#THE EYES!!! GORGE OUS

[lafcadiosadventures]

tell us how you really feel about it, Diderot:

"If our priests were not stupid bigots; if this abominable Christianity had not been established by murder and blood; if the joys of paradise were not reduced to an irrelevant beatific vision of I don’t know what, that we can’t comprehend or understand; if our Hell offered something other than fiery pits, hideous and gothic demons, howls and teeth grinding; if our paintings could be something else besides atrocious scenes, a scorched man, a hanged man, a roasted man, a grilled man, a disgusting carnage; if all of our male and female saints were not wrapped in veils up to their nose, if our ideas of prudishness and modesty had not proscribed the display of arms, inner thighs, breasts, shoulders, any type of nudity, if the spirit of mortification had not withered these nipples,rendered the inner thighs flaccid, arms rendered scrawny, the back muscles torn; if our artists were not chained and our poets constrained by the dreadful words of Sacrilege and Profanation; if the Virgin Mary had been the mother of Pleasure, or rather, the mother of God, if her beautiful eyes, her beautiful breasts, her beautiful buttocks had been what had attracted the Holy Spirit towards her, and had had that written on the Book of his history; if the angel Gabriel had been glorified by the beauty of his shoulders; if Madeleine had had a sort of gallant adventure with Christ; if during the Wedding at Cana, Christ, between two glasses of wine, in a somewhat non-conformist manner,threw glances at both the breasts of a prostitute and Saint John’s buttocks, uncertain if he’d stay faithful or not to the apostle with the chin in bloom with its first beard: you would see what our painters, our poets, our sculptors could accomplish; in what tone would we speak of their charms, which would play such a great and marvelous role in the history of our religion and our God; and how would we stare at the beauty to which we owe our birth, the incarnation of the Saviour, and the grace of our redemption."

Denis Diderot, Essay on Painting, written in 1765, but published posthumously around the year 1790’s

frech original under the cut

« (…) si nos prêtres n’étaient pas de stupides bigots ; si cet abominable christianisme ne s’était pas établi par le meurtre et par le sang ; si les joies de notre paradis ne se réduisaient pas à une impertinente vision béatifique de je ne sais quoi, qu’on ne comprend ni n’entend ; si notre enfer offrait autre chose que des gouffres de feux, des démons hideux et gothiques, des hurlements et des grincements de dents ; si nos tableaux pouvaient être autre chose que des scènes d’atrocité, un écorché, un pendu, un rôti, un grillé, une dégoûtante boucherie ; si tous nos saints et nos saintes n’étaient pas voilés jusqu’au bout du nez, si nos idées de pudeur et de modestie n’avaient proscrit la vue des bras, des cuisses, des tétons, des épaules, toute nudité ; si l’esprit de mortification n’avait flétri ces tétons, amolli ces cuisses, décharné ces bras, déchiré ces épaules ; si nos artistes n’étaient pas enchaînés et nos poètes contenus par les mots effrayants de sacrilège et de profanation ; si la vierge Marie avait été la mère du plaisir, ou bien, mère de Dieu, si c’eût été ses beaux yeux, ses beaux tétons, ses belles fesses, qui eussent attiré l’Esprit-Saint sur elle, et que cela fût écrit dans le livre de son histoire ; si l’ange Gabriel y était vanté par ses belles épaules ; si la Madeleine avait eu quelque aventure galante avec le Christ ; si, aux noces de Cana, le Christ entre deux vins, un peu non-conformiste, eût parcouru la gorge d’une des filles de noce et les fesses de saint Jean, incertain s’il resterait fidèle ou non à l’apôtre au menton ombragé d’un duvet léger : vous verriez ce qu’il en serait de nos peintres, de nos poètes et de nos statuaires ; de quel ton nous parlerions de ces charmes, qui joueraient un si grand et si merveilleux rôle dans l’histoire de notre religion et de notre Dieu ; et de quel œil nous regarderions la beauté à laquelle nous devrions la naissance, l’incarnation du Sauveur, et la grâce de notre rédemption. »

Denis Diderot, Essai sur la peinture, écrit en 1765, mais de publication posthume environ les années 1790’s

[gusherguy]

Sweet as honey as she is, Honey doesn't often visit cafes. A bit too social for her tastes. In front of others, Honey is shy and meek—she speaks in whispers and moves like she's just barely clinging to reality, ready to cry at the slightest provocation. Ater overindulging on too much cake and milk, she simply has to get sick. She's prone to vomit on the best of days, but this particular bout of queasiness feels unusually harsh.

I notice how ill Honey looks already and smile. I want her queasy. She is so cute when she's sick. Even though she has demolished a whole cake, five cupcakes, a fruit salad and two cups of decadent pudding, I'm sure she can fit more in there. i pass her a milkshake and command "Drink as much as you can of this."

Honey takes the milkshake and drinks it right there on the spot. She's never refused a command in all her life. What's more, she can't help but blush as she does so because, well, it's me giving out the command. As Honey sips and savors, her pale cheeks flush red all the while. She is absolutely adorable.

The milkshake is added to the sick weight in Honey's stomach. I reach over and rub her bloated belly gently. "Look at you, you ate so much. You must feel so sick huh?"

Honey gives a muffled grunt in the middle of another sip and nods. "I-I just feel awful..." she whines. She feels heavier than usual, but she doesn't seem to mind. The sight of her belly bulging so round and full is making my heart race. "Aw, Honey." I kiss her and taste sweet saliva. "Are you really gonna get sick in public?"

"I....i might. I feel—urp!" Honey begins to retch, but she chokes down the bile, which leaves her looking slightly green. She moans and leans against me, heat radiating off her skin. Where better to get sick than right here, in a cozy little cafe with its warm, comfortable atmosphere... and with me, at her side? Even though she'd never say it out loud, she's more than comfortable getting sick in public. She knows it's part of who she is.

"Oh? What do you feel?" I prod her. "If you can't even speak, maybe you should finish your plate. You want to be a good girl and not waste, right?" I held out another spoonful of cake to her mouth. Honey is so beautiful like this, just seconds from spewing, so full and round and cute.

"Mm-mmhh!" Honey grumbles, and her eyes water as she attempts to chew and swallow as much as she can. A trickle of drool spills down the corner of her mouth as she does her best to hold it all down. What a good girl! Her round belly and flushed face are absolutely adorable. "My tummy's r-really feeling like it's had enough."

"You had enough, Honey?" I kissed the drool off her face and chuckle quietly. "How full is your tummy? It sure looks ready to burst, huh?"

"Mm-hmm.." Honey sniffles, her round belly writhing and gurgling beneath my touch. "Y-yeah...I feel like i'm gonna explode...." The heat radiating from her bloated body is almost too much and her skin has a sheen of sweat upon it—yet she still looks eager for more food. There's nothing more beautiful and sexy, in fact, than watching Honey eat... her eyes widening and brightening to the mere sight of food, her mouth opening so wide as she accepts and chomps and gulps down each bite. The very definition of an adorable glutton.

Honey is so cute and beautiful I can barely contain myself. And she seems barely able to contain her stomach contents. I see her swallow a big gulp of milk and then almost burp it right back up seconds later. "Honey baby, you're gonna make a big mess in public again, aren't you?" I croon into her ear.

A tiny, high-pitched "Mhm!" is all Honey can manage in response. She's never been so sick, so full and uncomfortable before—yet so happy! What could possibly be better than spending a day gorging herself until it all blows back up, right in my loving arms? "Urrrpllhh! Ugh...." The world certainly seems to agree. A whole café has fallen silent, and every pair of eyes is fixed on her as Honey's eyes widen and she lets out a monstrous belch. Her stomach rumbles even louder, a gurgle of warning.

I move the plates aside so that Honey can spew onto the table. "Poor baby, look at that stomach. You look almost pregnant." I press just a little on her tummy and enjoy the feeling of it clench and gurgle under my touch. "You're so beautifully full, Honey. You did such a good job."

With a soft whine, Honey burps and barfs onto the table, the acidic smell filling the air as a stream of ice cream and half-digested bites of cake follow suit. And this is just the first retch for the poor little stuffed cutie—she'll surely let many more follow! But no matter how sick she gets, she'll only grow cuter and more desirable. Honey's round, bloated tummy is a feast for the eyes, and she knows it—what's life without a little suffering, after all?

"Ohh, good job baby. Get it up." I stroke her cheek and wipe the drool off her lips. Her vomit smells sweet, like the sweets she ate. the warm pile slowly dripping off the table arouses me. "Honey, turn and face me when you puke, alright?" I order her.

Honey does as she's told, and before she can let out another retch, she turns herself to face me. Her bloated belly presses out against her shirt and strains at the buttons of her dress. She looks more than eager to make a mess for me, and she gives my words her full attention as she raises her eyebrows in a hopeful gaze. "Yes, sir." It almost pains her to say it, but her master calls the shots.

I chuckle approvingly when she says yes sir. Honey knows that I'm her loving master, here to take care of her. I unbutton my pants to let my hard-on free. Under the table, nobody can see, but its an exciting feeling. "Mmmn. Good job, baby. Again." I tell her, moaning quietly.

"Y-you're enjoying this, aren't you, sir?" Honey blushes furiously despite her illness at the realization that her master is so aroused by her pain and suffering. There is a gleam of excitement in her eyes, however, and while she feels so ill that her brain almost feels fuzzy, she's happy nonetheless—oh, just to see him enjoying himself so!

I lean in and kiss her vomit covered lips. "I enjoy everything about you, Honey. You're beautiful inside and out. and right now, I want your insides out." I pressed on her stomach, pulling her in close as if to hug her. but in reality I am squeezing to get up more of her stomach contents.

That did the trick. A massive belch issues forth from Honey's lips and her legs buck as she vomits all over the table once more. This time, however, it's not just cake: this particular torrent of food is followed by a stream of partially digested milk, and when she's done, a good half of the table is covered in a slimy, acidic substance. The stench hangs in the air and turns the stomach of even the sturdiest onlookers. Honey's eyes brim with tears, but she's more proud than ever: what a mess!

I moan deeply at the sensation of warm chunks plopping onto my crotch. I shiver and kiss Honey again. "Good job. You're so beautiful baby. it all just comes out of you like a river. a river of cake." I poke her belly button, eliciting a gurgle from her intestines. "Still sick, love? Get it all up for me."

And now that she's started flowing, it seems as if Honey can't stop. The food simply won't quit! She got on her knees on the seat and leans over my crotch as she burps, hiccups and burps again. She lets herself spew all over me, the table, herself, again and then again, each successive belch and each successive wave of vomit feeling hotter and stickier than the last. It's a wonderful thing to behold: her body is doing its part, expelling and disgorging, and now all she has to do is let the flow follow its course. It's beautiful and sexy watching her get sick like this; she really is the most beautiful of little gluttons, isn't she?

I shiver with arousal. i can't help it; Honey is so sick and sexy. I can't resist leaning in as i see her jerk in a heave, and catch a spew of semi digested cake in my own mouth. It's warm and sweet and slimy and its wonderful to see how Honey reacts to my worship of her.

The sight of her master savoring her vomit is—well, in a word, exciting! It thrills Honey to see me taking such pleasure in her pain and suffering. How could it not? What could make a girl happier than to see her master enjoying such a wonderful spectacle, the result of her diligent labor? She's done good, hasn't she?

I swallowed her vomit and smiled. It turned my stomach in a way that made me start to edge. I moaned and pulled Honey close. "Baby, I need to come - give me one more spew Honey, one more-"

Another series of intense, violent retches follows on cue. This final spurt of vomit is by far the greatest, for it contains everything Honey has eaten thus far, from the milk to the cakes to the ice cream to the heavy, chocolatey pudding, all in one. Even the table cannot contain its length and power, and quite a few gawkers are even made to gag from the smell that wafts into the air. This, then, marks the end of Honey's sick day—but not the end of her misery, for her belly is bound to ache for days now.

I jerk and gasp as I come in my pants. Honey's display is more beautiful and sexy than anything i've seen yet. "Oh god…baby, you're wonderful …i'm so lucky to have you." I wiped her mouth and stroked her hair.

And once the retching stops and her stomach's final volley of bile is ejected, Honey's face lights up once more. She smiles broadly and beams an expression of pure ecstasy. She did good! She made daddy happy! What other girl could hope to produce such a marvelous display of sickness and pain? Certainly not another girl in the entire world! How could any other woman compete with her as a glutton for food or a glutton for suffering? She is simply the best, and she looks up at her master with big, sparkling eyes that say as much.

[bulkseason]

ThisVid News

Hello everyone, 

The initial of this blog is to act as a “library” of videos for muscular guys who overeat either for a cheat day or as part of bulking. Since setting that goal the blog has expanded into new territories like a gainer breaking the waistband of their favorite pair of pants. But for now I am endeavoring to return to that original goal. 

If anyone has been paying attention to the Youtube Channel my bulkseason video playlist is hosted on, they may have seen a new playlist called Bulkseason (ThisVid). This playlist is for videos I’ve made clips/montages for on ThisVid. Usually, I post the clips here and on ThisVid to get the most exposure. However, I am changing that structure moving forward.

The News

I will be trying to make video clips for videos I’ve already added to my bulkseason playlist. These video clips (Which I’ll call legacy clips) will be posted exclusively on ThisVid. The reason for this is I don’t want to be double posting here on the blog. It frankly takes a stupid amount of time to upload video clips here so if I already made a post about a video, you should be able to find it in my archives. There are some videos that have already been taken down by their creators which is why I want to build up my collection of legacy clips.

This doesn’t mean I’ll stop posting videos here. Since it seems like people prefer clips, I will make clips for all future videos I add to my playlist and upload them here and on ThisVid. The exception is if in the video the person is only shirtless for a very brief moment; those will remain as picture only (the classic “belly shots”)

If anyone has a good eye for bellies and have access to video downloading/editing software, hit me up! My legacy clips project will be is a big job and I am willing to pay for your services.

The Future

I wanted to wait till we hit 9000 followers to make announcements about the future but I’ve been busy managing my other platforms and want to give a glimpse of my plans for this blog now. 

First, I want to thank everyone who moved to my Instagram to see my personal belly pics! I didn’t expect the following that I’ve gotten since I don’t look anything like the guys that I post about so I’m very flattered by all your kindness. I’ve spent a lot of time managing my “personal belly pic platforms” that I’ve let this blog fall into neglect a bit. I’m grateful that Tumblr has an autopost feature.

I do not plan on abandoning this blog though. Its the capital of my little online kingdom. I do wonder though if there is a way to transfer ownership to someone who can better manage it. Like a housekeeper for Tumblr blogs. I never implemented a tag system like @just-gorge-ous or @hunky-to-chunky which I sort of regret. They post a lot of great content too and their tags make it easy to sort through it all. If anyone would like to help clean up the blog a bit, I am looking for your services as well.

To whoever read through this long ass post, thank you for following the gains here and remember its always bulkseason! 💪

[jessicakimx]

Scottish roads, take me Home

The wind that woke me carried me through an awesome gorge erupting sweet flavours of the late summer fruits that flower, for us.

***

Betwixt the faces of the mountains the fairy pools cascade

Fountains of bountiful pure water.

Lilac heathers and dragon flies parade

Droplets of water that hold such power.

As the winds sweep new air into a bedazzled shower,

Swirling, whirling, the way I always dreamt.

Deep gorge-ous views that I grasp onto

Showing what’s Real and what’s meant.

To be kept sanctified, 

Ceremonious forces of Nature.

Feel Gaia in her elements in the way she intended yer’,

Bonnie Isle of Skye, I can feel ye’ within me.

You’ve opened my eyes: there’s always more to beauty to see

Not just Now

But in the future too

A new dawn is rising on 2022.

***

From the Isle of Skye: a perfect composition where the clouds mirror the mountains and waters’ edges.

A piece of Stillness nestled in the North West of a wild, old land.

Though no seas need be crossed, the border that divides creates a line

Of contrast between raw, jagged rock edges and soft, curvaceous cliffs.

Aqua-marine waters with Peace from shadows, breed fauna; from dolphins to

Eagles that rise above our heads.

To feel alone, though practically simple, becomes impossible as you breathe the same air as millions of microcosms.

True meditation after relentless let-downs both of my petri-colony and the entire globe’s day to day occurrences.

This trip was special to me for more reasons than possible to explain.

Allowing the souls that have flown to pass through my memories, leaving their silhouettes laughing with my core.

Feeling truly at One with the Greatness of the world again, and the stamp of approval that I could never be a bore.

Scotland, the land of Lochs, bogs, mountains and Sky.

Here I feel a natural connection to my own rhythms.

A meter that’s continuously ticking and that I will never deny.

***

Get lost, get stuck in a bog.

‘Cause one day everything will be lost in a fog.

[pedanther]

Franz's vision of the three smokin' weed girlfriends survives more intact than I might have expected in the Victorian translation. There are no big cuts, just a lot of little changes to soft-pedal the sexy bits.

Some illustrative instances:

French: ...il se retrouva dans la chambre aux statues, éclairée seulement d'une de ces lampes antiques et pâles qui veillent au milieu de la nuit sur le sommeil ou la volupté.

19th C. translation: ...he was again in the chamber of statues, lighted only by one of those pale and antique lamps which watch in the dead of the night over the sleep of pleasure.

20th C. translation: ...he found himself in the room with the statues, lit only by one of those dim antique lights that are kept burning at night to watch over sleep or voluptuous pleasures.

-

C'étaient bien les mêmes statues riches de forme, de luxure et de poésie, aux yeux magnétiques, aux sourires lascifs, aux chevelures opulentes.

They were the same statues, rich in form, in attraction, and poesy, with eyes of fascination, smiles of love, and bright and flowing hair.

The statues were indeed the same, rich in shape, in sensuality and in poetry, with their magnetic eyes, lustful smiles and opulently flowing hair.

-

Alors il lui parut que ces trois statues avaient réuni leurs trois amours pour un seul homme, et que cet homme c'était lui, qu'elles s'approchaient du lit où il rêvait un second sommeil, les pieds perdus dans leurs longues tuniques blanches, la gorge nue...

Then the three statues advanced towards him with looks of love, and approached the couch on which he was reposing, their feet hidden in their long white tunics, their throats bare...

At this, it seemed to him that the three statues had combined the love of all three, to offer to a single man, and that that man was himself; that they were approaching the bed where he was dreaming a second sleep, their feet covered by their long white tunics, bare-breasted...

I'd have to pretty much quote the last paragraph in its entirety to show all the changes, but suffice to note that in Buss's translation the watchword is "lust" rather than "love", the narrator is less judgemental (no "unhallowed passion"), and Franz derives more pleasure than the old translation admits from the hot bodies of what the old translation refers to as "goddesses" and the new translation more directly translates as "mistresses".

[strawberryona]

Okay, this is a really sudden and maybe weird question, but my curiosity got the better of me. Can you tell me more about your OC Dacha Sokolov, and why and how exactly have you rewritten Julian into him? (I’m curious because I myself used to be into Julian before his further characterisation disappointed me. Also because I just like your OC’s aesthetic and I would have loved to learn more about him)

Also I can’t get over the fact that you named him “Дача”… Like a summer house on a countryside…

– villain-in-love

to get this out of the way, i'm aware of the name thing. i'm open to alternate name suggestions, though, since i've already renamed his partner multiple times, what's a bit more ship of theseusing?

like you, i was also disappointed with the arcana, since i found out that the creators were like, scammer weirdos, and i just kind of fell out of love with the game. i also disliked julian's later characterization, but i liked him a lot for being a plague doctor submissive bitchboy. so i made a plague doctor submissive bitchboy character with red hair and those freaking whore eyes, and the same goddamn nose, and i was like hey what if i gave him freckles? and red eyes--WHAT IF HE WAS A VAMPIRE?!?!! so i did that.

his partner was repurposed from my original arcana oc and was originally named evangeline "angel" santos, a charismatic vonian (fantasy species i made, which i later scrapped) who created a group to hide and aid vampires from the unaccepting world, which later accidentally became a cult. i drew heavily from christian/catholic imagery since that's what i grew up with and what i feel comfortable critiquing/sexualizing because, surprise surprise, their entire relationship is kind of a conduit for my religious issues and therefore my blasphemy kink. sorry but you read the vesperoan fic so i'm sure you won't be phased. the two of them are in a queerplatonic D/s relationship.

i later chose to base the world on 17th century thailand/the late ayutthaya kingdom. the thai influences are most clear in the floating markets (like the ones in thailand, but with magical purple sparkly water, it's cool as hell imagery), the clothing design (pik especially, they wear sabai and chong kraben), the names (i renamed my s/i to atchara anurak, with the nickname pik), the food, and the wildlife (pik's design is based on the mainland serow). the country's name is maong thiu.

additionally, dacha has a sister, yanna sokolova, who he lived with in drastreodore (his home country) before they'd both transitioned. she was born before him but turned after him, so she is chronologically younger and yet has matured more than him. he has severe burn scars on his hands due to an incident involving her. the two of them shared a tarot deck as children which they'd play games with, and when they separated, they each took half of the deck, rendering it unusable. they eventually reunited in maong thiu (after yanna obsessively hunted him down)

originally, dacha was a plague doctor who fought the spread of the ash sickness, a blood disease that majorly concerned him due to the lack of supply of healthy blood for him to drink, though he couldn't catch the disease himself, and that was why he became a doctor. over time, he drifted more and more from the original idea, and i leaned harder and harder into writing about pik's cult, so eventually, he became pik's right-hand man and their head priest, loyal like an attack dog. there's also a healthy bit of corruption kink involved since pik consistently encourages dacha to give into his vices: gorging himself on forbidden foods, made even more decadent to his undead body by his refusal and their subsequent rotting; accelerating the stages of his vampirism by allowing him to drink their blood regularly and pushing him beyond human standards, persuading him to partake in--how to say this delicately--cult orgies, there's cult orgies.

a lot of this is based on one specific scene i have in my head, where pik lays out a big platter full of raw meat and pomegranates and other “decadent” foods, inviting dacha to eat: he refuses a few times and pik just leaves the food sitting out (since they are so devoid of care and so hedonistic that theyre ok with just wasting food) which causes it to rot and that makes everything even more depraved when he cant help but accept out of curiosity

so uh, as you can tell he has drifted a lot away from julian! i think the only things they have in common are physical features at this point, their personalities are also quite different besides dacha also being a masochist and a fucking mess: he's way more rational and less extreme than julian is. this happens every time i base a character on a different character, idk why, they just always drift. if i really want to redo a character, i have to at least keep their name the same, otherwise we get a ship of theseus situation.

idk how to end this. here's art i drew of them

[moonshotsx]

hiii how about some gottrosenali for prompts? maybe like rosie being protective, ou maybe even something nsfw, whatever you feel like writing 💖

i decided to go more on the fluff h/c route, i hope you enjoy it ❤️

—

“I know I shouldn’t encourage it, but you punching that dude was hot as fuck,” Mik chuckled as he helped Denali clean the cut on Rosé’s lower lip.

“Don’t make him all straight gym man again,” Denali rolled his eyes playfully while he checked the bruise forming on the oldest’s cheek.

Rosé gasped in half fake offense and half pain at the suggestion, “How very you, baby”

“We can give him some slack, I mean, he took a punch directed to you, gorge,” Mik reasoned, ruffling Rosé’s mullet as he spoke.

“I can handle myself, you know that,” Denali replied in a more serious tone, “I don’t like you getting hurt on my behalf, Rosie”

The oldest shrugged his shoulders, wrapping his good arm around Denali’s waist, his thumb gently rubbing the latter’s side, “Is it wrong to want to protect my boys?”

Denali sighed, knowing he couldn’t do much about Rosé’s stubbornness.

Mik interrupted them, sitting on the oldest’s lap, “How about you promise to dial it down with the superhero complex, angel?”

Rosé tried to smile, his lip preventing him from showing his blinding smile, “I’ll see what I can do, but for now, how about some cuddles?”

[jasmehraj]

Timari out-sick au                                               

Marinette came to Gotham heart-broken. Her best friend, her first crush, her partner knows nothing about her. Nothing. Gabriel hit him hard on the head causing him to lose memory of last 4 years. She then punched Gabriel so hard the battle didn't last long. She was there when he woke up.

"Chaton you are awake?"

"Father? .....Who are you? Where is father and mother?"

She ran away from him and packed her bags. She ended up in Gotham. She did some research on Gotham's vigilantes. She was clearly impressed by Red Robin. He is very smart, analyzed every moment, very powerful and definitely handsome. He is her age and she is sure that he is handsome, there's no way he isn't and he is a coffee addict just like her.

In short she had a crush on him. She started going out as Rouge Gorge. Sometimes she shadowed the vigilantes and sometimes she went out alone. She disguised herself with Trixx's illusions. They all could sense her somehow and Red Robin always looks straight to her direction.

That is why she ended up in this situation. She went out a little earlier than usual. The bats had yet to come. She was running on the rooftops alone when she saw him. A completely sleep deprived man with many coffee cups in his hands. He probably wasn't aware of the people following him, probably muggers. She jumped into action as for some reason he turned to an alleyway. She took care of the two muggers. Where did the third one go? She turned to see the man had pinned the mugger. Subconsciously, without thinking, her stupid mouth said,"R..red robin?"

"So you are the shadow following us?"Well shit. He just confirmed it.

He took a coffee cup and chugged down a whole cup! Then he started coughing. Aaah he is falling. She caught him just in time. What should I do? What should I do?

She made the worst decision of her life. She took him to her apartment.

That's her story. Now she is sitting beside her crush who is laying on her bed, still unconscious. She took the cup he drank and smelled it. It smelled like, like BRANDY? What the hell?

That means he drank a whole cup of very strong alcohol even when he had probably never drank it in this much amount ALL HIS LIFE.

He suddenly woke up and asked her for bathroom. She led him quickly and he threw up. He is probably not aware of his surroundings. That is bad. He rinsed his mouth and she took him back to bed. He was very hot like literally very hot. He has high fever, vomiting..-I'll just check the internet. She then took some water and a cloth. She put the wet cloth on his forehead. He woke up an hour later.

"Shadow?"

"No I am not a shadow. I am Marinette."

"So your vigilant name is Marinette. Its very beautiful name." She felt her face heat up.

"No its Rouge Gorge."

"That's very nice too darling."

She huffed, her red cheeks betraying her,"Thank you."

"Its Ok love."

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?" He looked like an innocent child. Like he doesn't know anything. Why the hell is he tilting his head at his side. That asshole is smirking.

She groaned,"Calling me these names..?"

"Well darling, are you not the same person who named yourself after me?" Now as if she could get any more red.

"Well that doesn't give a reason to call me those names."

He pretended to think," Well you are beautiful."

She turned away and ran out of there after yelling,"Message your friends, family or something. This conversation is going no where."

When she came back he was sleeping. She sighed in relief. Her cheeks were still red. Maybe taking her drunk crush inside her home wasn't that good idea.

________________________________________________________________________________

Tim slowly opened his eyes. He looked at his surroundings. He was in a bed and the room was unfamiliar. When did he get here? He remembers that while going home he was attacked and the shadow? He took a small knife from his inside pocket. He slowly got out of the bed without making a noise. He made his way towards the door where music was playing.

He slowly opened it to reveal a midnight hair girl working with some kind of..........clothes?

"Who are you and where am I?" She was startled and let out a slow 'ouch'. She put her finger in her mouth.

"You don't remember?"

".........No?"

"I am the shadow as you say. Let me finish. I was out when I saw you getting mugged. I went to help you. You told me you are Red Robin.-"

"I told you?"

"I just said Red Robin and you said Oh so you are the shadow. You drank very strong brandy which was in your coffee. How the hell did you manage to get Brandy in a coffee cup."

He groaned and said,"Jasoooooon....."

"So I didn't know where to take you so I took you to my home...... You were drunk. And.....-"

"And-" He raised an eyebrow.

"Well I told you that my name was Rouge Gorge you started flirting with me. I took care of you. Now you can go back wherever you live. You were sleeping from past 16 hours."

She was not looking at him. She was stitching? He leaned closer to see she was stitching MDC on a skirt.

He processed everything. She is MDC who is also the shadow and her name is Rouge Gorge which means, Red Robin. He flirted with her. SHE IS MDC. SHE IS MDC.

Now his whole face was red. This was the most embarrassing thing he had ever been in. He is going to kill Jason for this.

Just then the doorbell rang. That broke her out of her stupor. He was frozen on his place. He heard voices suspiciously like his family and ran to the door.

Dick was squealing,"Timmy got so cute girlfriend. She is so cute."

Jason laughed,"We are not sure that he didn't kidnap her. She is too good for him."

Damian,"Tt Why did you inbeciles dragged me here?"

Cass just said,"I approve."

Stephanie said,"He never mentioned you before, you are so cute and tiny. Speaking of him where is he?"

Poor Marinette was stuck between them as they asked questions after questions. Then their gaze turned to Tim.

"Oh god, where are your bags Tim? How is this possible? How are you not half-dead. You must be magic you got him to sleep."

"Timmy you were with her, for how long?"

"You got a girlfriend replacement? She is too good for you give her to me."

All the voices were mixing with each other.

"What makes you think she is um.. my girlfriend?"

"You messaged us."

He opened his phone and read the Message.

I, Timothy Drake-Wayne the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, am staying with my girlfriend Marinette. Don't you dare to come here.

What could he possibly say. Suddenly he remembered the MDC signature. He looked at her and said,"You are MDC?" pointing at her.

"Umm, yess." Her voice was barely audible.

He took her hand and sat on one knee,"Marry me."

"What we are not even dating."

"Will you go on a date with me?"

"I.... I guess?"

The silence was broken by Dick,"You are MDC."

"You were not dating?"

"Tt you are so dramatic."

"Replacement what is the meaning of this?"

Tim turned to Jason and said,"Thank you Jason."

With that he went out the door,"Be ready till 3 Marinette."

BONUS:

Louis : So how did you two met?

Tim: My brother put brandy in my coffee cup. She took care of me and when I get to know she was my favorite designer and how amazing she is....

Clark: And?

Marinette: He asked me to marry him, I said we are not even dating so he asked me for a date.

Louis :..............................................

Clark:...............................................

Cameraman:.....................................

Batfamily: (Laughing)

Louis: We give you our blessing for your wedding.

Clark: God bless you.

[my-mt-heart]

Angst prompt-Daryl is there instead of Lydia when Carol walks towards the edge during s10 finale.

For this one, I'm going to pull an excerpt from my fic "How it Works" because it's basically along the same lines. Full story available here.

"Hey, kid," Negan calls out to her, slightly winded. "It'd probably be a good idea to take a few steps back, don't you think?" Lydia doesn't respond, so after a few more seconds of catching her breath, Carol decides to breach the remaining space to stand by her side. Only then does she realize the girl isn't staring at the opaque, grey water stretching across the gorge, but at the mask in her trembling hands. Sensing her pain, feeling it shoot straight through her own chest, Carol takes Lydia's hands in hers, prompting her to look at her through watery eyes.

"Together," She offers and Lydia nods appreciatively, trying to recompose herself with a sniffle. They both extend their arms as far as they can before simultaneously releasing their grip on the conduit holding the last of a cruel demon's power. As it gets stolen by gravity, Lydia takes a gasping breath that's laced with sadness, but Carol knows there's relief in it too. She knows because she feels it so deeply herself. It's like a heavy shackle unhinging its jaw from around her ankle, but of course there's still one more weighing her down.

Brushing away the stray tears that somehow made it down her cheeks, Carol turns around to meet Daryl's compassionate gaze, holding it carefully while she takes a few steps toward him.

"I have to tell you," she says barely above a whisper, but the meaning registers right away.

"Soon as we get back."

"No. No more waiting," Carol insists, anticipating a laundry list of responsibilities that will surely take precedence once they return to their people -- taking care of Judith and RJ, catching Maggie up on everything, determining Negan's place within the community, continuing to make amends to her people who still think she let him out. Though she's a little more hopeful they'll show her mercy on that count, this moment here and now could still be her only chance for a long time to say what's long overdue. "Please," she begs. With her heart rate starting to pick up, she watches Daryl worry his lower lip between his teeth. He looks back at the distant red and yellow trees, the first wave of walkers beginning to break through.

"You and Lydia get back to the jeep," He finally instructs Negan, who furrows his brows in concern while taking stock of the horde that's swarming the clearing.

"Look, we can give you a minute, but they sure as hell won't."

"Go," Daryl's tone is firm, but calm. He raises his hood that's still slathered in walker guts, Carol mirroring his action while Negan ushers Lydia away from the rocky ledge. She's reluctant at first, so Carol gives her an encouraging nod and thankfully she complies.

Once the two of them are out of her periphery, the entire world seems to ebb away. All that remains is Daryl and the bright aura around him exuding patience and trust. She feels perfectly safe with him, and yet still racked with nerves.

"You said always," she starts. Her voice is already shaking. "If that means through the good and the bad, then you deserve to know all of it. The very worst of it."

"Carol--"

"I shot her." She spits it out at him like she's trying to get rid of a bad taste in her mouth and he doesn't flinch the slightest amount. "I shot her in the back of the head, and Judith is alive because of it. I know that. But killing one little girl to protect another? A lot of times it feels just as awful as if I'd killed her for no reason at all. I want to get past it. I just don't know if I can or if I deserve to. Daryl..."

She's desperately trying to read the micro expressions on his face. The sadness is obvious in the drooping corners of his mouth and the glassy layer of tears in his eyes, but could there be pity as well? Disappointment maybe? A series of low growls signals that they're out of time, or rather back in it.

Walkers crash into them like a tidal wave, swelling around Carol and pushing her closer to the edge. Her focus drops to her stumbling feet, and by the time she regains control of them again and manages to look back up, Daryl is nowhere to be seen. In the clutches of silent panic, she tries to weave through the walkers without giving herself away or changing their course, but can't seem to find the right opening. The little progress she makes is easily reversed, the walkers mindlessly shoving her closer and closer to the brink of death where she can see body after body already cascading down like a waterfall.

In the single frozen second when the sole of her boot is hovering in the air, Carol thinks about how closely peace resembles sheer terror. Maybe if she doesn't think about her body shattering against the unforgiving water, about leaving him behind on such miserable parting words, maybe if she just envisions his beautiful blue eyes as the wind rushes past her throughout her descent, her emotions will set themselves right.

But the heavy downward force doesn't take her after all. He does.

His hands clasp her forearm, determining to pull her back like a fishing net. She goes to him without any effort, her feet somehow taking all the right steps. Before her brain has time to catch up, she's wrapped in his strong arms and by chance alone, they're able to nestle into a shallow trench behind a boulder, tucked away from the never-ending pairs of legs about to drop off forever.

Still clinging to each other, Carol feels Daryl's chest rise and fall heavily, and she's trying to remind herself to do the same. She thinks he might be trembling too, but they're so squished together, practically in each other's laps, that it could just as well be her own muscle spasms or perhaps both of theirs at once. She looks straight into his face that's mere centimeters from her own.

"I thought I was dead," she squeaks.

"Nah," he whispers breathlessly. "You're right here with me." Carol is fighting to suppress the loud sobs punching her lungs, mindful of the walkers in their company. She squeezes her eyes shut, though her tears break free anyway. Daryl kneads his hands into her back soothingly, tempting her to bury her face in the crook of his neck until it's all over. "Hey." Her eyes snap open again. There's a tremor in his voice now, like he's struggling to hold himself together. "I know the bad stuff hurts, but you can get past it. 'Cause you ain't a bad person. Not even close, you hear me? Everythin' you've done, even Lizzie, was outta love. There's so much love in you, Carol. You gotta let yourself feel that."

A tiny broken sound escapes her throat, and the only way she can think to silence it is by covering her mouth with his. She feels his shoulders tense under her touch, only to relax again with a breathy sigh that mingles with her own. They pull each other in tighter, adjusting their somewhat clumsy rhythm to something even more desperate.

Carol's not even paying attention to the physical sensation of his lips, too overwhelmed by a distinctly familiar emotion rising within her. She's not even sure how she recognizes it, just that old memories keep popping into her head and with them, buried reflections.

When she recalls the Cherokee rose in the beer bottle, she also recalls thinking no man had ever gifted her something so meaningful before in her life. When she remembers his relentless search for her daughter, she also remembers wishing Sophia was his daughter too. When she replays all of her dreams of having a family again, she realizes he is always there, not her ex-husbands or past lovers. And when she thinks of every comforting hug or simple touch they've ever shared, she remembers the jolt of electricity she always received at first contact.

It's as if a seed was planted deep inside her belly a long time ago in that RV, and from there it took root, growing throughout the years she's gotten to know Daryl, sprouting that night in his basement and now, right here, finally blooming.

"Well, be still my god damn heart!" Apparently having lost all concept of time again, they startle out of the kiss, whipping their heads to face their new audience. "I was just hoping to find you both alive, but this is way more exciting!"

Negan towers over them, grinning ear to ear. Lydia is right behind him, her eyebrows raised in surprise. Everything else around them is quiet and unmoving. Not a single walker in sight.

Daryl must have stolen all the air from her lungs because once more, Carol can't breathe. She picks a spot on the ground and stares at it, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. She tries to stand up, but her legs won't stop shaking. Daryl scrambles to help her, taking hold of her arms to balance her.

"Hey," he angles himself to make eye contact. "You good?" When she doesn't respond -- her mouth is bone dry all of a sudden -- he shakes her lightly as if to re-stimulate the basic functions of her brain. "Carol?"

"Tell me." He looks confused. Of course he does. She's not making any sense. "About the future. Tell me."

For several moments, he just stares at her in deep concentration, but then something unusual happens. He puts on a genuine smile, one that reaches his eyes. It's mesmerizing. Dizzying even.

"I don't gotta. 'Cause you and me, we get to live it together."

A nod. That's all she can offer is a casual nod while every liter of blood seems to run down to her boots. Needing space to recuperate, she backs out of his hold, colorful spots obscuring her vision. The next thing she knows, she's on the ground, pain bursting through her skull. Even as the world fades to black and all sound becomes muffled, she can still distinguish Daryl's voice frantically calling her name.

[saintandsinnerwrites]

As The World Falls Down (Gottrosé)

(The Labyrinth/ RPDR crossover my brain decided we needed + Mik totally has Bowie influences & BDE and Rosé in a big poofy 80s ballgown? Yes. Just yes.

Also for the purposes of this fic Mik is a trans man as her drag can be gender bending (I’m thinking of the Grease look she did with Nicky as I write this but like. Also Jareth) but I fully agree with what Saint posted earlier about writing Mik as her drag persona. 😘

-Sinner)

...There's such a sad love

Deep in your eyes

A kind of pale jewel

Open and closed

Within your eyes

I'll place the sky

Within your eyes...

Rosé was still holding the peach she’d been eating. She was wearing a huge poofy pink ball gown, her hair done up. There was a party going on and Rosé tossed the peach aside and went to go investigate.

...There's such a fooled heart

Beating so fast

In search of new dreams

A love that will last

Within your heart

I'll place the moon

Within your heart...

Rosé saw Mik across the room. Gorgeous and sexual... He looked like a rockstar. Rosé was drawn to him and they began to dance. He was so gorg...

...As the pain sweeps through

Makes no sense for you

Every thrill is gone

Wasn't too much fun at all

But I'll be there for you-ou-ou
As the world falls down...

Rosé danced with her man, as if there was no one else in the room, even though everyone was staring at them. They were the most striking couple in the room.

...Falling

Falling down

Falling in love...

The mirrored walls began to shatter and Rosé woke with a start, startling Mik awake too.

“Holy shit!”

Rosé rubbed her eyes, realizing she and Mik had fallen asleep while watching Labyrinth instead of the sex fest they’d planned for Valentine’s Day.

“Had a dream you were Jareth.”

Mik smirked at her. “That’s hot.”

[pauline-lewis]

Because that is your person in this life

Hier, j'ai revu Frances Ha. En lançant le film, j'ai vu la date de sortie, "2013", et j'ai vraiment eu du mal à y croire. Huit années. Je me vois encore sortir de l'avant-première au Champs-Élysées Film Festival et pleurer sur le quai du RER à Charles de Gaulle Étoile. À l'époque je travaillais en contrat précaire dans une grande rédaction et ce film avait touché une corde très sensible : celle de mon impression d'être perdue, de ne pas être assez avancée dans ma vie, cette crise des 27 ans qui m’avait frappée sans prévenir. J'en avais parlé à Greta Gerwig en interview tandis qu'elle était couchée sur un canapé, ses Louboutin posées négligemment par terre. (j'étais nettement moins distinguée)

J'avais donc un peu peur en lançant ce film qui avait marqué un moment si précis et particulier de mon existence. Et puis, je me suis retrouvée à l'aimer comme au premier jour, chaque image m'a fait ressentir la texture et le poids de ces huit années. Et ce n’était pas si triste. J'ai eu de nouveau les larmes aux yeux quand Frances dit "I'm so embarrassed, I'm not a real person yet", qu'elle raconte cette vie parallèle que nous développons avec les personnes que nous aimons. J'y ai trouvé l'écho de ce que j'étais et la certitude de ce qui avait changé. Je crois que j'ai trouvé ce même équilibre que Frances, j'ai lâché l'ambition pour quelque chose de plus petit mais qui me ressemble plus. Je n'interviewe plus d'actrices sublimes en Louboutin mais je fais d'autres choses.

Et puis il y a tout ce qui reste, la joie de voir quelqu'un danser dans la rue sur le Modern Love de David Bowie, le sourire de Greta Gerwig qui me bouleverse, ce sentiment d'être une personne sculptée à même le malaise qui me fait rire aujourd'hui (et que j'accepte). Les références musicales et cinématographiques. Les silences et les clins d’œil à Proust.

Et surtout la beauté de connaître cette chose précieuse : d’avoir une amie qui me dit souvent "I love you, I really do", qui sait aussi raconter l'histoire de ce qu'elle pense que j'accomplirai. C'est déjà en soi une immense victoire que je chérissais il y a huit ans et que je chéris encore plus aujourd'hui parce que je sais que c’est ce qu’il reste quand on a passé les événements au tamis du quotidien et des années.

and you look across the room and catch each other's eyes... but - but not because you're possessive, or it's precisely sexual... but because... that is your person in this life. And it's funny and sad, but only because this life will end, and it's this secret world that exists right there in public, unnoticed, that no one else knows about.

Girlfriends de Claudia Weill (1978)

Petite thématique amitié avec le Girlfriends de Claudia Weill (écrit par Vicki Polon) que j’ai découvert cette semaine. Quand j’y pense Frances Ha lui emprunte beaucoup. Les deux films partent des amitiés féminines pour réfléchir à la place des femmes dans le monde, à ce que la société patriarcale attend de nous et à l’ambition artistique vs la vie “rangée”.

Girlfriends raconte, comme Frances Ha, une amitié qui se délite. Deux femmes qui pensaient qu’elles allaient vivre leurs vies en parallèle et qui se retrouvent à avoir deux expériences très différentes de l’existence. Susan (qui est officiellement mon nouveau personnage de fiction pref, quel charisme incroyable) est photographe et elle s’apprête à emménager en colloc avec son amie Anne. Sauf qu’Anne lui annonce qu’elle laisse tomber ce projet pour se marier et s’installer avec son compagnon.

Deux itinéraires complètement différents se dessinent à partir de ce moment tandis qu’elles essaient de réparer cette incommunicabilité qui s’est installée entre elles. Tout comme dans Frances Ha, j’aime particulièrement les scènes d’intimité entre les deux femmes qui dessinent, je trouve, un autre cinéma parallèle. Anne qui joue du piano pendant que Susan écoute, les confidences et les silences qui disent long, les conversations qui durent.

J’ai surtout aimé la longue réflexion sur l’ambition artistique, sur ce qu’elle coûte à Susan (financièrement et mentalement). C’est un film assez mélancolique, sur ce que les femmes sont forcées d’abandonner pour choisir un chemin ou un autre. Je crois que j’aurais pu regarder Susan parler et être elle-même pendant des heures et des heures.

Résine d’Elodie Shanta (éditions La Ville Brûle)

En ce début d’année il ne s’est pas passé grand chose de fun mais dans mon top 2 il y a vraiment 1) commander de la laine à chaussettes et 2) lire Résine d’Elodie Shanta.

J’aurais du mal à exprimer (même si bon techniquement c’est mon travail) avec des mots à quel point cette petite BD m’a à la fois enchantée et vraiment amusée. Je l’ai lue un soir vraiment morne et je me suis retrouvée à rire à gorge déployée et à prendre des photos de tous les petits détails drôles qui se cachent à chaque page.

Résine raconte l’histoire d’une sorcière et de son compagnon Claudin qui débarquent dans le village de Floriboule. Comme elle a été chassée de son précédent lieu de résidence, Résine se dit qu’il serait peut-être de bon ton de faire profil bas et de cacher à tout le monde qu’elle est une sorcière.

Sauf que Résine est une sorcière au grand cœur, qui multiplie les pains et l’argent, trouve que travailler est une perte de temps, et qui va plus ou moins se griller en mettant en péril l’obscurantisme et l’ordre capitaliste et patriarcal qui règne à Floriboule. De ce décalage entre les couleurs joyeuses et le style tout en rondeurs d’Elodie Shanta, et le message anticapitaliste et féministe, naît une vraie jubilation.

Vous me direz peut-être qu’on en a marre des sorcières mais croyez-moi quand je vous dis que Résine est tout bonnement irrésistible. Et si je vous dis qu’on y croire aussi des sorcières lesbiennes, un lutin avec un grand cœur qui fait la tête en permanence (il m’a fait penser à mon personnage de fiction préféré, Archimède dans Merlin l’enchanteur) et des punchline vraiment hilarantes, j’espère que vous serez conquis·es !

(Vraiment mon nouveau héros)

Division Avenue de Goldie Goldbloom (ed. Christian Bourgois, trad de l’anglais par Éric Chédaille)

Je suis très triste de ne pas avoir lu ce livre à temps pour ma sélection de rentrée, mais je me suis rattrapée en lisant ce beau roman en janvier et je n’ai pas regretté.

Goldie Goldbloom raconte l’histoire de Surie Eckstein, une femme qui vit au sein du quartier juif orthodoxe de New York. L’autrice elle-même est membre de la communauté juive hassidique. Surie, donc, a déjà dix enfants et plusieurs petits-enfants. Ses règles s’étant arrêtées, elle pense être ménopausée. Mais voilà qu’elle va tomber enceinte. Cette nouvelle la perturbe profondément et change son rapport à son corps, à sa famille, à sa communauté. Alors qu’elle cache son état à ses proches, elle comment à aider la sage-femme de l’hôpital et elle se remémore la disparition de l’un de ses fils, mort du sida après avoir été mis au ban de la communauté. 

Le roman m’a forcément fait penser à la série Unorthodox mais je trouve qu’il évite beaucoup des raccourcis que cette dernière prenait. J’ai eu l’impression de pénétrer vraiment dans cette communauté et de voir comment la frustration pouvait parfois cohabiter avec l’amour, j’ai été vraiment embarquée par ce personnage et par sa vie complexe. Sans jamais porter de jugement. J’ai simplement partagé la vie de cette héroïne pendant quelques jours. Je pense souvent à la phrase de Faïza Guène qui disait dans une interview à Mediapart : “J’aime bien lire ce qui me manque.”

Et j’ai vraiment eu cette impression de lire l’histoire de ces femmes dont on raconte rarement le destin. D’entrer dans le vécu de Surie avec de l’humour et surtout avec ces nuances qui font le sel de l’expérience humaine. Ce n’est pas du tout un roman “choc” sur une communauté religieuse mais vraiment un récit qui fait cohabiter l’empathie, la religion, la science et l’expérience d’une femme avec beaucoup de talent.

[vivaciousvernacular]

Types of similar words in English

English can be a confusing language, in part because it developed as a mixture of many different language families. Numerous foreign powers invaded the British Isles over the centuries, and each left behind traces of their language. This cultural blending resulted not only in English having many different words for the same thing (especially legal terms, thanks to medieval laws being written in both Norman French and Anglo-Saxon), but also left a legacy of words that look or sound alike, but actually have very different meanings.

English even has a variety of words to describe these types of confusing words! Here is how various kinds of similar words are categorized. (Note that some words can fit into multiple categories!)

homonyms - words that are pronounced the same way, but have different meanings

address (to speak to) and address (a street number)

bear (to carry) and bear (a large mammal)

ring (a hollow circular object) and ring (the sound a bell makes)

homophones - a type of homonym in which the words are pronounced the same way, but are not spelled the same

week (a period of seven days) and weak (lacking strength)

be (to exist) and bee (a pollenating insect)

air (atmospheric gas) and heir (someone who will inherit)

homographs - words that are spelled the same, but have different meanings (These often overlap with homonyms!) 

duck (a waterfowl) and duck (to crouch down)

gorge (a ravine) and gorge (to eat a lot)

fair (a festival) and fair (showing equality) and fair (pretty)

heteronyms - a type of homograph in which the words are spelled the same and have different meanings, but are pronounced differently (These can also be called heterophones, though it is less common.)

bow (a tool used in archery) and bow (bending to show respect)

close (near) and close (to shut something)

lead (a soft metal) and lead (to show the way)

Mnemonics (ways to remember these terms):

If you think about what each prefix (the first part of the word) and suffix (the last part of the word) refer to on their own, it’s easy to remember what each of these words means:

The prefix homo- refers to things that are the same.

homogeneous (of the same type)

homosexual (same-sex)

homogenize (to make uniform)

The prefix hetero- refers to things that are different.

heterogeneous (of different types)

heterosexual (different sexes)

heterochromia (having two different eye colors)

The suffix -phone refers to sound. In this case, it refers to the way a word sounds when spoken aloud, or how it is pronounced.

telephone (a device for speaking over long distances)

headphones (a device that produces sound)

phonograph (an early type of audio recording -- literally, “sound-written”)

The suffix -graph refers to writing or drawing. In this case, it refers to the way a word is written down, or how it is spelled.

graph (a visual diagram)

seismograph (an instrument that records earthquake activity by tracing vibrations onto paper)

phonograph (an early type of audio recording -- literally, “sound-written”)

The suffix -nym means name. In this case, it refers to the way the words are spoken aloud. Think of calling someone by name.

pseudonym (a false name)

anonymous (without a name)

patronym (named for one’s father)

If you can remember that homo- means “same” and -phone means “sound,” it’s easy to figure out that homophone means “same sound,” or words that are pronounced alike. Likewise, if you remember that hetero- means “different” and -nym means “name,” you’ll know that the word heteronym means “different name,” or words that are pronounced differently.

[pattatie]

Guêpier d'Europe ( Merops apiaster - European Bee-eater ) by Le Papa'razzi Le guêpier est un oiseau très coloré : son dos est de couleur brune et jaune et son ventre ainsi que sa queue tirent sur le vert et le bleu. Sa gorge est jaune vif et se décolore en blanc jusqu'à ses joues et son front. Un masque noir entoure ses deux yeux rouges et prolonge son bec noir légèrement incurvé. Sa taille est à peu près celle d'un merle, soit 28 centimètres environ. C'est en général au mâle d'arborer les couleurs les plus vives, surtout en plumage nuptial, contrairement à la femelle et aux juvéniles. Cet oiseau, assez craintif, vient nicher en France en été où il se reproduit avant de repartir pour l'Afrique vers la fin août / début septembre. Grâce à l'augmentation des températures, sa niche tend à non plus se limiter au sud de la France, mais à remonter vers le nord. Grégaire, les colonies atteignent le plus souvent la vingtaine ou trentaine d'individus et les familles restent solidaires et se préviennent mutuellement en cas de danger. En France, le guêpier s'installe à proximité des cours d'eau dans des milieux assez ouverts mais contrairement à nombre d'oiseaux, il niche au sol, dans des talus de terre meuble ou artificielle. Il y creuse alors son nid avec son bec, progressivement usé, de sorte à offrir une cavité de 1 à 2 mètres de long. Près de 10kg de terre sont évacués du nid pour sa construction ! Image prise en milieu naturel et depuis la portière de la voiture équipée du filet de camouflage . PS : Un grand merci à toutes celles et ceux qui choisissent de regarder , de commenter et d'aimer mes photos . C'est très apprécié , comme vous l'avez constaté , je ne répond plus directement suite à votre commentaire juste pour dire en fait " merci et bonne journée " , mais en retour je passe laisser une petite trace chez vous sur une ou plusieurs de vos éditions . Merci de votre compréhension ************************************************************** The bee-eater is a very colorful bird: its back is brown and yellow in color and its belly and tail are green and blue. Her throat is bright yellow and fades white down to her cheeks and forehead. A black mask surrounds its two red eyes and extends its slightly curved black beak. Its size is about that of a blackbird, about 28 centimeters. It is generally the male to display the brightest colors, especially in breeding plumage, unlike the female and juveniles. This rather fearful bird comes to nest in France in summer where it reproduces before leaving for Africa towards the end of August / beginning of September. Thanks to the increase in temperatures, its niche tends not to be limited to the south of France, but to move up towards the north. Gregarious, the colonies usually reach about twenty or thirty individuals and families remain united and warn each other in case of danger. In France, the bee-eater settles near watercourses in fairly open environments, but unlike many birds, it nests on the ground, in banks of loose or artificial soil. It then digs its nest there with its beak, gradually worn out, so as to offer a cavity 1 to 2 meters long. Almost 10kg of soil are evacuated from the nest for its construction! Image taken in a natural environment and from the car door fitted with the camouflage net. PS: A big thank you to everyone who chooses to watch, comment and love my photos. It is very appreciated, as you noticed, I do not answer any more directly following your comment just to say in fact "thank you and good day", but in return I pass to leave a small mark with you on one or more of your editions. thank you for your understanding https://flic.kr/p/2m44J1w

[konigindernachtsblog]

The curse of love.

A cette heure de la nuit, la Haute Prêtresse n’attendait plus la moindre visite au temple. Alpha Nightmare allumait de nouvelles bougies devant l’idole représentant Lucifer, distraite par la lumière de la lune rouge se reflétant pas les vitraux et l’odeur d’encens flottant dans l’air. Elle appréciait le silence après les grandes messes quotidiennes. Ce silence fut cependant interrompu par les grandes portes qui s’ouvrirent. La Haute Prêtresse se retourna alors pour découvrir le visiteur impromptu, qui s’avéra être une femme et pas n’importe quelle femme.

« Your Highness, dit Alpha, relativement surprise. - High Priestess, I need your attention. - So my attention you shall have. »

La Reine et la Haute Prêtresse se faisaient face. La première portait une grande cape noire dont elle venait tout juste d’ôter la capuche lui ayant permis de venir jusqu’ici sans se faire remarquer et dissimulant ses vêtements. La seconde était, comme à l’accoutumée, toute de rouge vêtue, dans une longue robe en velours aux longues manches évasées. Finalement, Alpha ouvrit la marche en se dirigeant vers une alcôve en retrait et pris place dans un fauteuil. Arya suivit ses pas et s’installa dans l’autre fauteuil, dos à la prêtresse.

« I can feel confusion in your heart, your Grace. You can share its content. Within these walls, our Lord is the only witness. - If there are words I can use, High Priestess… I don’t know them, avoua la reine. Not after a life learning to keep my lips sealed. »

Alpha avait pu sentir Arya baisser légèrement la tête. La tension de la reine était palpable dans l’air. La Haute Prêtresse esquissa un léger sourire, bienveillant, que la plus jeune ne pouvait pas voir, mais au moins sentir. Les deux cousines ne se connaissaient pas dans l’intime, mais faisaient parties de la même famille au lourd passé, dont chaque membre restant gardaient des plaies importantes. Alpha leva les yeux vers les vitraux rouge qui lui faisaient face, représentant Lucifer.

« Heavy is the head who wears the crown. Isn’t it what we say, your Grace ? For sure, our Lord knows that better than anybody. Power is an heavy burden. But if he gave it to you, it’s because he knew you were the best for the role. On that, you shall trust him. Lucifer knows nothing but the Truth, remember ? He knows how important is this Kingdom for you. He knows how hard his motto resonates in you. Our Lord knows you are the Queen this Kingdom needs, not because you have been raised to be Empress, but because you are like him. - No one is as great as Lucifer, souffla la reine. - For how long do you hide your wings, your Highness ? »

Arya laissa transparaître sa surprise avec un silence évocateur. Ses ailes. Ses ailes personne ne les avait jamais vu, pas même sa propre mère. Pas même son mari, ne connaissait sa véritable forme. A l’Académie, jamais Arya n’avait révélé sa nature. On savait son potentiel autrement supérieur à ce qu’elle montrait, mais tous s’étaient imaginé que l’apparence d’Arya devait être similaire aux autres Nightmare. Des larmes noires, de grandes ailes démoniaques, des cornes… 

« How do you know ? Demanda-t-elle finalement. - I am an High Priestess, your Grace. I share my eyes with our Lord.  - But he never saw… ! - Lucifer knows the Truth. You share his wings, don’t you ? The black broken wings of Lucifer, the Fallen Angel. »

A nouveau, Arya se tût comme seule réponse. Alpha la sentit cependant hocher légèrement la tête. La cadette Nightmare avait été dotée d’une destinée autrement plus importante que celle que lui avait attribué sa mère, en lui donnant naissance. Elle n’avait pas été choisie pour devenir la femme d’un possible empereur, mais pour elle-même diriger un empire. L’Empire démoniaque, que l’on appelait encore Royaume dans l’usage, malgré les siècles où l'Enfer n’avait cessé de s’étendre davantage encore et encore avec sa population grandissante et sa pugnacité.

« Your life has been sacrificed for our Kingdom, since the very moment you opened your eyes. You know it and you accepted it as soon as you realised. You already made your sacrifice, your Grace. You had your loyalty to this Kingdom as soon as you could breath. But the crown, your fate, your duty… That’s not what scares you the most, isn’t it ? Your burden is not your crown. »

La reine se crispa et ferma les yeux, serrant ses mains l’une dans l’autre un instant. Finalement, elle leva les yeux vers le dôme du Haut Temple, représentant le ciel rouge de l’Enfer où l’on voyait l’étoile du Matin briller. Quelques larmes coulèrent finalement sur ses joues alors que les doigts de sa main droite jouaient nerveusement avec son alliance.

« From Lucifer, I hoped I could only have the wings and the sense of sacrifice, répondit Arya la gorge nouée. But Lucifer was an angel and his tragedy, when he became Satan… is that he never forgot how to love, even when his heart got broken by his Father. I hoped I would be demonic enough to never feel the weight of a heart in my chest.  - But… ? - Then, my husband appeared in my life… »

Cette fois, ce fut le tour d’Alpha de se trouver surprise. Elle avait elle-même mariée Arya avec Sebastian LeFay, sous ce dôme. Ils avaient partagé leur sang, échangé leurs voeux. Ce ne devait être qu’un mariage arrangé, un mariage politique et ce, malgré le sacrifice conséquent de Sebastian qui renonçait à sa mortalité pour joindre son épouse pour l’éternité. Certes, le couple royal semblait relativement proche durant ses rares apparitions publiques. Mais elle savait que la dernière apparition du couple commençait à dater et qu’au palais, la relation des deux époux n’était pas au beau fixe.

« I despised him when he got the proposition to marry me and that he hesitated because of his own faith. I told our Lord that I didn’t need to get married and especially not to a man who wasn’t able to follow the Crown’s principles. Sacrifice was and is still, for me, the most important. But Sebastian did sacrifice himself, expliqua la reine. By this only act, he demonstrated how greater than me he was. - And you feel guilty for that, conclut Alpha. - I didn’t do anything great for him, I feel like a punishment, avoua Arya en essuyant ses larmes d’un revers de la manche. I don’t even know how to act when he is around. He doesn’t know how I feel, what I feel…  - Your Grace, souffla Alpha sans pouvoir interrompre sa cousine. - I love him, avoua la reine. I love my husband… And it scares me more than the Void itself.  - How do you know you do ? »

Le ton d’Alpha avait été un peu plus appuyé, pour stopper Arya net alors qu’elle s’emballait et qu’elle se laissait submergée par ses émotions pour la première fois. Jamais elle ne s’était montrée aussi décontenancée devant qui que ce soit auparavant. Mais Arya s’était suffisamment sentie en sécurité au Temple pour se livrer. Seul Lucifer, jusqu’à présent, avait été son refuge.

« Because I dream I could be able to share with him everything I always do alone, souffla Arya après un instant à se reprendre. I would like him to take my hand and walk by my side under the red moon… I dream I could have the guts and bravery to just ask to be in his arms. When he is here, my legs shake and my heart beats so hard it is nearly unbearable. My body vibrates each times he speaks. I am craving for his eyes on me, all the time. But I don’t even dare sharing my bed with him anymore, only to enter in the bedroom when he already sleeps, just to look at him. I know each details of his face so much, I could draw it by memory. Just the thought he shares my blood bring me an indecent joy… Just knowing he belongs to me and that I belong to him. I blush each time I remember the time I was confident enough to kiss him and I dream I could do it again. I love him and I would like to scream it but I just can’t… I can’t even face him anymore. I didn’t do anything to deserve him and I feel ashamed for it every single day Lucifer allows me to live… - I am sure your husband could understand, if you could just give him a sign. »

La reine resta silencieuse. Finalement, elle joignit les mains. Arya s’était renfermée aussitôt qu’on lui avait demandé un acte qui lui paraissait encore plus insurmontable que de porter le royaume infernal sur ses épaules. Alpha le comprit et conclut la conversation par une prière silencieuse à Lucifer avant que la souveraine ne quitte le temple. En rentrant au château, une âme damnée avait débarrassée la reine de sa cape avant qu’elle ne s’engage dans les couloirs de ce qui ressemblait davantage à une cathédrale, guidée par le son du piano. Le roi aimait y jouer et ça avait été l’une de ses conditions pour venir vivre en Enfer avec elle. Cela faisait à présent bien deux ou trois semaines qu’ils ne s’étaient pas vus, parce que la reine l’évitait méticuleusement. Du moins, c’était ce que Sebastian pensait. En réalité, comme ce soir là, Arya se trouvait bien proche mais elle savait se montrer particulièrement discrète. Elle le regardait, se dévoilant à peine à travers le pan de la porte. A chaque fois, elle sentait son coeur battre plus fort, dans un mélange de crainte de se faire dévoilée et d’affronter la colère de son époux et d’émois de la jeune femme amoureuse.

Elle se trouvait ridicule. De leur passé, ils ne s’étaient rien cachés. Cela faisait partie des rites nuptiaux et ils s’y étaient tous les deux pliés sans protestations. Ce n’était pas la première fois que Sebastian faisait battre le coeur d’une femme de cette façon. Mais pour Arya, c’était une autre paire de manches. Elle n’avait jamais aimé, avant. Flirté, tenté, séduit, oui. Puisque sa destinée avant le trône de l’Enfer, avait été de tenter de séduire le prince Killian, elle avait tenté de l’aimer. Mais la flamme n’a jamais pris vie et d’elle-même la démone avait compris que ce manque d’intérêt était réciproque. Mais Sebastian avait quelque chose de plus, quelque chose que les autres hommes, pas même ceux si épris d’elle qu’ils s’en seraient damnés, n’avaient. Quand ils le voulaient, les deux époux pouvaient se comprendre sans même se parler, simplement en échangeant un regard. Sebastian était parvenu à faire sourire Arya, à la faire rire, à lui donner envie de partager des étreintes. Sans doute n’avait-il même pas réalisé l’effet que leur première étreinte avait pu avoir sur celle qui était à l’époque sa fiancée, dans ce bassin de sang. Arya s’était pourtant précipitée dans ses bras avec une spontanéité et une sincérité étonnantes.

Mais cela, elle n’y parvenait plus. Arya n’arrivait plus à se permettre tel geste. La honte l’animait. Depuis son arrivée en Enfer, Sebastian avait renoncé aux limbes pour elle et avait veillé sur elle jour et nuit, quand elle était tombée malade. Il avait été d’un soutient sans faille. La jeune souveraine s’en sentait indigne, coupable, honteuse. Elle était une punition, un châtiment. Son époux lui avait bien dit qu’il n’avait pas le temps de regretter sa décision de l’avoir épousé, cela n’avait pas suffit à balayer les craintes qui animaient sa compagne. 

Le roi venait de renfermer le piano. Quand Arya s’en rendit compte, elle sursauta et colla son dos contre le mur de pierre. Avec précaution, elle glissa à nouveau son regard sur lui. Il paraissait frustré, elle le voyait à son poing fermé contre le bois laqué de l’instrument. Sebastian avait jeté un regard rapide vers une grande harpe noire, qui trônait non loin du piano. La harpe de la reine. Il l’avait déjà entendu joué, de loin, mais ne l’avait jamais vu faire. D’ailleurs, il ne la voyait plus du tout. Elle se dissimulait à lui comme on se cache d’un monstre. Pourtant, elle laisse des signes de son passage au château, comme si elle cherchait à le narguer. Il ignorait. Il avait bien tenté de demander à Morrigan, la suivante de la reine, si elle savait ce qu’il lui prenait, mais elle en était tout aussi confuse. Les âmes damnées qui servent au château, elles, ont bien trop peur de la reine pour révéler quoi que ce soit. Sebastian pensait pourtant avoir fait ce qu’il fallait. Il voulait faire ce qu’il fallait. Il s’était montré patient, attentionné. Il  lui semblait pourtant avoir compris ce qu’Arya recherchait en lui. Mais elle se dérobait à lui consciencieusement. 

En voyant les traits frustrés de Sebastian, Arya avait baissé les yeux et ramené l’une de ses mains contre sa poitrine. Elle voulait le rejoindre, mais son corps tremblait. Impossible. La silhouette de la jeune démone s’évanouit dans l’ombre du couloir avant que son époux ne sorte de la pièce. Il pu sentir son parfum, révélant que sa femme était passée dans ce couloir peu de temps avant qu’il le rejoigne, cela ne fit que le frustrer davantage. Dans la salle du trône, la reine frappa du poing. Elle était furieuse, furieuse contre sa propre personne, pour ce qu’elle faisait subir à son mari.

Quelques temps plus tard, Sebastian avait finalement pu confronter Arya. Il était parvenu à lui faire promettre de ne plus fuir. Pour la première fois depuis des semaines, ils s’étaient à nouveau endormis ensemble dans le lit conjugal. Le lendemain matin, quand il ouvrit les yeux, le nécromancien sentait encore l’étreinte ferme de son épouse autours de lui. De tout le reste de la nuit, elle était restée contre le torse, ses doigts dans son dos. Elle aussi, était réveillée. Arya leva timidement les yeux vers lui et détailla son visage. Sebastian glissa ses doigts dans les cheveux de sa femme pour retirer quelques mèches dissimulant légèrement son regard. Il avait pu véritablement entrevoir pour la première fois, l’amour dans les yeux d’Arya, même s’ils reflétaient aussi ses regrets, son sentiment de culpabilité. Finalement, elle s’était approchée pour l’embrasser longuement, mais doucement, loin de la passion à laquelle ils s’étaient habitués lorsqu’ils s’exploraient. Sebastian s’était laissé faire et il avait pu sentir quelque chose de différent chez sa femme. Elle révélait une douceur, un besoin d’amour, qu’elle n’avait jamais voulu dévoiler jusque là. Il posa son front contre le siens quand leurs lèvres se séparèrent.

« Sebastian, avait soufflé Arya. - Yes ? - I am so sorry... » 

[fiirelords]

hi ana! we haven't been mutuals for long but i already love your blog! totally know how you feel about coming and going lol, i think that's perfectly fine i mean we all go through phases on here haha. hope you're well anyways! could i please have a detailed blograte? x

hey steph! thank u sm💖 I hope you’re well too and I’m really glad we’re mutuals :)

want one?

B A S I C

url - dgi sorry | not from my fandoms | could be better | pretty cool | really like it | absolutely incredible!

domain - don’t have one | dgi sorry | not from my fandoms | could be better | pretty cool | really like it | absolutely incredible!

icon - basic yikes | don’t recognize it | poor quality | pretty cute! | omg awesome | tempted to steal it

  T H E M E

desktop theme - basic yikes | not my style | kinda pretty | gorgeous | i wanna steal

colour scheme - not my taste | pretty | gorgeous | my fav colours!

updates tab - don’t have one | i think something’s not right | bit basic | lovely | absolutely perfect

nav page - don’t have one | i think something’s not right | incomplete | bit basic | lovely | absolutely perfect

about page - don’t have one | i think something’s not right | incomplete | bit basic | lovely | absolutely perfect

mobile header - nonexistent | i don’t get it | not my fandom | bit blurry | alright | lovely | absolutely gorgeous

mobile colours - kills my eyes | don’t match | looks nice | urgh aes af

  P O S T S

activity - you post too much | you post too little | you post the perfect amount

reblogs - urm nonexistant ?? | kinda random | not my fandom | pretty good | wonderful | incredible!

aesthetic - inconsistent | eye pleasing | absolutely perfect

original edits - you don’t have any | not my fandom | great start | not bad | lovely | so original | gorgeous | omg i’m jelly af of your skills

personal - nonexistant | not enough | too many | you seem sweet | omg you make me laugh so much

activities [e.g. botm / awards / rates/ reqs etc] - nonexistant | not enough | good | wonderful | such original ideas

  O V E R A L L

overall - meh | pretty nice | lovely | incredible

following - no sorry | not my fandoms | now | how was i not before?! | yes ofc | you’re one of my fav blogs

[dramaplustautology]

Where Belief Goes to Die - Chapter 2

Summary: A Thorn spy decided to torch the research they did on the Espina Rosa’s newest inmate, setting Theano’s plans back significantly. Under the guise of a researcher backed by Akanthus, he goes to meet the Champion of Ravenloss.

Chapter 2/???

AO3 Link

Chapter Index Link

The great Magesters of Nieboheim; Gods in a Greenhouse City.

In his teenage years, Theano would leer at those sheltered fools as they passed by. Without their robes, masks, or tower, those feeble mages would wilt under the weight of their true incompetence.

The only thing separating him from the so-called mouths of the Shapeless was the poisonous magic that ran through their veins. Why should Theano and his family have to wallow in the First Halo over circumstances left to chance?

“Do not lose your footing aiming so high. There are places Empties shouldn’t reach for,” A Magester had caught him glaring once, noticing some sort of spark in the young man lurking outside of a nondescript home. “You wear your envy so plainly on your sleeve, and with enough time, it will fester into wrath.”

They spoke, merely gazing ahead. Theano was apparently a child throwing a silent tantrum, not warranting enough importance to look down on.

“Such ills can only be cleansed in the belly of the Shapeless.” The Magester warned, hearing the sound of the Empty’s teeth grinding too late to see him lunging for them.

“Theano!” A girl with gold braids clasped his wrist, stopping him just in time. “Did you come all this way to visit me? Even after uhm…” She floundered, trying to come up with small talk. Quickly, she addressed the Magester. “Lovely of you to come by, we bought a brand new set of tools. The flowers you ordered should—”

But the Magester was already on his way. Poor Persephone had such problems finding chances to finish her sentences. She was always disappointed about it, never angry. Theano made up for the both of them.

“New tools? Are they still too heavy for you?” Theano asked dryly, setting aside his indignation for more immediate goals.

He had sounded annoyed, shedding not a hint of concern, but Persephone smiled. She held his hand and her ears glowed pink just from being around him.

“They’re better, not lighter,” Persephone admitted somewhat sheepishly. “I used to be able to carry them to the gardens outside by myself, I swear! I don’t know why I can’t anymore.” Her tone drooped to a sigh and Theano began getting impatient.

“What are you waiting for? Ask me to carry them then.”

The blunt proposal took Persephone aback at first, and Theano thought he had ruined yet another attempt, but the girl started to giggle.

“You’re really kind.” She said, sounding less winded by awkwardness. Why had Theano been worried? Persephone was easy, practically charming herself. “If you aren’t busy today, would you stay with me in the gardens. I like taking care of the flowers but they don’t make for good conversation.”

“If you insist.” Theano pretended to relent.

“Oh, if you’re actually busy or if you don’t want to, I won’t push!”

“I’m going!” He blurted out suddenly, fuming at how Persephone had clamped her hand over her mouth, trying not to grin.

The door to her home opened and the irksome owner of the flower gardens shambled outside.

“Persephone, your mother woke up! She wants to wish you good morning before you go,” He called for his daughter, mood souring at the sight of Theano. “You again! I thought I told you to leave my family alone!”

He shoved himself between Theano and Persephone, posturing like he was ten feet tall.

“Go before I tell the guards you came back to harass us!”

“Father!” Persephone tried to argue, easily being dragged back inside.

Holding back a snarl, Theano retreated to the space between Persephone’s shop and the next building. Leaning next to a window, he listened in on their spat.

“Is this because his family isn’t as well off as ours? Father, that’s shallow!” Persephone accused but her father wouldn’t have any of it.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with this! There’s just something about that boy.”

This wasn’t the first time Theano heard those words though not once have they failed to rile his ire.

“I hear that he scant speaks to anyone with respect let alone treat them kindly. Worse, it’s obvious that he has some sort of ill will towards the Magesters. Just yesterday, I heard from the guards that he’s been seen stalking some of our customers. Wares get stolen when he visits the forum.”

“No one can prove any of that! Theano just isn’t a people person.” Persephone made weak excuses that she fully believed.

“Even if the rumors aren’t true, he gives me a bad feeling. There’s just something off about him. Something lacking…”

Lacking. It was always about what Theano lacked. He couldn’t have anything or be anything because it was meant to be. The Magesters saw Theano this way, and so did the wretches they lumped him in with.

He dug his fingers into his palms, holding back from striking the wall should Persephone’s father notice him.

“That boy isn’t like the rest of us.”

Leaving the shade of Persephone’s home, Theano committed her father’s words to memory. The man had been right.

Theano wasn’t like the others.

He was the only one who knew that Magesters could get busy, like anyone else. They let their guard down and forget to watch their backs. Worse, they thought they were above the vermin scuttling through Nieboheim’s Halos. They forget that they could die like one, from a blow to the head with a tool Persephone realized had gone missing.

Magesters could be butchered like any animal too. After a while, their insides couldn’t be told apart from the butcher’s specials.

They fed Persephone’s flowers well, haphazardly buried in the dirt so the guards could find them before the worms gorged themselves.

What kind of an idiot would leave the bloodied shovel in their own home? Well, Persephone’s father was a laborer that worked with dirt. Definitely no scholar.

“You don’t have to look if it upsets you.” Theano stood by Persephone on the day of the Harvest. She had cried until her eyes had grown so puffy that she could barely keep them open.

Still, she refused to look away from her screaming Father. That murderer’s cries were drowned out by the jeers of the crowd. They threw rocks at him until the Shapeless’ godly form leaned down to swallow his sins whole.

Persephone’s father stopped crying injustice, and cried for his wife and child. His voice was muffled in the throat of his god, until it was finally silenced when his feet slipped past its lips.

Theano’s arms closed around Persephone’s shoulders when she collapsed against him, sobbing pitifully.

“It’s going to be alright,” He promised, whispering to her as he stroked her hair. The people’s cheering made the sky quake but his voice was the only one that mattered. Soon, it would be the only one Persephone would have left. “From now on, I’ll take care of you.”

The dead men’s words were now a fond memory.

Don’t aim so high. There are heights not meant for you.

You are lacking.

But Theano knew he wasn’t meant to wither where he lay, hoping fate would cast him a fond glance. He was meant to be powerful; to get back at the mages that disgraced him.

The reality of it was that others were too weak to reach their goals, and Theano would use their backs as stepping stones to reach his.

That fact hadn’t changed long after he escaped Nieboheim.

At the base of the stairs in the Espina Rosa’s third level, the members of the patrol kept a keen ear out as they stood guard. If they strained their hearing hard, they might hear the new inmate break those annoying researchers.

Their wishes came true and Sennidy’s body smashed head first on to the ground.

Silent abject horror tainted the air until the leader shouted to mobilize and aid Sennidy, despite his twisted limbs.

Sennidy had always been a coward, pressured into joining the Rose by his friends before they urged him to fall in with the Thorn. He may have been smart, but with enough bullying, the sea jelly would agree to the sky being green.

The Commander of the Thorn realized he was glad that Sennidy was dead. His corpse was light and easy to throw off the edge of the stairs.

“Now, I have the perfect excuse.” Theano muttered to himself, fixing his coat. He scanned his surroundings, and glanced down the stairs, locking eyes with a Rose soldier clutching their sword.

“I-I came up to check on you all…” The private stammered, reduced to a shaking mouse by Theano’s disdaining stare. “Don’t move!” He regained composure and seeing Theano disappearing back into the hall of cells, the soldier raced to apprehend him.

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Outside of the chaos in the cells, Bradley showed the Prison’s researcher guest a heavily fortified crate. It stood apart from the other confiscated items within the vault. The seams were welded shut and its chains and locks held it heavy to the floor. All of these measures made the container itself seem like a sleeping beast. Tariche was waiting for it to start thrashing.

He whistled, finding more interest in Bradley’s nonchalance around hundreds of potentially dangerous artifacts.

“You run a busy doggy kennel,” He noted, watching Sofist’s assistant push a large utility dolly over to the crate. “I’m guessing these eventually pile up with how busy the labs are. What do you do with them? Keep’em on ice until we make room for you?”

Bradley paused, considering the question. Though the stuck-up labcoats had been on a scale of weird to outright rude, he supposed he should reward civility. Prisons were supposed to reinforce good behavior after all.

“Were you Clarence or Rand?”

“Just call me Tariche.” The researcher shrugged, already prying at the lid of a smaller crate.

“Oh.” Figuring it was a middle name, Bradley went and unlocked the box Tariche had become curious of.

Amulets, gems, wooden carvings; a whole array of magical items were tumbling to the floor. Tariche felt a breath of fresh air flowing out from the box, like a breeze through a warm meadow. From the scratches on these previous items, he could tell that some of the inmates had fought to try keeping these small comforts close to heart.

“These aren’t dangerous, per say. Just a lot of junk we have to take off of new inmates before we take them to their cells,” Bradley said, tossing a silver pendant on the pile. “We know what most of them are and it’s not worth bothering the labs. Objects like what the weaver had get snatched and don’t end up taking space for long.”

Checking his magic agenda, scrolling through the busy schedules of the Espina Rosa’s personnel, the private pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

“I tend to handle the storage and I don’t want to keep them crowded. It’s just that there aren’t enough people to move this junk.”

“Move them where? An off-site warehouse?” Tariche asked.

Rather than answering him, Bradley lifted the crate and lead the researcher to a row of closed hatches. Leaning his elbow on a rune carved on the wall, Bradley let Tariche watch layers of metal slide away, pulled back by the grinding gears beyond what they could see. Tipping the box, the private poured the magical items into the nondescript hole.

The inside was too dark to see inside and Tariche saw that the openings were pretty small. Sofist’s arm would have gotten stuck.

Once the box was empty, Bradley lifted off the rune and the hatch slammed closed. The final shift of metal against metal sounded like the weighty blade of a guillotine.

“Cleaning is a slow process but better safe than sorry,” The private flicked a different switch and the smoke hit Tariche’s nose before the fire had started. “We never know exactly how magic reacts so they don’t get filtered out until they’re safe ashes. I end up watching some of ours handle the chore in case its more volatile than usual.”

Tariche watched the hatch.

It didn’t make a noise. No crackling. No sparks.

All very boring for a process so sickening.

To the front of the room, the heavy doors swung open and Tariche could hear his Commander’s boots angrily pounding on the floor towards him.

Those doors were heavy and Theano had shoved them out of the way like nothing. Tariche hoped the Commander would keep being this sloppy, they might get caught. Better yet, there was an ugly tear across Theano’s chest but Tariche doubted any of the blood was his.

“We’re leaving,” Theano ordered, reigning in his snarl for later. Narrowing his eyes, he glanced at the largest sealed crate. “It’s come to my attention that conducting proper research on the subject will be impossible with the incompetence so thoroughly infecting this dog pen.”

“Wow, I was just saying.” Tariche scratched the back of his head, barely bothered by Theano’s haggard appearance. The Commander kept such a straight laced bored-slightly-annoyed frown that Tariche was beginning to think someone splashed him with juice instead of there being an actual disaster on day one.

Looking to Bradley, Theano and Tariche figured he hadn’t been this awake in a long time.

“What happened?” The private demanded, holding his shaking agenda up as if to shield himself from Theano. He had good instincts.

“Funny, telling me what to do,” Theano didn’t want to waste energy rolling his eyes. “I hope whoever replaces you and the warden will know their place.”

Bradley, flushed from fright and shock, bit down until his jaw ached.

“I would call the warden to discuss this but I think he’s already on his way.” The private ground out.

Sure enough, Sofist and a gaggle of the members of the patrol that escorted Theano through the third floor arrived at the vault. Tellingly, the minotaur politely entered with his paling entourage following like sheep.

“Fine,” Theano closed his eyes, pretending to get more frustrated, but Tariche could see the corner of his mouth twitching up. “If you’re here, I won’t need to leave the instructions with your underlings. My remaining partner and I will be leaving for Swordhaven the moment a ship sails from port.”

Sofist’s pause was so deafening, the pressure under the vault’s high ceiling became crushing. They could hear his sweat dripping on the floor.

“The patrol told me what happened,” Sofist was far smaller than he was when they first met. “All of what they…admitted. Was that true?”

“Them abandoning Rand and I, allowing for some creature to attack Rand from its cell, spurring him into blindly running off the edge of a sheer fifty foot fall?” Theano listed casually. “I should hope that was the case. Or else I had come down to the patrol to see that they had snapped his neck.”

Mouth falling open, Bradley couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Sofist taking Theano’s barbs with a dipped chin made it worse.

Then, the story continued.

“…Went...missing…” The leader of the patrol mumbled, piercing the air like cannon fire.

“WHAT?” Sofist turned on a dime and just about lifted the offending patrolman by the neck.

“It was Matthew!” The soldier’s chest heaved. “He went to go see why they were taking so long to come--” He quickly cut himself off.

“Go on now. You’ll only make it worse by lying.” Theano sneered.

Unable to take his gaze off the ground, the soldier continued.

“He went to go see why it was taking so long for them to get scared and come running back. Mathew’s been missing since.”

“Wonderful,” Theano interrupted Sofist before he could tear into the leader of the failed patrol. “I’ll be sure to emphasize that in the report to General Akanthus.”

On the sidelines, Tariche began waving sadly to the patrol and Sofist. He didn’t imagine they’ll see the light of day when high command caught word.

“Wait!” Bradley piped up, struggling between coming up with a solution and organizing a search for the missing soldier. “If we just….couldn’t we—” He looked to the warden desperately, and immediately regretted it.

The other Rose soldiers were looking to Sofist too, knowing their future was bleak, and were guilty they had taken the warden down with them.

“What a waste of time,” Theano turned to Tariche, knowing they could all hear him. “First the fire setback, and now this. We won’t have another chance to examine the subject for months at best. Far longer thanks to that idiot Rand putting his corpse in the way.”

Sennidy really was an idiot but this was all a show to lead the bull into his cage.

“All of you,” Sofist addressed his men. “Leave us.”

The soldiers marched out discreetly. Theano expected Bradley to follow but he stubbornly stood his ground. That one was going to be trouble.

“General Akanthus hearing of this—” Sofist’s lip curled. “—Failure on our part will cost both of us greatly. But, if we were to…”

Compromise.

Sofist obviously hated the concept, almost as much as Theano did. Even when it was others compromising for him, the Thorn Commander preferred that they bent completely.

Still, this was worth letting a smile escape. Slowly but surely, Theano would get his way.