#and imparted these messages on us

[kierancaz]

Nothing like watching Pride and Prejudice and Little Women back to back to make me yearn for the bond that the oldest and second oldest sister have.

[the-owl-tree]

not a fan of psychoanalyzing people over the internet but considering all of brambleclaw's abusive behavior was written by accident and that one blogclan post where kate goes "well i don't know what happened there but let's accept that he veered off the right path for a moment alright? he's a good guy! he and squilf would've bullied me in highschool though". really makes you wonder what's going on inside the erins' brains while writing 😭

(and on a meta note: said blogclan post makes me feel we're never gonna solve the "wc fandom treating characters as independent people and not narrative tools" problem when erin hunter ALSO does that. The Horrors)

RIGHT!! Like, I can assume it's an amalgamation of things: the shitty gender existentialist approach a lot of xenofiction takes + some weird beliefs the authors and editors intentionally/unintentionally carry + them playing telephone with books while also pumping them out super fast + no quality control and etc. etc. etc.

that post in particular is like a brother to me. makes it so much funnier when you know kate doesn't like bramblestar.

[cerastes]

Habe you ever had a "did we even play the same game?" moment with someone?

My favorite game ever used to be Metal Gear Solid 4, it’s still up there in my top favorites, and this time at a party I met a guy that said he didn’t like MGS4 because he felt like it ruined Snake as a character and that it misrepresented him. I asked if he could elaborate and his response was that they took this Rambo dude, this super manly war hero and emasculated him into a weak old man.

I need you to understand that Solid Snake was without exaggeration fundamental in my growth as a person: I am from a latino country, grew up in what’s widely considered the wrong side of the tracks in the middle of nowhere, being macho, manly, tough was incredibly important to me, because that’s how it was in there, and Snake (plus “The Knight In Rusty Armor” by Robert Fisher) basically made me question all of what I’d grown up thinking up until then, because Snake isn’t a badass because grrr manly beef jerky I kill and swear, he is this incredibly solemn guy who hates what he can do, but is the only one that can do it, and if he doesn’t do it, then nuclear war happens, or worse. There’s a whole angle of expectation as a narrative arc in regards to Snake: Meryl expected a glorious, boisterous war hero, Otacon expected a grizzled, badass action hero, Liquid expected Himself But Better In Every Way, Ocelot expected a tool and nothing else, Naomi expected a callous and cold killer… And they were all wrong, he is, ultimately, an exhausted man that cannot stop no matter how much he wants to stop, because if he does, the world might likely go up in literal flames.

So to hear this self-proclaimed superfan of Snake say this just made me skip anger and go all the way to pity. In-universe, those in the know of Snake worship him as an actual God of War, and it’s a common thing that gets addressed in-universe: The whole point of MGS2 is that Raiden could never have won if he tried to be Snake, because you don’t want to be Snake. Snake hates being Snake. Snake isn’t manly because he beat a tank on foot one on one, Snake is admirable because he does the right thing, even if he’s breaking down molecule by molecule as he goes and he wants nothing more than to fuck off and raise dogs in the arctic, but keeps on going anyways because he can do something about it. The most important message he imparts on Raiden and Meryl is Don’t Be Me; Create A World Where Snake Doesn’t Need To Exist.

I felt pity because if you feel like MGS4 misrepresented Snake, then you really and explicitly are exactly the kind of fodder PMC nobody that feeds the proxy wars in MGS4. I think only by skipping every cutscene you can come out thinking that way. The only thing super about him was ficial.

[floatyflowers]

Dark! Platonic Father and Mother Faerie x Human! Reader

Seraphina, was surprised when her husband, Sylvanas brought, you, a human child to their home in the faerie realm.

But was delighted when she got to know that he did this for her, because she was infertile.

Just ignoring the whole fact that her husband stole you from a human couple.

Your faerie parents, being creatures of magic, would enchant your surroundings with a touch of their otherworldly essence, creating a home filled with ethereal beauty and a sense of perpetual wonder.

They'd teach you the secrets of their enchanted realm, sharing ancient tales of mystical creatures, hidden realms, and the delicate balance between magic and the mortal world.

Despite their ethereal nature, your faerie parents would express love in unique ways – perhaps through the shimmering glow of their presence or the gentle touch of their wings as they embrace you.

As a part of the faerie realm, celebrations would be extravagant and filled with enchanting rituals, like dancing under the moonlit sky or sharing laughter that echoes through the enchanted woods.

Your faerie parents might gift you with magical items, each imbued with a specific power or purpose, serving as both a connection to their world and a means to protect you in the human realm.

While they understand the nature of human life, your faerie parents would instill in you a deep appreciation for the beauty of fleeting moments, emphasizing the importance of cherishing every experience.

Communication might involve a blend of spoken words and telepathic messages, creating a unique form of connection that transcends the limitations of mortal language.

Your faerie parents would guide you in developing a strong connection with nature, teaching you to communicate with plants and animals, fostering a harmonious relationship with the natural world.

They would be protective, using their magical abilities to shield you from harm while imparting wisdom to navigate the complexities of both the mortal and faerie realms.

The bond you share with your faerie parents would be enduring, transcending the boundaries between worlds.

And as you grow, they'd stand by you as guardians and mentors, always ready to offer guidance from the enchanting depths of their timeless existence.

[communistkenobi]

I’m watching FD Signifier’s new video about edgelord white guy movies. He spends a decent amount of time talking about how creators have responded to their edgelord fanbases, using The Joker and The Boys as two examples, where these creators feel uncomfortable with how their art has been received and taken up by “angry white men,” and that in response to this, they have followed up these artistic products with sequels or new seasons of television that are incredibly blunt and obvious about how you shouldn’t think of Homelander as a based chad or Arthur Fleck as a motivational figure in your life. And like he ends the video saying this is insufficient because these audiences won’t care about the messages in these follow-ups (largely bc these are downstream of larger social issues), but his framing of it in terms of “the death of media literacy” is still really frustrating and annoying because it’s buying into the idea that the main problem with people “not getting” art is literacy/education. And its not just his video, this framing is a popular memetic phrase across social media, and he does a better job than most people in talking about it

But like I just straight up do not accept that the audience of these edgelord movies “didn’t get” that they are portraying bad people, that audiences of mass media are “taking the wrong message” of “very obvious” pieces of art. Not because I think they do secretly get what these films are ‘actually saying,’ I don’t care about what’s in their hearts, but because this concern with people ‘not getting it’ feels wildly off-topic. I think it has been demonstrated over and over again that mass media is not an educational tool where people go to “learn lessons” or “take away a particular message.” I think the very fact that we have a consumptive marketised relationship to these artistic products structures and produces a specific set of responses, which is, above all else, “getting my money’s worth.” Who gives a shit what the movie is ‘really’ trying to say! That’s unimportant when faced with the question of did I get what I paid for? And I don’t mean this in an annoying lib “consumerism is making us all stupider” way I mean the economic structure of artistic production is the primary determinant of how commodities on a market are received. The idea that, under these conditions, we can purchase a piece of art that will “teach us” something about the world is laughable, that art-by-itself contains the authority to impart political knowledge. The idea that we can purchase our way into good values, good politics, that we can buy a movie ticket and see the error of our ways is buying into this same exact consumptive framing.

“The death of media literacy” implies a point in recent history where this economic relationship to art was unimportant, that we used to be able to participate in mass standardised artistic production and be unaffected by this arrangement. I think about Adorno & Horkheimer’s argument in The Culture Industry, that the profit motive is itself an object of consumption under capitalism, that advertisements are themselves products & as a result, all mass standardised artistic products are advertisements for their own capitalist production processes and logics. 

I think when people “don’t get” that Starship Troopers is depicting a fascist society, when people “don’t get” that Travis Bickle is a bad, un-admirable person, they aren’t stricken by a sudden deficit of education or literacy, they are responding to the conditions under which these things get made. Being able to get art’s “true message,” no matter how supposedly clear or compellingly-articulated, is to argue that ‘message’ and ‘meaning’ can be made independent of the conditions under which those things are created and presented to people. The industrial capitalist machinery outputting standardised artistic products is itself an authority telling you how to interpret its own products, much the same way a cathedral is presented as evidence of god. There is a material & physical authority in their presence and social arrangement that are themselves arguments. Adorno talks about this with the radio - that this vast industrial infrastructure of radio towers, broadcast stations, systems of wires and cables, and the production of standardised radio receivers (available for purchase, of course) is utterly incomprehensible to most people and amounts to hearing the voice of god when you turn on the radio. The arrangement of artistic production & presentation is itself the structure through which you experience art, and that structure is an authority you can neither comprehend nor alter. And again as A&H say in The Culture Industry, the techniques, narratives, and genres of the culture industry become standardised themselves, cookie-cutters on a production line, and therefore dictate meaning above and beyond any particular semantic meaning injected into an individual film or story. “Romcoms” are a cultural authority above and beyond the sum total of every romcom film ever made, and it is these genres and techniques that transmit the justification for their own continued reproduction. Under this arrangement, the meaning of this film or that television show are rendered marginal - not unnoticeable or irrelevant, certainly, but secondary to the cookie-cutters they were produced from 

Now does this lead to a widespread ignorant, impoverished, reactionary view of art? Of course, but that is not because the guy who likes wearing V for Vendetta masks is illiterate. To place the blame on individual education, discipline, or literacy is to take Hollywood for granted as a natural eternal entity, to take it as just another church. It’s a goofy fucking argument! 

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Foxglove Downs Chapter 3: The Race

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Lucius Verus x Female Reader Rating: Teen. (Eventual E. MDNI) Summary: Marcus is jealous, Lucius is charming, and Sunny is stuck in the middle. Warnings: Love triangle, horse talk, jealousy, pining, angst, flirting, a kiss, wet Lucius, one slap across the face, age gap (Marcus is in his 40’s, Lucius is in his 20’s). Reader is in her 30's, has hair, and has a nickname: Sunny. Words: 4,000

A/N: Listen, IDK what'd I'd do without @devineconjuring's help and amazing beta work. She's the best and she always imparts wisdom like... ...how I can still take a bath with a toaster... if I just don't plug it in. Also she yells at me and calls me names because I use too many ...'s and I can't stop talking about Lucius's eyes being blue. Soooooooo... ... ... ... I 🩵 her... ... ... Thank you to @artsy-girl-76 for the Lucius pic colorization and everyone who helped me stop overthinking about photo decisions. 😉

Foxglove Downs Masterlist Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

Days have passed since the moment Marcus saw you while you were under the warm comfort of Lucius’s jacket. You busy yourself with your daily tasks, checking on the horses and taking care of your breeding program. But the less you see of Marcus, the more his pull on you consumes your thoughts–especially the intensity of his stare when he saw you that morning Lucius dropped you off.

He’s kept his distance since, choosing instead to communicate through brief messages about a few business matters. You wanted to speak to him, yet he seemed to be in a hurry every time you saw him, always heading in the opposite direction.

You couldn’t help but wonder if he was avoiding you, yet you could feel his deep brown eyes on you whenever you were near him.

—-

“Sunny,” he calls out one afternoon, breaking through your peaceful reverie as you lead your horse Harvey out for a ride.

“Yes?” you reply, trying to keep your tone light despite the nervous fluttering in your chest.

“Can we talk?” His voice is low, making all surrounding noise fade away.

“I was just about to go for a ride. Do you want to join? Maybe take Barley out as a treat?”

“Sure,” he responds, his voice still low.

“Okay,” you smile, trying to calm your heart. “Meet you at the back gate in five?”

He nods before heading to the stables.

—-

You greet Marcus as he arrives atop Barley, cantering towards the back gate.

“Ready?” you ask. His face is a mystery, his shoulders tense as he nods. “I figure we’ll just ride to the other side of the lake?”

Another nod without a verbal response.

“Let’s go,” you say, nudging Harvey forward. The horse responds eagerly, trotting out along the well-trodden path that meanders through the lush greenery surrounding Foxglove Downs. Familiar scenery allows your mind to drift, and you wonder what Marcus is thinking about. The beat of hooves on the ground helps you focus back on the present–you can feel Marcus studying you, an air of tension straining between you.

“I’ll never get sick of this ride,” you say, glancing sideways at Marcus, hoping to catch any sign of the thoughts that are hidden behind his stoic facade. His eyes remain ahead, scanning the horizon as if he’s searching for something just beyond reach.

He doesn’t respond. You feel a pang of disappointment.

“Harvey loves this trail,” you continue. “Or maybe he knows that whenever we get to the lake, he always gets a treat.” You chuckle lightly, trying to lighten Marcus’s mood.

His lips twitch, a quick flick of amusement crossing his features before vanishing just as quickly.

“So, Daisy’s looking a lot better already.”

“She is,” he replies tersely.

You bite your lip, suppressing a sigh, taking the hint that he doesn’t want to talk just yet.

As you reach the edge of the lake, you pull Harvey to a stop and look at Marcus, sitting tall on Barley.

“Beautiful day,” you remark, attempting to break through the silence as you dismount Harvey and tie him to a nearby tree.

“Yeah,” he replies, his gaze still fixed on the shimmering lake. “It really is.”

Uncertainty charges between you as you pull a small apple out from your saddle bag for Harvey. You offer it to him while keeping an eye on Marcus as he dismounts and finally turns to meet your gaze.

“What did you want to talk about?” you ask, your voice steady despite the butterflies flitting around in your stomach.

His shoulders deflate with a deep sigh as he ties Barley to a nearby tree. His usually composed demeanor seems to waver just a bit.

“Sunny,” he begins, but then stops himself.

You lean against a large oak tree, crossing your arms as you look at him. “Come on, Marcus. Can you just tell me what’s on your mind?” you tease, trying to lift the mood.

He gathers himself, his brow furrowing as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his thumb nervously tapping against his forefinger as if trying to find the right words. “I’ve been thinking about…”

“About what?” you ask, trying to coax him and get rid of the confusion surrounding the two of you.

“Lucius.”

Your eyes widen at his name, your breath caught in your throat. Marcus’s eyes flash darker when he notices your response.

“Lucius?” you echo, unable to keep the surprise from your voice. “What about him?”

He takes a step towards you, his voice careful and questioning. "Tell me… how serious is he about you?"

You feel the heat rush to your cheeks, a mixture of shock and annoyance brewing inside you. “S-serious? Is that what you think?” Your tone stays light, but there’s a hint of defensiveness underlying your words.

Marcus takes a step closer, his brown eyes fixed on you, his jaw tense.

“Come on, Sunny, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not just business for him.”

You avert your eyes, suddenly finding the leaves of the oak tree far more interesting than the intensity of his stare. “He’s… charming. He flirts. It doesn’t mean he’s serious.”

A thick silence fills the space between you.  Tension emanates from Marcus as he closes the distance, trapping you against the tree with his body. Your arms instinctively fall to your sides as he leans in, his chest pressing against yours.

“But you like him,” he states, a note of steel in his voice.

You don’t lie. His closeness pulls at something deep within you. “I… he’s fun,” you manage to say, your breath hitching as your heart races.

His hand tenderly brushes against your cheek, and his touch takes your breath away. “Did it feel good to have fun with him this weekend?” he asks, his voice dropping even lower. A shiver skims along your spine.

“Fun?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

His breath mingles with yours as he hovers just a heartbeat away. “You looked really good in that dress, Sunny. Never seen you in something that short before.”

You swallow hard, trying to maintain your composure as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. “Marcus, I—”

“It felt good, didn’t it? To have someone like him give you attention?” A flicker of vulnerability crosses his face before he masks it with anger. “Was it as fun for you as I’m sure it was for him?”

You stand wide-eyed and mouth agape, staring into his dark brown eyes. How dare he. The anger rages inside of you.

“Who the hell do you think I am, Marcus?” you ask, anger raising your voice.

His focus stays on you, unwavering, his expression a blend of frustration and longing. “I think you’re someone who deserves more than just a good fuck and a drive home in a designer car.”

You slap him across the face right then and there. “We didn’t fuck, you asshole.” Your voice is sharp and authoritative. “For the record, he was a perfect gentleman. He saved me from a shitty situation and lent me his bed, which I slept alone in.”

You slide under Marcus’s arm, quickly freeing Harvey and climbing on top of him. "And just so you know, I had a dream about you and I having fun at this lake while I was sleeping ALONE in his bed," you nearly shout.

With a swift kick of your heels, Harvey bolts past him, galloping towards the stables. You glance back briefly to see Marcus standing there, his tall frame silhouetted against the lake.

—-

After a restless night filled with thoughts that shift between deep brown and sparkling blue eyes, you dress in your most comfortable jeans and a loose-fitting shirt before heading down to the stables.

Your horses never leave you feeling trapped. They don’t critique your actions. They will always be by your side.

You lose yourself in the simple jobs, caring for them, grateful for their familiarity and companionship. You feel a sense of peace as you finish your morning tasks in the stables.

As you enter your office, you spot a vase brimming with pink foxgloves on your desk. You reach for the card and read the message. "Please forgive me" is written in angular writing above Marcus’s signature. With a sigh, you toss the card back onto the desk and rub your eyes with your palms, trying to relieve some stress.

This is why you try to keep your distance. This is why you never intended to entangle yourself in the rivalry between Marcus and Lucius. This is why you have always tried to resist both men.

It’s been three hours of trying to focus on work. Your vision blurs and your head pounds as you struggle to make sense of the words on your computer screen. Your heart aches just as much, if not more. You can’t seem to concentrate on anything except the urge to occasionally check out the window to see if Marcus or Lucius are practicing on the grounds.

You grumble to yourself as you get up, throw on your jacket, and head to the stables. Today is not an in-the-office day.

—-

The moment you step into the stables, your worries quiet down. Your boots echo across the cobblestones as you approach the stall where the new stallion is housed. As you get closer, you spot Lucius leaning against the wooden railing, softly talking to the stallion, his voice soothing as he moves steadily closer to the horse.

“Hey there, boy,” he says, extending his hand to pet the stallion’s neck. The horse leans into him, its large dark eyes reflecting trust. You’re captivated by Lucius’s gentleness and patience, unable to look away as you approach.

“Lucius,” you call gently. He looks towards you, a smile full of charm breaking across his face when he spots you.

“I was just meeting the new addition.”

You move closer to him, leaning against the railing beside him, offering your hand for the horse to nuzzle. “His name is Maximus.”

“I think he likes me.”

The gentle smile of joy he gives you fills your heart with a certain feeling–but it’s not the same weighty feeling you get when you’re with Marcus. No, this is a lighter, more hopeful sensation that beats within you.

“Want to take him out for a ride? I’ve been breaking him, and he’s responding great. I’ll take him there, you take him back. Maybe you can grab Edgar? He’s about the only horse Maximus can stand. ”

Lucius raises an eyebrow, a playful glint lighting his blue eyes. “I’d love nothing more.”

“Perfect,” you say with a nod, heading towards the tack room.

Lucius follows you in, reaching for his boots and Edgar’s saddle.

“You want to help me with Maximus first?” you ask as you grab the stallion’s saddle.

“Of course.”

Maximus stands in his stall, watching as you both approach with a saddle and bridle.

Lucius gently places the saddle onto his back while he whispers sweetly to him. His hands work skillfully, knowing exactly how to read the stallion and take care of him. It’s like he’s known Maximus for years.

You pick up Edgar’s saddle and head to his stall, allowing Lucius to finish up Maximus.

You struggle with one of the straps on Edgar’s saddle, softly swearing to yourself as you hear Lucius’s boot steps approach. 

“That one is a pain,” Lucius says, leaning in. “Here, let me show you how to do it.”

You try to steady your breathing as he guides your hands through the motions, his fingers gently brushing against yours as he adjusts the straps.

“You know, if you keep this up, I might have to hire you as my official saddle strap consultant,” you tease.

Lucius chuckles softly as he takes a step back, allowing you to secure the last strap on Edgar’s saddle yourself.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he praises, giving you a warm smile that sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

Once both horses are saddled and ready, you lead Maximus out of his stall while Lucius brings Edgar up alongside you.

The afternoon sun warms your skin as you guide Maximus along the cobblestone path that leads toward the back gate. You still can’t help but look around the grounds, secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of Marcus.

Lucius mounts Edgar, and you swing yourself onto Maximus, the stallion shifting beneath you, eager for a run.

“Race you to the lake?” Lucius challenges as the two of you make your way out onto the trail behind the grounds.

“Yeah?” your eyebrow raises as a smile lights your face. “I don’t think I’ve raced in years.”

“Maximus looks like he’s ready, but Edgar’s fast. Loser has to jump in the lake?”

You laugh, your head tilting back and your head shaking. “Now? Jump in the lake now?”

“You heard me,” his eyes are alight with joy, making your smile stay on your face.

“Are we twelve?”

“Fine, if you win, you can push me in… and If I win, you have to… kiss me,” he offers.

“So, we’re twelve,” you respond, rolling your eyes.

“So… deal?”

“Deal,” you say, your cheeks hurting from smiling.

“Count it down then, Sunny.”

“3… 2… 1!” you shout, kicking Maximus into a gallop. The world you know so well blurs into a streak of greens as Maximus surges forward. The wind whips against your body as the rhythmic thud of hooves against the trail echoes through the air.

You glance back over your shoulder and catch a glimpse of Lucius wearing a smile as he commands Edgar confidently.

You can feel Maximus’s excitement beneath you, feeling his happy spirit as he races ahead.

Edgar gains, matching Maximus’s stride. You look over at Lucius, his expression fierce yet playful. He meets your focus and sends you a wink as he shifts forward, pushing Edgar to go faster.

You also lean forward, urging Maximus to give it his all. “Come on, boy!” you whisper fiercely. Maximus pulls ahead just a little more, the lake glimmering in the distance as it gets closer and closer.

“Come on, Edgar!” Lucius calls out, but his voice is fading as you gain ground ahead of him and the trees thin out the closer you get to the water.

“Almost there!” you shout over your shoulder, laughter spilling from your lips as you sense Lucius straining behind you. “You better catch up!”

Soon, the lake is fully revealed to you, the water’s edge just within reach as Maximus gallops towards it, Lucius and Edgar much farther behind now. You and the young stallion easily win the race as you reach the water’s edge.

You pull Maximus to a halt at the edge of the shimmering lake, the stallion snorting and stamping his hooves in triumph as if he understands the victory you’ve just claimed.

“I win!” you shout, unable to contain your excitement. You slide off Maximus, your heart still racing from the ride and the sight of Lucius approaching. His body is framed against the bright blue sky that matches the color of his eyes. He dismounts Edgar and jogs over, his breath coming in quick bursts, yet a broad grin remains plastered across his face.

“You got me this time,” he concedes.

“Just this time?” you tease.

“I guess next time, I’ll ride harder. But for now…” he pauses, glancing at the lake, then back at you. “A deal’s a deal.”

He strides towards the dock, a small wooden structure stretching out into the lake. Its weathered planks creak softly beneath his weight, the water rippling in the warm breeze as Lucius reaches the edge of it.

“Wait! You don’t have to—” You start to protest, but it’s too late.

Lucius leaps off the dock, and time seems to slow as he jumps into the air. His body gracefully twists before hitting the water with a large splash.

Your laughter echoes across the lake as he emerges from the water, his white shirt now drenched. You can’t stop looking at him and how the now-transparent fabric clings to his muscles.

His blue eyes lock on to yours, a smoldering look sent your way. You feel like you’re in trouble, like he’s almost angry with you. That is, until a broad smile breaks across his face and he runs toward you.

Before you can react, Lucius tackles you to the grass, his wet body crashing down over yours. You gasp as the coolness of his skin meets yours, the weight of him pressing you into the earth beneath. Laughter escapes your lips as he grins down at you, water dripping from tendrils of his brown hair and his strong nose.

“Now who's winning?” he teases, his breath warm against your face.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” you reply as you squirm beneath him, trying to find a comfortable position without pushing him off. The way he looks at you–half-smirking with his bright eyes shining–makes it hard to focus on anything else.

“Oh, definitely,” he replies, leaning in closer.

Your heart pounds, no longer from the race, but from Lucius. He hovers above you, and it’s just you and him. The imposing oak tree that Marcus pushed you up against is only a few feet away, but it disappears from your periphery when Lucius’s gaze drops to your mouth.

“Sunny…” his voice changes, becoming lower and more serious.

You swallow hard, caught in the pull of him. “What are you—”

But before you can finish your thought, he closes the small space between you, pressing his lips against yours in a gentle yet searing kiss. You feel your heart beat faster as you respond instinctively, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss. His hands cradle your face as you let out a soft sigh, allowing his tongue to explore your mouth.

But just as quickly as it begins, reality crashes into you like a splash of cold water.

You pull back abruptly and breathlessly. “Lucius,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper as you grapple with the sudden rush of emotions swirling within you. “I shouldn’t have let you kiss me.”

He lifts himself off you, his brow furrowed slightly in confusion, but the playful sparkle in his eyes remains. You sit up carefully, brushing blades of grass from your hair while trying to regain your composure.

“I mean…” you stammer, searching for the right words amidst the haze of what just happened. “This is—it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” he repeats, tilting his head slightly in confusion. He leans back on his hands, water still glistening on his skin under the afternoon sun. The way he looks at you—both amused and intrigued—makes it hard to maintain any semblance of seriousness.

“Yes! The whole business of it all,” you say, waving an arm towards the stables in the distance. “We both know how small this world is.”

You don’t mention to him that it’s because the lips you truly desire belong to his biggest rival.

Lucius chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Sunny, I’m fine with calling this whole thing a… business meeting.” He raises an eyebrow. “One kiss isn’t going to ruin your carefully constructed empire.”

You feel your cheeks warm at his teasing. You take a deep breath, searching for the right words. “You know this whole world is riddled with… rivalries. If word gets out… well, it will complicate things.”

“Sunny,” he says, his voice growing more earnest. “I’m not interested in gossip or rivalries. I’m interested in you.”

You glance away, taking a moment to collect yourself. He looks at you like he sees right through you.

“But what about Marcus?” you ask finally.

Lucius lets out a sigh and runs a hand through his damp hair, sending droplets flying in every direction. “What about him? Why does Marcus matter?”

“Lucius, I like you, but I just… I–”

“Sunny, look at me,” he softly commands.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. His face is understanding, a gentle smile lifting his lips that you can still feel against yours.

“I understand,” he says gently. “You don’t have to go on. Just know, I’m here for you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”

Some of the weight sitting atop your shoulders—and your heart—lifts. “I’d like to have you as I’ve had you–as a friend,” you offer. 

“Of course,” he grins, his handsome face and sweet voice reassuring.

You shift closer to him, resting your head against his still-damp shirt as you sit in companionable silence, watching the sun begin to set.

—-

“So, you want to ride Maximus back to the stables?” you ask as you and Lucius walk over to the horses. “I’d love to see how he runs for you.”

“I’d love nothing more,” he replies.

“Just remember,” you say as Lucius moves to mount the stallion, “he can be a bit stubborn. Handle him firmly—but with care.”

Lucius laughs, swinging himself up onto Maximus. “No wonder he and I get along.”

You mount Edgar and give him a gentle nudge with your heels as Lucius maneuvers Maximus to trot ahead of you.

You trail behind, admiring as you observe how Lucius interacts with the horse.

“Keep your heels down!” you call out teasingly.

“Yeah, yeah! Is that your only complaint on my form?” he asks over his shoulder. “I’m a champion, Sunny. I don’t need your opinion. I pay many people to yell at me about my form!”

You shake your head and laugh. There’s something so uncomplicated about this moment—the laughter, the beautiful sunset, the understanding Lucius has shown your heart.

As the back gate comes into view, a bit of sadness settles in you now that your impromptu ride with Lucius is over.

The last time you approached this gate from the lake, Marcus had made you feel so small that you could almost still feel the tears stinging in your eyes.

As you dismount from Edgar and guide him through the gate, Lucius follows with Maximus, the two of you leading the horses to their stalls and bringing their saddles to the tack room.

“Thanks for letting me ride Maximus,” Lucius says, putting the stallion’s saddle away.

“You commanded him perfectly,” you compliment as you pick up a brush to groom Maximus’s coat.

“Perfectly, huh? You know, after one ride, I’m ready to purchase.”

“He’s not cheap–champion bloodline and all,” you say, heading back to Maximus’s stall.

“I’m sure I could afford him. Not every day you find a horse that truly connects with you.”

You nod in agreement—until the memory of how Marcus also commanded Maximus during the stallion’s arrival overtakes your brain. 

Lucius watches as you enter Maximus’s stall and begin to brush the stallion’s glossy black coat.

“I should probably get going,” he says reluctantly, checking his watch. “I have a planning meeting about Rome early tomorrow morning, and then I’m training all day. Thank you for today. I needed it.”

“I needed it too,” you reply softly, walking closer to the stall gate.

“Maybe I’ll see you around tomorrow?” he asks hopefully as he moves to stand in front of the gate and reaches out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear.

“Definitely,” you smile. “Come see me in my office. I have your jacket.”

“Keep it. Like I said,” he says, his eyes looking you up and down. Even in your baggiest pair of jeans and loosest fitting shirt, he still makes you feel like the most attractive woman on earth. “You look much better in it.”

He turns to leave, and you watch him go with a slight pang in your chest before you turn back to the soothing work of caring for your horses.

—-

Thank you for reading! Tagging those who asked and some friends! Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@ohheypedrito, @schnarfer, @magpiepills, @sawymredfox, @devineconjuring

@mothandpidgeon, @hellfire-state-of-mind, @darkheartgatita, @umnitsa, @christinamadsen

@pedrit0-pascalit0, @ace-turned-confused, @itwasntimethatdidit40, @lotusbxtch, @almostfoxglove

@lady--lynn, @chrissy-forfucksakes-wakeup, @copperhalfcent, @ferns-fics, @thesoftdumbass

[omegaverse-anthropologist]

crawling out of my nest after…four months to write pt 2 of the scent post

scents and pheromones

pt. 1: physiology and function

pt. 2: scent messages

along with reproductive cycles and mating bonds, a heightened sense for interpreting scents and pheromones is a pillar of the omegaverse. this series uses language that describes scents in a way we can understand, but the effort to describe scents is in reality much like the effort to describe color to someone who may never have seen it. scents are intangible, and the descriptors used in this series are abstractions and metaphors rather than direct concrete descriptions.

review

to briefly summarize the first entry in this series, humans have scent glands present all over the body, with higher concentrations in certain areas (e.g. the palms, neck, and groin, among others). the scent carries pheromones which are interpreted by the vomeronasal organ (VNO) and decoded as basic information about approximate age, dynamic and phenotypic sexes, mating status, and pack health.

individual scent

individual scents function exactly as they sound. they are unique markers that help distinguish one person from another. they are the core of a person’s whole scent, and they contextualize all the sensations and underpinnings that carry the broader information about age, sex, etc. these scents are most frequently described with comprehensible reference points: honeysuckle, burning wood, vanilla. there are dynamic sex stereotypes—dark and earthy for alphas; light and floral for betas; warm and soft for omegas. in reality, individual scent is not influenced by a person’s dynamic sex. an alpha is just as likely to smell like chocolate cupcakes as they are to smell like petrichor or citrus.

what does dynamic sex smell like?

this is difficult to describe. dynamic sex can be described almost as a sensation more than a scent, the way that spice and sourness are sensations that can be carried by flavors without imparting flavor on their own. with that in mind, consider the following descriptions.

alpha: heavy, blunt, magnetic

beta: electric, sharp, vibrant

omega: bright, round, slow

the sensation of a dynamic sex underpins an individual’s scent. a warm, woodsy scent might be underpinned with vibrance, which would communicate that it likely belongs to a beta.

the scent of age

it may be more accurate to say that scent carries an approximation of an individual’s life stage. upon birth, infants of all dynamic sexes carry a primarily watery, milky, or powdery scent underpinned by the scent of the parent who carried them. the older a child becomes, the more their baby scent gives way to their individual scent. by five or six years old, a child may carry a watery floral scent.

at the onset of the first soft cycle, the dynamic scent sensation begins to emerge. here, a pup may have a bright, powdery, honeyed scent. the presence of the first two sensations communicates that (1) the pup is likely an omega, (2) the pup is young, and (3) the brightness and powdery scent combined mean that the pup likely has not reached their first hard cycle.

the closer a pup becomes to reaching their hard cycle, the more their pup scent fades. a strongly milky scent combined with the dynamic scent indicates that a pup is very near to their first soft cycle, while a scent that is strongly individual with only traces of milkiness suggests that the individual is approaching their hard cycle.

mating status and pack health

this information is strongly inference-based, as mating only slightly changes an individual’s scent and pack health does not directly affect it at all. bite-bonded mates’ scents will carry traces of their mates’ individual scents. on their own, those scents are not enough to communicate who someone is mated to, how strong the relationship is, or any information about their mate’s sex. they only communicate that a mate exists. more detailed understanding of both mate and pack health comes form scent marking.

in healthy packs, members are regularly marked with each other’s scent, creating a ‘pack scent’ shared by all members. bite-bonded mates’ scents tend to appear stronger or more intrinsic to their mates because they are emphasized by the ‘mate’ scent marker the bite imparts.

most people infer from a person’s lack of pack scent that their pack is unhealthy or distant, or that they have been shunned. pack scents that are tinged with anger, frustration, or other strong emotions aid in inferences drawn on relationship health.

emotional scents

much like dynamic sex, emotions add a sort of sensation or undertone to a person’s scent. in general, emotions like contentment, joy, and relaxation tend to add warmth, brightness, or softness to a person’s scent; while emotions like sadness, loneliness, or frustration tend to darken, sour, or muddy it. because emotions are complex, however, it would be dishonest to say that ‘joy brightens the scent,’ for example.

there are some universal markers—fear and pain are distinct and consistent scents that can be identified by infants in their first month of life. but while broad emotional strokes can be inferred by near strangers, more nuanced and complex reading of a scent’s emotion requires familiarity. just as you may be able to distinguish your partner’s polite laugh, surprised laugh, and delighted laugh easily, close relations tend to have an easier time distinguishing the scents of frustrated determination, frustrated confusion, and frustrated resignation.

how can any of that information be decoded?

scents carry massive amounts of information that the brain decodes in fractions of a second, providing understanding. to describe how that information might be decoded, consider music.

most people can determine whether a singular note was played by a stringed instrument, a keyboard instrument, or a wind instrument. a skilled violinist may be able to determine whether that note came from a violin, viola, cello, or bass due to their familiarity with and repeated exposure to those instruments.

musicians hearing a singular phrase can determine which mode and key is being played, and they may be able to describe oft-used chord progressions in that mode or genre.

repeated exposure to a stimulus, when that stimulus is important, creates ease in its decoding. while newborns’ vision is blurry and limited in its color perception, a seeing adult parses a myriad of visual stimulus each second, creates connections, and draws inferences, all without conscious thought. we can pick out a close relation’s voice in a crowd because we know that voice intimately. parsing and decoding scents functions much the same way.

[moneyfor-nothing]

A Note To All My Trans+ Siblings

I’m in an issues in trans+ communities seminar, and today we talked about the “Defending Women From Gender Ideology Extremism & Restoring Biological Truth to the Federal Government” executive order issued by 47 on his first day in office.

I openly cried in lecture. I was fortunate enough to flee the US at my first opportunity (perks of being a dual citizen), but I fear for my community. It is easy—and understandable—to fall into hopelessness and despair right now. But I would like to share with you a message of hope imparted on me by my professor.

My professor, sociologist & sexologist Aaron H. Devor, holds the inaugural position as the world’s first Chair in Transgender Studies. He is an internationally recognized leading expert in trans+ issues, and truly, he has done so, so much for our community. I think we could all do with some of his wisdom right now. This is a direct quote from him today:

“Trump and his ilk are often referred to as reactionaries and … what that means is that social change is happening in a direction that moves away from the old, and these people are reacting against that change.

They’re trying to stop it, trying to turn the clock back, and ultimately they will not be successful. A lot of people will get hurt before they are ultimately not successful. But bear in mind, what Trump is pushing for used to be standard. That used to be the norm, that used to be what everybody thought and what everybody believed, and nobody had to argue about it—that was just taken for granted. That there are only two sexes, there are only two genders, nobody can change sex, gender is not a real thing—that used to be the mainstream.

And the fact that the people who are pushing to go back to that are the reactionaries tells us that progress has been made.

You can’t sit back and say, ‘oh well, there you go, done …’ The fact that Trump got elected tells you that you have to always be continuing to push, continuing to defend any advances that are made.

But you have to understand. Trump wouldn’t be a reactionary if what he wanted was what everybody believed. Cuz reactionaries are trying to undo the progress that has been made. And there’s a whole lot of people who made that progress happen who are going to be defending it and are gonna be pushing for more progress. …

Keep it in perspective in terms of why this is happening—it’s happening because we have been successful, we have made a lot of changes, and there’s a lot of people that wanted that to happen that made that happen who are going to be trying to keep Trump and his buddies from getting too far in where they wanna go.”

Do not give up. Do not stay silent. Now is the time for solidarity, and for rising up together and fighting for our rights. We have been successful in the past. And we will continue to be successful.

[chilling-seavey]

Lessons in Lust and Other Illicit Desires (gr63) —FIFTEEN

↳ A/N Thank you for bearing with me in this last week of silence! Here is another chapter to make up for it hehe

↳ Series Summary: Sensible, wise, and a hopeless dreamer, Rosaline was used to men not giving her a second glance. She soon discovered it was merely those mundane college boys who were nothing more than simply intimidated by her intellect. What she needed was a man — someone who could impart knowledge beyond the Classics and guide her in discovering her own confidence as a woman. The thrill of sneaking around with the ever-so-charmingly handsome Professor Russell was certainly a bonus.

↳ Pairings: OxfordProfessor!George Russell x Innocent!Student!OC, Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc (background)

↳ Chapter Word Count: 3.7k

↳ Chapter Warnings: Brief mentions of sexual activity.

The later the night got, the more Rosaline was beginning to believe Lando Norris had died. It was the only logical explanation for why he hadn’t responded to her message in over five hours. Tragic, really. A truly devastating loss to the academic world. 

Rosaline tapped her fingers impatiently against her desk, trying to focus on one of her assignments that was staring back at her from her laptop screen, but the looming presence of the yet-to-be-touched Jane Eyre debate was sitting heavy on her shoulders. Professor Russell couldn’t be too angry with her for doing the entire assignment on her own if her partner had dropped off the face of the earth, right?

Her phone was lying face up on her stack of books beside her laptop and she reached over to grab it and unlock it. The text thread with Lando stared back at her, two blue text bubbles above a small, grey, ‘seen’.

-Hey it’s Rosaline

-When are you free to meet up this week to work on the project?

She thought that had been a good text. It was polite, professional, nothing excessive. He read it not even thirty minutes after she had sent it and then there had been radio silence ever since. Nothing bothered her more than work partners who weren’t willing to pull their weight and everything about Lando screamed ‘slacker’ to her. As much as she liked George, she was incredibly irked that he let her be paired up with someone her polar opposite. 

It wasn’t until Rosaline had shut her laptop for the night, washed up, and climbed into bed to set her alarm that Lando finally replied. A text notification slid down from the top of her screen.

L: hey soz i was streaming

L: we can meet on thurs?

Typical. Rosaline didn’t bother hesitating before replying—this was just Lando, after all.

-Yes, Thursday works. I have class until 3:00 but we can meet in the library after.

She chewed her lip, watching the small ‘delivered’ label turn into ‘seen,’ silently praying he wouldn’t leave her hanging for another five hours. Thankfully, the typing bubble appeared almost instantly,

L: ok see you than :)

- :) 

With a sigh, Rosaline locked her phone and plugged it in for the night on her bedside table. It wasn’t much, but at least they had a plan. She wouldn’t feel fully at ease until they actually met and made progress on the project, but for now, it was something.

On Thursday afternoon, Rosaline arrived at the library at exactly 3:00 pm, nearly out of breath from speed-walking across campus. The librarian greeted her by name when she stepped over the threshold and right away, she felt at home. Most of the tables in the library space were filled with students as the midterm season was in full swing and she walked down the main aisle to try and find an open spot to save for herself and Lando. One of the long tables near the back had some space at the end and she plopped herself down and already started to take out her laptop, notebook, and trusty copy of Jane Eyre. 

Rosaline glanced at her phone—3:15. With a quiet sigh, she set it face down just as Lando strolled into the library, moving at his own pace like he wasn’t late at all. He stopped at one of the tables on his way to share a fist bump and arguably too loud of a laugh with someone he knew. When he finally reached Rosaline’s table, she glanced up as he dropped himself into the chair beside her—not across from her, like she’d expected. 

He unzipped his backpack and pulled out his laptop, settling in like he hadn’t just wasted fifteen minutes of her time, greeting her with a casual, “Hey.”

“Hey,” she echoed, watching him for a moment as he got himself set up.

There was a slightly awkward pause. Lando let out a little giggle. Rosaline cleared her throat and turned to her novel on the table in front of her, just about to open her mouth to speak when there was a gasp from beside her.

“Oh my God,” Lando reached over and grabbed her copy of Jane Eyre, holding it up to show off the colour coded sticky tabs poking out from the pages, his voice raising an octave, “what is this?”

“Jane Eyre…” Rosaline answered hesitantly, not quite sure what he was getting at.

“No, the freakin’,”  Lando wiggled the tips of his fingers through the tabs, making them rustle, “...colours.”

She couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her at his ridiculous dramatics and she grabbed the novel back with a playfully exasperated, “I re-read it this week and marked the parts that’ll help us with this debate.”

“You read all that in two days?” Lando gaped. 

“It’s not even 500 pages,” she shrugged, thumbing through the well-worn novel, “And I’ve already read it plenty before. It was more of a skim, really.”

With a shake of his head, Lando commented, “You make this whole ‘being ridiculously smart’ thing look easy.” 

Rosaline scoffed bashfully, “Hardly ridiculously smart.”

“No, mate, you’re, like, mega smart,” Lando insisted, “The whole class was hoping to be paired with you.”

“Yeah, well,” Rosaline sighed, toying with the corner of the novel, “I guess that doesn’t really surprise me.”

Lando stared at her for a moment as if trying to read her neutral expression, like he was reading into something she wasn’t saying. Then, shifting in his seat, he muttered, “I’ll really try to help, okay?"

Rosaline glanced at him.

He continued, almost awkwardly, an unfamiliar look on the usually so often sure-of-himself Lando Norris, “I’m not good with, like, reading and anali-sizing stuff but…I’ll try.”

Her lips quirked at his near mispronunciation, but she didn’t correct him. Instead, she gave a small nod and a gentle thanks, accepting the effort for what it was. They then reviewed the project brief on the class site and, as she pulled up the document, Rosaline tried not to stare at George’s headshot in the corner beside ‘Professor Contact Information’. 

Instead, she focused on reading out the requirements for the assignment, “One of you will argue that Rochester in Jane Eyre is a romantic hero, while the other will argue he is a manipulative villain. Prepare a 10-minute argument and submit a 1,500-word co-written analysis incorporating critical sources.”

Lando rocked back in his chair, balancing on the rear legs, “So, like, what side do you want to take?” 

“Mm,” Rosaline pondered the question for a moment, “I’ll take romantic hero, I think.”

“Mint,” Lando exclaimed in agreement, the front legs of his chair falling back onto the floor with an echoing slam. A few startled students around them looked over with frowns. Lando seemed unbothered, “I love a good manipulative villain anyway.”

Despite their vastly different approaches to academics, Rosaline found herself settling into an unexpected ease beside Lando, tucked side by side at a library table crammed with frazzled students. They likely wouldn’t be best friends, but he was easygoing, and his humour added a lightness to what should have been a frustrating partnership. Normally, she’d be on edge, dreading the burden of carrying the project alone, but with Lando, it didn’t feel quite so dire. And when Rosaline felt at ease, her sharp wit had a way of slipping out effortlessly.

Without missing a beat, she replied back with a smirking, “Yeah, I got that impression when you ignored my text for five hours.”

Lando’s mouth twitched and he recoiled slightly in a dramatic show of feigned offence, “Oi, I told you—I had a valid excuse.”

“Streaming, yes, you said,” she retorted, “Five hours is a little excessive though.”

“It’s my job,” he corrected.

“Your job?”

“I have half a million followers on Twitch,” he explained, with only a hint of bragging in his tone, “I sometimes make, like, a couple grand a night.”

Rosaline couldn’t help the way her jaw literally dropped at his statement and Lando’s eyes scrunched at the corners with a small laugh at her reaction. Once she composed herself in the face of a man who somehow made exceedingly more than minimum wage in a single night and yet constantly had a look about him that he just rolled out of bed, she had to ask, “What do you stream?”

His face lit up at her interest, twirling his pen around between his fingers as he slouched back in the chair, “Bit of F124 mostly. I was doing a race against some of my viewers, but, like, I turned damage off ‘cause they just try to take me out for fun—”

“So you ignored me for five hours just to lose to a bunch of kids?”

Lando grinned, his voice raising a little in playful protest, “Mate, I don’t lose to kids. I just… strategically let them win sometimes.”

She shook her head, “I feel like this explains a lot.”

Lando chuckled, clicking his pen absentmindedly, “You ever watch F1?”

“Once or twice. I watched the race last weekend with my—” she caught herself, “friend.”

“Yeah?” Lando straightened up, seemingly coming alive as the conversation drifted from literature to Formula 1, “Who does your friend support?”

“Hamilton.” 

“Ugh, of course, easy answer, going for the greatest of all time,” Lando tutted with a roll of his eyes before pointing his pen at her, “If you’re not a Piastri fan, we can’t be friends.”

Rosaline laughed lightly, raising her hands in defence, “I don’t even remember which one that was.”

Lando let out a scandalized gasp, but before he could launch into what she suspected was a passionate rant, she turned back to her notes. 

“Anyway, back to Rochester—”

Perhaps Lando meant what he said about wanting to try because, much to Rosaline’s pleasant surprise, he seemed somewhat invested as they began to buckle down to work. They huddled over the copy of her book together and typed up notes on her tabbed pages and discussed how they would want to tackle their overarching joint essay. Lando asked her questions about the book in parts he didn’t understand and he seemed to cling onto her every word as she rambled in reply about the plot and the characters and the deeper meanings. And it wasn’t too serious either, with Lando, of course, offering unserious banter to keep the pressure of University assignments at a minimum. 

It was almost nice. 

“He’s a hero ‘cause he’s rich and has a big house,” Lando declared, his knee nudging hers under the table.

Rosaline deadpanned, “That’s your argument?”

“Yeah. ‘Cause that’s, like, the whole reason she falls for him, innit?”

Rosaline sighed despite her amused smile at his ridiculousness, shaking her head, “I am so writing the opening paragraph.”

Just as Lando let out a laugh, a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Well, well, well,”

Rosaline’s head snapped up to see Max and Charles approaching their table, hand in hand, each wearing knowing grins. Max had his backpack slung over his opposite shoulder as if they had either just arrived or were just about to leave. Silently, she hoped it was the latter. 

Rosaline’s expression faltered like she wasn’t sure how she felt about the appearance of two of her best friends. Sure, she hadn’t seen them in a while, but with these two—especially Max—no one could know what he was going to say. Especially as they stumbled across her sitting there with a boy; she knew how it could look. So, Rosaline asked as casually as she could, “What are you two doing here?”

“Studying for midterms,” Max shrugged, lifting the shoulder carrying his backpack before nodding toward the pair of them. His casual smile did little to mask the amusement dancing in his eyes. Rosaline could see it—the barely contained Max comments waiting to strike. “You?”

“Just working on an assignment,” she answered plainly, nudging her glasses up her nose with the back of her index finger.

Charles, practically vibrating with curiosity, blurted out in a squeaky rush, “Is this the mystery guy?”

Rosaline’s stomach dropped, “What?”

Max snickered, eyeing up incredibly confused Lando for a second, “You know. The guy.”

“N-No! He’s not— This is— It’s just an assigned partnership for a class assignment,” Rosaline spluttered, glaring at Max and Charles. “Can you not—?”

“Mm, that’s what they all start out as, don’t they?” Max teased a little more. 

“Mystery guy?” Lando looked between Rosaline and her friends, suddenly immensely curious, “What mystery guy?”

She shut her eyes briefly, willing the ground to swallow her whole. Really, the last thing she needed was for Lando to know about her secret escapades that even her closest friends weren’t technically supposed to know about at all. Although she had been comfortable around Lando since they had met up, something about him made her believe he wasn’t the greatest secret keeper.

Charles just laughed softly, in that fond way he always did, “Alright, alright, mon cœur, if you say. We will let you work.”

“Yes. Bye.” she replied curtly, desperately just willing that moment to end. 

Charles, still grinning, leaned down to press a quick kiss to her cheek in parting before letting Max tug him away, their hands still laced together.

Now left alone again with Lando, Rosaline huffed and looked back to her laptop, very sure there was an immensely obvious blush across her cheeks. She tried to focus on the notes she had written in the document staring back at her but her mind felt frazzled. 

Beside her, Lando was quiet for a moment, then shifted in his seat, “So…” he said, his voice more curious than teasing. “A mystery guy?”

Rosaline flipped open her notebook with an air of finality, “We have work to do.”

Lando didn’t push right away, but she could feel his eyes on her, studying her reaction. She could only silently hope he didn’t go pressing the matter. She had never been a great liar.

“They really got under your skin with that,” he observed, his tone softer than before. Soft in a way she didn’t realize he was quite capable of. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear without tearing her eyes away from the lined pages of her notebook, “It’s just… complicated.”

Lando nodded, although he didn’t seem quite satisfied. He simply leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, “So… who’s the guy?”

Rosaline nudged her glasses farther up her nose again, gaze still downcast, “There is no guy.”

He hesitated for half a second before nodding, “Right.”

Even she could tell that he didn’t quite believe her. 

But, instead of pushing the situation, Lando nodded towards the novel laying open between them, “Alright. Jane Eyre. Tell me why I’m about to lose this debate.”

She glanced at him, caught off guard by how easily he shifted back to their assignment. She had expected more teasing, more of that cheshire cat grin—but instead, there was just this strange sort of attentiveness, like he actually cared if she was flustered or agitated, wanting to make her more comfortable.

She let out a breath of relief at the change of subject, a tentative smirk pricking at her expression, “Because I actually know what I’m talking about?”

Lando huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he clicked his pen a few times, “Yeah, yeah. Let’s see about that.”

The following night, Friday, Rosaline, once again, found herself in Professor Russell’s house, laying with him in his bed, both naked apart from his bedsheets. It has become an unspoken routine—every weekend, somehow, escaping to the privacy of his townhome and away from the prying eyes of Oxford; a place for them to just be. 

After a rather experimental attempt at 69-ing (an overrated position, George had claimed and, afterwards, Rosaline heartily agreed), they were cuddled up in his bed. She had her head on his chest and his fingers dancing aimlessly over her arm and shoulder, the room silent apart from the sounds of their breathing and the pattering of rain on the window.

George turned his head to press a soft kiss to Roaline’s forehead and she smiled softly, melting into his touch. She could feel her heart doing somersaults in her chest, her stomach filling with butterflies just like it always did when he showed her affection. It was still all so new to her but she was growing more and more comfortable with it, loving the way physical touch sent warmth through her veins in a feeling that was so hard to accurately describe in her writing. 

For once, it was nice to not have to live and experience through only her written word.

“How’s your debate assignment going?” George asked softly into her hair.

Rosaline tilted her head back a little to look up into his eyes, an amused smile, “Is that your idea of pillow talk? Discussing class assignments?”

George laughed lowly, his chest rumbling faintly under her cheek, and she smiled wider at the sound of his joy. He rubbed her shoulder, his tone soft, “No, but after how unhappy you were with me on Tuesday, I was wondering if you had a change of heart.”

“Mm,” Rosaline pondered her answer—a tad dramatically—as if she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. Her hand gently rubbed across his bare pecs, fingers absentmindedly dragging through the faint dusting of chest hair between them. Finally, she relented, “it’s surprisingly okay, I guess.”

“Okay?” George echoed, leaning away from her a little to look into her eyes, “You’re not just doing the whole thing yourself, are you?”

“No,” she chuckled faintly at how well he knew her tendencies, “I met with Lando in the library yesterday and he was very…helpful actually. Very willing to actually try.”

“Really?” George replied, the simple answer slightly drawn out in disbelief. 

She snuggled into his chest some more and his arm instinctively tightened around her as she continued, “He was being so odd yesterday…very out of character, I assumed.”

“Odd? Such as?” encouraged George. 

Rosaline went on to summarize their meet-up to him and George listened quietly, his fingers still lazily dancing over her shoulder and holding her close. She explained how Lando complimented her intelligence and how he made a point of saying he really wanted to pull his weight in the assignment, how he kept making jokes that were somewhat actually funny, how when Max and Charles teased her about being with him, he seemed strangely comforting. 

She left out the part about the curiosity about her mystery man, however. George didn’t need to know that her friends knew even the slightest bit of information about them. 

When she finished her spiel, George hummed in acknowledgement before replying, a hint of amusement in his tone, “All that you told me makes it sound like he’s into you.”

Rosaline scoffed with a roll of her eyes, “No way.”

George laughed just enough to have her glancing up at him and he leaned in to kiss her forehead again before speaking, “Oh, darling, you really are a little oblivious to male attention, aren’t you?”

“Hey,” Rosaline frowned. 

“I say it kindly,” he reassured her, cuddling her closer under the sheets, keeping her naked body warm against his, “but, honestly, I’ve always wondered how you’ve never had a boyfriend or experienced male interest because you’re so gorgeous and so intelligent and so witty…but you have, you just didn’t realize.”

“Lando Norris is not into me,” Rosaline said firmly, propping herself up on her elbow to look him in the eyes but she couldn’t hide the slight hint of panic in her own. 

“Consider me your in into the college-age male brain.” George pitched, tucking her hair behind her ear, “Not only have I been one, but I am around them daily.”

She nibbled at her bottom lip. Her mind was whirling.

“Did he sit across from you or beside you?” George asked, diving into a slight interrogation to help her see the reality of the situation. 

Rosaline hesitated as if not wanting to tell him the truth, “Beside me, but—”

“Was there a spot available across from you?”

She paused. Then, softly, “Yeah.”

“Did he touch you at all? Graze of your hand, nudging your arm when he made a joke, leaning into your space?”

“I mean, we shared my copy of Jane Eyre so we had to be close—”

“You were in a library which houses dozens of copies of Jane Eyre.”

With a groan, Rosaline flopped face first into his pillow with a whining, elongated, “Stop.”

George laughed warmly at her momentary distress and he rolled over closer to rub her back, right between her shoulder blades, as if he found the entire situation entertaining. Rosaline was having a full blown existential crisis and he was entertained. 

“So what if he likes you?” George inquired, “It’s not the end of the world.”

Rosaline turned her face out of the pillow to look at him, very aware that she was likely blushing like a fool, only made worse by his handsome face already staring right back at her in such close proximity. She nibbled at her bottom lip for a moment and he reached over to gently drag the pad of his thumb over it to urge her to release it.

She sighed and answered in a timid voice, “I don’t want him to like me…because I like you.”

It sounded stupid and childish the moment it came out of her mouth and for a second she willed it to be swallowed back in. But George smiled and gave a piece of her hair a little playful tug before he leaned in to kiss the corner of her mouth with how she was half hidden in his pillow. 

“I like you too,” he assured her, his voice a warm whisper, “And don’t think for one second I’m just going to pass you off to some college boy who doesn’t know the difference between Jane Eyre and Charlotte Brontë.”

Rosaline melted into an easy smile, slinging an arm around his shoulders to lift her head up long enough to press a lingering kiss to his mouth. Their eyes shut and they shared a few lingering kisses, tangled under his bed sheets, bonded by confessions of adoration. It was a small reassurance but one that had Rosaline’s heart soaring. No one else could compare to him. Oh, she was falling for him…harder than she ever anticipated.

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[sapphicjackal]

Bingyuan Soulmate au 3

Part 1 Part 2

Shen Yuan was overjoyed now that he had made contact with his Soulmate at last. Binghe was absolutely precious. The burst of his emotions written into his words were all so genuine and adoring. Once Binghe knew that they were soulmates, he all but bloomed into an adorable white lotus. The way he writes in a more formal and archaic dialect is charming, especially since it’s paired with the calligraphy brush he consistently uses. Shen Yuan finds his quirks overwhelmingly cute.

They had only known each other for two days, but Shen Yuan was working out something of a pattern for Binghe’s messages. He would wake up well before Shen Yuan, leaving a message on his wrist like Shen Yuan has done for years. Then Binghe will be busy for the rest of the day until late at night.

Maybe he works on a farm? 

Shen Yuan tried to picture an adorable (because there’s no way that Binghe isn’t the cutest thing in existence) child waking up with the sun to work on a farm. Shen Yuan doesn’t really know what work is done on a farm. It would probably be a lot of manual labor. Binghe’s too young to be working all day!

What if he’s one of those kids stuck in a sweatshop forced to do labor?

The thought of it breaks Shen Yuan’s heart, and fills him with protective fury.

His soulmate is a lot younger than him, so Shen Yuan has been trying to keep the conversation more shallow to protect his soulmate’s privacy and safety. However, he’s getting the feeling that Binghe isn’t in a great situation. 

Not knowing about soulmates indicates a level of isolation and deliberate ignorance. Being illiterate at 10 implies a level of disenfranchisement. The long hours that Binghe keeps where he’s too occupied to talk. Those emotions of fragile hope and loneliness that undercurrent some of his words.

Something is wrong, and Shen Yuan should address it sooner rather than later.

“Bing-er could you tell me where you live?” Shen Yuan writes during the afternoon, knowing Binghe will likely respond later that night. He keeps imparts emotions of curiosity, concern, and care, hoping Binghe will feel safe enough to tell him, even if they hadn’t known each other long.

He had to wait a few hours but finally he felt the tingle of a brush dragging across his skin. 

“This Binghe is a disciple of Cang Qiong Mountain’s Qing Jing Peak” Binghe wrote. Shen Yuan stared blankly at the words. He would doubt them, but he can feel the truth in the words. 

Soulmates can tell when the other is lying, because the communication is between two souls that are linked together. Soulmates can lie to each other verbally, but words written on skin can only be true to the soul, if they’re dishonest then your soulmate can tell.

Shen Yuan pulled up his phone and looked up Qing Jing Peak, not expecting anything to come up. He was surprised to get results. However the results were to a web page of a relatively new Web novel called <Proud Immortal Demon Way> which only has 4 published chapters.

Shen Yuan read the summary in disbelief, his eyes skimming over it before reading it over and over again to make sure he got it right. The main character’s name is Luo Binghe, named after the river that his washerwoman adoptive mother found him floating in after being abandoned in a basket on the coldest day of winter. 

Shen Yuan didn’t understand what was happening. He didn’t think that Binghe was lying, their bond would tell him. Why would Binghe introduce himself as a character in a web novel that had barely started and had practically no audience. It made no sense.

None of this makes sense.

Shen Yuan can feel the tingle of a brush on his arm, Binghe must be wondering why he was taking so long to reply. Shen Yuan decided to read <Proud Immortal Demon Way> tomorrow during the day while Binghe is busy. He wouldn’t ask any questions that could make Binghe think that he doubted him. Shen Yuan just knows that it would shatter Binghe’s heart.

“Yuan-ge?” Binghe had written, light impatience mixed with a hint of nervousness and hopeful anticipation.

Shen Yuan decides to just go along with whatever Binghe says. No need to contradict him.

“I’m not a part of any sect. How do you find Qing Jing Peak?” Shen Yuan asked.

This time it was Binghe who took a long time to respond.

“This one likes Qing Jing Peak. Qing Jing Peak does not like this Binghe.” Binghe says, his words carry with them the faintest amount of bitterness, with a stronger mixture of sorrow, pain, and loneliness. The words feel like a whispered confession, like a truth too terrible to speak aloud. It feels vulnerable and painful raw in its honesty.

Shen Yuan’s heart hurts with the words. He has gotten so used to Binghe’s overwhelming vibrance, it makes it all the more clear how achingly diminished he feels in those words. All the brewing heartache that’s being exposed.

Shen Yuan glances at the summary page for a web novel, seeing the tags that promise a revenge story and power fantasy. It’s exactly the type of web novel that Shen Yuan likes to read. He pushes away all of his confusion and doubts to focus on what’s important, Binghe.

“I don’t know how anyone could not like Luo Binghe.” Shen Yuan writes, soaking the words with protective anger and overflowing adoration. Binghe is a good boy. Binghe deserves the world. Shen Yuan has only had him for 3 days but if anything happened to Luo Binghe, Shen Yuan would kill everybody in the world and then himself. 

“Yuan-ge!” Binghe writes, joy tinged lightly with heartache.

Shen Yuan changed the subject to instead ask about what Binghe was learning. Binghe told him that Qing Jing Peak was a Peak of scholars and that he was meant to learn the 4 Arts. However he wasn’t allowed into the classes with the other disciples and he was told to do chores instead of cultivating. 

It filled Shen Yuan with indignation. 

“I don’t know if my education holds up to Qing Jing Peak standards, but I have been learning the Four Arts. I’ll teach you whatever I can.” Shen Yuan wrote. He began trying to think of the best ways to teach the subjects with limited space and an inability to actually demonstrate in person. It would be difficult, but written instruction could hopefully help Binghe in some way.

“Thank you Yuan-ge!” Binghe wrote enthusiastically, filled with anticipation and hope. His brush strokes were messier than usual with his giddiness. 

Shen Yuan smiled at his arm. He had been thinking about becoming a teacher after he found tutoring his meimei to be enjoyable. Maybe this could be like his test? He’ll take this seriously, only the best for his Binghe. 

That means that Shen Yuan will have to do deep research into the four arts to expand his knowledge, and also work on putting together lesson plans. He should also look into teaching methods. (Not to mention the fact that his soulmate might just be the protagonist of a xianxia novel, a fact he was studiously putting out of mind and out of sight, meaning he should also research cultivation type settings.)

The bottom line is that his soulmate needs help, and after 15 years of waiting, Shen Yuan is prepared to do anything for his soulmate.

Part 4

[voraciouskingdom]

It’s been said that you cannot give away what you do not have. One of the most spiritually important insights or secrets in life is that you already have, and always have had, what you need to give away. If you impart the message that ‘I am not worthy’ the universe will send it straight back in many shapes, forms and circumstances. When we say ‘give me’ we are imparting this message. We are saying we think we need to get something to complete ourselves or prove our worth.

Most of us are taught to live a life of "gimmie gimmie gimmie" – always striving, desiring, wanting, struggling. We do so only because we think that when we get what we want we will be fulfilled and esteemed by others. But it’s an illusion. We are all already complete and worthy but we cannot know it and experience it, until we give it away.

Only giving allows us to know what we are and what we have within. Ask the question – how can I serve? The intention to serve will point you towards what you need to give. If the intention is real it also generates the will. The most successful people in life are not go getters, but go givers.

🔥❤️‍🔥

[divine-motion]

the thing about Handler Walter (his full christian name) is that he's a really horrible guy. he's a guy who's decided that he needs to be an extremely cold, pragmatic, paranoid man willing to use anyone and anything to "right the wrongs of the past" (which is to burn it all down and commit genocide, even if he doesn't know that Coral is sentient that is still what he's doing, plus i imagine every Rubiconian dies too in the Fires ending or are at the very least heading towards a slow death of starvation and such)

but

he's also really sentimental, something he's tried really hard to bury to be the man he feels he needs to be in order to fulfill the legacy passed onto him and Carla. this is why he ends up caring a lot about C4-621 aka Raven (aka G13 aka... the list goes on) and probably all his previous hounds too. he doesn't want to do what he's done to them - using them as slave soldiers, attack dogs to throw into the meat grinder as necessary sacrifices even though he himself is at least capable as a pilot. he lets 617, 618, 619, 620 and who knows how many others get killed because he thinks it's better that they die than that he dies before he can finish the mission. this then likely changes with 621 as he determines that they have a better shot at finishing the mission than he ever did and makes sure that they escape rather than him (also maybe pragmatically thinking "if Arquebus re-educates 621 then everyone loses forever" bc he has at this point discovered that he pulled god's greatest killing machine out from the bottom of the bargain bin) in addition, while i think him wanting to get 621 Raven to "buy their life back" and "undo the surgery, become 'normal' again" is a genuine desire for them to attain some happiness or so, i think it is also, mainly, a way for him to feel better about what he's done to them. a way to wash the sins of his father from his hands - sure, the blood of every other hound is on his hands, and there are still plenty of old gens suffering similar fates to 621, being treated like dogs and machines that can just be switched on or off whenever their Handlers want to, but at least this one made it out, at least this one could escape the Coral

and yet. asking them to burn Rubicon. is dooming them. history knows them as the monster who burned the stars from then on. there is no peace for a hound that chooses to carry on his legacy that he imparts to them.

sure, Walter is kind of, textually, Raven's dad. and he's kind of a bad dad. well-meaning and caring in his own gruff way, but still not great. i think he puts it himself best in the post-credits message, where he says "I'm sorry... and I'm grateful." he knows what a burden it is. and despite the fact that he gives Raven a lot of choices in what they do, it doesn't really change that Raven never got to choose to even go to Rubicon, the legacy is still something thrust onto them with little say in the matter. they were switched off by the cerebral Coral control device when they were being transported to Rubicon, and Walter holds the power over them completely since he decides when or even if Raven gets to be awake and about. i think it is very telling that Raven can and will take jobs that are specifically behind Walter's back, and that it's only once Walter's gone that they dare to go against him directly (or when offered protection by ALLMIND, who proves themself to be able to circumvent Walter's watchful eye).

that's not even to say that i think that 621 Raven hates Walter or anything! the fact that in the liberator ending, after he puts the gun down with the "you found a friend" line, Raven is backing away at first, keeping their eye on Walter as long as they can before turning to escape the Xylem being pulled down by Rubicon's gravity, all that i think means that they do care. the emotional core of that ending hinges on the fact they don't want to fight Walter. it's like how you kind of inevitably love your parents even if you know how they've mistreated you (not saying this is universal but it's what i know from personal experience and from a lot of friends i have that have been in similar situations to me).

but anyways. the point is. i really like walter. he kind of sucks! and i think we should explore the side of Raven that isn't slavishly loyal to him, because they very obviously aren't, or else they wouldn't be so comfortable repeatedly going behind his back. Fires ending is an exception tho since, as i've pointed out in another post, the one where you actively choose to remain nothing more than Walter's faithful hound

[midnightbears]

✿ duskbound, afterlight.

#STARRING: cybertronian femme reader & other characters.

#TAGS: none i can think about???? megatronus appearance lol

#NOTES: sorry i forgot i also had this fic on tumblr lol it's a lot more updated on ao3 / thank you to @juicygf for her OC, Echo! I hope I have done her justice for her small appearance in the chap! Reminder that if you would like your oc to appear on the story, feel free to leave a comment or send me a message!

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six

Bluey took nearly three days to half-forgive you for that stunt you pulled with the Overseers.

It took even longer for the controversy to gradually die out in the simmering city of Kaon, the audacious scandal of the self-named gladiator, aka you, barraging through the underbelly of the city. The uproar sent tremors through the working bots of the lowest levels, stirring them from their routines and igniting a firestorm of controversy that, frankly, lasted longer than you would have liked.

If the rumors circulating among your comrades held any truth, your actions had caused quite the commotion outside of Kaon.

Your exploits spread like wildfire among the segment of the population that avidly followed the entertainment and broadcasts surrounding the gladiatorial fights. The rebroadcast of your match took the Grid by storm, particularly the 15-second clip that captured the explicit moment when you simply lost it at the disrespect you were facing. The sheer force of your actions made you a topic of fascination and debate throughout the community.

You wondered if your old comrades had heard of this.

Did the miners at Nuna 5PY recall the fierce figure that had defiantly hurled that shard of plating at the crime bosses who loomed over the brutal gladiatorial matches of Kaon? Did they see in her the image of the introverted, helpless-looking worker from the H branch, the one who had, through no fault of her own, been thrust into the role of living entertainment in a world that thrived on suffering? 

What might H–01 think of you now? And what of Starlight—had she been alive, would her clear gaze still recognize the essence of who you were? Would they see remnants of your former self entombed beneath the layers of the lessons you had learned, or would they only see the ruthless warrior you were slowly becoming? 

What would you even say to them? I swear, it wasn’t me. The Pits changed me. I had to do it. They made me. I made myself do it. To survive. To stay alive. To avenge you. To avenge all of us. Because I was scared. Because I was enraged. Because I did not want to die. Because I lost everything. Because everything was at stake. Because I had nothing to lose. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Because I wanted to prove I could. Because I hated them. Because I hated myself. Because it felt right. Because it felt wrong. Because I couldn’t stop. Because stopping would mean admitting it. Admitting that maybe this is who I always was. Or maybe this is who they made me. Maybe it’s who I had to become. Maybe it’s who I need to be. Maybe it’s too late to change. Maybe I don’t want to.

Between these mumbling thoughts, it became near impossible to discern which were the veracious whispers of your spark and which were the treacherous insinuations of your mind. It was so strange. It was born out of the silence of injustice, the moment you felt the gaping absence of fairness. It changed you, redesigned your beliefs, and imparted knowledge as heavy as stone.

Would they understand if you told them how the days in the dark bled together, how the screams of others became the sounds of the wins? Would they see the trembling servos that first held the blade and understand how they became steady with practice, helmed by obligation?

Or would they turn from you, repulsed by the monster you’d become? You wondered if they would hear the echoes of your defiance in the acts you committed or only see the emptiness you carried now. When you finally stood before them—whether in this life or the next—what could you say that would bridge the chasm of who you had been and who you were now?

Could you ever explain that it was a single moment that changed you? Would that be enough? Would you be enough?

Were you really the same femme you once had been? Or were you merely donning her old protoform? 

You paid the price to satiate your spite. You fed your anger; you willingly did it.

What did that say about you?

As everything does, the rumors and whispers faded away. The result was a welcome reprieve; no longer did Bluey or your newfound band of companions feel the need to shadow your every move, their initial worry easing as the crowds of enthusiastic gladiators retreated into the background, no longer clamoring to voice their admiration or to share their astonishment at your audacity.

What bothered you most was that you had not been punished.

You mulled over it as you meticulously honed the edges of various weapons, the lilting scrape of metal against metal breaking the otherwise stillness of the room. With no matches slated for the day, Bluey practically dragged you to the armory you both frequented for peace and quiet.

You were still waiting for one of your comrades to appear, but in order to pass the time, you had come up with the lame excuse of wanting to sharpen some blades in order to save yourself from the imminent conversation Bluey wanted to have.

Inside the pits, the armories were considered a place to reprieve, its cavernous walls holding so many forms of violence in different shapes, its tools long since outmoded or discarded, awaiting purpose or oblivion. Away from everything else, among the scuffed blades and tarnished plating, you could think— or at least attempt to.

Bluey was perched on the edge of a disused weapons rack, his frame slouched but optics trained on you with the sharp attentiveness that he hid so well, so carefully. He knew what you were doing, and yet he was entertaining your wishes. Although, only for a short time.

“Shanix for your thoughts,” Bluey’s voice cut through the quiet. His tone lacked its usual romp and jest, replaced with something softer, something more sympathetic. “Seriously, are you still thinking about it?”

You didn’t look up. “Shouldn’t I be? Nobody gets away with what I did. Not really.”

“Not many are crazy enough to do what you did,” Bluey countered, folding his arms as his gaze shifted to the weapons etched into the wall behind you.

You scoffed. “I don’t know what you expect me to do. Forget about it? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

“You could start by not acting like you’re waiting for a firing squad. You made your point. So, what? You want punishment? You want them to come down here, drag you out, and make an example of you?” His voice sharpened, his optics flickering with barely restrained frustration. “Because if you do, you’re not just slagging yourself—you’re slagging me and everyone else who’s been backing your sorry aft. No one who saw that clip’s going to forget it anytime soon, so maybe you ought to let it go.”

His words stung in a way they weren’t meant to. Let it go. As if it was that simple. As if the memory of the Overseers’ dismissive sneers and the crash of energon cubes toppling in front of their lofty perch didn’t appear behind your optics every time you closed them. The image still flashed in your mind, unbidden—the way their optics finally snapped to you, the way the entire pit seemed to hold its collective breath as you turned and walked out like you owned it.

“It wasn’t about making a point,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Bluey didn’t miss a beat. “Oh no, throwing a hunk of scrap at their fancy energon stash was just a friendly little gesture, then? Sure fooled me.”

This time, you did look up, fixing him with a glare. “They weren’t even watching, Bluey. I could’ve been anybot out there, and it wouldn’t have mattered to them. All we are to them is noise. Static.”

“Static doesn’t throw tantrums,” he shot back. “Static doesn’t stop the show cold and have bots talking about it across half the Grid. You’re not static, and you’re slagging well smart enough to know it.”

The truth in his words twisted uncomfortably in your chassis, and you hated that he was right. You hated that, in the moment, you hadn’t thought past your own anger to the weight of what it meant to act on it. To take what you were feeling and throw it—literally—in their faces. You’d discarded the one thing Bluey had drilled into you and now you were paying the price. You opened your mouth to argue, but he held up a servo to stop you.

“You’re scared,” he said after a long pause, “Not of what you did, but what it means.”

With a solemn swallow, you darted your helm away. Just before the mech could speak, he was so close to doing so as his dermas were parted, the doors to the armory bolted open, letting him see the hallway for a second. He saw a pair of sentry guards passing by the doors, but his attention was only caught a split second by them before he redirected his optics to the reason the entrance had opened in the first place.

With airy steps, a femme made her way toward the two of you. To your surprise, behind her followed Megatronus.

Bluey bristled, leaning his servo on the table. “I thought we agreed on a private hangout, Echo.”

The femme looked at him with a raised optic ridge, her expression as unimpressed as ever.

“We did,” Echo said flatly, her voice cool and laced with that signature sarcasm that always seemed to cut right to the point. “Then he decided to invite himself along.”

She thumbed over her shoulder at Megatronus's imposing figure. The towering gladiator's sheer presence filled the armory, his optics sweeping over the room like he was already cataloging the weapons in sight.

The room seemed smaller now, the oppressive silence filling every corner as Megatronus stepped further inside. The dim light and shadows seemed to bend and curl around him, his presence pulling the atmosphere taut like a wire about to snap. Even among gladiators, he was larger than life—a figure carved out of myths and whispered stories that no one dared to speak aloud. His armor gleamed faintly, the darkened metal catching just enough light to highlight the scars etched into its surface, each one a mark of battles fought, victories earned, and enemies crushed.

Bluey shifted uneasily at your side, his servo tightening around the edge of the table. His usually easygoing demeanor—the casual grins, the sly remarks—was nowhere to be found. Now, his optics flickered with tension, darting toward you for something unspoken, something grounding.

"Didn’t realize we were hosting a fragging summit," he spoke directly in Megatronus’s direction, the strain in his voice betraying his attempt at humor. His words cut through the silence with ease, but they did little to lighten the weight in the room.

If anything, the tension seemed to thicken, settling heavily over you. Your spark pulsed harder in your chest as Megatronus’s optics locked onto you, pinning you in place with their suffocating intensity. His gaze wasn’t just commanding—it was predatory, cold, and unrelenting. There was no pretense of curiosity, no veneer of civility. He was here for a purpose, and whatever it was, it loomed larger than any excuse you could muster.

But you’d be damned if you let him intimidate you now. You stepped forward, mindful of Bluey’s optics trailing your every move. “What do you want?”

“You’ve made an impression,” Megatronus said at last. His voice was low, a resonant growl that seemed to reverberate through the walls and into your plating.

The urge to meet his intensity burned within you, but you forced it down, keeping your tone even. You knew better than to show weakness, yet every instinct screamed at you to tread carefully.

“That depends on what kind of impression you mean,” you replied, your voice steady despite the storm raging in your processor.

For a brief moment, the corner of Megatronus’s mouth twitched upward—not quite a smile, but enough to send a shiver down your spinal strut. “One worth investigating.”

The silence that followed was oppressive, each second stretching longer than the last. Bluey shot you another sharp glance, his optics narrowing as though willing you to say or do something that wouldn’t get you both scrapped.

You swallowed hard, drawing in a shallow intake. “I asked you, what do you want?”

Megatronus stepped closer, his imposing frame towering over you. His optics narrowed slightly, studying you with an intensity that felt almost surgical. When he finally spoke, his voice was a deep, measured rumble. “An answer. Not to what you did, but to why you did it.”

His words hung in the air like a blade suspended over your helm, waiting to drop. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet as his question bore down on you, the walls closing in with the weight of every optic fixed on you.

Beside you, Bluey tensed, his servo twitching just slightly toward the blade you’d been sharpening earlier. The movement was subtle, but you caught it, your spark stuttering at the thought of what might happen if things escalated.

Lying would have been easy. You could’ve spun a story, fabricated some excuse that might’ve deflected his scrutiny. But Megatronus wasn’t the kind of mech to accept falsehoods, and you weren’t sure you wanted to risk what might happen if he saw through one. Whatever answer you gave, it had to be the truth—or at least a truth that he’d believe.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, “Because someone needed to remind them we’re more than their entertainment.”

For a moment, Megatronus said nothing, his optics boring into yours as if measuring the strength of your resolve. Behind you, Echo seemed to pause, her posture stiffening ever so slightly as she watched the scene unfold.

Finally, Megatronus nodded.

“Good,” he said simply, his tone as sharp as it was final. “Then you’re exactly the kind of bot we’ve been looking for.”

“Looking for?” you echoed, tilting your helm slightly as you folded your arms. There was a spark of defiance in your optics, one that you knew full well Megatronus wouldn’t miss. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t jump at the chance to be part of whatever ominous plot you’re about to drop on us.”

Megatronus’s optics gleamed faintly, his expression unreadable, though the faintest edge of amusement tugged at the corner of his lip component.

“I expected hesitation,” he said, his tone bearing a poundage that hinted he was more intrigued by your reaction than insulted. “But not doubt. I thought you had conviction.”

Your spark pulsed harder, though you refused to let it show. “Conviction isn’t the same as blind faith. If you want me involved, try using actual words instead of ominous statements.”

Bluey let out a soft, barely audible whistle. “She’s going to regret saying that…”

Echo snorted from her perch near him, lowering her voice. “Nah, I’m betting she survives. Megatronus doesn’t usually scrap his recruits on the first meeting. Makes for bad morale.”

The towering mech’s optics flicked briefly toward her, a fleeting but sharp glance that silenced her with a single raised optic ridge.

“Enough,” he said, his tone dismissive, though not unkind. His focus returned to you, his looming presence swallowing the space between you in a way that felt both suffocating and oddly exhilarating.

“What we’re planning isn’t for the faint of spark,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low rumble that seemed to resonate through your frame. “It’s for those who are willing to challenge the rot festering in Kaon. To remind the so-called crime lords that their reign is built on the backs of those they consider expendable.”

Your optics narrowed slightly as you took in his words. He wasn’t just talking about rebellion—this was something more calculated, something bigger. “And you think I’m the right kind of bot for this... crusade?”

Megatronus’s voice dropped, the intensity palpable. “You’re more than the right kind of bot. You’re the perfect one! You’ve got fire, strategy, and the kind of grit that’ll get us past the ones who think they’re untouchable.”

“And if I say no?” you challenged, raising an optic ridge, feeling a defiant spark of anger flare within you. “What happens then?”

“Then you’ll have made a mistake,” Megatronus replied, his tone cold and unyielding. “One you won’t get a chance to correct.”

You held his gaze, unwilling to break. “Is that a threat?”

“Call it what you will,” he said. “But you’ll find that there's no backing out when you’re involved in this. Not if you value your spark.”

The challenge tainting his words was clear. You tilted your helm and uncrossed your arms, the weight of his scrutiny sinking deep. “And if I decide to play along?”

Megatronus’s optics flickered, something unreadable flashing in their depths. “Then you’ll realize just how much you’re capable of. Soon enough.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” you asked.

His optics softened slightly, but only for a split second. “It should be. Because I wouldn’t have wasted my time if I didn’t think you had what it takes.”

You scoffed, taking a step back, feeling the pressure of his presence like a vice. “So, you’re just going to throw me into your plans and hope I don’t get caught in the gears, huh?”

Megatronus took a step closer, his frame almost imposing enough to block out the dim light. “You’re already caught, whether you realize it or not. Follow my lead, and you’ll find out soon enough.”

But you weren’t done yet. “What if I don’t follow your lead? What if I do things my way?”

For a split second, Megatronus seemed to consider it, his optics glinting with something dangerous. Then, his dermas curled into a smile, though it was anything but warm. He crossed his arms, extending a servo out. “Then we’ll find out who’s better at this game.”

The words dangled between you like a challenge, a threat, and an invitation all at once. You weren’t sure which you disliked more.

“What game?”

“You will realize,” he said, his voice dropping to an almost intimate whisper. “Soon enough.”

Your optics narrowed further. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get,” he replied smoothly, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps?—dancing behind his optics. “For now.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

With one last lingering look, Megatronus turned to leave, his massive frame moving with the grace of a predator—always hunting, always calculating. The sound of his heavy steps echoed as the doors to the armory hissed shut behind him, leaving the three of you alone.

Echo’s optics lingered on the door for a moment longer before she turned to you, a crooked frown tugging at the corner of her dermas. "Well, that was dramatic. I’ve seen more convincing threats from half-welded scrap drones."

Bluey snorted at that, the sound breaking some of the tension in the room. "Yeah, well, remind me to avoid half-welded scrap drones if they’re anything like him."

You didn’t smile. You didn’t even laugh. It wasn’t funny.

Instead, you simply gazed at the vacant spot where Megatronus had been, sensing the heaviness of his challenge weighing down on you like a persistent pain and pulling you down with it, sinking into your tanks. He had presented you with a decision, but that wasn’t what troubled you the most. It was the realization that, deep inside, you understood it was an offer that would change everything.

There would be no going back from this.

No easy way to evade it.

You didn’t look at your friends at first. You just reached for your blade, the cool metal a familiar weight in your servo. You ran your digits over the edge, feeling the sharpness, the perfection of its form.

You would have to make your choice soon, and there would be no going back after it.

In that moment, you realized something: You hadn’t just been fighting for survival. You’d been fighting for control. And whatever happened next, you weren’t going to let anyone take that from you.

Not Bullway. Not any other overseer. Not any gladiator who thought they could taint you. Not Megatronus. Not anybot else.

[whenlifeisscaryanddepressing]

A message to my American brothers and sisters whose candidate lost this election:

Firstly, I am neither American nor did I vote for your election so do take what I say with a grain of salt.

I’m writing to you guys because I know how you feel. I’ve been there.

During the 2020 Presidential election of the Philippines, I too supported a movement. Not a candidate—a movement. A female presidential candidate who raised hope, became a champion for marginalized communities whose only goal was to create opportunities to shift my country away from the vitriol that came from a previous president who strong armed my country into a bloody war on drugs that saw the death of thousands of poor people.

And like you, I lost.

With the spread of misinformation and lies, my country elected the son of a dictator who proved himself to be the ineffective, incompetent and dishonest leader we all secretly hoped he wouldn’t be.

Our hopes dimmed.

Tears were shed.

Resentment flowered in us like a storm.

It was difficult to swallow the results of an election that had so much at stake. You see, like your President-elect, our current President spent millions of pesos contesting a fair election that saw him losing out to the vice presidential position during the previous election.

Through bullying and intimidation, he sought to undermine a fair election that took him out of power.

And like your current President-elect, he still managed to win at the end.

It would have been easier to accept the results had it not been for the mocking of 31 million Filipinos who voted our current president into office.

We all heard them tell us, “You’re crying over an election? You need better things to worry about.”

I want you to know that it’s okay to cry.

Your frustrations and disappointment are valid.

It is rare to find a candidate you’re able to place so much hope in and to have that hope dashed away is a bitter pill that is difficult to swallow.

I know, you’re probably tired of hearing it.

“Turn the other cheek.”

“Accept it and move on.”

“It is what it is.”

“There’s nothing more to do.”

It’s okay. I’m tired of it too.

I know you’re probably scared and angry and so, so, so tired. Two years after our election and I am still all of these things.

I still think about the what if, the what could have beens. I think a lot about how better off we would have been if the right person won.

I want you to know that it’s okay. It’s okay to mourn those things.

You did your part. You voted and you campaigned and you fought hard. Sometimes, we just lose.

If there’s any advice I can impart, it’s that I hope you take your frustration, your sadness, you exhaustion, your anger, and turn it into righteous fury.

Take that fury and do something with it.

Because the movement cannot stop here. The moment we stop fighting, they win.

To lose hope means victory for the other side.

I get it. It’s easier to get mad at the people who voted for him. It’s even easier to spew the same vitriolic hate towards them when they start complaining about how things don’t change and how your country is worse off but theirs is the vote that put a wannabe-dictator in power.

Don’t do it.

Because that divide is precisely why they keep winning. It’s the same divide they sowed into my country and we are still struggling to fight that division everyday.

Losing this election is a step backwards but losing hope would be another step back.

Even to this day, my presidential candidate continues to inspire hope for change in my country.

I know yours will too.

It’s not the end.

I need you to remember to breathe.

Breathe in the hope you desperately fought for;

breathe through the hurt of the loss;

and breathe out the fear they so badly want you to feel.

The road is long and it’s scary.

But there’s about 50 or so million other people on that road with you. You might not be the majority but even David was small when he killed Goliath.

Cause if you voted for Kamala Harris, you already know you have the courage and righteous fury to fight for change and you cannot give up now that you’re so close.

You lost the battle but it’s not the end of the war.

So tonight, grieve. Cry. Hug your friends and family who are right there with you. Be sad and mourn the loss of what could have been.

Because tomorrow, when you wake, you will continue fighting for change.

Because no one else will.

[threestarsaboveclouds]

I am wondering, how do you and how did the citizens previously inhabiting Zenith conceive of star groupings?

Through their positions in actual space or on their positions on the celestial sphere? (Or another way?)

Allow me to expand on my questions and on my motivations to ask them. You may also simply answer my above questions, if the answers to what I write below takes too much of your resources to transmit.

A lot of civilizations without access to astronomy observation instruments group stars based on their closeness on the celestial sphere. A common phenomenon is that imaginary lines are drawn between stars and the resulting shapes are used for ease of remembrance, to then aid in navigation and telling the date*. To give these shapes cultural significance is common as well; from tying into legends and religious tales, to believing the position of star groupings relative to the horizon have a precognitive meaning or are able to affect peoples mood or personality. Even as civilisations develop technology to better perceive the actual spacial arrangements of stars in space, the cultural significance often sticks around.

And well, all of that explaination of what is common is to ask; were the ancients an exception to that norm?

And if such cultural significance of star groupings based on their positions on the celestial sphere did exist in their civilization; did the cultural significance of star groupings "stick around" until the end of their civilization? Since the ancients civilization lasted longer than other documented civilizations, I am curious to know if those cultural significances got lost or changed as their civilization went on.

Did the population of Zenith differ in their perception of the stars/star groupings from what was the norm among ancients? I ask since I would imagine the population that lived in and around an iterator whose purpose is to observe the sky would have different academic and cultural knowledge about stars than the average ancient.

Thank you for your time, I hope this message finds you well.

*though I am not educated enough in astronomy to know whether telling the date through the position of stars on the celestial sphere is possible because of a planet's axial tilt, or because of what phase the planet's orbit around its star is in. Or a combination of the two?

(OOC: Just randomly thought of a question that might be interesting to answer, for TSAC in canon and for you to possibly worldbuild around! So I thought I'd ask it. Thinking of how a non-human advanced civilisation might conceive of constellations or if they've moved to a different way to commonly group stars definitely gets my sci-fi-worldbuilding gears turning! And you as someone more knowledge about astronomy might find it even more interesting than me. So yeah. Hope you have fun! Wishing you a good day :D)

TSAC: Star groupings were a vital part of the mythology of my creators. Scholars of bedrock-horizon archeology also believe that any civilizations that came before might have had similar beliefs, but concrete evidence of this has long since been subsumed by the Void Sea.

Early on in my creators' history, the stars were used in a similar manner to those you mentioned; they were used to aid in navigation, track the passage of time, and predict the most optimal times for planting and harvest of crops. However, spiritual significance was imparted upon the stars as well.

My creators placed great importance upon the Great Cycle and its manifestations; one of which being the cycles present in the sky. Early astronomers believed that the Sun, Moon, and other celestial bodies were all attached to fixed spheres which moved around our planet. The most distant of these spheres was the Firmament, to which the stars were affixed.

Before advances in astronomy enabled precise measurements of the movements of celestial bodies, this model of the universe was considered praxis. The Spheres represented the cycle in its purest form, with each celestial object perfectly repeating a daily cycle of rise and set, life and death, with no deviations from this expected pattern. Thus the stars were treated with great reverence; and my creator’s ancestors used the shapes laid out in the night sky to tell tales that represented their values.

These stories often varied between groups, but the overarching mythology was largely the same. The society of my creators placed great importance on the concept of ascension, and believed that to ascend, one must let go of five worldly Urges that bound the physical form to the Carnal Plane. These five Urges were associated with five different constellations, each associated with their own parables.

The First Urge, Violence, is represented by the constellation of The Outlaw, associated with ferocity, raw emotion, and revenge. According to myth, the Outlaw claimed the ability to slay any living creature, and set out upon this task, leaving a trail of destruction and bloodshed in their wake. They were only stopped by the venomous sting of a tiny crawling creature, ultimately leading to their death. This tale was meant to caution against becoming blinded by violence and bloodlust.

The Second Urge, Lust, is represented by the constellation of The Martyr. The Martyr is associated with fertility, life, and creative vigor. Their mythology is varied across cultures, but is often associated with a tale of two lovers, one of whom was cast into the Void Sea as a form of ritual sacrifice. The remaining lover, stricken with grief, resigned themself to a life of hermitage, and spent their days composing music. These melodies were said to have drawn up the Martyr from the Void, and allowed them to visit their lover in their dreams.

The Third Urge, Companionship, is represented by The Allies. They were said to have voyaged the seas of the world, always remaining at each other’s sides. Their last voyage took them to the Void Sea, where they ascended together. The Allies represent trust and protection, and were often revered by travelers who wished for safe passage and hoped to be welcomed upon reaching their destinations in unfamiliar lands.

The Fourth Urge, Gluttony, is represented by The Nectar Bearer. The Nectar Bearer represents abundance, indulgence in excess, and joy in consumption. The Nectar Bearer, as the name implies, possesses an overflowing vessel of sweet nectar, a popular beverage among my creators, which was often enjoyed during festivities. The Nectar Bearer, being an avatar of excess, was also considered in early mythology to be the cause of seasonal floods, as its appearance in the sky coincided with the approach of the rainy season. The resulting floods brought both destruction as well as rejuvenation to fallow fields. (However, the mass construction of iterators has since made this prediction of the yearly flood cycle irrelevant, due to their disruption of the global climate.)

Finally, the Fifth Urge, Survival, is represented by The Shield Bearer. The Shield Bearer represents the will to survive, shared by all living creatures. However, in order to ascend, they must relinquish their shields and expose themself to the fullness of the world, allowing the wholeness of reality to flow through them. Similarly, my creators believed that they needed to allow themselves to become vulnerable in order to spiritually ascend above and beyond the Carnal Plane.

These myths were largely metaphorical, of course, and were repeated not as fact, but as allegories to provide guidance towards achieving Ascension. The Five were considered the most important, but other constellations were also chosen to represent the core values of my creators. Among these are The Monk, The Hunter, The Saint, The Chieftain, The Wanderer, The Scholar, The Nomad, The Warrior, The Pilgrim, and The Mother. 

The Five were all located either on or close to the Ecliptic, the line traced out through the sky by the Sun and Moon. There was some cultural belief that the location of the Sun near each of the Five on one's day of birth would determine which of the Urges an individual would be bound to most strongly… though this was never backed up by empirical evidence. Similar astrological beliefs persisted long after the scientific renaissance brought on by the Void Fluid Revolution, but it was considered more of a spiritual matter than a concrete scientific one.

The citizens of my city, Zenith, rejected the concept of astrology… at least early on. The Classical Firmamentalists were more concerned with studying the physical cycles of the observable world, and how they were connected to the larger Cycle of the universe. They believed that if they could decipher the true nature of the Celestial Spheres, then they would also gain an understanding of what may lie beyond the Carnal Plane.

However, as the city’s original founders departed for the Void, they were slowly replaced with a New Wave of Firmamentalists whose beliefs began to evolve. Not only could an understanding of the physical world unlock the secrets of ascension, but it could also be used to make predictions of the future, contact the past, or even travel between the Carnal plane and the realm of Dreams, outside the bounds of the Firmament. This interpretation of the Celestial Spheres was… far from my founders’ vision, to say the least. There was little evidence to support these New Wave theories, but they grew in popularity as time progressed.

@mebis-art-dump

Part of the appeal to the New Wave Firmamentalists was an effort to use the cycles to accurately predict the future. They built on the beliefs of Classical Firmamentalism, namely, that the Universe was built upon finely-tuned cycles and epicycles from which reality emerged. They were in agreement on this. Where they diverged, however, was the New Wave belief that these cycles could be manipulated to one's own ends, in order to achieve favorable outcomes. They aimed to achieve this through extensive study of the movement of the stars, combined with elaborate rituals, intense meditation and training, and even indulgence in hallucinogenics during their extravagant ceremonies. It was all rather excessive, in my opinion.

I continued with my duties, regardless. The New Wave Firmamentalists could draw whatever conclusions they wished from my data, it didn’t make a difference to me. The High Council priests eventually caught on to my disdain for the topic of astrology, and danced around it during their interactions with me as best as they could. It was painfully obvious that they viewed me as little more than a tool to meet their ends, despite their efforts to conceal this sentiment.

...

I apologize, I did not mean to divert this discussion to personal matters.

… the constellations and their associated myths mean very little to me. If anything they are a simple curiosity, and provide me with a standard method of dividing the sky into different sections which can be traced back to ancient records. I have thus far found no evidence that prediction of the movement of the celestial spheres can allow one to manipulate or even escape the Cycles. If this were the case, I suppose I would have achieved ascension myself a long time ago.

Though, the old scholars who believed such things found their own way out, didn’t they. And here I remain.

[talonabraxas]

III - The Empress 'Goddess Danu' Talon Abraxas “I am a powerful, nourishing, and creative force. I embrace the fertile energy of the natural world to cultivate abundance for myself and others.” The Empress is the inferior Garden of Eden, the Earthly Paradise, all that is symbolized by the visible house of man. She is the fruitful mother of thousands. Aspects of The Empress have been described as desire, the woman clothed with the sun, as the transitory delights of the world and the veil of the divine realm.

She is above all things universal fertility and the outer sense of the Word. There is no direct message given to man like that which is conveyed by woman; but she does not, herself, carry its interpretation. The card of the Empress can also being interpreted in another way: She signifies the door or gate by which an entrance is obtained into this life, as into the Garden of Venus.

The Empress symbolizes the way that leads out of this life, into that which is beyond. The secret knowledge of the High Priestess is communicated by The Empress to the chosen few. She is the imparter of divine knowledge.