#I have a small addition to this theory/observation

[butchsophiewalten]

There's this interconnected web of Walten Files Information that keeps coming back into my mind which I meant to make a post about a while ago. Which is as follows:

-We know from the Richie audios in Findjackwalten/caretakerlibrary that Rosemary had already been banned from (or at least highly discouraged from entering) Bon's Burgers by the 1st of July, which is quite a ways away from when she disappeared on the 19th. I definitely wouldn't put it past her to sneak into the restaurant during its off-hours, but we know at least that her being there wasn't formally sanctioned.

-From the way he talks to and interacts with Susan in TWF4, it seems that Bon's 'Selection Process' for who he 'beautifies' is not arbitrary, nor is it necessarily opportunistic. Which is to say that he's not picking people at random, and he's not picking people only because they would be an easy target. He watches them, and chooses them based on criteria they exhibit which appeal to him. In essence, he picks people he likes, who he thinks belong in his Wonderland.

-There's a near-undeniable but Implicit fixation that Bon has on Rosemary, which we only learn through many, many small things. The 'shrine' we see him create for her in Souvenir is relatively elaborate, (in that it seems to contain more than one object that is associated with her,) and he put her in Sha, which is the companion animatronic to his Bon. Rose's death scene in TWF2 also makes it seem like he spoke to her, as the Bon animatronic, before killing her. What he says exactly is notable, too. "Rose broken. Will fix you. You will beautiful." It's, one, an explanation of what he's doing. Bon did this for Susan too, but not in the 'physical world,' before he actually hurt her. Also, it's comfort. A soothing reassurance. I'll fix you. You'll be beautiful. Then also, of course, he calls her Rosie. "I know where he is, Rosie," is a line that haunts me forever, thinking of it coming from him.

This all paints a specific sort of picture in my mind. I like to think that Bon likes Rosemary a lot, and that she's a favorite of his, because she designed The Showstoppers. I think he likes Susan quite a lot for a similar reason, she was the woman who gave him his flesh and his bone. Who forged the vessel that he now lives for. But Rosemary is the artist who made it what he loves. She was the visionary who made him Beautiful.

So I think that Bon had his heart set on Rosemary for Wonderland. And it makes me wonder if the contentions between her and Felix that kept him away from her really pissed him off. But the core of my 'theory' here is just that Bon wanted her in the restaurant, that night. That she maybe wouldn't have been there at all, if someone hadn't asked her to be.

[bimboficationblues]

so the thing about "read theory" as a mantra: in the social media sphere there is a consistent downplaying of what that kind of commitment actually entails, plus a consistent obfuscation of what exactly the commitment is necessary for.

let's say that you're interested in learning more about specifically "Marxist theory." This, I think, also raises a bunch of questions about what we mean by theory - works of political philosophy, texts on revolutionary and military strategy, political speeches, journalistic or sociological analysis, historiography - these varying things with very different discursive norms and standards of evidence or logic often get rolled into one singular object called "theory." but let's set that aside for now.

you want to learn this for maybe an assortment of reasons, here's a few (non-exhaustive) good ones:

Marxism has been a substantial historical force that has probably had a notable impact on the world around you in some way.

Learning about Marx/ism might offer some level of insight into your current social world that other things are unable to offer.

Many texts - Capital, The Wretched of the Earth, The Second Sex, The State and Revolution - are also world-historical forms of political literature, which is interesting.

Follow-up to 2 - maybe having some level of familiarity with these things will give you the ability to better articulate yourself and participate in social and political movements around you.

generally speaking the Social Media Marxist approach is to tell you to go read off a list of texts of whatever writers the author personally agrees with or whatever works she happens to have read. so you decide to start with the big guy Marx, who is at the top of the list. totally reasonable decision.

however, there are a few contextual questions that might reasonably come up when doing so.

first, it will be clear that Marx did not pop out of an intellectual vacuum; Lenin has a rather popular identification of the "three sources of Marxism" - post-Hegelian German philosophy, French socialism, and English political economy. from my perspective, these are more like three of his main objects of ire (and so in some sense are both influences and also breakages - but not strictly speaking a synthesis), but I digress. so, frequently, in order to grasp what Marx is talking about or responding to, you are going to need some level of familiarity with a lot of additional people: Smith, Ricardo, Malthus, Hegel, Bauer, Feuerbach, Hobbes, Spinoza, Rousseau, Mill, Sismondi. suddenly you are not just learning about the works of one guy, but his attitude towards all the people he relies on for support or aims his criticisms at. and each of those different intellectual relationships is going to be different. sometimes at different times!

second, and relatedly, Marx is not always the most charitable to the people he's criticizing, who were often rival socialists (so there were pretty notable political and personal stakes at work in proving them wrong or diminishing their influence over the movement). the introductory materials to the new translation of Capital also observe that Marx's approach to scholarship is, shall we say, haphazard; often he makes quotes or citations that are not actually representative of what he's citing. finally, many of the people he's criticizing have sort of been rendered obsolete historically *in no small part* due to the success of Marxism as a political orientation in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. so to determine whether Marx is being fair to the people he is basing his critique on, we will have to do some level of intellectual work to check. so now we're not just evaluating Marx's relationship to different thinkers but also the substantial content of each of those thinkers themselves.

third, Marx did not pop out of a social vacuum. all of these different writers didn't just crop up from nowhere but wrote within particular sociohistorical contexts, some of which were rather divorced from the European revolutionary wave, first worldwide financial crisis, and the shifting character of the United States in the wake of the Civil War and the formal abolition of slavery - some of the historical events that Marx was more explicitly engaging with. and the radical liberals, republicans, and socialists Marx criticized all also had their own intellectual and social histories. so now we're getting a little far afield from the initial notion, which was just to read some guy, and getting into the realm of social history, and trying to understand the relationship between world history and the ideas produced within it.

fourth, you are a subject in the world, which is to say YOU did not pop out of a social or intellectual vacuum. you likely bring predispositions, assumptions, biases, and cognitive distortions to what you read; we all do. working through those and trying to note where they're happening - where they might be fine and where they might be problematic - will require a certain willingness to reflect, to write, to take notes, to analyze and self-scrutinize, and to be critical of both yourself as a reader and of the text you are reading. (a nested problem is that we have a truly staggering amount of material from Marx and Engels, and you might have to make certain determinations as to which material is important or worthwhile or more useful, and identify the standards by which you think that - all of which requires a certain reflection on your status as a political thinker).

okay, so consider all that. we started with "I wanna read this one guy," we end with "to really grasp the work of this one guy it's also important to know both preceding and contemporaneous world history, his intellectual influences, and the gaps or silences or errors in his work.” now consider that, if you really want to be able to speak on them with some level of confidence and intellectual honesty, you have to apply approximately the same level of rigor to every other writer on the Social Media Marxist approved list - Lenin, Fanon, Che, Kollontai, Cabral, Mao, Luxemburg, whoever. not to mention their critics, both direct and indirect!

Marx developed his work through an incredibly sustained engagement with enormous volumes of different material; we have entire notebooks of him poring over Max Stirner, or Spinoza, or the political economists, or the empirical observations of English factory inspectors. I'm not saying that you have to do that, or even that one strictly *has* to go down any or all of the first three rabbitholes I identified. Marx was in the somewhat unique position of sustaining himself through the support of Engels and his journalistic work, as a product of being in perpetual exile. that's not the kind of position that most of us are typically in.

the point is not "commit yourself to being a perfect monastic scholar in order to reach perfect truth" - such a thing is probably a fantasy, even if we wish otherwise. the point is that if you think "theory" is worth taking seriously, well, you have to actually take it seriously. if you don’t think it has stakes or utility, that’s fine; different people find different things useful. I think “theory” is not a set of dead letters by canonical authors but produced through social life. but if “reading theory” is a way to clarify and assert yourself as a political subject and agent, to claim some intellectual autonomy and acquire some understanding that you can put into practice in your life, then that’s demanding. it’s not impossible, but it does take real effort and a commitment to study and a certain level of resistance to being dogmatic. otherwise you are just letting yourself be rhetorically persuaded by whatever is in front of you or whatever affirms your biases.

as Marx says in the preface to Capital, Volume I, "I am of course assuming that my readers will want to learn something new, and so are ready to think for themselves."

[koishua]

★. 𝐄𝐍— and the orange peel theory.

! © 𝗞𝗢𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗨𝗔 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰, 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗦 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗩𝗘𝗗.

starring hee, jay, jake. + their version of the orange peel theory

━━━━━━━━━━━ 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆

he doesn't think anything of it when he snaps your chopsticks in two for you from where he is positioned across you. the plastic chairs in front of the convenience store upon which you're seated on aren't the most comfortable, the sharp edges digging into your skin on occasions when you fidget around trying to find a way to strike up a conversation with the man you can't bare to label as your friend now.

the bamboo sticks now rest on top of the lid of your bowl of instant ramen, currently waiting to be fully cooked within the three minute time frame the instructions had given you. you notice how they hadn't split equally, one having snapped away a small portion of the other side with it. the irony of it all feels comical when you detach yourself from the situation you're currently trying not to run away from.

heeseung doesn't say much as you hesitantly take the broken utensil. he can only pretend to awkwardly observe the engravings in the table, occasionally glancing at the dainty chain of the necklace hiding under your collar. it had been his fingers to graze against the skin of your neck to clasp it together for you. he wonders what hurts more; remembering, or having to force himself to forget about it all?

━━━━━━━━━━━ 𝐉𝐀𝐘

the house is quiet, had been for hours now, except for your frantic breaths and hurried stomps while darting from room to room, trying to find your bearings as the time ticks by much too quickly for your liking. the alarms you'd set for your lecture hadn't rung (they had, actually— no one would dare to disagree, however), which had naturally resulted in you running late for it yet again.

your lips lift lopsidedly moments after the neatly framed picture of the happiest moment of your life catches your eye as you try to put on the stubborn socks you'd fished out from the drawer on your side of the bed. jay had always been beautiful, even back when he still had that boyish smirk constantly plastered over his face, hair a mess.

you make a mental note to wipe away the dust that had started to form a thin sheet over the wooden frame, though that too is quickly forgotten when you realize that he'd very kindly filled up your bottle with water and placed it next to the most comfortable shoes you owned he'd laid nearly on the floor by the door, certain of your forgetful habits.

━━━━━━━━━━━ 𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐄

layla's tail wags excitedly at the sight of the treat in your hands that you leave for her to enjoy. smoothing over the gingham sheet before laying back on the lap of your favourite person in this universe and the next, from where you look up at him, the sun blazing in the sky makes it look like he's emitting a heavenly glow. fitting for someone like sim jake.

days like this don't come by often for either of you, so having you right by him, the weather as beautiful as it could ever get. this is what he'd describe heaven to feel like. every part of his body beats with the insatiable desire to always have you as close to him as possible, day and night.

the cool breeze is a constant visitor to your little spot by the beach, a welcome addition to the already magical day. realising that he'd gotten lost in his thoughts, he looks down at your serene expression, off somewhere in dreamland, most likely. his thumb gently traces under your eyes, a ghostly touch afraid of waking you up from your deserved rest. he unclips the hair accessories he can see tugging and digging into your skin before adjusting the shade to cover your eyes.

this is his dreamland.

notes from vie: couldn't help it with the hee angst y'all im sorry it's a koishua must. it was very mild tho so yeah enjoy please i haven't exercised my enha writing skills in ages and as always pls reblog muah muah ignore any errors i haven't got the energy to correct them myself 🍊🍊

[misto713]

is binghe actually masochistic?

i actually think he's not, he's only 1/ less physically sensitive as a half-demon and 2/ more emotionally attuned and observant to his shizun than sqq realizes.

let's tackle 2/ first:

in canon, we usually see sqq call him an incurable M when binghe is happy after being smacked with a fan, right? except sqq smacks basically all his students sometimes. probably not even enough to hurt, just as a small reminder to behave.

and i have this theory: he only does it to students he still cares about, that he still wants to 'educate'. after all, there's no point in 'correcting' someone who will never learn.

i bet binghe saw this happen. that his shizun scolded and prodded and taught and smacked with a fan some student again and again, in the hopes of teaching them some lesson. calligraphy, guqin, go... there must have been students who sucked at at least one of the four arts. and sqq would try and try... until he finaly realizes that this particular disciple honestly doesn't have talent for the lesson he's trying to teach. at which point, he gives up. stops scolding them, correcting them. stops smacking them with his fan.

and binghe sees that.

in his obsessive mind, wouldn't that be just the worst thing ever? shizun can be kind to him, shizun can be mean, shizun can scold him, hit him, even give him scars but for gods' sake, please never let shizun give up on him. that would break him worse than anything in the world.

so. later, when they're finally together, wouldn't binghe still unconsciously think like this? maybe even provoke sqq's scolding sometimes? just to see if shizun still cares. to have a little proof, just for him. and the easiest way to do that is to misbehave... and get smacked with a fan.

a little 'love tap'. just so that binghe can he sure his shizun hasn't given up on him, that he still cares.

and about point 1/:

demons are generally sturdier than humans. i wonder if all those 'beatings' don't actually feel pelasurable to them. if they don't simply have different sensitivity levels, "thicker skin" and that is why they like fighting so much and beatings are a sign of courtship.

you can sometimes see it in people irl too. some would absolutely go crazy from a little tickle, others just shrug their shoulders and basically don't react. some like it 'a little rough', some detest it. ddifferent reactions to stimuli according to how their bodies translate it - as pleasure or pain. different degrees of sensitivity.

so as an addition to the fact that binghe considers the fan smacks a "proof of shizun's care and consideration", it's not even painful to him and is possibly even more pleasurable than a headpat that binghe would barely feel. of course, any contact with his shizun is to be appreciated, but the fan smack is something he can feel.

and, well, masochism is when you like pain. so binghe can't be considered a masochist when he likes smacks and hits and hair pulling which to him don't feel painful but pleasurable instead, right?

[pokemonvillainadventures]

🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️

Team Skull x Injured Reader

Opening up isn't easy, but is suffering in silence any better?

Pokemon: Dewpider

🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️🩼☠️

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

*AUGHH* FUCK! *sharp inhale* ohhh . . ohhhh . .fuck . . . *sharp inhale* yep . . nope . .definitely not good . . *ack* . .

Welp, that's one sure fire way to twist your ankle and possibly break your ass in the process. What the fuck ended up happening? Well maybe, just maybe training in the pouring Po Town rain, not a smart idea. Training in the Rain on some slippery ass block of concrete also not good. Having your own Pokemon be a water type that knows Bubble Beam and, has yet to perfect it causing stray suds to fly everywhere, ccombined with the previous and you've got a recipe that'll lead you broken ass first to the Pokemon center.

Oh your Dewpider, your sweet precious Dewpider. As much as you loved having them as a partner they weren't exactly the most graceful little bug around. Ironic for the water type to easily go sliding at the slightest limb touching a puddle. Her bubble beam although powerful tends to go everywhichway except for the target infront of it. Which is why you were out here today. Which is why you're also hugging your left ankle praying to Arceus that you didn't break anything. Feeling around the wounded area despite rain chilling you to your core, your ankle was on fire and already starting to swell.

How this baby bug managed to shed tears under that ball of water was beyond you. Though, with a heavy sigh and small pat on her head you couldn't get mad at her. The only thing that worried you was how you were going to keep this hidden from the team. The last thing you needed was for them to go on making fun of you for doing something so stupid. With the best of your ability you managed to rise from your seat with your now muddy shorts. Pain shot through you like a jolt from a pikachu as you bit on your cheek to muffle your cries. Painfully, slowly and painfully, you hobbled back to the steps of the shady house, praying that no one would notice your wobbly walking pattern.

The Grunts:

• Okay listen. . .

•None of them actually knew that you were injured into you sarcastically pointed it out and then they all collectively went "ohhhhhhh okay"

•I mean . . . the KINDA knew that somethin' was a little bit off . . . but only kinda.

•Since the Grunts live by a no judgment principle, for the most part, they tend to not want to point out anything in case it might hurt someones feelings.

•Like yeah . . . in theory that seems nice but that means everyone just silently observes your clearly struggling form and just hope that this is a choice and not an accident.

•Yeah, sure you didn't want to get anyone else involved with your carelessness but come onnnnn seriously?!?

•You loved them, but in this moment if you had to keep going around doing all your normal tasks on a swollen ankle you were going to kill someone!

•Well luckily after you pointed it out to them everyone was quick to drop what they were doing to try and help you out.

•Albeit, a few of them did still poke fun of you for getting injured to some bubbles but hey at least they were trying.

•Emphasis on the TRYING. . . yeah unless you got 10₽ and you were a Pokemon they could heal you just fine. So makeshift remedies were going to be your saving grace until your ankle magically healed itself or, you were forced to be rushed to the nearest Pokecenter and hope they didn't need to cut it off.

•Well with as many grunts that fill these halls someone was bound to come up with something to make you feel better.

•And so the grunts would each take turns trying makeshift remedies and watching random Poketube videos that might help your ankle. Each idea leading nowhere and causing you to form an additional headache!

•Your body mangled on the living room floor as grunts tried elevating your foot with different objects, such as but not limited to, pillows, comic books, an old bucket, a pile of loose tiles, and someones grimer who felt more inclined to eat the sock right off your foot than actually trying to hold it up.

•In the kitchen grunts were working away grabbing random foods and concocting remedies that "worked so well for them when they got sick". Though failing to realize that you weren't sick just injured and no matter what they shove in your mouth, if it isn't pain killer, your ankle is staying twisted.

•Still though, as you lay on the floor watching as your fellow teammates aee actually going out their way to try an make you feel better, was indeed making you feel better.

• ". . . thanks guys."

Guzma:

•Well Guzma wasn't the happiest person to receive this news.

•He wasn't angry! Just a teeny tiny bit a little frustrated . . .to say the least.

•"So . . . What the fuck happened?"

•Hahaha oh boy.

•After explaining to him your not so graceful training session with Dewpider, the boss was really trying his best to keep up the "grumpy upset look" while holding back stiffled laughter.

•However that doesn't stop him from pulling the "ya stupid!?" Comment on you while he lifts your body and carries it off to one of the many beds that litter this house.

•You could feel a rush of embarrassment cross your face as some of the grunts giggled to themselves at the scene playing out before them.

•Being carried like a child in the bosses arms no less was not something you wished for others to see.

•Grumbling to yourself you let put a small "This is so stupid!"

•But Guzma was quick to clap back, big smirk and all.

•"Play stupid games and win stupid prizes sweetcheeks."

•Opening the door and flopping you down on the bed, despite his tough guy exterior he was genuinely concerned about you. Why else did Guzma choose the room with a bed closest to his?

•"Now I ain't a doctor or somethin' but stay here and don't move a whole lot. Here *he hands over a few pillows* try elevating it to get the red down. *He stands up to start leaving* Ya got that?! Now I don't want to see you move? Got it!?"

•You nod back.

•"Got it?!?"

•You sigh. "Yes."

•Before he leaves for good he turns back to tell you "Hey . . . if you need anything, just holler. . I'll try to help as best as I can. ."

•He finally leaves you, a blushing mess, on the bed.

Plumeria:

•Surprisingly, a lot more vocal about her frustration in this situation.

•"Arceus Fuck! . . Gahhh . uhh . . Damn, when did this happen?! What happened?! Why did this happen!?"

•Behind that wall of frustration was the hint of genuine concern, even if her showing it was through means of bombarding questions.

•Trying your best to explain the whole situation Plumeria was doing her best to shoo off the grunts so that you had room to breath.

•"Oh so you felt like acting stupid by yourself no less, on one of the rainiest days?"

•"Um . . yeeesss??"

•"Where was your phone you could have at least phoned me up so I could have idk, helped you?!"

•"Sorry?"

•"Ughhh . . let me guess you didn't even have your phone on you?! Where is your phone, give me your phone!"

•Snatching the phone out of your hand, she puts her number into your contacts and staring it as a favorite.

•"Cool. . . now when you feel the need to act stupid again, call me and I'll smack you."

•Sitting in your spot like a deerling caught in the headlights, your body is hoisted off the ground as she helps you to stand. She tries her best to drag you along, to her room of all places.

•"I don't want you climbing up those stairs and twisting something else. Just don't touch anything got it?!"

•Shoving the door open, her room was actually very inviting. Her bed laced with stuffed PokePlushes. A small vanity was seen across from it. A desk lay next to the bed, and next to that was a small bookshelf. Honestly it was the only non-neat thing in that room. Her makeup was everywhere, and the little trinkets that call the self home were spaced out sparatickly.

•"Sit! And don't move. . . and don't touch anything either!"

•Sitting on her bed you made damn sure not to move an inch. Plumeria eventually came back into the room holding a glass of water and some medicine.

•Shoving it in your face she barked out "Drink!"

•Again you obeyed.

•"Now lay down!"

•Feeling the softness of her bed engulf you, it almost made the pain in your ankle disappear, you hadn't even noticed Plumeria was laying down next to you.

•She moved her laptop off her desk and between the two of you.

•"The meds might take a bit for them to kick in." And off she went to pull up a movie, "The Angry Pidgeys" and that was that.

•Not another word was spoken between the two of you, but she didn't need to say anything. The way she put the extra blanket around you instead of her, how she used one of her plushes as an elevation for your foot. How she brought out the good snacks from her stash. She just wanted you to feel comfortable, all in her own Big Sis way.

🪲🎧🖤☠️🪲🎧🖤☠️🪲🎧🖤☠️🪲🎧🖤☠️

[the-grubdog]

Heritage Theory is Canon

I rise back from the dead (read: college kicking my ass) to say that MY THEORY WAS JUST CONFIRMED CANON. Look at the Japanese website:

Image transcript: The ruins and treasures of this planet, although different in size, are somehow similar to those we know, and sometimes even feel nostalgic. According to "The Shepard Complete History" written by the successive rescue team captains, the ancestors of the Kagiya [Giya] planet came from a "beautiful blue planet". If that was the planet PNF-404, we may have returned to our mother planet after a long time.

I WAS LITERALLY WORKING ON AN UPDATED VERSION OF MY THEORY POST WHEN THIS WAS POSTED.

I WAS RIGHT YA'LL.

I don't think I'll upload that updated version of the post, as it is (a) mostly unfinished and (b) kinda pointless now! Just know that evidence also comes from (all in Pikmin 4/related material):

Other parts of this same site

Olimar's notes on the Buddy Display, Heroic Shield, and Memory Fragment (Center Right)

A conversation you can have with Olimar post-final boss fight

Olimar's notes on the final boss

The Shepherd Family history

Also I want to share some more lore this site brings up. Because it also gives us some juicy Wraith Lore(tm) and some possible explanations for why some ships crash and others don't.

ALSO ALSO: This is all machine translated. If anyone has a human translated version, or is interested in making one, PLEASE let me know so I can reference it instead!

Image transcript: Consideration 1, small size, it doesn't have the engine power to escape the planet. Consideration 2, entering at a high speed, like a shooting star, it crashed into the planet at high speed.

Basically, the S.S. Beagle is small and entered at a high enough speed to escape the planet's grasp.

Image transcript: Unlike the space-time of the universe we know, it is believed that each time the stranded person observes the planet, it transitions to a different phase. The changes are so great that it's as if the planet itself has a will of its own.

This comes after a long description of how the planet changes every game. Just for further context.

Image transcript (with an error fixed for readability): Pikmin are always found near those lost in distress. They are friendly and devoted partners who cooperate with us to achieve our goals. However, isn't this a little too convenient? If the Pikmin are calling for a good leader to ensure the survival of their species and are preventing us from returning, it would be better to think that we are the ones being used. It falls into this category.

I don't think pikmin are evil, FAR from it... but they are still animals, animals that act to survive. You know? If pikmin ARE crashing the ships, then it's no more evil then how bulborbs eat pikmin to survive. Those are my two cents anyways.

Image transcript: According to Olimar, while inside the Amenyudo's [Plasm Wraith's] body, he dreamed of "giant humans similar to ourselves living with Pikmin and lots of other creatures." In addition, the roller-shaped stones of the Amebouzu [Water Wraith] have been found to contain minerals found in meteorites, which may suggest that they may be involved in the crash of the Dolphin. Perhaps they are dreaming of living with humans again and are causing the spaceship to crash?

WRAITH LORE. Also, note the translation of "human". There's a word on the site that the characters use to refer to themselves collectively, which the machine translator translates as "human". Based on me looking the word up on Jisho, an English-Japanese dictionary, this appears to be correct. However, as I don't know Japanese yet, I'll also clarify that "people" might also be a valid translation.

Anyways. Humans once lived with these weird creatures, wraiths and pikmin included. The wraiths missed us. Please ignore how they're also homicidal towards the starfolk.

Image transcript: One theory is that the planet meets the definition of a living organism, meaning that it is somehow beckoning us to it, and that everything we experience here is being orchestrated.

Planet is alive.

I have no idea how else to end this off.

But the planet is alive.

And it wants us back.

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (VII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and whatever prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWOis here PART THREEis here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and this is lucky number seven baby 💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts

Where we last left off... Martian Manhunter did a Whoopsie. Things are better than they were though, so...success? YJ got in trouble with Batman but Danny wasn't exactly cognizant enough to notice so that got relegated to the tags.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my awful attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

The debriefing team meets J’onn in a meeting room not too far from the cafeteria. By the time he makes it to the correct floor, the team has clearly been waiting on him; on the table are a pack of Chocco cookies, a large order of fries, and a ten pack of chicken nuggets. 

J’onn inclines his head. It’s nice to see that his favorite meal is remembered. “Thank you, Batman.” 

Batman’s nod is equally as formal. The human is already most of the way through his italian sub. “No thanks needed. Were you successful in your contact with the entity?” 

Ah. Right to the details, then. J’onn obliges the question with a seat at the table. Black Canary, a chair to his right, gently scoots over to provide him more space. 

In the end, J’onn is relieved to have a prop in his hands. It creates a small, if flimsy barrier between himself and the images the boy had shown him. 

What he knows now…

J’onn sighs. 

The room is peaceful— likely intentionally so, in order to ease the oncoming conversation. Wonder Woman and Black Canary sit beside each other, their individual meals open and half-eaten between them. As the facilitator of the conversation, Batman sits at the end of the table; as the secretary of the meeting, Superman sits beside him, his sloppy joe in one hand and a keyboard beneath the other. 

J’onn quietly tears open the packaging of his pack of cookies. Plucks one from its plastic insert inside. Chews. Swallows.

“The first thing to note is that although the entity's primary language is not known to me, he is extremely familiar with humans— and, likely, with Earth.” 

Superman swallows the rest of his sandwich in one gulp, nods, and begins to type. Batman turns to face J’onn directly. “How so?” 

“He has many memories of flying freely in Earth’s atmosphere, specifically; the stars line up with the star patterns as viewed from this planet. He is intimately familiar with several aspects of Earth’s culture, including the idea of ‘a bedroom’, which he identified as his own, and a childhood toy, which was a scale model of an Earth spacecraft. If I was shown a variety of options, I could likely pick out which craft specifically. He has a mind for detail.”

Superman’s fingers flick rapid-fire over the keyboard. J’onn happens to be aware of the Krytponian’s career, as the local telepath, but rarely is the man's passion so clearly shown; the focus and quick hands certainly project an air of professionalism around an otherwise at-ease debriefing room.

“You’re using he/him,” the Kryptonian observes, making additional notes in the margins of the in-progress report. “How did that come about?”

“He does have an understanding of the most common gender identities of Earth, and has a favored one. How he came about it…” J’onn inhales. It is a very human gesture. “…I do not know his origins for certain, but I have several theories.”

Batman cuts off an oncoming question from Superman with a silent wave of his hand. “Base information first. Questions and theoreticals at the end.”

Superman’s face at the hindering of his professional instincts is perhaps less than completely mature. “Yes, yes.”

J’onn takes a second cookie.

It’s easy to report on certain things; the entity's initial inability to communicate without acute pain, the subsequent reaction of the teenage team, the eventual discovery of clear communication and transference of emotion.

“Not all of his thoughts were particularly clear.” J’onn nibbles on the edge of his cookie. Black Canary pushes aside her empty tray of California rolls to give her pen and notepad space. This portion of the debrief necessitates more of her skills. “Most of the memories that he aimed to show me were value-neutral, or otherwise unrelated memories, likely due to the stress of his current and deeply traumatic situation. He preferred memories that did not have pain or distress associated with them. When prompted—I displayed my own perspective of the crash we had found him in— the associated memories that were brought up implied that not only was he the pilot of the craft, but that he had a hand in building it.”

Superman’s rhythmic tapping undercuts the soft conversation. “So he is sapient, then, despite the difficulties in communication,” Wonder Woman confirms softly.

“More than. There are echoes of formalized schooling and other instruction in his mind, although I couldn’t discern the topics of the lessons.”

“Were there other beings like him? Anyone we could reach out to? Family members, friends…?”

J’onn hesitates. There’s no way to confirm what he saw. However…

“…There are memories that he has of his own person, in which he looks very human. His self-conceptualization is of an adolescent human boy.”

The grief in the room is palpable. J’onn doesn’t have to look up to feel it press in on him from all sides.

“I suspect that…in the same way that Superman has largely spent his life on Earth, this boy has at least spent several years on Earth as well. There are glosses of memories of an adapted human house, though I was unable to safely explore how far back they went. There are humans who prominently play a role in his self-image and expected worldview, although the mental representations of them have scarred over with some form of psychological trauma. Overall, despite his current form, there was likely a time this child felt safe around both humans and human scientists.” 

Silence rules over the room. 

“...Do we know what changed that?” Black Canary asks, without looking up from her notes. Her pencil eraser taps quietly against the table. 

J’onn sets the package of cookies to the side. “Not…so exactly. There were hints of memories threaded throughout the recalled moments that he did not wish to pin down. Claustrophobia. Fear of incarceration. The fear of physical harm done to him— and the psychological harm of knowing with exact certainty that there were those willing to hurt him. …Intimate betrayal.” 

Superman and Black Canary’s eyes quietly close. Batman looks hardly moved under his cowl; if J’onn could not feel the man’s stress spike in the air, he might not have ever known how worried the human was. 

J’onn isn’t actually meant to know Superman’s circumstances as to his arrival on planet Earth, but there are equally few ways that any of the league can hide the entirety of their thoughts from him— especially at the time of his initial arrival into the League, when mental defenses had yet to be erected in a comprehensive manner. This situation smacks strongly of the story of Clark Kent, son of his human parents. 

“There is no way to confirm my guess without further conversation on the topic. However, it is incredibly likely that he lived under the radar, on Earth, for a lengthy enough span of time to acclimate to human society. The discovery of his non-human biology would have spurred further action, and the result would have given reason for his fear of medical professionals, scientists, and adult humans. Likely, the other humans in his memories meant to support him, and were prevented from doing so or injured in the process. The vehicle that had crashed back to Earth would have served as—”

“—An escape route,” several voices overlap together. 

J’onn nods. His fingers steeple together. “There is no way to know how far into space he had gotten, or if his escape was aided by others of his species, or even if the point of origin was in low atmosphere or Earth's orbit. Either way, our patient is alone now, is in extreme background pain, has lost perception in several of his senses that exclude taste, and has reluctantly bonded with the junior team due to a lack of more familiar presences.”

Batman’s emotional presence circles into a silent exhale of frustration. “That would be Impulse’s under-the table operation,” the human correctly identifies, dry as the desert. 

(J’onn is certain that the vigilante will never reveal it, even to himself, but the exhale has its own quiet, microscopic tinge of reluctant amusement.)

“I don’t think it qualifies as under-the-table if you have a running file on his activities, dated and timed by every individual interaction,” Superman points out, not even bothering to glance at the now-slightly-peeved Batman. 

“Hn.”

“Oh, very mature.” 

“It was not league sanctioned.”

“Neither are the majority of your movements,” Wonder Woman points out. The fork from her salad punctuates her sentence with a tease and a wave. “If you informed us your security plans for the Watchtower any earlier than a week after you had already installed the new measures, I would assume you were an imposter and prepare for battle.”

Batman hardly looks put out. He achieves deception with his whole body. J’onn genuinely admires how discordant his behavior and churning thoughts can be. 

“Hn.”

 “Oh, very well-spoken,” Black Canary flatters insincerely, toying with her pencil against her paper. 

It would be very immature of Batman to sulk. Therefore, he does not. 

“Returning to the point of this meeting… Are there any other pertinent details we ought to know?” 

J’onn considers shrugging. He packs three chocco cookies into his mouth instead, chews, and swallows. There are only two cookies left in the pack, now. 

“The biological mechanism utilized for his empathic sense is vibrationally-based. That would be why my initial attempt at communication failed so tremendously; if he does have a neurological center, it is too deeply damaged to interpret telepathic input. He has a fondness for astronomy, can recognize the color red with greatest ease, and likely needs high contrast if we would like him to recognize any materials we provide. He imprinted on Impulse likely because the boy’s presence in the Speedforce mimics the energy readings he expects to see in those of his species.” 

Superman hums. His fingers fly. “So he must have met others of his species before.” 

J’onn makes a so-so motion. “There is no way to be certain. His abilities may be instinctually pre-programmed, or he may have had access to outside materials to teach him.” 

Batman’s arms cross. His sandwich, which had been sitting on the table, is now entirely vanished— wrapper and all. “Was there any evidence as to either particular theory you were able to pick up on?”

“...No.” Hadn’t he indicated such?

“Was there any personal information you were able to pick up on?” 

J’onn has to think about that one. The topic hadn’t come up during their mental exchange, when so much more of the focus had been on creating basic understanding of the Watchtower, his presence within their base as a patient and not as a prisoner, and his current location on the moon. Anything else that J’onn might have gleaned would have to be determined on supposition and analysis. 

“...He enjoys astronomy.” J’onn tries to recall the exact memories he had seen, and only ends up reiterating what he has already said. Perhaps highlighting certain moments will make the narrative clearer. “His childhood dwelling had little stickers on his ceiling. They would stay lit even when the room went dark—”

“...Glow in the dark stars,” Superman whispers under his breath. J’onn exhales. This isn’t a familiar point of human culture for him. He’s glad his description is recognizable. 

“Yes. He organized them to mimic Earth's constellations. He had smaller, handheld versions of rocket ships. Even if he had not known of extraterrestrial origins, he was drawn to the cosmos.” 

Batman coughs. The gesture is a reflex to suppress some welling emotion. J’onn pretends that it works. “Both items are…markers of a young child,” Batman admits. “Indications of a quite young, very human childhood.” 

Ah. J’onn can more deeply recognize the sense of tragedy welling in the air. The items are astronomy-based yes, but they equally highlight his age. 

“When he donned a human appearance, he matched the coloration of the human family who took him in. As fleeting as their acquaintance might have been, he modeled his human form after them— solidly enough and surely enough that, if he feels strong enough to form a mental self-representation, I can see the outline of it in his memories.” No details, beyond vague hints in the entity's mind of his hair and her eyes and their skin.

“Very loved,” Wonder Woman murmurs. 

“Very young, and very loved,” Black Canary reiterates with a sigh. Her notes are a black mess of graphite. “And now he fears adult humans.” 

“Yes,” J’onn admits. The cookies are gone. He sets the wrapper to the side. He reaches for the chicken nuggets. “That said, he has an instinctual familiarity with black and with red hair, will likely experience less fear with a female profile as opposed to a male, and responded favorably when offered the chance to interact with an adult who did not mean him harm. The fact that we have largely indestructible adults at our disposal works to our advantage.”

It is very, very clear who exactly fills that description. Wonder Woman sits up straight, laces her fingers together, and very kindly curtails her smugness. If Superman and Batman would like to be jealous of her current position, they may do so at their own discretion.

[shuacore]

barcelona nights

reader (afab) x lsm — 6.9K summary:  "The music is all but static in the background, and for a moment it’s just the two of you again, drinking in the airless summer night and the sounds of other couples enjoying each other’s company. You run your thumb across Seokmin’s bottom lip, completely enraptured. His eyes are dangerously dark." —a/n: a fun little birthday present for my bffl ang <3 tags: swearing, smut (18+), probably too much plot n not enough smut, not completely proofread i’m so sorry, mentions of alcohol??, emotional and physical intimacy are my kryptonite, additional warnings under the cut

additional warnings: unprotected sex (always be safe pls!!), oral (f receiving),  pet names (princess, baby, angel, etc), not very adventurous but i would do anything with him tbh

playlist 4 the vibes!!! wyoming — elijah fox a quick getaway — stephen rennicks spring 1 — max richter, antonio vivaldi puerto claridad — amparanoia bamboleo — gypsy kings since i don’t have you — the skyliners the sun is in your eyes — jacob collier tell me — groove theory

Sweat drips down the bridge of your nose as the precarious stack of books in your hands threatens to wobble. Please, for the love of God, don’t fall. The summer heat is brutal—hot and humid—and it sucks all of the energy out of you as you shuffle to the library. It had been a difficult week of research and you were finally returning your books, ready to throw them and the stress from working so hard away. A bead of sweat lingers on your brow, slipping onto your eyelid and you blink furiously, praying it stays there until you can set your burden down. 

In your fervor, you walk a bit too close to the curb, your toes slipping off the edge—you feel the stack slip dangerously, and you curse out loud as you realize you’re falling, desperately clutching your books to your chest, the pavement below approaching a bit too fast when—

A hand clamps around your wrist, hauling you out of the street just as a car zooms past, ruffling your hair. 

“Careful!” a male voice says, breathless. And when you get a good look at your savior, it feels like you’ve been rocketed into one of the dramas you and your roommates obsessed over. 

His name is Lee Seokmin, he’s 25, an anthropology major, and he is the most handsome and charming man you have ever seen. He picks you up off the street, flashes you the most blinding smile, and then your mind goes blank. The rest is history.

So it’s no surprise to you after three years when he still asks questions like, “Do you remember when we met?” You resist the urge to scoff fondly. Always so sentimental.  

It’s a warm summer evening as you sit on the plaza, observing the night life of a quiet coastal Spanish town you had come across during the day. You pause the furious digging in your purse—for something which you had forgotten some time ago—to look at your partner, whose eyes are glazed over in dreamy contentment. 

“Really?” you ask, tampering down the amused look of disbelief that fights its way across your face. Seokmin hates being teased unless he initiates, even if it’s all in good fun. 

“No, I’m serious,” he says, in unwavering sincerity, head lolling against the back of the bistro chair as he watches you unabashedly. Even after so many years, Seokmin’s eyes still set your skin on fire, and he looks so picturesque like this, just a little bit undone from the day’s toils and a few glasses of wine down the line. The collar of his shirt is open a few buttons down, exposing a swatch of buttery smooth skin that—after the drinks you’ve had—makes your mouth water. He looks like the last burst of fading sunlight before nightfall. 

You shake your head with a small smile. “You’re ridiculous. Of course I do.”

Seokmin opens his mouth to say something else when his nostalgic reverie is interrupted by the waiter, who asks quietly if the two of you would like anything else. Your fiancé orders two more glasses of wine for the both of you, and thanks the waiter again as he finally takes the menus from your table. 

It’s quieter now. The night is beginning to dwindle down, your bellies full of good food and wine, and in the distance the ocean waves wash across the rocky shores, pulling pebbles out to sea with quiet shushing sounds. The air is salty on your tongue, and you know you probably look a mess, especially after the long day of heat and humidity, but Seokmin watches you with shining eyes like you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. You blush sheepishly, fingers finally finding your lipstick in the bottom of your bag. 

“What?” you hiss without malice as Seokmin studies you. His cheeks are flushed, eyes shining even against the slowly dimming night light, and if you could commit an image to memory, if would be right here, right now, sitting at this table with him. Your stomach twists and you’re not sure if it’s a twinge of pain or an all-engulfing rush of affection, so instead you offer him another shy smile and replace your bag on the ground. 

He shakes his head, more to himself, and says, “You’ll make fun of me.” 

“Sure.”

“You’re just so radiant. All the time.” 

You suck in a breath, cheeks burning and laugh nervously. Seokmin was an all-or-nothing kind of guy, which meant you got all of his affection, all the time. It was overwhelming in the beginning, seeing how devoted he could be to one person, but you had grown accustomed to the quiet deference in which he did everything for you. Compliments were near holy to him. Nothing was more intimate than your name. His actions always spoke louder than words. For a while you had been resistant to it—like you would never quite deserve all the love he had to give—but Seokmin had a way of worming his way into your heart and lodging there until his smile was the only thing you could think of when you woke up. 

The waiter appears with two glasses in hand, asks once more if you need anything, before floating away again. You lift the glass—it’s a deep crimson and smells faintly sweet—and swirl the stem around in your fingers, watching the wine coat the sides of the glass with mesmerizing smoothness. 

Seokmin lifts his glass and murmurs a toast. You say it back, and the glasses hit each other with a soft ding! His eyes glint at you over the rim as he takes a sip. The wine is velvet on your tongue, rich and full-bodied, and it sends a flurry of warmth down your throat. 

You hum in appreciation and set the glass down on the table. Above, the stars blink into existence, mimicking the lights flickering to life around the plaza. They wash the patio in a lovely yellow glow, throwing Seokmin into soft relief. He looks a little out of it, pretty lips parted in hazy awe of the scenery around him. It’s still humid, but not too warm—just cool enough that it’s hard to tell where your body ends and the rest of the world begins. A moped passes by, its headlights bouncing off the stone walls of the buildings around you. The chatter from other cafe-goers could be white noise in the trees. In the background the sounds of sultry guitar float through the air, soaking into your skin and you sigh deeply, stretching your arms high into the air above you. It lulls you into a serene sense of calm and you close your eyes—just for a moment. 

Then—“Hey, dance with me,” you hear, whispered by lips pressed to your ear, and you open your eyes slowly to see Seokmin crouched next to your chair, his hand extended in offering. He looks so lovely here, so unguarded and pleased, the same overwhelming feeling of adoration—so strong it overflows into your throat—is difficult to choke back down. You take another hearty swig of wine, feeling it sink into your stomach and turn your legs to jelly. It activates the fuzzy feeling sitting dormant in your body, lifting you out of your chair and into the plaza center with other couples swaying slowly to the music emanating across the square. It all feels so horribly cinematic you’re having difficulty believing any of it’s real. 

You inhale sharply as Seokmin pulls you close to him, your bodies snapping together like magnets. His skin is sticky and warm from the summer heat as his hands brush over your ribcage and come to rest on your waist, coaxing you into a sensual rhythm of swaying hips and chests rising and falling in tandem. His strong arms wrap around you, pulling you tight to his body. The wine keeps you limber—which is nice because otherwise you’d be two left feet with out it. 

Seokmin tips his head to rest his sticky forehead against yours, eyes dancing with mirth in the evening light. His fingers press into the small of your back, searing through the gauzy fabric of your blouse, igniting a slow burn that sweeps through your whole body. You sigh deeply as your eyes flutter closed, taking in the sounds of soft timbales and claves bouncing off the stone under your feet, the heat from Seokmin’s body on yours, and his lips pressed against your skin, murmuring sweet nothings into your ear.

It’s sexy, to say the least. The laughter and conversations around you vanish until all you know is the sound of Seokmin’s breath ragged in your ear and hot on your cheek. He smells like rosemary and mint and the soap from the hostel. His lips dip dangerously low on your cheek until they brush over the skin under your jaw, sending a chill down your spine despite the heat. Seokmin smiles against your temple as your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, skirting low over the smooth expanse of his stomach. He hums into your ear—a warning—as your fingertips trail just a little higher. But you’re still in public, so you pull back just enough to smile coyly at him and smooth the hem of his shirt back down.

The music is intoxicating, the melody swelling and swaddling you in a heady daydream of nothing but Seokmin. You tuck your nose into his shoulder, inhaling deeply as his fingers dance up your spine and land lightly on the back of your neck.

“God, I love you,” he confesses, and his laughter is swallowed by your lips suddenly on his, giddy and girlish. It’s just supposed to be an innocent peck—just a quick one you could share in public—but with the wine having gone completely to your head, the music reverberating in your chest, and Seokmin’s tongue in your mouth, it’s difficult to concentrate. Seokmin tastes like the Albariño you ordered, like lemon and nectarine, and so, so sweet your knees turn to liquid. He hums in content as a soft sigh escapes your mouth, unprompted. His hands are firm on your hips, fingers lacing through the belt loops of your skirt to pull you closer. You tangle your own in the damp strands at the nape of his neck, relishing the own sounds you can persuade from your partner’s throat. 

Someone catcalls in the background and you come to with a start. Seokmin’s face is rosy—from the wine or from you, it’s hard to tell—but he’s well past the point of having the grace to look embarrassed. His eyes are glued to you, drinking you in completely. You grin, hiding your face in his chest. The music is all but static in the background, and for a moment it’s just the two of you again, drinking in the airless summer night and the sounds of other couples enjoying each other’s company. You run your thumb across Seokmin’s bottom lip, completely enraptured. His eyes are dangerously dark.

“Go back to the hotel?” you whisper, mouth hovering mere centimeters away from his. 

Seokmin’s next kiss is indication enough. Grabbing your purse, he throws a few bills onto the bistro table before tugging you away from the plaza. Street signs bleed into flights of rickety stairs and cobblestone alleyways into flowered medians and quiet side roads. The ocean roars in greeting as you run unsteadily back to your hotel. Street lamps blaze into life amid loud shouts of laughter from nearby pedestrians, and the fluttery feeling in your stomach only grows. The only thing that stays constant is the feeling of Seokmin’s hand in yours, firm and reassuring. 

Then, unprompted, Seokmin tugs you into a hidden alcove off the street, and presses you hard against the brick wall, tilting your jaw up with his thumbs to pull you into a searing kiss. He draws in a sharp breath, groaning softly into your mouth as you sag into his touch. You feel like a teenager again, sneaking off the beaten path so you can put your hands all over each other. Seokmin is impatient—his hands dig into your hips, his mouth is on your jaw, and his body is so hot it’s any wonder he hasn’t yet burst into flames. 

“Seokmin,” you gasp, nails digging into his chest, breaking away. His excitement is palpable. He groans, irritated, and tips his forehead against your cheek, still holding you tight to him like you might still slip through his fingers. You extract yourself from his grasp, a little dizzy from the lack of oxygen and pull him away from the wall amidst protests. The privacy of your hotel room can’t arrive fast enough and it feels like eons before you’re pushing Seokmin against the back of the door yourself—so hard the air is knocked from his lungs—but he grins breathlessly as he draws you close, hip to hip, chest to chest, mouth to mouth.

You breath him in, smelling the lingering traces of cigarette smoke and lavender from the night markets on his clothes. Seokmin is all teeth and all tongue, hands traveling up and down the curve of your waist, over your ass, up your forearms and shoulders. His thumb tugs on your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open as he slips his tongue in once more. You dissolve in his hands like water—you’ve always been so pliant with him, so eager to please it goes straight to his head.  

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbles, hand holding your jaw in place. His eyes are asking for a challenge. 

But you feel needy and slightly hysterical that it’s all you can do to say weakly, “You.” 

Seokmin’s breath is hot in your mouth and you have no choice but to ride the wave. This is Seokmin’s all-or-nothing, as he drags your thin linen blouse off your shoulders, popping the top button clean off amid breathless laughter so he can press more open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and collarbone. You sigh deeply, winding your fingers into the hair at the back of his head again, chasing his lips with potent desperation. Seokmin grins, canines glinting wolfishly in the moonlight. It’s difficult to see in the burgeoning darkness—nothing but vague shadows dancing on the walls—so you kick off your shoes haphazardly, stumbling until your knees eventually strike the edge of the bed. You hit the mattress with a huff!, Seokmin in tow. His hand is hot against your bare skin, palm pressed flat to your chest where your heart races.

“This is your fault, by the way,” you tease, and Seokmin feigns sympathy, except his fingers are little too far up your thigh for the sympathy to land. You suck in a breath, eyes burning as Seokmin gazes at you with undisguised want, eyes flicking around your face in a dizzying pattern—eyes, lips, cheeks, forehead, nose, eyes, lips—like it was the first time he’d ever seen you. The air grows thicker like mud, sticking in your nose and throat and you struggle to swallow, pushing yourself off the bed. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Seokmin asks, voice laced with worry. His figure is clothed in deep blue shadow in the imminent darkness. Air is sparse, and anxiety flares in your stomach, unexpected, and you press a hand to your racing heart, willing it to slow. Your pulse is erratic and you realize you’re nervous.

“Woah, talk to me,” Seokmin pleads again, sitting up. His fingers around your wrist are soft, like all of him, and it eases the sudden ache in your chest, even if just a little. You place your other hand on top of his, stroking your thumb over his knuckles. 

Your voice is hoarse. “Just nervous. I don’t know why—it’s so silly.” 

And then Seokmin is there, tucking you into his arms and his nose in your hair, swaying as he holds you for a moment. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want. You know that.” 

You frown, pushing away from his chest. “No–no, I want this. Just–had a moment, but I’m ok.” You lean your forehead on his shoulder again. “I’m always ok when I’m with you.” The quiet presses in on your ears. The incessant buzzing in your fingertips fades to the background, slowing to the steady rhythm of Seokmin’s heartbeat in his chest—reliable as always, a constant you had come to memorize like the spots on his face. 

“I’m right here, baby,” he whispers against your temple. “Whatever you want.”

The soft glow from the street lamps outside illuminate his features in a tranquil yellow hue. He looks angelic, always so gentle and willing, that it sucks the remaining air out of your lungs. 

He settles back on the edge of bed, hands resting on your hips as he gazes up at you with adoration so tangible it makes your heart ache. You run your fingers gently through his hair, pushing the dark strands off his forehead and trace the shape of his profile with your pointer finger, down his forehead and the bridge of his nose, pausing over his waiting lips, down his chin until you grasp it in between your thumb and forefinger. 

“You’re beautiful, too, you know?” you say, voice soft. And Seokmin smiles, pleased, and it lights up his whole face, sending a bolt of warmth down your throat like lightning. The crashing waves of the ocean are muffled under the sound of your heart in your ears. Seokmin is quiet, arms tight around your waist. Had it not been for the pulsing rhythm in your body, this might have been a tender moment—but the heat is still there, prodding in your stomach, building, smoldering, aching. 

You want him. Bad.

With a noise of impatience, you pull his face back towards yours, curving your body to pull him in, kissing him longingly, hoping he’ll sense the desperation growing in your stomach, understand the way you need to feel him under and over and inside you. Seokmin reads you like the back of his hand—senses the tension in your shoulders—and knows that if he uses his mouth just right your last remaining shred of self-control will snap.

He pulls at the rest of the buttons on your blouse with agonizing restraint, kissing every inch of skin revealed with painstaking deference. His mouth trails down your sternum, pausing as he listens to the quiet exhales that leave your mouth. The skin on your stomach is sensitive to his touch, and you bite back a few nervous giggles as Seokmin ghosts his lips just down to where the waistband of your skirt rests on your hips. His thumbs dig into the skin there, and he peers up at you, eyes sparkling mischievously. Asking for permission. You nod, breath shallow in your throat.

“Should be on my knees for a princess,” your fiancé murmurs lowly, dropping to his knees in front of you. What had been a steady flame in your gut erupts into a hunger so strong it might consume you from the inside out. Your mouth goes dry as he gentle pulls you down to the mattress, urging you to sit. 

In the same tender manner, Seokmin lifts the sole of your foot to his lips, eyes darkening as your breath quickens yet. His breath fans across your bare skin, up your ankles and your shin, before he pauses to press a hot kiss to the inside of your knee, teeth digging into the soft skin there. The static in your ears increases tenfold as his other hand pushes the hem of your skirt up to your waist. Seokmin’s mouth continues upward, stopping on the supple skin of the inside of your thighs. Hunger gnaws at your insides by now, and you tense your stomach in anticipation. Seokmin’s pupils are blown wide—impossibly dark as he takes you in—forcing you backwards, his mouth hovering just over the fabric in between you and complete bareness. Your breath quickens—waiting, waiting, waiting—as Seokmin’s tongue trails from the inside of your knee right to where your thigh pools at your hip. 

And then, with a dazed smirk, he sets your foot down—not on the floor—but gently over the bulge in his pants. Seokmin leans forward ever so slightly, eyes daring. Already he’s so hard, even under his trousers and it’s all you can do to stop yourself from falling apart right there.

“See what you do to me?” he rasps, breath hitching as you press your foot down—just a little—to feel him so vulnerable under you. Your panties are soaked by now—it feels like you’re wearing nothing at all. Seeing Seokmin like this, shirt unbuttoned to his stomach, hair still styled so nicely, lips parted with desire; you want him like this, now, all the time. 

“Seokmin–fuck–” you choke, the words ripped from your mouth as you feel his tongue, wet and hot over your panties. Seokmin tosses one of your feet over his shoulder as he wraps his fingers in the waistband, pulling your panties taut. The ability to control yourself is lost. You curve into his touch as Seokmin gently pulls your panties aside, and presses one last reverent kiss to the inside of your hip.  

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, breath fanning across your skin, “always so beautiful for me.” Then his mouth is on you, open-mouthed and scorching on your cunt, the tip of his tongue circling around your clit, tasting every part of you. You clench your fists into the sheets, gasping for air as he wraps his strong arms around your thighs to pin you down. Even still, you squirm away from his mouth, hands pushing at his head as he sends you to cloud nine. His eyes are searing even behind closed eyelids as he drinks your pleasure, watching in rapture. 

Seokmin’s voice is almost inaudible over the thrum of your heart in your ears. “You like the way I worship you, baby?”

“Yes, please, yes, oh my god, Seokmin, please,” you plead, lurching upwards to curl around his head as a particularly powerful bolt of pleasure rushes through your body. He’s ruthless, nails biting into your thighs as you writhe in pleasure, nose bumping against your clit, mouth planted firmly on your pussy as your cries become higher and more desperate. It builds and builds and builds, a rope in your gut stretching and pulling until you feel like you might snap in half. The pleasure mounts as Seokmin crudely licks his tongue up your cunt, pressed flat against your skin and you release a strangled groan, fingers knotting in his hair.

“S–Seokmin, I’m—” you gasp, body tensed in anticipation.

And then he leans back, and your release fades as quickly as it appeared. Your body aches uncomfortably. The mattress sinks down on either side of you as he braces his hands by your head. Seokmin grins, tucking a few pieces of hair gently behind your ear, dragging your mouth open with his thumb once more to push his tongue past your lips. He tastes like you and he moans as you pull him in by the back of his neck, kissing him fiercely.

“You’re a dick,” you protest, shoving his shoulder. Seokmin’s smile is tender, his cheeks flushed despite his actions just moments ago. 

“Hey,” he says in between kisses to your collarbone that stifle the feeble protests spewing from your mouth, “I don’t wanna go too fast.” 

You groan weakly, as he shifts his knee in between your thighs. He wraps his fingers around one of your ankles, lifting it up onto his hip. 

“But I wanna feel you,” you complain, looping your arms around his neck as if to urge him on. But Seokmin just shakes his head, grinning. His leg shifts again, pressing against the ache in between your thighs and you instinctively roll your hips, mouth dropping open at the touch. He places a large hand on your pelvis, pinning you to the bed.

“I’m taking my time with you,” he says against your mouth, smiling as you sag onto the bed. 

He wanted to fuck slow.

And he does, touching you with feather-light pressure, building your frustration and anticipation until you’re a sweating, panting, desperate disaster in his hands—and only then does Seokmin let you feverishly remove the rest of his clothes. The desire to feel him, see him, taste him has grown so vicious you might cry. He perches on the edge of the bed again, and with shaking hands you jerk the rest of his shirt off his broad shoulders, scraping your nails down his chest to the belt at his waist. You’ve always loved Seokmin’s body—its strong, lithe build, all toned and smooth. Seokmin curses under his breath, tossing his head back in pleasure as you kiss along his jaw and down his torso. The muscles in his stomach tense under your touch, pulled taut as your lips reach his hips again. Slowly, you undo the button on his trousers, all the while keeping burning eye contact. You want Seokmin to see how much you need him. 

“Let me touch you,” you whisper against his abdomen, waiting for the desperate nod, before your fingers slip under the waistband of his briefs to finally take him in your hand. Seokmin moans low and you moan with him, imagining when he would finally let you take him, how he would stretch you out, and you’d finally feel all of him. 

You pull your hand back to spit, making sure to keep your eyes on him as you do, before wrapping your fingers around his length again. Seokmin’s voice is choked in his throat as you run your hand up and down his entire shaft, taking care to twist your fist around the base of his cock, delicately trailing up and around the head, soaking up every breathy sound of satisfaction that leaves Seokmin’s lips. 

With palpable restlessness, you yank the rest of Seokmin’s clothes off, straddling him on the edge of the bed again. He feels the damp fabric of your panties against his thigh and groans, his fingers knitting into your hair to kiss you again, feverish and wanting. You grind down, feeling his cock hard against your pussy and laugh weakly—except it sticks in your throat as Seokmin’s nails dig into your hip, dragging your cunt down his length again. 

“You want me so bad, don’t you?” Seokmin goads, hand holding the back of your head as you roll your hips up and down his length with increasing desperation. Your nails dig into his chest. He pulls your panties to the side, eyes fluttering closed as your arousal slides over his skin. The heat of the room muddles your brain, heightening every sensation. You’re already so wet, needy and willing to do anything to make the tightness in your stomach go away. “Want me to fuck you, baby?”

“Please–” you beg, “need you. Seokmin–”

His lips are crushing, destroying any semblance of thought you might have had. 

“Go ahead, princess,” Seokmin groans, as you pull your panties to the side, sliding two fingers into yourself and using your arousal to lubricate his cock again. The weight of Seokmin’s cock in your hand, the sound of your fingers sliding down the length is enough to have you weak in the knees. Seokmin’s hands splay across your back, propping you up as you line up his cock with your entrance. 

Your fiancé has always been a romantic, and this time is no different as Seokmin kisses you, open mouth waiting to breathe in your needy moans as you slowly sink down onto his cock. In your agitation, it’s still tight, extracting a few hisses of discomfort out of you. But Seokmin is there, soothing you with quiet shushes against your lips, thumbs stroking your cheeks as you take him all the way. He stretches you out, nice and slow, drawing the air from your lungs. 

There you go, that’s my girl. You’re doing so well, baby.

His praise rolls over you like late afternoon sunlight, settling in your chest until you feel lightheaded—the love in your chest is too much to take. It feels more intimate than usual, being nose to nose with Seokmin like this, seeing every emotion flicker in his eyes, feeling his breath fan over your face as he pants. You comb your fingers through his hair and cup his face in your hands, as the fluttery, panicky desperation for a hold on reality reappears in your chest again. You gasp as Seokmin shifts farther onto the bed, nails biting into his scalp as he pulls you closer.

He can surely feel the supersonic pace of your heart against his chest and he shushes you gently, pressing his lips against your sternum.

“I–I just need you to relax, sweetheart,” you hear him murmur in your daze, hands running up and down your spine. “Just a little more.” 

You nod, eyes squeezes shut as you try to swallow the trepidation in your stomach. Seokmin takes it all with grace; his voice is like honey in your ear, sticky and sweet, whispering soft reassurances. Seokmin’s love can be so strong—even after all this time—that it overwhelms you, leaving you vulnerable and defenseless. You’re not used to the devotion that even now, it sometimes takes a little to get used to, so you tuck your nose in the crook of his neck. The smell of sunshine still sticks to his skin, like a moth to a flame. 

“Baby, are you still with me?” Seokmin asks, forefinger petting your cheek. “Hm?”

You nod wordlessly, breathing deeply while Seokmin watches, attentive, until you’ve finally taken all of him. Seokmin bottoms out with a strangled groan, and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, chest stuttering as you roll your hips with impatience. Even then, it’s still too much right away and you freeze, gasping for breath. 

“Hey,” Seokmin says, holding your face in his hands, “we have all night. Take it slow.”

“I know I just—ah–” you whine, stubborn, as you roll your hips again—ignoring the vague hesitancy in your stomach—this time relishing in the dull ache in between your legs, feeling the stretch and pull as Seokmin coaxes your hips into a lazy rhythm. He watches closely, mapping out your body with his hands, leaving you out of breath and hazy in the head. You throw your head back as he kisses your exposed throat, mouth hot over your skin. 

Seokmin rests his hand at the base of your throat—not quite squeezing—and leaves it there. The possessive glint in his eyes is enough to say you are mine. Mine. The thought alone is enough to have you falling into his touch. 

Mine.

Mine.

He slips the other hand lower, using his thumb to rub circles around your clit, persuading languorous moans from your mouth, watching you with sordid fascination as you respond to his every touch. You brace your hand on his knee, brow furrowing as the pleasure in your core molds into shape. It’s hot and heavy, radiating so strongly it makes your arm shake.

“Just like–that,” you whine, nails digging into Seokmin’s thigh as he fucks into you slow, gripping your ass so hard you know it’ll leave marks. He curses as you clench around his cock, urging him to go faster. But Seokmin is, and always has been, more patient than you, and he grins slowly, even through heavy-lidded eyes clouded with lust, gripping your hips tight enough to still your movement. 

“What did I say?” he challenges, lips hovering millimeters over yours. You frown, protests falling on deaf ears, as he leans in closer. His lips brush yours as he whispers, “Go. Slow.”

So you try, rolling your hips, grinding down on his cock until you think you might die, until your restlessness is as tangible as the arousal dripping onto Seokmin’s thighs. He fluctuates between playing with your clit–just until you’re on the verge of release—and waiting, just long enough to keep the buzz in your body at bay. Your knees ache as you hold yourself up, feeling Seokmin’s cock slide and and out, his hands in your hair and on your ass. He edges you, daring you to come first each time you whimper you’re close, waiting until the shaking in your fingers stops just for him to continue. 

You’ve never been a crier, but after twenty minutes of this, you’re certain that even a slight breeze would cause you to come undone. Seokmin’s cock rests deep inside to the hilt, his mouth is on your skin, and you know that if he moves, you’ll come harder than you ever have before. 

“Baby, please,” you beg, hips jerking at every slight movement, “please–”

Seokmin smiles, and even just the sight of his pretty teeth have the tears you’ve been holding back, rolling down your cheeks like two big fat admissions of defeat. You suck in a breath as Seokmin lifts you off his cock, dropping you onto your back on the mattress. He places one of your ankles over his shoulder, pressing you down by the back of your thigh as you toss the other around his waist. 

The sounds coming from your mouth are less than human as Seokmin runs his fingers through your arousal again, placating your whines with his lips. You feel like you’re about to snap. 

“Seokmin, fuck me.” It sounds so ridiculous coming from your mouth you think you might cry again, but the thought is shoved away as Seokmin slaps his cock against your needy cunt a few times, pulling more animalistic cries from your throat. 

“Soon, pet,” he grins, and then his cock is pushing into you again, his fingers on your clit, his eyes dark and earnest as your whole body tenses in his arms. 

Your nails claw into his skin and he hisses, brow furrowed, as you drag them down his back with uncharacteristic force, but the thought of his beautiful back marked by your torment only feeds the fire in your belly. You arch your spine, pressing into him as Seokmin draws his cock back out, still much slower than you would like. He’s just winding you up at this point, seeing just how far you’re breaking point is.

Seokmin tuts, simpering as you pant deliriously under him. He leans down, brushing his lips over your cheekbone to rest his forehead against yours. You groan impatiently. 

“Patience, lamb,” Seokmin urges, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, and you frown like a petulant child. Your protests are quickly silenced as he moves, pushing into you with little urgency, pulling back out with agonizing slowness, relishing in the tiny sounds escaping your tightly clamped lips. His strokes are languid as he holds you close to his body. Sometimes it feels like a challenge, to see how long you can go without indulging Seokmin, but today every sensation is amplified tenfold—the smell of his hair, the feeling of his skin, his fingers on your body, his tongue in your mouth, his cock deep inside. He holds your head in between his hands, petting your hair when you tense, whispering sweet words against your skin. 

“Look at me, baby,” Seokmin murmurs, brushing the hair off your forehead. Your pry your eyes open, resisting every impulse to squeeze them shut again as Seokmin pushes into you again, this time with more heat, feeling the burn in his own body increase as you brace yourself against his shoulders. His strokes are long and deep, barely a second apart before he drives back into you to the hilt, swimming in the crude sounds of skin against skin. A chorus of moans fills the room as Seokmin finally fucks you into subspace, your head going foggy with pleasure. The sounds leaving your mouth are barely coherent—just a messy jumble of garbled syllables. Seokmin is unrelenting. His stomach is tense with the effort it takes to keep up his pace. You’ve all but given up on keeping your eyes open, instead falling openly into the pleasure that builds in your gut again. 

Good girl. Just a little more, I promise. Look at you, so beautiful like this. Just like that.

Good girl. 

My girl.

You want to hold on. You want to hold on as long as possible. But Seokmin’s praise washes over you like the tide, saccharine and familiar, so you come again and again, feeling insurmountable pleasure pulse through your body—white-hot and blinding—so intense it leaves you breathless and weak, as Seokmin’s voice continues to flit in and out of focus. 

“God!” you plead, as an orgasm so powerful it rips your voice from your throat tears through you. Your nails bite crescents into your fiancé’s shoulders, and you jolt upward to kiss Seokmin feverishly, fingers carding desperately through his hair as he fucks you through your high. 

“Where–” Seokmin stutters, jaw clenched.

So you breathe, “In me,” and Seokmin groans long and low, as he comes undone, his release hot inside you, fingers searching for yours as he heaves. His hand is clammy and you smooth your other over his cheek, thumb skating over his cheekbone. Seokmin looks ragged, hair fucked and messy, lip bleeding from where you bit him in a fit of passion. He kisses you again, hungry and desperate as if the last forty minutes hadn’t been enough of you for him. Then he pulls out slowly, frowning apologetically as you wince in discomfort. He sets your foot back on the bed, before pressing one last, sweet kiss to your pelvis. You feel fucked raw, sensitive from all that the two of you had done.

Seokmin always ravishes you like it’s the first time he gets to hold you, taking his time until the bedsheets are tangled around your limbs and you’re both utterly spent. He loves you deep into the night, until the sun threatens to peek over the horizon. The dreamy cerulean color of the sky tells you it’s far too late for you to be awake. The street noise below has become all but mute, as the townspeople slumber peacefully in their homes. It’s the birdsong that pulls you from your reverie, still bleary-eyed and a little limp, so sudden you place your palms flat on Seokmin’s chest and stare at him in disbelief. He hums in acknowledgment, stirring from his place at your side. 

“What time is it?” you rasp, voice hoarse from use. 

Seokmin groans, reaching for his phone and murmurs, “Almost 4:30.” 

Your eyes open a few more centimeters. “It’s been—it’s been all night.” 

Your fiancé flashes his usual heartbreaking smile. “I know,” he says, and groans as he turns onto his side to look at you, “but I just wanted to be with you.” He tucks his arm under his head, reaching out a hand to run his thumb over your bottom lip. You kiss the pad of his thumb, leaning into his touch. “I love you.”

It always feels like a promise coming from his lips.

You flop back onto the bed, wincing at the twinge in your ass and roll over onto your stomach, tucking your chin over your folded hands. The Spanish coast is quiet, and for a while it’s just you and the ocean and the intimate sounds of Seokmin’s even breathing as he falls back asleep.

The next thing you feel are his lips on the base of your spine, and the early afternoon sun in your eyes. You blink groggily, shielding your eyes from the sun with your hand as Seokmin kisses up your back. Goosebumps erupt on your skin and you wrap yourself in the top sheet, smiling sweetly as Seokmin leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs, and rolls off the bed—still naked—over to the small kitchenette. “Coffee?”

You lift your arms high over your head, stretching until your muscles feel sore and limber, sighing deeply. “Mm, please.” Seokmin nods and grabs two espresso cups from the cupboard. 

From your spot on the bed, you settle back, admiring the view of your beautifully sculpted fiancé preparing morning coffee. He’s started working out again, and you see the smooth muscles across his back flex as he stretches. Your eyes trace the graceful curve of his spine to his narrow hips and you flush, stifling a nervous giggle. Even making coffee while butt-naked, Seokmin exudes an easy confidence that sets you at peace, the slope of his shoulders relaxed as he waits for the espresso to finish brewing. The aroma of coffee curls into the air and you smile to yourself, tucking your chin into the palm of your hand. How did you get to be so lucky? 

Seokmin catches you staring and breaks you from your trance by kissing your temple, holding a small espresso in his hand. 

“Yeah?” he asks, eyes glinting with amusement. You tilt your head and just nod, scooting so he can join you on the bed again and press a kiss to his bare shoulder. Seokmin still smells like his sunscreen. He squeezes your thigh again, gazing wordlessly over the balcony at the coastline. It’s picturesque—nothing exists beyond this hotel room except for you and him. 

The espresso is warm in your hands, but Seokmin’s body is warmer. 

You’ll never be cold again. 

--

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[biceratops7]

Good omens leak talk under cut, literally just vivid descriptions, keep away unless you’ve seen it and it’s too late:

Ok I have literally been staring at that image periodically whenever I think about it for several days. Because I am normal and like things neurotypically. So here’s literally just a big list of observations no matter how minute. If you read this whole thing then the brain worms have made it to your prefrontal cortex.

Crowley has his glasses on (already explained my theory behind that)

Crowley is obviously the instigator but it’s unclear whether or not Azirphale is currently an active participant, or if he’s still processing. I’m leaning on still processing, but it’s hard to tell with the shadow on his brow obscuring his expression and not being able to see his hands

Speaking of that shadow, what the hell is up with the lighting in this scene?? It’s not bad except for making things in an already blurry still unclear, it’s just strange to have something softly back lit but also clearing having another additional light source else where. It’s an interesting choice because it can lead to inference of the circumstances here.

Second, related question: where the hell are they?? So let’s just take stock of everything BUT Azirphale and Crowley we see here. First of all it’s mostly in shadow, however there is a prominent light source behind Aziraphale, possibly close to him. The light we see on Crowley’s hair is likely from the doorway behind them.

Quick detour, the doorway is the brightest thing in the frame, creating a slight silhouette effect. Silhouettes are often used in film for moments that are a big deal but visually obvious. It shows weight through simplicity because you still know what’s happening and why it’s important with way less visual info than normal. We all IMMEDIATELY recognized what was happening and lost our shits even though it’s in shadow and currently obscured by giant text.

Ok so anyway this all leads me to believe they’re in a mostly dark room with one bright but not very far reaching light. I wanna say it’s almost fluorescent? Or an exposed lightbulb? It certainly doesn’t look warm like a lamp to me.

In addition I believe they’re inside a room to a larger building. The light coming from the door is almost certainly NOT day light. It’s purely white as if it’s a very well lit room or hall. There also is what I think looks like an exit sign near the top next to the doorway, or at least idk what else it could be. Because of that I don’t think this is anyone’s home or small shop.

I find this EXTREMELY interesting because the only prominent location we really see fit that vibe or description is the office building of heaven and hell. This season seems to be particularly highlighting that “neutral ground” between then, with the elevator showing up three times.

Now this one is just me trying to interpret literal blobs, but there either appears to be some sort of rounded extension to the top of the door way, or the walls are just thick. Make of that what you will

the room appears relatively spacious but mostly bare, almost like a holding place. But obviously with such a tight frame this can be hard to tell. I did take note of the fact that you can see some brown lines behind Aziraphale in the first frame, so there is clearly something there.

Alright enough waxing poetry about the damn walls, I know that they're probably standing up. Crowley might be in a position where he can twist into it from a sitting position, but with Aziraphale' shoulders so far forward and his back entirely angled to face Crowley, he'd either have to be straddling a chair or his lower spine is snapping like a glowstick.

Aziraphale is not being pushed against anything, he’s rocking backwards despite the force being applied to pull him forward, so in other words our boy Crowley’s REALLY shooting his shot, lmao

Aziraphale’s arms are confusing. They’re clearly not holding onto Crowley even out of frame, but they also don’t seem fully relaxed at his sides to me either.

WAIT, ok so the standing is still a strong contender, but they could also be sitting across from eachother at a small table. Crowley seems hunched over a bit more than is warranted for Aziraphale’s height, and Aziraphale’s arms could propped up at the elbows supporting his weight.

So damnit this adds a whole new layer to the location question

[womaninwinter]

Dynamic equivalence cause I don’t know what that one is and then alt fic cause I’m guessing that’s The Intruder :)

Dynamic equivalence: gave a description here, but basically it originated from a joke between myself and @hailqiqi about hyper-specific job AUs. As we're translators, I suggested a fic where Lockwood and Lucy both work in the translation industry (he's the owner of a small translation start-up, she's a freelancer he works with often, George is his snarky reviewer who initially pisses Lucy off for giving her work low quality scores for dumb things like using straight apostrophes instead of curly ones). The title comes from a particular translation theory (I can't remember what it actually means because it's like 8 years since I was in uni). Also, I have now come up with a new and terrible addition to this AU: Skull is an AI assistant that George pirated from his old workplace, Fittes Multilingual, and has caused it to develop an attitude problem through his tinkering. Lucy finds interacting with it surprisingly enjoyable.

alt fic: you guessed it, that's The Intruder. I reeeeeally want to get back to it so bad, ugh!! I have already sent you a lot of what I have pre-written for this fic in snippet form, but have some alt!Quill angst:

Fittes agents dropped like flies that winter: Ned Shaw was the first to go, and for all that he was a git, Quill missed him. He’d been reliable, in his own thuggish way, and too stupid to be scared easily. Without him, Quill’s team began to lose heart and with it, their cohesion. And, as Quill had often observed himself, it was remarkable how quickly a disjointed team became an unlucky team. Within a couple of weeks of Ned’s death, Bobby got ghost-touched by a thick and sickly cloud they’d mistaken for an ordinary London pea-souper, and Kat plunged off a balcony in a posh hotel soon after that, fatally disoriented by the screaming of a Cold Maiden.

[trustingyouwant]

THEORY: TRAVIS HAZBIN HOTEL

So I'm back. Yes, yes, after all this time, I returned, but not without content. I'll probably hang out here again. It depends on how the days go.

Undoubtedly, many of the drains from the episodes of the 2nd season of the Khazbin Hotel caused a very big stir among fans of this project. And yet, I dare to lay out one theory here, which may be in the series itself.

So. Let's go.

• TRAVIS — TRAITOR?

• AN ADDITIONAL FIGHT WITH VALENTINO?

• TRINITY VEE?

• HOW WILL THIS AFFECT THE PLOT OF THE KHAZBIN HOTEL?

There is a small theory that Travis, although he got his favorite job in the adult film industry, could still sometimes get slapped by Valentino. The same incorrectly written scripts, video editing, etc. — Valentino will not like them, especially when he is in a bad mood. Although Travis is not an actor, he tries to sit "lower than grass, quieter than water." Travis may not have much imagination, but it's not hard for him to imagine what would happen if he contradicted Valentino. Even Travis would serve him by framing someone for Valentino's benefit.

Or even for THEIR own benefit.

About this in more detail.

Angel Dast in the series, presumably, will continue to build a relationship with Husk. If Travis finds out about this, he will have something to tell Valentino, considering how touchy and rude this owl is. I can't tell you exactly how much Travis adores Angel. However, Travis himself is known to be an insane fanatic and a regular customer of Angel Dust. Maybe he'll get jealous, start envying Angel's happiness, and even demand from him that he belongs only to him and the studio. I don't care if Valentino owns Angel. Travis can get so crazy that he'll do anything to keep Angel Dast in Valentino's studio. And this is really inevitable, in the case of Angel and his friends. A new test, so to speak, will be for them.

As for Travis' wife, I'm not sure. It is unknown whether Travis broke up with her or not, whether he lives with his wife in Hell or not. The fact that he is cheating on his wife was confirmed at the beginning of the pilot episode of the Khazbin Hotel. One can only start from the theory that Travis clearly does not live "in chocolate" under the rule of Valentino. Considering that the owl demon is a comical character, he is pathetic and cunning at the same time, like a typical, mean-spirited antagonist and villain. However, it would be interesting to observe that, for example, Travis is so mired in lust and at the mercy of a cruel demon moth, still does not have much family and friends, that he can really envy Angel, who is still under the power of Valentino, but was able not to break down and find friends, family, a home and an opportunity to atone for sins. And Travis couldn't get it all, under any pretext. He will start trying, but in the end he will simply fail, suffer mentally and physically, break his heart — but who likes such a rude, lustful, cruel and cynical demon? To nobody.

At first, Travis will start doing nasty things and tell Valentino everything about Angel and friends — what they planned, what they did, and so on. This will be handy for both the pimp and the Trio. Wow, such a valuable spy comes across! All that remains is to ingratiate yourself with Charlie and break everything under the power of Vee.

I don't know if Travis will actually be shown acting against Angel Dust in season 2 of the Hazbin Hotel (or in the rest of the others). Or both. Since there is a chance that V will be defeated at the end of season 2, Travis will use his unique "spy" abilities more than once in future seasons just to annoy Angel.

That's all.

[ideas-on-paper]

Theories about Legion's "mini headlamps" (N7 special)

A very happy N7 Day to all of you Mass Effect fans!

Although I still haven't finished Mass Effect 3 (I just haven't been able to pick it up again after the Rannoch arc), I nevertheless wanted to do something special for this occasion, and I thought to myself that I might as well devote a quick study to a subject that's been on my mind for quite a long time: the purpose of Legion's three additional "mini headlamps".

You see, aside from the big, obvious flashlight in the middle, Legion also possesses three smaller lights at the side of their head. Ever since discovering these, I've been wondering what exactly those are for. I've observed that they glow red when Legion is under "stress" (an effect which is unfortunately not present in the Legendary Edition) - or rather, in situations that require a lot of processing power - but as far as their practical function goes, I could only guess. However, going through the ME3 dialogues again, I noticed a small detail which could potentially explain what exactly those small lights are - and in addition, give us a little insight into how Geth perceive the world visually.

Disclaimer: Before going into this, I should mention that I have no technical education in robotics, laser scanning, or any related areas of engineering. I based my conclusions solely on what information I could find on the internet, as well as my own reasoning and observations.

[Potential spoilers for ME3]

LADAR/LiDAR scanning and three-dimensional perception

To start off, what basically led me on this track was this comment by Tali in ME3:

Their AI lets them use extremely detailed ladar pings. Xen's countermeasure overwhelmed them with garbage data.

First off, we need to clarify what exactly ladar is. LADAR, more commonly known as LiDAR, stands for "Light amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation detection and ranging" - or, in case of LiDAR, "Light detection and ranging/Light imaging, detection and ranging. It's a method for measuring the distance, speed, and surface structure of objects by the means of laser scanning, usually with beams in the infrared spectrum (there are different wavelengths of light in use, however). Essentially, LiDAR is based on the same principle as the echolocation of bats, the only difference being the use of light instead of sound. Every LiDAR system consists of three integral components: a transmitter, a receiver, and a timer. The transmitter will send out a laser beam, which will be reflected by the object it hits; afterwards, the reflection will be registered by the receiver. Because the speed of light is a known constant, the distance of the object can be deduced by the timer, which will determine the delay between the light impulse being send out and the reflection being captured, also known as "time of flight".

However, because each laser beam only represents the coordinates of a single point, multiple laser beams are necessary to create a detailed 3D map of the environment. Some LiDAR lasers, like those used in automated vehicles, pinwheel to collect data in a 360° radius, generating a 3D image of all objects in the vicinity, including cars, pedestrians, and other obstacles. This results in multiple "points" forming a "point cloud" together, digitally depicting the surroundings on a 3D level. Because each laser emits hundreds of impulses per second, this technology enables you to take highly precise measurements in a very short period of time. LiDAR technology is not only utilized in autonomous driving, but also all kinds of other areas too, like archaeology, topographical mapping, and monitoring of vegetation growth.

Now, with this in mind, my theory is that Legion's small headlamps are the transmitter and receiver components of the LiDAR system - more specifically, I think the transmitters are located on the right, while the singular light on the left is the receiver. However, since we know that normal scanning LiDAR requires multiple laser beams for a detailed 3D image, the question is why Legion would only have two of them implemented. Personally, my suspicion is that the Geth might be using a flash LiDAR: Flash LiDAR is a different type of LiDar emitting a single wide, diverging beam, similar in shape to the beam of a flashlight. By projecting the reflected light onto a sensor array, a flash LiDAR can create a complete 3D environment without the use of multiple impulses. In addition to being very compact, flash LiDAR sensors have no moveable parts, making them extremely resistant to any kind of vibration - an undeniable advantage in all situations that require quick movement, such as combat.

Analysis of atmospheric composition with LiDAR

Still, that doesn't explain why Legion would have an additional transmitter on the right side of their head. We do know, however, that the laser scans with LiDAR are precise enough to not only measure the exact distance between objects, but also analyze the density of particles in the air: Because the molecules in the air cause the light from the laser beam to backscatter, LiDAR is also utilized in monitoring air quality and detecting fine dust, being able to determine traces of atmospheric gases such as ozone, nitrous gases, carbon dioxide, and methane. Depending on the wavelength of light used, the LiDAR system might be more or less precise in measuring molecular backscattering. For that reason, LiDAR systems using multiple wavelengths of light are most efficient in determining the exact size distribution of particles in the air.

With this in mind, let's take a look at Legion's opening line in ME2 upon entering the Heretic station:

Alert. This facility has little air or gravity. Geth require neither.

Going by what I explained above, the reason why Legion was able to tell there is no oxygen in the atmosphere isn't because they have some built-in chemical sensors to analyze the air's components - it's because they can literally "see" the particles in the air.

Thus, I think the second transmitter on the right side of Legion's head might use a different kind of wavelength specifically intended for the detection of atmospheric particles, perhaps in the UV-spectrum (the general rule is that the shorter the wavelength, the higher the resolution of the 3D image is, and since UV has a shorter wavelength than infrared, I imagine it might be used for this purpose). Meanwhile, the big flashlight in the middle might be a photoreceptor, being able to detect "normal" light visible to humans. In addition, the Geth are probably able to see UV-light (since the Quarians are able to see it, it would be logical to assume the Geth are as well), and maybe even infrared and other wavelengths. To summarize the function of all of Legion's headlights, I imagine it works roughly like this:

The two lights on the right side of Legion's head (marked with a red and magenta line) might be LiDAR transmitters, using infrared and UV-light, respectively; the single small light on the left (circled with green) might be the LiDAR sensor/receiver, while the big light in the middle (circled with blue) might be a photoreceptor (Source)

The effect of Xen's countermeasure (and potential means to bypass it)

It might be difficult to imagine from a human point of view, but judging from the information that the Geth use LiDAR as their main method of depth perception, Tali describing Xen's invention as a "flash bang grenade" actually makes a lot of sense: If you're normally able to observe your surroundings down to a molecular level, it would probably feel very disorienting if you're suddenly not, not mention being unable to tell whether an object is far away or close by (which would be absolutely devastating if you suddenly come under attack).

Still, that doesn't mean there are no potential alternatives: Radar, which has been in use longer than LiDAR, is another method to determine the range, angle, and velocity of objects. Due to radar using long-waved micro- and radio waves, the measurements are generally a lot less precise than those with LiDAR; despite this, radar still has its use during inclement weather, when LiDAR systems are very prone to disturbances by dust, mist, and rainfall. Furthermore, LiDAR can only provide measurements up to 200 meters, while radar is more efficient at greater distances. In fact, most modern autonomous driving vehicles work both with LiDAR and radar, in addition to a conventional camera (the only vehicles that don't use LiDAR are those from Tesla, which have a reputation of being unsafe). So, it's only reasonable to assume that the Geth don't rely on LiDAR alone, but use various technologies in combination with it to compensate for each one's weaknesses.

Interestingly, a type of 4D radar is currently in development, intended to be used in autonomous driving. It provides 3D images with a similar resolution as LiDAR, at a potentially much cheaper cost. Still, whether LiDAR or 4D radar is the better choice for autonomous driving is still a heatedly debated question, and only time will tell which of both systems comes out on top. Nevertheless, assuming Xen's "flash bang grenade" only targets the Geth's LiDAR sensors, I wonder if they could've potentially found a way to adapt and bypass it, given enough time.

Anyway, that's the material for a different kind of analysis - for now, I hope you enjoyed this little deep dive into the science behind the Geth. Thank you all for reading and have a nice N7 Day! :-)

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Trump’s criminal trial begins in Manhattan

The criminal trial of Donald Trump for election interference began on Monday. Despite nearly non-stop media coverage, the proceeding was similar to the first day of most criminal trials in America—a fact that should give us all comfort. The first-day proceedings were consistently ordinary, sometimes boring, but glorious in their relentless insistence that all persons are equal before the law.

Rather than overinterpreting small actions or obsessing over whether a Trump-friendly juror can lie their way onto the jury, it is helpful to recall how we got here and what the case is about.

Rachel Maddow presented a superb summary of the sorry path to Trump's prosecution in state court for a federal conspiracy that sent Michael Cohen to prison for a year—but allowed the person who directed the conspiracy—Donald Trump—to escape prosecution. See The Rachel Maddow Show 4/15/24.

Although you already know the story, Maddow’s explainer is an absolutely essential refresher for the state prosecution. The short version is this: When Trump's DOJ investigated and prosecuted Michael Cohen for his role in the hush money payoff, then Attorney General Bill Barr ordered the Southern District of New York to cease its investigation of Michael Cohen’s co-conspirator--Donald Trump.

The failure of the DOJ to pursue Trump in 2018 was political corruption at its height. The fact that Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg picked up the prosecution three years later is a credit to Bragg—not a ground for criticism.

The fact that Bill Barr was able to quash the federal investigation into Trump also explains the central legal theory of the state prosecution. Trump is charged with a state crime of falsifying documents in furtherance of a second crime—election interference, which is a federal crime.

Many observers were initially skeptical of Bragg’s legal theory, but some have come to believe that Bragg has a strong case. See Mark Joseph Stern in Slate, I Was a Skeptic of the Stormy Daniels Prosecution. I Was Wrong.

Stern writes,

Last year, I was uncertain whether this scheme, while sordid, rose to the level of a felony offense. I am now convinced that, if proved that [Trump] took these actions, it surely does. The falsification of business records is, by itself, a misdemeanor under New York law, but it’s a felony when it’s done with the “intent to commit another crime or to aid or conceal the commission thereof.” In his indictment, Bragg claims that Trump lied about the payments with the intent to violate election law, which is what elevates the crime to a felony. Bragg has argued, convincingly, that the former president intended to violate at least two election laws—one state, one federal. First, Bragg asserted that Trump and Cohen ran afoul of the Federal Election Campaign Act by making unlawful campaign contributions (in the form of a payoff) at the direction of a candidate (that is, Trump). . .   Second, Bragg argued that Trump ran afoul of a New York election law that forbids any conspiracy “to promote or prevent the election of any person to a public office by unlawful means.”

Read Stern’s article for additional explanation of the legal theory of the case. I find Stern’s analysis convincing.

Of course, the fact that Trump should be found guilty under a proper application of the law to the facts does not guarantee that a jury will return a guilty verdict. In every trial, it is always possible that a juror will not participate in good faith. Given the high-profile stakes and intense scrutiny involved in this case, I think the odds that a “stealth bad faith juror” will lie their way onto the jury are low.

But I am speculating in the same way as all other legal commentators. We must simply await the jury’s verdict and trust in a system that works most of the time. Trying to predict the future is a fool’s game. And remember, the prosecution of Trump is not a substitute for beating Trump at the ballot box.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[lulu2992]

Decoding the scripts and secret messages in Rebel Moon

Part 3: Figuring out the Old Imperium script

To try to decode the entire alphabet, I studied the Scribes and Priests’ outfits, Noble’s Bone Staff, but also and mostly the inscription on Kora’s gun, which we know means “My life for hers”:

As I’ve said before, it appears this script uses what resembles opening square brackets as spaces/word separators, but there are three other things we can notice. Firstly, all letters basically consist of either one (I), two (II), or three (III) vertical lines. Secondly, vowels and consonants look different: consonants are just lines while vowels have a rounded shape at their top or bottom. They almost look like either a P or lowercase b with up to two additional (vertical) lines.

The third thing we can observe is that, in each consonant, there is a smaller, horizontal line, and I realized this little line could be located at seven possible heights:

As I was trying to figure out which symbol was which letter, a clear pattern started to appear. It seems Old Imperium follows a logical progression: the first 2 vowels and the first 7 consonants in the alphabet have one vertical line, the next 2 vowels and 7 consonants have two, etc. As for the small horizontal line on consonants, it just gets lower and lower as you move from letter to letter in each “group”. So here is, I believe and if I’m not mistaken, how the script works:

In theory, there’s room for another consonant, “III-7”, after Z, but I don’t know if this symbol exists in the alphabet; I haven’t encountered it.

Below is the part of the bone staff that says “a rocking cradle”. It’s very blurry (sorry, the image is so small), but the logic seems to work!

I found the symbol for double letters on the Scribes and Priests’ clothes (under the 5th letter in the image below). As for the other symbol, it seems to be a question mark on Noble’s Bone Staff (the semicolon looks different there, but I can’t see it very well) and either a semicolon or a period on the outfits, so I’m not sure what it represents. I don’t know if my drawings are 100% accurate either, but this is what I see in the pictures.

Part 4 will be dedicated to the Priests and Scribes because they have a hidden message on them too! Using what I’ve just explained in this post, can you already guess what the 9-letter word above is? Fun fact: either I made a mistake... or they did.

[hayscodings]

everything you have ever said about svetlana never fails to amaze me, i feel like you understand her character better than most. i have to ask, what do you think her life was like pre-3x06? i know we know some things about it, but do you have any headcanons/theories or anything about her? i wrote a fic (and never published it) about her once, but i feel like you have better insight on her character so i’m asking you. what was her life like in russia? what was her father like (awful)? what did she endure to make her the way she is? etc.

Ah, thank you! That’s the ultimate compliment. I rewatched Shameless for a second time recently, and am on my third rewatch now, so I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about Svetlana.

We didn’t really get any information about her life on the Southside pre-3x06, but there are a few observations I find helpful when trying to piece together what it must have been like: (1) she seemed genuinely excited to marry Mickey; (2) she wears the same purple dress that we are introduced to her in— and see her at work in— while she’s at home, pregnant, in S4; and (3) the fact that she was married to Yvon at some point means that she can’t have been in the U.S. for very long when we meet her.

With respect to (1), part of her excitement can be chalked up to the fact that getting married meant that she could finally qualify for a green card, but I think it’s more than that. She didn’t look relieved; she looked happy. The way I interpret this is that she considered moving into the Milkovich house a step-up from her current arrangement— which, considering the Everything We Know about the Milkovich home, paints a pretty bleak picture of said arrangement.

My guess is that she was sharing a very small space, perhaps even a single room, with many other working girls, since we know that Sasha was not paying the girls a living wage. It is also likely that the conditions in that place were very poor, as I’m sure whatever slumlord they were renting from was taking full advantage of the fact that they were undocumented. So, not a great situation.

I find (2) particularly interesting because I’m sure it was intentional on the wardrobe department’s part to have Svetlana rewear the same dress multiple times. But what’s really telling is that she doesn’t just wear the dress— a short, fitted, strapless dress— to work at the massage parlor. She wears it when she’s home in S4, too. And this time, not only is she several months pregnant, but it’s also winter.

When she and Mickey go to visit the massage parlor, she’s wearing the same dress with a coat and tights and a thin little scarf even though it looks freezing out. So, not only could she not afford maternity clothes, but she was also unable to dress properly for the weather. All of this to say: it was clearly bad for her financially. And at this point she’s been living in the Milkovich house where she’s presumably better off, so it must have been worse before.

Finally, (3) is a tricky one because I don’t believe for a second that the writers planned to reveal that Svetlana had been married before in Russia when they introduced her character in S3. Initially, I would have assumed that she had been in the states for at least a couple of years by the time that we meet her, but the whole Yvon business really complicates things.

For starters, Svetlana is only 19 when we meet her. This is relevant because marriageable age in Russia in 18. There are exceptions to this, but only under special circumstances, and even then, children cannot get married if they are under 14. In addition to this, Yvon was old enough to pass as Svetlana’s father (There is a 14 year age difference between Pasha and Isidora, but Isidora was playing ~14 younger than her actual age, so that makes the age gap roughly ~28 years). It seems very unlikely, then, that she would’ve been married to him younger than 18. Which puts her in the U.S. for only one year before the events of 3x06. This makes sense for several reasons I won’t get into because it’s not relevant and I’m already rambling too much.

So, in sum, I imagine that Svetlana’s life pre-3x06 was very bleak. Recently immigrated, undocumented, still learning the language, just 19 years old with no family and under the control of her traffickers who severely underpaid her. Probably living in a small room ten other girls in her same position, dealing with violent and or aggressive customers like Terry with no real protection, just trying to survive. I think she was very numb during this period of her life, maybe more so than ever before, and tries not to think about it often. I don’t believe Svetlana could have survived everything that she did without repressing and compartmentalizing a good chunk of it, honestly.

As for her life in Russia, I still need to give it more thought, but it seems like she was very close to her family as she speaks of both her parents favorably and named her son after her father. She also tells V at one point that in Russia “family is family”, and we later see that she is in contact and seems to be on good terms with her aunt. She also mentions using her grandmother’s recipe for borsch in S6.

Apart from this, we can assume that her family was poor given that her father sold her to a pimp for $300 when she was just 10 years old. At one point Svetlana says something about owing him for keeping a roof over her head and food on her plate, so it’s clear they definitely struggled. She also tells Kev and V that she “grew up in his bar”, when they’re under the impression that Yvon is her father.

Now, obviously Yvon ended up being her husband, but she was acting as though he was her father at the time so I think the bar tidbit can be taken as true. V had to learn everything about Svetlana when she married her in order to pass the INS interviews, so Svetlana would have had to use the truth in order to sell the lie.

So, here is this little girl growing up poor in Russia with a family that she is very close to. She’s extremely smart and probably does really well in school and it’s not an easy life but she is still very grateful for it because things can always be worse. She knows this— she’s seen it. And she’s probably been told it by her father many times.

Svetlana loves her father, but he is not a good man. The facts we know about him are these: he raped her as a child, locked her in a closet with a potato sack over her head, and sold her into sexual slavery so that she could work street corners when she was 10 years old. All of these things paint the picture of a violent, abusive man. Still, Svetlana insists that he had good qualities too, and she feels indebted to him for providing her with food and shelter and for paying smugglers to get her into the U.S. She also says that she learned everything she knows from him.

I think Svetlana’s father was the type of abuser to make a buddy out of his victim. He probably convinced himself that he was a good father and that everything he did, he did out of love. Maybe he was an alcoholic, surely he had his own demons— at the end of the day, he probably pointed to these very things to justify/make sense of his behavior.

I can picture a young Svetlana thinking of herself as his protege— always by his side, helping him with the bar, doing anything that she possibly could to be useful and contribute to the family. Listening to his stories, heeding his advice, learning his lessons. And when he hurt her, she probably blamed herself. Or maybe she attributed it to her father’s own trauma— something stronger than him, beyond his control— something that had nothing to do with her. Or so perhaps he said when he apologized. I can see her feeling sorry for him.

I think Svetlana was too young to reconcile the abuse she suffered at his hands with the part of him that seemed to care for her well-being. And I imagine that it is still very confusing for her as an adult, and something that she hasn’t wanted to confront or revisit. Because it’s far too painful, and she’s doing just fine in her opinion.

In sum, Svetlana is a girl who grew up too fast. She’s a girl who never got to be a kid and who wasn’t afforded the protections that she should have been afforded by her guardians. She’s a girl whose formative years were filled with violence, and who continued to know that violence well into young adulthood. She’s a girl who had to make sense of this violence, and be able to live in it day to day. She’s a girl who learned to repress, and to compartmentalize, and downplay, just so she could stay alive. But most importantly, she’s a girl who never let any of this turn her into someone who would repeat the cycle with her own child.

[sketch-mer-6195]

Conjunx Ritus Ritual (TFP Megatron x Tempest [OC])

Prompt: While on a date, Person A very shyly touches Person B's hand and Person B reassuringly (and tightly) holds Person A's hand.

For this it would be for Tempest and Megatron beginning courting where Tempest is initially reserved and shy as she is with the Leader of the Decepticon's. Tempest reaches out to grab his servo, only to just ghost her digits close to his as she feels that it would show her being weak. But on the contrary, Megatron takes her servo in his own while among other Decepticon's to show that she is his Conjunx.

Enjoy~

Taglist: @mysticboombox @saberstars @sometimesshattered

Though through a war and gaining final preparations to leave their dying planet, there had been a new addition to the rankings in the Decepticon's ranks for Megatron had chosen a mate. A former Autobot Elite Guard now aligned with the Decepticon's and a formidable fighter and strategists. Tempest, formerly known as Skystreak. Her skills in the pits of Kaon, her growth and loyalty to the cause, and her newly rebuilt form had made her a great asset. But also gained the attention of her one true leader, Megatron. So much that he had written her poetry and placed the data pad where only she would find it. And soon proposing that they become Conjunx Endura, following the Conjunx Ritus to become official.

But it wasn't as easy as war raged on and both the Autobot's and Decepticon's continued to fight. It wasn’t until both sides abandoned the planet Cybertron that both Megatron and Tempest began the ritual.

It had been over a decade that they had been on the Nemesis and hunting for the Autobot's, but it was a slow process it seemed. It gave Megatron some spare time to be with his new young queen, Tempest. She had been training under Dreadwing and Skyquake in one of the training halls where Megatron had entered to observe his mate's skills being sharpened and honed. Her sword in full view replacing her left servo, her right servo clenched tightly into a fist. She was sparring with Skyquake who was just as strong strength wise as Megatron, but dared not to harm his queen.

“Dreadwing, how is our queen?” Megatron stood beside the Elite Guard who was observing the sparring match.

“She is keeping time with Skyquake. Though I fear that she is not ready for being on the battlefield.” Dreadwing replied with honesty.

Surprised by Dreadwing's response, Megatron was going to put his theory to the test. As he walked towards the two sparring, he unsheathed his own sword under his fusion cannon and walked behind Tempest. As he raised his sword to land a blow, Tempest noticed the shadow behind her and spun around to block his attack. Her byzantine optics glowed with fury, but soon dimmed when she realized it was her mate.

“My lord!” Pulling away, she dropped to a knee and bowed her head in deep respect. “My apologies, I didn't know it was you who entered.”

“You did well, my queen. For you may never know who is behind and attack you.” Megatron explained.

As he retracted his sword, Tempest stood up and retracted her own sword. With a simple hum, Megatron turned to leave the training hall with Tempest in tow. It looked like obedience to Skyquake and Dreadwing, but in reality it was their time to be alone and without distraction that Megatron and his queen had time together. With the halls empty and just the two of them by their lonesome, it was a comfortable silence that they had grown accustomed to which brought a small smile to their faceplates.

“It has been some time since we have had the opportunity to be in each other's presence.” Megatron spoke, though his voice was hoarse it was so gentle to Tempest.

Gazing up to him, she still felt her tanks twist and flop at how such a tyrant would still present a uniquely loving smirk her way. He was ruthless and a warlord, yet he would place it to the side for just a moment to express his gratitude and true devotion to his queen. Tempest bowed her head and smiled back.

“It has, and I look forward to these moments when we have a semblance of silence and peace.”

The two slowed to a stop where they felt comfortable to break their walls down and follow through with the first ritual of being intimate. Although he had always kept her close and laid his servos on her shoulders or back, both she and Megatron knew they had not completed the first part of their Conjunx Ritus. To hold each other’s servo's or a simple hug meant a great deal to be each other's spouse. But as the thought of continuing with the ritual.

“Lord Megatron!”

The screech of the First Lieutenant, Starscream. How it pained her to hear his obnoxious voice disrupt their only shared time. Both put their walls back up and looked upon Starscream with an annoyed shared look.

“What is it, Starscream?” Megatron barked.

“Master, I have located intel that the Wreckers base is on a neighboring planet only ten lightyears away.” Starscream explained with such glee it sickened Tempest to her core.

Megatron was already intrigued and began to follow Starscream to the bridge, Tempest quietly following behind with a sour look. For the first time in years, they were close to finally starting to become a pair only for it to be thwarted once more. Once on the bridge and saluted by vehicons and Soundwave, Tempest turned off her audials and blocked out all sounds. Soundwave would recap any important information if she asked, but her optics fell to Megatron's servo. His right one, with the fusion cannon and sword. To show power and might. Absent-mindedly, she slowly reached to his open and sharp servo but flinched as she noticed Starscream looking at her actions oddly.

But it was not unnoticed by Megatron. Nothing goes by Megatron without his say so. As quick as he was, he saw Tempest's servo retract from his own. The slightest touch was what caught his attention originally. And he hoped she would slip into his awaiting servo. But she was not respected and seen as his queen. She was still shy even though she held herself at such a high standard. She was not wanting to be shown as weak and desperate, but strong and unmoving like Megatron.

And he was going to reassure her.

Grasping her servo into his own, he made Tempest gasp and look up at Megatron with such shock that it gave him time to pull her to his side and bring her servo to his dermas to place a kiss into her palm. Openly. In front of the crew. He was to display that she was his and his alone. That they are one. And that she is to be respected as such. Her cooling fans began to whirl which caused a more seductive and charming smirk play on Megatron's dermas.

“Uh, master?” Starscream asked. “The plan of attack-”

“You may discuss it while in the presence of your queen.” Megatron reassured him before lowering their intertwined servos.

Tempest smiled proudly and then shot a sly smile at Starscream. Maybe being queen and letting the Ritus take its course wasn't going to be as bad as she thought it was.

If you would like to be added to the tag list, let me know in the comments!