#back to reading the hydraulics book

[wolfchans]

BANG CHAN ♡ MIROH

[luveline]

If you ever start requests up again (if you don't thats fine lol), I'd wonder how Miguel would be with an autistic (or any neurodivergent disability) reader? Thanks regardless for the great reads you've given!

hi!! i don't have autism so please forgive any inauthenticity, but i have a frame of reference in someone close to me so I hope this is somewhat like you wanted! if you ever want to request with specific traits, please do! ty for requesting

"This is the worst thing that could've happened," Miguel says, furious. 

You, sitting on the table by his workbench, glance away from your book reluctantly. Your lips part, confusion a line between your brows as you ask, "Are you making a joke?" 

"It's hyperbole. I'm exaggerating." 

"I thought so, but it's hard to tell. You said it very convincingly." 

"Sorry," he says, glaring down at his broken doohickey. Useless plastic, useless screwdriver useless Miguel. 

"Exaggerating… you're upset," you say. 

Miguel is both surprised and not. He doesn't always expect you to be able to read him. Your autism complicates how you recognise emotion, but you're caring, and now you've been told an effect (exaggeration) you can identify the cause (Miguel's broken device). 

"I'm frustrated," he tells you, leaning back in his chair. "I really thought this one would work." 

"I think the wrong thing all of the time," you say, sympathy creeping into your tone. Some might think you're unemotional, and the reality might be true for others, even yourself when you're with unfamiliar people, but it's not true in this instance. "Maybe I can help." 

Miguel scoots back his chair and you stand between his thighs, eyes roving over the fragments of his device, taking everything in. You love engineering —your involvement with the Arachno Humanoid Poly Multiverse had been, in your own words, the best thing that ever happened to you, as it dropped you head first into new technology, better technology than you ever saw on your Earth. You spend longer than you should bending over books about science undiscovered on your planet, your life a pressing of hydraulics, centrifuges, holographic projection, and magbelt machinery that Miguel loves to play. 

"It's badly soldered," you say. 

He winces. No punches held. "I used to be better." 

"You're bad now." 

You asked him a while back to let you know if you ever stepped on his toes, so to speak. Usually Miguel would leap to agitated disagreement, but you asked, and he likes you. He explains.

"Ah, that hurts my feelings," he says, without heat. "I know objectively that you're right, but people appreciate fluffing when it comes to observational critique." Miguel scoots his chair back as you turn to face him. "It's okay. I'm not mad." 

"You're patient," you say, nodding. "Sorry. Fluffing… how would you say it?" 

"I'd say, your soldering is a little iffy." 

"It's a lot iffy." 

"That's the fluffing. A white lie. No one's feelings get hurt and the problem is still identified." 

You nod more. "I'm a little better at soldering. I can fix it for you." 

"Nice," he says. 

He stands up and squeezes your shoulder gently. Your face dips to his hand and holds it there, cheek pressed to his knuckles, a smile turning the corners of your mouth up. Miguel isn't expecting it, but he doesn't rush you. 

"Can we spend time together after we fix it?" you ask.

"If we fix it." 

"I can fix it," you say happily, straightening your head and freeing his hand. "I'm much better at soldering than you." 

Miguel's a prideful person by instinct. He walks to the side of the workshop where he keeps the soldering iron and associated paraphernalia, throwing a quip over his shoulder, "You think you're better."

"I know I'm better," you say, sitting in his chair. "Sorry. I know a little that I'm better." 

He should say, Hey, we'll work on it, but Miguel doesn't want to. He likes you just as you are, accidental insults and all. 

[dragimalsdaydreams]

[image ID: several cartoony diagrams and infographics of Melusines from the game Genshin Impact, but re-imagined as nudibranch-like creatures.

the first image is a diagram of a Melusine's basic anatomy. they're shaped like typical nudibranch sea slugs, with a mantle over top a muscular foot. the front half of the body is lifted up, with the rounded head facing forward. a couple of round, antennae-like rhinophores sprout from the head, with the text, "scent and water/air currents provide sense of spatial awareness." a mass of rounded, feathery gills sprout from the back end of the mantle, just above the foot. ocelli/eyespots sit on the head just in front of the rhinophores, with text reading, "wide range of color vision, poor depth perception." five sets of legs are situated underneath the body, with the foot partly hanging over the lower legs. these legs are much like caterpillar prolegs-- chunky and short, hydraulically powered, with cup-like suction grippers. the two front sets of legs are lifted up above the ground, with the lifted half of the body, and have slimmer grippers that look modified for grasping.

a doodle below shows the Melusine walking with all five sets of legs, with text reading, "'rippling' walking motion. they normally walk on just the lower 3 sets, but can use all 5 sets. usually reserved for running." another doodle shows the Melusine swimming flat in the water, with text reading, "legs pull up into body cavity when swimming. foot extends out farther and provides wavelike locomotion."

another doodle shows the Melusine slowly forming around a mechanical gear, with text reading, "Elynas goop clung to 'tokens' over time, leading to current forms."

the next image show a simple doodle of Melusine skin covered by a layer of Hydro particles, with oxygen molecules in the air gathering towards the Hydro. nearby text reads, "Hydro layers over the skin on land, protecting Melusines from desiccation and sun damage, and providing support to their soft bodies. Melusines can also pull oxygen and water from the air through the Hydro layer, breathing and retaining moisture as they would in water."

below that we see a human hand patting a Melusine on the head, with text reading, "the Hydro layer also provides some protection from physical damage. touching a Melusine, one would only feel the cool, smooth, somewhat rubbery surface of the moisture-wicking Hydro layer, rather than the truly moist, slimy skin of the Melusine. this layer can technically be broken, but it's difficult to break the molecular bonds outside of elemental damage."

below that is a doodle of a healthy Melusine on land in Fontaine, then that same Melusine on land anywhere else, laying on the ground dried up and dying. nearby text reads, "this semi-aquatic lifestyle is only possible in Fontaine's heavy Hydro concentration (arguably Watatsumi as well)."

the next image starts with text reading, "Melusines can change their color/patterns, and their language is based in complex color/pattern cues. each Melusine has developed unique color/pattern preference over time, so communication rules/cues vary widely between individuals. (though they've learned to telepathically communicate using common human languages, with Neuvillette's help)." a doodle below that shows two Melusine staring blankly at one another, with text reading, "having a heated argument (they've been completely silent and still for 10 minutes, but their patterns are rapidly shifting)."

a short comic sits below that, starting with text reading, "*early in Sigewinne's career*" Sigewinne-- a light blue Melusine with pink accents, wearing a white nurse's cap-- stands silent, staring into a box at her feet. Wriothesley the human stands nearby, thinking to himself, "Hm, Sigewinne hasn't moved in a while." grabbing Sigewinne's attention, Wriothesley says, "doin' alright there, Sigewinne?" Sigewinne flips through a yellow book with the title, "Human Expressions for Dummies" with a simplified Melusine mascot on the cover. then she turns back to Wriothesley to telepathically yell, "No, I'm not!!!" with angry eyebrows and a cartoonish pulsing vein on her head, created using color patterns on her face. Wriothesley simply replies, "Ah."

the next image shows many different Melusines, with text reading, "Wide variation in body, rhinophore, and gill shape." indeed, some Melusines are thin and tall, others are short and round, while others are stocky and squared-off. some have thin, upturned snouts, while others have short, stubby snouts, or blocky, drooping snouts. some of their rhinophores are thin and straight, or round and curved, or branch/antler-like, or have more pronounced nodes/ridges. some of their gills are bulbous and pointed, or thin and wavy, or feathery, or branch-like, and some Melusine even have extra gills higher up on their bodies. all of these Melusines have different colors and patterns, with text reading, "Melusines can be found in all colors across the spectrum (including colors humans can't see), but individuals usually prefer a few specific colors."

a doodle below shows off Sigewinne's present-day outfit. she's wearing a white nurse's cap tied to her head with a pink bow, on top of a grey wig with a bob cut and curling bangs. a white apron with blue hearts and pink ribbons is tied to her front, with a two-tier cut to allow her front legs to move freely. another white apron with pink and blue bows is tied across to her back, covering most of it. nearby text reads, "no concept of nudity, clothes are just fun accessories. wigs are both exotic accessories, and a way to show kinship with humans."

below that is text reading, "Melusines usually darken their tones outdoors, for extra sun protection." a nearby doodle shows a pale Melusine indoors, then that same Melusine outdoors, her colors visibly darker.

the final image is an edit of a meme, reading, "If a Melusine wore pants, would she wear them like this or like this?" above two drawings of the same Melusine. in the first, the Melusine is wearing jeans cut to fit around her three lower sets of legs and the bottom edge of the foot. in the second, she's wearing jeans cut to fit around the back end of her body and last set of legs, covering the back end of the foot and mantle, and cut around the gills.

end ID]

I swear I had no idea it was nudibranch day yesterday, this was just a happy coincidence LMAO

anyways, I hate how Melusines look in-game, so I decided to make them Actual Slugs b/c that's objectively cuter. obvious nudibranch base design, but I added in some planaria and caterpillar elements for the eyes and legs, respectively. it's a bit goofy, but I'm real happy with how it all turned out <3

also sorry if the Sigewinne comic isn't true to her early career, personality, or her relationship w/ Wrio. we haven't seen her much yet, and tbh I didn't rly care to look into her current lore all that deeply

[amphibimations]

okay so idk how much people have already told you but anime boy Heathcliff seems to be in that 3-year timeframe in Wuthering Heights where he disappears to become rich and he stole some hair coupons to make his hair look nice for when he sees Cathy again. Unfortunately the coupons belonged to a high-ranking member of one of the biggest gangs in the world so he got the shit beat out of him. He's fine now though. He also has parallels with anime girl Ishmael which is interesting because she had parallels with Captain Ahab who had a thing about obsession... also anime girl Don Quixote had the idea to go track down Santa and steal his clothes and Heathcliff went along with it (they did not succeed)

Yeah!! I’ve had a few people tell me about that 3 year theory i think thats very interesting!! It makes a lot of sense for them to use that time frame because literally the book just goes ‘idk what he was doing for those 3 years, it could be anything!!!’. Perfect opportunity to add their own anime heathcliff story in there. And after heathcliff gets back from being away for 3 years he just starts getting more and more evil so it would be harder to use him as a protagonist at that point.

Ive never read moby dick but just from the vague things i know about it, yeah the whole obsession thing sounds like a really cool parallel to make… :0

Its fun that even just by hearing broad details about anime heathcliff’s story i can see the connections they’re making to the book, like people helping him look nice for cathy. I wonder if they’re going to have an anime nelly dean when it gets to heathcliff’s chapter…

ALSO YEAH… SOMEONE ELSE ALSO TOLD ME ABOUT THE SANTA THING … APPARENTLY THEY WERE GOING TO GET HYDRAULIC PRESSED INTO CHRISTMAS PRESENTS?!?!??!??????? THATS THE FUNNIEST THING I HAVE EVER HEARD IN MY LIFE…

[r0b0s-robos]

"Our Love, Everlasting"

A past conversation rears its head right before it's time for you to clock out. [A.K.A. A short conversation between you and Sun about mortality]

check tags/read on ao3 -> here

"You know," Sun began. "We don't really live much longer than humans. 

You looked up from your book to see the daycare attendant standing across the security desk. His index finger drew imaginary circles across the surface as his eyes darted from you to the desk. The daycare would be closing soon, so of course he picked now of all times to revitalize this old conversation. You pushed aside your book and leaned back in your chair. 

You indulged, "You don't say?" "I do say!" he exclaimed. 

He continued, now meeting your tired but interested gaze briefly. "A while ago you mentioned that it was a concern. A rightful one, of course! By all means, Moon and I could go on and on... but, it's quite unrealistic!" He crossed his arms and nodded as he faced away. 

You leaned into your hand, watching as he turned away from you. Eye contact during conversations like these was never achieved easily. He talked with his hands and walked around too much for any lasting connection. 

He raised a finger to insinuate a point being made. "Unlike humans, we need repairs, upgrades, maintenance. If those were to stop, we'd... Well, it must be a similar experience to aging, I assume." 

Your expression fell, eyebrows creasing. "Sun..."

"Wait! Wait!" he turned back and shushed you. Once you were quiet, he began pacing the length of the desk. "Moon and I have been thinking, and we've decided that's the best course of action," he nodded to himself. "That way we don't have to… be alone for very long." 

"What? Sun- " 

"Of course, we'll stay functional to care for you as you age. We wouldn't want us to go before you. It'd defeat the entire purpose!" He laughed, but it was dry and forced. "Though, in fifty to sixty years, they might not make our parts anymore... technological advances and all."

"Sun!" you shouted. His shoulders jolted at the shout, he still wasn't facing you. You shook your head in confusion. Where had this all come from? "Stop... Stop talking like that. What's all this about?" 

He finally turned, rays retracted as he nervously looked at the ground and tapped his fingers together. "I... Well... It's just..." Sun mimicked a gulping sound. "We don't... Neither of us wants to be without you, Sunshine." He finally looked you in the eyes, his gray optics shaking. "Don't make us. Please let us do this. We know it's a selfish request, but- but we can't think of any other solution. Please." 

Your shoulders fell as you finally noticed just how small the animatronic looked. You instinctively stepped out from behind the desk to offer what comfort you could. 

"Oh, Sun..." you whispered as you opened your arms. 

He didn't have the capability to cry, but he felt his voice box choking up as static began to pour from him. He couldn't find it in himself to move from his spot. It had taken all his energy to merely bring up the topic. He and Moon both suspected you'd disagree, but that hardly mattered. 

You closed the distance and enveloped him in as much of an embrace as your small, fragile human arms could manage. It was enough. It was more than enough for both of them. No words were said as he slowly dropped to his knees, hydraulic-powered arms circling your waist with ease as he clung to your form. His head bent down, pushing into whatever space he could find against your warm, delicate body.

You spoke, but he didn't process it. He looked up at you in reverence, as a devoted follower would to the divine. His fingers ached to bring you closer and closer and closer.

"Promise me you won't do something like that," you whispered. Hushed, he replied, "We promise... we promise."

He returned to your embrace, finding safety in your arms and the light brushes of your hands sliding across his back.

Moon wouldn't dare to be the one to have this conversation with you. He'd be too cowardly, knowing it would upset you. 

Sun wasn't so weak. 

Even as his fingers dug into your clothing and static echoed through the daycare, he swore he wasn't weak. 

Between the two, he'd make the hard decision. After all, their minds were already made up. And a broken promise would mean nothing to someone too dead to uphold them to it.

[usafphantom2]

On This Day In 1970 The Grumman F-14 Tomcat Made Its First Flight

December 21, 2019 Military Aviation

the first Full Scale Development (FSD) Grumman F-14A Tomcat (BuNo 157980) during its first flight in 1970. (Image credit: Grumman)

It’s the anniversary of Turkey’s first flight.

On Dec. 21, 1970, the first Full Scale Development (FSD) Grumman F-14A Tomcat (BuNo 157980) took off for its maiden flight from Grumman’s flight test centre at Calverton, on Long Island.

The poor weather conditions forced the two test pilots flying the first “Turkey” (as the aircraft would be later nicknamed), Grumman chief test pilot Robert K. Smyth and project test pilot William Miller, to cut the maiden flight, carried out a month ahead of the contracted data, short. However, in spite of the short duration of the flight (consisting in a few visual patterns with wing swept forward), the F-14 had taken to the air for the first time: the first of many flights in the U.S. until the last one conducted in 2006.

An F-14 with bomb markings earned during Operation Desert Fox in 1999, aboard USS Enterprise. The aircraft’s role evolved during the years and the F-14 also carried out the bomber mission in a variant also referred to as “Bombcat”. (Image credit: Author).

The F-14 BuNo 157980 took off for the second test flight on Dec. 30 with the two test pilots swapping their seats: Miller sat in the front cockpit and Smyth in the back. The second flight is quite famous in the story of the Tomcat, as the aircraft crashed due to hydraulic failure: a mishap that was caught on camera by a chase plane.

Ezoic

Here’s how we described that second sortie in a previous article we published here at The Aviationist:

It was during this flight that a chase plane noted that the Tomcat was leaving a trail of smoke: shortly thereafter the F-14 experienced a primary hydraulic system failure forcing Miller to head immediately back to base.

While they were preparing to land, the secondary hydraulic system also failed, due to the use of the emergency nitrogen bottle to lower the landing gear: once it failed, the crew tried to rely on the Combat Survival System which had to supply the power to the rudders and tailerons only.

However this last limited control system showed signs of failing as well, the pilot lost control all over the aircraft and the crew was forced to eject.

The breakdown was caused by a fatigue failure of both titanium main hydraulic lines due to a coincidence of pump resonance and a loose connector: ironically, the F-14’s hydraulic system was fixed by changing from titanium to stainless steel hydraulic lines only.

As you can see from footage (around 03:20 min), the crew ejected only few meters above the trees but, luckily, they suffered only minor injuries.

Sadly, Miller died on 30 June 1972 when its Tomcat crashed into Chesapeake Bay during preparation for an air display with the tenth FSD F-14 (BuNo 157989), while Smyth passed away this year.

Both Smyth and Miller contributed in bringing the last in a long tradition of Grumman Cats to life.

The F-14 is still flying in Iran.

About David Cenciotti

David Cenciotti is a journalist based in Rome, Italy. He is the Founder and Editor of “The Aviationist”, one of the world’s most famous and read military aviation blogs. Since 1996, he has written for major worldwide magazines, including Air Forces Monthly, Combat Aircraft, and many others, covering aviation, defense, war, industry, intelligence, crime and cyberwar. He has reported from the U.S., Europe, Australia and Syria, and flown several combat planes with different air forces. He is a former 2nd Lt. of the Italian Air Force, a private pilot and a graduate in Computer Engineering. He has written five books and contributed to many more ones.

@theaviationist via X

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Types of People in a JW Congregation

The professionally-trained(?) opera singer; always extroverted, with a booming laugh, and is either a super nice person, or the most passive-aggressively hateful son of a bitch you’ve met in your life. If they’re a guy, he’s an elder; if they’re a lady, she’s an elder’s wife

”Promising” young brother (fourteen-year-old mic handler) who has such a suave voice, it sounds like he’s recording an audiobook any time he opens his mouth; probably can’t carry a conversation to save his life

Group of plump old ladies who always sit in the back and wear fancy suits with matching hats; they have arms like a hydraulic press and will crush you when they hug you

That one brother you swear is a closeted gay man because he wears loud suits, bow ties, and has all the stereotypical mannerisms; but then he gets up on the platform and says the most homophobic shit ever; usually really nice, not necessarily because he actually is, but you feel that way because you feel sorry for him

Five-year-old who gives disturbingly articulate comments and is probably hyperlexic (reads their parents’ words off a card and gets all the credit for it); householders think she’s adorable and she places literature without trying it it’s a me

Old crotchety elder (or group thereof) who likes to fuck with the mind of one specific guy for a prolonged period of time, to the point of giving said guy severe health problems; has driven at least five people out of the congregation and/or out of this mortal coil

Young People who present “The Truth” in such a new, hip, and cool way, it’s physically painful to listen to

Mother who nudges their kid to answer and whispers what she wants them to say in his ear, word-by-word; said kid always sounds like he was just awoken out of a dead sleep

The elder’s wife who smiles too much; probably bursting at the seams to gossip about you

Super Witness Wife and her unbaptized mate who you could have sworn was already a ministerial servant; they’re both really fun, actually

Middle-aged pioneer with seventeen studies who’s dying from stress; usually ends up having some kind of mental breakdown or health concern

The POMI who shows up once in a blue moon; visibly dissociated from reality

Keepers of the Bonfire Party (probably old and/or wealthy, with a forest for a backyard)

That One Sister with a questionable hairstyle who everyone lets slide because she’s a pioneer; has dyke energy

Quiet single person who never comments and always leaves immediately following the prayer; either everyone wants to talk to them, or no one seems to like them and ignores them, depending on how old, attractive, and visibly neurodivergent they are

Person who will talk both your ears clean OFF about Jehovah and how he “helped” them; seems happy but is severely depressed and you‘re very concerned about them

Group of kids who all talk about watching Naruto and Marvel movies in the company of each other; they seem PIMO, but they’re so unafraid about their spiritistic tastes that you can’t tell

Witness family who thinks all modern-day media is demonic, and only watches, reads, and listens to old stuff; the whole family seems like they’re suicidal; there’s definitely more abuse going on than meets the eye

The ten-year-old unbaptized publisher who admits to staying up all night on their tablet because they can never get to sleep before 1:00 AM, but gets nervous when you ask what they were doing on said tablet; probably browses gore websites and reads about methods of torture to feel something and/or reading My Book of Bible Stories got them into it

[o-craven-canto]

What if humans had never discovered fire? Could there ever have been a complex, literate, technological civilization if we’d never learned how to rub two sticks together? I think it can be imagined. Our fireless society would have to exist somewhere in the far north, somewhere without too much dry vegetation. Slopes of black soil fuzzed in dense, sodden moss, glaciers that roll perilously over the peaks, reindeer nuzzling the muck, seals groaning on swept-out floes. Between the mountains and the sea, a bubbling volcanic lake, and a city on its shores: huts, sealskin stretched over whale-ribs, temples and palaces in jagged blocks of stone. Hunters set out in walrus-skin canoes with stone harpoons; when they return the meat is carved, thrown into nets, and lowered into the lake to boil. Elsewhere, there are farmers, blubber-slathered, who tend to the forests of kelp. Fish are bred in shallow pools; every year the water foams with roe, and ledges heave long fillets curing for the winter. Nobody goes cold at night, as the geothermal waters are carried into every home. These people are master plumbers by necessity. Their epics and legends are about pipes and channels; instead of hearth-gods, they have the spirits of the soapstone radiator. Maybe saunas, hot and cold showers; maybe a hydraulic messaging system, with letters scratched in pumice. The great library is an ossuary: endless racks of antlers and whale-skulls, crowded with scrimshaw to record the deeds of gods and kings. The librarian gets her daily ration of sous-vide seal and salty kelp-porridge. She knows only about books and doesn’t think too much about where her food comes from. But the nights are long up here. How can she read without a candle? Well, the intestinal tracts of polar squid are full of bioluminescent bacteria. Leave a fresh squid in cold water for a few days and it will begin to glow. In the long, dark winter, the streets are lit by bowls of phosphorescent slime, steadily burning an unearthly blue. And above them, the aurora shines in long, lonely squid-gut strands . . .

-- Sam Kriss, Infinite Hitlers [an essay on alternate history], 2021

(I love everything about this scenario, but geothermal cooking sounds far too spotty to be useful on civilization-building scale, and I'm doubtful that you could feed a human-like brain only on the raw food that human teeth and intestines can process; our use of fire for cooking stretches much further back than the latest wave of development of our brain cortex)

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @elsie-writes!

Find the Word Tag

My words: cup, desk, sparkle, calm, hundred

Your words: ground, convert, circle, link

Pulled from MG book 2 ;)

.

"A cursed weapon, huh...," the woman breathed.

"Oh, the Garell boy's curse is actin' up again!" Elwe piped up. "I was supposed to tell you when ya got in."

Astra sighed long-sufferingly. "I told you, momma, that ain't a curse. He's got asthma. Tell 'em to keep makin' 'im breathe the vapor from a cup a' branic tea twice a day. It ain't ever gonna go away, but that'll help some."

.

Her hand made no sound against the sturdy, iron door. The noise of her hydraulic pump and dragging foot, however, betrayed her. The rhythmic pings that had echoed from inside ceased at once.

Vermir stepped into the darkened interior. Azidor's was a small shop, specializing in only certain materials and catering to a specific crowd. Strewn about the tables and benches, she could see metallic hands prepared with hidden tools, silver faces etched with beautiful, floral designs. A sign at the front desk read in both Janazi and Kevete: High-quality adjustments for robotic parts and prosthetics alike. Ask about our sensory rune upgrades!

.

"We ain't never gettin' into that central lab, are we?" Astra muttered. Her gaze flicked up to meet his. None of the typical mirth or bravado sparkled in her blood-ringed eyes.

"It's...." The man swore under his breath. "What other choice do we have?"

.

"I'll be right behind you," Mashal said. By his tone, it was obvious he was trying to calm her anxiety while being rather afraid of the crossing himself. "If you slip, I'll catch you."

"If'n I slip, you keep your hands to yourself so I don't drag us both down," she answered a little more snappishly than she intended.

When Mashal's expression went sad, Astra took a deep breath, berating herself internally. She had to get a handle on her fear. Her ma had always said that when the night was dark, there was no need to start painting with pitch, even if the colors matched.

"We're gonna be fine," Astra said, offering a smile over her shoulder. "I ain't gonna fall and neither are you. In fifteen minutes- Nah, twelve. I'm gonna beat my record, I can feel it. In twelve minutes, we're gonna be home free."

.

"You're taking your sweet time for some squiggles." Thibault's eyes darted nervously to the hall they'd come from. Mashal and Avymere stood ready and tensed, prepared to fight at a moment’s notice.

"My momma always said, if ya don't know shit about a thing, you'd best keep your mouth shut 'fore that shit starts leakin' out from 'tween your lips," the witch muttered. "I need you to remember this number though - one thousand six hundred and seventy point fifteen. If I ask for the Tamm unit conversion, talk it back to me."

Thibault's ears flicked anxiously. "That's a hell of a number...."

"Well, all ya gotta do is remember it, thank the gods," Astra shot back.

.

I'll tag @mk-writes-stuff @aestheic-writer18 @winglesswriter @autism-purgatory and anyone else who's interested :)

[warmbloodedzines]

Here's another zine by Xalli—this one's called Folk Punk Inauguration.

[Image Description: The cover page of this eight-page mini zine has a little cut out bat drawing from the Trader Joe's newsletters in the top/middle right area and an entry band for a show at a venue called The Smell along the bottom of it. To the left of the bat are the words 'FOLK PUNK' and between that and the entry band is the word 'INAUGURATION'. Thus, the name of this zine: Folk Punk Inauguration.

The first page has half of a hot pink entry band for The Smell on it. Above it, the page reads “I've gotta say, I've been skeptical of folk punk for a while, now. I feel pretty strongly that the culture of folk punk now is what traditional punk wished it was, but I was never too sure of the music. It felt a little too weird, and I'm a bit of a snob about voices sometimes (not on purpose, I promise) so I was just unsure. It’s been growing on me slowly, though – especially after a show this Tuesday.”

The second page starts “To be honest, the night started out sort of shit. I took the train and got harassed, and got there almost half an hour late, too. The energy inside changed everything right away, though. The crowd threw a billionaire skull piñata around and beat it up for toys, and everyone looked trans as fuck, and I knew I was in a good place. Moon Bandits, Rent Strike, and (of course) Sister Wife Sex Strike all played and fucked it up!” Below that, there's the text “(I can totally draw)” and, below that, an incredibly rudimentary stick figure drawing of a crowd of people looking up at two people on stage.

Page three starts with the phrase “Some HIGHLIGHTS”-- the 'Some' made out of two cut up words ('So' and 'me') from some book and 'HIGHLIGHTS' written in black Sharpie and highlighted with yellow highlighter. Below it is a bullet point list, which is also continue onto page four, that lists that “the pit was so fucking cool! great energy... so much joy and lots of two-stepping”, “the outfits... holy shit, do people know how to dress! so cool + creative”, “the aforementioned piñata - so silly + fun”, “when SWSS come down into the pit for ‘Electricity’”, “when the pit turned into a lot of people (including me) dancing with our partners during ‘Gentleness’”, “Rent Strike's song about hydraulic press videos”, and “the way the bands talked to us: so friendly & funny & felt like family (will come back to this one). Across the bottom of both pages is a sticker for Unity Skate Co. of two naked people, one colored in orange on the other's shoulders (and the other is colored in pink). Underneath the sticker across the right side of page four is a strip of Washi tape in dark blue, red, and black colors, with eyes and lips.

Page five has the word 'MERCH' written across the top left side of it with a squiggly line drawn underneath it. Next to it, starting on the right side of page five and going all through the top of page six is an orange sticker with the word 'QUEERS' in a black bold font with underlining. Page five starts out saying “A lot of the merch was sliding scale, and the vendors were so cool! I had to get stuff!” and then leads into a list of things I bought, including “Sister Wives Strike Back (Deluxe) CD”, “Rent Strike fox (?) on fire shirt”, “Moon Bandits ‘Squash Cops’ patch”, “Moon Bandits ‘Crocs not Cops’ sticker”, and “Moon Bandits 'Protect Trans Kids' Raccoon-filled sticker”. Under the 'QUEERS' sticker, page six simply states “Anyway, the show was amazing if you can’t tell. But there’s something more there, too. Getting to mosh + sing + scream and be happy + sad with other trans people – other nonwhite people too, oh my God – was so new + beautiful. It felt like family + home in such an unmistakable + necessary way. I’m so grateful.”

The back cover has a sharpie drawing in the top left of a weird fidget toy I got from the billionaire skull piñata that got thrown around during Moon Bandits' set, which is sort of a little orange handle and two (yellow and pink) weird extensions that are made of a ball and plastic legs that attach to the handle. The little extensions swing 360 degrees around the handle and can hit each other and make noise. Next to it is a little note that says “a weird fidget toy from the piñata” and has an arrow pointing to it. Underneath it is a drawn on dashed line and then text that says “by Xalli”, “apr 19, 2023”, and then notes that my social medias are “insta: desertfirelight”, “tumblr: canineical”, and “neocities: tehuan”. At the bottom of the page is a continuation of the entry wrist band that's on the cover and first page of the zine for The Smell. This part of the band mainly says 'EXIT' on it. /End ID]

[dbmars]

Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL: Chapter 72

Chapter 72 came out today! We have some of my signature Hannibal 1st person POV at the beginning, and Randall Tier finally gets to take his steampunk animal suit for a spin. Steampunk is a genre I'd love to explore more thoroughly. I think I've read a couple of books and I do love classic sci-fi like HG Wells. It was fun to imagine how Randall would create his suit using Victorian-era tech, since hydraulics were in their infancy.

I found this page from the Art and Making of Hannibal someone had uploaded and used that as a reference for quite a bit of Randall's suit creation scenes:

When I was writing the first scene way back when Hannibal meets Randall for the first time, I realized how perfect the Randall/Renfield comparison really was. All Randall ever wanted was to be a predator, and on top of that, Hannibal can shape-shift into animals, which is Randall's dearest wish! Dracula and Hannibal really do just perfectly mesh together.

Hannibal also encounters the other creature he's created... Please enjoy these pictures of Caroline Dhavernas giving FIERCE vampy energy...

But Jack, Will, and Chilton are in investigation mode, and they head to the hospital to interview a child that had an encounter with this "bloofer lady"...

And who do they run into but one of Chilton's old medical school cums chums (that was a legit real typo and I left it because HAHAHA) Dr. Donald Sutcliffe, who was, apparently, a total fuckboy at university. We were getting pretty serious in these chapters and you gotta have some levity.

In that case, always make a joke at Chilton's expense. I LOVE YOU CHILLY

He's SO MAD Donald never returned his telegrams.

Here's the inspo for the Bloom family mausoleum.

Alas, there is no smut in Chapter 72, so this will be an EXCERPT ENDING:

The tomb in the daytime, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to browns; when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when time-discoloured stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than Will could have been imagined. He felt his throat going tight again. That Alana lay here, locked up to decay along with the flowers…

XOXO DB

[antichristual]

a small fic request: some fluff about Papa IV. pairing can be reader insert / one of the ghouls / OC or platonic relationship is okay, too. maybe a birthday fic would be nice...? 😊 thank you in advance if you will write this 🧡

HELLO ANON🫂 !!! this is my first time doing this, im squealing over the fact that people actually sent in requests..literally so sorry it took me so long to post this, i wrote it like two days after you sent this in and then i just never posted it cuz i didnt like it at the time, i think it okay now though, so here you go! also im not sure if this was for your birthday, but if it is then happy birthday :3 most likely very late

You had been part of the ministry for years now, working alongside Sister Imperator, making sure all of the pieces of the tours stayed on track. Keeping them all together was hard work, and it had slowly taken a toll on you. Sometimes the looming idea of another long day amongst ratty organisers felt like carrying a bag of bricks on your shoulders. You were some hardy earthen clay, but this much going on in your head was a hydraulic press.

It had been a rough day, Sister had said it herself as she sipped on a random cup of coffee she had laying across your planning table. You didn’t know how she did it, keeping all of it in and still making such a wonderful outcome. She had kept you in late today, for some odd reason. All the work was done, you’d already stacked all the maps and papers and booking files for the next tour together in one, intimidating pile. Every time you tried to leave though, she would call you back to look over very random things.

“How does this email look? I want it to be perfect.” Sister Imperator mumbled timidly, with a strangely still smile, like she was keeping a terrible secret to herself. Everybody knew she had the most pristine email skills in the world. It should’ve been criminal how that woman could get anyone under her thumbs with the click of send or a meek phone call. Of course though, you nodded and returned to the table. Leaning down, you ignored the crimp ache in your back and read through the— as expected— incredibly well written message. It was condensed but not lacking what it needed. Simple, quick, effective. That was how she rolled, and she executed it with a clean cut every time.

“It’s…fine, Sister.” You replied after a quick pause, holding a heavy drawl in your voice. It was your birthday, for hell’s sake, and all you’d done all day was work. Your eyes hurt, your spine feels twisted and damn…how does your right leg go half numb? Don’t get it wrong, you loved your job; and you didn’t blame anyone for having you labour on your special day. You were just tired, and yearning for your comforting bed in the abbey.

Sister Imperator closed her laptop with a swift hand, the screen coming down across the keyboard silently. A look of sympathy flashed in her eyes, followed with a sparkle of guilt, almost as if she were hiding something from you. “I’m sorry for keeping you in, you know how this gets.” Her hand waved sluggishly over the table. Following her gesture you pondered over her words, eyes fogging over briefly.

“I do, Sister. It’s not a problem. Um…” You looked sideways hesitantly, your bag hanging limp over your shoulder. “Is that all?”

She opened her mouth quickly to say something, and your knees drew somehow more magnetically drawn to the floor at the idea of her proposing another task. In a split moment, her lips sealed.

Sister’s eyes dashed to the doorway behind you, and a riveting smile dashed across her face. Satan, she looked so excited you half assumed you’d turn around and see the anti-christ himself waltzing in with a pretty bouquet of wild roses. Your feet dragged against the floor as you spun to face the door. You were seriously contemplating popping out to go to the store, and maybe grabbing a nice treat so you could at least get yourself something nice on your day. Almost immediately— after your sleepy head processed the sight in the doorway— a sweet warmth bubbled in your chest.

Copia stood there in his usual zip-up jumper, lazy sweatpants underneath, and the most gorgeously handmade cake ever in his palms. Weakly lit candles burned in the middle, lighting up the cute piped icing around the edge. You swayed on your feet with the soft mellow melting down your heavy limbs.

“Happy birthday!” He blurted awkwardly, removing one hand..dangerously..from the cake to make jazz hands…jazz hand? You just stood there, eyes wide and fatigued, a pure smile tugging helplessly at your lips. Copia shuffled forward to put the small cake on the table before he shucked his hands to his hips, a little proud expression over his usual.

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [3] chapter i, part iii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

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chapter summary : awaiting his return to asgard after the battle of new york, loki unexpectedly encounters a familiar face.

recommended listening : vedro con mio diletto, vivaldi

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[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

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Half an hour lapsed, before a sigh of hydraulics heralded her return.

Seated at the bench installed into the back wall of the cell, Loki opened his eyes.

"Hello again, darling," he directed at the ceiling, the seamless LED lights shattering curving threads of cold white through his lashes. The tips of his fingers were laced loosely, draped between his parted knees, head tilted back against the glass.

"Hello again, Prince Loki." The tap of her boots circled up towards the control panel, echoing slightly in the hollow space. "Did I keep you waiting?"

The corner of Loki's mouth lifted. "I am a man of my word," he replied smoothly, "and you, a woman worth the wait."

A short, unguarded giggle bubbled out of her, chased by the clink of zips of a bag dropping to the walkway.

"Silvertongue," she murmured, like an old joke. "I ought to have expected that."

Loki exhaled into a soundless laugh.

"Indeed." He lowered his head to look at her.

She had returned with her luggage, unloading them by the terminal; the canvas rucksack listed under its own weight, packed to rounded seams, with a tightly furled bedroll propped against the wall next to it. Hooking her thumb under a thick strap cutting into her shoulder, she swung a black duffel bag off her shoulder and to the floor with an alarmingly solid clang.

Loki stared at the bag, faintly disconcerted.

Straightening, she sighed in relief, fingers slipping under her collar to massage the indent out of her flesh. Catching his eye, it took her a moment to interpret his expression.

She smiled ruefully.

"Paper is heavy."

Loki watched as she knelt, briskly unzipping the duffel bag- and began decanting dozens of books.

He stifled the immediate pang of longing. It had been almost two years since he had last held a book, any book, in his hands, and while the quality of craftsmanship paled in comparison to the texts in the heart of Asgard's citadel- whether in the vast halls and endless rows of the royal archives, or his mother's private, meticulously curated reading room in her apartments, or his own jealously guarded, voraciously maintained library- any bibliophile knew that a book's value was in its content first, and its bindings second.

Every volume in her collection was creased and cracked, softened and furled with repeated handlings and rereads; a select few leatherbound and embossed compendia supplemented bricks of paperbacks, mass-produced from cheap wood pulp and printing presses, covers splitting into fractures of white. It was a glut of eclectic taste, unabashedly unfrugal.

Loki canted his head to skim the titles printed along the spines.

"Classical literature, philosophy, history- both ancient and more recent," he noted aloud, "mythology, medicine, politics- and poetry." Loki arched an eyebrow. "An acquired taste, some would say."

"An easily acquired taste," she said, sitting back on her heel, a tome on the Byzantine Empire in one hand, and three slim treatises- Sun Tzu, Niccolò Machiavelli, Friedrich Nietzsche- in the other. "Anyone who hates poetry just hasn't found a style they like yet."

"And your taste?"

Demonstratively, she dropped a thick poetry anthology atop a tower of nineteenth century novels.

"Broad. But leaning into English classics. Cliché as that may be."

"Clichés are often genius overused," Loki argued.

"Or overhyped mediocrity," she replied, "or a weak imitation that mimics genius without understanding why the original worked."

"And of those, which are your clichéd classics?"

Loki could tell that she had sensed a trap, even if she couldn't yet identify how it would close around her.

"Are you going to take me as an authority?"

"Why should I not?" Loki spread his hands. "You cannot speak an untruth."

"Literary opinions are subjective."

"Then I will accept a subjective truth."

"And why the sudden interest in Earth- Midgardian literature?"

"Perhaps I find the example of an eloquent, well-spoken individual persuasive."

She shot him a narrow look at his phrasing.

Loki pressed down on a smile. Crafting his words around a negative space without making the omission obvious, at least to the untrained or unwary, was a trick that he had practiced into perfection.

The young woman in front of him was neither untrained or unwary. And, as someone who couldn't lie, he suspected that she had used the trick herself more than once, to get away with speaking without saying much, while convincing the entire room otherwise.

"Or- maybe that was a complete non-answer, devoid of substance and beautifully costumed in flattery," she said.

Loki smirked. "You are hardly proving it to be false flattery with that answer, darling."

"I never said it was false."

A laugh startled out of Loki at the unapologetic response. "Well. No self-effacement? No blushing modesty? How refreshing."

"Why should I pretend? Even if I could." Rising to her feet, she flicked a stray curl out of her face with a toss of her head, folding her arms. The gesture would be almost preening, were her tone not so utterly matter of fact. "You're right. I'm intelligent, and articulate enough to express it, and I don't rest on my laurels. I work hard to be excellent. You complimented me. Why shouldn't I agree?"

"Why, indeed?" Loki's voice thrummed low and warm, leaning in. "And why should I not presume that your literary taste is one that you can defend with alacrity and wit, and therefore worthy of hearing?"

She was quiet for a long moment.

"I think I should be asking for your recommendations."

Her nail hooked into her sleeve, twisting the fabric around her fingertip.

Loki knew he had won before she even had to speak.

"What would you like to hear?"

"Anything," he answered softly. "Anything I may not have heard before. Anything beautiful."

"Hm."

She pressed the pad of her thumb to the seam of her lips, gaze slipping aside in thought.

She began to recite.

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand And Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand –"

"– And Eternity in an hour," Loki finished, startling her.

He almost regretted interrupting. She had an easy cadence, smooth as molten gold, like the world crystallised at golden hour. But the white-hot thrill of triumph at the way she was stunned into speechlessness was worth it.

"William Blake, Auguries of Innocence, circa 1803," he cited. "An English classic indeed."

The trap was sprung.

Her expression tensed from surprise into something caustic, eyes flashing.

Loki watched her with poorly concealed amusement.

A part of him wanted her indignant and angry and flustered after she had pulled him apart so easily, like splitting open a pomegranate with her thumbs- and the rest of him just wanted to see what she would do, how she would retaliate, how she would ignite.

She didn't disappoint. Straightening, she made her counterstrike.

"Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire –"

"– I hold with those who favour fire," Loki interrupted, cutting across her, eyes darkening, each vowel a rush of air like the heat from a plume of flame.

"But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice."

He tilted his head at her, assessing.

"Robert Frost. Ice and Fire."

"Fire and Ice," she corrected him coolly. "Published 1920."

Loki's eyebrow tensed, ego pricked.

Before she could select a new verse, Loki rose from the bench swiftly, and launched into a turbulent, passionate speech, equal parts imploring and accusing.

"Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound but cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's loss –"

"– Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds," she uttered the final couplet powerfully, a sweet, surrendering absolution. "And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds."

Loki could taste his heartbeat on his tongue, blood singing in his ears, thumbing at the creases of his opposite palm. As he had spoken each line, he had pulled closer to the edge of the cell, drawn in with each quartet of iambic pentameter- and she had followed, magnetic, suddenly standing before him in aching definition.

"Shakespeare, Sonnet 34," she said, lifting a hand to skim against the glass. Loki's fingers twitched with the reflex to mirror her. "You chose one of the more obscure ones."

"Ah, I forgot- you called your taste cliché. Bright star, would I were as stedfast as thou art –"

"Keats," she interposed, rolling her eyes slightly, "Bright Star, I'm familiar."

Loki canted his head at her. "Not your taste?"

"In small doses. Like all the Romantics, Keats can get a little- cloying. Like a cake with too much buttercream. And for your information," she added, eyes sweeping up and sharpening on his, "I like obscure."

"I would believe it, were I given evidence." Loki replied, blithely aloof.

She pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth.

"Your lies are things of beauty, my love."

It was spoken in the inflection of a taunt.

"They flit from the tongue, wingéd alight Enchant the mind, and cheat and bluff.

Your lies, sweet one, settle as sugar dust Upon festered wound and sphacelus To draw the bitter from the slough.

Your lies are a keen knife, my love. Chased with silver Limned with blood.

The loveliest lies are thine, dear heart For the furtive truths they each impart –"

She trailed off expectantly.

Loki ransacked his memory for the reference.

"Too obscure?" She suggested with a slight grin.

Loki held up a hand, stalling.

Biting down on her smile, she yielded to the request, stepping away and letting him think.

Loki was almost certain that he knew the poem. He vaguely recognised the irregular lilt whittled into the stanzas, but he couldn't place it. Given their shorter lifespans, Midgardian artists in general tended to be more prolific, and the lack of a unified planetary culture making the offerings diverse, but currently that virtue was only a hindrance.

Midway through debating whether to search back another century, it struck him.

They were, after all, still playing a game.

Or rather, several games layered over each other like a multiple exposure photographic film.

Loki's eyes snapped up to meet hers.

She was grinning from behind her fingers, delighted that he was catching on.

He cast his mind forwards, to the most recently published poets who had debuted the past half decade.

Oh.

He turned to her abruptly with a rush of recollection.

"For words they speak not, yet still confirm With every utterance and phrases' turn. Thy heart, as stars in daylight skies, Is unveiled in the dark of gentle lies."

She hummed, a low musical note in the back of throat. "Title and author?"

"Lies. Ellison." Loki exhaled slowly, irked. "That was unfair."

"How so?"

"It was published barely two years ago," he said rancorously, "a novice effort by an unknown neophyte of barely fourteen-"

"And yet you can still cite the date of publication, and the poet's age," she replied blithely, "so it couldn't have been that unfair, could it?"

Loki glared at her mutinously.

"You asked for obscure," she said, unaffected. "If you wanted to me to continue with the ancients, you should have said."

Entirely against his will, and much to his displeasure, Loki was impressed.

"Very well," he said, quietly dangerous, "I am now specifying."

She flicked out an open palm, ceding the floor in challenge.

Loki set his jaw.

"Kàn zhūchéngbì sī fēnfēn, Qiáocuì zhīlí wèi yì jūn. Bùxìn bǐ lái zhǎng xià lèi, Kāi xiāng yàn qǔ shíliúqún."

He had deliberately recited the original text, rather than speaking through the filter of Allspeak. Some nuance was inevitably lost in translation, particularly within the limited fidelity of the universal tongue- but while more precise in meaning, the original was also several shades opaquer. The Hanyu languages were tonal, brimming with homonyms differentiated solely by inflection, easily missed by non-native speakers. And considering that the poem in question was a few centuries older than Loki himself, with the linguistic drift, she would find it nigh impossible-

"So deep in thought while watching reds change to greens," she translated pensively, as though she were somewhere else. "So frail I've become in memory of you. If you do not believe these tears I have wept, open this chest and see the marks on my pomegranate dress."

Loki started at her in carefully masked disbelief.

"You speak Chinese."

"Mandarin and a little Cantonese, yes," she said simply- before wincing into a sheepish grimace. "Although, you also chose one of the few classical Chinese poems I know well enough to recognise."

Loki sent her a sour look.

"You could have mentioned that."

"I might have, if you had asked," she retorted. "You're the one who quoted Wu Zetian out of the blue."

Loki glowered, but relented.

"How many languages do you speak?" He asked instead.

"A few. Enough to qualify as a polyglot, if not a hyperglot."

"Impressive."

The compliment had spilled out of him, unthinking and genuine.

Like the sun breaking through cloud cover, she warmed through.

"Thank you. I've always been good with languages."

"I can credit it." Loki ran a fingertip along his lower lip, observing her through his lashes. "Care to put forward any other non-English poems?"

She paused, her mouth twisting slightly in thought.

"There is one. But- it's not a poem in the strictest sense."

It was a strange caveat. "You have my attention, darling."

"Do I? Lucky me."

Her tone was wry, but the look in her eyes was intense, glowing like embers.

And instead of speaking-

"Vedrò con mio diletto –"

- she sang.

Loki's heart stopped.

"L'alma dell'alma mia, dell'alma mia Il core del mio cor Pien di content Pien di contento –"

The Vivaldi aria was crystalline and angelic, composed for vaulted opera halls and soaring cathedral naves, for white marble and clerestory windows flooding light into a basilica, rather than black steel sealed against the open air- but the way she sang it was lower, warmer, sweeter. She allayed the piercing brightness of the upper register into something gentler, more earthly, like a dawn-soaked aubade heard on the cusp of waking.

The lights in the cell flickered briefly.

"Vedrò con mio diletto L'alma dell'alma mia, dell'alma mia Il cor di questo, cor pien di content Pien di contento

E se dal caro oggetto Lungi convien che sia, convien che sia Sospirerò penando Ogni momento…"

The air throbbed, metal shivering from the final note, settling like dust.

Loki swallowed, unsealing his lips.

"I will see with joy," he translated, throat stoppered, vocal cords strangled by the words, "the soul of my soul, heart of my heart, full of contentment. And if from my dear object I be far away, I will sigh, suffering every moment."

Her eyes were locked on his.

"You have a lovely voice," he confessed.

There is witchcraft in your lips.

The air left her lungs in a slow, soundless billow.

Watching her watch him was like pressing his eye to the lens of a kaleidoscope. Every brilliant facet of her was cracked open, letting him look for as long as he wanted- and gazing back.

Loki wanted to demand more and to wrench away.

Eventually, she fell away from the cell.

She returned to the books, sinking to one knee. Pulling a few from the collection, sampling seemingly at random, she stacked them into the crook of one arm until she could barely balance them against her torso.

Rising to her feet and rounding the cage, she dropped just out of sight, behind one of the thickset pillars set at the cardinal points of the cell.

Loki heard the chirp of a digital keypad, the snap of a latch, and a clunk.

Not for the first time, Loki noticed the faint seams in the pillars, the outline of a door. It hadn't been relevant, before; he already had his plans in motion, locked into place like clockwork, and indifference towards his prison only served to make his captors more unsettled.

It had taken the bare minimum for Loki to start splitting them at the seams, to turn disinterest and wariness into open hostility and discord.

Imagine what someone could accomplish if they were actually trying.

With a click, and the snick of a digital lock, she emerged from behind the pillar, arms empty and eyes expectant.

Loki arched an eyebrow, and indulged her. Crossing the cell, he found the handle, and pulled the hatch open.

Inside the hollow interior were several shelves, installed at intervals. It was completely empty- save for an assortment of books on a ledge just below his ribs.

Loki turned the stack with a near-frictionless rasp of paper against metal, examining the spines.

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Northern Lights. Paradise Lost. The Tragedy of Eleanora Belmont. Il Principe. Pride and Prejudice. The Theory of Existentialism. The Pretender. Hogfather. Wicked Things. Wolf Hall.

"You gave me the best of your library, darling," he observed, tracing the satin cover of the Bard's anthology, stitched with floral devices in shimmering gold.

"Oh, don't worry." She slid the rest of her library into place against the wall. "I held a few back."

She hefted up a modest hardback, interlocking geometric detailing embossed in gold leaf in the leather, ubiquitous and unmistakable.

Tales of Norse Mythology, the cover declared.

She burst out laughing, sweet and unmalicious, at his look of affront.

"Relax," she soothed, setting the offending book down, "I prefer Greek mythology anyway. Much better attested, and with contemporaneous sources, unlike the Prose and Poetic Edda. Ah, no offense intended, Old Norse poetry is deliciously intricate. Especially dróttkvævitt, with the way the kennings and heiti turning it into a labyrinth of meaning."

Loki's lips quirked. "Well. I must admit, your pronunciation is-"

Then he caught up with what she had just said.

Greek.

Oh.

"Aletheia."

She looked up, a trio of books gathered to her chest, halfway through moving a folding plastic chair from against the wall.

"Yes?"

"Lethe," he continued, "meaning oblivion, forgetfulness, concealment. With the alpha privative, aletheia- unconcealed. Or- truth."

She straightened, setting the chair in front of the control panel, and smiled faintly.

"You know your Greek," she acknowledged, before shifting into neutral explanation. "Aletheia is the Greek goddess and personification of truth. She's often interpreted as the daughter of Chronos, personification of time, who is also usually her vindicator and protector, revealing her to the world. It's a popular allegory in Western classical art." She gave a self-deprecating smile. "In one of the novels I gave you, there is a device called an alethiometer, a golden compass that tells the truth to any question asked. That's where I got the name, originally. In my defence, Aletheia is far more obscure a deity than, say, Nike."

"How apt," Loki commented dryly. "Victory favoured over truth."

She stifled an amused smirk.

"You have no idea."

"I can hazard a guess, darling."

She stilled.

"Oh," she said, doubtlessly catching the truth in his grim tone, "you can."

Loki tapped his index finger against the nearest book cover.

"Do you have any recommendations? As to where I should start?"

She slipped into her seat, swivelling and bending to extract a slim device from a pocket of her duffel bag, followed by a tangle of candy-coloured silicone earphones.

"My suggestions will be biased," she warned without heat. "And probably unnecessary, depending on how many of them you've already read."

Loki smirked. "Darling, I'm counting on it."

"Ah- so you've been trying to read me though my preferences all along." Her eyes glinted like the taper of a needle. "Clever."

She spoke as if the ploy hadn't been double-edged from the beginning- as if she wasn't aware of it, in the same way that Loki had known his ploy would draw his own blood as much as hers.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself that he was looking at a lie, and to stop himself from cataloguing all the loopholes that could make it true.

"Hm, well," he mused with a smile, dropping his voice to something dangerously intimate and only mostly insincere, "I could be sweet for you, and have you spilling all your secrets. Is that preferable?"

She suppressed a smile.

"Start with a few Shakespearean plays," she instructed, plugging in her earphones and cracking open one of the books in her lap, tucking the other two aside, holstered next to her hip. "Merchant of Venice, Othello, Much Ado About Nothing- in that order. Then Northern Lights, The Pretender, and Hogfather. Throw in a few breaks with the lighter ones, especially The Prince. That particular translation is very digestible, and probably as succinct as Machiavelli originally intended."

"More laconic than loquacious," Loki added, leafing through her slender copy of the infamous work, an edition with the gloss of recent printing and the wear of thorough, repeated study, "all the better for the intended audience of a short-tempered political leader with an even shorter attention span."

"Too much lion, not enough fox," she agreed with a conspiratorial smirk.

"Thus spake the fierce fox," Loki observed, easing the brick of the Shakespearean anthology out from inside the pillar.

She looked up, settling back in the chair as comfortably as the rigid frame would permit.

"So utters the cunning lion," she said, kicking one leg up to cross over the other.

She raised the music player, tapping the play button with an audible click.

Wresting back a laugh as bright as snow-blindness, Loki took a seat at the bench.

The two of them sank into the quiet.

-

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[endollvors]

Robot Meat

He tips his head back, makes a noise when the cords attach to the ports on his forehead. Half a groan with a clicking stutter as his brain rushes to feel the rest of his body, his buddy, his Power. His blood pumps through his veins in sync with the coolant and fuel and hydraulic fluid. His second heart revs to life. He opens all eight of his eyes, feeling the usual creeping sensation as he sees the back of his own head from a few too many angles. Speedmaster is not strictly his body, admitting that the meat that lets him connect his nerves to the metal and muscle of a machine that, by design, isn’t supposed to think feels like a conversation could get a person thrown out of the army. He’s done that already, without needing to say anything stupid. He rolls his shoulders and Speedmaster mirrors the motion across the flaps of its carapace. Disengaging from its harness and closing with a click that rattles appreciably through his whole body.

Trava’s read the history books. He’s fought thinking weapons. He knows why that’s scary, it’s just, there’s a tingling itch in his brain, his fingertips, down his spine, where Speedmaster is supposed to be. They belong to each other. That’s why they all had to go. Because after what they’d become, after Speedmaster started to reach out and catch him, they couldn’t be anything else. They don’t want to be anything else. Trava keeps his body still and steady as the launching jut extends even if inside he’s vibrating at being able to see the jet dark around him, filling his vision until it’s just him and the stars dotting space around him and Trava’s body from behind, the back of his head and all. He was discharged for being too good. That’s how he tells it, that’s how Shinkai tells it. It makes them sound cocky in a way that neatly covers the truth of the matter. Which is that being as good as he was, as they were, him and Shinkai and Speedmaster, together, is a symptom. It is supposed to be impossible what they do, the three of them. He thinks it happens more often than they’re willing to admit. He knows pilots who never adjust right to a new power after a promotion or an old power jittering brokenly through startup after its last pilot died. Shinkai can tell stories about mechanics who follow their pet projects around and how they never behave just right without them. They’re just, the most. And they were obvious. His numbers got too good. People pay attention to things like that in the military. They have to notice Speedmaster making adjustments too fast for even Trava’s species’ reflexes eventually. And they see Shinkai mumble to himself as ports in and cleans and calibrates and repairs so precisely, never even checking systems that don’t need it.

Just because Speedmaster isn’t a Thinking Weapon doesn’t mean it doesn’t think. It just can’t move unless Trava and Shinkai listen to it. And Trava loves listening. He launches with a whoop and snaps in an erratic dance around the ship. 

Look, Shinkai, look at what we can do, at what we are, at how well you keep us together.

[chronotopes]

I miss listening to joni mitchell I miss select aspects of middle school i miss flowering trees and I miss writing poetry and I miss reading all the time. Posting too-personal things on tumblr is a good sign that I’m on the left side of the diary entry bell curve but we’ll address that later. Gonna go back to the sick bookstore in chapel hill and get more poetry books soon and continue my education in contemporary poetry not assigned to me by anyone. Would have been way less afraid of being an object of interest at 26-person southern family thanksgiving than I am of intruding on a 6-person great american family christmas (i have never been to anyone’s family christmas ever) but i’m sure i’ll cope somehow. Going through vital transformative thought processes that sometimes feel like waking up early to a sunlit world covered in frost but sometimes like being put under a hydraulic press. All in all definitely a tumblr post that could have been a journal entry