#Spectral Measurement

[erwinw]

What are Colorimeters? Function, How It Works, and Maintenance

In a world where colors can speak louder than words, the unsung hero of precise hue measurement is the humble colorimeter, a device that unveils the silent language of colors with remarkable accuracy and simplicity. What are Colorimeters? A colorimeter is an instrument that plays a crucial role in the field of colorimetry, which is the science of measuring and analyzing the color of light that…

[ask-sad-ghost-piett]

Today, a Scout Trooper used their stealth for insolent purposes and pilfered my favorite eyeliner. I cannot tell who is the thief due to the helmets. I do not understand the point of stealing eyeliner if one will be wearing a helmet anyway.

If any living soul would be kind enough to leave a replacement eyeliner (preferably black) at my symbolic grave, I would be very appreciative.

[maxx-the-queer]

The Siege at Weisshaupt is honestly one of the best missions of any Dragon Age game, let alone Veilguard.

The stakes are already high: kill an Archdemon and then kill Ghilan'nain.

Killing an Archdemon - the big bad at the end of Origins whose very presence means apocalypse and certain sacrifice - is just the first step to killing an even greater force.

Ghilan'nain - an Ancient Elven Goddess blighted beyond recognition, whose unchecked ambition unleashed great horrors upon the world - is the real threat to face or else the Darkspawn Army will be the least of Thedas' worries.

The leader of the Grey Wardens, the only mortal force who have thus far been able to protect Thedas from utter annihilation, categorically refuses to face reality. Rook only has a ragtag team of half a dozen guys from all over to face an entire Darkspawn army with.

It's exactly as terrifying and daunting as it sounds, and neither task is something anyone treats with any amount of levity. Everyone is confident in their abilities to perform their task and get Lucanis to the right place to finish this contract, but there's no playfulness or divine certainty about their success.

Rook, whose only game plan is "get in and win by any means necessary," is then immediately confronted with the reality of their situation as absolutely everything goes wrong.

The Eluvian isn't where they thought it would be, the Grey Wardens are overwhelmed by Ghilan'nain's forces, and just to add to the sheer horror - there's a young child running through this battlefield of Darkspawn in search of her father and she will not listen to your pleas for her to get to safety.

All of that happens in the first ten minutes of the mission, mind you. This isn't even including the fact that Ghilan'nain appears as a damn spectral cloud face - which Lucanis rightfully points out is who he has to kill and "how am I supposed to kill a damn cloud?!"

Rook runs through the fortress, makes it to the East Battlements and hears the sounding of a horn begging for reinforcements, only to realise that they're the only ones coming and everything is falling apart, but they have no choice but to keep going.

Retreats are called, everywhere Rook goes is the wrong way, the forces are overwhelming beyond measure, and this battle is no longer about killing but surviving, because they're cornered like prey by horrors beyond comprehension.

When all of a sudden, the world's bravest little girl rushes in like a hero and guides them through impossible odds to somewhere with some semblance of safety. She's the only reason they haven't succumbed to death already and despite the waves upon waves of Hurlocks, Spikers, and Ogres - she finds her father.

Thanks to Mila, there's a moment of reprieve. Rook gets a chance to breathe. The Veilguard regroups, replans their approach. Distract Ghilan'nain with the dagger, trap her Archdemon in a dragon trap, and kill it to render her mortal. With time to breathe comes time to doubt, to fear.

A Warden has to die to kill the Archdemon. Davrin knows this, and is ready to go. But is Rook? What if they can't do this? What if this is how they die? Can they even spare the time to think about it?

Regardless, they fight through to the dragon trap. The Archdemon approaches as Rook all but dangles the dagger within reach. She takes the bait and sends her Archdemon forth, it seems all too easy - like putting cheese out for the mice.

The Archdemon is trapped. Davrin says his goodbyes, but the First Warden surges forward insistently. He plans to end this according to tradition. He'll die with dignity, he's not asking for your permission to do what all wardens must. He steps forward. Sword in hand, ready to end the Blight.

Ghilan'nain will not be so easily beat. She will not play by the rules they're used to, and the First Warden does not get to die a hero. She seizes him in her grasp, sucks the life out of him to empower Razikale, and changes the game once more. Her Archdemon is unlike any seen in history, and there's no time to revel in it because it's do or die and Rook cannot afford to die yet.

Every blow brings it closer to death, and therefore Ghilan'nain herself as she becomes more and more desperate. One snakelike head becomes two, becomes three, with blight everywhere - the time is at hand.

Davrin is the only one left who can kill the Archdemon, his death is inevitable, and he's ready to go as he sinks his sword in for the final blow.

Except, if there's one thing this seige should have taught them all, it was this: the rules have changed. Davrin is still standing, and he doesn't have time to think about why, because Ghilan'nain is mortal and the time to strike is now.

Rook tosses the Lyrium Dagger to Lucanis. He surges up, wings of Spite propelling him up to kill a goddess like she's any other target, because it's all that he came here to do.

And then, he misses.

With everything at stake, and everything to lose... Lucanis Dellamorte misses.

They don't have time to try again. If they stay, everyone dies. And so, the Veilguard flees through the Eluvian and back into the Lighthouse. It was a victory, but at what cost?

Nothing is how it's supposed to be. Weisshaupt is fallen. The Wardens are scattered. Razikale is dead, Ghilan'nain is mortal. And yet...

It wasn't enough.

[kabr0ztrousers]

What about a fem waitress/teacher/nurse/other service centered job that is being haunted by a horny exhibitionist ghost that will only touch them in public.

Bonus points if reader gets lured (either fed up with the torment or too cockdrunk to care) into releasing all of the ghost's friends for a ghost orgy

Kabr0z Writes Episode 39: Haunting

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: ghosts; public use; noncon; free use; creampie; group sex; possession; pregnancy mention

A/N: Back to requests today, and back to ghosts too, which I'm sure is welcome news to some of you

As always, if you have any requests for any situations, kinks, or revisits then please drop me a DM asking for what you want and I'll most likely write it sooner or later

###############################

The café was always a little haunted, the odd thing moving here or there, the occasional flickering of the lights, unexplained cold spots, nothing major. That was, of course, until Othello turned up.

You weren't sure what was happening at first, it was a normal shift waiting tables, taking orders, business as usual. You bent over to clean a table when a hand cupped your ass. When you turned to confront whoever touched you, nobody was there. You shrugged and carried on working, maybe you imagined it? A couple of hours later you were working the cash register and felt something squeezing your tits, pinching the nipples through your bra. That's when you realised this was probably a ghost.

You shook yourself. Whoever it is, they're probably not going to be around long, and it's hardly the first time someone's been a bit handsy with you. You do work hospitality after all.

You ran off a little of the receipt paper and jotted down your question: "Who are you?"

Setting the pen and paper aside, you got back to it. You even got a few minutes of reprieve as well before spectral hands started stroking your waist, one unclasping your bra as you walked back behind the counter. In a neat copperplate hand, the spirit had answered your question. Its name was Othello.

There wasn't time to dwell on it, the lunchtime rush was about to start.

Your first couple of tables were fine. It's amazing how quickly you adapt to the roving hands of the unqiet dead when you have to. The next one was a little trickier.

The hands started off squeezing your ass, but one slid around your front and pressed up against your pussy. You felt your skin redden as you started to trip over your words. The men on the table looked quizzically at you, but didn't say anything. The other hand started feeling your cunt too, spectral fingers parting the lips of your pussy as more lazily toyed with your clit. You dropped your pen, crouching to pick it up. Your reward was for two fingers to push inside, immediately aiming for your g-spot as the the ghost continued to abuse your clit.

You bit your tongue to stifle a yelp, only half-succeeding. The men were definitely staring at you now as you half-waddled away from their table, conscious of the arousal dripping from you, soaking your underwear and running down your leg.

You scribbled another message "knock it off, asshole" putting down the paper and walking away.

The fingers came back almost immediately. You felt a hand trace two letters on your back. "No"

The rest of the rush was a stagger, taking every measure of your composure not to give in to the insistent hands rubbing your cunt, pushing fingers into you, toying constantly with your clit. You lasted most of the way through, only one table left before you could lock the door, take a break and recover yourself. A couple of men who work in a nearby office block, one blonde, one dark haired.

You took their order, face burning up and voice quivering. You could hear a wet stirring sound coming from your cunt and smell yourself, the way they were looking at you made you think they could too. Pushing the thought to the back of your mind, you turned to ring up their order. Othello tripped you, sending you sprawling. Your concentration lapsed a moment, letting a moan escape your lips and your back arch, showing your soaked panties to the two men.

You heard them get up before you scurried away into a back room, locking the door behind you. A semi-transparent figure hung there, glowing softly in the dark room.

"What's the big idea?" You spat at the ghost "Who knows what they would've done?"

"I wanted to get you alone" His voice sounded like he was at the bottom of a deep, dry well "Look in the box"

You looked where he was pointing, the lost and found box. On the top, nested on a hoodie someone had left a month ago, was a heart-shaped silver locket. You picked it up, the smooth metal much colder on your skin than it should be

"Open it" Othello's excited voice called to you from just over your shoulder

You unfastened the clasp, the locket fell open. A faintly-glowing cloud poured from it, flowing into Othello and forming two more spectres beside him. All three of them were much more visible now: three men, each around six feet tall. One reached out and opened the door behind you as another pushed you out. The light of the café made them hard to see, but their hands were solid as they manhandled you to a table. The office workers stared at you as the ghosts bent you over the table, pulling your soaked underwear to one side and hiking up your skirt.

The first ghost lined himself up with your cunt and forced his cock inside. Their laughter filled the room as he mercilessly pounded you, each thrust forcing a yelp out of you.

You could hear the other men walking over, moving slowly as the ghost fucked you, clearly not sure what they were seeing. They stood behind you, watching as the first ghost reached his orgasm, pumping his load into you before stepping aside for the next.

The second ghost wasn't any gentler, forcing himself into you using the first one's cum as lube, pressing his fingers into your clit and rubbing you to an orgasm around him as he buried himself in you. The office workers walked around the table to where your head lay, the edge rubbing on your cheek bone.

They got their cocks out and forced your mouth open, taking turns fucking your face and groping the sides of your tits as the ghosts held you down. The second ghost finished in you and the third took his place as the two men kept your mouth busy. This ghost took his time, running his hands over your waist and your hips, feeling every inch of your skin as he rutted into you. The office workers were getting close, you could taste the precum flowing out of them as they alternated thrusting down your throat. The dark haired one held you down. You gagged as he filled your mouth with cum, thrusting down into you for good measure, despite already being balls-deep. You gasped for breath when he pulled out, only for the blonde one to do the same, roughly fucking your throat until he pulled out and painted your face with it, slathering you with a mix of spit and semen. They put themselves away and left before the ghost and finished, making sure to be gone before you could get up.

You felt the ghost start throbbing inside you, pulsing his cum into your punished womb, mingling with his friends.

They left you on the table when they'd finished. Your legs shaking, tears and cum in your eyes. Othello pulled you up from the table, holding you from behind as another placed the locket around your neck.

You felt as though you were watching a film. You could still see everything, hear, touch, taste, but your movements weren't yours any more. You watched as you removed the stained and sodden knickers from between your legs. Your body moved unbidden, leaving the café and locking the door behind you. Your lungs filled with the outside air as you watched yourself walk down the street

"Don't worry" Othello's voice sounded in your head "We'll give your body back, just maybe a little more pregnant"

#######################################

A/N: Not sure how well this one turned out, but there's certainly room to expand this if needed.

Once again, any requests will probably be written, so if you want something: drop me an ask or a DM and I'll do what I can!

[thaoworra]

The Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association recently released the poems that made it to the finalist stage for consideration for the 2024 Rhysling Awards for Short and Long Speculative Poems of the year. Congratulations to all of the nominees! This will be the 46th year these awards have been conferred!

Short Poems (50 finalists)

Attn: Prime Real Estate Opportunity!, Emily Ruth Verona, Under Her Eye: A Women in Horror Poetry Collection Volume II

The Beauty of Monsters, Angela Liu, Small Wonders 1

The Blight of Kezia, Patricia Gomes, HWA Poetry Showcase X

The Day We All Died, A Little, Lisa Timpf, Radon 5

Deadweight, Jack Cooper, Propel 7

Dear Mars, Susan L. Lin, The Sprawl Mag 1.2

Dispatches from the Dragon's Den, Mary Soon Lee, Star*Line 46.2

Dr. Jekyll, West Ambrose, Thin Veil Press December

First Eclipse: Chang-O and the Jade Hare, Emily Jiang, Uncanny 53

Five of Cups Considers Forgiveness, Ali Trotta, The Deadlands 31

Gods of the Garden, Steven Withrow, Spectral Realms 19

The Goth Girls' Gun Gang, Marisca Pichette, The Dread Machine 3.2

Guiding Star, Tim Jones, Remains to be Told: Dark Tales of Aotearoa, ed. Lee Murray (Clan Destine Press)

Hallucinations Gifted to Me by Heatstroke, Morgan L. Ventura, Banshee 15

hemiplegic migraine as willing human sacrifice, Ennis Rook Bashe, Eternal Haunted Summer Winter Solstice

Hi! I am your Cortical Update!, Mahaila Smith, Star*Line 46.3

How to Make the Animal Perfect?, Linda D. Addison, Weird Tales 100

I Dreamt They Cast a Trans Girl to Give Birth to the Demon, Jennessa Hester, HAD October

Invasive, Marcie Lynn Tentchoff, Polar Starlight 9

kan-da-ka, Nadaa Hussein, Apparition Lit 23

Language as a Form of Breath, Angel Leal, Apparition Lit October

The Lantern of September, Scott Couturier, Spectral Realms 19

Let Us Dream, Myna Chang, Small Wonders 3

The Magician's Foundling, Angel Leal, Heartlines Spec 2

The Man with the Stone Flute, Joshua St. Claire, Abyss & Apex 87

Mass-Market Affair, Casey Aimer, Star*Line 46.4

Mom's Surprise, Francis W. Alexander, Tales from the Moonlit Path June

A Murder of Crows, Alicia Hilton, Ice Queen 11

No One Now Remembers, Geoffrey Landis, Fantasy and Science Fiction Nov./Dec.

orion conquers the sky, Maria Zoccula, On Spec 33.2

Pines in the Wind, Karen Greenbaum-Maya, The Beautiful Leaves (Bamboo Dart Press)

The Poet Responds to an Invitation from the AI on the Moon, T.D. Walker, Radon Journal 5

A Prayer for the Surviving, Marisca Pichette, Haven Speculative 9

Pre-Nuptial, F. J. Bergmann, The Vampiricon (Mind's Eye Publications)

The Problem of Pain, Anna Cates, Eye on the Telescope 49

The Return of the Sauceress, F. J. Bergmann, The Flying Saucer Poetry Review February

Sea Change, David C. Kopaska-Merkel and Ann K. Schwader, Scifaikuest May

Seed of Power, Linda D. Addison, The Book of Witches ed. Jonathan Strahan (Harper Collins)

Sleeping Beauties, Carina Bissett, HWA Poetry Showcase X

Solar Punks, J. D. Harlock, The Dread Machine 3.1

Song of the Last Hour, Samuel A. Betiku, The Deadlands 22

Sphinx, Mary Soon Lee, Asimov's September/October

Storm Watchers (a drabbun), Terrie Leigh Relf, Space & Time

Sunflower Astronaut, Charlie Espinosa, Strange Horizons July

Three Hearts as One, G. O. Clark, Asimov's May/June

Troy, Carolyn Clink, Polar Starlight 12

Twenty-Fifth Wedding Anniversary, John Grey, Medusa's Kitchen September

Under World, Jacqueline West, Carmina Magazine September

Walking in the Starry World, John Philip Johnson, Orion's Belt May

Whispers in Ink, Angela Yuriko Smith, Whispers from Beyond (Crystal Lake Publishing)

Long Poems (25 finalists)

Archivist of a Lost World, Gerri Leen, Eccentric Orbits 4

As the witch burns, Marisca Pichette, Fantasy 87

Brigid the Poet, Adele Gardner, Eternal Haunted Summer Summer Solstice

Coding a Demi-griot (An Olivian Measure), Armoni “Monihymn” Boone, Fiyah 26

Cradling Fish, Laura Ma, Strange Horizons May

Dream Visions, Melissa Ridley Elmes, Eccentric Orbits 4

Eight Dwarfs on Planet X, Avra Margariti, Radon Journal 3

The Giants of Kandahar, Anna Cates, Abyss & Apex 88

How to Haunt a Northern Lake, Lora Gray, Uncanny 55

Impostor Syndrome, Robert Borski, Dreams and Nightmares 124

The Incessant Rain, Rhiannon Owens, Evermore 3

Interrogation About A Monster During Sleep Paralysis, Angela Liu, Strange Horizons November

Little Brown Changeling, Lauren Scharhag, Aphelion 283

A Mere Million Miles from Earth, John C. Mannone, Altered Reality April

Pilot, Akua Lezli Hope, Black Joy Unbound eds. Stephanie Andrea Allen & Lauren Cherelle (BLF Press)

Protocol, Jamie Simpher, Small Wonders 5

Sleep Dragon, Herb Kauderer, The Book of Sleep (Written Image Press)

Slow Dreaming, Herb Kauderer, The Book of Sleep (Written Image Press)

St. Sebastian Goes To Confession, West Ambrose, Mouthfeel 1

Value Measure, Joseph Halden and Rhonda Parrish, Dreams and Nightmares 125

A Weather of My Own Making, Nnadi Samuel, Silver Blade 56

Welcoming the New Girl, Beth Cato, Penumbric October

What You Find at the Center, Elizabeth R McClellan, Haven Spec Magazine 12

The Witch Makes Her To-Do List, Theodora Goss, Uncanny 50

The Year It Changed, David C. Kopaska-Merkel, Star*Line 46.4

Voting for the Rhysling Award begins July 1; a link to the ballot will be sent with the Rhysling Anthology, as well as with the July issue of Star*Line. More information on the Rhysling Award can be found here.

[libbybee]

CRAVING THE VAMPIRE'S TOUCH — SA

◜pairing: astarion ⨯ fem!reader ◜rating: MDNI 18+ ┊ wc: 0.9K ◜cw: dirty talk, porn without plot, mage hand spell, body worship, voyeurism fantasy, solo masturbation [F], oral fixation.

▹ summary. the spectral hand between your legs quickened its pace, now with a third finger inside, thrusting deep as your own fingers worked your clit in tight, fast circles. you were so close now, your body trembling as the pleasure mounted, and every nerve lit up with the thought of him.

A/N. english isn't my native language, sorry if there are grammar mistakes.

AO3 ┊ MASTERLIST ┊ PLAYLIST ┊ IMG

‎

Astarion. Astarion. Astarion…

His eyes, those gleaming rubies that promised danger and pleasure in equal measure. His attractive smile, the kind that made your thighs clench. That silvery hair, always so perfectly tousled, as if he’d just stepped out of some decadent dream. His face, a conformed combination of sharp angles and soft allure, was a testament to the cruel beauty of his perfection.

And those hands... oh, those hands. Long, elegant fingers that could wield a blade with deadly precision or trail down your stomach, leaving a path of fire in their wake. His lean and sculpted body, carved with the kind of meticulous care that seemed almost unfair. You’d caught glimpses of him when his shirt fell open or when he moved with that effortless grace, and every time, it left you aching to see more.

You imagined how his lips would feel against your skin, how his voice—smooth as silk, with that ever-present undertone of mischief—would sound whispering your name in the dark. The way he carried himself with that confidence only made you want him more. He was temptation personified, a walking sin you were powerless to resist.

“Mmm, Astarion...” You moaned softly, the sound barely escaping your lips as your mouth wrapped around spectral fingers. You sucked on them deeper with desperate fervour, swirling your tongue around them as though they were the sweetest treat you'd ever tasted. Savouring the imagined taste of him as if you could draw out his very essence.

You could almost hear him murmuring against your ear, “Such a naughty little thing... Is this how you think of me when you’re all alone?”

The thought sent a shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together in anticipation as shame flickered in the back of your mind, but it only fuelled your desire. You couldn’t explain this, not if your life depended on it. The thought of Astarion finding you like this—legs spread, touching yourself in his name—made your skin crawl.

Would he be disgusted? Would he sneer, cutting you down for your depravity? Or, the more tantalising option: would he find himself enthralled and aroused by the pure need you displayed? You could almost see it—the hunger darkening his ruby eyes, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as he watched you fall apart only for him.

Two spectral hands floated around you; their translucent blue glow illuminated your tent. One hand near your lips, with its fingers inside your mouth. You imagined they were his—or better yet, his cock—filling your cavity, dominating you. Though you'd never had the chance to see him fully unclothed, the fantasy was more than enough to stoke the fire of your pussy.

The second hand worked between your thighs, plunging its fingers into your needy entrance with a steady rhythm. Your slick coated the ethereal digits as they plunged deeper, curling just right to stroke your G-spot and make your back arch. The pressure was a perfect counterpoint to the way your own hand stimulated your swollen clit.

But this wasn’t enough. You wanted more—needed more. You wanted him. His hands, his lips, his cock buried deep inside you, stretching your cunt open just to sink fully until nothing left but the exquisite pleasure of his presence within you.

With every thrust, every swirl of your fingers over your aching clit, you imagined him there with you, his body pressed against yours, his voice guiding you to the edge. And as the pleasure built, you knew you’d give anything to make that fantasy a reality.

Your breath hitched, and you shifted your hips, seeking more friction, more depth. The mage hand’s middle and ring fingers pumped into you with a rapid pace, stretching and filling you as your pleasure built. Slowing your strokes each time you felt yourself teetering on the edge, prolonging the delicious torment.

Another desperate, needy moan escaped your lips. You closed your eyes, surrendering fully to the dream. You imagined him leaning over you, his cool hands pinning you down, his low, velvety voice in your ear as he praised you for being such a perfect, wanton mess for him.

“Astarion…” you whimpered again, your voice already thick with longing and your eyes shut. The image of him—his pale, toned physique hovering above you, his cock finally revealed and throbbing for you—pushed you closer to ecstasy. You pictured your fingers wrapped around him, stroking him as he groaned your name, his fangs grazing your neck as he kissed a path down your skin.

The spectral hand between your legs quickened its pace, now with a third finger inside, thrusting deep as your own fingers worked your clit in tight, fast circles. You were so close now, your body trembling as the pleasure mounted, and every nerve lit up with the thought of him.

He was right there, watching you, smirking, “Come for me, darling. Let me see how beautiful you look when you fall apart.”

That was all it took. Your climax tore through you, your body writhing as ecstasy crashed over you. Your cries filled the tent and the silence of the night as both hands continued their commands, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure from your throbbing pussy.

Finally, you collapsed onto your bedroll, chest heaving, your bare skin slick with sweat. The magical hands faded, leaving you in a haze of pleasure, every muscle deliciously spent. For a moment, silence filled the tent, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing.

You licked your lips, the taste of your own desire lingering as you whispered into the quiet, “One day, Astarion... one day, I’ll have you for real.”

And gods, what a day that would be.

‎

[elowen40]

When a light source or celestial body moves closer to or farther from the observer, its spectral lines will shift, resulting in changes in frequency and wavelength. This change can be used to measure the object's velocity and distance relative to the observer.

[sdwajones-art]

Last time we saw the gang they were getting measured for new clothes, so I'm working on a group shot of the whole crew in nice new duds. I figured it'd be neat if each character was dressed in fancy garb reflecting the land they're originally from rather than Oops! All Tuxedos!

Since Skrimm apparently grew up in "the highlands" and has the whole "huge spectral black hound" connection, I dressed him like landed gentry, circa 1900. Think it looks fairly classy while still giving that "Stay off the MOORS!” energy.

Anyway, hope I finish this before it turns out the new clothes everyone's getting are all cult robes or butcher aprons or something...

[gnocchibabie]

The Realm's Tragedy

Chapter 1 - The Porcelain Princess

aemond targaryen x fem!targaryen!oc

next chapter --- masterlist --- ao3

Summary: Maevys Targaryen is born into a kingdom overshadowed by calamity. With her mother Aemma Arryn gone, King Viserys consumed by grief, and Princess Rhaenyra adrift in sorrow, young Maevys finds herself at the heart of a fractured family. As she emerges from the shadows of tragedy, she must navigate the delicate balance between the remnants of a broken lineage and the impending storm of a new era.

As the dragons dance, the princess must learn to accept an unforgiving truth: All Must Choose.

Warnings: gore and blood, graphic descriptions of violence/traumatic childbirth

Wordcount: 1.2k

112 AC – King’s Landing

The piercing screams of Queen Aemma Arryn echo through the halls of the Red Keep, filling King Viserys I Targaryen with a sickening dread as he hastily rushes to her chamber. The cries are not those of labor but are more akin of an animal in its final moments. The merriment of the tourney presumes outside the castle walls, unknowing of the chaos that swarms within. 

When Viserys finally pushes open the door, the sight of his wife – disheveled and dripping with anguish – has him rushing to her side. 

Aemma had always had great difficulty bearing children – it was a wonder Rhaenyra had even been brought into this world – but this, this was different. All color had been drained from the Queen, leaving only a layer of cool sweat covering her pale form. Hair sticking to her face, breathing labored, and grip weak on her husband’s hand, the King felt his wife drift further and further away from him.

She looked more spectral than alive.

Aemma.

Viserys looks around to the handmaidens attending to his wife, though they skillfully avoid his gaze.

“Mellos.” The king breathes out, leaving his wife to speak with the maester. 

A grim look paints the face of his most skilled healer, “My King…during a difficult birth, it sometimes becomes necessary for the father to make an impossible choice.”

Viserys blinks incredulously at the man before him as his wife continues with her agony, “Well speak it!” His heart pounds.

“To sacrifice one…or to lose them both.” Mellos replies, voice measured despite the chaos surrounding them. Viserys listens to the man describe the technique taught at The Citadel – the barbaric ritual of cutting the babe from its mother, in hopes it may be saved. The King hears his words, but finds it hard to truly listen to them.

Mello’s stern face wavers for a moment, “But the resulting blood loss-”

“Seven Hells, Mellos.” The King took a deep breath to keep his panic from setting in, from blurring his better judgment. 

The Gods punish me…They set an impossible decision before me. 

Viserys looks back at Aemma once more, seeing his wife has calmed, her pain momentarily subsiding. A handmaid dabs a damp rag to the queen’s pale forehead, and she almost looks serene. He thinks of his son, stirring within her, waiting to come out into this world. To be set forth into the realm he will one day rule. 

Expelling a shaky breath, Viserys turns his back to her, “You can save the child?”

“We must either act now, or leave it with the Gods.” Mellos replies.

It feels as though a piece of Viserys, some portion of his soul deep within, withers away at the choice before him.

All he can muster is a grim nod to his maester as he returns to his wife, one final time. 

Aemma, even despite her current torment, finds a faint smile at seeing her husband once more. Her mind is less clouded, her body less addled with pain as she properly greets her king.

“Viserys…” Her voice is faint and wispy, as though merely speaking was a herculean task. 

Tears cloud the vision of the king, though he hides them with a smile to his wife. His Aemma.

“They’re going to bring the babe out now.”

And so they did. 

Amidst the screams of his wife, a sharp steel scalpel pressed against her soft, swollen belly – blood soon pouring out from within the queen like a deep red sea, staining her linen underdress and the pristine sheets below her. Amidst her thrashing turned feeble attempts of escape. Amidst her moaning turned to fleeting breaths. 

The last thing Aemma Arryn experienced in this world was great pain, and great fear. 

A babe, quiet and still is pulled out from her at last.

“A boy, Your Grace.” Mellos replies, though any celebration from the revelation is soured. 

The infant is silent, and the room grows cold. The King holds the bloody, small thing in his arms and weeps for his wife and son.

“Maester Mellos!” a handmaiden voices, “There is another!”

The room blurs around Viserys as another babe is pulled from Aemma Arryn. With a few strong pats to the infant’s back, it’s bawling fills the room. A flicker of life is breathed into the somber scene.

“A girl, my King.” The maester announces. 

A daughter.

Viserys looks at the small, crying baby now being swaddled in soft linens. Muck and blood wiped from her as her crying continues. Tears blur his vision once more, barely able to see the small patch of white hair crested atop her head. 

For a moment, he is filled with the overwhelming desire to name his newest daughter, Aemma. After the mother she will never know in this life. Though, looking at the ghastly scene before him, he thinks better than to condemn the girl to such a fate. 

A name was a powerful thing, and Viserys was a man of many cryptic beliefs.

Aemma would not do.

“Maevys,” he breathes. A new name, a fresh start, a blank page. “Maevys…my daughter. My princess.”

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

To suddenly be an older sister was an odd thing, Rhaenyra Targaryen had thought.

To suddenly be a motherless child, an even odder one. 

The eldest princess looks down at the babe lying in her fine wooden cradle, swathed in soft cloths. Maevys had finally quieted, after hours of squawking and shrieking, as if her cries should make up for the one’s her brother never had the chance to utter. 

Her sister was small, too small for even an infant. Pale as well, as though all her strength had been drained from her from the mere attempt of being born. 

If you could call it such a thing. 

Rhaenyra was haunted by the news of what had become of her mother. Her mother, once so full of life and laughter and love – reduced to a broodmare of a woman. So much so, that it became her undoing. 

The image of her sister however, soothed the princess. Perhaps a piece of her mother still lay before her.

She had a little sister, a girl to love and cherish and tell stories of their mother to. A girl she and Alicent could parade around with and take under their wings. Is that what sisters did?

Rhaenyra leans closer to the cradle. Did I look like this once?

The infant has all the hallmark Targaryen features: silver-white hair and expressive purple eyes. Perhaps she even had the Arryn look about her, some remnants of their mother. Though, only time would tell.

Rhaenyra feared, though, that the girl would not live very long at all. The babe was a weak looking thing after all. She even heard hushed whispers amongst her mother’s handmaidens, that the maester did not expect the girl to live past a week. The nickname, “The Porcelain Princess” had already begun to circulate throughout the castle walls due to her sister’s delicate state. Though no one would dare utter the words in front of the girl’s father or older sister.

“Maevys,” Rhaenyra breathed and watched as the little girl stirred, as though she already recognized her name, “You must prove them wrong, Maevys. You must stay.” Her voice quivers at the end of her plea, a hand grasping the babe’s cradle so hard, Rhaenyra’s knuckles turn white. 

And so, Maevys did.

Author's Note: hello there! i hope you enjoyed this very depressing and grim first chapter (I promise they wont ALL be like this). this is the beginning of what will hopefully be a pretty lenghty fic, which will come to focus on the ~eventual~ relationship between maevys and aemond. this is my second aemond fic (i am not immune to his charm) and i will be updating this alongside another project that is currently ongoing. because of this, updates may be a little sporadic, but i am dedicated to both series :) i hope you all enjoy this story! i have many ideas for many characters that i cannot wait to put to page and share with you all. thank you so much for reading <3

[anumberofhobbies]

Jupiter: 10 Years of OPAL Observations by NASA Hubble Space Telescope Via Flickr: Hubble's sharp images track clouds and measure the winds, storms, and vortices, in addition to monitoring the size, shape, and behavior of Jupiter's Great Red Spot (GRS) storm. Hubble follows as the GRS continues shrinking in size and its winds are speeding up. OPAL data recently measured how often mysterious dark ovals — visible only at ultraviolet wavelengths — appeared in the "polar hoods" of stratospheric haze. Unlike Earth, Jupiter is only inclined three degrees on its axis (Earth is 23.5 degrees). Seasonal changes might not be expected, except that Jupiter's distance from the Sun varies by about 5% over its 12-year-long orbit, and so OPAL closely monitors the atmosphere for seasonal effects. Another Hubble advantage is that ground-based observatories can't continuously view Jupiter for two Jupiter rotations, because that adds up to 20 hours. During that time, an observatory on the ground would have gone into daytime and Jupiter would no longer be visible until the next evening. These two views of Jupiter showcase the wealth of information provided by the spectral filters on the Hubble Space Telescope's Wide Field Camera 3 (WFC3) science instrument. At left, the RGB composite is created using three filters at wavelengths similar to the colors seen by the human eye. At right, the wavelength bounds are widened beyond the visible range to extend just into the ultraviolet (UV) and infrared regimes. Humans cannot perceive these extended wavelengths, but some animals (such as mantis shrimp, whose eyes function similarly to certain sensors on some NASA missions) are able to detect infrared and ultraviolet light. The result is a vivid disk that shows UV-absorbing lofty hazes as orange (over the poles and in three large storms, including the Great Red Spot), and freshly-formed ice as white (compact storm plumes just north of the equator). Astronomers, including the OPAL team, use these filters (and others not shown here) to study differences in cloud thickness, altitude, and chemical makeup. For more information: science.nasa.gov/missions/hubble/nasas-hubble-celebrates-... Image credit: NASA, ESA, Amy Simon (NASA-GSFC), Michael H. Wong (UC Berkeley); Image Processing: Joseph DePasquale (STScI) Find us on X, Instagram, Facebook and YouTube

[anonymouscapybara]

people say the worst SI unit is the mole. "ohhh but it's just a number it doesn't even have anything attached it doesn't deserve to be an official unit" BZZZ WRONG

the worst unit is the candela. the candela is stupid.

what's the candela, you ask? well, it measures the brightness of light

"oh that sounds reasonable" you say, "just measure the energy or power emitted!" nope. they would not do anything nearly so simple. a lightbulb emitting a watt of yellow light is more candelas than a lightbulb emitting a watt of red light.

"ok that's weird" you say, "but maybe they're adjusting for that somehow? maybe it measures number of photons?" again, that would be far too reasonable. a lightbulb emitting a fixed rate of yellow-light photons is more candelas than the same rate of purple-light photons.

but what are they even measuring then? what else is there to measure? clearly they ran out of ideas while making up units, because what they're actually measuring is the SUBJECTIVE BRIGHTNESS OF LIGHT TO THE HUMAN EYE. the candela is STUPID

a reasonable question to ask is: how would you even measure the brightness of light to the human eye? aren't a lot of human eyes different? don't different things look bright in different circumstances? aren't there colorblind people in the world?

surely the General Conference on Weights and Measures, which spent millions precisely calibrating magnetic quantum flux to avoid basing the kilogram on a random block in France, has a clever solution!

no. no they don't. the candela is stupid.

as far as I can tell, what you do is you first measure how much light of each wavelength comes in. Then you multiply each measurement by a "luminosity function", which measures brightness to the human eye:

you will notice that there are multiple functions shown in this diagram. the SI system has five of these, for different lighting conditions. do your lighting conditions not exactly follow one of the Five Official Standardized Lighting Conditions? guess you're out of luck then.

and whose eye are we using? why, the Official Standardized CIE Photometric Observer, of course: the "ideal observer having a relative spectral responsivity that conforms to a CIE-defined spectral luminous efficiency function for human vision"

(and no I can't show you this function because the fine people of the ISO put it BEHIND A PAYWALL. who puts measurements determining a fundamental SI unit BEHIND A PAYWALL. the candela is stupid)

all right, so we're measuring a fundamental unit using a (nonexistent) idealized observer in one of five random lighting conditions. how did they find the values for this? i'm...not entirely sure. but here's a glimpse, based on a few of the most recent studies I found used for this:

"...heterochromatic (minimum) flicker photometric data obtained from 40 observers (35 males, 5 females) of known genotype..."

"To obtain an estimate of the mean L-cone fundamental, we weighted [weird variables] according to the ratio of 0.56 L(S180) to 0.44 L(A180) found in the normal, male Caucasian population...and averaged them together"

that's right, our Official Objective Brightness Unit is probably sexist and racist. none of the other SI units have a chance to be sexist and racist. a meter is a meter in every country on Earth. 6.022*10^23 For Women is still 6.022*10^23. but the candela is-- probably-- the white man's candela, because you can absolutely bet that genetic drift around the world gives different values for this stuff.

in summary: my opinion, as you might have guessed, is that the candela is stupid. hopefully you agree with me after reading this that we need to completely eradicate it from the planet. failing that could we at not give it the same level of officialness as the meter or the kilogram?

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Part 20: I speak in tongues

"I'm not like you, I speak in tongues. It's a different language to those of us, who’ve faced the storm against all odds and found the truth inside." -can u see me in the dark? by Halestorm, I Prevail

Regent Masterlist Part 19 AO3 Mundane Macabre (Main)

When Ellie first began traveling, she’d (rightfully) assumed that she would never stop being surprised by humankind. Humans are curious creatures, capable of both kindness and cruelty in equal measure. 

(The Fentons were prime examples of cruelty)

(Cruel towards the living, dead and those who lie in between.) 

(Their children suffered, maybe even more than the ghosts they tried to hunt) 

With time, Ellie had decided to create her alter ego of Wraith, the quiet being of shadows that was just eerie enough to pass as something other regardless of what form she was in. Wraith was Ellie’s favorite mask to slip on, to hide from the living world as she tried to help where she could. 

Ellie Nightingale was a nomadic medium with a preference for punk rock, bleached hair and her leather jacket. 

Wraith was the opposite in ways that mattered, was created to help with the violence the halfa was witness to, fists bruised and weapons bloody. 

Ellie was not. 

Perhaps she’d broken herself into too many pieces, too many identities, for a solid visage to form. Cracked like a mirror, dirty and covered in old marker messages from friends long gone. Messages she’d carry with her no matter what name she went by, or style of hair, leather jacket or denim- halfa or not. 

That’s what made her unique. 

(Clone.) 

(Failure.)

(Danielle.)

(Ellie.) 

(Wraith.) 

Vlad had been her origin story, her beginning, but he was no longer her master. Slave to no one, daughter of nobody. 

But she was a sister to good people. 

Sometimes Ellie caught herself thinking ‘what would Danny do?’ when confronted with an extraordinary problem, trying to channel his brilliance despite their distance. He might not consider himself very intelligent, but Danny was the cleverest (and kindest) person she’d ever met. He loved her, his clone made as a violation of his bodily autonomy and by his fruitloop of a godfather. 

(Superman had not treated his clone the same.) 

(She understood his feelings of violation) 

(Kon was a living being and needed support too.) 

However, Jazz was her idol. 

Many people would’ve written off the woman as a know-it-all golden child, but those in the inner circle knew the truth. Jazz was the first child of the Fentons, who had nobody but herself to teach or to guide her. When Danny was born, Jasmine devoted everything to caring for him, to raising him as their parents should’ve. 

(His first words, his first steps)

Jasmine Fenton was a woman who loved fiercely and so, so very deeply that she’s willing to sacrifice her own wellbeing to ensure the happiness of the ones lucky enough to be given her love. 

With the rise to Regency and the subsequent downfall of her progenitors, Jasmine Fenton was left to rot in the basement with Danny’s grave, just like the yellow flowers she so fondly left in memorial. 

(Ellie would forever grieve the loss of Jasmine Fenton, the mother she so desperately wanted.) 

Yet, the Lady Nightingale arose from the grave, ash and blood staining her name, a ghost in an inhuman shell, ready to remake the world should she have to burn it down. 

(Jazz carried so few regrets, but they weighed her down like anchors.) 

(One day they might drown her in the dark depths.) 

(Her template’s younger visage admist the spectral mist spoke volumes.) 

(Maybe one day the faces of the elder Fentons would fade away.)

(Ellie could only hope.) 

The Regent, despite having staked her territory in the Ridge alongside Phantom, was unofficially claimed as one of the Crime Alley’s own. Defending the working girls, helping kids with homework or getting them away from ner-do-wells, the Regent had not hesitated to reach out a helping hand even after being targeted by those who would break her will. 

Black Mask, for instance, had put a bounty on the woman’s head with an eagerness that disgusted many others. People knew what a man like him would do with powerful woman, what enjoyment he’d receive breaking her. 

It was also no secret how much the Mask wanted to get his hands on the Red Hood. 

The helmeted vigilante had been a frequent pain in the ass ever since his debut some years ago, destroying his black market operations and getting the Big Bat involved. Sionis wanted little more than to rip off the fucker’s head- helmet and all. 

However, Sionis had tried his hand at subtly for once- he’d hired freelance to take out Hood’s second-in-command while the guy had his guard down with his girlfriend, a pretty red-haired civilian Sionis wouldn’t mind a turn with. The idea was to throw Hood’s gang leadership into chaos so Black Mask’s men could sweep in. Jason Todd was high in the ranks that his death would do just that. 

Figures the guy would survive. 

Jason had been seen with his girlfriend in the Ridge only days after the failed assassination attempt, no worse for the wear. Red Hood had come sniffing around his operations, with Regent stalking his men and the Phantom destroying his latest shipment of merchandise. Though, with the under-the-table job he’d hired out for, Hood found nothing linking him to the attempt on his second-in-command. 

It was time to change tactics. 

The Regent was confirmed to be in a romantic relationship with Hood, if the various Gothamite twitter posts and the sub-reddit r/RedHoodRegent dedicated to commemorating their obvious status, was to be believed. 

There wasn’t many problems with targeting the older sword-wielding vigilante; unlike Robin, Regent didn’t have the Big Bat for backup, but did have the Phantom. The ghost-like meta (or actual ghost, Sionis wasn’t sure how much he believed the rumors) was the biggest obstacle between him and Regent. If Mask could distract (or get rid of) Phantom, then his men could sweep in and eliminate Regent when the vigilante inevitably falls to his numbers. Sure, Sionis was sure he would  lose quite a few men, but it's Gotham. The numbers can always be recouped later. 

Perhaps when Red Hood tries to save his girlfriend, Mask could finally get his hands on him. 

Two birds, one stone. 

Oh yes, Sionis liked this plan. 

He had some calls to make.

A/N: I'm back! This was supposed to be posted on my birthday back in August, but I wasn't in the best headspace for writing or even being on any social media. I have several pieces waiting in the wings to be finished and edited, but I'm back and ready to write again! (Famous last words.)

(To those who guessed Black Mask had something to do with the bomb, kudos.)

Also, for those who might be uncomforable with Sionis' thoughts about Jazz, just remember- he's a bad guy, deranged and over all not the kind of morally upstanding person you want in charge of anything. Things get really dark where it concerns Sionis and what he plans for the future. Just a warning, because those who've read my other works know my penchant for angst.

[sqyyadina]

nothing's gonna hurt you, baby.

Pairing: Rose the Hat X Reader

Word Count: 4k

Tags: smut, oral (r. recieving), blood kink, reader has magic!

Summary: A distant voice fills your mind, you go and find it.

Author’s Note: I read somewhere that book!Rose has a deep fascination with blood, I tried to add it a bit here! This is also on my AO3!

“You’re a special little thing, aren’t you?”

The voice comes from all around you. The teasing words swim through your brain, creating a mist between your ears that you can’t shake. It may be the whiskey that’s making your vision go blurry, but seeing as you haven’t even finished half of your share, you’re close to believing that you’ve become drunk on that voice.

“The special ones always taste the best.”

You lift your nose from the glass you’ve been nursing for far too long, now uninterested in the drink entirely but too shameful to return it to the bartender. Drinks come rarely, dangerously, now, yet are completely necessary to keep your mind, your power, at bay.

“Come and find me.”

She’s going to make you work for it.

You haven’t done the workin quite some time. You’re lucky enough to not remember the last time it happened. You’re not entirely sure how it happens. All you can hope is that your longing to put a face to this mystery voice will jumpstart your brain into action.

You shut your eyes, focusing on the smooth jazz humming from the quartet in the far corner of the speakeasy. Their faces begin to fill in behind their instruments, blue eyes and suit jackets blurry, yet still enough to form a picture in your mind’s eye. Then come the bodies of slow dancers, a few women clad in fringe dresses clinging to mustachioed men who cling to their drinks.

Your spectral being guides out the room, through the secret bookshelf entrance and back into the hobby of the hotel where the speakeasy hides. You glance around, bodies forming from lumps of fuzz as you move through the room, trying to focus on any discerning features, any mischievous smirks or knowing glances. You pay no attention to the men, of course, but you do take the time to note a few of them with particularly expensive watches that you stow in your mind for later. None of the women sitting in the hotel lobby seem at all evil enough to match the sultry voice still lingering between your ears, so you move on, weaving through hallways and, eventually, up the master staircase.

There’s no chance that you’re going to spend hours searching through every last room that the hotel has. You were desperate to meet this mystery woman, but not that desperate. She’d leave her room soon enough. You’re ready to give up her search, let her come to you if she wants, but—

“You’re getting closer…” The voice teases again, her voice mockingly low, a hint of a moan behind her tongue. You focus harder, trying to pick up on anything that might lead you in her direction. Then, you grab it. Cars honking in the distance, voices of people, But the voices are too muffled, she isn’t on the street.

Your eyebrows furrow, you grip the glass between your hands so hard you fear it may shatter. It’s been too long since you’ve let your astral body subtract from your own like this, and the minute amount of alcohol flowing through you is rendering you a bit wobbly.

The voice disappears.

You think, for far too long, so much so that you fear you look utterly ridiculous, sitting at a bar with your eyes shut, gripping your glass like a mad woman.

Then, it hits you.

The roof.

Your ghost snaps back into action, ascending the many floors of the hotel in a heartbeat’s time. To use a heart’s beating as a measurement of time is fruitless, as your own is beating so quick that it’s impossible to count them. You feel the flutter in your chest as you fly through the door, and there the owner of the voice sits.

She flicks her head around, surely feeling your presence, and you only see the shockingly beautiful face before your soul returns to your restless body. You rise from your chair in a start, racing out of the bar and into the hotel with the speed of a rabbit. Your desperation to find this woman has been satisfied, but now you’re overcome by an insatiable need to truly stand in her presence. You don’t think your eyes have ever graced a woman so alluring, with such wild hair and the piercing eyes of an owl, which, if you recall, had the littlest shimmer of a glow to them.

By the time you’ve made it up the stairs, knees weak and chest heaving, you feel a sudden block standing in your way. You take a moment to let your breath catch up to the rest of you, fiddling anxiously with your skirt as you consider all of the ways that the woman behind this door could be dangerous. She was certainly just as powerful as, if not more than, you, if she was able to get inside your mind, the mind so built up with fortitude and yet so deeply dilapidated by your own drinking habits, that you were barely able to gain control of yourself.

You didn’t even know there was anyone else like you in this world. You always knew there was something special about you, since the time when you were quite young and found yourself able to spy on the entire neighborhood from the comfort of your little pink canopy bed. The skill raised a mischievous little girl, and an entirely heartbroken young woman.

Your delicate brain was now wracked with prescient visions of your own death, but that subconscious need to wrap your arms around this mystery woman, to know all of her stories and to count the trinkets in her hair, took control of your hands and opened the door onto the roof of the building.

“Well, hi there.”  She grins, her eyes hungry, but the rest of her face as sweet and caring as a mother’s.

You shakily take a few steps forward out of the shadows and into the moon’s cool glow, the small porch light on the roof flickering a few times before diminishing. You can’t help but wonder if it’s something that she’s done, if she’s read your mind and felt your discomfort in the flashing, put it out for you.

“Don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby.” She coos, outstretching a hand. She’s definitely sensed your discomfort in her presence, but anyone with a trained eye would mark your fidgeting hands and shaky breath floating in the cool night air.

You swallow hard before taking a shy step closer, then another, until you’re sitting by her side before you can think to even do such a thing. She sits on the ledge of the roof, legs dangling over, threatening to spill out onto the alleyway that’s at least fifteen stories down. You force your eyes not to look down as you take a similar seat, but keep your legs on the concrete of the building’s roof.

“Don’t be frightened.” She hums, her lithe fingers raising to twirl in your hair. Her breath is warm against your cheek, marred by the smell of starvation and cheap wine, but it’s far from a scent you’d turn away from. You find yourself leaning ever closer to the woman, entranced by the woman’s soft voice and divinely pointed nose. You’re so very close to her, yet the words that you’re begging to say, the questions you yearn for answers to, refuse to leave your throat. It feels as though she’s wrapped a sly finger around your vocal cords, allowing only a few needy whimpers to pass your lips.

“My name is Rose.” She purrs, her fingers gliding against your jaw, tilting your head each way so that she may see the fullness of your cheeks under the rising moon. You try to do the same to her, to take in each feature of her face, but you’re so entranced by her glowing eyes, that you can’t seem to pull yourself out of them. “And you, little one… You sure are something.”

You can only blink back at her, body feeling weak below your heavy shoulders. You try to conjure up words of your own, try to introduce yourself, but you can’t. And you’re sure she’s already been through each ridge and valley of your mind, so introductions won’t be necessary.

Rose practically has full control of you now, and before you can fight back, she has you pinned to the ledge, back flat against cold stone, her muscled arm positioned by your head so that you can’t fight against her. You can only wiggle, but the hand that lays flat against your stomach keeps you still, allowing no more movement from your body. You feel tears prick your eyes, try to fight them down. You’re not so much scared of the woman above you as you are terrified of your possible fall from this roof, but your previous prescience hadn’t outlined such a death, so your tears subside.

“Don’t cry, sweet thing…” She purrs, lifting a hand to the flat-brimmed hat taming her wonderful curls, producing a thin needle from its body. “This won’t hurt a bit. Well, it will, but you won’t be alive long enough to feel the pain.” Her voice is impossibly calming, and it tricks your brain into trusting her, into falling victim to her body’s heat and her lulling tone, sending you into a meditative state, your body going limp below her.

“Get off…” You’re able to force out, though it’s just above a whisper, and she’s either not heard you or chooses to ignore you, because Rose’s hand is unshaken as she points the needle to your eye, daring to press it in further. But she’s taking her sweet time, feeding off of the fear in your eyes, enjoying the sight of your flushed cheeks and hooded lids, the way you’re completely subservient to her every move.

“I said, get off!” you yell, and the power of your voice is enough to fling the predator off of you, sending her straight back into the brick wall behind her. You scurry off of the ledge, finding safety on the floor of the roof, curling into yourself as you gaze upon what you’ve done. Nothing like this has every happened before. The astral projection, the visions of the future, those were all frequent experiences. You’d never so much as moved something an inch with your mind, so to throw a grown woman a couple meters into the air… it brought a new shake to your fingers.

She lay against the brick wall, blood dripping from her nose, eyes shut as though unconscious, but you could still hear her breathing, still feel a life force beating through her.

“I’m…” You stutter, standing to check her wounds. Though the woman was about to kill you, you felt a sympathy for her tug at your heart, so though you keep your distance, you still hope she wasn’t too badly hurt. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know I would… That anything like that would happen…” Your voice is breathy, stuttering over your words, and the fear returns when she stirs, sits up, stares at you.

But it’s not fear, and she can feel it. You’re not scared of Rose. Not in the typical meaning of the word. You feel an invisible string tying you to her, a deep-rooted need for her that dares you to step closer, and you do.

“I was right. You’re powerful, aren’t you…” There’s a smirk on her lips when you bend to kneel by her side, her hands returning to your face, forefinger swiping at the blood pooling on your cheek, from her long needle swiping your flesh. She grins at the glossy liquid, slides her own finger against her tongue, accepting your blood against her tastebuds, eliciting a sigh from the flavor she’d so dearly missed. “You’re not scared of me, are you, little bunny?” Her smile is downright starving, as she shifts to sit on her knees, towering over you once again.

You think for a moment, pensively chewing on your lower lip, but ultimately shake your head in response. She must be aware that despite your rushed blood flow and dilated pupils, it’s not in fear that your body reacts. It’s in intense attraction. An attraction that Rose feels, that she reciprocates, that she acts on. She wraps her arm around your neck, not squeezing, only stabilizing, holding you steady as she peppers a few rushed, sloppy kisses to your cheek, greedy for the taste of your blood, greedy to feel the warmth of your cheeks against her undead lips.

“Rose…” You groan, your hands finally tangling in the hair that you so desperately wanted to grip into since first laying eyes on the woman. “I have a room, downstairs…” Your voice is replaced by moans when the woman moves her attacking kisses from your cheeks to your jaw, her teeth grating against the sharp bone there, surely leaving redness in her wake.

“Take me there, special girl.” She grunts in return, allowing herself a few more kisses to your skin before standing, pulling you up on weak legs forcing you in the direction of the door. But you don’t make it far before you’ve thrown yourself onto her once again, placing a few hungry kisses of your own to her lips, tasting your own blood on her tongue, gripping her waist so hard that you nearly leave the ground. She laughs into you, picking you up so that you may reach her height more appropriately, pressing you hard against the exit door, laying you flat against the cold metal of the door.

You pull away, hands playing with the small metal trinkets braided into her hair, tugging her head back as well. “Not here.” You whisper, voice small but still carrying the resolve needed. You couldn’t risk being seen, even though it was nearing the middle of the night, and you were on one of the highest buildings in the city, that fear of being caught still nipped at you.

Rose relented, pressing a kiss to your forehead before placing you back on the ground, allowing you to lead her back to your hotel room. The walk is short, but you find it prolonged by the aching between your legs, by the way Rose walks a few paces behind you as to not raise suspicion. Though you’re sure you’ve raised enough suspicion just from your appearances, you with your hair a mess and your eye makeup running, Rose with the marks of red lipstick smudged around her mouth. But you don’t care, you like the feeling of being so scandalous.

It's a matter of milliseconds from your entrance in your hotel room to your body hitting the bed, Rose holding herself up over you, your hands gripping the patterned tie that dangles from her neck. You’d at first missed the look of her menswear, the dark of the roof turning her into a blob of darkness below the shoulders, but in the light, you appreciate her clothing choices. She looks impossibly dapper, wearing the suit better than any man you’d ever met. You use the tie to bring her down over you, to connect your lips once more, enjoying the feeling of Rose’s warm tongue collecting your blood once again. Her fascination with blood is a spectacle to you, such an strange thing that’s not unbecoming of her, that, if anything, matches her odd spirit, her magical eyes. You find it incredibly attractive.

Rose drags her kisses down your neck once again, moving so that you may remove the drop-waist dress, throw it into pile on the floor. She sits back, looms over you, loosens the tie and unbuttons a few of the top buttons of her shirt before throwing her jacket to the same fate as your dress. Though she’s pinned you down, her hips over yours, keeping you flat against the mattress, you still wiggle below her, hands reaching up to grab at her belt, undoing it as best you can with shaking hands.

Her smirk is ever resting on her face, tongue swiping over her lower cheek when you lift your hips to rock into her own, her hand once again lowering so that you cease your movement.

“How pretty.” She purrs lowly, her voice still as low and seductive as it had been in your mind. Her lithe fingers toy with the lace of your underwear, tugging at it gently, enjoying the hitch in your breath as she does so. She enjoys your excitement so much so, that she leaves your underwear on, and instead returns to your top half to tease your already red skin. Rose does allow the removal of your matching bra, however, undoing the clasp with ease before discarding it to an unknown location, her eyes only focused on the curve of your breasts. She chews on her lip, as though trying to hold herself back, to remind herself that you’re a delicate little thing, that she must be gentle. A very difficult thing for a beast such as herself to remember.

When you’ve groaned her name enough times, tugged at her pants hard enough, Rose finally lets herself at you, fervently wrapping her lips around your nipple, her mouth’s moisture dripping onto you, rough hands roaming your body, eventually finding your other breast to tease the nipple there. Her hips buck against your thigh, and you rise it so that she may straddle it fully, and you moan when the feeling of wet cloth presses against your bare skin. She rubs against you as if in heat, as if the taste of your blood has sent her into a daze.

Your hands rest atop her hat, the vintage velvet material impossibly soft against your fingers, yet those fingers yearn to feel her hair, so you lift the hat an inch or so to remove to from her head entirely.  Rose’s head snaps up, her eyes shining a bright, nearly blinding, white light, her brows furrowed.

“Don’t.” is all she says before returning to her work at your chest, and though you huff a little at the order, you accept it. She has so much more experience in this world than you, so even though you’re upset by the inability to muss her hair, you accept her demand.

Her kisses soon move down your stomach, her indulgent smile all too pleased when she finally reaches your thighs, and you toss your legs over her shoulders, allowing her to stake claim over your heat. Rose nudges her head against the soft skin of your thigh before sucking at your skin, leaving her signature red marks there. You’re growing impatient, and you know that the pool in your underwear has grown incredibly large.

Rose confirms your suspicions when she pushes the lace material to the side, a low laugh erupting from her before her tongue swipes a long line through your wetness, collecting all of your taste into her starving mouth, eyes glowing impossibly brighter from the taste. She lets out a series of curses, but you don’t hear them, for a moan of your own has encapsulated the room, you voice louder than it has ever been in your life.

“You taste of whiskey.” She purrs against your skin, her voice sending a vibration though you that sends your head flying back into the thin pillow beneath you.

Rose takes another moment to enjoy the sight of you from this angle, and as much as you enjoy her overindulgent personality, the beautifully awe-filled expression on her sweet face, you’re growing impatient, even more wet, with each moment that passes. You squeeze your legs around her neck, tugging her down so that she may finally do what you’re both begging for.

The older woman drops her head, her lips attaching to your clit, smooth, rhythmic movements to the bundle of nerves forcing your back off the bed, your hands returning to lay on her hat, desperate to tug on the hair there. She must hear your mind’s desperation, must have changed her mind in the high of your taste, for she removes the hat, careful to place it beside you on the bed, not daring to let it touch the ground. You want to thank her, but when you finally do sink your fingers into her incredible curls, one of Rose’s own skilled fingers slides into you, curling so that another series of moans flies from your lips.

“Rose—” Your voice is strained as you rock your hips against her mouth, fingers tugging on her hair, hard enough that you should be able to pull her off of you entirely, but she is so focused on her tongue’s movement that not even the hand of God could pull her off of you. You try to praise her, to tell her how good she’s making you feel, but all that comes out are a series of curses, and judging by the way she’s already read your mind so many times this evening, you don’t need spoken words to communicate with your lover. She knows exactly what you need before you even register your need for it, and slips a second finger into your cunt, dipping her fingers in and out of your warm body with quick motions.

You groan her name many more times, your hands flying out of her hair and over your face when the tightness forms in your stomach.

Rose, ever clairvoyant about your own emotions, picks up her pace.

“Come on my tongue, my darling.” She says without speaking, her voice filling your mind once again, creating that brain fog that had so drawn you to her in the first place.

You do as you’re told right away, your muscles tensing up before falling weak against the cheap hotel mattress. You still hide your face beneath your hands, fingers able to feel your heartbeat through the flushed skin of your cheeks. Rose is gentle, yet entirely selfish with her next movements, her tongue swiping up all of your wetness, making sure that she’s stolen all of your taste, licked you clean, before she moves to lay next to you on the bed. She forces your hands away from your face, caressing your cheek gently, lightly laughing at how red you are. Rose thoroughly enjoys the sight, as the warmth of your cheeks is a dear reminder of how much life you possess, a stark contrast from her own flesh, which, though it is still tan and freckled from time spent in the sun, is growing sad from the lack of nutrients, from her centuries spent walking the earth.

You crawl on top of her, pressing a kiss to her lips, reversing your role and pinning her down with your own hips this time.

“You are so special.” She whispers as you gently unbutton her shirt, your body fueled by a craving to see just how low her freckles trail. You gaze up to her when she speaks, fingers ceasing their movements when she lifts a hand to cradle your chin. “Such a special girl deserves to live long.” She purrs, drawing you back down for another longing kiss. When you rise from it, head tilting to the side in curiosity, she simply shakes her head, pulls you back down so that your head rests on her shoulder, where you lay calmly, ears searching for a heartbeat that never arrives. “I have a plan for you, sweet girl. You’ll need to rest.” Her voice is heavy when it enters your eyes, your eyelids drooping almost immediately. You don’t notice the way Rose places her hat back on her head, only fall into a deep slumber, only relying on the rise and fall of her chest.

[yuurei20]

Malleus Facts Part 19: Malleus and Rook

Rook says he finds the option to pursue either Malleus or Leona during Beanfest to be “an embarrassment of riches.”

While Rook invites both Housewardens to his birthday party, its seems that neither attended.

Rook, Leona and Malleus overlapped during a previous Beanfest when Malleus and Leona both began to pursue him while quarreling with one another.

Rook says that he took both on in an attempt to help Vil escape, and he was brought down before he could put up much resistance. Silver says he remembers Malleus remarking that it was the first time he’d gotten heated in a long while.

Rook says that Malleus usually completes the exercises that they are assigned in gym classes within seconds, and then rests beneath a tree.

Rook approaches Malleus with, “I have simply taken an interest in you,” and when he asks if he might pose a few questions about his lifestyle Malleus says he offers no guarantee that he will answer.

Rook asks about what animal it is that dragons resemble most, such as impala or crocodiles, and Malleus takes offense.

Rook says he has never hunted a dragon, annoying Malleus even further, but when Rook compares fae to monsters Malleus realizes that Rook is going out of his way to be infuriating on purpose.

Rook confesses that that was his aim: he had been trying to throw his prey off-balance and lure him into his territory, “a basic hunting technique.”

Malleus says that he has no interest wasting time on Rook’s obvious provocations, encouraging him to resist his impulses unless he wants his life cut short.

They interact civilly during Spectral Soiree, where Rook strikes up a conversation with Malleus about Idia’s costume.

Malleus says he did not expect Rook and Idia to know as much as they do about armor and Rook recommends the musical “King’s Road,” which Malleus already knows.

Malleus explains, “Both humans and fae share a longing to express what’s truly important through song and dance.”

Rook begins to sing the musical’s main theme. Malleus says that Lilia used to sing it to him when telling him bedtime stories, and begins to accompany Rook’s singing on the pipe organ.

Malleus receives clothes from Rook for his birthday and has a voice line wondering about how it is that Rook learned his measurements.

[bimboficationblues]

something of a spectral warning against obsessively and uncritically trying to recreate or nationalistically defend the aesthetics, policies, values, content, etc. of 20th-century socialist revolutions and states.

The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Napoleon:

Unheroic though bourgeois society is, it nevertheless needed heroism, sacrifice, terror, civil war, and national wars to bring it into being. And in the austere classical traditions of the Roman Republic the bourgeois gladiators found the ideals and the art forms, the self-deceptions, that they needed to conceal from themselves the bourgeois-limited content of their struggles and to keep their passion on the high plane of great historic tragedy. Similarly, at another stage of development a century earlier, Cromwell and the English people had borrowed from the Old Testament the speech, emotions, and illusions for their bourgeois revolution. When the real goal had been achieved and the bourgeois transformation of English society had been accomplished, Locke supplanted Habakkuk.

Thus the awakening of the dead in those revolutions served the purpose of glorifying the new struggles, not of parodying the old; of magnifying the given task in the imagination, not recoiling from its solution in reality; of finding once more the spirit of revolution, not making its ghost walk again.

[…]

The social revolution of the nineteenth century cannot take its poetry from the past but only from the future. It cannot begin with itself before it has stripped away all superstition about the past. The former revolutions required recollections of past world history in order to smother their own content. The revolution of the nineteenth century must let the dead bury their dead in order to arrive at its own content.

[...]

Bourgeois revolutions, like those of the eighteenth century, storm more swiftly from success to success, their dramatic effects outdo each other, men and things seem set in sparkling diamonds, ecstasy is the order of the day – but they are short-lived, soon they have reached their zenith, and a long [hangover] takes hold of society before it learns to assimilate the results of its Sturm-und-Drang period soberly. On the other hand, proletarian revolutions, like those of the nineteenth century, constantly criticize themselves, constantly interrupt themselves in their own course, return to the apparently accomplished, in order to begin anew; they deride with cruel thoroughness the half-measures, weaknesses, and paltriness of their first attempts, seem to throw down their opponents only so the latter may draw new strength from the earth and rise before them again more gigantic than ever, recoil constantly from the indefinite colossalness of their own goals – until a situation is created which makes all turning back impossible, and the conditions themselves call out: Hic Rhodus, hic salta!

[klimkovsky]

Open star cluster Messier 6

Open star cluster Messier 6, is drawn by the Grok AI

Messier 6, also known as the Butterfly Cluster, is an open star cluster located in the constellation Scorpius. Here's what astronomers know about it:

Basic Information:

Catalog Designations: M6, NGC 6405

Location: Constellation Scorpius, near the stinger of the scorpion

Coordinates: Right Ascension 17h 40m 20s, Declination -32° 15' 00"

Distance: Approximately 1,500 to 2,000 light-years from Earth

Physical Characteristics:

Age: Estimated to be around 100 million years old, making it relatively young for an open cluster.

Number of Stars: Contains about 80 to 100 stars, with some sources suggesting up to 300 when including fainter members.

Brightest Stars: The brightest star is a class B8 giant, which gives the cluster its distinctive V-shape, reminiscent of butterfly wings.

Apparent Magnitude: The integrated visual magnitude of the cluster is about 4.2, making it visible to the naked eye under good conditions.

Morphology and Structure:

Shape: Its distinctive butterfly shape is what most observers note, especially through binoculars or a small telescope.

Size: The cluster spans about 25 arcminutes across the sky, but its actual physical size corresponds to roughly 12 to 15 light-years in diameter.

Scientific Interest:

Star Formation Studies: Open clusters like M6 are crucial for understanding star formation processes since all stars in the cluster are roughly the same age and distance from us, providing a snapshot of how stars evolve over time.

Chemical Composition: Observations of the stars in M6 help in understanding the chemical composition and evolution of stars within open clusters, particularly how metallicity varies.

Distance Calibration: It serves as a benchmark for calibrating distances in the Milky Way due to its well-studied parameters.

Observation:

Visibility: Best observed from the Southern Hemisphere due to its declination, but it's visible from the Northern Hemisphere in summer months when Scorpius is high in the sky.

Equipment Needed: Visible to the naked eye in dark skies, but binoculars or a small telescope will reveal its butterfly shape more distinctly.

Cultural Significance:

While not as culturally famous as some other clusters, M6 is part of the lore of sky watching, especially among amateur astronomers for its distinctive appearance.

Messier 6 was cataloged by Charles Messier in 1764, who included it in his list to help comet hunters distinguish between deep-sky objects and comets. This cluster, along with its neighbor Messier 7, offers a beautiful sight for anyone exploring the night sky in the direction of Scorpius.

Source: Grok AI

First, let's correct a few inaccuracies

Modern (and already quite accurate) estimates of the distance to the Messier 6 cluster are inclined to the value of 1600 light years (or a little less). Accordingly, the linear dimensions are limited to 12 light years.

The brightest star of the cluster BM Scorpii is a red-orange giant of the spectral class K3. Before the time when stellar parallaxes began to be measured directly from spacecraft outside the atmosphere, these measurements were made with a high error. Therefore, it was believed that this star did not belong to the cluster and was located twice as close to us - in the middle between the cluster and the Solar System. You can understand why everyone liked this idea: Most of the stars in the cluster are blue and hot, and this one is red and cold — as if from another stellar family.

But now everything has become clear

BM Scorpii is indeed a very massive star, exceeding the Sun in mass by about 17-20 times. And in the 120 million years that the cluster has existed, it has lived almost its entire stellar life. Now it has already entered the final stage of its evolutionary path, and in some future (in a few million years) it will flare up as a supernova, scattering the matter of its outer layers around itself, and will give the cluster a nebula of an unpredictable shape. And in place of the core of this star, most likely, only a neutron star, or even a black hole, will remain.

The open cluster Messier 6 can be visible to the naked eye. It is better to observe it in the southern hemisphere, since its declination is below -30 degrees — in the middle northern latitudes it either does not rise, or even during the upper culmination literally lies on the horizon. And to see it without optics, it needs to rise high in the sky (and, of course, the observer needs to be further away from city lights).

It is interesting to compare this cluster with the Pleiades — the brightest and most beautiful open cluster in the northern sky. The M6 "Butterfly Cluster" is four times further than the Pleiades. But if it were in their place, it could look no less impressive. In any case, its brightest stars would be 16 times brighter - this is approximately 3 stellar magnitudes brighter than the magnitude they have now, and this would be quite comparable to the brightness of the Pleiades stars.

It is quite possible that this cluster was seen in ancient times by Ptolemy — in the second century AD (although this is only an assumption). And the first documented observation of the Messier 6 cluster dates back to 1654 and belongs to Giovanni Battista Hodierna.

Open star cluster Messier 6 by Giuseppe Donatiello from Oria (Brindisi), Italy