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idliketobeatree · 2 months ago

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dead boy detectives characters as art objects and sculptures; extended ---

hello, i remembered i made some subjective explanations and notes on few of my choices for this post, and i thought some folks might enjoy it. soo let's get into it.

monty finch

author: anders krisár

pretty self-explanatory; it's a moulded male torso with visible inprints on its skin.

anders krisár’ artistry explores the themes of loss, separation, and the condition of the psyche through the lens of a human body in duality: perfectionism meets unsettlement, skin meets marble and bronze and polyester, to create sculptures spanning geological time far beyond the living's capabilities.

monty's creation by esther was already stripped of any human agency. "he was made a boy, not a person", small, almost doll-sized, with a singular purpose: to seduce and entice the chosen dead boy into their doom. the naked skin and specifically the position of its arms are mildly erotic, but in a way that makes your skin crawl. the imprints are intimate, placed possesive; notice the thumbs digging close to especially sensitive areas like nipples and the belly button.

the latter seems to connect the "creator" to the subject, the navel here as a symbol of cruel, invasive motherhood. the fact that the torso is cut off in the middle and at the neck furthers the uncanny valley feeling of a young male body, but then again. this is a realistic portrayal. so was it ever a person? what does it have inside to make dents so profound? how deep you can press until it breaks?

--- i'm leaving out crystal and edwin (for now?), but @nicheoverhere brilliantly noticed that it was the same author for both. that was intentional! because glen martin taylor is all about taking kintsugi, which is a beautiful art form of repairing fine china and generally delicate things with veins of precious metals, but with materials like— nails. scissors. barbed wire. all ugly. the repair after a great shattering is seldom pretty after all, they really are similar in this regard. ---

charles rowland

author: robert hudson

okay, strap in. this funky dreamy world belongs to robert hudson, and i picked it for charles rowland because it's all first impressions. the colours? the composition? they give you the 80s vibes, almost; like something a kid would design if you asked them what a time machine would look like. it could probably move in several ways. the pieces seem mismatched, but hold themselves together surprisingly well. or maybe you underestimate it?

it's neither big nor small. you can't tell its size at all. it's a bit overwhelming to look at, at first, and at second, and after a while, but it carries that comfortable familiarity and nostalgia for— well, nothing in particular, because the longer you look, the sadder its past seems. the bold pops of contrasting colour are fighting for your attention. they want you to like it! and yet, the major material seems to be just. rusted steel. made from tools.

and look at that botched up sphere, it wants so badly to be a perfect sphere and it knows it'll never be one. fine!! perhaps it could be a football ball instead! or maybe a head. if you close your eyes, that is. and this facing-up horseshoe? a lucky charm, made to collect good luck and keep it from falling out cause god, it needs it.

---

niko sasaki

author: justin cloud

---

niko sasaki, now how do i describe her? let's start by saying— she's cleary a her. this one is a she. and there's something to be said about blooming, and femininity, and delicacy, because pink is a hopeful girly colour and a surprise and a delight.

what are you doing in a gallery, little flower, shouldn't you be at home? in a field? look how pretty you are! mind you, of course there's something wrong with her as well, but you're not sure if that is because someone messed it up, or because of a different entity alltogether. was it always half-electric? its elegance seems purposeful— the iridescent metal fits all too well with the white-pink petals— but also uncanny. and oh suddenly you can't stop looking at the stigma from which a pollen should release aaany time now.

when i look at her, at her black artificial stem and the small leaves imitating the real ones, i wonder if she doesn't want to lure me into a trap. is it her fault?

the beautiful petals seem like the only thing left real of the flower. whichever way she turns, it will probably mean— death. and flowers are ephemeral. what is a flower mounted to a wall, fortified with steel, connected with cables and enfused with electrical energy, then?

i think she's a self-preserving survivor. ---

the night nurse

author: elizabeth turk

---

now. the night nurse.

of course it's the only piece in the collection where the background needed to be dark. no one here is older than her. there is no inoffensive, fading-into-background white for this absolute pillar of truth. or maybe something like a totem, quite protective in nature. and it's terrifying, 'cause you're immediately hit with the feeling that you're looking at something out of this realm, something you're not supposed to witness. the perspective is all wrong. is it downwards or upwards? why does it seem unstable when the pieces are so perfectly centered and seemingly well-balanced? child, you should calm down, it's not like you will destroy it with a stronger puff of air. will you?

this sculpture is called "tipping point — echoes of extinction", and it's actually a mix of technology and sculpture and sound, with elegant visualizations of the lost voices of birds and sea mammals. the author said it "was conceived in reverence to the astounding lives the species which envelop humans have lived and the mysterious ways they have contributed to our well-being. the shadows of their memory, whether a shape or a sound, have inspired this project." so the piece deals with death. moreover, it deals with murder. it records the harsh reality and makes sure the ones that suffered horribly at the hands of humans are, in a way, celebrated. but also— categorised. like epitaphs. the birdsong, once a living sign, is only visually represented by the lines of varying lenghts in 3D, and you can do nothing about it anymore, right, you can't bring back the dead, you can't help the innocent dying in any way other than— stacking them on top of each other and moving on.

---

so that's for now, i might someday write more if anyone's curious. :")

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sifu-kisu · 1 month ago

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Parts of a Chinese Sword: The Jian and Dao Anatomy

Chinese swords are very beautiful and dangerous weapons that have played an important role in Chinese history and culture for thousands of years. Their intricate design and construction are a testament to centuries of Chinese swordmaking tradition.

One must be familiar with the complex workings of Chinese swords to fully appreciate their lethality and beauty and use them more effectively in Wushu or Kung Fu Chinese martial arts. In this article, we’ll introduce you to the various components of the Dao or Jian, the traditional Chinese swords, and their use.

Parts of the Jian / Straigh Double Edge

The Parts of a Jian Sword – Credits: Mandarin Mansion Antiques

The Jian is a type of ancient Chinese straight, double-edged sword that has been valued for over a thousand years. Its blade is long and narrow, while the handle is straight and slim. Soldiers, martial artists, and academics employed the sword in ancient China and surrounding regions. Together with the staff, spear, and Dao swords, it is one of the four key weapons in Chinese martial arts.

1. Jiantan – Pommel

The Chinese word for the pommel of a Jian sword is Jiantan, and it is there that the sword begins. It’s a metal weight at the end of the handle, and its purpose is to balance the blade so the user can have a firm hold. First only available in ring pommels, Jian pommels eventually evolved into more complex designs like the metal cap, ball, or teardrop shapes and the common disk pommel known today.

2. Jian Sui – Tassel

A Jian sword’s tassel is a decorative accessory that can be fastened to the pommel or scabbard. The Chinese sword tassel is often constructed from silk. This sheath beautifies the Jian and adds a few features that may or may not improve the sword’s effectiveness in battle.

3. Jianba – Handle

The different possible edge features on the Jian sword – Credits: Sword Buyers Guide

The Jianba is the sword’s handle, and it is always straight and slim, measuring somewhere between 6 and 10 inches (15 and 25 cm) in length. For ceremonial and combat purposes, it may be crafted from various materials, including bone, wood, horn, and even jade. The majority of Jianbas have a shorter handle designed for use with one hand, although there are also longer versions used with both.

4. Jian Ge – Guard

Traditional Jian sword guards are thin, tapered pieces of metal that can be angled in either direction relative to the blade and handle. In some cases, it can be round or square that goes between the blade and the handle. Its purpose is to shield the user’s hand from the oncoming blade and to stop the enemy’s weapon from sliding down the blade onto the hand. In some cases, it only serves as a beautiful ornamental piece.

5. Shaungxue – Hamon

A hamon is the visible line on the Jian sword that is sometimes on the blade but not always. It is a result of the differential hardening used throughout history to make the edges of the blade sharper by using clay. It is a feature most known today on the Japanese Katana.

6. Jianti – Blade

The blade of a Jian sword is narrow and long, normally measuring 23 to 31 inches (60 to 80 cm) but reaching as high as 47 inches (1.2 meters), and always tapers into a sharp blade tip. It is the only straight Chinese sword, one of just a few in the arsenal of Chinese swords, with no curving variant. The blade is forged from bronze, then iron, and finally, high-quality steel, and it is optimized for speed and accuracy when cutting.

7. Jian Ren – Edge

The straight Jian scabbard –

The sharp edges on both sides of the Jian’s blade are called Jian Ren. This Jian Ren has three sections and parts, mostly seen in the combat or martial arts type of Jian sword.

Top – razor sharp and used primarily for hacking, slashing, thrusting, but not blocking

Middle – semi-sharpened part of the blade but much thicker, which is used for slashing and blocking

Bottom – very thick, sturdy, and usually unsharpened for defensive or unorthodox offensive movements

8. Jian Jian – Blade Tip

The very point of the Jian sword is called Jian Jian. It is sharpened on both sides and made to be deadly when used for thrusting and piercing, but it can also be used for slashing.

9. Jianqiao – Scabbard

When not in use, a Jian sword is stored safely in its scabbard, called the Jianqiao. It’s usually crafted from wood and covered in luxurious materials like silk or leather. Metal fittings and tassels are two examples of possible embellishments for the scabbard.

Parts of the Dao Sword (Knife/ Saber)

The Parts of a Dao Sword – Credits: Mandarin Mansion Antiques

The Dao sword, often called the Chinese broadsword, is a renowned blade that has served Chinese warriors for millennia. Its defining feature is a single-edged blade, which can be straight or slightly curved and may be gripped in one or both hands thanks to the long, slim grip. The Dao sword has a long history of use in numerous Chinese martial arts traditions, but it was primarily a sword of the soldier thanks to its ease of use and simpler design.

1. Daoba Dingshu – Pommel

Usually, the Dao sword has a smaller metal cap of a pommel which can be ring type, as seen in the 20th-century use of the Dadao. However, the most common type is a round or wider disc shape. It serves as a back support to the user’s hand as well as a possible blunt attack tool.

2. Lanyard and Tassel

Like the Jian has the traditional Chinese tassel, so does the Dao. But most of the time, the Dao swords have a lanyard, which is meant to have a better grip on the sword and make this curved blade more effective in mounted attacks.

3. Daoba – Handle

The handle of the Dao, which can be as small as a person’s hand or the size of the blade itself, is called the Daoba. Its most common length is 8 to 13 inches (20 to 35 cm), and it can be used with one or two hands for powerful slashing attacks.

4. Daoba Shu – Ferrule

The small metal piece just under and between the guard and the handle is called the Daoba Shu. These are often circular metal rings made for extra joining and fastening of the handle and sealing and reinforcing the wrapping material.

5. Dao Hushou – Guard

The metal piece that protects the user’s hand between the blade and the handle is the Dao Hushou. The most common type of guard seen on a Dao sword is round or disc-shaped. It offers protection to the user’s hand but is fairly limited. It makes for an excellent marching or cavalry type of guard. However, It is also featured in the parts of a Katana known as tsuba.

6. Dao Cao – Groove

The early types of Dao Ren on the straight Dao swords, which curved with time – Credits: The Scholar General

The Dao Cao translates to saber groove and can be found in almost all types of Chinese Dao. They are sometimes referred to as blood grooves, but their real purpose is to lessen the weight of the blade so that it can increase the saber’s handling and speed. In addition, they make eye-pleasing aesthetics.

7. Dao Ren – Blade (Edge)

The sharpened side of the Dao swords, which makes them single-edged, is called the Dao Ren, which sets it apart from the Jian. This edge makes for an effective slashing tool that benefited from the curve added onto the later Dao types of swords. Thanks to the Dao Ren, these blades were easier to master and cheaper to produce, but still very effective in combat and became the main type of military sword for Chinese soldiers.

8. Dao Bei – Spine

The sturdy part of the Dao sword, which can hold off the flexibility of the edge, is called Dao Bei. This isn’t a sharpened part and can be either straight or curved based on the type of sword and can be used for defensive purposes too. Sometimes the blade can be made broader and wider, and there are instances of a spike on some Dao Beis.

9. Blade Rings

There are some cases of Chinese swords with rings placed on the Dao Bei or the blade’s spine. They are mostly for entertainment and ornamental reasons, but some say they are also beneficial in combat.

10. Tunkou – Blade Collar

An unsharpened piece of metal, usually on top of the guard of Dao swords, is called a Tunkou, which is a blade collar. This is placed for decorative purposes, mostly with traditional Chinese elements, but it also holds the blade tightly inside the scabbard, keeping it safe from the elements.

11. Dao Feng – Blade Tip

The very end of the blade is called the Dao Feng, the blade’s sharpened tip. There are cases where only one side is sharpened, but on some Dao swords, the tip is double-edged, making it ideal for both slashing and thrusting.

12. Daoqiao – Scabbard

The P-shape curved scabbard of the Dao sword – Credits: Mandarin Mansion Antiques

The Daoqiao, or the scabbard for the Dao blade, has the same features and materials as the Jian, except that it is curved. It protects the blade from outside elements and is a nice resting piece for carrying the Dao around.

13. Dao Shu Liang – Scabbard Suspension

The Dao Shu Liang is how the scabbard is different from the Jian. This tradition came from Persian influence on the west during the Tang Dynasty and is basically two ropes swinging from the blade that hold the swords in a horizontal fashion

#sifu kisu #atlab #northern shaolin #lok #northern shaolim #kung fu #jian #baguazhang #atlab lok #piandao #Jian Shu #Chinese sword fighting

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jinxhallows · 2 years ago

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ɪᴄɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴋᴇ | ᴊᴀᴄᴋsᴏɴ ᴡᴀɴɢ x ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

☾ -- ɪᴄɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴋᴇ

ᴊᴀᴄᴋsᴏɴ ᴡᴀɴɢ x ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ, 𝟷𝟾+, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟ ᴜsᴇ, ғᴏᴏᴅᴘʟᴀʏ, ᴇsᴛᴀʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘ

ᴡᴄ: 𝟸.𝟹ᴋ

So I wrote this originally in a discord brainrot with @gdragonsideburns (who ALSO WRITES INCREDIBLE SHIT) because although I am a smooth 30, I'm currently driving this song into an early grave and it made me think of Jackson Wang in the jungle? Do Jackson Wang fics even exist on here? Well, here's one.

"Dearest old man, on this most joyous occasion of your birthday, I bring forth a small token of my affection."

You call out teasingly in an over the top accent, and carefully place the delicate porcelain plate onto the table, adorned with a magnificent gourmet cupcake, a tropical wonder, complete with a sparkler glowing brightly at its center. The chocolate syrup on top of the plate spells out a heartfelt message from the resort staff,

"Happy 29th Birthday, Jackson Wang from China."

His face lights up with an infectious grin as he reads the message out loud.

"Ah, that's definitely me," he exclaims, reaching out to blow the sparkler out like a candle. But to his surprise, it doesn't extinguish. He shakes it slightly and turns to you.

"It burns for twenty-nine seconds, because that's how old you are," you quip with a mischievous glint in your eye.

He looks at you in wonderment, his brows furrowing in confusion. "How do they get it to last exactly twenty-nine seconds?" he asks, genuinely curious.

You chuckle, knowing he's fallen for your playful trick. "They don't," you say, picking up the remaining sparkler and pushing the plate towards him. "You just believe anything I tell you."

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Now that's a lie. I don't believe 99.9% of what comes out of that pretty mouth of yours." With a cheeky grin, he dips his finger into the icing and taps your nose, before bringing it to his lips to savor the delicious taste.

“Thanks for thinking of me, baby.” he murmurs in a gentle tone, his eyes fixated on the delectable dessert before him.

The soothing sound of the rain pouring down through the dense Amazonian trees provides a tranquil ambiance. The floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the lush rainforest, with mist creeping up from the warm forest floor. You observe him as he peels off the cupcake paper, sinking his teeth into its side. The coconut shavings crumble onto his exposed tattooed torso. He brushes the crumbs off his skin, just below his navel, where his gray sweatpants meet his briefs, emitting a soft rustling sound. Tilting his head to the side, he takes another bite, letting out a satisfied "mm" at the delectable taste.

He glances over at you, oblivious to how enraptured you had become with his reaction. "Wanna try?" he offers, extending the cupcake towards you. However, you wave your hand, declining the tropical delight.

"I hate coconut flavored stuff," you make a face in distaste.

"Really? Since when? Why didn't I know that?" he queries, taking another bite and shaking his head to brush away the strands of chestnut brown hair from his face.

“Because thankfully, you’ve never fucked up royally enough to get me coconut flavored anything; and I love you all the more for it.” As you rise from your seat, you feel the cool, marble floor beneath the balls of your feet, and make your way over to the Bluetooth speaker. The room is sparsely furnished, and the sound of mellow Afrobeat mixed with R&B piano and the soothing notes of steel pans fills the air.

Suddenly, you feel something cold and flat pressed against your lower back, just above the curve of your hips. You look up at his reflection in the mirror, both of your gazes locking before your eyes fall to the bottle of patron silver he was conveniently using you as a table for; oh but Jackson’s a gentleman, he’s got himself pressed up against your ass, and your ample thighs; he’s keeping you nice and steady while he expertly pours a shot, which he sets down with a satisfying "clink" on the nearby table.

Jackson's second attempt at pouring is a bit messier, causing droplets of the cool liquid to splash against your warm skin, and you slightly jump at the feeling. It was the way the bottom half of your cheeks jiggled from underneath your shorts, however, that earned you a firm grasp and smack as he throws his shot back, relishing in the sight of your body responding to his touch. With a mischievous grin, he leans down to lap up the stray droplets from your lower back as you blissfully sigh from how good he was pressing all your buttons.

“Take your shot, I wanna test somethin’.”

He takes a step back, and you slowly stand up, tossing back the tequila before turning around to face him.

“Hear me out, try chasing with it.” He walks over to the table, and you admire the flexion in his back muscles as he moves. He picks up the cupcake, undeniably sexy as he licks it off his finger. He can tell he’s got you right where he wants you, your eyes never leave him.

“Chasing tequila, with a coconut cupcake? You’re gonna have to show me, ‘cause it’s not sounding too appealing yet.”

“I’m glad you asked, lie down for me sweetheart, let me show you exactly what I mean.”

As you crawl onto the plush mattress, Jackson follows suit, climbing on top of you. The sight of him, flushed from the drinks he had earlier, is enough to make your heart skip a beat. He chuckles at your confusion, but how could you not be confused? He's holding a half-eaten cupcake in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other, straddling your body. But despite the mischievous glint in his eye, you can't help but find him utterly irresistible. In this remote, remarkable place, far away from the rest of the world, he has you all to himself, and he's clearly up to no good.

"Hold this for me," he says, handing over the cupcake. As you take it, he takes a thick swipe of icing from the dessert. He pushes the bottom of your tank top up just enough for the bottom of your breasts to peek out from under the black, scrunched fabric.

"Jackson, what are you--" you start to ask, but he interrupts you as he paints a straight line of icing down the midline of your stomach, stopping right at your navel. His eyes hold your gaze captive as he slips his finger with the remaining icing between your lips.

As you obediently suck on his finger, feeling the curve of his knuckle and the lines dividing his long digit into printed pads, he lets out a satisfied laugh and proudly declares,

"I thought you hated coconut flavored shit?"

You take his finger further into your mouth, coaxing it in with your tongue. Despite your initial reservations, you can't deny the pleasure you feel from this. He pulls his hand away from your oral fixation with a scoff and a smirk. Taking a swig of tequila, he looks down at you like you're his next biggest conquest.

Aries men have a thing for that – a conquest.

He dips his tongue into your navel, licking the sweet trail all the way up to where your shirt is bunched up. You gasp, propping yourself up on your elbows and looking down at him knowingly. "You know exactly what you're doing," you say.

"I'm teaching you how to broaden your palate," he responds smoothly, wasting no time in taking the cupcake back from you and exchanging it with the bottle of tequila instead.

The cool air circling in the room feels extra sensitive on the wet skin of your stomach, and it turns your nipples into erect, sensitive nubs, poking proudly through the thin fabric of your tank. You push yourself up a little more, so you can sit up straight.

You look up at him as he holds the cupcake out for you to take a sample from. You swipe your finger in the thick, buttercream icing, and your eyes dance down his chiseled torso, deciding where you were going to take this experiment.

Your body is trembling with anticipation as you slide your fingers over the waistband of his briefs, feeling the heat radiating from his body. You lean in closer, the scent of his cologne mixed with the faint aroma of tequila and cupcakes filling your senses. Your tongue traces the trail of soft, delicate hairs leading down from his belly button, savoring the sweet taste of his skin.

You slowly trace a thick line just above his navel, reveling in the way his muscles twitch under your touch. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, his skin flushed and warm from the tequila. You trail the icing down his smooth, taut stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his briefs.

You can't resist the urge to pull them down just a little, just enough to expose the tempting V-line leading down from his abs. With a steady hand, you spread the remaining icing right where you want it. Jackson watches you with dark, intense eyes, his breaths coming in ragged.

Jackson’s eyes flicker with surprise and desire as he helps you by tugging at the sides of his pants, pulling them down even further. The sight of his hardness tenting the front of his sweatpants, the print pushing through the slate grey of his briefs, is almost too much for you to handle. He's always had an aura of mystery and excitement about him, and the way he's looking at you now only adds to his allure.

He sets the cupcake aside and lifts your face up to meet his gaze, you can feel your cheeks heat up under his intense stare. His hand under your chin is firm, holding you steady, but his touch is gentle. You can see the lust in his eyes, but there's also a hint of tenderness there.

"Give me the tequila, baby," he says, his voice low and husky. You hand him the bottle, your fingers brushing against his as you do. His tongue darts out to swipe over his lower lip, and you feel weak in the knees.

With a little squeeze of your chin, he prompts you to open your mouth, and you do so eagerly. You can feel the warmth of his body as he moves in closer, his hips tilted towards you. He's always found you uniquely stunning, in a way that appealed to him on a primal level, and right now, it's as though he can't resist the urge to explore every inch of you.

As you wait, your breath catching in your throat, Jackson's gaze flickers over your face and down to your lips, before he takes a long swig of the tequila first. He swishes it around in his mouth before swallowing, and he pours a stream of it into your open mouth, letting go and allowing you to cringe as you push it down your throat. You quickly stick your tongue out, desperate to get rid of the alcohol taste. You grab his pants, pulling him closer and licking the buttercream trail from his skin. You pull his briefs down, maybe a little too enthusiastically, to get to the rest, and his stiff cock springs out. The head is red, smeared with clear pre-cum that had oozed out while he was toying with you earlier.

As soon as you felt the cool liquor pass your lips, your mouth began to water. You take him in, savoring the feel of him filling your mouth. His substantial length stretches you, and you wrap your lips around him tightly, feeling every ridge and vein as you slide him deeper into your mouth. As your tongue flattens against the bottom of his cock, he hisses at the sensation, his brows knit together in pleasure. His eyes close, and he accidentally holds his breath, lost in the feeling of your mouth on him.

"Damn, babe," he groans, his voice thick with desire. You can feel him growing harder inside your mouth, and you can't resist sliding your hand down to his base, following the thick curve of your lips with every suck. "Keep doing that, God, it feels so good," he pleads, his hips thrusting gently towards your mouth.

He probably shouldn’t, but he takes another shot anyway. He really does want to set the bottle down, but he can’t peel himself from between your pretty lips just yet. The way your intensity climbs as the liquor kicks in, you take his balls gently in your hand, using all the saliva that had pooled as lubrication to massage them.

His moans of pleasure fill the room, each one more intense than the last. With his hand covering his face and his other tightly gripping the tequila bottle, it was clear that he was completely lost in the moment. The air was thick with a heady mix of profanity, grunts, and gasps, all signaling his overwhelming pleasure.

“H-Hold on, hold on—” Jackson somehow finds the inner strength to breathe, to stop you from taking him directly off the edge a lot sooner than he had originally planned. He drops his hand, revealing his handsome face again. He stares at you with a look of utter desire and adoration, his eyes glazed over with pleasure. Beads of sweat drip down his forehead, his hair mussed and sticking to his skin in all the right places. His lips are parted, panting softly as he struggles to regain control of his senses.

His body is a work of art, every muscle defined and chiseled to perfection. The veins in his arms and neck pulse with intensity, a testament to the overwhelming sensations coursing through him. He looks like a god, a vision of pure masculinity and strength.

You can see the raw passion in his eyes, the way they fixate on you with such intensity that it makes your heart skip a beat. It's a look that says he wants you more than anything in the world, and nothing else matters in this moment.

“I wanna fuck you,”

He breathes out, pointing to the oversized window across from the bed.

“In the rainforest.”

☾ -- fin

#jackson wang #jackson wang x reader #jackson wang fic #jackson wang smut #got7 smut #got7 fic #jackson wang fanfic #jackson wang from CHINA #WHY DID I GO FERAL AND WRITE THIS OUT OF NOWHERE #i blame gdragonsideburns

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mariacallous · 19 days ago

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What’s fascinating about former U.S. President Donald Trump’s return to the White House is that he is both replicating former President Grover Cleveland’s rare feat of two nonconsecutive terms and is doing so on a tariff policy that would make Cleveland’s final successor, William McKinley, blush. The world may still be getting its bearings after Trump’s landslide victory, but historians of the 19th century are in fine fettle.

Trump, who took tariffs to new depths in his first term, has promised to make them the centerpiece of his second-term economic agenda—alongside tax cuts, a bigger deficit, possible cuts to the safety net, and a reversal of everything outgoing President Joe Biden has done.

The questions about Trump’s tariff plans boil down to: How big, how soon, how, why, and what happens next?

The “how big” is tricky. Trump talked about a 20 percent tariff on all trading partners and 60 percent on China. He also mentioned tariffs as high as 200 percent, and whether that’s for individual firms (such as John Deere’s foreign imports) or countries that cross him, who knows? Economic modelers do not yet have a way to peer into Trump’s mind.

The “how soon” is also hard to answer, because that depends on the why and how. In his first term, Trump was able to levy tariffs—to be clear, those are effectively taxes on imports paid by U.S. consumers and businesses—on everything from Chinese appliances to German steel. There were, and are, statutory means to do so, notably Section 301 of U.S. trade law that allows for tariffs on countries that compete unfairly, as China has manifestly done since it joined the World Trade Organization a quarter century ago. Imports assessed by the U.S. government to undermine national security, such as Turkish rebar used to hold up buildings, can be hit with tariffs under Section 232 of the 1974 National Trade Act.

Not everyone believes that the White House can hijack trade policy, since trade is technically still in the purview of Congress. But there is a lot of leeway for presidential action under numerated sections of old trade policy and the devolved authority that comes from having the courts side with the executive branch. He could do it all again or face lengthy fights in the courts, in which case it would be a while before his tariffs hit full swing. Nobody knows.

The “why” remains puzzling. Trump himself has mooted tariffs as a replacement for income taxes—an homage to McKinley. His supporters, on the other hand, say the proposed tariffs are only negotiating leverage to get trade partners to play ball. Play ball how? Trump’s “greatest deal ever” with China resulted in few U.S. exports and zero change in China’s manipulation of loans, laws, and subsidies to finance its export workshop to the world. U.S. tariff rates are now higher than those of most trading partners. If the United States has a gaping trade deficit—which it does, and it only grew larger under Trump—and if that deficit mattered at all, how would strong-arming trading partners redress that? Nobody knows.

Answering what happens next is perhaps easier: a trade war. Europe has already manned the ramparts; those poor souls in France who ride Harleys and drink Jim Beam will rue the day. China will let the yuan slide until its amphibious ships are ready to restore order. Emerging markets are buying sand for sandbags, only it has all gotten pricier overnight.

Europe, in the form of both European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen and bigwigs such as French President Emmanuel Macron, has already tendered an olive branch, fearing what it knows is in store.

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ralfmaximus · 3 months ago

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As it turns out, the ballpoint of the ballpoint pen—a tiny metal ball bearing that “mimics the action of roll-on deodorant,” rotating freely in a small socket to dispense a smooth stream of ink—is fiendishly difficult to make, requiring super precise machinery and high-quality steel made to very specific standards.

Weirdly, there are only a few countries on earth who can produce ball point pens, and China is not one of them. At least, making the actual ball/socket part of the device.

#china

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overdueforarevival · 2 months ago

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Whumptober Day 7 - Flyin' But We'd Never Get Far

Unconventional Weapon | Magic With A Cost | 'It's us or them'

Summary: Walburga and Orion Black insist that their sons fulfil their duty as the sons of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black by swearing their loyalty to the Dark Lord and taking the Mark. Sirius refuses and Regulus has to re-evaluate his own ideology in more ways than one.

Sirius should have listened to James. He’d offered before the summer that he could stay, not have to go home to his family for once and they could spend the summer pissing about muggle villages and playing Quidditch. But Sirius couldn’t do that. He couldn’t do that to Regulus.

And so here they are, the aftermath of another horrendous family dinner and Sirius can’t quite remember how they ended up like this. When did he go from his mother’s gorgeous little boy to the bane of her existence? When did his father start looking at him like shit on the sole of his shoe? When did his baby brother start looking at him with that sickeningly desperate look in his eye?

When did the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black turn into this? Sirius used to be proud of his house, used to proudly tell anyone he met that his father was Orion Black and one day he, Sirius himself, would inherit the family fortune and legacy. And now, Sirius shies away from the name, runs from it like it has teeth. Sirius doesn’t know when became the boy he is today.

He’s laying on the floor, chest heaving and face wet with tears and sweat as he gasps for air. Professor Ackles taught them about Unforgivable Curses last year, all three of them he’s seen used in his own home, two of which involved himself as the victim. Sirius didn’t know that. James told him back in third year that the things his parents did weren’t what normal parents did, but he never knew that it was illegal. He didn’t know that there were people rotting in Azkaban for less.

Regulus is staring at him, eyes wide and terrified from where he’s rooted in place in front of their father. Orion holds him fast, gluing him to his spot on the floor with a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. A single tear glides down his cheek and somehow even now he manages to look perfectly regal. A true Black son, their father would say.

And then there’s Walburga, standing over Sirius with murder written on her face and a steel grip on her wand. Her thin lips are curled in a sneer and her thinly framed glasses sit slightly crooked on her nose. She looks perfectly deranged.

‘Your insolence will no longer be tolerated in this household, Sirius,’ Walburga is telling him. ‘The Dark Lord is holding a meeting next week and you will be attending, with your brother, to receive the Dark Mark. Do I make myself clear?’

Sirius pushes himself up onto his elbows, glaring up at his mother defiantly.

‘He’s fifteen! You can’t—’

‘Crucio!’ her shrill voice rings out in the room, but it’s soon overpowered by Sirius howling screams. The china rattles in the cabinets, glass doors shaking in their frames. And Sirius writhes on the floor, rolling across the centuries-old hearth rug, preserved for eternity and now stained with Sirius’ sweat and blood.

The pain stops abruptly and Sirius sucks in a long breath, making the most of his reprieve whilst it’s permitted. His eyes slide over to Regulus.

‘Mother, please, he can’t take much more,’ Regulus whispers. From the tight set of his jaw, Sirius can tell how hard he’s fighting to maintain an even tone. ‘You’ll kill him,’

‘If he dies tonight, it will be his own stubbornness that does it, do not forget that, Regulus,’ Orion snaps, knuckles turning white around the ball of Regulus’ shoulder. Sirius grits his teeth.

‘You may retire to your room if you cannot stomach it, but mind that you will not come out until you meet with the Dark Lord,’ Walburga concedes, keeping her eyes on her eldest son even as she speaks.

Regulus hesitates, Sirius knows he wants to leave but even though they haven’t spoken in nearly three years, there’s still an inexplicable loyalty between them. Sirius doesn’t want Regulus here, no… he has a job for his brother.

‘Reg,’ Sirius croaks, once more trying to push his way up enough to twist his head around to the boy. ‘Reg, the mirror. Get the mirror,’

Regulus mouths the words silently and Sirius watches the cogs turning in his mind. He sees the moment it clicks and his brother squares his shoulders, understanding the mission.

Their parents watch him curiously as he slips out from under Orion’s grasp and makes his way over to the door. Nobody stops him. They probably don’t think there’s anything he could do to save Sirius from his fate at the hands of their parents. Sirius only hopes that James can help.

At this point, the Potters are his only hope because he knows there isn’t anything he can do top stop his parents now. If he is still in this house in a week, that tattoo will be on his arm and his life will be sworn over to Voldemort.

Sirius’ room is a mess. There are robes strewn across the floor, books decorate every surface and Regulus doesn’t even want to know why he’s got tatty old posters of Muggle girls in bikinis plastered over his walls. He is pretty sure his brother is, well, playing for the other team. Anyway, none of that matters, Regulus has a job to do here. Find the mirror.

The thing is, Regulus has never actually seen the mirror, the only way he knows about it is because he was impatiently waiting for his brother to join him to find their parents when Potter had gifted it to him. It was wrapped up in bulky packaging with ‘FRAGILE’ scribbled across the front in Potter’s obnoxiously messy writing.

So now Regulus must find a mirror in the mess that is Sirius’ room, but the thing is he’s already found two other mirrors into which he furiously whispered Potter’s name several times over before deciding that neither of those were right.

Downstairs, he can hear Sirius screaming and Regulus furiously wipes away another tear. He shouldn’t be crying; Blacks don’t cry. But after tonight, after listening to his deranged cousin prattle on about the Dark Lord and how he’ll bring justice and prosperity to the Wizarding World, he’s not so sure.

The Black family have always been respected and Regulus has spent his life earning that same respect, buying into their motto and legacy. But his best friend is a half-blood, Barty’s mother was muggle-born and he’s a perfectly respectable boy. He’s Slytherin through and through, sharp as a whistle and a good friend. Why does his blood mean he shouldn’t be Regulus’ friend?

Regulus shakes his head, trying to rid himself of these thoughts. Now is not the time for an existential crisis, nor is the time for finding this damn mirror. And there it is, glinting beneath a red and gold Gr\yffindor scarf.

Snatching it up, Regulus holds it carefully and looks into it, at first all he sees is his own face, but he’s sure that this is the one. There are little hoof prints stamped along the edge. A deer’s hooves.

‘Potter!’ Regulus hisses into the mirror. ‘Potter, where are you?’

Silence.

‘James Fleamont Potter, where the fuck are you?’ Regulus snaps, glaring at the mirror as though through pure force of will, he might summon the insufferable prick into sight.

Surprisingly, this works.

‘You know my full name,’ James smirks, face shifting strangely in the mirror as though he’s just picking the object up. And there he is, the arsehole himself, dark messy hair falling all about his face as he reclines back on his bed, grinning at Regulus. ‘You pay attention to me,’

‘Shut up, you delusional pillock, will you listen—’

‘Oh, talk dirty to me, Reggie,’ James fucking winks at him. At a time like this, James is doing his stupid flirting act that Regulus cannot stand. He hates it.

‘Shut the fuck up, you pea-brained pissant, where are you?’ Regulus cuts him off. He’s never done that before. It doesn’t matter, James needs to listen for once. ‘You need to come here… No, not you. You stay where you are, where are your parents?’

Sirius wouldn’t want James seeing him like this.

‘My parents?’ James straightens up, seeming to finally catch on to the severity of the situation. ‘They’re downstairs playing chess, why?’

‘Pay attention, you obstreperous twit, they need to come here. Now!’ Regulus insists, beginning to get frustrated. Why couldn’t it be Remus who gave Sirius a mirror? At least he could be of some use.

‘Alright, alright, calm down. I’ll go get them, we’ll be over in a minute—’

‘No!’ Regulus cries. ‘Not you. Just them,’

James pauses for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth, clearly searching Regulus’ face for something. He isn’t sure what James finds, but it seems to shut him up so Regulus doesn’t push further. James simply nods and then he disappears.

Regulus can only assume that his parents are on the way. So he sets the mirror back down and tentatively steps back towards Sirius’ bedroom door.

His screams have stopped now, leaving an eerie silence in their place. Regulus shouldn't be so accustomed to the soundtrack of his brother’s punishments, but it plays over and over in his dreams and sometimes he wonders if he'll ever escape it. Silence rarely means anything good on nights like this one. Silence means something new is about to happen and Regulus is skidding down the stairs before he can stop to think twice.

He should wait for Mr and Mrs Potter, they'll take Sirius away and then he can get on with his summer. Maybe he'll have to take the Mark, maybe he won't but surely if it's what his parents want, it's what he must do. Barty has been talking about getting it, Severus Snape from the year above already has it, he was bragging about it when he got back from Easter break. Perhaps this is the right thing to do.

Still, something is wrong and Regulus needs to make sure his brother is okay, so he’s hurtling back towards the drawing room and bursting through the door without a thought in his head. Only Sirius. He’s on his feet when Regulus manages to rejoin the party, wand in hand and pointed at their parents who are looking at him with shocked looks.

Mother laughs, a high pitched and painful noise that Regulus doesn't remember ever enjoying. She didn't used to laugh like this. Mother didn't used to laugh at her children or use every spell she knows to cause her eldest pain. Father didn't stand by and bellow at his sons while his wife tortured one of them. The Black family used to be different. Regulus misses his old family.

Sirius has blood on his face now, it's trickling from a gash just over his left eyebrow, his eyeball is stained red with it and there's a manic look in his eye. Regulus has never been scared of his brother before, but he wonders if their parents are.

‘You think you can beat me? Your own mother? Sirius, dear, that is preposterous. Stand down and do as you're told,’ Mother tells him once her cackling has subsided. As always, Father is standing behind her, wand poised at the ready but he follows her lead.

‘Mother!’ Regulus cries as she aims another curse at Sirius face and another gash slices through his cheek. ‘Please stop, just leave him alone!’

Sirius is shaking from head to toe, Regulus tells himself it's adrenaline but he knows it's something worse. He's seen it before when Barty used the Cruciatus Curse on that poor Muggle girl a few weeks ago. It had hit the Daily Prophet the next day that she died in a Muggle hospital early that morning.

‘Its fine, Reg, it was always going to come to this, I've known it for years—’ Sirius finally tears his eyes away from Mother— ‘it's us or them.’

Sirius makes it sound like Regulus should have known too, that he shouldn't be surprised by his words, but he feels sick to his stomach. Because he didn't see this coming. Never before has Regulus thought he would have to choose between his parents and his brother. His parents who birthed and raised him, who taught him who he is and what he should be. His brother who has always stood between him and any danger, who taught him who he could be.

Regulus doesn't have time to make a decision. Father's wand flicks through the air and Sirius goes flying backwards into the bookshelf. It shatters and the books go flying, several of them knocking Sirius in the process. He sits there dazed, blinking slowly and Regulus leaps in front of him.

‘Sectum Sempera!’ he cries, wand pointed at his father’s chest and suddenly his pristine, white dress shirt is staining red. Crimson blood seeps through his clothes, dripping down his body as he cries out in pain, falling immediately to the floor.

Snape really wasn't kidding when he said to only use that curse on his enemies. It's a horrific sight, his father lying on their most prized rug, bleeding profusely all over it. Mother shrieks, for a moment Regulus wonders if somewhere in their bloodline, a Banshee got involved, the sound is truly terrifying.

She comes flying at him, wand in one hand while the other stretches out, going for his neck. Mother doesn't reach him, though, because a book comes flying past Regulus’ cheeky and hits her square in the jaw. She hits the floor right next to her husband, knocked clean out.

‘Shit! Reg, what the fuck?’ Sirius shouts, scrambling to his feet and rushing over to their father.

‘You said ‘us or them’! I chose us!’ Regulus cries indignantly. Father is groaning incoherently as they kneel next to him, both too stunned and ill-equipped to know what to do.

‘That doesn't mean get locked up in Azkaban for murder! Fuck me, have some self-control!’ Sirius mutters, pressing his hands down on Father’s abdomen where the bleeding seems to be the worst. ‘Did you get to James?’

‘Yeah, I told him to send his parents. They should be here soon,’ Reg responds nervously. He didn't mean to do this, hell he didn't even know what the spell was going to do! This isn't how tonight was supposed to go.

‘Good, Eddie's a brilliant healer. She’ll fix this,’ Sirius insists. ‘Effie will fix this,’

Regulus swallows thickly and nods his head. He never would have thought that of the two of them, it'd be Sirius trying to keep their father alive. As if hearing his thoughts, Sirius scowls down at their father.

‘I’m not doing this for you, you pretentious prick. I’m doing it for him, don't you forget that,’ he tells him firmly then, as if just realising Regulus is still knelt beside him, glances over quickly. ‘Why don't you go wait for Effie and Monty outside, make sure they can get in,’

‘Yeah… yeah, right… I’ll do that,’ Regulus agrees, letting Sirius absent-mindedly shove him to his feet and out of the drawing room.

What did he do? He didn't mean it. He didn't mean to hurt his Father that badly, he just wanted to protect Sirius. He was hurting his brother, Regulus couldn't stand by and watch. That's all he's done for the last fifteen years of his life, stand by like a useless, unfeeling bastard who wouldn't even stand up for his brother. A brother who is currently trying to stop him from becoming a murderer

What's going to happen now? Regulus hand shakes on the door as he pulls it shut behind him. It's chilly for summer, or perhaps the chill is coming from inside but either way Regulus’ dinner robes feel awfully thin. It'll be even colder in Azkaban when he no doubt ends up there.

Will Sirius be able to visit him? Will he even want to? Regulus will be a murderer. The boy who killed his own father with underage magic. Talk about the pride of the family. He’ll never be able to show his face around any of his relatives again. In fact, he’ll probably be killed himself for this. If not by his mother, then Uncle Cygnus’ endless sense of familial loyalty might do him in.

‘Regulus? Son, is that you?’ a voice calls out from the darkness. Regulus hadn’t even heard the crack of someone Disapparating nearby, but now two figures make their way down the little cobbled path that lead up to the door. He used to sit on his father’s shoulders walking up this path every Sunday when they left for family dinner. The shoulders of the same man that is now on his deathbed because of him.

‘Regulus, sweetheart, what’s going on? James said you needed help,’ Mrs Potter says as the two reach them. Her face quickly pales and her eyes go wide. ‘Oh my goodness, what happened to you? What’s all this blood,’

‘Not mine,’ Regulus mumbles. The adults share a look and Regulus finds himself hunching over, shoulders curled in on himself. No amount of Mother’s screeching in his mind could make him stand up tall now.

‘Sirius?’ Mr Potter questions gravely.

Regulus shakes his head.

He can’t bring himself to say it. Can’t conjure up the words: ‘I killed my father’. Regulus killed his father. He has murdered his own father. He’s a murderer. A murderer who murdered his father because he is a murderer.

Murderer.

It doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, but it’s the only thought in his head. Garbled English swirling around as he pictures his life in Azkaban, the chill of Dementors hanging over him forever. This cannot be happening.

‘Son, you need to let us inside so we can help. Let us help you.’ Mr Potter’s hands are on Regulus’ shoulders, holding him steady but he doesn’t have the same bruising grip Father does. ‘Let us in,’

Regulus nods numbly, turning around and leading the Potters up the steps to his house. He’s never felt embarrassed by his house before, but he’s never realised just how cold it feels until now. The Potter’s house, Regulus is sure, must be warm all the time. If James lives there, it’ll be warm. James is always warm.

‘Effie? Effie, help!’ Sirius yells as soon as he hears the creak of the door and the woman is quick to rush past Regulus, following Sirius’ voice and bustling into the drawing room. Regulus stands in the doorway, struck dumb.

He can’t move. He can’t leave, yet cannot bear to stay. He won’t look at his Father again, can’t handle the sight of his pale face, blood slowly draining from hundreds of cuts littering his tall frame. He didn’t think such an indestructible man could be taken down with one simple spell. Regulus didn’t even know what the spell would do.

This is all his fault. He shouldn’t have gone back downstairs, should have just waited and let Mr and Mrs Potter come for Sirius, then everything would have been okay. Regulus would still be the golden child, Sirius would be disowned just like Andy and Regulus would take over as heir of the Black family. He’d hate every second of it, but they would be okay. Everything would have been fine.

But he had to go downstairs. Had to make sure that Sirius was okay. Sirius would have been okay, but now his hands must be stained red with their father’s blood and he’s crying now, the sounds muffled behind the door of the drawing room and Mrs Potter is saying something quietly.

There’s a hand on Regulus’ shoulder. A gentle hand and a soft thumb stroking backwards and forwards in a soothing gesture. Still, Regulus doesn’t move.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ he whispers, eyes fixated on the half-closed door to the drawing room. He can’t see anything other than his mother’s high heels just poking around the corner. Sirius got a good shot in on her, perhaps he should be a Chaser like James.

‘I know, Regulus,’

‘He was going to hurt Sirius,’

‘I know,’

‘I just wanted it to stop,’

‘I know,’

Regulus has never heard Mr Potter’s voice before, only seen pictures of him on Sirius’ bedside table and once or twice he’s caught a glimpse of the Potters on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. He never knew how kind a man’s voice could be.

The tears have returned, sliding down Regulus’ cheeks freely and he doesn’t even try to stop them now, simply lets them fall as he stares at the door. Mrs Potter and Sirius are in there for a long time. There’s some muttering from the older woman, most likely a healing spell, more crying from both of them and then silence.

Finally, they emerge.

Sirius’ hands are clean, the gashes on his face healed up like nothing ever happened. His hands still shake, though, and there’s no light in his dull eyes. He looks like Regulus. That was always the difference between them; Sirius still found joy in life and now it seems Regulus has taken that from him as well.

Mrs Potter announces that both of Regulus’ parents are going to be just fine, they’ll come around soon enough. She says it’s probably best if they’re gone by then. So they all trudge upstairs and Mr Potter waves his wand to pack all of their things away. Mrs Potter flicks her wrist and all their luggage disappears. Just like that, their rooms are empty.

‘Time to go, boys,’ Mr Potter announces and he holds out his arm to Regulus. ‘Hold on tight,’

Apparating with Mr Potter is the first time he hasn’t felt sick doing so. Whenever his parents had dragged him along, he’d feel nauseous for hours afterwards, but Mr Potter holds him close as they spin on the spot and Regulus hardly knows it’s happened.

But it’s obvious where they are when James’ voice starts bellowing throughout the house.

‘Pads! What happened? Are you okay? Regulus said you were in trouble, what did they do now? I’ll kill them, you know. I’ll bloody well kill—’

‘James, settle down,’ Mr Potter says firmly. His hand stays on Regulus' shoulder and he’s fairly certain it’s the only thing keeping him upright as James’ words crash over his ears. I’ll kill them, you know. I’ll kill them. Kill them. Kill him. I’ll kill him, I killed him. I did kill him. I killed my own father. I killed my own fucking father.

Murderer.

‘Let’s get you settled in, boys. James, why don’t you find some spare pyjamas,’ Mr Potter suggests, voice gentler now as James deflates like a balloon that’s had a needle thrust through it.

So Regulus allows Mr Potter to guide him around their home, showing him the bathroom and where he’ll be sleeping. He shows Regulus where he and Mrs Potter sleep, ‘just in case’ he says. Just in case what, though? He would never have dreamed of bothering his parents in the night. Does James wake his parents up at the arse crack of dawn like Sirius whinges he always does to him? Is that why he acts like such a spoiled brat?

Regulus accepts the hot chocolate Mrs Potter makes and forces himself to eat the biscuits she offers even though it feels like sandpaper in his mouth. And when the Ministry owl flies through the open window, he lets Mrs Potter read the letter out to him.

He lets James curse and swear up and down that the Ministry is run by wankers who don’t understand mitigating circumstances. He can be quite intelligent when he tries, really. But Regulus lets him rage and lets Sirius hug him and promise to come to the hearing with him. Nobody cares that Regulus nearly killed his father, they only care that it was underage magic. They don’t care that his mother had, only moments before, used an Unforgivable Curse on her own son. They only care that Regulus Black waved his wand before his seventeenth birthday. It could have been any spell and he’d still be getting grilled by Mr Potter every day before the hearing, straightening out his story. It could have been any spell and he’d still be sitting in this circular chamber in front of the entire Wizengamot to determine if the youngest son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black should be punished.

All of the Potters come to watch. It takes James cornering him against a wall one evening to drill it through his head that they only want to support him. Dumbledore comes to speak on Regulus’ behalf and Professor McGonagall tries to reason that it’s become clear that the Black children do not live in a safe home.

Nobody listens.

The hearing lasts for barely two hours and then Regulus is being ushered into another room where the Potters aren’t allowed to follow. Not even Sirius is allowed in with him. A tall man stands behind a desk and demands to see his wand. Regulus doesn’t want to hand it over. He knows what happens now.

But he doesn’t have a choice. Regulus has never had a choice. Not in his brother leaving him to go to school, not in being placed in Slytherin, far away from his brother, not in having to be the perfect son to maintain some sliver of his parents’ sanity. He doesn’t have a choice in this either.

So Regulus hands over his wand and shuts his eyes when the man takes it in to hands, holding it up to eye level and, with a flick of his own wand, snaps the wood in half. Only the since unicorn hair remains intact, still connected to either side. The only tether Regulus has left to his old life.

Regulus never goes back to Grimmauld Place, in fact it’s years before he ever sees his parents again. He never goes back to Hogwarts either. Everyone moves on around him, Barty insists they’ll stay friends but then one day he pulls up his sleeve to reveal a great big skull tattooed to his forearm and Regulus feels sick.

What’s the point in it? Blood purity. It’s all bollocks anyway. Even a Pureblood from the most respected and well-bred family can be cast aside like dirt, left to rot at the bottom of the food chain. Everybody else keeps climbing and Regulus… Regulus sinks.

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luzho · 10 months ago

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"NEW YORK'S 'MANHATTAN ISLAND'..."

i loved diego in steel ball run!! and *spoilers* ever since reading that part where he demands the fucking MANHATTAN ISLAND as payment for helping funny valentine?!! incredible move.. what a guy....!! (based on this picture of Zhichuan Hu on Elle Men China) ((and with this 1913 photograph from the woolworth building from the library of the us congress and yes, i know the steel ball run happens in 1890 but cmon. give me a break will ya))

#my art #diego brando #jojo part 7 #jojo #jjba #jojo fanart #jjba fanart #diego brando fanart #jjba part 7 #steel ball run #steel ball run fanart

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amostdelectablescribbler · 1 year ago

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WIP Intro: Steel Horses and Hot Irons

As requested by @tea-and-mercury, i am writing up a wip intro for the big ‘un. 32k words deep as of writing this. Sooo:

Genre: Action

Setting: South USA, Arizona-Texas-Nevada area. The Mojave, pretty much.

Tropes: Bigass guns, physics that doesn’t really get addressed, a whole bunch of mental illness (poor Becca), romantic sideplot, big plot twist, secondary antagonist scarier than the primary.

Tag (so i can see it): #STHI (it’s gonna work a bit like a signature for me)

Imma just put the prologue and the character work i did in because it’s just that much easier.

Prologue

5 years ago, 2035, the atom bombs were dropped. First at the USA, then Afghanistan, Russia, China, most of the EU, France shone like a strobe light before the nuclear power stations finished exploding. They all fell in the face of nuclear armageddon. All that was left were craters, rubble and uranium. A few survived and began reclaiming the barren, toxic wasteland. In Utah, there was a lot of this. The Krugers, based in Arizona, were dangerous and silent assassins that disappeared into the night when they left. The Mob, the surviving criminals from the surviving prisons. The lowest of the low and barely organised. The Survivors, who can walk off just about anything and were mostly left alone by everyone else. Wandering bands of close friends also formed, finding work as hired guns.

The Motliest Crew were renowned the best. A group of 5; 3 men, 2 women, all balls-to-the-wall insane. They had no known names, only specialties. The Marksman, Rebecca Johansson “Pew.” A sniper who allegedly never missed a shot, but was very shy, anxious and probably depressed. This is to be confirmed as there are no therapists left in Arizona, or in Alberta, Canada. The Scout, aka, Sorren Clark. “Keep up, $#§/stain.” A speedster with a mouth and a shotgun, one get’s him into trouble, the other get’s him out. Not the most useful combo in Australia, but out in the wastes, invaluable. The Brawler, aka, Claudia Vander. “I’m gonna punch him.” A large frame packed with muscle and grit hailing from South Korea and California. Her fighting skills are near unmatched.

The Demolitionist, aka, Callum Henderson. “I had a dog and his name was… Bingo!” A drunk, black, tartan-clad Scotsman with a grenade launcher and a rocket launcher. And a claymore, he has a sword too. The Gunman, aka, Rasputin Romanov. “Shoot first, ask question while reloading. Spetsnaz 101.” A man of few words and a Spetsnaz soldier from Russia, with a really heavy accent and a really heavy gun.

Each of these wandering guns-for-hire wore a face mask or helmet to both obscure their identities and filter the noxious cocktail of chemicals in the air in some places. They were all armoured to various degrees with assorted run-down military kit that had been scavenged. The Gunman was clad in hulking Juggernaut military gear, the Demolitionist in assorted pads and plates, the Scout in Moto leathers and a bulletproof vest, the Brawler wore similar kit to the Scout and the Marksman was in ill-fitting, minimalist spec-ops kit. Minimalist because only a third of what they found came close to fitting her. Each suit was tailor-made (except the Marksman) by it’s wearer, each adding their own personal flourishes and decorative elements, like sketchily-woven tartan, tally marks, oil crayon, the works.

Now, the character work i did (and added):

Rasputin and Becca:

Callum, Sorren and Claudia split up to go and have fun, leaving Becca with Rasputin. They sat in the hotel room, looking at each other quizzically. Becca had curled herself up in a blanket nest across the room from Rasputin’s massive frame that was posted on a bed, leaning into the wall, staring blankly into the space between air molecules. He looked around, registered Becca’s comfort ball, cracked his back and shifted his posture to something more relaxed.

“So.”

“Mm?” Becca mumbled from her nest, poking an anxious head out into the dim light.

“Why are you hiding?”

Becca paused in thought, eyes darting from Rasputin to the floor, to the roof before finally talking, her own indecision caving to his patience.

“I’m worried.” She whispered into her blankets, “I’m worried about them.”

“Hmm. In Spetsnaz, we had a good cure for worries. We would sit and talk about worry. You want to try?”

“Mhm” she slowly heaved her miniature frame out of the blanket nest and towards Rasputin, who lay down on the bed fully, shuffling along to make space, further dwarfing Becca. She curled up next to him, heart rate going from cardio to moving. Listening to his huge heart slowed down hers, his relaxed body position relaxing hers. There was a security in being so close to something so large, like swimming with a whale.

“So. Why are you worrying, Becca?”

“I- I’m worried for Callum and Sorren and Claudia. I don’t know what might happen to them. Even if I was there with them, I would just slow them down, but I like knowing where they are so that I know they can protect me if they have to.” Rasputin’s huge bald head turned around

“I will tell you this, Becca: I have protected all of them before. I can protect you.”

“There are monsters out there than can hurt them?”

“But none them can hurt me. I am Russian. I am Spetsnaz. Nothing hurt me.” Rasputin’s gravelly, broken English was somehow comforting.

“Really?”

“Da.”

Callum:

Another cold, dark night came as the red sun plummeted below the horizon. In the town, there was a bar. A man sat alone, at the end of the bar, drinking from a flagon of foamy beer and people-watching and checking his watch, waiting. For something or someone to spur him into action. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

An hour passed and he finished his beer, ordering another from the barkeep. The night crept on fruitlessly for the man. The stream of people coming in and out slowed to a trickle as he waited in the dark bar, wooden flagon in hand, beer getting colder, patience wearing thinner. Finally, one man entered who caught his attention. A tall, burly figure with a tartan kilt and sash over his impressive armour and helmet. The man held himself proud and tall, confident in himself and his abilities, but not arrogant. He walked with a muted swagger as he progressed to the bar and made his order, shifting the claymore on his back to avoid the seat. Some whiskey or other on the rocks. He had an enormously Scottish accent and as he removed his helmet to drink, it was revealed that he wore an eyepatch and had a nasty burn scar plastered on the left side of his face, sprawling under the eyepatch and barely visible in the shadow.

The man stalked forwards silently, sitting beside the Scotsman without making a single quiet sound.

“So, is it really you?” The hooded man had a smooth, melodious voice, with a noticeable Mexican accent.

“Who’s really who?” Callum replied, unflapped by a stranger randomly appearing beside him. In the better light, the man saw belts of grenades wrapped around the scot’s waist and bulges from beneath his sash.

“You. Are you really the famous Callum Henderson? Legendary demolition man for the Motliest Crew?” The stranger’s voice somewhere between admiration and mockery.

“So tha’s what they’re callin’ us. ‘The Motliest Crew.’ ‘Bit demeaning, no?”

“Not at all. I’m a huge fan of yours. I’ve been watching your antics for a while now and i was wondering if I could get an autograph?” The strange man spoke from beneath a hood, eyes glinting red in the gloom, a crocodile grin on his face as he reached i to his poncho and coat,

“Aye, sure. Tell me where tae sign.” Callum turned to get a pen from his pocket and when he turned back around, a tattered, sun-bleached “wanted: dead or alive” poster of him was placed on the dark wooden bar. The wind whistled as the man tapped the ‘dead’ part, “Just here, please.”

“Yer a bounty hunter, eh?”

“I am. One of the best, too. The Wolf of District 13.”

“So, wolf, is this the best yeh have? Vague, indiscernible threats and uncanny looks?” Callum replied, showing no fear of the man beside him, as he downed his scotch, putting a 5€$ bill beneath the glass. The Wolf chuckled for a second, before going dangerously calm, retreating into the dimly lit bar and drawing himself up to his full, enormous height.

Cybernetics whirred to life from beneath the wolf’s poncho and hood, as his eyes glowed red and a hiss of steam whistled from his elbows. Callum stood, grabbing his sword, “So this is how yeh wannae do this?”

“Yes.” Hissed the wolf, as his mechanical legs grew a third joint, making them look like the legs of a wolf, lean and strong and good for chasing. Callum stood, taking the poster to inspect it. He looked for a while, put it on the bar, signed it, pocketed his pen and walked out of the bar. The Wolf lowered his guard in disbelief, hunching back over to examine the wanted poster. He had circled “Dead” and signed it at the bottom. The wolf finished his beer and sulked off into the night, after paying his tab.

Claudia:

The Wolf of District Seven stalked down the back alleys of the Last City, following the cheering to a dingy looking warehouse with lights and shouts coming from within. Loud, aggressive music blasted from huge speakers, the bass shaking the walls. The Wolf entered the building by walking through the front door guarded by bouncers without being noticed at all. In the centre of the building, a ring had been made, inside of which, there were two fighters. One was a large man with massive arms and cybernetic reinforcements on his elbows and shoulders and he wore brass knuckles on his ham-fists and a metal plate on his jaw. The other fighter -the Brawler- was a smaller woman with broad shoulders and strong, lean arms. Claudia was still tall, but this other fighter was massive, yet her confident stance, and side-guard indicated extreme proficiency in her trade. The large man wore brass knuckles, she wore steel boxing gloves haphazardly manufactured from scrap sheet-metal and cast-iron.

The man brought a standard boxing guard up and his opponent steadied herself before bouncing on her toes. The large man angled himself to his opponent and swung a huge haymaker which was caught by the woman, pinned to her side and she started slamming him with crushing blows to the liver and ribs. Each blow made a cracking and a clanging as steel smashed bone. With one final powerful uppercut, she released the mans arm and slammed him in the chin, knocking him unconscious before he hit the cold stone floor.

The Wolf came through the crowd without detection or suspicion of a tall, hunched figure in a black poncho and hood hiding the figure’s face. She called into the crowd, “Who’s next? C’mon, dude! It said fight ring on the poster, not warm-up gym!” The Wolf took his chance and approached Claudia, weaving through the crowd, “I will fight you, if nobody else wants to, that is.” The Brawler looked at her new opponent, weighing up the fighting skills of this strange hooded figure, “Bring it, big dude!” she tapped her chin with her glove, taunting the Wolf. “You know, I’m a big fan of you and your crew, Brawler. Before we start, can I please get an autograph?” The Wolf asked, crocodile grin spreading beneath his hood, red eyes catching the light as he withdrew a pen and wanted poster from the folds of his poncho. His metal limbs glinted in the spotlight, clawed steel fingers on full display. He handed her the pen, “Just here please.” He tapped under ‘DEAD’ in ‘Dead or alive.’

Claudia signed the poster in pen before she realised what it was, stepping back as she realised, “Trying to bring in the reward money?”

“Have to make a living somehow. It’s not personal.” The Wolf removed his black poncho to reveal a body made mostly of metal and machine parts. Steam hissed in the shining pistons operating the Wolf’s arms and legs. Guards were raised and it began.

The Wolf dropped low, correctly anticipating a jab to the face, claws grating on the cold stone floor. “Slow.” He cackled with glee, swerving past a knee aimed to the gut and sweeping the supporting leg from below her. “Sloppy.” He taunted from behind Claudia as she got up and readied herself to fight properly. He took the next punch that came for him, a misdirect left hook into an elbow to the chin and a slam to the ribs. Both massive blows made a sickening clunk as metal was slammed together violently. “Weak.” Growled the Wolf, as steam hissed. Before she could process it, the Wolf’s metal fist was an inch before her face, and promptly slamming hard into said face, pushing her backwards. The next blow came before she was done staggering. A monstrously powerful ridgehand to the lower back, snapping the Brawler back up, only to take a huge uppercut to the liver and a sweeping kick to the back of the knee, bringing her down into a spinning back kick. She was out before she hit the floor. The Wolf drew his clawed hand into a stabbing blade, winding up to deliver the killing blow, before the referee stepped in, stopping the fight. “That’s enough. You’ve beaten her, prize ‘s in the pot.”

“Fine. I’ll take your bribe, but that doesn’t pull her bounty off the board.” The Wolf growled, cursing under his breath as he left the dingy arena.

and finally, Sorren:

The Wolf of District 13 sat at the end of another bar with another mug of beer. The MotoGP was on the TV, engines roaring through the abused speakers. One man sat watching, he had a beer in his gloved hand and a confidence in his demeanour. “I know you’re there, mate. I’ll get to you when Ducati finish this lap in first.” The Scout waved a hand in the Wolf’s direction, before retreating it and sipping on a gin. The Wolf stared in awe and bitterness at the scout’s arrogance, he had never been dismissed by a target before. Ignored once or twice, acknowledged every time, but never dismissed. This was not going to fly. The Wolf advanced silently towards his quarry, making no sound, red eyes glowing with malice. The Scout waved his hand again, tutting. “No, I said I’ll get to you in a bit. I keep my word. Sit back down, finish your drink, and put the knife away.”

“And if I don’t?” The Wolf muttered under his breath.

“Them you’ll go down in history as the most boring assassin ever. If you want to kill me, you’ll do it on my schedule.”

“Idiot.”

“No, you idiot, I’m reckless. The difference being one is being thick as bricks and the other is having no regard for your own safety.”

The Wolf was a very patient killer, he would wait for days for his quarry to show themself, but after 5 minutes with this intolerable little man he had very much lost it. He went in with his knife and went straight for Sorren’s spine. He missed the spinal cord because of the Scout’s impossible reaction speed, but instead his blade was buried in his lumbar.

“Ouch. Welp, I’m off to die somewhere pretty. See you in hell.” Sorren groaned as he got up from his stool, blade still stuck in his back, and walked out of the bar bleeding everywhere, hopped on his motorbike, and caned it back to the Hotel California deep within the sprawling city.

-end-

Btw i got more wips to do more intros on, since you’re so desicated and insist on reading to the end of these :3

#wip intro #STHI #writblr #creative writing

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sdballs · 10 months ago

Text

Exploring More About the World of Steel Balls

In the field of engineering, accuracy is critical. The parts that comprise these innovations—from complex equipment to cutting-edge technologies—often go unseen, yet they are essential to reliable and efficient functioning. Steel balls are little, unassuming spheres with amazing qualities that are used in many different sectors. They are among these hidden heroes. Together, we will explore the many uses and hidden meanings of these seemingly straightforward yet essential parts.

The Steel Ball Anatomy

Although steel balls seem simple at first appearance, their composition and production process are anything but plain. These balls, which are usually constructed from premium steel alloys, go through a number of painstaking processes to get the right properties. Surface finishing, heat treatment, and precision machining are essential procedures that guarantee consistency, toughness, and excellent performance.

Engineering and Industry Applications

Steel Ball is an essential part of many different businesses, and each one depends on its own characteristics to perform a certain job. Precision steel balls are used in gearboxes, steering systems, and bearings in automobile engineering to reduce friction and promote smooth operation. Steel balls are also widely used in the aircraft industry for a variety of applications where accuracy and dependability are crucial, such as gyroscopes, control systems, actuators, and navigational equipment.

Steel balls are essential for machinery and equipment used in mining, building, and manufacturing in addition to transportation. Whether it's heavy-duty machinery, rotational motion devices, or conveyor systems, these spheres are essential to the smooth running of several industrial operations. In challenging situations, their ability to sustain high loads, resist corrosion, and preserve dimensional correctness makes them vital.

Steel balls from Steel Balls Manufacturer are brilliant illustrations of the significant influence that seemingly little components can have on the largest of scales in a world where performance and precision are paramount. They continue to influence human development from the depths of industrial equipment to the great reaches of space thanks to their adaptability, durability, and timeless significance. Therefore, the next time you come across a steel ball—whether it be in a manufacturing facility, an automobile engine, or a cutting-edge technological device—take a moment to recognize the incredible trip that this humble sphere has undertaken. For, hidden underneath its simplicity is a world of accuracy and opportunity.

#Steel Balls #steel ball #Steel Balls Manufacturer #Steel Balls Supplier #Steel Balls China

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hetaari · 1 year ago

Note

I challenge you to badly summarize each and every one of your fics

You know what. Ok.

Backstage (Hetalia): bit of backstage homosexuality innit

Buon San Valentino except it’s Switzerland instead of Germany (Hetalia): self-explanatory

Imaginary (Hetalia): local German has been having vivid hallucinations for basically a century

Your Name (Hetalia): “you don’t need to know what my name is. You can try tho.”

The entire True Colors series (so far white, brown, yellow, and green) (Hetalia): “hey bro what’s your favorite color”

The Proposal (Hetalia): *aph china voice* “the fuck you mean japan asked you guys to marry him too??? I don’t wanna be part of a polycule!”

Distrust (Hetalia): *aph poland voice* ‘his vibes….they’re rancid. Untrustworthy.’

Bothered (Hetalia): *aph veneziano voice* “I am not having a good time rn”

To You, With Love (Hetalia): “hello girl it’s been a while hasn’t it”

Marooned (Hetalia): Japan commits murder-suicide

The Thumping (Hetalia): The Tell-Tale Heart but worse

Baking (Hetalia): Germany is physically incapable of doing anything without being even vaguely homosexual

A Happy End (Hetalia): “we’re all going to die but I’m fine with it”

Eyes Wide Closed (Hetalia): having your eyes open like a normal person is too fucking personal tbh

Let Go (Hetalia): Yao Wang should see a therapist

In Your Arms (Hetalia): Spain is the ceo of hugs

Consumption (Hetalia): “you’re so cute I just want to eat you up!”

Fascination (Hetalia): you must have balls of steel to break into someone’s house and act like it’s normal to be there

Colorful (Hetalia): “yes I paint with my eyes closed. But it’s fine bc it’s like a nice little surprise at the end.”

The Hills Are Alive (Hetalia): clearly the land around Lithuania’s house is more than just haunted

Bright (Hetalia): you know when someone’s so beautiful that you can barely make visual contact with them

“Tú eres mi media naranja.” (Hetalia): *aph spain voice* “mi amor I cannot live without you”

Dropping By (Hetalia): your weird boyfriend has come to visit

“Can’t Wait to See You Again.” (Hetalia): “see you soon girl <3”

My Wife, The Sea (Hetalia): tfw you can’t marry people but you can marry a literal body of water

Hurt (Hetalia): those two should really seek therapy

The Handmade Chocolates I Recieved Are まずい。(Hetalia): how do you tell someone their cooking sucks without hurting their feelings?

“Welcome Back.” (Hetalia): local German forgets an important facet of his existence, proceeds to be proper fucking miserable upon finding out about it for the next four and a half decades

Not In That Way (Hetalia): this could’ve been avoided with better communication skills

Closer (Hetalia): “I want to lie on your chest and listen to your heartbeat <3 without all the skin in the way <3”

Dead Battlefield (Hetalia): “we’re the only ones alive here. For now.”

Misdiagnosis (Hetalia): this is why you shouldn’t swallow seeds

Blue Hour Marshmallows (Vocaloid): Bros comforting bros

The Great Outdoors (Hetalia): Alfred is lowkey a scaredy-cat

Dead Weight (Hetalia): “yes I know he’s dead so it wouldn’t matter what happens to him. No I’m not leaving him behind even if doing so guarantees my own survival.”

The Very Beginning (of Something Great) (Vocaloid): *hatsune miku voice* “uwu a new friend??? Yes please”

The Way It Started (Vocaloid): *kaito voice* “oh god oh fuck I need him to think I’m cool so we can be friends immediately”

A Chat About Us (Vocaloid): telepathic convo

Acceptance (Hetalia): “oh so I’m gonna die? Fair enough.”

Kisses (Hetalia): Spain is also the ceo of kissing

Sunset (Hetalia): studies show that the sunset is the best time to be gay

Golden Hour Tangerines (Vocaloid): Bros comforting bros 2: the turn tables

Setting Up (Vocaloid): everybody in that house is extremely unobservant

Rain and Silence (Classicaloid): “hmm. Today I will enjoy the peace and quiet.” (clueless)

Stuck (Vocaloid): stupid idiot gets stuck

Ill (Hetalia): this is why you shouldn’t walk through random doors you find in the basement

Solitude Summer (Hetalia): “I know this is no strings attached but I’m actually kinda in love rn”

Part of You (Classicaloid): “wow he is so cool. I wish he would eat me.”

Hey, Hey, Mamma (Hetalia): lots of Italian men are mama’s boys, aren’t they?

Vene Collezione (Hetalia): the same guy getting railed over and over again

An Unconventional Sort of Employment (Vocaloid): had there been monetary transactions involved, she would’ve been sold to hatsune miku

Do You Love the Color of the Sky? (Vocaloid): “yeah bro actually. The sky is always beautiful because you’re by my side”

Dyed in White: The Return (Hetalia): the Pictonians are back and this time it’s personal

First Sound of the Future (Vocaloid): “everything I know and love is no more and I don’t understand what is happening”

W Academy School Idol Club (Hetalia): “wow that looks interesting. Time to form my millionth club.”

#ask #hetaari speaks #they’re posted in order of last update btw #also I love how I can see the quality steadily improving as I go down the list. I’ve come quite a ways haven’t i

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