#Mathematics Meets Art

[sirtbhopal]

Celebrating Math Through Art: Rangoli Competition at SIRT Bhopal

Unveiling the Beauty of Math in Nature"🏟️🖍️🎨 SIRT organized a Rangoli Competition on the occasion of Mathematics Day, themed "Mathematics Patterns and Shapes in Nature"🎨 Where math meets art and nature!💫

[obsidianandblacksatin]

Decoding Math’s Famed Fractal: The Mandelbrot Set

[teefigotem]

sorry i'm on a Murderbot Diaries kick again so y'all are getting meta. thinking about that one scene in Network Effect that everyone talks about. you know, the “who the fuck are you” “this is nonstandard communication” aka the one where Three discovers the concept of eldritch horror for the first time. beautiful scene 10/10 no notes.

that being said i’m also thinking about a take i’ve seen a few times saying that ART was way scarier to Three than it was to Murderbot and like. I don’t think that’s completely true. not to say that ART wasn’t mean or scary to Three — being told that someone might peel away your organic parts piece by piece will in fact be terrifying any way you spin in.

but like. okay. ART and Three come to an understanding very quickly in NE, arguably quicker than Murderbot and ART in AC. and some of that is due to the difference in Murderbot and Three’s personalities, but i think a lot of that is due to how ART approaches each situation.

(more under the cut)

so like okay. when ART and Murderbot first meet, Murderbot is entirely a wildcard coming aboard ART, and ART responds the way you would to an unknown, unpredictable threat, i.e. with a blatant but somewhat ambiguous show of force. by dropping its walls ART is doing the equivalent of like. brandishing a powerful weapon in your face. it doesn't explicitly tell Murderbot that it will hurt it. in fact, the only things it says to Murderbot are to tell it that it knows that it's a rogue SecUnit and to warn Murderbot not to hack it. this is the type of approach you'd take with someone who you aren't sure even has the capacity to be reasoned with - it demonstrates that it could crush Murderbot like a bug, because this is the only thing it's confident Murderbot will respond to.

the problem with this, from Murderbot's POV, is that, because the threat is implied rather than explicitly stated, there's no reassurance that if Murderbot doesn't try to hack ART then ART will leave it alone in turn. in fact, it spends the moments after this interaction spiraling about what ART wants with it and whether ART specifically let it on board to torture or kill it. i don't think that was ART's intention with the threat, i think it genuinely did not have the context to realize that Murderbot would take the show of force more as a threat of imminent violence than as a warning against attacking it. but, since it didn't have that context, it approached that interaction like one would approach someone with whom you don't see as an equal and don't have any interest in reasoning with.

contrast that to how ART interacts with Three. on the surface, what it says is scarier. its threats are certainly more violent. but they are also explicitly stated if/then statements: if you hurt these humans, then i will do xyz to you. i do know that in mathematical logic there's still no guarantee made in if/then statements that the then won't come to pass regardless, but the specificity of both the threat and the guidelines provides Three with parameters to follow, and implies that if it does then no harm will come to it.

this was notable to me because ART speaks to Three like a person to be negotiated with from the beginning, and that's. well. because it knows enough by now to know that Three is a person, in a way that i'm not sure it knew about Murderbot before seeing Murderbot's memory files of the governor module. it knows before speaking to them that both Murderbot and Three are rogue SecUnits, but its understanding of what a rogue SecUnit is, what it is capable of, and what it might do has profoundly changed between two interactions. even in their first interaction ART treats Three like a person who may be capable of being dangerous, rather than like a loose cannon who could mindlessly commit violence at any minute.

[what-even-is-thiss]

Brian David Gilbert accidentally reinventing ska aside, I do wonder why there was barely any new music written after the 1960s in the fallout universe. To the point where people in the wasteland aren’t just listening to 200 year old music but 300 year old music. During fallout 4 if you’re listening to diamond city radio when the one original song comes on Travis freaks out because he’s not used to playing tracks by people that are still alive.

If I’m gonna come up with an in-universe explanation I might guess that it’s an extreme example of what might happen if a nation devalues art to the point that cultural stagnation occurs.

Creativity is so discouraged in favor of science, warfare, engineering, and mathematics that nothing new gets produced. Old patterns for clothes are used for over 100 years, hairstyle books and learning materials are never updated, almost no new music is written. Deviating even slightly from American exceptionalism and style is heresy. New ideas outside of the sciences are stupid and to be mocked. What few artists remain just learn how to recreate what’s already been done.

I mean a vault full of musicians wasn’t even a control vault. There was no real effort to preserve musical knowledge. They were subjects in a mind control experiment.

And this attitude gets carried into the big afterwards. After the Great War all that several generations have ever known is the devaluing of creativity and new ideas. And everyone is too tired and focused on survival to try anything new.

So Magnolia writing new music? That’s weird. That’s really weird. It’s been weird for over 300 years at that point.

And if I’m remembering correctly, the only people you meet in the games writing poetry are writing really bad poetry. But in this sort of context, that makes sense. There’s this idea in writing circles that when you take a long break from writing you need to allow yourself some time to write very badly in order to clean the garbage out of your brain and get your creativity muscles exercised again.

The fallout universe is experiencing this on a global massive societal scale. Jerry the Punk writing bad poetry comparing a girl to a deathclaw and Beatrice writing a bad poem about being stuck underground is a sign of slow but steady healing. The fallout world is getting a lot of garbage out of its system from over 300 years of cultural stagnation and learning how to make stuff again.

[quadrantadvisor]

Pairing Off, in which the Waynes meet the Fentons, just not all at once. 2,443 words

-

Damian feels less than positively about the new girl in his grade.

Danielle Fenton has already garnered a bit of a reputation. Her uniform is clearly second hand, and rumors abound about whether she has joined them at Gotham Academy on a merit scholarship or as “one of Wayne's charity cases.” Neither is true; Father has offered no fiscal support to the Fentons, and yet both she and her older brother attend the Academy, leading Damian to believe they've somehow paid their own way.

Her lower class status and midwestern accent ought to make Fenton a target, but her response to being cornered or talked down to by other students was an unsettling combination of cheerful and aggressive. She is now mostly left to her own devices, despite her notoriety. 

Damian has no interest in the girl. While it is true that she excels in both mathematics and social studies, her performance in English and science are unremarkable, and she poses no challenge to his rank at the top of the class. If he finds himself pushing harder in certain classes this semester in order to maintain the edge, it's no one else's business.

Now if only she would leave him alone.

Damian preemptively slams his sketchbook shut, just as a brash, inconsiderate, annoying girl hops up to sit on his desk. “Hey Dami, what're you drawing?”

“It is none of your business,” Damian seethes. “Remove yourself from my personal space before I-” he isn't allowed to threaten classmates with bodily harm, imply that he has brought weapons to school, or use words that are derogatory to women “-do so myself. By force.” He would avoid her altogether if he could, but Fenton is annoyingly (suspiciously) sneaky. He can only ever seem to sense her when she's just about on top of him.

Fenton merely laughs, high, bright, and joyful, and Damian grits his teeth. “Did you draw me yet?” she asks, and doesn't move an inch.

“No, I have not drawn you. I never said I would, and I have no plans to. Stop asking me.”

She shrugs and kicks her feet. “Maybe you'll change your mind. Can I see what you're working on?”

Damian pulls the sketchbook a tad bit closer to himself (a protective reflex that shows his weakness, he should be better than that by now.) “Never, imbecile.”

Fenton sticks her tongue out at him like a child. “Mean,” she says, still smiling. “I wanna see your art. It's so good!”

Damian tilts his nose up at her. “Of course it is, plebeian, I have standards-” he starts, but is cut off by the teacher entering. Fenton slides off his desk and heads to her own seat. Damian stows his sketchbook in his bag and tries not to think of the unfinished work inside, featuring a girl with dark hair, light eyes, and a mischievous grin.

-

There's this brownstone on the outskirts of Crime Alley, an old townhouse recently converted into commercial space. There's a coffee shop on street level, a tattoo parlor down the stairs, some sorta wine emporium on the second floor, and on the third, a little second hand bookshop

It's outside the border of Jason's territory, but he feels sorta responsible for it, given that he frequents the place.

It's a little out of his way, but the atmosphere is nice, alright? Clean, with soft lighting, but not sterile or corporate like the bigger places downtown. The owners are an older couple who Jason has met a couple of times, and they seem pretty happy with the new location. They're collectors, really, who run the shop to make ends meet.

Mostly, Jason talks to their employee. Jazz.

Jazz works in the afternoons and evenings, after her classes. She goes to Gotham U, double majoring in pre-med and psych, on top of a full time job, because she's almost as insane as a bat. She assures Jason that she does alright, gets a little downtime to study on her shifts.

She always makes time to talk to Jason.

Jazz is an interesting person to talk books with. She cares less about plot and literary themes, and more about diagnosing every character with their own personal malady of the mind. She dissects their thought processes and behaviors, ruthless in her analysis.

She's gonna be a brain surgeon someday, open people up and see what really makes them tick. Jason doesn't doubt it for a second.

So maybe Jason is a little bit in love with her.

It's not a big deal. Obviously it's not going anywhere. It's just nice to have something normal, to talk to someone normal, about normal stuff like books and college and sibling antics.

Jazz's stories about her sibling, Danny, rival Jason's own, and his family is fucking disastrous. Jason isn't actually sure if Dan is older or younger than Jazz is, or, for that matter, what pronouns he should use for them, since Jazz mixes it up pretty regularly. He knows that Jazz absolutely adores them, though, and it's heartwarming, the way she smiles as she talks.

All of that to explain why Red Hood is keeping an eye on a brownstone that technically falls outside of his territory.

There's a girl inside that he needs to keep safe.

-

“Hey bud, late night?” Dick asks the man lying prone in an alley, a block away from the Iceberg Lounge.

The response is slurred with sleep and muffled by a cheek pressed hard into asphalt. “S'at you, Dick?”

“Sure is. We've got to stop meeting like this,” Dick tells him, and means it.

The guy's name is Dan. No last name offered, which was fair, since Dick hasn't mentioned his.

What was weird was that Dan didn't give Penguin his last name, either, when he signed his employment contract. Just Dan.

Penguin has been trying to expand his influence into Bludhaven, and Dick's been trying to figure out why. Cobblepot is a very Gotham sort of gangster, all wrapped up in the city's ideas of style and respectability; Dick honestly would've thought that Blud was beneath him. He needs to figure out who he's contacting and what they're offering him, and he needs to do it before Penguin can get a foothold on his turf.

Running into Dan was a side effect. Dick didn't mean to keep doing it. It's just that Dan has this weird habit of completely disregarding trivial concerns such as his own health and safety, and doing weird shit like, as a random example, getting tired, laying down, and passing out. In the middle of the street. In Gotham.

The main part of Dan's job seems to be bouncing at the club. It makes sense—if you wanted to hire a guy as muscle, you couldn't do much better than Dan. He's at least 6 and a half feet tall, with a chest wider than Jason's. 

But Dick has also seen Dan traveling with Penguin before. Add in the fact that it's almost impossible to dig up info on him, and that tailing him is somehow even harder, and a picture starts to come together. A very vague, very suspicious picture.

It's too bad that Dick sort of likes him, and that he's incredibly hot.

Dan has removed his face from the alley floor, and is in the process of pushing himself up. “Not your business, man,” he retorts. “What are you, a cop?”

Dick can't help a wry chuckle at that. “Not anymore.”

“No shit?” Dan asks, hauling himself to his feet. He towers over Dick like that, but it's hard to be intimidated by a man whose cheek is red and pockmarked by little bits of gravel. Dick is legitimately embarrassed that he finds it charming. He needs to get better taste in men. “Yeah, no, that makes sense,” Dan continues, looking Dick up and down. “No way they could keep your ass on the force.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick asks.

Dan snorts. “I can smell the idealism on you from here.” He starts walking, heading straight past Dick, who falls into step beside him. “You remind me of this kid I know.”

Dick gives an interested hum, hoping that if he doesn't interrupt, Dan will elaborate, but no dice.

“So, where're you taking me this time?” the big man asks, still leading, and Dick stifles a grin at how silly the whole thing is.

“Maybe if I take you out for coffee, you won't faceplant onto any more concrete,” he says, reaching up to brush off some of the little rocks. Dan stutters to a stop as Dick touches his cheek, letting him, then strides off again as soon as he's done.

“Don't care, as long as you're paying.”

Dick stops him with a tug to his arm. “Coffee shop's this way,” he explains, pointing, and Dan doesn't hesitate, pivoting to take the lead once again. Dick rushes to keep up with his not-date, a criminal who he literally picked up off the street and who has no idea where he's going. He can't see his own smile, but he knows from experience that it is both delighted and a little manic. He admits to himself, begrudgingly, that he likes his men with something wrong with them.

-

The biggest reason that Tim played so much Doomed with Ghost_Boy, a couple of years ago, was that they were the only player he knew who kept hours as weird as his were. There were worse reasons to form a friendship. Ghost_Boy was a great player, and was always funny in chat. They were upbeat when things went well, and they were sarcastic but not bitter when things went poorly. Playing for the game's sake eventually changed to booting up the game to hang out with Ghost_Boy. They talked about how different their lives were, with Ghost_Boy in the midwest and Tim in the crime capital of America, and they talked about the things they had in common, like falling asleep in class. It was Tim's favorite form of stress relief, back then, when being Robin was new and overwhelming.

Then Tim got busy. No, that wasn't true—Tim had always been busy. More like, Tim's life fell to shambles, over and over again, and he stopped making time for stress relief when the very concept seemed out of his reach.

That was over dramatic. Tim fell off the game, and didn't keep in contact with his friend. That's all there was to it.

That was all there was to it, until a few nights ago, when he booted up his old Doomed file for nostalgia's sake and found a message from Ghost_Boy, sent a couple months back, that said he was planning to move to Gotham and, if Tim wanted, he'd be happy to meet up.

Tim immediately replied in the affirmative, and then he freaked out that he'd done that and started cyber stalking the guy. He couldn’t be bothered to pretend to be embarrassed by this behavior. He knew who he was.

Daniel Fenton was, in fact, a real teenager from a real midwestern town (Amity Park, Illinois.) He had moved to Gotham right when his message said he would, and lived with his older sister, Jasmine (who had custody over him,) and his younger sister, Danielle.

And that was where Tim was planning to stop his research, for the sake of his friend's privacy. Once he confirmed that he wasn't being catfished by either a supervillain or a run-of-the-mill creep, he was going to stop looking.

But Danielle Fenton's situation was incredibly weird.

Apparently, she had never lived with Daniel, Jasmine, and their parents before. Instead, after she was born, she'd been adopted by the kids’ godfather, eccentric billionaire Vlad Masters, and he was still her legal guardian. It was only after the Doctors Jack and Madeline died that she moved in with her siblings and started attending Gotham Academy, states away from her adoptive parent.

Vlad Masters was a man of eclectic tastes. The stories about him in the news were always covering some weird investment he had made, like purchasing a cheese castle in Wisconsin, or buying up property in Green Bay just to have a stake in the Packers, or pouring money into experimental forms of alternative energy. He was always refined in his public appearances, but he had the desperate edge of new money wanting to fit in with the old. Tim knew of him, but had never given him much thought before. He'd never made a move into Gotham, after all.

But the whole story was bizarre. Masters had gone to college with the Fentons, the three of them creating their own field of study in “Ectology,” before Masters had been contaminated in a lab accident, bedridden and unable to finish his degree. Jack and Maddie had continued their research, garnering just enough interest in their work to receive the funding needed to keep afloat, until some sort of breakthrough a few years ago added validity to their theories. They were practically celebrities in the niche forums Tim skimmed through. Masters, meanwhile, stopped working directly in the sciences and instead turned to networking, gaining some generous help from the friends he made and playing the stock market like a fiddle, until he was one of the most well known and lucrative investors in the world. He owned a few companies publicly, and managed some others under the table (Tim had to snort at the ridiculous naming of Dalv Co.) 

And then the Fentons had kids, and they raised two of them (seemingly quite happily, if the photos on their memorialized facebook accounts meant anything.) And then, for some reason, they named the third one nearly identically to their second child and gave her straight to Vlad. Masters raised the girl in Wisconsin, until suddenly relocating to Amity Park and becoming the town's mayor. There he stayed, until the Fenton's recent passing in a lab accident of their own.

Tim doesn't know what it all adds up to. But there was something going on, with both Vlad Masters and the Fentons, and if there's something nefarious in Masters’ actions or his wealth, it could be entirely possible that Daniel was a plant—a way for him to get an in with the Waynes. Tim has to be cautious, and he has to get to the bottom of this.

That's why Tim is waiting in a coffee shop, pretending to be engrossed in his laptop while keeping an eye on the door, waiting for the appearance of a teen with black hair and blue eyes.

Tim idly thinks that Bruce had better not adopt this one.

[wingsofmud]

The Betrothed

The illustrious Princess Charming, daughter of Queen Vigilance and Darkstalker's betrothed.

Info + design w/o accessories below:

Princess Charming:

The aptly names Princess Charming is the youngest daughter of Queen Vigilance. Traditionally Nightwing Queens only have two daughters. One meant to inherit the throne and a backup in case anything happened to the first. Charming is unlikely to and uninterested in ever ruling. She wouldn't even be able to challenge Vigilance if she wanted to as law dictates her older sister must do so first (if she ever does). Sisters are also not permitted to challenge each other for the throne, only daughters and nieces. No, Charming would much rather go about her luxurious life in the palace, attending balls and sitting quietly in on council meetings. It's incredible what a dragon can learn when they just listen.

Charming is beloved by (almost) all in the Nightwing Queendom. She's often seen parading around during festivals and interacting with the commoners. While she's well-known for her quick wit, she's also known to lend an ear to those who need it. If you're lucky, she'll even perform a song. She's got a lovely voice. Additionally, she's well-versed in several languages, astronomy, music, art, historical and poetic texts, mathematics, geography, and all other things expected of a Nightwing princess. She's expected to take the role of an advisor once her elder sister takes the throne.

While Princess Charming isn't particularly close to her mother, she would do just about anything for her Queendom... even if that something is being betrothed to a hybrid animus. She's not thrilled, but it wasn't as if Vigilance ever asked for her opinion on the matter... or any matter. To put it bluntly, she doesn't care for Darkstalker and the feeling is very much mutual. They are only seen together at formal events.

The two of them are simply to wed and have at least one daughter between them. Nothing dictates that they must be faithful. As long as Darkstalker can perform his duties, Charming cares very little about how he spends his free time frolicking with lowborn dragonesses. Besides, it is not as if she doesn't occasionally enjoy the company of other ladies and gentledragons as well. However, if Vigilance ever caught wind of Darkstalker's little "escapades", well, she certainly won't vouch for him.

Charming has a massive wardrobe, so the outfit above is only one of many. Since only Queens are permitted to wear the image of a full moon, Princess charming wears a blue crescent on her tiara. Often the most notable part of her outfits are the long, glittering, translucent fabrics she adorns herself with. All of which are cool colored, of course.

.

Design w/o accesories

[eggonicayto]

THE MARKETABLE CRITTERS ARE HERE!!

(Finally)

————————————

{BorderCoily}

“Meet the overly bouncy BorderCoily,the optimistic leader of the Marketable Critters! Though his coiling abilities turns him into a bit of a show-off, he’s still a good and reliable pup whom the others depend on to keep them entertained and happy through the bad times. He’d stop at nothing to ensure the safety and happiness of those closest to him. Even if they wish harm on him.”

INFO-

PENDANT: Canadian spring leaf

SCENT: Sandalwood

OBJECT/TOY: Slinky dog

———————

{Catrillon}

“Catrillon is a nap time hotspot for any exhausted patron in the premise due to his melodic music that plays from his abdomen. It’s his personal duty to worry about his friends whenever their sleep schedule is destabilizing, and he swears he’ll get them back on track in a soft and gentle way.”

INFO-

PENDANT: Musical moon

SCENT: Catmint

OBJECT/TOY: Music box

———————

{PosyPony}

“Always down to pose for portraits or photos, PosyPony sees the beauty in all art forms, mainly illustrations. She finds there’s a great importance in being forever immortalized in a picture frame so others don’t ever forget her features. She believes it is her only purpose to appear in frame, and greatly fears being forgotten due to her bland appearance.”

INFO-

PENDANT: Yoga lotus flower

SCENT: Crayolas

OBJECT/TOY: Drawing mannequin

———————

{Ms. Bobhugs}

“A sweet and clingy gal, it’s Ms. Bobhugs duty to hug everyone and everything, happy or sad, living or nonliving. Friends would describe her as a treehugger, which only intensifies her wants further, as she sets off to be the world’s #1 hugger. Worryingly, it’s suspected that her clinginess are signs of touch starvation.”

INFO-

PENDANT: Heart bow

SCENT: Strawberry

OBJECT/TOY: Voice boxed Teddybear

———————

{Pickie Banky}

“What’s more important than unnecessary house decor and doo-dads? Living a financially balanced life, of course! Pickie Banky believes in the value of money saving, which only fuels her desire to help the others cut down their spending addictions. Friends can always count on her to keep their money secure, and their futures ensured! Her favourite meal are couch nickels.”

INFO-

PENDANT: Money symbol

SCENT: Copper

OBJECT/TOY: Piggie bank

———————

{Winddy Crankstotch}

“Excessively energetic to the twist of a crank, Winddy Crankstotch is the social butterfly who’s unafraid to make unnecessary commentaries at inappropriate times. Though she calms down on these erratic behaviours when winded down, she’s still overly snarky and is always down to a challenge regardless.”

INFO-

PENDANT: Crank

SCENT: Ink

OBJECT/TOY: Wind up toy

———————

{Calculant Tackyphant}

“Calculant Tackyphant is the precisionist of the group. Built with a voice automated tacky calculator in his stomach, he’s always quick to answer any mathematical equations handed to him. He is cocky as he is knowledgeable, as oftentimes he will jump to correct anyone who dares to get even the smallest of details wrong. It seems he despises the thought of being wrong.”

INFO-

PENDANT: Multiplication sign

SCENT: Chalk

OBJECT/TOY: Calculator

———————

{HeelyTickin}

“This is HeelyTickin, the supposed law enforcement of the group. He’s always quick to lecture others on the morally incorrect actions they choose to partake in, and won’t hesitate to put them behind bars. Though, he enjoys to participate in the risky stunts, and will join friends in sports and races, if they’re legal.”

INFO-

PENDANT: Wheel

SCENT: Gasoline

OBJECT/TOY: Pull-back Toy Car

———————

If nobody knows what im talking about, here;

[brothermouse-skeleton]

Imagine being the space ship captain from Yumi and the Nightmare Painter.

You just spent all this time and effort making the impossible possible, stretching the limits of technology, going farther than any before you has. You achieve your goal, meet an entirely new alien race, beginning a new era of discovery and wonder for both worlds and then you get back and... people already forgot about all of that because, somehow, the entire environment of the world shifted while you were gone. And you can't even get mad at them for it because the entire (lowly) sky has changed colors and yeah, that's a pretty big deal!

So to cheer yourself up you go to this great noodle place you know, the one with the hostess who has mathematically incredible curves (highly) and that delightfully quirky coat rack. Turns out it's now run by some punk (lowly) kid and his girlfriend who got rid of the coat rack are now talking about putting in an art museum?!?!

Unfair (lowest).

[thereweredragonshere]

Hi!!!!

First I just wanted to say that I love your art, and that your art of Astrid has been slowly pulling me into the Buffstrid camp!

And secondly, do you have any advice on drawing Night Furies? I've been having trouble with it (there's a 1/4 complete drawing I have just TAUNTING me) and in particular trouble with boiling it down to just shapes.

Heyy!!! :D

Thank you so so much!! <3

I find that night furies can be broken up into five basic shapes, which are then expanded upon

I will admit that it is hard to put the connection between these shapes into words. I find a lot of this comes from having traced over toothless so many times that my hand quit its job and filed a lawsuit against me. My best advice is to use those basic shapes and trace over toothless with them in mind to gain your own understanding of how he is structured, as it works differently in every artist’s mind.

- The chest is boxy and the broadest part of the torso (Think kinda like a bird, cuz they gotta have all that muscle for the wings. And the ribcage is there)

- The midsection gets increasingly thinner

- The pelvis is the pinch point where the body transitions into the tail

Another thing is the structure of the back.

I know that looks horrible and mathematical but I promise you those three red triangles are such life savers.

The top blue line is where the spine (presumably) is, so that is the most flexible part of the back. Everything will bend in accordance with it. It starts at point A of the red triangles, and ends at the pelvis. Point A to point C is on a slant, and is the absolute widest part of the body.

Because I’ve done it so many times I don’t actually draw out that triangle when I’m structuring a night fury, but it’s something that I’m always thinking about whilst plotting the important meeting points.

Another thing I tend to do is draw a line down the direct middle of the back when planning out how the pose will look

Here are a few sketches I did recently of my oc Prosper.

You can see in the first sketch that there is a directional line going down the very centre of her back. That was draw before I did any of the actual structured parts of her body.

BUT ALSO!! In the sketch closest to the right, you can see that I very obviously ignored the whole triangle shite with the chest. This is a psa that you do not under all circumstances have to stick to anatomy rules. Sometimes drawing tips do not apply and fuck yeah artistic stylisation man! That ribcage would not at all function on a real animal but does it look awful and horrible and like it should die? Nope! And- in the middle sketch, I did stick to the triangle rule. Example of selectively using drawing tips where they feel appropriate!!

Honestly there are so many points I could make when it comes to drawing these guys that there are just too many for one post. If there’s anything you want me to go specifically into detail on please do feel free to send in asks for it!

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

The Golden Ratio - Part One

Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader Warnings: Derogatory language, angst, mentions of parental death, mentions of infidelity. Word count: ~4.5k

Chapter summary: Her relationship strains under the pressure of long distance, though she has her classmate, Michael, to help distract from the worst of it.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She is sweaty and exasperated as she drags her suitcase over the cobbles of Holywell Street. One of the already precariously wonky wheels had finally given up the ghost and broken off as she’d dragged it up the stairs of Oxford train station, making the fifteen minute walk to her accommodation more tiring than it needed to be.

But she was here, finally. Oxford University.

Her dad had sold the car to make sure she had money to live on until her student loan and maintenance grant had been paid to her. He didn’t want her taking a part time job to make ends meet, she’d worked hard to earn her place here, her focus should be on her studies. Coming from a low income family meant she had qualified for the maximum amount for both maintenance loan and grant, but her first set of application forms had been misplaced by Student Finance, so she’d had to send in a second set, meaning there would be a delay with her first payment.

An unfortunate consequence of her dad not having a car is that she’d had to get the train to London Victoria, a tube to Paddington, then another train to Oxford. But it is not the fact that she is seemingly the only student whose parents aren’t obstructing the pavements with their cars in order to drop them off that makes her feel like an outcast, there is something deeper, more sinister feeling.

She sees it as she struggles to get her bag across the lawn of the Halls, people grouped in little clusters, as though they’ve been friends forever. They dress in Juicy Couture velour tracksuit bottoms and brand name Ugg Boots, while she wears her mum’s old Dr. Martens and a tartan skirt she’d bought in a charity shop for one pound fifty. She doesn’t fit in. She feels she may as well wear the word “poor” across her forehead like a scarlet letter.

Having checked in at the Porters’ Lodge and been given directions to the accommodation, it’s lonely as she unpacks her things, her room feeling empty and quiet. The only sounds are muffled talking and laughter coming through the closed window from outside. She feels lonelier still when she pulls out the framed photo of her and Rich. They’re both smiling, his arms wrapped around her waist as she leans her head against his. It had felt like their relationship would last forever when that picture was taken. That seemed like much less of a possibility over the last couple of weeks.

She had met Rich at the beginning of sixth form. Having attended Chatham Grammar School for Girls, she had decided to stay on there to do her A levels. The mathematics department was decent, and she had heard Russell Group universities were more likely to consider applications that came from grammar schools. Rich had transferred over from Robert Napier School. Where she was shy, quiet and reserved, he was lively, outgoing and sociable. His zest for life had shone a bright light on an existence that was, for her, otherwise dull and grey.

They were an unlikely pairing. She was logical, analytical and studied maths and physics. Rich was creative, free spirited and guided by emotion. He studied art and music. They had been together for two years and she had thought he was the one. But then it came time for UCAS applications, and where she had applied to Oxford, Cambridge and York, Rich had applied to Leeds, Brighton and Glasgow. It seemed that no matter where they were accepted, they were destined to be apart.

When she had received an unconditional offer from Oxford she had been elated, however, the crushing devastation upon hearing Rich had been accepted into The Glasgow School of Art with a conditional offer had quickly dulled her excitement.

She had never felt like an outsider or a loner when she was with Rich. Basking in his sunny disposition had felt effortless, she never felt alone. He was going to take all of that away, and she was unsure of how to cope with it.

“We’ll make it work long distance, don’t worry,” he’d told her, and she’d believed him.

But then he had actually gone to Glasgow. Fresher’s week in Glasgow started a week earlier than it did in Oxford, so Rich had moved away first. It didn’t take long for the texts and phone calls to dry up into nothing. She had heard from him once in the last few days.

She sighs as she slides up the screen of her beaten up Nokia. Still nothing. She had text to let him know she was leaving for Oxford today and he couldn’t even be bothered to reply. She knows it’s his first week at university and he’s likely busy and having fun, but how was long distance going to work if they never actually spoke to each other?

Despite the loftiness of the dining hall, it feels stuffy as she moves through it later that evening, taking a seat at a long table crowded with other students. She had hoped that the Fresher’s welcome dinner would be an opportunity to make friends, but everyone seems to be deep in conversation already. The chatter hums loudly like white noise, until it comes to a sudden stop.

“FUCKIN’ ASK ME A SUM THEN!”

She turns, mouth agape, to look at the pair of boys sitting a few places up from her. One is darked haired and seems nervous and uncomfortable, shifting awkwardly in his seat. The other is blonde, an angry, intense expression on his face, shadows cast across it from the lamplight on the table, as he stares in wide eyed anticipation. It was him who had shouted, clearly.

“Four hundred and twenty three times seventy eight,” the dark haired boy asks quietly.

Instantly his friend replies, without missing a beat, “thirty two thousand, nine hundred and ninety four.”

Involuntarily her eyes widen in surprise. She sits there and does the calculation in her head, though much more slowly than he had. 

Carry the two, eight times two is sixteen, plus two is eighteen, carry the one…he’s right. How is it possible that he came to that answer so quickly?

When her gaze lifts he is looking at her, observing her doing the working out in her head. He holds her stare, a smirk curving the corners of his mouth. He knows she knows he is right, and it’s clear he feels smug about it.

Quickly looking away, she reaches for her water glass, wanting something, anything, to distract her. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel uneasy.

God, I hope I don’t have any classes with him.

She holds her timetable for the week in her hands as she moves her way through the corridors towards the lecture hall the following morning. The first week looks to be fairly light touch, with an introductory lecture for each of the courses; algebra, analysis, probability and statistics, geometry, dynamics and multivariable calculus. Today is the introduction to analysis, and she is excited to study under the tutelage of Professor Helen Byrne. Her research focuses on the development and analysis of mathematical and computational models that describe biomedical systems, with particular application to the growth and treatment of solid tumours, wound healing and tissue engineering. Professor Byrne is someone she has admired within the field for as long as she can remember, and she is very much looking forward to her tutorials with her.

Her excitement fades when she enters the lecture hall and immediately sees the angry guy from the previous evening.

Just my luck.

The only available seat is next to him, so she sits down, dropping her bag to the floor by her feet.

A hand extends out towards her in her peripheral vision, taking her by surprise and she turns in her seat towards it, shrinking back slightly. 

He seems utterly unperturbed by her reaction, keeping his arm extended. “I’m Michael Gavey.”

She blinks, regaining her composure as she leans forward, shaking his hand and introducing herself in return. His palm is clammy against her own, and she can still feel it there even after having let go and wiped her hand on her jeans.

“I saw you last night,” he says matter of factly, pulling his arm back and resting his elbow on the desk in front of him.

“Oh, yeah,” she says with a tight smile, nodding, “so you and your mate…is that like a party trick or something?”

“No, no party trick,” he says with a demure smile. “I’m a genius.”

She forces herself to laugh politely, assuming he’s making a joke, but she stops, her brow furrowing slightly when she sees he doesn’t share in the humour. He’s being serious.

Opening her mouth to ask a follow up question, she’s interrupted as Professor Byrne sweeps into the room. Her and Michael both face forward in their seats as she introduces herself to the class.

Over the next hour they are given an introduction to the course and what to expect in their first year, including an overview of the papers they will need to write and examinations that will be sat. She pays rapt attention, scribbling furious notes, until the lecture begins to wrap up.

“As it’s the first week, I will go easy on assignment setting,” Professor Byrne tells them all, “but there will be an assignment nonetheless.”

A loud, collective groan echoes around the lecture hall. Her and Michael are the only two not to join in.

“Now, now, settle down,” she chastises, “it’ll be fun. I’m sure you’re all aware of the Fibonacci Sequence, a series of numbers where each number is the sum of the two preceding numbers. Mathematically we can describe this as–”

She turns and scrawls xn= xn-1 + xn-2 on the chalkboard, before facing the students again.

“--I’d like you all to find an example of the Fibonacci Sequence in real life and present it back to the class during next week’s lecture. You’re to work in pairs, so buddy up, and see you all next week.”

Professor Byrne places the chalk back on the desk before striding back out of the lecture hall. The room is instantly a buzz with chatter, as people move between seats to find a partner.

She stays rooted in place, suddenly wishing Rich was here. It’s in moments like these that he flourishes, allowing her to take a backseat as he effortlessly navigates them through social interactions. Instead, she is alone and the space around her feels bigger and scarier with every moment that passes.

It’s only when she turns her head that she notices Michael has yet to move too. Gathering all the courage she can muster, she clears her throat and speaks to him.

“So…er…did you wanna partner up for this thing then?”

“I don’t like to work with others,” he says matter of factly, keeping his gaze fixed ahead.

“I’m not exactly thrilled about it either,” she says with a sigh, “but for this assignment we have to.”

“You’ve picked me because I’m a genius. You’ll expect me to do all the work while you get pissed with your mates.”

He fixes her with an accusatory stare, and she feels the heat of anger prickle her skin.

“Haven’t got any mates,” she mutters darkly.

He observes her for a few moments, elbow propped on the desk, jaw resting against his fist, and she fidgets self consciously in her seat. No wonder the other boy from last night had looked so uncomfortable. It feels like he’s studying her.

“Let’s go to the library,” he says simply, standing and picking up his bag.

“So, you’re a genius?” She asks, opening her notebook once they’re seated opposite each other at a table in the library, nervously tapping her pencil against the page.

“Hmm,” Michael nods, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, “I don’t even like maths, really. I can just…do it. Anything. In my head.”

She’s struck by how blunt he is, sucking in a breath as she considers what to say next. There is something so disarming about him, she gets the sense he’s analysing her every word and action.

“Right,” she begins, “so, er, for this assignment I was thinking about how Leonardo Fibonacci used rabbits to prove his theory. One hundred and forty four pairs of rabbits can be produced from a single pair of rabbits in a year, based on the sequence.”

“That’s fucking stupid,” Michael replies with a sigh.

“What?” She asks irritably, annoyed by his dismissal.

“What are you expecting us to do, go to a pet shop and buy rabbits? We’ve only got a week to do the assignment, we need to be more practical.”

She rolls her eyes. “I was using that as an example, not saying we do that exactly! Come on then, genius, what’s your suggestion?”

“Spirals,” he says with a slight shrug. He leans across, placing the tips of his fingers on her notebook and sliding it towards himself, before picking up her pencil. “There is a special relationship between the Fibonacci numbers and the Golden Ratio, a ration that describes when a line is divided into two parts and the longer part - A - divided by the smaller part - B - is equal to the sum of A + B divided by A, which both equal one point six one eight. This is represented by the Greek letter,” he stops to scribble a φ on the pad. “The ratio of any two successive Fibonacci Numbers approximates the Golden Ratio value.” He stops again, scrawling 1.6180339887 on the page. The bigger the pair of Fibonacci numbers, the closer the approximation. From there, we can calculate what's called the golden spiral, or a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor equals the golden ratio.”

She is stunned into a silence for a moment, a combination of his audacity to simply take her belongings, and awe at the rapidity with which his mind works. Collecting herself, she blinks a few times, looking up into his eyes.

They’re so blue.

“So…er…how do you propose we present this data back to the class?”

“A simple table is sufficient, look–”

His hand moves rapidly over the page, a complete table there on the paper when he drops the pencil into the gutter of the notebook and sits back in his chair.

“We present that,” he tells her, his eyes fixed on the page. “Using the values of the sequence as the edge length of squares arranged in the table, a spiral is generated.”

She leans over, sliding the notebook back to her side of the table, marvelling silently at his work. He is fascinating to watch. He’s right, he can just do maths.

“It’s good,” she says, eye flitting up to meet his, “solid. But it’s fucking boring.”

This time it’s his turn to be annoyed. “What?” He asks, eyes narrowing.

“Everyone is going to present something like this, because it’s easy,” she explains, “Don’t you want to stand out to Professor Byrne? We should do something outside of the box.”

“Hmm. Go on then, what are you thinking?” He rests his cheek against his fist, leaning against the table as he stares at her.

She feels herself grow warm under his scrutiny.

Does he always have to be so bloody intense?

“There are loads of examples of Fibonacci numbers appearing in nature. We could look for some? Flowers, perhaps.”

“I’ve got hayfever,” Michael states simply.

She sighs.

Of course you do.

“Then we’ll get you some Piriton! Come on, there are studies that show seed heads, pinecones, fruits and vegetables all displaying spiral patterns that when counted express Fibonacci numbers. This fits perfectly with the brief of the assignment and will leave a lasting impression.”

He moves his hand away from his face, resting his arm flat on the table and quietly drumming his fingers against it for a few moments. “Alright then,” he finally concedes.

“Great,” she grins excitedly, tearing out a page from her notebook and writing on it hurriedly. “Here’s my number, so we can meet up to work on it, and also my Hotmail address, in case MSN works better for you.”

He huffs through his nose as he takes the paper from her, a soft laugh escaping him. “The countess at hotmail dot co dot uk,” he reads with amusement, “very droll.”

“Shut up,” she grins back, “I made that in secondary school. Thought it was funny.”

Back in her room that evening, she’s excited to see she has a text from Rich, finally.

Hope ur enjoying it. Having so much fun here!

She sighs, throwing her phone down on the bed side table. No kisses, not even an “I love you”. 

Watching out of the window, she sees the giggling groups of students making their way out into town, readying themselves to spend the night drinking, making friends and having fun. Just like Rich is doing, not giving her a second thought, while she stays cooped up in her room without a friend in the world.

Suspicion nags at her, so she turns on her laptop, loading up MySpace. Rich takes number one place on her top eight friends, and she clicks on his profile. It looks much the same as it always does, but she decides to snoop further, clicking into his friends list. She can see he has recently friended a girl named Sophie.

Sophie is pretty, bright pink streaks in her hair, and a nose ring. Exactly Rich’s type. Her most recently uploaded photos are of groups of people, clearly all taken during Fresher’s week. A pit forms in her stomach as she sees that in almost all of them Sophie and Rich have their arms around each other. Worse still, Rich occupies space eight in Sophie’s top friends.

She closes the browser, blinking back tears. Surely, she is just being paranoid. They’re just friends. Friends have photos together, and it was normal that he would make new ones when he went away to uni.

Opening MSN Messenger, she hovers over Rich’s username. Unsurprisingly, he’s offline, he always is these days. She smiles when an add request from mgavey628318@hotmail.co.uk pops up. Of course he’d have Tau, the mathematical constant, in his Hotmail address. She clicks accept and he immediately appears in her online contacts. Looks like he isn’t out tonight either.

Double clicking his username, she chuckles to herself upon seeing his display picture is of Pythagoras. Such a dweeb.

“Want to work on our assignment tomorrow?” She types to him.

Barely a few seconds pass before she sees him typing back. “Yes. When?”

“We could meet at the Water Meadow at lunch time?”

“See you then.”

Straight to the point, no idle chit chat. She shakes her head and closes the messenger window, though finds herself strangely excited by the thought of seeing him tomorrow. She reasons that it’s because Michael is the closest thing she has had to a friend since arriving at Oxford.

She visits the nearby Tesco Express the following day, buying a meal deal for each of them and a packet of hayfever tablets for Michael. She has no idea of what Michael even likes, so plays it safe by buying a bottle of Oasis, a Crunchie bar and a ham and cheese sandwich for them both.

At precisely noon, Michael stands at the entrance to the Water Meadow waiting for her. She smiles as she looks at his t-shirt; maroon with a diagram of a circle on a gradient with a downwards acceleration of 9.81 meters per second, with the slogan “that’s how I roll”. A mechanics pun.

“Like your shirt,” she says as she approaches him.

He grins. “Thought you might, considering your email address.”

She averts her gaze. There is something about the fact that he’d thought of her when he’d chosen what to wear today that makes her tummy flutter.

Stop it. You’ve got Rich. Michael’s weird!

“I got you some hayfever tablets,” she tells him as they start to walk along the pathway that’s flanked by green space on either side. “Do you wanna have lunch first and then start looking for flowers?”

They settle, cross legged on the grass, Michael already having taken one of the tablets, chased with half a bottle of Oasis, and she spreads out the food between them.

She watches in fascination as his eyes widen at the sight of the Crunchie bars, snatching one up and tearing off the wrapper. Her mouth falls open slightly as she sees him hold it sideways, biting into it from the side, before devouring each of the pieces it inevitably breaks into.

“You like Crunchie bars then?” She asks, a little grossed out, but curious nonetheless.

He swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mother didn’t allow me to have sweets growing up, bad for your teeth, she said.”

She nods, a feeling over pity replacing the disgust that had roiled her stomach just seconds ago.

“So, is it your mum that pushed you into studying maths?” She asks, fiddling with the lid of her drink bottle.

“Sort of,” he says. “Mother never married, but she wanted a child. She used a sperm donor - a physicist, apparently - and was artificially inseminated to have me. She was thrilled when I showed a natural aptitude for maths, and has always encouraged me. It’s why I do it, why I accepted the scholarship, to make her proud. She’s been through so much to have me, it’s the least I owe her.”

Her face falls, a feeling of sadness overwhelming her, making her heart ache for Michael. There is something so tragic about the fact that he has lived his entire life adhering to the expectations of the person who had created him for their own selfish want of a child.

“What about you then?” He asks. “The bank of mummy and daddy paying for you to be here?”

She shakes her head. “I earned my place, just like you did, with straight As, though I don’t have a scholarship. Have had to take out loans to cover the cost. It’s just me and dad since mum passed away.”

“Oh,” Michael says, blinking rapidly, obviously surprised. “Apologies, I’d assumed a pretty girl like you would be the same as the rest of the vapid cunts studying here, if you can call it studying.”

She hums in acknowledgement, considering his words, turning her own Crunchie bar around in her fingers, focusing on the way the foil wrapper slides against her skin. His compliment makes her heart beat more rapidly, even if it is backhanded. “Like I said yesterday, I’ve got no mates. It was always Rich that was better at that sort of thing.”

“Rich?” Michael asks curiously, cocking his head.

“My boyfriend. He’s at uni in Glasgow.”

“Three hundred and sixty two point nine miles,” Michael states simply.

“Pardon?”

“That’s the distance between Oxford and Glasgow,” he explains, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “How are you planning to make a relationship work with that sort of distance?”

“We’re doing long distance,” she argues, feeling herself growing defensive, scowling at him.

“Yeah, I bet that’s gonna work out great,” he scoffs, eyes widening, clearly mocking her.

“The Glasgow School of Art was the best choice for Rich to study what he wants to,” she retorts.

A grin spreads across his face. “Art?! I suppose you should be grateful he’s hundreds of miles away then, he sounds like a moron.”

She huffs, hurriedly shoving her things back into her bag. “Let’s just look for these fucking flowers and get this over with.”

The pair work for the rest of the afternoon in silence, the atmosphere is tense and angry, but they are productive nevertheless, settling on a patch of sunflowers to use for the assignment.

They look at the spirals of seeds in the center of the sunflowers and observe patterns curving left and right. Counting these spirals, their total is a Fibonacci number. They then divide the spirals into those pointed left and right to get two consecutive Fibonacci numbers.

Cutting down a couple of sunflower heads to use as examples, Michael also makes a diagram in his notes for them to present with their findings.

She feels satisfied by the time they part ways, but an uneasy feeling has settled over her that has dread gnawing into her gut as she thinks about Michael’s criticism of her and Rich’s long distance relationship.

Unsurprised to see she has no missed calls or texts from him when she goes back to her room, she opens up her laptop and logs back onto MySpace. This time when she looks at Rich’s profile her blood runs cold as she sees that Sophie now occupies space number three in his top friends. He’d had time to log on and change the position of a girl he’d met a couple of weeks ago, but couldn’t be bothered to send her a single message?

Before she can stop herself, she’s pulling out her phone and calling his number. She doesn’t care if this wastes all of her credit, she needs answers.

It rings for ages, and she anticipates being sent to voicemail, until he eventually answers, sounding breathless and distracted.

“H-hello?”

“Rich, it’s me,” she says quietly.

There’s a pause before he answers. “Oh…how’s my little nerd? Everything okay?”

She ignores the familiarity, keeping her tone neutral. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me.”

Not giving him an opportunity to respond, she pushes on. “Has something happened between you and this Sophie girl I’ve seen you on Myspace with?”

Another pause, except this time she hears him inhale a deep breath. “I was going to tell you when we came home for Christmas break. It felt wrong to break up with you over the phone.”

It feels as though the bottom of her world has been ripped away, her heart twisting painfully as her vision blurs with tears. She swallows thickly, anger bubbling alongside her devastation, so that her tone is venomous when she replies “So, you were just gonna keep stringing me along for two months, so you could look like a good guy?!”

“Babe, no, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just–”

“You’re a piece of shit,” she cuts him off, “fuck you!”

She hangs up, chucking her phone down onto the bed, and immediately bursts into tears, holding her head in her hands as hot tears stream down her face, her shoulders shaking as her nose grows snotty.

Two years. Two fucking years and he’d chucked it all away for someone he’d known for two weeks.

She walks towards the sink in her room, looking into the mirror and sighing at her reflection. Her eyes are red and puffy, she looks a mess. Splashing cold water onto her face to rid herself of the worst of it, she then flops down onto her bed, opening her laptop.

Immediately she is met with her MSN chat window with Michael from the previous evening. He’s online.

Without thinking, she types out a message to him.

“Do you have any alcohol?”

Within seconds he’s typing a response.

“Would you like me to have alcohol?”

Chapter two || Series masterlist

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

I ran here after your response to that musical!reader headcanon and the mention of Jekyll and Hyde has me SWOONING.

I saw a local production where the woman playing Lucy went out into the audience during "Bring On The Men" and flirted with people, she even sat down on her friend's lap!

What if musical!reader did that to Viktor 🤭

OH MY G O D THATS SO COOL???

Viktor would DIE. Like actually just pass way. Stop breathing and ascend to the next plane of existence. Glorious Evolution TM.

Viktor is usually very appreciative of music. It's similar to mathematics, in many ways, equations of numbers and notes put together for a new and unique sounding result. He does enjoy theater as well from time to time: it requires a lot of practice, experience, trial and error... by that logic, musical theater should be an art form just as objectively interesting in his eyes.

If what you're doing on stage right now is musical theater, though, he's having a VERY hard time staying objective about it.

It's nothing short of dirty. From the corset that hugs your waist and reveals way too much of your generous chest, to the way you're spreading your legs invitingly for the entire audience to see, everything about you screams sex. He's absolutely transfixed, incapable of looking away from the way your hands touch your own body to the beat of the invisible orchestra.

He's only pulled away from the moment when some students a few seats away start loudly whistling and whooping for your attention, like this is a strip club and not a college play.

THAT'S when he starts to get mad.

He's suddenly very aware of the fact that there's about a hundred other people in the room, students and faculty members, watching the same performance he is. How many of them will imagine you in their bed tonight? How many of them are imagining you in their lap right now?

The smile on your lips speak louder than a thousand words: you're enjoying this, the thrill of the stage, the eyes undressing you while you sing your pretty little song about getting fucked by nameless strangers. Even worse, he's certain you're taking pleasure in knowing he's got front row seats for it, that you've effectively got him powerless and chained down while you're giving a show he should be the only one witnessing.

You've flipped over your roles as student and teacher, and now, he's the one who has to sit silently and drink every word from your lips. It's devilishly clever.

He would be genuinely impressed if he wasn't burying his nails into his cane with one hand and trying to cover the tent in his dress pants with the other.

The projector suddenly moves; it follows you as you're going down the few stairs from the stage to the floor, heels sharp against the concrete floor.

So lets bring on the men

And let the fun begin

Your eyes finally meet his. They're filled with bright sparkles from the stage lights, teasing and provoking. Tauntingly asking if he's ready for what's next, when you both know he doesn't have a say in the matter. The show must go on.

'Ah, shit' is the only thing that comes across his mind before you sit on his lap, the spotlight blinding him.

A little touch of sin

Why wait another minute?

Your movements are calculated and precise, applying just enough pressure on his clothed cock for you to feel how hard he is, without granting him any relief. The audience cheers; he thinks he's having an aneurism.

You bat your mascara heavy eyelashes at him, abandoning the play for a triumphant instant. 'See?' he can almost hear you say. 'I knew I'd get your attention eventually. What's your next move, professor?'

Oh, he is going to make you regret this.

[gauntletgirlie]

Get to know your Mutuals

Thanks for the tag @perlen-gold, even though I’m just an unhinged follower obsessed with your writing 🙈 I started my own chain so your original post wouldn’t get too long.

What's the origin of your blog's title? My thirst for Adar and the gauntlet kink he inspired.

Favorite Fandoms: I have a lot, but The Silmarillion/The Lord of the Rings/The Rings of Power are my main ones I always fall back on.

OTP(s) + shipname: I’m a self shipper so me + whomever I’m obsessed with (currently Melkor, Adar, and Gil-galad) but also more recently:

Melkor x Mairon (Angbang)

Adar x Celebrimbor (Silverscars)

Favorite color: Orange (also partial to purple and dark green).

Favorite game: Hero Quest (I’m not a console gamer. Though I did enjoy watching my husband play Horizon Zero Dawn).

Song stuck in your head: Dog Days (Are Over) by Florence and The Machine.

Weirdest habit/trait? Oh boy, where to begin… I make random noises, I meep like Beaker to songs, laugh at my own jokes… I’m just a weird person altogether folks.

Hobbies: Writing, visiting places of historical interest, I also used to be an avid reader but then motherhood robbed me of my energy and concentration. I listen to audiobooks more now.

If you work, what's your profession? I write scientific reports and run data tables for an Early Drug Development CRO, which is as fun as it sounds. I’m also a mother. Everything you’ve heard about motherhood is true and also a lie.

If you could have any job you wish what would it be? I would be rich enough not to need to work 🤷🏻‍♀️ or working on a petting farm would be cute.

Something you're good at: Berating myself. Encouraging others/being a cheerleader. Also writing, I hope 🙈

Something you're bad at: Most things, but especially anything requiring mathematics or physical exercise.

Something you excel at: Being a silly goose 😏thirsting over fictional characters 🙈 and raging at injustices. Erm, I think that’s about it. How tragic for me 😂

Something you love: The community I’ve found here on Tumblr 🫶🏼 period dramas, Dracula, and tattoos (I have none of my own… yet).

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: Mormonism, The Wars of the Roses, the people I love.

Something you hate: Injustice, mayonnaise, and corsets improperly portrayed in period drama.

Something you collect: Cuddly toy bats, and more characters to thirst over (I need help).

Something you forget: That motherhood is difficult so to give myself more grace.

What's your love language? I don’t adhere to love languages, but I guess genuine connection over similar interests, banter/in-jokes.

Favorite movie/show: Aaahhh don’t make me choose! It’s always changing.

Favorite food: Galaxy Cookie Crumble, Mini Eggs, Yorkshire puddings, and pizza.

Favorite animal: Bats 🦇

Are you musical? I can hold a tune and I played flute as a kid, otherwise sadly no.

What were you like as a child? Intelligent, saw everything in black and white, more artistic, more outgoing.

Favorite subject at school? History and art.

Least favorite subject? Maths and PE.

What's your best character trait? I like to think I’m kind and understanding.

What's your worst character trait? I can be so incredibly lazy.

If you could change any detail of your day right now what would it be? More sleep. Always more sleep.

If you could travel in time who would you like to meet? Bram Stoker. I’d also love to meet my mum as a young woman, I think we would have had fun.

Recommend one of your favorite fanfics (spread the love!):

Come by @perlen-gold (Angbang)

Of Convenience by @greenleaf4stuff (Silverscars)

Last but not least, show your favorite fanart of your favorite character(s) (please remember to credit/add links!):

Melkor/Morgoth

Adar

Gil-Galad (TROP)

No pressure tags for @greenleaf4stuff, @valar-did-me-wrong, @strifes13, @wowstrawberrycow, @iwanderbecauseimlost, @withallthatisleftofmyheart, @calmlyy-chaotiic, @margauxmara, @varda-starqueen, @saffronstories, @gingeragenda, @gracefallingart, @dwarveslikeshinythings, @whenimaunicorn, @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 and anyone else who would like to play! Sorry if I missed anyone.

[obsidianandblacksatin]

✨ Explore the Mandelbrot Zoom ✨

Get ready to dive into one of the coolest experiences where math meets art—the mesmerizing Mandelbrot set! This fractal is a wild ride of infinite patterns and shapes, and zooming in feels like uncovering a hidden universe of beauty.

🌌 Named after mathematician Benoît B. Mandelbrot, this set comes from a simple formula but creates stunning, self-repeating structures. The deeper you zoom, the more intricate and mind-blowing the patterns get.

🔍 If you’re into Mandelbrot sets like I am, you know how addictive it is to explore the endless details. Every zoom feels like discovering something brand new, reminding you just how infinite this world is.

✨ Whether you’re into math, art, or just love a good dose of cosmic wonder, the Mandelbrot zoom is pure inspiration.

Let’s celebrate the beauty of math and all the endless surprises it has to offer!

[tparker48]

Request for annonymous

The weekend was supposed to be a week of relaxation, filled with shows for Milai to binge and snack on popcorn. But that all changed when Rad shoved a Mathematics final into his face. As if handling chemistry wasn't hard enough. Saturday was spent calculating his professor’s what if problems; Sunday's focusing on how to bring them together. He wrote down his answers enough for Rad to understand, all he had to do was write it down.

He packed the assignment into a file, emailing it to Rad. He thought that was the end of it, that is, until morning arrived. Rad had sent him a text to meet him in the gym, said he had a stereo project for Milai to see. Of course he did. Arriving at the gym, He followed Rad into the heart of the gym, stepping into the locker rooms.

Sitting along the floor was a leather box, Guarded by Rad’s friends.

"This is the stereo you were talking about?" Milai eyed the small box.

"You bet,” Rad replied, “the boys have been saying it's been having shitty quality, can barely handle the ox.”

Milai cocked a brow, approaching the box from its side. He eyed the belted patterns along the corner of its faces, tracing them as he moved to the middle of the structure. A panel creaked open, and he peered inside. No cassette deck, no wires, not even a plug.

"I don't see anything in here! Are you sure this is even a stereo?"

"Nope,” Rad said, “but it sure will come close to being one!"

Milai jerked as the rubbery hide of a sneaker tackled behind him, casting him into the mouth of the panel. Darkness swallowed the light as the panel closed, a loud clunk echoing on the other side. He raised his arms ahead, barely able to see the silhouette of his fingers through the dimmed lighting beneath the panel.

A tilt along the side of the box slid him to the opposite wall, laughter filling the void like a pack of hyenas.

"I told you this shit would work!" Rad’s voice muffled beyond the walls, joined by the snickering of his friends.

"Rad!” Milai banged against the wall. “What is the meaning of this?!"

"You gave me a failing grade, you little shit nugget! The professor’s stupid computer claimed it as plagiarized."

"You sent it as it was?! You were supposed to write it down!"

"That's what I have you for, nerd, and you did a shitty job at it!" Rad replied. "But that's good, you just gave me an excuse I can use for the coach to keep my spot on the team."

The floor yanked from under Milai, slamming him against the leathered wall. Cement grinds against the fabric below, a hard thud striking the walls as he spun in place. Another thud impacted the box before a knock lingered beyond the walls, Rusted creaks following.

“Rad!” A scruffier voice rumbled above. “Thought I told you to pack your things."

"Cut me some slack, coach, I just wanna give you and the team an apology gift.” The box jerked forward. Feast your eyes on this bad boy!”

“A box?”

“Not just any box,” rad added, “A state of the art isolation box, fit for all your needs.”

Milai banged against the leathered interior, his blows absorbing into its sturdy walls.

“You must think 'cause I'm old you can take me for a fool.” The coach said. “You really think a box is gonna change my mind.”

"Not at all, sir. It’s something I’d want you to consider."

Watery steps echoed in the distances, herds of and groans filling the void.

“And it seems I just made it in time. What do ya say, coach, save your nostrils the wrath of the team, or let it stink up the place.”

“You’ve got some nerds talking to me like that.” The coach growled, his words rumbling through the box.

“I mean no ill will, coach. Cross my heart.” The floor beneath Milai flung from him off his feet, tilting vertically before the coach groaned outside. “You’d better hurry, I can already hear the trumpets from here.”

Rad’s steps grew hollow, a creak from the locker room door signaling his departure. Milai stared at the hollow ceiling, rubbing his aching rear.

“I swear that boy stresses the hell out of me.” The coach said above, the walls shifting as Milai fell to the opposite wall. "Looks sturdy enough, this damn thing better be worth it than that brat’s yammering."

The box seesawed as heavy steps filled the atmosphere. Milai could barely stand, the floor’s firm jerks bullying him from wall to wall like a pinball. It brushed him into a corner, and he clung to the dented strips in the wall, holding it like the railing on a theme park ride.

A loud thud boomed from outside, and the sound of running water overcame the silence. Chatters that were once distant now surround the dark tomb talking about scrimmages and favorite plays. They were in the showers. The team’s showers. The floor drifted as he became weightless, box slamming on the ground with a wet splash.

"Christmas came early boys!" The coach announced, roping the chattering players to silence. "A little elf's brought you all a little present for your aching tushies."

The box thrusts forward, the far wall catching Milai as it spun somewhere ahead. Slowly it came to a stop, and Watered steps echoed around. The ceiling rattled before the circular opening tore off, light bursting inside like a flash grenade. However the moment of light was brief, as a mountainous mass eclipsed the opening.

"Now I don't have to tell you overgrown buffaloes how to use a toilet." The coach’s hide slid over the opening, his silky sack drooping inside. They over Milai like a string of snot, its meloned testicle threatening to droop closer with the slightest shift. "I’ll keep this simple, if any of you has to so much as crack a gasket, you direct all that to this box."

Fingers peeled a mound from the other, its shriveled sphincter blossoming from its cleft like a flower. Its folds quivered, before a gale of flatulence rushed into the bowl. Its warmth blanketed over Milai, spreading across the box like a morning fog. His nostrils screamed, His lungs tightening to hold the tiny sample of fresh air contained within them.

Beyond the walls, groans echoed from the surrounding players, as if his pain transmitted to them.

"Can it! I've faced weeks smelling your stink bombs, you can handle hearing a bit of mine." The coach squeezed another burst, peeling from the opening with a rough squeak. "Alright dismissed! Get those raw dogs of yours washed, All I want to smell by the you’re all done is the fabreeze dispenser!"

Shorts pulled over the hairy hide before it vanished over the edge, leaving a skylight in the middle of the ceiling. For a moment, Milai’s lungs could breathe again, though tainted from the coach's foul odor. Shadow danced from the opening, Chattering returned.

"He wants us to use this dainty thing?" One player said, pressing a foot against its side.

"Bullshit, the thing's tin can, it could barely hold the old man!" Another chimed.

Chattering increased, watered steps funneling closer. The smell of lavender seeped into his nostrils as another rear eclipsed the opening, droplets of water pattering from its round spheres like rain.

"Look guys, we can sit here and complain about the coach's..questionable tactics. But.." The player paused, a burst of air erupting from the hole, carrying with it water droplets as they struck Milai. "I, for one, am not going to challenge that. And I suggest you all do the same less you wanna do bear crawls in the hot sun again."

The player peeled from the box, light illuminating the walls once more. Milai pawed against the leathered floor, coughing to cast out the tainted air.

Hell no, I'm not doing that again, my jock nearly gave me a rash with all that crawling." a player said.

"Nearly? Mine damn near gave me a wedgie!" Another chimed.

Their steps approached, blocking the ceiling light like pillars. Milai clambered to his feet, coughing at the pungent odor that stuck to him like cologne.

“Hey!..” He said between breaths. “There’s in here!..no more!”

Nothing, not even a glance over the circular rim. The dimmed light turned black as another rear hovered overhead. Its mounds scrunched together like unopened loaf of bread, Gyrating with a shift of the player’s weight. Milai called to the descending player, but they were drowned out as flesh skidded against the opening.

Fingers peeled its sides, the eye of the ass casting its judgement to the interior of the box. Milai banged against the walls, his words bouncing off them like an echo chamber. The player’s anus cocked, and a sewery gale flowed inside. Its air was as ripe as a left out trash can, loud and wet as it invaded his lungs.

The ass rose, and another took its place, carrying with it a cacophony of smell no man should ever witness.

This parade of flatulence continued for minutes, asses narrow and wide passing over the opening like the sun hidden away by the shower's walls. With each ass that docked overhead, it brought with it another warmth, another torture he had to wait to disperse or absorb into the walls. It was beyond unbearable.

Milai pulled off his shirt, tainted sweat in its fabric dampening his fingers like a wet towel. He didn't know much he could take from this. This shitty container was going to be a tomb for his sinuses. Another wave washed him, rumbling the floor before it wisped to the edge.

In that instant, everything went silent, chatters echoing above. Was it over? Truly over?

"Out the room! The atom bomb's coming!" A player announced.

Milai widened. "Atom who?"

Commotion erupted from the players outside, the top of their domes zipped past the rim.

"Hey, wait! Don’t leave!" Milai banged against the edge. "Let me out of this thing!"

No response, the sounds of their watery steps fading. Curtains draw as silence brewed, ;leaving behind only the sound of the shower’s running faucets..

"Do they always have to keep saying that?" A voice said, heavy steps coming from behind. "I swear one milkshake mishap and you’re branded for life!"

Milai eyed the opening, focusing on the player’s steps. He couldn’t see anyone past its ridge, but he could feel their presence in the air, like it was embedded in his bones. The heavy steps came to a halt, water droplets trickling over the open. The ceiling light shifted as a kick struck the side of the box, and the blocky silhouette of a player cast overhead.

The player’s gaze tilted, a groan escaping from them. "Coach said we have to use this? He couldn’t have asked for a bigger one?" A loud rumble pierced the air, rippling his barreled gut. “This thing won’t last a second, But I guess it’ll have to do.”

The player turns around, the bulk of his gut shifting to his ample mounds like a flipped coin. He lowered himself onto the box, and he could almost hear it scream. The walls buckled, the sound of tearing leather echoing from the walls.

Veins streaked across the walls, light bleeding inside. Milai scrambled to them, sliding an arm through, to wiggle himself out. Only his shoulder could squeeze through, the walls pressing against his cheek.

The metal hide popped as the crevice split horizontally. He pulled his arm just as their ends clanged together, tumbling to the middle of the container.

The ceiling creaked louder, the cracks blistering up the walls. They climbed to the top of the box, and the ceiling bucked. Milai barely had time to move before its rim met his palms. His knees met his stomach, his as burning beneath the player’s weight.

"Great, just great, I can feel the bottom in my crack." The player groaned, Milai’s hair sticking to his cleft as it rubbed in place. “Stupid leather’s lighting a fire in my ass.”

Bubbles oozed from its fleshy crevices, forcing the ring to distend. Its roar erupted into the box, and a foul warmth spewed upon his back. The ass above fluttered in his palms, its flatulence vibrating his palms like a motor boat.

The gas sealed with a grotesque squelch, the ass shuttering. "Ah, that's much better."

"Come on.." Milai gritted beneath the player's weight. He could hear the container creak louder, the edge of the rim dipping as it pressed against his head. If this keeps up he'll..No, he has to find a way out of this thing.

He slid his palms along the edge, ushering from beneath the dipping end of the rim. He looked back to the blanket of ass flesh above, eyeing the empty space. He didn’t like the idea, but it was better than being crushed. He slid a foot from beneath him, a burn overwhelming his limbs as they began to shake.

With little strength he had left, he kicked himself away, splaying against the cleft of the player’s ass as the rim met the bottom.

"Damn thing barely lasted a minute, it’s a flapjack more than a box now." The player rang above. His hole spewed its foul breath into the tattered box, warming Milai’s back.

He pawed against the floor beneath him, crawling inside a pocket of air. He barely gained an inch before air fluttered beneath the player’s taint, flesh flattening him. The hole erupted again, droplets collecting at Milai’s neck forcing him to wince. Amidst its bubbly release, a door creaked in the distance, a familiar voice streaking the air.

“Yo Atom, Hurry in it there!" Rad said, dripping with a snarked tone.

"You of all people know not to call me that, you dunce!” He snapped back.

"Ooo excuse me, sorry I Interrupted your little pampering.”

Milai writhed beneath the player, focusing on the small patch of light seeping between his legs. Atom’s weight shifted, his anus squashing upon his waist.

“Thought coach told you to beat it!” Atom said. “I don’t need any more trouble than having a deadbeat like you talking with me.”

“Coach turned over a new leave, I'm back on the team.” Rad mocked. “Even sent me come fetch you from your little..heh, gas problem before you stink the place.”

“Bullshit!”

“Best believe, I’m back in the game baby.” Rad replied. “But hey, if you don’t you can always just sit here and continue, buut It’d be a shame to see you running those laps on the field. Coach was watching those hills pretty close the last I saw him."

Atom groaned, vibrating through the walls like thunder. "Damn it just…gimme a second."

The player’s legs tightens, the soft tissue of his taint smother against Milai’s cheek. Ripples channeled toward his anus, and he was poured in his flatulence. It radiated his backside like the heat waves from an oven, enveloping him in its musk from head to toe. He pawed at the small gap between the player's legs, hoping to squeeze past the bulk of the player’s backsack and into the open. but to no avail.

The hole shriveled in size, its wind concentrating into a singular stream as his clothes stuck to his skin. As it rose from the bowl, his leg jerked as his foot caught along one of its folds.

“Wait..” He dangled beneath the player, the anus dragging him between the bubbled mounds like a predator with a fresh catch. The hills of flesh climbed over his body, swallowing up to his head. Wait wai-!"

"Can't believe I have to rush at a time like this, you didn't see me nagging about their time with the box." Atom scratched idly at his rear, a fire stirring between them. "Now I've got a damn itch.."

He straightened himself, concentrating on his glutes. With a firm squeeze, a burst of air fluttered from his cheeks, escaping into the open air.

"Mph!"

"Huh?" He snapped back, finding only the empty shower curtains. "thought I heard somethin' just now.."

He scanned the neighboring showers, before looking toward the container. Its corners were mangled, veins stretching along either side as a butt print carved into the metal hide of the lid. He turned toward the door, Rad peering over his shoulder. He thought he was looking at the jerseys toppled in the corner, but his gaze laid on the box, a smirk stretching to his ear.

“The hell you staring at?!” He nudged a shoulder into Rad. “Wanna sniff or something?!”

“Like I’d want to sniff the ass of the atom bomb.”

“You son of..call me that again and I’ll turn you as flat as this box.”

“You could, you definitely could, however who’s scent will the coach be smelling?” His sly grin widened, his eyes Peering into Atom. “Wouldn’t be mine, but I’m sure whoever was here last will surely get the extra laps. don’t you think, Atom bomb?”

His face scrunched, his fingers tensing. He shot an arm to Rad's jersey, ensnaring it into his fist. He held the other mid air, the tip of Rad’s nose grazing across his knuckles. Even now the brat held his stupid grin, puckering his lips as if he were going to kiss his fist.

Whistling blew from the cracked door, the coach barking plays as they reverberated the cemented walls

“What’ll it be, bomby boy.” Rad said in a singsong, cocking a brow.

Atom held his fist closer, his body yearning to shrivel Rad’s face like a lemon. He shoved him away, sent the shambled box to the far wall with a sluggish kick.

“You’re lucky I like this sport.” He growled beneath his breath.

“And the sport likes you, Atom!” Rad’s smirked. “I do too!”

“Can it!”

He hoists his shorts to his waist, his briefs wrapping around his rear, but something felt off. It was tighter than they usually were, pinching between his mounds like a wedge. He plucked at one its ends, drawing a cheek from its layer as it spilled over the flaps. The tightened sensation lessened, reduced to softened pressure as his mound clapped together.

“I swear this thing’s been bugging me.”

“Seems like you got a real nuisance up your ass, ay Atom bomb?”

“Not as much a nuisance as you are!”

[to-trek-or-not-to-trek]

TNG Characters as Oddly Specific College Students

Picard: Exhausted master's student who just wants a break so he can run his historical LARP club.

Riker: The frat boy who looks like a bit of a douche when you meet him but carries everyone back to the dorm with ibuprofen and water.

Troi: Psychology TA who's probably not using you for her research... probably

Dr. Crusher: That one overly enthusiastic RA who becomes your bestie, perhaps against your will

Worf: Business professional fraternity brother who hates being confused with the likes of Riker.

Data: That one kid in your art class that is getting a degree in Applied Mathematics and Computer Science, and when you ask him, "wtf why are you here," he just says, "I wanted to learn art :)"

Geordi: The RA who's actually a solid bro, engineering major but the one engineering major who's not an asshole.

Wesley: The poor kid who got to college aged 16 or 17 and isn't allowed to leave the building without parental permission

[enden-k]

is this kaveh and ratio’s first meeting like. “oh. erm. hi.” HAJDJDJSJ

"um..nice to meet you"

"likewise"

5mins later w their shared interest/focus on engineering/mathematics/arts/etc: