Nobody would dream of considering Lilith for halo bearer in the odd chance something happened to Ava, regardless of whatever feelings might linger; she has betrayed the Order.

Given her recent conduct, Lilith might have lost her status and even, perhaps, the respect Suzanne had for her. Then again, at least for the time being, none of this is a priority for her; all of those things that had previously served to point her out as the next logical halo bearer, those things that chained her to an existence she probably had little say in, have been left behind. She might not know precisely who she is or what she wants yet, but the burden of carrying her family's legacy (and damned be her own desires) is gone.

There has been a rupture between them, yes — and it is not necessarily caused by the brashness once exhibited by both.

Instead, I think maybe Lilith's shirking of that vital principle that Suzanne values most of all, that sisterhood that justifies her devotion and defines her very core, would upset Mother Superion and make her glad that Lilith did not get the halo in the end more than anything else. That drive which united them is shattered now that Lilith treads a solitary path her own altered biology seems to claim for itself, whilst Suzanne is more than ever attuned to the importance of her community/communion of women.

That, I'd say, would justify any "satisfaction" with how things turned out — for how truly satisfied can you be when one of your own turns her back on you?

[inkykeiji]

the clock is ticking, running out of time

characters: shigaraki tomura

genre: smut and angst

notes: AAAAAAH HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOMURA!!!!!! sorry i seem to write angst for all of my faves birthdays ehehe. this is technically set in the touya-nii universe!! | title cred: birthday by katy perry

warnings: 18+ minors dni, cheating, implied stepcest/pseudo-incest, toxic relationships, the slightest hint of degradation, noncon/dubcon video recording, extreme feelings of guilt

words: 4.4k

synopsis:

“It’s fine—”

“It’s not,”

“I didn’t come here to talk about Touya,” you say gently, letting your dress drop down as you straighten up. “Let’s—Let’s not think about him right now, okay? Today is your day, and I want to focus on you. Forget about Touya,”

A deep frown mars his face, his nose twitching again. It looks like he wants to say more, but then your hands are on him, roaming across his bony chest and sliding into the tufts of silvery-blue hair at the nape of his neck.

“It’s hard to buy a gift for someone who already has everything,” you’re continuing softly, gazing up at him through your lashes, so close your noses nearly bump together. Sweet breath wafts over his face, a tongue darting out to lick at his lips, as if he’s trying to taste it. “So I thought…I thought the best gift I could give you is me,”

And suddenly, Touya’s wiped from his mind.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

That’s the thought that’s been looping through your head for the past forty-five minutes, for the entire bus ride from Touya’s apartment to Tomura’s, for the walk from the bus stop to his condo complex, for the thirty-seven seconds it takes him to answer the door.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

But you want to.

It’s been months since you’ve seen him last, months since you spent the night with him, months since you’ve spoken to him at all.

4:06. The glowing numbers glare up at you from the screen of your phone, unable to stop obsessively checking your phone, mentally calculating the time you have left over and over again, even though you’ve already meticulously planned this outing down to the very second.

It’s rare for Touya to be out for an exact amount of allotted time, but when he mentioned that he had a three hour full body check up with his doctor that just so happened to be scheduled on Tomura’s birthday…Well, it was too convenient for you not to seize the opportunity.

The door swings open, breaking you out of your thoughts, and your name leaves his lips in a gasp, crimson eyes searching your face in disbelief. A beat of silence passes before he speaks again. “What’re you doing here?”

“Wanted to see you for your birthday,” you say simply with a shrug and he blinks several times, still staring at you incredulously. “You didn’t think I forgot, did you?”

And for a moment you’re terrified you’ve made a grave mistake, terrified that he doesn’t want you here, that he thinks the risk is too big—Touya will murder the both of you if he finds out—too dangerous, his body gone rigid in the doorway, breathing stopped.

But then a brilliant smile is splitting his face, and he’s pulling you into his arms, crushing you to his chest as his fingers curl in the material of your dress.

And you—you practically collapse against him, sighing out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. He still smells exactly the same, just as you remember—like cheap cigarettes and watermelon bubblegum.

The scent evokes thick unfurling remorse, sinking heavily in your stomach, the mantra you’ve been repeating to yourself for the past few days immediately flowing through your mind, a desperate attempt to reassure yourself, to reason with yourself, to justify this decision.

Because you both deserve closure, don’t you? After everything that’s happened? After leaving him without a trace, without so much as a phone call or a quick text to at least let him know you’re okay?

Because Touya’s cheated on you how many times throughout the first six months of your relationship? One more teeny tiny instance of infidelity—the last one, you promise yourself—shouldn’t hurt, so long as he doesn’t know about it.

Right?

Really, this does nothing to dispel the culpability churning in your chest. No, Tomura’s bright boyish smile does that all by itself, sincere in the way it’s stretched across his face as he tugs you inside.

And...And suddenly, none of it really matters. Not in that moment, at least. Suddenly, all of those statements are rendered true; Tomura does deserve this. Suddenly, you realize just how much you’ve missed him.

“I have to be quick, I’m sorry,” your voice cracks under unexpected emotion, but Tomura doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, ecstatic over the fact that you’ve come to visit at all.

“That’s fine,” he’s saying as his hands roam your body, kneading and squeezing with surprising gentleness, eyes shining and wide as they follow his touch, as if he can’t believe you’re here, can’t believe you’re real.

It has your heart shattering in your chest, jagged shards puncturing your surrounding organs, burying themselves deep within you, never to be dug out. A lump lodges itself in your throat, voice frail and full of spit as you speak around it.

“I missed you so much,” the words rush from between your lips without your permission, and Tomura pulls back, smile fading as his gaze searches your face.

For a moment, you can tell that he wants to berate you for disappearing without any contact at all, can see it shining clear as crystal in his eyes as they narrow, as eyebrows knit and his nose scrunches, and you nuzzle your face into him. Guilt, a different kind than that which Touya evokes—this type lighter than the dense acidic guilt that sticks to your insides like thick tar any time sapphire sears through your mind, this type bitter and saturated with melancholy—roots in the pit of your stomach.

“I—I’m sorry I haven’t been able to text,” you mumble meekly, tears pricking your eyes. “Touya—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts you off with surprising softness, fingertips still trailing up and down your spine. “I figured. Uh, how is he? Like, how…How was he?”

The brand of those five letters, now fully healed, scald your flesh, blistering bright and hot as if you had just been branded again. With your bottom lip sucked between your teeth, you contemplate just outright telling him—he’s going to see it eventually either way, but you’re worried about ruining the mood a little too early.

No.

Better to rip it off like a band-aid, to get it out of the way now, instead of interrupting your birthday festivities later.

Your chest swells with a deep inhale, exhaling the words slowly.

“He was…” Livid. Furious beyond belief. Deeply hurt—distressed, distraught, dismayed. Visibly shaken up. In more pain than you’ve ever witnessed before. Terrified. “Upset. Naturally.”

Tomura waits for you to continue, speaking after a few moments of silence. “And?” he prompts, knowing Touya didn’t let you get away with a mere verbal warning, knowing you have more to say.

“A-And—” you bury your face against his neck, hot tears leaking from your eyes and staining his skin as they squeeze shut tightly, forcing the quivering words from your throat. “And he—He, um, he branded me,”

“What?” The word is just a huff of breath as large hands curl around your shoulders, yanking you from the sanctuary of his body so he can scrutinize your face, flashing crimson flying across your features. “He what?”

“His name,” you whisper, eyes still shut, face screwing up in distaste, the words bitter on your tongue.

“Where?”

“My ass,”

“Let me see,”

Eyes snapping open, your head begins to shake, motions cutting off when your stare meets his glare. Reluctantly you turn, flipping your dress up as you bend over a bit, pulling your panties down just enough to show him the slightly raised letters etched into your flesh forever.

Save for the soft, choked noise that sounds in the back of his throat, silence blankets the room, atmosphere suddenly stale and suffocating.

You glance back at him after a few beats, when your chest is beginning to burn from holding your breath in your lungs, and the sight that you are met with has your chest tearing itself in half, ribs caving in, giving way to the deep, dark ache swirling at the very core of your body.

Crimson eyes gleam in the setting sun, a thick layer of tears catching in the golden rays streaming through the window. It’s almost pretty in a way, brilliant ruby that shimmers and shines in the waning beams, practically glowing. But those beautiful, beautiful eyes are transfixed on your bare flesh, unblinking stare etching itself into your skin much like the letters Touya left behind.

His chin trembles just a little, front teeth sinking into his bottom lip in an attempt to halt it, head nodding in minuscule motions, barely noticeable, almost as if he’s confirming something to himself, affirming some unsaid thought sailing through his mind—almost as if he’s blaming himself.

“Fucking bastard,” he spits, though the words are wobbly, lacking heat and coated in sticky saliva. Using the sleeve of his black shirt, he wipes at his nose almost aggressively, quelling it’s twitching as he exhales harshly, nostrils flaring, before he sniffs twice and rolls his shoulders back, gaze finally meeting yours.

“It’s fine—”

“It’s not,”

“I didn’t come here to talk about Touya,” you say gently, letting your dress drop down as you straighten up. “Let’s—Let’s not think about him right now, okay? Today is your day, and I want to focus on you. Forget about Touya,”

A deep frown mars his face, his nose twitching again. It looks like he wants to say more, but then your hands are on him, roaming across his bony chest and sliding into the tufts of silvery-blue hair at the nape of his neck.

The glittering scarlet lace barely obscured by your thin dress singes itself into your flesh as his palms cascade over it, tracing every dip and curve of your body as they slide down to grope your ass.

You had bought the set for this occasion specifically—using cash you had stashed away, of course; Touya regularly checks your bank statements and credit card—with the intention of letting Tomura keep it, as a present.

“It’s hard to buy a gift for someone who already has everything,” you’re continuing softly, gazing up at him through your lashes, so close your noses nearly bump together, sweet breath wafting over his face, a tongue darting out to lick at his lips, as if he’s trying to taste it. “So I thought…I thought the best gift I could give you is me,”

And suddenly, Touya’s wiped from his mind.

He surges forward, foreheads bumping together from the strength, and crushes his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, nimble fingers curling in the hem of your dress and yanking, pulling the material from your body in one erratic motion.

He’s just as enthusiastic as he was all those months ago, large hands settling on your lace-clad hips as he guides you—back, back, back, stumbling over your own feet a little as he shoves forward, teeth clacking as his tongue tangles with yours, interspersed drool pooling at the corners of your lips.

A soft cry of surprise leaves your lips as he roughly spins the two of you so he’s the one reversing, collapsing in the overstuffed gaming chair abandoned near his desk and hauling you down with him, wheels rolling against the hardwood from the force.  

His lips are plush and chapped, kisses messy with strings of viscous saliva, and you’re reminded of how fun kissing Tomura is, playful giggles spilling from one mouth into another consistently breaking the flow as eager hands paw and pull, snapping the clasp on your bra and haphazardly discarding it, your fingers toying with the silver button of his charcoal jeans.

“Get on with it already,” he groans, impatient and entitled as ever, exactly how you remember, hips rutting up into you clumsily as hands travel up your torso to knead your breasts much too hard. And even though it shouldn’t, his predictability inspires a burst of intense warmth in your chest, burning bright like a tiny sun, heat seeping into your blood and flooding your veins as more involuntary giggles pry their way out of your mouth and into his.

“Think that’s funny, huh?” he asks, and although his eyes are fierce and sharp as they scrutinize your face, there’s a playful little grin decorating his lips, slender fingers tweaking a peaked nipple and snickering at your resulting yelp.

“Just missed you, s’all,” you mumble against him, lips dragging along his jaw then trailing down his neck, tongue peeking out to give kitten licks at self-inflicted scars and tugging pathetic little half-whimpers from deep in his throat, rough and uneven as he tries to swallow them back down.

There isn’t enough time for thorough prep, your only form of foreplay consisting of his cock being rammed down your throat—just get it fucking wet, he had demanded—hips stuttering as he desperately tries to keep from bucking while your tongue laves around the shaft, drenching it in spit.

“Fu-Fucking stop, or I’m gonna cum,” Large fists tangle in your hair, trying to yank you off his cock with a pathetic little whine. Gaping pupils outlined by a fine ring of scarlet observe the way your shining lips pucker around his girth as your mouth slides up, grip on your strands already loosening as his chest heaves, completely absorbed by your actions, breath escaping slightly parted lips in sweet little puffs.

A little tongue flicks against the slit as you reach the tip, placing an obscene openmouthed kiss to the head before pulling away completely. Your mouth hovers an inch above it, allowing a large glob of sticky saliva to dribble from your mouth onto the head, then kissing it again, pressing slippery lips to heated silky skin.

“Jesus Christ,”

The curse is nearly a moan, and you look up from your place between his thighs, batting your eyelashes and offering him a tiny smile. His eyes glitter as he gazes down at you, chest rising unevenly under the force of ragged breaths, a thumb swiping across your cheek in a manner that’s almost awestruck, as if he can’t believe you’re here.

“Get on my cock,” he orders a moment later, when the aching between his legs draws him back to reality, hips jerking up in reflexive, instinctive micro-movements, gleaming cock bobbing with the action. “And take your fucking panties off,”

It’s a little awkward and a lot uncoordinated, trying to maneuver yourself onto his lap while he slouches in that ridiculous gaming chair, unable to quell the way his hips prematurely thrust the moment you’re hovering over him, legs folded and cramped on either side of his thighs.

Pathetic little whimpers leak from your lips as his slick cock stretches your ill-prepared hole, cunt stinging as it struggles to adjust to the sudden breach, your nails digging into the lean muscles of his shoulders as a hiss is spit between clenched teeth.

But the moan he emits, deep and satisfying as you sink down on him, how his eyelashes flutter shut and his head knocks back against the headrest as he bottoms out, long ivory neck and prominent Adams apple on display, and the way massive hands grip your hips, fingertips digging into your soft flesh as he forces you to begin bouncing almost immediately, make it all so worth it.

Because he’s still so pretty, lids lifting a moment later to reveal dazzling ruby gazing at you in an almost voracious manner through thick dark lashes, glued to your face as he memorizes every micro-expression that transforms your features, the way your eyes roll back and eyebrows twitch, the way your mouth forms around those cute little gasps of his name that his rough thrusts punch from your chest.

“Did’ya miss my cock?” his breath is already coming out in short little pants, hips grinding urgently against yours, lacking any kind of finesse or rhythm. “B-Bet’cha did,”

“Uh-huh,” your head nods jerkily, hips rocking just as desperately into his as if to confirm your statement. His cock is pretty, too—a darker pink than Touya’s, half an inch shorter but just as fat, thick veins snaking around the shaft like vines.

“Dick drunk already?” he teases, and you’re positive his voice was meant to be more rancorous, but the large grin it’s spoken through, as if he’s proud of himself, chest nearly swelling with it, dilutes it, disintegrating the bitter shell that was supposed to coat the words. His tongue clicks, fluffy tufts of hair bouncing a little as he shakes his head. “What would your precious niichan think?”

You don’t answer—can’t answer—because it’s already so much, uncoordinated thrusting almost teasing in a way, the head of his cock unintentionally grazing that spot buried deep inside of you, the fleeting sensation mixing with that of the taboo, of the naughtiness of the situation, mewls spilling from your lips.

And you wish, so desperately, that you could take your time, that you could enjoy such amateurish gyrating, crude movements giving way to sloppy squelching that makes your stomach swoop and cunt throb as your clit glides against his pubic bone, but the mention of niichan reminds you of your finite amount of time and you lean back, soft palms finding the edge of his desk, fingers curling tightly around it.

Tomura’s bare feet planted on the hardwood keep the chair from shifting as you begin to really ride him, starting with slow, hard rolls of your hips that have cute little grunts hitching in his chest, bright eyes darkening as they watch, lids drooping a little, your movements increasingly gaining speed with each rock forward of your hips, leaning back against the desk and using it for leverage.

Blunt nails bite into your skin, and you want to remind him not to leave marks, but the words won’t keep their shape as they gurgle in your throat, evaporating into moans that break with each rough buck of his hips.

He finds a rhythm with you quickly, though, your lust-hazed mind dully noting that he’s better than before, the thought conjuring sudden, fierce spears of jealousy that slice through your chest, jaw clenching.

“Fuck, you—you’re still the best I’ve ever had,” he practically whines out, like he’s reading the thoughts on your face, but his voice is genuine, strained and hoarse with the confession. “Will probably always be the best I’ve ever had,” his sentence fades into a growl, almost as if he’s angry about it, hands squeezing your hips.

Nevertheless, you’re unable to stop the little smile those words paint across your lips, giggling breathlessly as bubbly warmth tingles in your chest, a sense of shameful pride rushing through your veins.

“Yeah?” he seethes in a huff, eyes narrowing. “Bet you’re proud of yourself for that, little slut,”

You are, you’re nodding, tongue rendered useless as his hips piston into you, cockhead repeatedly slamming against your cervix, reaching deeper and deeper and deeper the further you lean back, until the sharp edge of the desk is cutting into your back.

“I know you are,” he sneers, callous tone emphasized by his brute force as he fucks you. “V-Vain little bitch, happy she’s ruined me—ruined sex for me, forever,”

It’s getting harder for him to speak now, words punctuated by half-baked whimpers and swallowed, stifled moans, the sentiment under his speech accentuating pleasure for the both of you, dirty humiliation only making everything that much more intense, heady and addicting as it intoxicates your bodies, your minds, your souls.

“S-So the least you could do,” he begins in a keen, pace faltering as he squirms under you, yanking his phone from his back pocket. “Is give me something to—ah, Christ—remember you by,”

You should tell him no. You should cease all bouncing on his cock the moment he presses that little red button on his screen, the moment the flash next to the camera turns on, signaling it’s recording. You should.

But you don’t. You don’t, because he’s right. Because that guilt returns, seeping up through the floor of your stomach and spreading to your other organs, chest tightening as it reaches your heart. Because you took something from him, something he’ll never be able to get back, purely for your own selfish gain, just to get back at the man you love, and that isn’t fair. That will never be fair.

Instead, you look straight into the lens, hips beginning to ride him almost viciously, pushing out your chest further, bouncing tits on display as they heave with your lewd moans of his name, begging him to fuck you, begging him for his thick cum, and oh please, Tomura, please, give it to me, want your cum so bad, need your cum so bad, please!

He chokes on his own groan, the hand holding his phone beginning to shake slightly as the other finds its place on your hip again, his own thrusts pumping wildly as he spits expletives through gritted teeth, your pathetic little mewls egging him on.  

“G-Gonna cum?” he whines out, almost as if he’s begging you to say yes, the needy canting of his hips indicating that he’s about to, too, crimson searing into you as you nod messily. “Fucking do it, then, cream all over my cock like the good little whore you are,”

And you’re powerless to stop the loud cry that rips from your throat as your cunt clenches around him, only half of his name escaping in a yelp before your own shuddery gasp cuts you off, choking a little on the intense inhale, air sharp as razors as it rushes down your throat.

He follows less than a second later with a ferocious growl of your name, potent cum filling your aching little cunt, phone clattering to the floor as both hands grip your hips and force you to continue milking him until both of your bodies are shivering from the overstimulation.

You collapse against him, sweaty body melting into his, muscles quivering in exhaustion. Long arms encircle you, cradling you to his chest in a way that’s almost tender, phone laying forgotten a few feet away.

It’s just as nice as it was the first time, being swathed in his embrace, a gentle sigh slipping from between your lips. Nimble fingers trail up and down your spine, pressing into the notches, tracing the smooth, soft plains of your skin.

“Wish you could stay,” he mumbles into your hair, so quiet you nearly miss it—would have missed it if not for the vibrations in his chest.

Me too.

You want to tell him, want to express the same sentiment, to make it known that you desire the same thing, but the words tangle in your throat, that sticky brand of guilt that is specifically Touya refraining them from leaving your lips, yanking them back down into your chest with painful hitching breaths every time you try to speak.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until Tomura coos, pulling back a little to cup your face and tilt it up, big thumbs swiping across your cheeks as they catch glistening teardrops.

He doesn’t say anything—there is nothing to say—instead dipping his head to press his lips chastely to yours in the softest kiss he’s ever given you, mumbling his thanks for the birthday present a moment later.

There’s so much more you want to say, so much more you want to ask, but there’s no more time, opting to kiss him again in response, praying that it conveys all the things you can’t, all the things guilt won’t let you.

And then you’re scrambling off of his lap, collecting your dress off the floor and hastily pulling it over your head, turning back to find Tomura standing, holding out his hand, soaked lace in his grasp.

“Keep them,” you whisper, curling his fingers into a fist around the dainty material. “Happy birthday, Tomura,”

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

You have forty-five minutes before Touya arrives home—that’s cutting it close, you were supposed to have a full hour, but Tomura’s arms were so warm, his gently rising chest so inviting, his entire aura so comforting, that you had allowed yourself to indulge, just for a moment, to let your eyes slip shut and exhale a soft sigh of contentment, snuggling into his embrace and inhaling his distinct scent deeply, holding it in your lungs for a moment, wishing it would stay, wishing it would stick to the gummy walls, take root and find a home there, wishing you could keep a piece of him with you, always.

The water scalds your skin as you step into Touya’s glass shower, hands instantly reaching for Touya’s bodywash and squirting a generous amount in your palm.

You lather your entire body with it, until every inch of your skin is covered in foamy white suds, until your flesh has been scrubbed raw, the sharp scent—something woodsy and musky, like a crackling campfire of burning hickory wood, smoky and sweet—enveloping you entirely, stinging your nose.

It sticks in your throat and invades your lungs, as if cleansing you from the inside out, and you choke on it, are suffocated by it, little gasps and coughs falling from your lips while nails claw at your neck.

That dull ache returns as you rinse your skin, throbbing incessantly at the very core of your body as you watch the last remnants of Tomura swirl around the drain, infused in the soapy water.

It shouldn’t hurt this much, you’re thinking to yourself as your fingers massage shampoo into your scalp. It shouldn’t, but it does, a painful lump lodging itself in your throat, expanding a little more every time you try to reason with yourself until it’s gagging you.

Something stings your eyes—soap from the shampoo as you rinse it from your locks, or maybe the potently fragrant scent from Touya’s bodywash, you try to convince yourself, that lump sprouting tiny spikes and viciously slicing into the gummy walls, that lump forcing saliva still containing traces of Tomura to collect in your throat, that lump reminding you that you’re a fucking liar.

It’s fine. It’s fine. Touya doesn’t need to know everything, does he? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? And it was only a one time thing, wasn’t it? It’s alright, isn’t it?

These are the questions that cycle through your mind obsessively, running laps in your skull as you absentmindedly towel off your dripping body in your niichan’s bedroom, the gentle buzz of your phone snapping you out of your reverie.

For a moment, you’re terrified it’s Touya, texting you to tell you that he knows, you little slut, scrambling to snatch it off of the nightstand as trembling fingers hastily unlock it.

It isn’t Touya.

It’s Tomura.

best birthday present of my life, hands down. thank you. i love you.

The resounding slam! of the front door has your entire body flinching violently, the heels of Touya’s heavy boots thumping against the tile as he kicks them off mingling with his smooth voice as he calls your name.

It’s with watery eyes and painful little sniffles catching in your chest that your quivering thumb jabs at that tiny little trashcan in the corner of your screen, watching through blurry vision as the entire conversation disappears into the ether, gone forever—though those three glowing words that concluded the text are etched into the very tissue of your brain, where they will remain, forever.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

like a secret in your throat

y’all asked for whump. y’all got whump. title from “Vampires Will Never Hurt You” by my all-time favorite band, My Chemical Romance

whump, hurt/comfort with a happy ending!

tw: manhandling the bard, vampire transformations (side character), non-sexy biting, blood mention, canon typical injuries/violence

---

Geralt looked up from his mug of ale when he realized that Jaskier had stopped playing. Instead, the bard was chatting merrily away with a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark cloak. The hood obscured most of the stranger’s face but Geralt caught the reflective glint of a bead or piece of metal braided into his matted black hair. An instinct tickled at the back of the Witcher’s head but Geralt couldn’t quite place the feeling. Something was wrong about this little tableau but he couldn’t figure out what it was; his medallion wasn’t reacting to anything in particular and Jaskier seemed perfectly happy, lost in conversation with the dark-haired man.

Geralt returned his gaze to his mug and let his mind wander.

Jaskier did seem perfectly happy to be without him on nights like these, when they were back in civilization and the extroverted bard could branch out and meet new people. That was the problem, in Geralt’s opinion. 

Lately the Witcher had found himself contemplating what life would be like on the Path if he decided to travel alone again. Winter wasn’t close enough for him to excuse himself and go North, but he’d developed a strange and uncomfortable dependence on the bard that he needed to be weaned away from. It wasn’t healthy for either of them. 

It wasn’t safe.

If he grew too close to Jaskier, then… 

Wouldn’t that be a weakness? Wouldn’t that be a vulnerability and a dangerous closeness? Geralt couldn’t risk forming a connection like that. He couldn’t allow himself to hope for something so organic and pure to develop between a half-monster and a youthful, bright-eyed bard; Witchers weren’t meant to get nice things. That was not his lot in life.

And yet…

Some mornings, when he only barely cracked his eyes open and used his heightened senses to peek across their campsite, he saw Jaskier looking back at him, a curious glint in those pretty blue irises. Geralt couldn’t pinpoint the emotion the bard’s face held; he was bad at that, and the uncertainty of the younger man’s feelings scared him. He could handle rejection, but acceptance? If Jaskier was as loving and openminded as Geralt thought him to be, it could prove to be a problem. Jaskier was too good for a Witcher. He didn’t deserve to be trapped by a life on the Path, dying too young because he was foolhardy and quick to fall in love.

The Witcher’s introspection came to an abrupt halt when the Jaskier in question appeared beside him, flushed and grinning. “Geralt, dear heart, are you ready to retire for the evening?”

“Are you asking me to bed?” the Witcher smirked, smothering the very real ache in his chest at the thought of curling up next to Jaskier like that. “Or do you need to borrow our room to entertain a guest?”

“Oh, no, I have no plans of that nature.” Jaskier’s already pink face darkened a shade and Geralt’s stomach flipped. “I’m actually rather tired. I was hoping to get some decent sleep tonight before we flung ourselves back into nature tomorrow.”

“Hmm. I’ll be along shortly. Don’t wait up.”

“See you in a bit then, dear heart.” 

And Jaskier disappeared up the stairs.

Unfortunately, the Witcher didn’t realize he wasn’t the only one watching Jaskier slip into their rented room with a longing expression on his face.

---

“We need to set up camp for the evening,” Geralt announced, bringing Roach to a stop and sliding gracefully down from the saddle. Jaskier loved the way his Witcher looked when he did that, like some kind of fairytale Prince or knight errant. The way his long, silver-white hair shifted and fluttered against his shoulders in the dusky light made him look more like a fantastical painting than a century-old Witcher; even with his scars and his pallid skin tone. 

The unconventionally enchanting sight made ballads stir in the most romantic corners of the bard’s busy mind. Words pooled and shifted behind his eyes, arranging themselves into neat rhyming couplets or quatrains. 

Geralt of Rivia, tall and fair,

With golden eyes and silver hair;

Whose glare could even douse the sun,

And send a Gryphon on the run.

The bard barely kept himself from sighing aloud as he removed his pack from across his shoulders and unfolded his bedroll and thin travel blanket. The material felt fragile between his calloused fingertips and he sighed forlornly,  “I’m going to need a new blanket soon.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it. And I’ll get Roach some new reins while I’m in town,” the bard waved his hand nonchalantly, as if spending money was no big deal. It really wasn’t, all things considered. They would be able to travel far more comfortably if Geralt would allow them to stop in Novigrad and access his University accounts more often. Alas, Witchers are stubborn creatures. “I see the way they chafe her poor muzzle, Geralt, so don’t argue. If you really insist you can pay me back by letting me write a song about the color of your eyes.”

“My… eyes?”

“They’re rather pretty, dear heart, and I think the world could do with a ballad about how they glow when you turn your face toward the sun.”

Geralt felt the back of his neck grow hot and he glanced away, “Hmm.”

“Well, let me know what you think in the morning. I don’t need an answer right away.”

Geralt finished setting up a decent pile of firewood and brought it to life with an efficient burst of Igni. He glanced across the flames to Jaskier and grunted, “I’m going to catch us some dinner. Make tea.”

“Yes, sir,” Jaskier saluted, smiling. Geralt rolled his eyes, grabbed his crossbow, and disappeared into the darkening treeline. Jaskier began to hum as he set up their tea kettle and filled it with water from the waterskin. The humming turned to quiet singing as he measured out two mugs worth of tea from the sachet of dried leaves. 

Singing that was cut off with a sharp, sudden cry.

---

Geralt heard the bard scream once. Only once.

The sound punctuated the air before leaving an uncomfortable, grating silence in its wake. 

The Witcher took off towards their campfire without a second thought, allowing his instincts to take over and guide him safely back, the potency of Jaskier’s fear hung thick and sour in the air, growing stronger the closer he came to their clearing. When he burst back into view, chest heaving from the sprint, he widened his eyes at the sight before him:

The cloaked figure from the tavern had Jaskier wrapped in his burly arms. One large, long-fingered hand had immobilized Jaskier’s wrists by pressing them into the dip at the base of the bard’s spine, forcing his elbows out and pressing his chest even tighter against the stranger’s. 

Jaskier looked up at Geralt beseechingly through his dark, damp lashes. His mouth opened in a silent cry of confusion and pain when the man tugged at his wrists and forced his arms to bend awkwardly. The bard wriggled and strained against the stranger’s iron grip in an effort to escape but the man only snarled in irritation and jerked him back into place. “Bad bard. Stay put, little thing.”

Geralt took a slow step towards his swords, trying to reassure Jaskier with his expression that: Everything will be okay. I will get you out of this. I will protect you and keep you safe… somehow. 

Jaskier needed Geralt to pay attention and protect him from harm.

Geralt had failed.

The Witcher watched with wide, horrified eyes as the hulking man keeping Jaskier captive shifted slowly into a far less humanoid form. The baubles braided into his hair jangled and clinked as his nose elongated and his eyes widened. His arms lengthened to form clawed bat-wings and his face thinned and covered over with a layer of grey fur. Fangs burst forth from his gums and slid over his previously humanesque canines. His voice, which had been rasping odd little sounds in the Witcher’s direction, faded into an terrible shriek. 

A Katakan. 

A Katakan that had snuck in and out of civilization without Geralt so much as smelling it; one that had Jaskier pinned against its chest, the claws of its unoccupied hand sharp and dangerous as they hovered near the bard’s ribcage, ready to pierce but unwilling to waste precious blood unless absolutely necessary. It screamed again, even more shrilly. “Want him!”

Geralt dove forward and pulled his silver sword from its sheath. He swung it in an elegant arc and narrowed his eyes, “Let him go and I might let you live.”

The Witcher’s words were a lie and they both knew it.

The Katakan twitched its long ears in annoyance and hauled Jaskier even closer. It wrenched his arms painfully and the bard whimpered, blue eyes filling steadily with tears. Geralt’s heart seized wretchedly in his chest and he tried his best to ignore it; he couldn’t let his feelings distract him until Jaskier was safe. 

“I want him,” the monster rasped, readjusting the bard in its grip. It turned Jaskier around until he was facing the Witcher, releasing his wrists just long enough to pull his hands around to the front before capturing them again. It grazed its two long fangs against the column of Jaskier’s throat and trilled happily. “He sings so pretty. Talks so sweet. Bet he tastes sweet like he talks.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. “He does have a rather pretty singing voice. I suppose that’s why I can’t have you killing him.”

“But he will sing for me,” the vampire shrugged. It shook Jaskier like a toy and the bard’s tears finally fell. He whimpered again when the vampire leaned close and told him: “Sing, little thing. Let me pull lovely music from your veins.”

Jaskier shivered visibly. He gave a few panting, strangled sobs as he slipped into panic, too frightened to move with the vampire’s fangs so close to his neck. He wanted Geralt to finally swing that stupid sword and get this over with. He wanted to curl up in Geralt’s arms and never leave for the rest of his life. He wanted to be taken to Kaer Morhen and hidden away in safety, fuck his music career and the rest of the world. He wanted Geralt to stay in his presence forever, never letting him out of sight again. He wanted…

Before he could finish his thought there was a sharp, piercing, all-encompassing pain at the juncture where his neck met his shoulder.

A keening wail filled the air once. 

The vampire bit down harder, its tongue sliding against the skin of the bard’s neck in an effort to urge the blood to exit faster. 

There was another high, piteous cry for help and then... 

The world went black.

---

When Jaskier opened his eyes again, the world was even darker than it had been before; mostly because the light from both the moon and their campfire was being blocked out by the broad plane of Geralt’s chest, which Jaskier found himself cradled against almost… lovingly. Above him, he heard the Witcher murmuring: “Jaskier, please. Please wake up, Julek. Come on, bard, I kn-”

“G-Geralt?” he managed to croak. He followed it with a very eloquent, “Hunh?”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher sagged with relief, pressing his forehead against the bard’s and breathing in deeply. He tightened his arms around Jaskier, pulling him even closer as his frown disappeared, “Melitele be blessed, you’re alive!”

“Should I not be?” Jaskier asked. He tried to sit up on his own and winced when a bright burst of pain flared out from his shoulder.

“The Katakan- You were bleeding so much and I-” Geralt was, as always, at a loss for words. Jaskier waited patiently, still feeling drowsy and half-alive, and allowed the Witcher to gather his thoughts. His neck ached and his left arm tingled fiercely every time he tried to flex his hand on that side. 

“Did it… Am I a vampire now?” he asked. The absurdity of the question broke Geralt from his confusion.

“No,” the Witcher answered swiftly. “You’re still very mortal-” a hand swept through Jaskier’s hair, calming him further “-And unfortunately still very fragile.”

“Are you going to beat yourself up over this for the next week and somehow twist it around until it’s all your fault?”

“Hmm,” Geralt looked away. Jaskier was still being held so very tenderly in his arms, laid across the Witcher’s lap like some kind of swooning maiden. He rather liked how close he was to Geralt and hoped to stay that way for just a little longer. The Witcher surprised them both by letting a full sentence slip into the air between them, “I don’t like seeing you hurt, Jaskier, especially not when… when I was close enough that I could have prevented it from happening at all.”

“Your medallion didn’t give you any hints about this thing back at the inn when I was talking to him? He seemed completely normal, if a little monosyllabic. I’m used to monosyllabic, anyway,” the bard joked, trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It didn’t work; Geralt lifted his head and stared into the fire, his brow already furrowed as he slipped into his private realm of self-loathing. Jaskier was still laying across his lap, his neck and shoulder giving off pulsing aches with every beat of his heart. 

Eventually the Witcher spoke again, his voice low and full of frustration. “Katakans are different, they don’t- they don’t set off my medallion the way other creatures do, and they can disguise themselves as people. They can move and talk like people; you saw it transform.”

“I did,” Jaskier grimaced. “And it wanted me to sing while it drank my blood.”

“You didn’t do very much singing,” the Witcher grumbled. “You screamed twice and fainted. It nearly dropped you.”

“If I remember correctly,” the bard smiled playfully, “Someone said my singing was too pretty for me to die.”

“Hmm.”

“It was you, Geralt. You said that.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier tried to sit up again and nearly passed out from the pain that screamed through the entire left side of his body. “I- Geralt, I-”

“What’s wrong, Julek?” the Witcher asked, adjusting the bard until he was more comfortably enclosed in Geralt’s arms, his back leaning against one of Geralt’s bent legs for support. Geralt’s other leg was straightened out before him and Jaskier let his calves fall atop the Witcher’s thick thighs. They looked like a painting, with Jaskier reclined as he was and Geralt looking at him like that.  

“Everything hurts, dear heart. My whole left side feels aflame.”

“It’ll burn like that for a day or so,” Geralt shushed him. “You bled quite a lot, you were bitten, and you hit the ground pretty hard.”

“You didn’t catch me?”

“I was a little busy beheading your attacker and keeping you from becoming a member of the undead,” Geralt scoffed. “Pardon me for not carrying you to safety first.”

“Well since you let me get injured, you have to kiss it better to gain your pardon,” the bard insisted. Geralt’s eyes widened comically and his hand clenched where it was resting on Jaskier’s lower back. 

“It’ll- It would hurt if I kissed your wound,” Geralt replied shakily, trying to escape while he still could. Jaskier wasn’t about to let him. Not again.

“Then you’ll just have to kiss my lips instead.”

“Jaskier?”

“Hush, Geralt. I know how you feel about me, and I feel much the same about you. Let’s skip the words bit, because I know that’s not your favorite, and get right to the kissing.”

“Oh, uh...” The Witcher allowed himself to smile. It was a soft, nervous thing but it made his eyes crinkle at the corners and Jaskier felt himself fall even further in love with his darling Geralt. “Alright.”

Geralt cupped the back of Jaskier’s head carefully, tilting his own chin down, and brought their lips together slowly. The bard’s lips were soft and plush and warm beneath his own, giving just slightly but not wilting beneath his touch. It was better than anything he could have imagined. When they pulled apart, Jaskier frowned. 

“Was it bad?” Geralt asked automatically, more nervous than he had ever been with another lover. 

“No,” Jaskier shook his head. “I just don’t think I’m healed yet. I may require another. Or several more.”

“Well, if the patient thinks it’s necessary,” Geralt grinned, leaning forward again. Jaskier pulled himself up a little to meet him, ignoring the lances of hurt in his arm. “I suppose...”

[ahiddenpath]

Nanowrimo Week 2

Word Count: 29,606 

My goal is to finish on the 27th, since my new job starts on the 28th, and I figure I’ll be too overstimulated/fried to write those last three days.  The good news is that I’m currently 3.76 days ahead, so I should be able to do that!  Whew!

As always, I’m plugging away on Puits d’Amour, my Sorato café/royalty AU.  Got a nice sneak peek for you beneath the cut :D  It features Sora and Toshiko Takenouchi.

As always, Toshiko sat in the circular clearing at the heart of the garden, working on an ikebana piece.  Sora stopped close enough for her mother to hear her footsteps, but far enough that she could reasonably ignore her if she was in the middle of a thought.

"Do you see the problem?" Toshiko asked gently.

Sora rejected the urge to sigh, or to say something like, Hello to you, too.  The art came first.  The art always came first.

Sora knew her interpretation of Toshiko's behavior was very much filtered through her own feelings, perspectives, and insecurities, so she struggled to set those thoughts aside.  She was here to learn- no use avoiding the question.

"A moment, please."

Toshiko swiveled enough to offer Sora a smile.  "Always wise, my dear daughter.  Take your time."

Almost despite herself, Sora smiled.  Sometimes, she wondered if Toshiko was testing her by being so focused on the art and her training.  Sometimes, she wondered if Toshiko simply loved it so much that she assumed Sora felt the same way, and wanted to share everything with her.  Sometimes, she realized that she might be reading into things too much.  When her mother smiled at her like that, she would be a fool not to see her love.

Sora was young, inexperienced, a bit hard-headed at times (or at least stubborn), a bit too inclined to ignore her own negative feelings, thoughts, and strains.  But she was not a fool.  And so, reassured, she examined her mother's piece.

The first thing that struck Sora was how busy it was.  If she had to guess, Toshiko was experimenting with height and layering, slowly drawing the viewer's gaze down from the tallest branches and flowers to the shortest ones near the base.  Often, as with many creative fields, the popular belief was that less was more; a similar statement made with fewer parts was more impactful and elegant than a crowded, loud piece.

So, what was Toshiko doing?

Hesitantly, sure that she was missing something, Sora ventured, "Is it busy?"

"Yes," Toshiko replied.  "And no."  

She patted the cushion on the ground beside hers.  Sora frowned, then wiped her expression clear as she sat.  Clearly, her mother had more to say, but when Toshiko simply looked at her, Sora prompted, "Oh?"

"Both, yes.  It isn't finished; I need to select which elements to remove, while still maintaining the message of the piece.  But there's another issue, too: balance."

Sora wasn't sure if she wanted to risk commenting.  Balance was an eternal concern with ikebana.  Visual balance- ensuring that the piece was not too overpopulated in one section and sparse in another, at least in an unintended fashion.  Color balance, texture balance, and even balance in the simplest sense.  The piece needed stability, while the stems needed to retain the shape the artist set them in.  

In a way, saying that an ikebana piece needed balance was akin to saying it needed organic, plant-based materials.  Whenever Toshiko brought it up, Sora felt a bit trapped.  Of course the piece needed balance.  Why comment on it?

"I'd like to see what you do with it," Toshiko said.

Sora's shoulders snapped up; she could only hope that her shawl obscured the twitch.  What if I mess it up?  

Instead, Sora said, "What if I don't see the piece the way you do?"

"That's what I'm hoping for," Toshiko replied.  "To see your perspective.  Don't worry; I made this piece for the lesson."

Was that comforting?  Sora wasn't sure.  Why had the grandmaster set all of this up, just for a lesson?  It must be important.  

"You don't have to start right away," Toshiko said.  "Consider the piece with your consciousness, not just your eyes."

In other words, take your time.  Sora breathed in deeply, from the diaphragm.  Meditating on the piece was the best way to proceed- but how could she?  Anxiety about the assignment, about taking Toshiko's time and potentially wasting it, prevented concentration.  The haze of exhaustion from last night hadn't lifted.

As the heiress to the Takenouchi school of ikebana, Sora was loathe to admit it, but right now...  All she saw was a bunch of sticks and plants.

A few minutes passed as Sora essentially stared at nothing, fighting to ignore a rising panic.  Then, Toshiko placed a hand on her knee.  Sora jerked towards her and found a tiny smile that she was helpless to understand.

"So, I heard His Highness escorted you to a house party in the townhomes near the city center last night."

Judging by Toshiko's cascading laughter, the face Sora made must have been comical.  "Don't look so shocked!" she laughed, leaning heavily on Sora for support.  "Of course students and their parents saw you!"

Of course.  Sora tried to control her face, to keep it neutral, but her annoyance had to be obvious.  She and Yamato essentially strolled one of the ritziest residential areas in the country.  No one approached them, so she thought they went more or less unnoticed...  But clearly not.

Once she was sure her irritation was reigned in, Sora replied, "Yes, we attended a celebratory dinner at the Izumi townhome."

"So I heard," Toshiko replied.  "Izumi Koushiro is courting his intended."

Sora knew better than to bite, she really did...  But how could she help it?  "How did you hear that so quickly?"

Toshiko's smile went mysterious, the kind of look so commonly seen on the face of mothers.  "You know how, my dear.  My customer base is in Nagano, the suburbs and the city itself.  One of my students is the younger sibling of someone who attended the party, and her mother told me about the party during the break in lessons."

It was tempting to make a joke, at least in her mind, about gossipy old women, but Sora understood the currency of information.  She tensed; what if Eimi's secret came out right after she finally took a leap of faith?

Toshiko cupped her cheek.  "I don't know any Anamis among the nobility, however...  I'm not that familiar with the Izumis, either.  Our records indicate that Koushiro-kun's maternal grandmother- adoptive, of course- was the last Izumi to enroll with us."

"That might have to do with the Izumi's financial situation, before his parents wed."  Sora had no reason to think her mother would do anything harmful to Koushiro or Eimi, but she found herself selecting words with care, regardless.

"That's true.  Hopefully, with Izumi Masami's business and Koushiro-kun's career as an inventor, they won't have money worries for a long time to come.  I would have expected Koushiro-kun to leverage his minor nobility and funds in an attempt to marry upward, however.  From what I can tell, he's marrying a commonborn woman, without connections.  I'm told she performs at your café?"

"I suppose not everyone is worried about rank," Sora replied, aware that she was being evasive- and a little defensive.  "In terms of class standing, you married down, too."

"You've got me there," Toshiko said, smiling.  "I wish the new couple happiness.  How was the party?"

Hoping she didn't look too relieved, Sora replied, "It was lovely.  Everyone was there to celebrate, and the food was delicious- and interesting.  I think Yamato-san enjoyed the chance to live like a typical local his age."

"Yamato-san?"

Once again, Sora tensed.  The memory of a pleasant evening was all it took for her to relax too much, to say something she shouldn't have.  In a way, she liked that she wanted to speak openly to her mother.  In another, she wished she were better at keeping her cards to her chest.  It was a vital skill for a noble.

"I hope you don't mind my asking, but...  Is there something building between you and His Highness?  From what I can tell, he frequents the café, and he escorted you to this party and saw you back safely."

Sora stared dully at the ikebana arrangement.  Boy, what a wonderful meditation I'm having on this piece.  Just really connecting with it, on the deepest of levels. Truthfully, Sora hadn't told Toshiko much about Yamato.  She didn't know about their arrangement, nor how often he visited- which was most days.  But of course, as Sora had just discovered, Toshiko probably did know that, and plenty more, besides.

"We're friends," Sora replied. ��"Genuinely, I mean- friends, not mutually beneficial connections.  He's been kind and generous to me, and to the regulars at the café.  I asked him to escort me so I could show him the immediate area- he hasn't been able to walk freely until last night, although he still had guards."

"That was kind of you," Toshiko replied.  "And I truly am glad that you're helping him.  I do admit that I was hopeful, though..."

Sora blinked.  "That we were interested in one another?  I haven't known him that long."

"That's true," Toshiko replied.  "But it would be a good match, in the sense that we're likely the closest to his class without being royalty ourselves.  However..." Sighing, Toshiko stroked her chin.  "Well, it wouldn't work, would it...  If you had a sibling who wanted to become iemoto, the match would be perfect.  But as it stands, if you married His Highness, you would take his name, since his family is the more prestigious of the two."

"Meaning there would be no Takenouchi heir," Sora supplied.

Toshiko nodded.  "I often wish we had a second child, for so many reasons.  If there were two of you, there wouldn't be so much pressure on your shoulders...  But it simply wasn't what happened."

As Sora understood it, there were complications at her birth- complications that made further children unlikely.  This was difficult for nobles, who preferred to have at least two children, often three, to ensure the bloodline went on.

Sora often wished for siblings, herself.  Maybe they could help her navigate her duties and her family, or at least help her feel supported.  But how could she say anything?  Her mother had no further children because of how her pregnancy with Sora went.  No one was to blame, Sora knew, but she couldn't help feeling at fault.

"I don't see how you would produce a Takenouchi heir and Ishida heirs, nor how you could attend to your iemoto duties and royal ones..."

"You... gave this a lot of thought," Sora realized.  And wasn't it going to be fun, figuring out what to make of that information?

"I know it's not your favorite subject, but your marriage is on my mind.  And now that His Highness's schooling is over, and he's returned to train for the crown...  Well, you'll forgive us mothers of eligible daughters for being aware that this is the time for him to find a wife."

"Oh, mother," Sora groaned.  "You sound like every comedy of manners novel I've ever read!"

"And art imitates life!" Toshiko laughed.

[earthstellar]

TFP Concept Essay: What if the bots had come to Earth and landed in Russia?

Almost a year ago, I posted about a jokey mental image of Ratchet having to wear a giant ushanka if they had landed in Russia because he’s an old bot and would be more prone to cold metal fatigue, but it got me thinking: 

What if the Cybertronians had made contact on Earth in Russia, and not the USA? 

Why Russia? 

Both continents would be appealing from a landing standpoint; The USA and Russia both cover a massive amount of land, so even without knowledge of human national borders, it’s safe to assume that the areas on the globe that would look the most appealing may very well be: 

-North American Continent

-Russia/Eastern Europe

-African Continent 

Now, without knowledge of human national borders, many other parts of Europe, South America, etc. may have also seemed like good options at first, Brazil and Mexico come to mind, but we need to establish what Cybertronians would be looking at in terms of terrain and population risk. 

We can assume that Cybertronians didn’t have prior information on the actual life, society, and general human construction on Earth because the bots (while they have been on Earth long enough to have at least cursory knowledge of humans) still act as though humanity is a bit novel to them.

 A lot of information would not have been available to them outside of Earth’s orbit or atmosphere, and by the time they were in atmosphere, a decision would have to be made quickly based on relative proximity and what data they could scan for within that possibly very limited amount of time.

Nevada, USA likely seemed appealing because it has mountainous and flat terrain in large swathes, with few largely inhabited areas especially near old nuclear testing sites (some radiation may have appeared on any scans they were capable of performing once in-atmosphere and that ambient radiation may have obscured the radiation that they themselves generate as we know sparks emit radioisotopes), making it a good option if they happened to wind up over North America and had to make a quick call. 

(All of this assumes that they had some control over where they landed; It may have been the situation that their ship was damaged enough that they just had to end up wherever they ended up, in which case, they just as easily could have wound up making contact in Russia anyway.) 

This isn’t to ignore the suggestion that Cybertronians had prior, ancient involvement with Earth in some capacity. In fact, that’s a big part of why I think Russia is a reasonable place for them to go. 

-We know Unicron’s energy was deposited into or directly forms the core of Earth. This is explained, albeit quickly, that at some point in Earth’s early history, when Unicron was expelled from Cybertron, his life force ended up on Earth. 

-Would Earth have still been Pangea at that time? What did the continental layout of Earth look like when Unicron’s energy nestled into the planet? 

-Assuming Unicron’s impact with Earth was not the meteor that killed the dinosaurs, which in the TFP universe it may well have been given the timeline of Cybertron relative to Earth, let’s instead assume continental drift had already occurred. 

-Russia is well known for perma-frost and preserved biological life in layers going back centuries. I have a great visual concept of Unicron’s dark energon appearing as purple or black layers of ice, settled unseen and unnoticed under the ground. 

-We also know energon is naturally occuring, in a crystalline, mineral like form. Just like Nevada, USA, many parts of Russia have a similar history of mineral mines and crystal mines, so the actual potential for energon crystals to grow is definitely equal if not arguably better in Russia as there is far more variety of geological conditions across Russia as a nation than there is across Nevada as a state. 

-To better explain the above idea, Czech could also be an energon deposit area, as we know Czech crystal and mineral mines are very successful which is why they are able to produce so much garnet, and even garnet of different varieties. Red garnet and the rarer black garnet. We can assume energon and dark energon would form crystals similar, but not exactly the same, and we know that Central and Eastern Europe have very good geological conditions for this already in real life! 

Compare red garnet with energon, and black garnet with dark energon; Similar structures but very different end results: 

Notice also how energon crystals seem to form in clusters like plain quartz, which is the second most abundant mineral in Earth’s crust: 

We can assume that because the crystal structures of quartz and energon are so similar, that energon may have the geological ability to thrive and be harvested from most areas on Earth in a similar fashion, so this doesn’t necessarily rule out other appealing continents/areas, either! 

But it’s not unreasonable to believe that when coming into atmosphere, the Cybertronian ship tech would likely pick up recognisable energy signatures before managing to process other purely Earth-native data. In doing so, they may notice concentrations of energon and dark energon in Central and Eastern Europe, or perhaps contaminated dark energon from Unicron’s initial contact with Earth within the terrain or perma-frost areas (where applicable), and decide to head towards those regions as fuel will be easier to find and closer to any base they might be able to establish. 

What if Decepticons land first? 

The above section also assumes the Autobots are the first to reach Earth; If the Decepticons were to arrive first, I have no doubt that they would head for any concentrations of dark energon as commanded by Megatron. Countries with larger land mass and older long-lived terrain may have a higher concentration than other areas.

For example, Florida would be a bad place for them to look for energon or dark energon deposits in the USA as the state isn’t that far above seawater and erosion is a huge problem, so there is likely very little dark energon concentrated in the actual land. No significant deposits would be found as there isn’t enough actual ground to contain all that much, compared to other places that may have mountains, hills, ice, valleys, etc. that may accumulate such materials over time significantly better and with higher concentration/overall quantity. This is why other peninsulas, islands, or coastal/water heavy areas like the Mediterranean or Holland may not be as appealing to the Decepticons.

Back to searching for the right spot...

Looking for a place to land, Central Europe, although with good crystal potential, may not look like as good of an option, due to population density that would become evident once better scans were available. Rural areas in a lot of Central European countries are still relatively small in comparison to slightly more north on the map, where rural Russian areas may afford larger spaces to work with, proximity to a wider range of supplies, afford a degree of secrecy, and there may be complexes or materials that could be easily stripped or repurposed that wouldn’t impact on native human life or communities/wouldn’t draw much attention. 

And remember what I said about radiated areas possibly affording cover for their own naturally emitted radioisotopes which may otherwise be detected by human instrumentation; Russia has a similar history of radiological site contamination to that in Nevada, USA-- And not just Chernobyl, which also irradiated Belarus as well as Ukraine, but there’s also Mayak/Kyshtym/Lake Karachay and the surrounding East Urals irradiation, among a few other sites. It might be an appealing factor for them to consider when choosing somewhere to land. 

(I don’t want to skim over the fact that people do live in the these affected areas; I highly suggest you research into this if you’re reading this and have never heard of those sites. There used to be a fundraiser for people living in and around Mayak as well as an awareness effort, but I’m unsure of where that link/website has gone. If I find it again, I will link it. For now, here is a documentary/interview series with local people; Please be aware it may be upsetting, but their voices deserve to be heard if you think you can handle it.) 

Once landed, they could also survey more, and consider their options. Russia has a lot of rural space in some areas, and plenty of very appealing abandoned sites that could possibly be converted into functional bases when supplemented with metal and other materials collected from other similar abandoned industry areas or factories etc., which would spare them the need to actually make their own; They could just re-use the raw material, whatever’s usable, and if necessary look for better cover. 

Russia has tons of biomes/terrain types: 

So they have options. We know in TFP that extreme cold does impact Cybertronians, so tundra and more northern arctic territory would be ruled out, but I can easily see them going for a rural abandoned industrial site in a forested area, which would provide significant visual cover, likely areas already cleared out by previous industry in a given area, and minimal chance of discovery by humans depending on specifically where they end up. 

How would Cybertronian-Human alliances go down? 

A big difference in approach to setting up a base would be the Russian government/forces, and the reaction to the Autobot arrival. 

In TFP, the bots work directly with the USA Air Force/Army, and the base seems to be primarily US Army operated. Their existence and the operations at their base may well be hidden from the wider USA Federal government for the most part at least, possibly using the already secretive clustered Nevada sites as a cover and making the Autobots something of an internal local operation or “quiet site”, which would fit what we see on screen generally speaking. We don’t really get a lot of clarification on this part of things.

But what would the reaction of the Russian government/Army be to discovering the Autobots? 

We know that Russian national forces are very, very capable of defending their air space. It’s unlikely if not impossible that a Cybertronian ship would go undetected or unnoticed, if not immediately then at least within. Seismic data is often monitored and reported as well, so the actual impact of landing may trigger an alert record to be sent to the relevant people, who can escalate those reports. 

Think about Japanese tsunami/earthquakes or West Coast USA earthquakes, and how quickly public alerts and operations are put underway, even before physical effects are felt. Most nations have at least some similar system in place, sometimes to detect earthquakes, others to detect suspected weapons impacts.

We can safely assume that even if they were remote and under as much cover as possible, it wouldn’t be long before Russian forces were involved, and therefore the Russian government. 

I won’t comment on the politics of other nations, although I am very open to hearing from Russian people about their take on this, but it is very possible that the initial engagement would go one of two ways: 

1) Defensive Conflict

2) Attempted Diplomatic Resolution 

I don’t believe conflict would be immediate, because of the sheer physical intimidation and surprise factors. Nobody expects to find giant robot aliens, and there may be immediate challenges surrounding basics like verbal communication (have the Autobots learned human language, in this case Russian, by the time of their discovery?) and so on. This may complicate first contact, as it would anywhere.  

I don’t know if resolution would be reached, as I think it’s likely that the Russian govt would like to weaponize or manipulate the Autobots, use them to intimidate other nations (”look, we have giant robot aliens”), or upon learning of the Russian government or after becoming more aware of the political/social mood amongst Russian citizens if they encounter any communities and perform low key intelligence gathering for a better idea of the local humans, seeing material conditions in some of these more rural areas, after obtaining historical or current socio-political data, etc., Optimus or others may simply decide they don’t wish to work with the government and attempt to peacefully decline, thus issuing diplomatic ultimatums (similar to the back and forth that occurs when trying to establish treaty agreements).

I’d like to note here that I think the Autobots likely had to have a similar discussion with the USA govt, as I think the US Army would have initially had a very similar thought process. I get the feeling Optimus made it clear he wouldn’t be manipulated and wouldn’t be caught up in other conflict(s)/fight human battles.

However, this would be their first experience with human government, as this would be their first contact. They may well assume that this is representative of how things work on Earth until they have the chance to learn otherwise, and in an attempt to be diplomatic, Optimus might cooperate until it becomes clear that it isn’t a good fit, and how the Russian government would handle the subsequent conversation would be anyone’s guess. (Again, Russian people, please tell me what you think!) 

Ultimately, either USA or Russian governments would likely want to at least not ruin diplomatic relations with a space-faring, seemingly extremely powerful alien species. Sometimes that’s what it comes down to, and that would be enough, although conflict could arise here and there, like when we see Agent Fowler have to defend the Autobots to his superiors. 

Episode / Scene Concepts

I have an excellent image of further down the line, however, where things are smoothed over or at least tenuously managed with the Russian govt (perhaps an allotted small autonomous zone for the bots to create their base in with minimal interference, under certain conditions)... There could be so much potential for some great episodes with human interaction with the bots. 

-A great episode of just creating the base, figuring out what’s around, gives us a look at where they are in Russia and who’s nearby, we could see some pretty beautiful shots of abandoned Soviet tech and sites being repurposed and revitalised (with Russian designs remaining evident in the final base construction, just with Cybertronian flair). Maybe within the Autobot Autonomous Zone we would even see locals engaging with the process after the initial shock...

I have an image of Ratchet arguing with an old Russian engineer, and it goes on for a while until the engineer explains to Ratchet that working with scarce resources in less than ideal conditions isn’t exactly new to them, and they might have some valuable tips for working under such conditions. Ratchet comes to respect the engineer after they work together to create a functional power network made from old factory components, a few turbines from an old textile workshop, power generators from abandoned Soviet sites, and power poles made from disused radar systems. 

They relate to each other after they get to talking while cleaning up the rest of the work, and it turns out both of them have similar concerns about the futures of their respective peoples, and have some degree of depression over what they feel they may have lost forever to political games and wars beyond their control, sharing some memories with each other. The engineer is their first local human ally. 

-Russian kids stumbling upon the bots! I’d love to see parallels to the American TFP kids. Miko from Yakutia would be the best, and I believe I talked about that with someone on here months ago. I still love the idea.

-Who would the Agent Fowler character be? He’s listed as being a US Army Ranger, and I’m not sure what the equivalent rank would be in the Russian Army. Google tells me that the equivalent would be a Spetsnaz role, but I am unfamiliar with Russian Army structure, or how personnel might be allocated to the proposed Autobot Autonomous Zone or “secret city” realistically. 

It would be good to get an episode where the Agent or equivalent character first meets the Autobots, and how expectations differ from reality. Maybe over time we see a crisis of conscious with this character, where they initially start out as keeping an eye on things for the government, but slowly become friends with the Autobots and wish to engage more genuinely with them and the other humans who may be involved. 

-An episode where Optimus realises they need to learn more about these humans to work with them more effectively, and sets everyone on tasks related to cultural reconnaissance. 

Optimus studies the literature and history of Russia, and has perhaps some spicy takes. Arcee goes on a drive and has fun going up and down hills in Vladivostok, then races a Trans-Siberian Railway train back and takes note of what the people inside the train are doing. Bulkhead explores cultural identity with Yakutian!Miko. 

Ratchet looks into human medicine and is fascinated by Russian folk medicine and goes on a rant about Soviet spa/sanitorium treatment programs. Ultra Magnus delves into Russian law and almost burns out his processor. Wheeljack explores some industrial sites and studies the detonation techniques of Russian construction workers, comparing their casual conversations to those between him and fellow Wreckers. 

Bumblebee finds an old radio station and uncovers some extremely good bops. Smokescreen discovers Russian dash cam videos and gets pulled over for trying to recreate one. 

Phew! Initial post done! 

There might be more in the future as I love this idea, but I’d equally love to hear from Russian TFP fans: What do you think? What episodes or scenes do you think would be fun or interesting? Is there anything you’d like to add or change? 

Please add whatever you’d like, and if anything I said above comes across as uninformed, I encourage you to correct me or pitch other ideas if you would be so kind as to take the time to do so. :) 

[flickeringart]

The Fixed Squares

In astrology there are signs that are more or less compatible. The signs are in essence representative of archetypes of the unconscious and they live out their expressions through our lives. It’s common knowledge that certain people are more or less compatible, which depends on the personal planetary placements and how they interact with another person’s placements.

People are complex and can’t be reduced to a single sign (their Sun sign for example). However, if a person has a lot of planets in a particular sign, they might find that other people with a lot of planets in the squaring sign (90° apart on the zodiac wheel) presents conflicting and disturbing energy. The signs that naturally square each other have a tense relationship because they have the same modes of expression (cardinal/fixed/mutable) but are placed in a different element (fire/earth/water/air). The difference in element poses a significant dilemma, between masculine (fire/air) and feminine (earth/water), mythical and intellectual vs. mortal and emotional.

Let’s move on with the fixed signs (read about the cardinal squares here). As opposed to the cardinal signs, fixed signs don’t seek to assert and accomplish, they are what they are – dwelling in states of being. They are not seeking to become but rather to affirm a state or a stance. Cardinal signs are stubborn through consistent movement with a specific purpose; fixed signs are stubborn through attachment to a specific purpose. Take Aquarius for example, the fixed air sign. Since it belongs to the element of air, it is intellectual like Libra, the cardinal air sign. Libra seeks to achieve refinement through the use of the intellect while Aquarius remains loyal to its own refined thinking – or rather, to thinking itself. Aquarius thinks, and it is reality. Admittedly it sounds like there’s a grandiosity complex hiding behind this way of being, but its really not as bad as it sounds. Aquarius reflects the capacity to have a set frame of mind. It’s necessary for humans to have some kind of fixed mental structure to operate within, to seek refinement within, to explore within. Without some kind of intellectual convictions there would be great uncertainty to the point of us being unable to cope with existence. Aquarius is the sign of fixed concepts the mental patterning. It’s also the sign of genius insight, new thought, progression and innovation. In order for some things to progress in the real sense, there has to be a replacement of the rigid mental frameworks that represented the old paradigm. It’s obvious why Aquarius is a universal sign, seeing as it operates on such a broad level of existence – altering the very cornerstones of conceptual reality. In square to Aquarius there’s Taurus, the fixed earth sign. While Aquarius is masculine and non-physical, Taurus is feminine and physical. Fixed earth clashes violently with fixed air because one is based in the concrete realm, the other in the abstract realm. To Taurus, intangible ideas doesn’t make sense – they don’t serve to alter life as it has always been, getting up in the morning, working through one’s day, eating, sleeping and doing it all over again. Far reaching ideas involving the potential development for humanity and the collective doesn’t really concern this sign, it’s primordial and deals with the basic, daily routine of life. Physical comfort, stability and predictability weigh heavily for Taurus while Aquarius would only really be able to value the earth plane as a concept – not for its physical attributes. The sensory dimension that belongs to Taurus is only a phenomenon to Aquarius, which deals with everything intellectually from a higher plane. Taurus is intimately attuned with the body in terms of sensation while Aquarius perceives the body mentally. There’s no common ground to be had – the signs radically conflict in this way. Taurus can’t understand unmanifested reality while Aquarius can’t be confined to the physical nor accept the “ultimate” reality of the material realm according to Taurus. Sensual pleasure doesn’t mean anything to Aquarius; it can only appreciate the idea (ideal), not the flawed material version of it.

The other sign squaring Aquarius is Scorpio. While Taurus could be described as physically attached, Scorpio could be described as emotionally attached, being a fixed water sign. Scorpio is probably the most complex sign of all, seeing as emotions in themselves are complex, but when fixated, they reach high levels of intensity. Aquarius has a certain global impersonal intimacy going that can be very comforting – especially to strangers and friends. Aquarian intimacy is the intimacy that all humans can share because it stems from being part of the same universal family. Scorpio on the other hand has little capacity to be impersonal because everything is felt on the deepest and most personal level. Emotions are not mere concepts to Scorpios; they are more real that flesh and blood, which is why Scorpio is the sign of extremes. Control over emotions is very important for this reason, their power literally has the capacity to make or break anything in life. There’s enormous passion and resilience to the fixed water sign that Aquarius would never be able to relate to other than as a concept. Aquarius can often offer understanding, but that’s not enough for Scorpios who wants to feel alive through involving others in the same intense experiences they go through. While Scorpio is like a magnetic vortex of emotional energy, Aquarius can expand their minds enough to intellectually sympathize with emotion, but they will not be able to approve of uncivilized behavior or get involved in anything deep and raw in such a consuming way. Aquarius has a futuristic mind that is concerned with ideas and ideals while Scorpio has a passionate and raw perception of reality, trailing back to basic survival and dominance hierarchies. Scorpio is concerned with the hidden underpinnings of reality, the struggle between life and death, the transformation of base metal into gold, the rise of the phoenix after the burning and destruction. It’s not an intellectual process but rather a process of coming up against life in the most brutal of ways in order to shed the layers and reveal something of purity. That which cannot be taken away will remain at the end of the day, and everything else should be allowed to fall away, however painful it might be. This couldn’t be further from the conceptual realm that Aquarius is concerned with. To Scorpio, the border between good and bad is blurred – what is sought is transcendence of polarity. The mental faculties, as opposed to the emotional, have a separating function. It isn’t possible to separate the old from the new any other way than through dividing reality into distinct categories. Aquarius cares about improvement and introducing change, which depends on identifying an ideal – Scorpio cares about transformation from within, sitting through the fire and feeling how the very base substance is altering itself at the core. Both signs are concerned with the very fabric of reality but in very different ways. Aquarius constitutes the mental blueprint that can be altered through detaching from the current order and visualizing something different. Scorpio on the other hand constitutes the subconscious emotional cornerstones and attachments that are intensely personal and painful to let go of. Simply put, Aquarius is civilized and clear, Scorpio is uncivilized and blurry, and they can’t really see eye to eye in any other way than that they’re both interested in decoding reality and existence – even if its for completely different reasons and through completely different methods.

To flip the tables completely, let’s take a look at the opposite signs of Aquarius, namely Leo. The fixed fire sign is complementary to Aquarius and has to do with maintaining the integrity of the self, not maintaining the integrity of thought. While Aquarius has a way of being sure of things on an intellectual level, Leo is sure of its own energy and spirit. There’s hardly a more charming and warm sign than Leo – it’s associated with creativity, intuition, leadership, generosity and talent. The Sun, which is the “planetary” ruler literally sustains life and is basically a source unto itself. While Aquarius is good at remaining in integrity relative to its own unique and liberal thinking, Leo is good at remaining in integrity relative to its own unique self-expression. Taurus, the sign squaring Leo isn’t so much concerned with creativity as it is with stability. The integrity of Taurus is that of the body, not of the spirit. As long as there’s physical permanence and stability Taurus is happy, while Leo would see material gain as a secondary benefit of talent and expression. As long as there’s physical proof of competence and value, there’s nothing to fuss about according to Taurus. There’s simplicity to the fixed earth sign that the other signs lack – it views life through the lens of assets and value and attempts to have control over these things. In a sense, it is much easier than having control emotionally, like Scorpio attempts, because emotions are intangible and obscure. Leo, like Taurus and Scorpio, is also concerned with control, especially when it comes to how to show up in the world. There’s enormous pride to the sign of Leo and it wants to be seen and admired unconditionally. Leo is essentially the king that demands to be worshiped no matter what he wears, says or does because he carries himself with such poise and self-respect. This is difficult to sympathize with for Taurus, who is too grounded and practical to see any purpose to parading excessive confidence. While Taurus is likely to measure happiness in material “standing” and acquirements, Leo is unconditionally honoring to the grandeur of the self by rising above such “petty” things. It’s love that is the most important and Leo thinks itself to be deserving of the greatest love of all. It might seem quite self-centered and presumptuous to Taurus, who puts little value in creative expression – although it loves pretty things as art, albeit not for the same reason as Leo. The joy of creating something is what Leo is all about, while Taurus is more for the grounded satisfaction of surrounding itself by precious goods. At the end of the day, these signs won’t understand each other’s perspectives. Taurus is mortal and Leo is mythical – the Taurean earthiness offends Leo in its attempt to bring legend to life.

Last but not least there’s the Leo-Scorpio square. Leo, being fixed fire, experiences life as a journey of enfoldment in the direction of glory and magnificence. Purpose, meaning and nobility sits at the core of this sign, innate positivity and joy radiates from its center. Scorpio, being fixed water, experiences life through levels of emotional intensity in the direction of transformation. There’s a double-sidedness to Scorpio that Leo lacks, it views life through severe polarity and ultimately knows that nothing is what it seems. Scorpio knows that it’s naïve to take anything at face value. That which appears to be true, is all too often only a well-crafted façade designed to ensure survival on some level. Scorpio’s reality is complex, love and fear are mixed together and one can’t have one without the other. Leo finds this way of seeing things to be offensive and appalling. In Leo’s world, there are such things as true goodness and unconditional love. There’s such a thing as higher purpose, brilliance and excellence that is not a coping mechanism or dominance tactic. Scorpio would deem this attitude fanciful and unrealistic, pointing out that when push comes to shove and life becomes threatening, there’s no room for higher truths or glamorous pursuits of honesty and character. There’s only fear and how far one is prepared to go to ensure survival – however primitive and unpleasant it might look from a detached point of view. When fear reaches its peak, there’s a point where one will take any comfort or relief available no matter how much it conflicts with one’s noble goals. When there’s severe all-consuming emotional pain and it can be soothed, all ideas of love goes out the window. Nothing matters but one’s own uncompromising “selfish” needs. Scorpio has familiarity with the darker dimension of life and can’t sympathize very much with the Leonine optimism. Leo essentially looks on the bright side of life while Scorpio looks on the dark. Scorpio thinks that everything stems from the need to survive while Leo thinks that life is about extending the love that lives within. Both signs share a distinct focus on the self, although Leo more accurately falls under the label “self-centered” while Scorpio would fall under the label “selfish”. Both are very stubborn and like to come off as strong and capable. Leo gives the impression of being good and fair in its attempts to establish leadership, while Scorpio likes to be seen as intimidating and sharp to establish dominance. These signs have a difficult time with each other as Leo isn’t in touch with the gut-wrenching fear of life and Scorpio can’t relate to the ultimate goodness and light that Leo has going for itself.

[americas-golden-boy]

Worth a Thousand Words

Summary: “Steve Rogers, every inch of his All-American glory, was looking at her expectantly with that same boyishly mischievous expression he had been sporting the few times she had seen him up close. One that really shouldn't blend in so easily with the rest of him but was an integral part of his persona, or at least that's what she gathered from the bits and pieces of conversations about him she'd been subjected to hearing.

Because that was definitely what she had predicted, and definitely made all the sense in the world.”

AKA Steve has never talked to the woman that sits in the front row of his lecture hall twice a week but that doesn't stop his hopeless crush on her.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

Word Count:  3,159

She was being watched.

She had absolutely no proof other than a gut feeling, but the sensation of eyes on the back of her head burnt with a heat strong enough to brand her, and more than once has the skin of her arms and neck prickled uncomfortably with goosebumps despite the surprisingly warm temperatures of late fall.

It made her feel silly, really, and more than a little narcissistic, to think that anyone would invest time in watching her. She couldn't even write it off as the uncomfortable leering that she had been victim to on a couple of occasions she had gone off-campus at night.

No, it was the most random of times, in the most obscure places, always busy enough that she could never pin down the source of her unusual company when she chanced a scan of the area.

It's a Thursday night, and after three weeks of enduring this cat and mouse game she's found herself in, she's strongly considering just going up to each person in the common room when she feels the sensation tickle its way down the nape of her neck again.

Before she got the chance to weigh all the pros and cons of embarrassing herself, the cat made itself known.

By sitting right across from her at the otherwise empty table.

Startled by the sudden presence in front of her, her eyes snap up from the book they'd been buried in, the hand which had been steadily dictating her notes pausing in the middle of a line as her train of thought came to an abrupt stop.

Sharing her space with unfamiliar company was not an uncommon occurrence, for her or any of the other people that frequented the open areas available to students at all hours of the day, but at a little past 11 P.M., there were few people spread out across the expansive room, and even fewer reasons for anyone to sit so close.

She found herself being thankful for carpeted floors as the man abruptly pulled the chair out, spinning it around and sliding forward to straddle it all in one movement, draping his crossed arms across the back with a practiced sort of elegance that did not quite match the situation or his size.

And his size was, frankly, quite hard to ignore.

Her immediate response was to be intimidated by the broad expanse of solid chest and wide shoulders that made the chair look almost uncomfortably small as the muscles in his arms strained under the stretched material of his shirt—really it was almost another layer of skin, as tight as it was—to prop his chin on an open palm.

But then she met his eyes and—

Oh, she thought dumbly.

Steve Rogers, every inch of his All-American glory, was looking at her expectantly with that same boyishly mischievous expression he had been sporting the few times she had seen him up close. One that really shouldn't blend in so easily with the rest of him but was an integral part of his persona, or at least that's what she gathered from the bits and pieces of conversations about him she'd been subjected to hearing.

Because that was definitely what she had predicted, and definitely made all the sense in the world.

With the way his smirk grew, she had a feeling he was perfectly aware of the confusion he was causing in her.

Perfectly justified confusion, she reminds herself before any misplaced guilt can creep up on her, considering they had never interacted properly.

In fact, as she tried racking her brain for any reason he would have for approaching her, she came up with exactly zero. Possibly one, if he was trying to bum notes off of her for the lecture they shared two days a week.

Not that he made a habit of doing that to people, as far as she knew anyway, but she wouldn't put it past him to use his charm and prestige for his own benefit.

As unfair as she knew it was to him, her expectations of the widely popular were subpar at best, and considering his reputation stretched far enough that even she recognized him, he certainly fit into that category.

Seemingly satisfied that he had her full attention, he reached out the hand that he had been leaning on, smirk stretching out into a full smile, laugh lines pulling on his cheeks matching the soft crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

He really is handsome. It's almost unfair.

"(Y/N), right?" He said by way of greeting, breaking the near silence of the room with ringing clarity even with the low level of his voice.

The fact that he knew who she was added a fresh layer of bewilderment to the mix, and she couldn’t even begin to sort through the possible implications of him possessing that information.

Looking between his hand and his face, she placed her pen down and took it in her own, just a moment shy of an awkward pause before nodding.

His grip on her hand was confident but gentle, shaking it once before letting her retract it back into the safety of her lap, leaning on the top of his chair with crossed arms once again.

"I'm Steve, it's nice to meet you."

Of course, she already knows that, but isn't sure if admitting it would be awkward or a boost to his ego, and since neither one really sounded like a good option, so she opted for another weak nod of acknowledgment and a half-smile.

If her lack of response was odd to him, he did a good job of hiding it, face still as open and unfaltering as the moment he sat down.

"So, I admit, this is...odd. I'm sorry for disturbing your study session, I just haven't had a good chance to talk to you before or after class and I saw you while I was cutting through on my way to my friend's dorm so..." he trailed off with a soft huff of a laugh, eyebrows faintly pinching together with the slight tilt of his head.

He wanted to talk to me? She repeated to herself. He doesn't seem angry, so I probably didn't upset him unintentionally. Not that I would have had a chance to, I don't think I've ever even sat by him before.

There was a long string of questions that she'd like to unload on him but with the way his smile was starting to falter she decided to put them both out of their misery and settle for one to start.

Flipping the notebook laid out in front of her to a blank page she wrote as quickly as she dared, aiming for both speed and legibility, knowing from experience that her nerves can reduce her handwriting to chicken scratch if she wasn't careful.

Are you the person who has been following me?

She lifted the note for him to see, watching his eyes flick across the line before his eyebrows shot towards his hairline, wide eyes meeting hers as his hands rose to wave almost frantically in front of him.

"No!" He exclaimed, the sudden volume of his voice drawing a wince from the both of them as she glanced at the only two other students in the room, who had both paused to look over at their table.

Steve's head dipped in an apologetic nod in their direction before turning his attention back to her.

"No, I wasn't following you," he started, voice much quieter but not lacking any of the conviction of his initial outburst. "I promise, I really haven't been, I just—we have a class together, and we live in the same building. The campus is only so big, so I, uh, I see you around sometimes," he rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes dropping from hers briefly in a moment of sheepishness that was a stark difference from his usual self-assured bravado.

"Honestly I didn't think you would have noticed, and I'm really sorry, but my friends, they uh—" he continued on, his words beginning to come out in a rush of air— "when I mentioned wanting to talk to you they took it upon themselves to tell me if they saw you around. Trying to help me find an opportunity I guess. I would have made them stop sooner if I had known it was making you uncomfortable," he reassured quickly, taking note of her baffled expression.

All she could do was stare, eyes flittering around his face in an attempt to find a tell that he was lying. When she found none, she was honestly relieved, not just because he didn't seem to have any malicious intent, but also because she now had confirmation that she wasn't crazy.

Now that I know I'm not just paranoid, what is it you needed to talk to me about?

She flipped the notebook around once again, watching as he hesitantly turned his attention to it, his fear of a negative reaction clear as day across his face. It was endearing, really.

"I just wanted to—actually, if you don't mind me asking first, why are you writing your responses? I feel like I need to get my own pen out, breaking the quiet all on my own."

The question wasn't an unexpected one and she was frankly surprised it had taken him as long as it did to ask. That didn't stop the uncomfortable pang in her chest that usually came with that line of questioning. While it wasn’t necessarily uncommon for her to use a pen and paper to communicate, the select group of people that wanted to converse with her had more efficient ways.

I can’t speak. Most people don't know ASL, and I thought a text-to-speech app might be too awkward if you weren’t expecting it. Sorry.

And she was, really. While she knew it wasn't her fault, she also knew how tedious a transition process it could be for someone who had never held a conversation with her before to adjust to the pacing. Some people just weren't patient enough, or it made them feel awkward.

He read the note, and then reread it, and then read it once again. He gently worried at his bottom lip, releasing it as he opened his mouth, only to shut it once again as his lips pinched together.

He seemed to finally decide on what to say, straightening his shoulders a bit and clasping his hands together.

"So, you're...mute? Is that the correct term to use?" He asked , articulating his question slowly while watching her face.

She found the corners of her lips quirking up at his concern of possibly offending her. That alone was already more than she got out of similar exchanges.

I personally don’t mind it much, but it’s normally frowned upon. Non-speaking is your best bet.

She slid over the notebook, trying to gauge his reaction for a hint of how the rest of this conversation is going to go, if he didn’t simply excuse himself to avoid a situation that he most definitely did not predict or ask for.

And then felt like she would have tipped straight over from the way he beamed at her, if not for already being securely supported in her seat.

There has to be something wrong with him, she found herself thinking.

"Okay. I’m glad I didn’t offend you, thank you for telling me. I honestly don't know much about what to do to make this easier for you—" was he pouting now?— "would yes or no questions be better? I don't want to make you write a lot if you don't want to. Or...would you like me to leave?" By the time he reaches the end of his ramble, his nerves had obviously caught up to his mouth, head dipping and jerking his thumb in the general direction of the door leading to the outdoor walkway.

If anyone else had asked her that, she would have assumed it was asked as a chance for an out, a polite way to say, "I think it would be best if I left, are you going to let me?" But with the way he prefaced it so naturally with eager attempts at maintaining and extending their time together in a way that benefits her, she couldn’t find it in herself to immediately presume the worst.

In fact, the entire situation was so absolutely bizarre and random and Steve is staring at her with this disarmingly charming expression looking like he is about five seconds away from bolting for the door, and she just can’t help it.

She laughs.

~~~~~

She’s laughing.

Or at least that’s what he’s assuming, with the way her head tips back and the warm flush across the bridge of her nose spreads to her cheeks as she smiles. They’ve been in the same lecture and dorm for months and he’s not sure if he’s ever seen her face light up quite like that.

The sounds that push their way past her lips are short and clipped, raspy in a way that suggests disuse but warm enough to be melodic despite their discordant nature.

Just as suddenly as she started, she stops. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she snaps her head back down to look at him with wide eyes before quickly checking across the room where the last students had been sitting previously, shoulders slumping with obvious relief to find the seats empty.

For a moment he truly feels ashamed, because as wary as she seemed to be about the sound, he’s already dying to hear it again.

The hand that had been resting over her mouth moved to her brows, tilting down enough to hide her eyes from his view but not the harsh scarlett that was crawling across her visible skin, from the tips of her ears to the base of her throat. If he wasn’t feeling ashamed before, he certainly is when he has to cut off the burst of curiosity that cuts across his mind wondering how far the flush could go.

Shaking his head like it will physically remove the risqué thought, he reaches one hand forward to softly tap the table near her notebook.

“You okay under there? I’m not quite sure what I said, but there’s no one else in here but you and me.”

He feels like he’s done something very wrong and he’s not even sure where to begin to backtrack as he combs over his last statement.

She thinks you’re an idiot, you probably managed to offend her.

He really, really hopes that isn’t the case though, because he’s been trying to build up the courage to talk to her properly for months and while he’s become a bit better about socializing since he got back from the army, he’s still absolutely hopeless with women, something that Bucky likes to remind him of frequently.

The second Natasha found out why her attempts at getting him to go on blind dates were being shut down so quickly, she was absolutely ruthless in her ribbing, as harmless as it may have been.

Before he can fully consider standing to leave, she’s dropping her hand to her pen, meeting his eyes with a slight pull at the corner of her lips before leaning down to write.

Waiting for her to finish writing is the most nerve-wracking thing he can remember going through in recent memory, and the soft thump of his heel against the carpet is almost as fast as his heartbeat by the time the action even registers and he forces his leg to still.

Coming to a stop almost halfway down the page, her pen rests against the paper for a beat before she hastily caps it with a firm nod and pushes the notebook onto his half of the table.

This might be the most thorough rejection I’ve ever faced, he thinks sardonically, spinning the notebook around.

Then he reads the first line, and his head shoots up to look at her. He must look a bit ridiculous, if the growing smile on her face is anything to go by.

She gestures with a wave of her hand towards the notebook and he clears his throat with an awkward chuckle as he looks back down at the paper.

I would really like it if you didn’t leave. I’m sorry for laughing, but you’re just so nice I was surprised. I would be lying if I said I didn’t already know who you are, but I just didn’t expect you to be interested. This whole situation is very random but I think that’s the first time I’ve laughed out loud in a long time. I understand if you change your mind, or if I’m overstepping, but if it’s not too forward, I think I’d like to talk to you too. Maybe when it’s not the middle of the night.

~~~~~

As soon as she slid the notebook across the table she itched to grab it back. She nipped at the tip of her thumb between her teeth to fight the urge, pulling her other arm to curl around her stomach.

What if I misunderstood what he was trying to tell me? He seemed so nice but maybe he’ll regret it now that he’s actually been around me a bit. When was the last time you even went on a date? Oh god, he’s already reading it, maybe I—

“Are you busy tomorrow?”

She’s abruptly pulled out of her spiraling doubts so fast she gets mental whiplash, and she focuses back on him as she considers if she misheard.

He’s beaming at her again, the corner of his eyes crinkling and one side pulling on his cheek just slightly higher than the other, the same boyish charm from earlier peeking its way through. He tilted his head as he leaned in towards her, and the cage holding her butterflies was absolutely demolished, sending her heart fluttering at a pace that’s almost painful.

The question finally caught up to her at his expectant look, and with a shake of her head, he let out a satisfied hum and smacks the table lightly with both hands before reaching to grab the pen, scribbling down a hasty addition to the bottom of the page before putting both items back in her space.

Pushing himself to stand, he spun the chair back into its original position before addressing her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow (Y/N),” he said with a wink, walking backwards a few steps before turning and making his way out of the doors.

She stared at his retreating back with a small smile that only grew as she peered down at his note.

Steve

XXX - XXX- XXXX

Text me when you’re free, hopefully I’ll have enough time to learn to greet you properly next time.

[escxpedes]

loopholes (cont.)

I literally can’t even begin to tell you how much everyone’s support meant to me on the last chapter. All your comments and tags were so sweet, it was seriously the highlight of my day. I’m sorry for the delay, I meant to get this out a couple of days ago, but I’ve come down with a bad cold. This part, while fun, was so hard to get right. Angus Macgyver is a genius, his mind goes a mile a minute, and I wanted to do my best to replicate that. This part is a little slow in getting to the Macriley stuff, but I wanted to show how much he really thinks about things. He’s such a complex character, that if I didn’t do him justice, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. Also, there’s dialogue in this one! Sadly, Jack isn’t mentioned in this chapter, but he’s there in spirit. Clearly, we all love and miss him. I hope you guys enjoy, the last part will be out soon! x

~

loop·hole

noun | A loophole is an ambiguity or inadequacy in a system, such as a law or security, which can be used to circumvent or otherwise avoid the purpose, implied or explicitly stated, of the system

~

Riley finally moves into her new apartment, but struggles to adjust after the events of Codex and the realization of her feelings for Mac. When Mac finds her passed out over her keyboard after a late night of coding at Phoenix, he decides a talk is long overdue. Just some slightly angsty soft!macriley to help you cope with this season 5 hiatus.

~

of lips that i am yet to kiss (and eyes not met my own.)

It's highly unlikely that you'll find Mac walking down the halls of the Phoenix Foundation so late at night. Without the bustling energy of his coworkers fetching important documents or discussing the best way to break down one of the many mysteries the foundation deals with, the darkened hallways and quiet atmosphere can be unnerving.

Sure, he spends nearly every waking hour employed there, but he'd rather be outside the office in different countries, doing hands-on work and saving lives. When you work in his profession, It can be difficult to separate business and pleasure, but that only makes it more important—if only to conserve what mental health he has left. 

However, in the haste of putting together last-minute preparations for yet another meeting with the Department of Justice and trying to make it back to his house in time for something Desi whipped up, he managed to forget his cellphone.

It's funny, mainly because of how little the small device truly matters to Mac.

It only goes to show how insignificant material objects, or even human beings in general, are. The idea that something so meaningless can affect someone's life so much when, if they just looked past that obsession and considered its part in the profound scope of the universe, another perspective would take shape.

It's fascinating stuff, really.

There's a concept essential to understanding Japanese aesthetics, otherwise known as an ancient set of ideals important to Japanese society, called Yūgen. When applied in the right context, Yūgen underlines this deep awareness of the universe and the experiences we have within it. It's often the feeling interpreted when you gaze at the stars late at night or watch the sunset dip behind a hill.

Mac wouldn't think twice before breaking his phone, or rather, breaking the phone of his nearest friend, open for an obscure part that might make one of his many homemade devices come together. However, when he's the only person able to communicate the scientific specifications of an unheard-of-until-recently base plan for saving the planet, he's practically on call 24/7.

He remembers having it in the labs earlier that day when he stopped by before his meeting to remind Bozer to come by his house on Friday for the team's new weekly attempt in group-bonding.

After the betrayals that surfaced during the climax of taking down Codex, the team collectively decided to spend more time as a group in hopes of eliminating any lingering doubts. 

They used to hang out all the time before the government dismantled the Phoenix Foundation.

Mac still can't believe that, after everything they had been through, he allowed his friendships to dissipate over the year they had been separate.

Bozer is his childhood best friend, and Riley had become a solid foundation in his life. He didn't have anyone outside his team at Phoenix, and while he deeply cared for Desi, their first relationship was proof that too much time—and too little communication—with each other can do severe damage to one's sanity.

If Russ hadn't brought them back together, would they have tried to reconnect at some point?

Mac wants to say they would have but wouldn't blame them if they didn't; they all lost something they cared about, and each served as a constant reminder of it.

It would've been hard, but part of him feels like living without them is a lot harder.

When he manages to access the lab, flipping his shiny new I.D. card over his fingers and into its place in his wallet, his eyes scan the room. It's empty, which isn't unusual at this time, but years of military training have rewired his brain to notify him of threats, even if there aren't any.

Just like he thought it would be, the device sits untouched a few tables behind Bozer's workspace where Mac had been sitting.

Quickly, because he left the house in a hurry and forgot to leave a note, he scoops up his phone and makes his way towards the exit. There's a couple of missed calls, but it doesn't seem like he missed anything too important.

Not that they would let him. 

At any rate, they would probably show up on his doorstep if they couldn't get a hold of him. With days off so few and far between, that's the kind of interaction he's hoping to avoid. Hence, why he came to pick up his phone when he realized it was missing instead of waiting until the next day.

He's nearly made it to the end of the hall when a light flashes in his peripheral vision, coming from the I.T. department.

His body is tense with apprehension; his mind races with several different kinds of possibilities and outcomes. He slows his pace, his movements fluid, silent, and controlled from years of stealth practice.

The light is soft, he notices, as if only one or two monitors are in use.

When he gets to the doorway and nudges open the door, hands at the ready, his entire body sags in relief to see the dark wavy hair he's come to associate with one of his closest friends.

"Riles?"

The nickname falls from his mouth before he can stop it, and even though the light from the monitor creates a halo above her head, shadowing her features, it's unmistakably her.

She doesn't move. 

It becomes abundantly clear why as Mac moves towards her and notices the monitor's screen filling up with a sequence of letters that look nothing like coding despite his lack of knowledge in programming languages.

Her elbow balances precariously on the edge of the table, her arms creating a makeshift pillow for her head. The weight of her forearm bears down on the keyboard, causing the side of her hand to press down multiple keys at once.

He shakes his head a little, amused by the situation unfolding. 

Her cheek rests comfortably on her hand, a serene expression masking the signs of exhaustion that showed on her face.

Mac's lips curved into a soft smile, seeing Riley in any state that wasn't cloaked in layers of worry or anxious determination always washed away any doubts he might have about working in such a stressful field.

The scars that covered his body, the secrets he has to keep, and the pain he has to endure are so unbelievably worth it as long as she out of harm's way and able to sleep peacefully.

Of course, he couldn't imagine anyone else by his side on a mission, knowing they share the same love and passion for kicking ass and saving lives.

However, he also knows that more lies underneath the surface.

He wouldn't wish the hardships of this job on anyone. Seeing it affect someone he cares about, watching it break them down slowly pulls at his heartstrings and fills him with a knowing sadness. 

When a piece of hair falls into her face, his fingers don't hesitate to gently brush it behind her ear, lightly tracing her cheekbone and caressing her cheek.

Kneeling, his hand drops to her shoulder in an attempt to gently wake her.

After a couple of shakes, the expressive brown eyes he's come to look forward to seeing begin to flutter open and nearly render him speechless.

She blinks a couple of times, inhaling slowly, "Macgyver."

Her voice is full of sleep and breaks from misuse, but the way she says his name—like there's nobody else she'd expect to see when she wakes up —has him grinning from ear to ear.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

Rising from her position on the table, she scans the room before meeting his eyes and scoffing, "It's hardly the morning."

He laughs softly, holding back the urge to mention that technically it is morning considering its past twelve. Instead, he focuses on the matter at hand, or more likely, the question at hand.

"What are you doing here so late?"

She's more alert now, sitting back in her chair and lifting her arms to stretch out the muscles that stiffened while she slept, glancing at her work on the monitor.

Her face drops into a grimace when she notices her mistake, "Matty and I were talking about updating the foundation's firewall and spyware," she yawns, "I must have been more tired than I realized."

Mac's eyebrows scrunch in thought, remembering something Bozer said earlier about Riley spending quite a few nights this week working late.

Between going over his mother's scientific data, trying to patch up whatever relationship he had left with Desi, and making sure he didn't go off the rails with grief, his effort to check in on everyone decreased significantly.

"Yeah, you've been doing that a lot lately," his hand returned to her shoulder to emphasize his point, "Everything okay?"

She waves him off, "There's too much work that needs to be done around here before we can get things running the way they used to."

Riley doesn't lie to him—if you overlook the whole situation with her ex, Aubrey, that is, but the movements she's making indicate otherwise.

Her eyes refuse to meet his, flickering down and to the right. When she talks, her head shakes lightly, and she purses her lips in an attempt to give off a careless impression. Maybe someone who doesn't know her or didn't train to pick up on it would believe her, but he knew better.

She was definitely hiding something from him.

Part of him understands that if she wanted to talk about it, she would. However, his instincts urge him to press harder, locate the problem, and bring back her contagious smile that always seems to fill him with warmth.

As much as he doesn't want to admit it, you can't patch some things together by sheer will and sellotape, so instead, he stands up and drops his hand from her shoulder.

"Let's get you home."

[stranger-who-writes-fiction]

Aaaanyways, I wanna put on my comic-art-nerd hat and talk about panel-to-panel action in that Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow preview because yes, I have been staring at it for days, and yes, I will continue to do so until it is released next month! XD

LET’S GO:

I apologize in advance for the funky formatting, there’s an art to tumblr text posts and I...have not mastered it. XD

It’ll go image, then analysis.

Also, just to be clear: I’m not doing this so much to be like, ‘WOW THIS IS GROUNDBREAKING, STUNNING, NEVER-BEEN-DONE!’ In fact, many comics do the things I’m gonna highlight/geek out over! Rather, it’s more about, like. Appreciating the construction of the pages, panels, etc.

Okay, so! Page 1, the SPLASH PAGE

Okay, so, admittedly, I don’t have a ton to say about this opening image, largely because it is one single illustration as opposed to a series of panels. But even then! It quickly establishes that we’re not on earth--the foliage, rock formations, and GIANT WOOLY FRIEND(?) give that away. Also! Said rock formations and wooly friend’s horns frame our new character RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PAGE, letting you know that even though she is tiny, she is important. And, I will just say, I love the dust effects on the ground. The repeated semi-circle shapes evoke the feeling of rhythmic, galloping hoof beats, even without actual movement or sound. Lovely.

And now, PAGE 2!

So, I’ve highlighted panel 3, but before I get there! Panels 1 & 2 do such a nice job of giving us an idea as to the actual, physical size of these two characters, as well as the power dynamic at play. This random dude takes up the WHOLE DANG PANEL with his bulging muscles and is framed in an up-shot; in panel 2, Ruthye is not only shown from above--we’re literally looking down at her--she is also relegated to the bottom half of the panel. Additionally, it’s a great way to show the action of her turning to pull the sword from her belt, obscuring it from both our view and his, to bring out the ‘big reveal’ in the next panel.

Speaking of! Panel 3! Our establishing shot! We’re introduced to the full interior of this tavern. We see where everything is placed--walls, furniture, and perhaps most importantly, the various patrons!

Establishing shots are so important to have in visual media because they help us, the reader/viewer, to orient all of the various components within a sequence or scene.  

It’s also helpful for the artists because then they can better maintain things like screen direction and continuity.

If we don’t have a shot like this, then subsequent action can become confusing to the point of distraction.

YOU WOULD BE SURPRISED how often this is neglected or forgotten in comics! Scenes will change abruptly and it’s like, ‘wait, wait, where are we?’ 

ADDITIONALLY, the establishing shot not only gives us basic spatial information, it ~sets the mood~ XD Setting! Atmosphere! Genre! It’s all here.

I mentioned this in my prior post, that the art gives off some intense fantasy vibes, what with the organic shapes, rough textures, and color palette.

Folks who’ve read advanced copies have described the book as a fantasy/western; that extends even to the series title design! The designer revealed that the western look of the text is deliberate.

So A+ to the art team for NAILING IT!

Okay, on to page 3!

Not a ton of notes on this one, but that’s only because the prior page has done such a solid job of laying out the space, as well as the relationship between these two characters WITH JUST WITH THE ART. (Okay, okay, the words help too. XD) Once more, we see this big brute tower over Ruthye, panel- to-panel; he’s always ‘large and in charge’ regardless of the angle. Even in that final panel! Ruthye is the largest element because she’s closer to us, but the guy is still positioned ‘above’ her, literally talking down to Ruthye from over his shoulder. 

(And HMMMM. That unassuming stranger in the back there, underneath the lanterns that seem to act as an arrow pointing right at her...could she be...important?)

(Her tiny size would seem to imply that she isn’t...AND YET...)

PAGE 4!

MMMM them FRAMES within FRAMES!

Okay, but before I get into that, I do wanna briefly mention panel size and shape.

All of these pages (save for 1 and 7, which are full-page illustrations) pretty much stick to a very traditional panel structure. Each panel is completely enclosed, and there is zero variety in terms of shape. It’s all rectangles.

BUT. The size and orientation change--take, for instance, that ‘skinny’ horizontal panel up top, the way it perfectly suits the ‘shape’ of the elements/action being shown. It’s a close on Kara’s wrist/hand, reaching out for the sword in the guy’s belt. 

I mention this because often, writers don’t dictate stuff like panel layout in a script. They will give the artist the number of panels, and what needs to be included in each one, but the actual, overall organization of the page? Totally up to the artist.

So! Really knowing what you want to highlight and convey is key, because you can use the panels’ size/shape/relation to other panels to ENHANCE those images, like that sword grabbing up top!

AND! Another thing I love about that panel in particular is the way that Kara’s hand and the sword make a tiny frame for Ruthye! Who is, again, VERY TINY! 

I keep mentioning the size thing because it’s a nice bit of economical visual storytelling; the child character is going to be smaller than the adult characters anyway, but by calling attention to it repeatedly, we as the viewer are constantly reminded that this kid is small! She needs help! She needs to be protected! Which is like, the whole premise of the inciting incident. XD Good stuff!

(Also more dot eyes in comics that aren’t humor comics, please.) 

There’s another frame down in panel 3 as well! Evely uses this device several times throughout this sequence; it’s such a great use of the multiple swords in the scene, AND shows that she can really pack all of the characters in there without cutting any of them off/obscuring them behind various objects.

And like, NO TANGENTS, which takes some serious skillz.

ESPECIALLY when you consider all that beautiful linework. LOOK AT THEM INKS.

...In particular, look at them inks in panel 5! The shading on the booth is done in such a manner that the ‘grain’ of the ink defines the perspective. We’re looking down at Kara, from above. This is a helpful little bit of orientation, as there’s not a ton of room around Kara to have any other perspective lines to help sell the angle. 

ALSO, NOTE THE POSITION OF MR. BRUTE IN PANEL 4, AND THEN KARA’S EYELINE IN PANEL 5. It will be important in...

PAGE 5!

Allow me to explain:

In panel four on page 4, we see the guy reach for his sword, his body language revealing that he’s intent on moving towards Kara.

In panel 5 on the same page, we get that lovely down shot of Kara looking right up at us, the viewer. But also, the implication is that she’s ACTUALLY looking at Tough Guy, because in the next page, we see that he’s positioned himself right above her to swing that sword down!

(My apologies for the poor attempts at drawn annotations.) 

There’s no action lines cluttering up the beautiful art; Not-Conan’s hair, rather, acts as the action line/guiding ‘arc’ so that we can better follow the movement.

Kara, likewise, doesn’t have any action lines on her, but her posture and hair act as visual cues to tell us that she slides over in the booth, out of the way of the sword.

In particular, the way her right shoulder/arm draws closer to her body, and the way her left hand comes up to offset the way she’s now positioned, really sells the ‘slide’. 

More beautiful indicators of movement in panel 2; the hair, the action line on the sword, the torn fabric of Kara’s shirt.

Panel 3 brings more FRAMES WITHIN FRAMES! And, actually, as I’m looking at it? I think it could be argued that we actually have a FRAME within a FRAME within a FRAME!

First frame: Panel border, natch.

Second frame: Goofus’ sword, arm, and face frame Kara.

Third frame: Kara’s arm and sword work with Goofus’ head again to frame tiny Krypto.

LAYERS.

And now, a note about colors!

I said before that I love the palette at play. The earthy tones give the entire setting an organic feel--this is not a high-tech locale! We’re dealing with natural materials here.

BUT THEN THOSE BLUES!

Not only do we get that nice split complementary thing happening with the yellow, but it also signals the blue of Kara’s costume, a little hint of which is revealed in the final page.

And, like. It’s night time. XD

(I just gotta say, love the cold blue outside the window next to Kara’s table, contrasted with the warm yellow of the interior. Even though this is a bar, there’s still that element of like. Coziness.)

Also! Even though the overall palette is heavy on the yellows, Kara’s hair is more saturated and leans towards a warmer yellow, while the rest of the yellows in the scene are cooler. Thus! We have CONTRAST! Our eyes are drawn right to her.

And I know--I KNOW--that SG comics twitter already hates King because Kara’s DRINKING and personally I want more of the story/context before I pass any judgement but I must admit, the shapes? In panel 5? With Kara drinking in the foreground? 

I kinda love it.

Also mmmm-MMMM, more of them SOFT BLUES.

Okay. PAGE 6!

Now THIS PAGE is what inspired this whole endeavor.

Because, okay. If I’ve not made it clear by now: I read a lot of comics.

And I generally enjoy all of the comics I read!

But, what I’ve found lately, is that if I don’t enjoy a comic, it’s because I, as a reader, find myself confused by the art.

Confused as in, the art is hard to follow.

That can be because the color design/ink work doesn’t have enough contrast, or the composition is muddled, but most frequently?

It’s poor panel-to-panel action.

When there’s no flow/connection between what’s happening in one panel vs. another, suddenly it’s on you, as the reader, to do a lot more of the work as you go through the scene. And sometimes! We don’t even have enough visual information to DO that work!

So when I read this, I was like, ‘ah, thank you, an easy flow of action for my brain to appreciate.’ XD

AND SO. Panel 1! Same stuff we’ve been seeing! The ink work, hair, clothing details, etc. all work to show us which direction each character is moving. Kara’s arm and jacket all point to her slamming that mug in the dude’s face; dude’s sword serves as a GIANT ARROW illustrating the path of his stab.

Not much to say on panels 2 and 3 other than: FACIAL EXPRESSIONS! And also, HAIR!!!

PANEL FOOOOUR!!!!

Love. This. Panel.

Again, I really love that there are no action lines slapped on top of this gorgeous art, all of the movement is conveyed in the inks, body language, clothes, and so on.

Like. There’s a conscious decision, here, to not have Kara’s hair obscuring the dude’s torso, and that’s good! Because his belt/uhh...kilt? Skirt? Is showing us the speed and direction of his jab; if Kara’s hair were in the way, it would break up the flow.

BUT THEN HOW TO SHOW THAT KARA’S DIPPING FORWARD???

Note the ties on her cuff, and the inks on her jacket!

There’s nothing special happening with Krypto, BTW. I just circled him because he’s a Good Boy who deserves to be noticed.

Panel 5, more of the same, the inks telling us how these characters are moving through space. ALSO, the length of the lines conveys speed without needing to add something distracting/obscure the art with a ‘blur’ effect.

Final panel! I. LOVE. THIS.

Particularly the movement in Kara’s hair, just. Beautiful shape language.

But in addition! You’ve got that LOVELY line of action in Kara’s spine as she flips him over, the sword likewise curved in the direction of the throw.

And of course, the dude is crumpling in the appropriate direction, bent in the middle as he collides with the table to--quite literally--complete the circle.

Also, just. The characterization here, is PHENOMENAL.

People (read: irate fans on twitter) have expressed concern (read: complained) about Kara having a sword. Some have even gone so far as to suggest that Kara’s basically a murderer now, because she’s using a weapon.

Never mind the fact that in an episode of JLU, Supergirl used both a sword AND a gun to defend herself while in Skartaris because she had no powers. 

Except we see here that Kara DOESN’T USE THE SWORD to take the guy out, she uses his own force against him. She only uses the swords in the FINAL PAGE in a type of ‘yield’ fashion.

(This particular ‘fight’ sequence reminded me of Brainy’s fighting style in the show so of course that added to my overall enjoyment.)

Like, Kara’s got no powers here, she very well could have used the sword to defend herself, and would...kinda be justified.

But she didn’t! 

Like. Even drunk and therefore out of it, Kara 1.) Steps in to help that kid and 2.) doesn’t use superpowered lethal force on the guy. (I mean, she can’t use her super powers anyway, what with the red sun, but you get the idea.)

And like, the flourish there, of the arms, the way the jacket swirls around her, like a gymnast sticking the landing, GAAAAAHHHH I just love it. It’s great.

Okay, FINAL PAGE, #7:

I mean. What more can I say? EVELY AND LOPES, MAN.

Just some top notch art.

(Also get it guys, it’s a LITERAL shirt rip! XD)

(And look! There’s that tiny bit of blue!)

But anyways, if you’ve made it this far, I applaud you, and thank you for indulging my desire to just. Geek out over one of my favorite comic artists drawing one of my favorite comic characters.

And just to like, reiterate, I’m not suggesting that this comic is THE BEST EVER or that it’s going to redefine the medium, or anything. XD Everything I’ve mentioned here is...pretty basic storytelling mechanics. Watch any movie, and you’ll see all this same stuff at work.

RATHER, this whole post is more about...admiring two artists who clearly know what they’re doing.

And they’re doing it so well! :D

TL;DR: I’m so excited that the Supergirl book has Evely and Lopes, guys. So. Excited. 

[jewelrystoresnearme]

Key Necklace

What does a key symbolise?

At its heart, a key is an opener of locks. Whether it’s a door, a treasure chest, or the metaphorical heart, keys let us into unknown worlds. Keys symbolise freedom, they open things up and lock precious things away. They reveal secrets. Superstitions and symbolism around keys abound. Jewish midwives used to give a key to a woman in labour to encourage safe delivery of the baby. In Eastern Europe keys were hung upside down over beds to ward off bad dreams. Several cultures have buried their dead with keys to unlock the afterlife. There are beginnings and endings, but they always lead on…

What is the meaning behind a key charm?

The ancient Greeks saw keys as symbols of knowledge. Key charms can symbolise this authority. They can symbolise love, they can symbolise possibility. What more fitting gift to bestow on someone then, than a piece of jewellery in the shape of a key? A key pendant necklace or personalised key necklace: a key hanging close to someone’s heart. It is a pathway, freedom, an expression of desire to open up the world. Or a way of making it clear to your loved ones who holds the key to your heart

What’s the significance of giving key jewellery for a 21st birthday?

In many cultures the age of 21 represents a significant coming of age. A gold key pendant is a traditional present for anyone, male or female. A piece of key jewellery represents the start of the rest of their lives, the opening of many exciting doors to come. Keys are also traditionally given to graduates, and indeed anyone at the threshold to their next adventure.

What does a key necklace symbolize?The tradition of giving a key pendant

Key pendants have always been a popular present for all ages and every occasion.

Key pendants are customarily given as a present on the 21st birthday. This tradition dates from the times when at twenty-one, you were considered old enough to be a key-holder to your family’s home, and thus hold a symbolical ‘senior’ position in the family. It’s an old tradition that, some think, has long since become irrelevant and obsolete, but the symbolism of the key on the 21st birthday lives on. Both 21st birthday and Graduations are considered to be a “new beginning” occasion and key pendants are popular presents for both.

Keys have always been endowed with a certain sort of magic. It’s believed they have the power to reveal things that were unknown or obscured before. In Far East cultures, keys are regarded as a “Good Luck” presents and a bearer of a good fortune ahead. It was believed that wearing a Key as a Pendant will open physical, intellectual, or spiritual barriers and give access, or attract riches of all nature.

Folktales tell of a universal “Skeleton Key”, that will successfully unlock anything you wish for. Thus such a key pendant is given to open new horizons and new uncharted adventures for one who wears it.

In modern days, we have adopted the Key Pendant as a symbol of entrusting someone with the access to one’s “Heart of Hearts”. The “Key to a Heart” is given in the same fashion as the “Key to a City” has been given for ages. The practice of presenting a “Key to the City” to an individual can be traced back the Middle Ages when it was a symbol of the City’s intention that the recipient was free to come and go at will. Today it is considered a symbolic gesture, bestowed upon distinguished persons and honored guests for achievements of the highest importance. Giving someone the “key to Your Heart” will be a symbol of expressing a special trust and commitment. In present days, when in a romantic relationship, two will exchange keys from their homes as an act, that signifies the moment when a relationship has been taken to the next level and the foundation of a life together has been laid.

The rich symbolism bestowed upon Key pendants is drawn from many cultures and makes them a versatile present for just about any age and any occasion. Key pendants can be equally appropriate presents for both romantic and none romantic occasions, celebrating family milestones or personal achievements.

The history of the key necklace

Here is some ancient key folklore, for Halloween fun.

Keys should never be put on a the table, as it leads to chaos and disagreement in the house.

Keys in the bed can help a woman in the process of childbirth.

Keys in the shape of crosses help cure boils.

Church keys — usually weighty iron keys with a cross on the bit or bow — are particularly powerful, able to cure whooping cough and calm unruly children.

Which key necklace is most popular?Tiffany Key Necklace

Symbols of a life well lived, our coveted key jewelry expresses independence, power and optimism. Each key necklace is crafted with precise attention to detail. Unlock new possibilities.

Launched in 2009, the Tiffany Keys are a timeless symbol of sophistication. With its exquisite craftsmanship, the Keys can be worn alone, or layered together for a more dazzling effect. But behind the stylish designs of this universally popular collection lies a nostalgic story about love, self-reflection and self-expression. The Keys collection was inspired by a set of exquisitely crafted vintage keys in the Tiffany & Co. Archive; the oldest dates back to the 1880s.

The most popular style of the Tiffany Keys collection is the crown key.

The Tiffany Keys come in a variety of materials (sterling silver, 18k yellow gold, rose gold, and platinum) and gemstones (pink sapphire, blue sapphire, tsavorites and yellow diamonds).

A recurring motif of the Tiffany Keys is the fleur de lis, a symbol of royalty. Other motifs include trefoils, kaleidoscopes, hearts and flowers.

Tiffany key necklaces price range from $200 to $12,000.

Gucci Key Necklace

This sterling silver necklace, with an aged finish, features a key with the now recognizable Double G as the top piece. Expertly made and intricately designed, often with subtle nods to the House, Gucci’s silver jewelry collection is presented in an array of contemporary and classic pieces. This Gucci necklace has the key to our hearts. Quite literally as it’s hanging around our neck. Lucky that.The Double G key necklace sells for $280

CHURINGA Key Necklace Pendant Details

CHURINGA incorporated the key element into the necklace design. Here is our original key necklace.It incorporates ghostly head, kaleidoscope, flowers and other elements.The side is also inlaid with black/white zircon crystals in the form of the Devil’s Eye.

Evil Eye — Evil eyes have been a part of jewelry since ancient times. They are said to protect the wearer from people who want to harm them.

key — A key is a symbol of authority or the power to unlock something. It is often representative of the key to one’s heart, which associates the symbol with love. Similarly, a lock represents protecting the heart, so it often represents love as well.

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Wholesale Stainless Steel Jewelry

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