#beyond space and tine

[theoneicelady]

Loki season 2 episode 4 spoilers

Somehow, and we really cant explain how, they managed to kill Loki again.

Yes, after the 3 main ones. Yes, after being erased from time and space. Yes, after being erased from even outside that (that was his older version though). Somehow. They managed to kill him again but more for reals this time. What te fuck. How

[secretcatpolicy]

I'm delighted that I got this new Matchbox Morgan Plus Four.

I adore Morgans; always have. While they are less than practical in most cases, they tick every other box for me. Let's explore what Morgans are and why I love them.

Morgan is a British company - which is still fully true to my knowledge, because in this ridiculous world we currently occupy, there are degrees to this sort of statement. MG was a British company, got acquired by a Chinese consortium and, with its cars built in China, is in no sense beyond the historical a British company; Land Rover still build its cars in the UK but it's owned by Tata of India. Are Land Rover still British? I'd say yes, but it's arguable. But Morgan is owned partly by the family of founder Henry Morgan (along with a private equity group, because you can't fucking escape the bullshit of 2025) and operate from Malvern in Worcestershire (pronounced "WOOstersheer"), as it has since 1909. This is crucial in understanding what Morgan is about; the company is a small-volume producer, because they still build all their cars by hand.

No robots, no mass-production. Every single one is bespoke, uniquely built to the customer's specifications, and as someone with an incessant urge to customise everything this is an extremely appealing attribute. It's hard to overstate how much I like the idea of a coachbuilt car made by craftspeople with decades of experience, but with modern technology and reliability. They have three models presently, the Plus Four, the Supersport and the Super 3 (recently made by Hot Wheels). Past models included the 4/4 with 4 seats, the +8 with a V8 and the Aero, which was an enclosed and streamlined model, along with a whole tine of 3-wheelers.

They are largely aluminium in construction, with a wooden subframe, which makes them very light. Of course, the look is iconic and dates back to around 1936, revised a little in 1950 and not much since, although it's often tweaked and given modernised tech. Morgan don't make their own engines, and the current range use BMW inline engines for the 4-wheelers (a 2-litre B48B20O1 turbo i4 making 255 hp for the Plus Four, and a 335hp B58B30C i6 with a twin-scroll turbo for the Supersport) and a Ford 3-cylinder for the 3-wheeler Super 3. Past models have used Ford, Mazda and Rover engines

They're all RWD, with auto or manual options that hit 60 in about 5 seconds in the Plus Four, and a sub 4-second 60 via auto only in the Supersport. What results is a sports car in the classic sense that Mazda was aiming for with the MX-5, not brutally powerful or transcendently fast but small, low, responsive, agile and focused on being fun to drive. They have only the space behind the seats for cargo, plus an optional rack on the back, and while third-party rigid hardtops exist there's no factory option, so they'd be pretty hard to live with as primary everyday cars, but as a car for enjoying driving, and as drivable art, I think there's probably none better.

Notably with this, it's basically exactly the same size as the 1:55 Siku +8, which is odd, as the little figures are supposed to be 1:75 scale but seem pretty well fitted to the car. The Super 3 is a bit larger scale, while the Majorette (the more battered green one, which has HW real riders but is very much not a HW model) is a touch longer. The inability of diecast makers to stick to a single scale drives me up the wall.

[timberwind]

here's a feature that the more advanced digital radio cloaks could have (besides improved range, encryption, multi-channel support, and custom connection graphs with tuned delays and stuff) a loss of signal script. the user could set up custom loss of signal scripts for their individual members and then in the event of an unexpected disconnect it could help keep the singleton calm and keep them from behaving unsafely. an extremely simple one that just plays back or loops prerecorded mindsound would probably be a lot better than nothing. a particularly clever tine might set up a repeating mantra of instructions with gaps between for responses from the singleton that are intended to be replayed later (so the recording behaves like drum memory does in some early computer architectures). more advanced ones could set up the singleton with the virtual computer interface tine as a sort of odd duo. if you go to advanced it might end up being like *connection dropped, emulating all other members* and then the pack has to do a git merge when the singleton regains connection (probably the emulated members stick around as log file like things that can be interacted with but tend not to chime in of their own accord without something important to say). there's a certain tipping point in technology where the interesting stories can happen and i think it's usually right around the development of new capabilities. (although, imagine a multiplanetary choir in the mid beyond linked by ultrawave - their navy could be frighteningly competent for the depth, especially if they found good solutions to the routing problem of distributed computation)

Oh I love this! There's room here for some really good characterization - a lost tine in the Beyond dealing with a partially-emulated sense of self, an old pack maintaining a "thought cabinet" of emulated past members and passing it on to offspring... I definitely agree also about crossing technological tipping points and all the rapid change that can cause being being a really fun story topic - a tine-human expedition from the top of the Slow Zone into the Beyond in a flotilla of ramscoop ships, or a first colony Out There... these could be good story hooks for some fic I think.

(Brief fill-in for those who haven't read the books: tines are a species where each "individual" is the gestalt of a pack of three to eight sort of wolflike creatures, each critter's on-its-own-nonsentient thought combining into a conscious whole by a kind of distributed ultrasound 'telepathy'. A choir is what happens when lots more tines than can form a discrete individual pack live together - they form a shifting and disorganized morass of thought that is... sort of alien to both discrete packs and humans.)

I have found myself thinking about how intelligent choirs in the beyond would act too... I suppose you can imagine lots of different ways it could go. I like to think you could get some kind of prosperous coexistence, possibly even with packs sometimes choosing to temporarily dissolve themselves into choirs as a sabbatical, or to assist with some great task, and coming back with new insights (and sometimes coming back very much changed by the experience). Sort of a little bit like the Pattern Jugglers from Revelation Space, maybe. Perhaps, if what Johanna says in Children of the Sky about the way the choir on the raft conceptualizes things continues to hold true, sentient choirs shoot off into modes of consciousness that are undoubtedly sentient but also still weird to us - like the Powers in miniature.

Of course, a fun sort of horror take on it would be a sort of hard-takeoff choir coming into existence accidentally, like a version of the Blight just for tines. The last remaining individual pack on a first expedition to the far Beyond/low Transcend, cowering in a corridor on a hab orbiting a cold red star... feeling the call, no, the demand of its reconstituted peers, the overwhelmingly more powerful consequence of a sudden relaxation on limits on just how complex and distributed a mind can be...

Also I would really like to chat in realtime about tine worldbuilding with you sometime, anon! My direct messages are always open if you'd like to drop in. No pressure if not, of course.

[m0gg3t]

Little space colony/ floating city/ carved out mountain city/ what have you whose power is generated by sonoluminescent cavitation boilers (like the light produced from a pistol shrimp claw blast thing, where a bubble is formed underwater simply from the pressure of the shockwave, the same is done largescale with resonance and feedback loops)

Because of the size of the boilers and the energy involved, a much much denser liquid is used (maybe even like a tar, an amber? Maybe liquid glass? Superheated heavy metal?) and a much much larger solitary bubble is produced, collapsed, cavitated, and then the energy of that radiation emission is captured.

The way the sound is produced at a low energy cost is by using feedback loops of enormous glass bells and tubes and harmonic metal tines and springs, it results in an 'apprehension engine' sounding hum, both low and high pitch, that builds to an immense and wildly dangerous volume, building up static energy in the air around it and messing with pretty much everything, then, when the bubble collapses, there's what is functionally a shockwave earthquake through the whole colony.

About every 4 hours (every 3 hours and 59 minutes to be precise) the warning bells chime，the boiler engine activates and begins its wind up, and after about 55 seconds of increasing volume, vibration, charge and pressure, the bubble that was forming spontaneously collapses, and the energy from shockwave and electrolysis radiation from the cavitation of the bubble is collected and stored to power the colony (and to add to the ancillary backup engine to assist with the engine bubble production in less than ideal situations for input energy)

The effects of this bubble collapsing is felt over the entire population, with those closer to the engines experiencing the most extreme effects, but even those farthest away still being at risk if they ignore safety procedures. Aftereffects, tremors, side effects, and atmospheric crackling and rebalancing can last up to an additional minute the closer you are to the engine (in civilian spaces that is. In the spaces wete the boiler technicians work, it is up to half an hour at the closest)

Inhabitants and those familiar with the city are able to instinctually hear the building beginning chimes of the engine and prepare accordingly (kind of like not worrying or paying attention to a siren at 12 o clock on a wednesday, except it's more like 3 times a day every day)

Visitors and youngsters have alarms on their wrists at 10 and 5 minutes before the engine activates, and an additional 1 minute alarm if opted for

Infants and enfeebled are usually placed lovingly in a home's cavitation chamber, and occaisionally stayed with for added comfort (a sound "proofed" and well insulated and vacuum sealed chamber than dampens the intense noise and the shaking and shockwave effects as well as the atmospheric static energy) those rich enough to afford them have either entire houses soundproofed, or have a luxurious chamber

Those technicians who are very savvy can usually wait up until the last 10 or so seconds before donning their mouth guards and assuming the shock position

Daredevils and those reckless and irresponsible will occaisionally ignore the safety measures, choosing not to don their ear protection and mouth guard

Choosing to continue with whatever task they were doing. Sure, most of the time they are fine, mostly they are instinctively prepared for it and it's a small risk, but there are regular and plentiful cases of that risk having conseques, whether minor (such as a chipped tooth or a cut tongue from biting it, a falling injury or some kind of impact damage or joint damage from muscle spasms, hearing damage, tinitus, sprains) to major (seizures lasting beyond the usual maximum 15 seconds after the cavitation, occaisionally up to minutes, causing significant risk of harm to individual, broken bones, heart attack, suffocation, torn muscle and dislocated joints, ruptured eardrum, severe burns from contact with metal or technology or liquid, "the bends" nitrogen narcosis, and more)

[armaandigitalmarketing]

The Importance of a Traditional Matcha Tool Set

Making matcha the traditional way requires specific tools to create the perfect texture, flavor, and experience. While modern methods may provide convenience, they often lack the ceremonial aspects and richness that traditional tools bring. A Japanese Matcha Tea Maker Tool Set includes items crafted with care, designed to elevate your matcha tea-making process into a meditative, enjoyable ritual.

What’s Included in a Matcha Tea Maker Tool Set?

A typical Matcha Tea Maker Tool Set includes four essential items:

Chawan (Matcha Bowl) The chawan is a wide, shallow bowl used for whisking and drinking matcha tea. Its design allows enough space for vigorous whisking without spilling. The wide opening of the chawan also allows for easy appreciation of the bright green matcha, enhancing the visual aspect of the tea ceremony.

Chasen (Bamboo Whisk) The chasen is arguably the most iconic tool in the matcha-making process. Made from a single piece of bamboo, the chasen features fine prongs (or tines) that are essential for whisking the matcha powder into a smooth, frothy tea. The unique structure of the chasen helps evenly mix the matcha with hot water, creating a lump-free, velvety texture. Tip: When using a chasen, whisk in a zigzag motion to create a fine froth on the surface of your tea.

Chashaku (Bamboo Scoop) The chashaku is a small, slender scoop used to measure out the matcha powder. Traditionally made from bamboo, the chashaku allows for precise scooping of matcha, typically about 1-2 scoops for one serving. Using a chashaku ensures that you’re adding just the right amount of matcha to achieve the desired flavor and strength.

Matcha Sifter While not always included in every tool set, a matcha sifter is highly recommended. Matcha powder can form small clumps due to its fine texture. Sifting the powder before whisking helps eliminate these clumps, ensuring a smoother and more even mixture. This step is key to achieving the perfect consistency in your tea.

How to Use Your Matcha Tool Set

Here’s a simple guide to using your Matcha Tea Maker Tool Set for an authentic matcha-making experience:

Measure the Matcha: Use the chashaku to scoop 1-2 servings of matcha powder into the chawan. This typically equates to about 1 teaspoon of matcha powder.

Sift the Powder: Place the matcha powder in a sifter to remove any lumps and ensure smooth consistency.

Add Water: Heat water to about 70-80°C (not boiling). Add a small amount (about 2-3 ounces) of hot water to the chawan.

Whisk the Matcha: Use the chasen to whisk the matcha in a quick, zigzag motion. Continue whisking until the tea becomes frothy with small bubbles on the surface.

Enjoy: Sip the matcha directly from the chawan, savoring both the flavor and the calming ritual of preparation.

The Benefits of Using Traditional Tools

Using a traditional Japanese Matcha Tea Maker Tool Set offers several benefits beyond just the practical:

Authenticity: These tools have been used in Japanese tea ceremonies for centuries, allowing you to connect with the cultural heritage and traditions of matcha preparation.

Enhanced Flavor: The proper use of a chasen ensures that the matcha is perfectly blended, releasing its full range of flavors and nutrients.

Mindfulness: Preparing matcha with these tools becomes a mindful ritual, encouraging a moment of calm and focus before enjoying your tea.

Conclusion

Investing in a Japanese Matcha Tea Maker Tool Set is not just about making tea—it’s about embracing a tradition that enhances the experience and flavor of matcha. Whether you’re new to matcha or a seasoned tea lover, using the right tools will take your matcha-making skills to the next level. From the chasen to the chawan, each piece plays a vital role in creating the perfect cup of matcha, allowing you to enjoy this ancient beverage in its most authentic form.

[boundlessmirror]

I would like-(these empty boxes that goad us into hollering into the void.) After nearly 32 years, the clarity has never been so salient. What the FUCK are We doing? I am continually in awe that We've gotten anything done at all. Collectively, the fact We've made it to this point in "history" is frankly astounding. We call it the year 2024 but really We are rocking 300,000 years (minimum) of the same software progression, likely longer than that. You motherfuckers better read some books. The poetry of Our dichotomy has been echoed from the East for eons. Every 100 years, an eagle drags a silk scarf across a granite mountain that is 10 miles high, 10 miles long, and 10 miles deep. Once that scarf has eroded that mountain, then will Humanity find peace. DO. YOUR. PART. In the mean time, too many people are wrapped up in their identities. Seeking a common group to relate with, rather than recognizing the truth that the space between "us" is an illusion. The space between your face and these words, the words and themselves, letter by letter. We are already way beyond "this".

What is it that's going on right now? These collections of atoms and molecules, which coalece into their own boundaries, that rebound and react off other boundaries. Vibration and reverberation, echoes of energy that seemingly both wastes and sustains itself. Born from the Void, giving the weight of the world to the dalliance of each moment. The totality of which can be most easily grasped with empy hands.

These cultures we've cultivated have blossomed over time. Some more sustainable and held with high regard than others. With the time to cultivate over generations, we find ourselves like tines of a fork pointed towards themselves and the handle from which they sprout.

There simply remains a deep disappointment. The wonder that there is anything at all, and yet some of the We think they are separate than and even hate other parts of We. It's so silly.

[smegdishwasher-posts]

Smeg Dishwasher Accessories You Didn't Know You Needed

Enhancing the functionality and longevity of your Smeg dishwasher goes beyond its inherent design and features. Incorporating essential and optional accessories can significantly optimize its performance while maintaining its pristine condition. This article explores various accessories that complement Smeg dishwashers, from practical additions like cutlery baskets and racks to specialized cleaning products, ensuring your dishwasher operates efficiently and effectively in your kitchen.

Essential Accessories for Smeg Dishwashers

1. Cutlery Baskets: Cutlery baskets are indispensable accessories that organize and separate utensils during the wash cycle. Smeg offers versatile cutlery baskets designed to fit seamlessly into their dishwashers, ensuring each piece of silverware and utensil is thoroughly cleaned and easily accessible after the cycle completes. These baskets typically feature compartments for different types of cutlery, preventing items from nesting together and promoting better cleaning results.

2. Dishwasher Racks: Dishwasher racks play a crucial role in maximizing interior space and accommodating various sizes and shapes of dishes, glasses, and cookware. Smeg dishwasher racks are adjustable and often feature fold-down tines or customizable layouts to accommodate large pots, pans, and delicate glassware securely. Investing in additional or replacement racks ensures versatility and efficiency in loading your dishwasher according to your specific needs.

3. Cleaning Products: Using appropriate cleaning products not only ensures optimal cleaning performance but also helps maintain the condition of your Smeg dishwasher. Smeg recommends using their branded dishwasher detergents and rinse aids formulated to remove stubborn food residue, prevent water spots, and maintain stainless steel interiors. Regular use of these products enhances cleaning efficiency, extends the lifespan of your dishwasher, and keeps it looking like new.

Optional Accessories to Consider

1. Dishwasher Safe Cookware and Utensils: Smeg encourages using dishwasher-safe cookware and utensils to maximize cleaning efficiency and protect the dishwasher's interior surfaces. Look for products labeled as dishwasher safe to prevent damage and ensure consistent performance over time.

2. Water Softener System: Depending on your location and water quality, installing a water softener system can benefit both your Smeg dishwasher and your dishes. Hard water minerals can accumulate over time, leading to limescale buildup and reduced cleaning effectiveness. A water softener helps prevent these issues, improving cleaning results and prolonging the dishwasher's lifespan.

3. Specialty Racks and Accessories: Smeg offers specialty racks and accessories tailored to specific needs, such as wine glass holders, bottle wash inserts, and utensil trays with adjustable dividers. These accessories provide additional convenience and ensure delicate items are cleaned safely and effectively, enhancing overall dishwasher functionality.

Maximizing Performance and Longevity

1. Proper Loading Techniques: Optimize your Smeg dishwasher's performance by following recommended loading techniques. Place larger items such as pots and pans on the bottom rack, ensuring they do not obstruct the spray arms. Arrange plates and bowls on the bottom rack facing inward for thorough cleaning, while placing glasses and delicate items securely on the upper rack.

2. Routine Maintenance: Regular maintenance plays a vital role in preserving your Smeg dishwasher's efficiency and durability. Clean the filter regularly to prevent clogs and ensure proper drainage. Inspect spray arms for blockages and remove any debris to maintain optimal water flow during cycles. Additionally, wipe down the door seals and interior surfaces to prevent mold and mildew growth.

3. Warranty and Support: Protect your investment by registering your Smeg dishwasher for warranty coverage and familiarizing yourself with the manufacturer's maintenance guidelines. Smeg offers comprehensive warranties on their dishwashers, covering parts and labor for specified periods, ensuring peace of mind and prompt support in case of issues.

Conclusion

Incorporating essential and optional accessories into your Smeg dishwasher setup enhances its functionality, efficiency, and longevity in your kitchen. From cutlery baskets and adjustable racks to specialized cleaning products and water softener systems, these accessories optimize cleaning performance and protect your dishwasher's interior surfaces. By investing in these accessories and following proper maintenance practices, you can maximize the benefits of owning a Smeg dishwasher, ensuring pristine dishes and a seamlessly integrated kitchen appliance for years to come.

Explore Smeg's range of dishwasher accessories to tailor your dishwasher setup to meet your specific needs and preferences. Whether enhancing organization, protecting delicate items, or maintaining optimal cleaning efficiency, these accessories elevate your dishwasher experience and contribute to a well-equipped, efficient kitchen environment.

[sun-in-retrograde]

Sedna Trine Venus - The Divine Feminine in the Men's Locker Room

On 16 February at 5:13 AM GMT, Venus reaches it's exact trine with Sedna. This is happening as a bit of a prelude to the Venus-Pluto conjunction in Aquarius at 8:51 AM GMT, 17 February. This is the first Venus Pluto conjunction in Aquarius and the last Venus Sedna trine in Taurus.

This means everything this Sedna Venus tine is happening in a context of a lot of Pluto-Mars-Venus all conjunct kind of energy. So there's an edginess, a struggle for supremacy, a struggle for survival. It's a lot. Things are a lot right now.

Some things I'd be keeping my eye out for with Venus trining with Sedna

An alignment with primal feminine archetypes and energies

I was expecting (and we might get) appeals to bioessentialism, what women evolved for, the "divine nurturing mother goddess" but okay hear me out. Kristen Stewart in a jock strap in a men's changing room is the representation of the divine feminine that the current astrology calls for. Powerful, challenging male dominance in their own spaces, angry, gay, and it pisses off the transphobes, homophobes, and misogynists who want women to be little mothers.

An awareness of forms of beauty that go beyond what we're normally told to accept

Rejoice! The stars are telling you to be weird and gay

Heroic resignation and sacrifice for the greater good

Sedna trine Venus empowers for a wider view of what is good and beautiful, which to my mind covers putting your survival underneath other people's

Awareness of intense, generational levels of trauma

This may feel bad but isn't necessarily bad. Sometimes we need to feel and communicate our feelings.

Maybe even evolutionary levels of trauma.

The last time Sedna was about to enter Gemini was 9000 BC. The growth of agriculture and the written word all fit into a single cycle. We might feel the loss of species, cultures, societies. This would be a good week to be aware of Gaza and Sudan and the ongoing genocides there.

Re-evaluating values on a wider scale

Situations where what is good for now clashes with what is good for your lifetime or over multiple lifetimes. For instance, you may be called to tell the truth even when it hurts you long term because being truthful matters more.

Appeals to the Greater Good

People may be susceptible to the opposite - to tell lies because it aids their politics, or commit war crimes because the world needs certain types of people removed from it. There's few things in human history worse that when people justify doing bad in the name of a Greater Good

[dayiifayoutdoors]

Exploring FLOUNDER GIGS: The Art of the Perfect Fishing Tool

As summer approaches, the call of serene and enjoyable moments by the water beckons. For those of us who have a deep-seated passion for the thrill of fishing, FLOUNDER GIGS might just be the perfect companion for basking in the sun and experiencing the great outdoors. Crafted from corrosion-resistant stainless steel, these fishing gigs offer a range of features that make them indispensable for fishing enthusiasts. In this article, we will delve into what makes FLOUNDER GIGS stand out and why they are the ultimate tool for fishing adventures.

High-Quality Material:

One of the standout features of FLOUNDER GIGS is their construction from durable stainless steel material. This material not only ensures longevity but also provides excellent resistance to corrosion. Whether you're fishing in freshwater or saltwater environments, you can trust that your FLOUNDER GIG will withstand the test of time and maintain its performance.

Multi-Tine Design:

FLOUNDER GIGS offer a versatile approach to spearfishing with options of four-tine, five-tine, and seven-tine spears. This variety allows you to tailor your fishing gear to your specific needs. The choice of tine configuration can significantly impact your success rate when catching flounder or other flatfish. Whether you prefer the simplicity of a four-tine gig or the enhanced stability of a seven-tine gig, FLOUNDER GIGS has you covered.

Precise Lengths:

Customization is key in the world of fishing, and FLOUNDER GIGS understands that. With spear lengths of 21 centimeters (8.27 inches), 16 centimeters (6.3 inches), and 18.5 centimeters (7.28 inches), you have the flexibility to adapt to different fishing scenarios and cater to your individual preferences. Longer spears may offer extended reach, while shorter ones can provide better maneuverability in tight spaces.

Complimentary Bar:

To further enhance your fishing experience and success rates, each FLOUNDER GIG comes with a complimentary bar. This bar provides you with additional stability and control while wielding your gig. It's a small addition that can make a significant difference when aiming for those elusive flounder. It's not just a tool; it's an extra edge that ensures you're well-equipped for your fishing endeavors.

Versatile Applications:

While FLOUNDER GIGS are designed with nighttime fishing in mind, their versatility extends beyond that. These gigs can accompany you on various outdoor adventures, from camping trips to exploration by the water's edge. They are a versatile tool that adds enjoyment to all your outdoor pursuits.

Conclusion:

In the world of fishing, having the right tool can be the difference between a successful catch and a missed opportunity. FLOUNDER GIGS, with their high-quality stainless steel construction, multi-tine design, precise lengths, and complimentary bar, represent the pinnacle of fishing gear. These gigs are not just tools; they are a work of art designed to elevate your fishing experience. Whether you're a seasoned angler or a newcomer to the world of fishing, FLOUNDER GIGS are an investment worth making for countless hours of outdoor enjoyment and unforgettable catches.

[royalreef]

Miranda dropped her jaw. It was not the sharper expression such a thing usually conveyed, as it did not pull all the way to her fins, did not tense her lips and hold them rigid. It did reveal the lower half of her teeth, each one massive and serrated, with thick bases coming up to faintly curved points, and her tongue, sitting there in the velvet of her lower jaw, cupped against her teeth, dual tines at the tip pressed together where they lay, the same muddy dark purple of a dog's jowls. But this could have meant anything, would have meant anything.

She huffed again, letting it come out of her mouth, her throat bobbing behind it. Such a nice and solid displeased noise, even with the shallowness of her lungs, so much smaller than what something her size would be presumed to have. It was a full-bodied noise, full of air and seemingly sourceless, dissipating out beyond her mouth and her throat without trying all that hard to obscure it, so that it seemingly arrived in the ear as an orphan, like it had been delivered there by the wind.

It was a sigh, really, though she didn't think he would appreciate that. Her eyes didn't look back at him.

Sad eyes. She didn't know what she would even look like, with sad eyes, what that even implied. She had only known her eyes as she had always known them, gifted from her mother, the Queen, a strange inheritance against all of the others she had been owed, a quirk of genetics that still never settled fully in her flesh. That was what she thought mostly, when she thought of her eyes. That they were the Queen's, like the rest of her, and everyone agreed this was true to her nature, true to her memory.

She had never met the Queen and never would, so when Miranda looked at her eyes, she mostly just remembered the catacombs, and staring at where it had been decided her grave should be.

"Talk to," she states, like making sure. She didn't know what he wanted her to talk upon. She had a lot to say, of course, talking was her job, to introduce others to her kingdom, her people, to pave the way for better things yet. Talking was also what she was exceptionally talented at, as a merfolk, though this skill had only become evident as she had left her people behind, and made her feel strange inside, frustrated. Talking was part of her duties as a royal, the foundation upon which courtly manners flowed. Certainly, she could talk.

"Pray tell, then, what did you want to talk to me about? Did you have something in mind, or was this more..." She made a small gesture with her hands, flicking her digits between the space of her double thumbs. "Searching for something to speak of?"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ-` 👻 ´- 【  Danny's well-intentioned words came back to bite him in the ass—almost literally, as Miranda parroted them back—taking a cautious step back as a concerned frown fell over his features. He didn't know she could do that.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤShe was right, though. He didn't know enough about her to make those kind of assumptions. He winced as her nostrils, the internal pale yellow flesh showing beneath, flared wide and mad as she made it clear he overstepped boundaries. Even her eyes, previously large, vibrant, and receptive to light and the world around her, narrowed to bare slits as she eyed him down, never tearing her fierce gaze away from his own nervous eyes.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHer hard gaze seemed animalistic, and he was afraid his own stare back into her depths was instigating a challenge and so he quickly broke it, glancing away as his hand moved to rub the opposite arm in awkwardness. He couldn't really tell if she was looking at him, or through him. Maybe others had told her something similar before and she didn't take it well those times, either.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤOn the one hand, he could feel the anger boring into him now, and yet, couldn't understand if what he said before was entirely off—about her having 'sad eyes'—but maybe, in the moment he thought he saw it, she was thinking and feeling something else entirely. He was sure that there was something going on with her, something she was hiding, but it didn't mean he knew her well enough to step into her life and pry the information from her without first getting to know her on a more... intimate level.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHer words broke him out of his own spiraling thoughts and he chanced a glance back at her, noting her fins pinning back against her head. "I— I'm... sorry, Miranda... you're right." He finally breathed out shakily, still rubbing his arm to soothe his nerves. "I didn't mean to, er, diminish or assume your feelings. I just... thought maybe you looked like you needed someone to talk to. I don't want to waste your time. I-I just want to talk."

[smallgodseries]

[image description: An eight-armed lady in a blue dress and shoes, a striped blue and white apron with the tine figure of Small God Hummel sewn on, feathered headdress and blue bakelite bracelets stands in front of a dark larder - in which outlines of food jars and dishes can be seen. She bears 5 glowing jars that seem to be candles in primary colors. Text reads, “50, Kitsch Annette ~ The Small God of Organized Pantries”]

……………………………………………..

If she could make people understand one thing and one thing only, it would be this: that food has no moral value, and that anyone whose pantry can be considered “full” is a virtuous person in her eyes, regardless of whether that fullness is kale chips and quinoa or Girl Scout cookies and pre-mixed buttercream frosting.  She cares about the quality of the shelves, their fullness and fineness, not their contents or what the latest diet craze has to say about those contents.

If she could make people understand two things, it would be that a well-stocked, well-indexed pantry is a palace beyond price, a lofty cathedral filled with miracles waiting to be mixed.  Cakes to be baked, potatoes to be peeled, spices and seasonings over which people have so very often gone to war, ready to be sprinkled over meat or folded into casseroles.  Holes in the shelves are not to be borne; a regularly updated shopping list is worth a thousand impulse buys or once-a-year stocking runs.  Every household should, in her eyes, be able to shut its doors and sustain itself for as long as plausible.  She understands all too well that not everyone can afford the luxury of a proper pantry, and she weeps for those outside the warmth and light of her hearth, whose stomachs are too often empty, whose soups, when they exist at all, are too often unseasoned.

She would feed the world, given rice enough and time.

If she could make people understand three things, it would be that another cup of water can always be added to the pot, that one more potato can always be diced into the hash, that one more egg is not so great a sacrifice, for look, the poorest among her following understand these things, make their offerings both wise and wide, fill the bellies of those around them.  For even the fullest shelf will be empty in a moment if placed before the starving, and so she will accept no hunger among her faithful that could be filled, will believe no table full when a single plate more could be placed upon it.  There is always room to feed your fellows.

She was a god of harvest once, and plenty.  She still is.

But seriously, replace your spices every four years, or they won’t be anything but faintly scented powder, and that is a blasphemy in her sight.

……………………………………………..

Join Lee Moyer (Icon) and Seanan McGuire (Story) Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries

Instagram: https://instagram.com/smallgodseries/

Homepage: http://smallgodseries.com

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

plop

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended���wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

/

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

[gingerdusk]

Doctor’s Notes: Sparks

Disclaimer: My work is intended for the Transformers: Prime continuity, but will draw reference from other Transformers series’ to incorporate more worldbuilding.

Spark and Spark Chamber Function

Sparks are source of Cybertronian life, and every living thing from Planet Cybertron has one, from Prime himself all the way down to the tiniest scraplet. If I had to choose only one human organ to compare it to, it’s closest in nature to the human heart; its primary function is to keep the flow of energy rolling through the bot it powers at a steady, consistent rate.

However, Cybertronian physiology rarely lines up 1:1 with its human counterpart. A spark fills a number of other functions, as follows:

Energy conversion: The spark takes the broken down energon from the fuel intake (digestive) system, refining it further and sending it through the spark chamber walls to be infused with nanites, essentially converting fuel-grade energon into blood-grade.

Thought and movement: This function is partially split between the spark and the Cybertronian processor; while the processor does the actual thinking and long-term memory retention, it’s the spark that dictates emotions, short-term memories, and functions of the body. The spark sends energy pulses to the processor, and those pulses are converted into usable signals for the frame to react to.

Soul: Far more clearly (and physically) defined in a Cybertronian body than a human’s, the spark, as the source of Cybertronian emotion, is often referred to as their soul. If you were to power up an empty frame without a spark, you would have a programmable drone rather than a person; the difference a spark makes is literally what gives them life.

[Image ID: An illustration of the Cybertronian spark chamber, which shows a glassy blue sphere contained in a metal frame. Each piece is labeled accordingly: the circular chamber reads “Spark chamber: the holding place of a spark, contains circuitry that connects directly to the processor, as well as energon capillary tubes and nanite infusion gateways.” The spikes holding the sphere in place read “Spark tines: these keep the spark from falling through the forward opening in the spark chamber, and are responsible for carrying spark pulses to the central processor.” The narrow space between the edge of the spark chamber and the sphere reads “Conductive gap: the narrow space between the spark and its chamber, allows for uninterrupted energy transmission. The spark is suspended in this gap by its electromagnetic (EM) field. Usually filled with visible, plasma-like energy threads.” The sphere reads “Spark: the life force of a Cybertronian, responsible for their emotions, energy conversion mechanisms, default protoform shape, and bodily functions.” End ID]

Sentio Metallico and Spark Formation

The spark itself forms in a place called a hotspot. Hotspots are exceptionally rare, especially beyond Cybertron’s grounds. A hotspot forms when a concentrated burst from the Allspark—the wellspring of Cybertronian life—comes into contact with ground rich in a category of metal known as sentio metallico. Metals included in this category are as follows:

Cyberium, a common component of a bot’s outer plating

Cybernite, the main component of spark chamber metal, and the most commonly found sentio metallico variety to surround a spark

Cybertitanium, an incredibly durable and lightweight metal used in the wings of flying bots and the plating of smaller bots

Cybertonium, a green substance used in the creation of the processor’s memory chips, which needs to be carefully repaired as a bot ages

Durabyllium, an incredibly hard yet brittle metal commonly used to make and replace Cybertronian denta, but has found other use in drills and medical equipment

Tritanium, a metal that turns gold when tempered and functions as the main component of a bot’s skeletal frame

Trithyllium, a strong, dark grey metal that makes up the bulk of a bot’s body. It’s rare to come across someone who’s composed of pure trithyllium, instead most protoforms being made of a dilute alloy of it and steel

Ununtrium, an incredibly rare metal that’s impossible to break without being heated to its softening point, and used to reinforce the skeletal framework of bots fortunate enough to be made with it in ready supply

It is unknown why these metals specifically are found in hotspots. One prevailing theory is that the Allspark only generates sparks in the presence of materials it deems essential to life.

[Image ID: a table of the 8 types of sentio metallico, each labeled accordingly. The first is dark gray, labeled “Cyberium, outer plating,” the second is pale gray, labeled “Cybernite, spark chamber,” the third is dull gold, labeled “Cybertitanium, wings and light plating,” the fourth is vibrant green, labeled “Cybertonium, memory storage,” the fifth is light gray, nearly white, labeled “Durabyllium, denta and tools,” the sixth is split between dull reddish-gray and bright gold, labeled “Tritanium, skeletal framework,” the seventh is dark gray, nearly black, labeled “Trithyllium, inner plating, protoform base,” and the eighth is pale gold, nearly white, labeled “Ununtrium, skeletal reinforcement.” End ID]

The spark itself is pure light, and as such, has to be contained in a physical object to keep from scattering. When a hotspot produces a spark, the sparklight is sealed inside a bubble, and that bubble fills in with silicon material that the spark rearranges into a photonic crystal, which it then inhabits for the full extent of its lifetime.

[Image ID: A detailed, labeled map of a cross-section of a photonic crystal. The central light is labeled “Scintilla lux: a Cybertronian’s spark, at its simplest, most concentrated form. It consists of pure energy.” The innermost layer is mirrorlike, labeled “Speculo mica: the first layer of a photonic crystal, built to contain sparklight and allow energy to pass through as efficiently as possible. This consists of many mirror-like layers that keep the spark from overextending itself.” The middle layer is full of bubble-like markings, labeled “Iris opalum: the second layer of a photonic crystal, responsible for refracting light throughout the spark to extend its reach to the edge of the crystal. This is an amorphous crystalline structure full of rounded silicon particles.” The outermost layer is cloudy and full of threads, labeled “Secare pallium: the final layer of a photonic crystal, this consists of various silicon nanotubes that allow the spark to both take in and extend out energy.” End ID]

Spark Color

The color of a Cybertronian spark varies wildly from Cybertronian to Cybertronian, each one having a different shade. However, despite this variance, spark color is usually only indicative of age, rather than spark type itself.

Normal sparks follow the same color patterns as main-sequence stellar classification; new sparks are bright blue, while old sparks are deep red. It takes, on average, a million Earth years for a spark to change its color, and after they turn red, they remain that way for the rest of their lives.

Green sparks are an anomaly referred to as “Point One Percenters,” due to the mistaken assumption that they make up 0.01% of all sparks found (the actual percentage is far steeper; a green spark is found once in maybe every ten hot spots to occur). These sparks, upon discovery, are incredibly dangerous and must be handled with care; the first flash they give out is known to cause rapid and irreversible spark failure in other normal sparks in proximity.

Point One Percenters have an INCREDIBLE output of power. Known Point One Percenters include Megatron, Ultra Magnus, Grimlock, and Shockwave.

These sparks are born green and stay green, though under a doctor’s trained optic, one can notice subtle changes in the shade the spark takes.

[Image ID: A labeled chart detailing spark colors. The blue spark is labeled “> 1 million, O class minor.” The light blue spark is labeled “2 million, O class major.” The pale blue spark is labeled “3 million, B class.” The white spark is labeled “4 million, A class.” The pale yellow spark is labeled “5 million, F class.” The yellow spark is labeled “6 million, G class.” The orange spark is labeled “7 million, K class.” The red spark is labeled “8 million +, M class. There are also three green sparks: the grass green spark is labeled “< 3 million, P class,” the emerald green spark is labeled “3 - 6 million, S class,” and the seafoam green spark is labeled “6 million +, N class.” End ID]

Spark Type

Spark type is decided by a number of factors that can be broken down into three categories: base type, spin, and input/output.

A spark’s base type refers to the structure of its photonic crystal.

Ferrous sparks are formed in hotspots that are dense in metals besides sentio metallico. They have broad etchings in anticipation of mineral-heavy energon, to allow it to pass through without obstruction. The most common metallic contaminant of hotspots is iron, from which ferrous sparks get their name.

Isomeric sparks are the most common, “default” sparktype. They have a fine network of etchings that give it a sandy appearance; these etchings can be viewed with the naked optic, but have to be examined closely to see.

Vitreous sparks are the rarest, and make up bots with a high immune response—and thus, a low tolerance to poison, venom, acid, and allergens. These are most common where there’s heavy electric activity in an area. Their etchings are microscopic, giving them a cloudy, glassy appearance, thus their name.

[Image ID: Three sparks, their brightness lowered for clarity. The first one has visible lines in it, and is labeled “Ferrous: coarse grain, large etchings.” The second one has sandy specks in it, and is labeled “Isomeric: sandy grain, small etchings.” The third one has smooth color fade, and is labeled “Vitreous: cloudy grain, microscopic etchings.” End ID]

A spark’s spin refers to the direction in which energy flows through it.

Positive sparks are the most common, and the energy flows counterclockwise from the top down, seen as moving from the left side of the spark to the right from the spark chamber opening. These are also called prograde sparks.

Negative sparks are less common than positive; in isomeric sparks, it’s a 60/40 split, but in the other two varieties, they’re much more rare. In a negative spark, the energy flows in a clockwise motion from the top down, moving from right to left from the spark chamber opening. These are also called retrograde sparks.

[Image ID: A chart detailing the flow of energy through a spark. The first spark has waves going from the left side to the right, with counterclockwise arrows circling a smaller blue circle beside it. It’s labeled “Prograde/Positive: Energy rotates in a counterclockwise motion around the spark, taking in processed energon from the left side and outputting refined energon on the right, as seen from the spark chamber’s opening.” The second spark has waves going from the right side to the left, with clockwise arrows circling a smaller blue circle beside it. It’s labeled “Retrograde/Negative: Energy rotates in a clockwise motion around the spark, taking in processed energon from the right side and outputting refined energon on the left, as seen from the spark chamber’s opening.” End ID]

The final factor in spark type is their I/O, or input/output settings. There are five varieties: output, input, high input, hybrid, and high output, though only the first four are found in normal bots.

Output sparks extend as much energy outward as they can into their frames. These belong to bulkier bots, like the majority of the Wrecker team, and bots with boxier frames. They’re stronger than most bots, but they have a predisposition towards spark failure.

Input sparks are the functional opposite of output sparks; they store energy rather than extend it, leading to bots with leaner frames. These tend towards racecars and other fast vehicle modes.

High input sparks store as much energy as possible. These sparks are relatively rare, and most commonly lead to what we call a “femme” frame. They need surgery before their first upgrade in order to properly handle the plating weight; those that don’t get surgery are stuck in tiny, human-sized forms called minibots/minicons.

Hybrid sparks are, from a combat perspective, the “ideal” spark, having traits from both output and input sparks; they give off enough energy to support sturdier frames, but they still get a distinct speed advantage over other bots.

Despite this, it’s important to note that hybrids are an anomaly in spark formation, caused by a tectonic shift mid-photonic crystal formation. As such, their protoforms have some irregularities; Starscream, who’s skews towards high input, has a very fragile frame, despite possessing the back strength to support wings. Knockout, an even 50/50 split, has delicate digits that don’t handle weight well. Nautica (MTMTE), who has higher output to input, has a very strong upper body, but a weaker lower body that requires bracers to support her weight.

Finally, high output sparks are the rarest; it’s hard to identify a high output before putting it in a protoform, and if it doesn’t form the right system immediately, it offlines from expending more energy than it can handle. However, if it does form those systems, or it’s accommodated for before being placed in a protoform, then high output sparks lead to titans like Metroplex and Omega Supreme.

[Image ID: A chart detailing the different spark input/output variations. The first spark is surrounded by blue arrows pointing outward, and is labeled “Output spark: configured to extend energy as far as safely possible, generates slow, bulky frame types.” The second spark is surrounded by red arrows pointing inward, and is labeled “Input spark: configured to store high quantities of energy, generates speedy, lightweight frame types.” The third spark is surrounded by many red arrows pointing inward, and is labeled “High input spark: Stores as much energy as it can, requires surgery in order to handle more than the most minimal frames, generates fast, small, fragile frame types.” The fourth spark has four red arrows pointing inward and four blue arrows pointing outward around it, and is labeled “Hybrid spark: both stores and extends energy, but occurs as an anomaly which can lead to physical complications. Leads to fast frame types that can withstand high amounts of damage and weight.” The fifth spark has many blue arrows pointing outwards, and is labeled “High output spark: extends far more energy than a normal spark can handle, only viable if caught quickly enough or, through a miracle, configures the proper protoform from activation. Generates titanic frame types. End ID]

On pronouns (and mech/femme frame variation)

Pronouns in Cybertronian society are not used for gender expression; rather, they’re used for identifying spark type for medical purposes, and have no relation to the human pronouns a Cybertronian may choose to take. The five sets of pronouns are as follows:

Output: per/co

Input: sor/be

High Input: tra/vo

Hybrid: aes/tu

High Output: vit/sa

Originally, all Cybertronians used per/co to refer to themselves. However, with the rise of the Functionist Regime, spark type was given higher priority; bots of all castes needed their spark types identified so as to be treated faster (and therefore put back to work faster), although the higher caste bots also wore their spark type as a badge of pride. These found further use during the war, where medic bots had to work fast and with little time to check each individual feature of a spark, and so despite their origin are still widely used post-war.

As far as translation goes, the most common use of he/him and she/her are the result of a mistranslation; the English language prioritizes masculine pronouns as default (until extremely recent times), and thus, defaults almost every set of Cybertronian pronouns to he/him. In the case of high input pronouns, however, the frame type associated with them parallels the features of a stereotypical human woman (a lightweight body, higher voice, and more delicate features), so the translation approximant marks them as she/her.

It’s common for Cybertronians to correct this once they have knowledge of the human gender expression, adopting the pronoun set they feel best matches their identity rather than their spark and frame type. This is why bots like Nautica take on she/her, while bots like Transformers Animated’s Bumblebee and Prowl instead go by he/him.

In the complete opposite direction, the terms “mech” and “femme” were adopted by Cybertronians in close contact with humans, as equivalents to “male” and “female” when speaking about themselves. The Cybertronian language has no gendered terms for bodies, referring to them all as “mobilis.” In recent times, bots that don’t care to gender themselves within the human binary have started using “machina” instead, regardless of which species they are conversing with.

On Sparkbonds

Sharing a sparkbond is the most intimate connection a Cybertronian can have, and falls into three distinct categories: amica endura, conjunx endura, and cognatio endura.

Amica endura is the only sparkbond with no physical effects. It involves baring your spark in the presence of a close friend, and pledging your very spark that you’ll always be there to back them up, comfort them in times of need, and make sure you both are happy. In human terms, it’s a platonic marriage. Amicae endurae often live together, and if they do, are practically inseparable from one another.

Conjunx endura is the romantic equivalent to the amica bond, and involves bringing your spark chambers close enough that the sparks are drawn together and merge briefly. Post-bond, each spark carries a small amount of the other’s light within them, and the two can sense each other’s emotions, no matter the distance. Conjugae endurae almost always live together, share intimate interactions often, and periodically go on dates together.

Cognatio endura is a familial bond, most often between caretaker and sparkling, but occasionally made between siblings. When forging a cognatio bond, the spark chambers are bared and held close together, but not so much that their sparks merge; over the course of several hours, spanning 3-5 sessions, the two sparks will carry each other’s energy in a ring around their own. This bond allows an “at will” variation on the conjunx bond; while conjugae endurae exchange all emotions unfiltered, cognatii endurae choose which emotions to send, enabling a sparkling to communicate their needs, and a caretaker to send comfort when necessary. Congatii vow to protect the one they’re bonding with until the end of time.

On divorce: A conjunx bond is permanent, but love often isn’t; when a pair of bots divorce, a filter has to be installed in their spark chamber to keep them from receiving the bond’s signals. As technology’s advanced, however, so have the filters, having gone from bulky covers to a single pane of configurable circuitry that allows for future sparkbonds to be made.

On cognatii endurae: With the rise of functionism, sparkling care shifted from individual caretakers to mass sparkling centers. At the regime’s peak, the concept of cognatio endura was tested in order to deem whether it was necessary.

According to them, it was not.

However, the lack of a cognatio bond leads to sparklings that struggle emotionally, have trouble developing a sense of risk, and tend to neglect their own needs as they grow older. So while a sparkling can survive without it, it’s an integral part to proper, healthy development to have one made. Unfortunately for all bots born earlier than 9 million years ago, cognatio bonds were refused, and thus fell out of younger bots’ knowledge and vocabulary.

[Image ID: A chart detailing the different spark bonds. The first pair of sparks are slightly differing shades of red, with their glows not touching, and are labeled “Amica endura, Optimus & Ratchet. An intensely close platonic bond in which one pledges their loyalty, honesty, undying friendship, and support to another bot. Plural form: amicae endurae.” The second pair of sparks are yellow and red, each one having some of the other’s color in it, and have their glows touching, mingling in the center. They’re labeled “Conjunx endura, Chromedome & Rewind. An intensely close romantic bond in which one pledges their loyalty, honesty, affection, and companionship to another bot. Physically links the two sparks, allowing each conjunx awareness of the other’s emotional state. Visible as wisps of the other’s spark color in the spark. Plural form: conjugae endurae.” The third pair of sparks are gold and bright blue, each with a ring of light around their centers, and whose glows mingle and begin to bleed into each other. They’re labeled “Cognatio endura, Knockout & Cloudrunner. A close familial bond, often one-sided,  in which one pledges to care for and protect another bot. Physically links the two sparks, allowing voluntary transmission of emotions. Visible as a ring of light around the spark. Plural form: cognatii endurae. End ID]

Other bonds

There are, of course, other bonds out there; those that take other forms, such as when a Cybertronian adopts an alien custom, those that have different implications, such as Seeker Trine bonding, and those that are fundamentally unique, such as the connection between split-spark twins. The list can go on forever, but as they are not involved with the vast majority of the Cybertronian race, they will be saved for another post.

In conclusion

Sparks are complex, diverse, fascinating aspects of Cybertronian physiology, and the more we study them, the more our definitions update and adapt.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this read. It was an incredible study to make. If you have any more questions about Cybertronians, feel free to hit up my inbox. Thank you for reading!

☕ 

[pearlsoftheparticular]

notes on chapter 2

Tree imagery is strong on pg 9: "I just thought it would be nice to see how people move into a place and start to inhabit it. Settle in. Maybe put down roots," and later, "He is merely expressing anxieties natural for a boy his age who has just been uprooted from his home in the city..."

Impetus: the force or energy with which a body moves. (pg 10)

Valences: 1. A length of decorative drapery attached to the canopy or frame of a bed in order to screen the structure or space beneath it. 2. A whole number that represents the ability of an atom or a group of atoms to combine w/ other atoms or groups of atoms. 3. Psychological term: the subjective value of an event, object, person, or other entity in the life space of the individual. Also, the pleasantness or unpleasantness of an emotional stimulus.

""This is nice," He says, removing a big clump of her blonde hair from the tines and tossing it into the wastebasket." (pg 11) Oddly, not the last time that hair seems to be a focus in this chapter?

"Nevertheless, despite their purely confessional content, it is not a journal entry but rather an unguarded moment captured on on eof the house Hi 8s that demonstrates Karen's almost bewildering dependence on Navidson." (pg 11) "In that peculiar contradiction that serves as connective tissue in so many relationships, it is possible to see that she loves Navidson almost as much as she has no room for him." (pg 12) [italics added by me for emphasis]

Second reference to hair: "I think Lude started giving one of them a trim, whipping out his scissors which he always has on hand, like old gunslingers I guess always had a hand on their Colts - there he goes, snipping locks & bangs... fingers & steel clicking away, tiny bits of hair spitting off into the surrounding turmoil..." (pg 12)

Galveston is a city in Texas (pg 12, footnote 18)

"The devil's ear" pg 15 - Devil's Ear Spring in Gilchrist County, Florida.

A thought: often, the notes here are used to prove, or at least point out, themes of Navidson's story. Should these be taken seriously? Or dismissed as part of the Fiction, even as red herrings?

"Don't forget to tell them about the birds." (pg 13) - Significant? Foreshadowing of his mother? Pelicans. Esp. considering how he works the tooth/eyebrow scar into the story too.

After the boxing/Birds of Paradise/Russian barge story: "... just looking at this story makes me feel a little queasy all of a sudden. I mean how fake it is. Just sorta doesn't sit right with me. It's like there's something beyond it all, a greater story still looming in the twilight, which for some reason I'm unable to see." (pg 15) Could be another reference to the way he used evidence of his abuse in the story (will come up later), also another nod to "authenticity"/existentialism, possibly proof that Story is starting to effect him. Especially considering how the note began when Karen mentioned the water heater, and Johnny seems to attribute that to his own water heater going out.

Vituperative: bitter and abusive. (pg 16)

"...as of late, many have called into question the accuracy of this self portrait, observing that Navidson may have gone too far out of his way to cast himself in a less than favorable light." (pg 17) This chapter begins with a Mary Shelley quote. Does Davidson consider himself Frankenstein, and the House (or the portrait which comes up later), Frankenstein's monster? It seems he carries plenty of blame/guilt on himself. Especially considering, later on that page, ",.. he also, by way of the film, admits to carrying around his own alienating and intensely private obsessions."

First mention of Delial on pg 17. The name itself could potentially be a mix up of a number of things, purposefully misspelled, purposefully carrying multiple meanings, purposefully vague. Delilah (Samson) seems most clear at the beginning, as seeming competition to Karen. Then misspelling of Belial, which is Hebrew for 'worthless', and the name of a demon in Scripture. Some also point out the similarity to the word denial, which makes sense when this individual is revealed. Someone on an MZD forum back in 2001 once suggested that it was an anagram for "L'ideal", referring to the poem by Charles Baudelaire. Here is a LINK to different translations of the poem. The poem is from Baudelaire's collection, "Les Fleurs du mal".

The "L'ideal" interpretation seems most correct, considering note 23, and the reference to the fake work "Jennifer Caps' Delial, Beatrice, and Dulcinea (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Thumos Inc., 1996)". Delial is Davidson's muse, hauntress, and ideal, just as Beatrice was to Dante, and Dulcinea was to Don Quijote.

Albatross (pg 17) - another bird reference. It is sometimes used metaphorically to mean a psychological burden that feels like a curse. Alludes to Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner."

This poem, and throw-away reference to the albatross, seem significant, because of this:

In Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Robert Wealton mentions the poem by name and says of an upcoming journey that "I shall kill no albatross". Coleridge and Shelley were close acquaintances, as well.

Charles Baudelaire's collection of poems "Les Fleurs du mal" also contains poem called "L'Albatros", about men on ships who catch the albatrosses for sport.

SOURCE

"... the house itself, an indefinite shimmer, sitting quietly on the corner of Succoth and Ash Tree Lane, bathed in afternoon light." (pg 18). Succoth: Genesis 33:17, Jacob builds a house at Succoth after his estrangement from Esau. Exodus 12:37 and 13:20, Israel's first camp out of Egypt.

Succoth word meaning: Boothes, to weave protection, weaving.

Succoth is also another name for the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles, or Feast of Booths, where Jewish people stay in temporary dwellings, specifically made out of branches with a roof of leaves, reflecting their wandering and the impermanence of their dwellings.

Impermanence (Succoth) vs Permanence (Ash Tree). Exile. Estrangement.

Not to jump ahead, but Chapter 3 begins with a quote from Exodus.

Selah.

[jasper-unofficial]

Hiiii, hope you're having a nice day so far.💓

Soo I just discovered your blog and I was stalking it sksksk and I've noticed that you say 2gether and ATOTS? get ruined in act 3 (or sth along those lines I'm sorry i dont remember) and your fear that Bad Buddy would fall in that trap as well. I'd like to know more about your thoughts on that matter, because although I felt like sth went wrong with both atots and 2gether (beyond repair unlike atots), i was never able to put it into thoughts? Also are there any bls that didn't fall into that trap? I'd love to know more!

P.S. if you've talked about this before and choose to not to answer this, it's completely fine!!

hello!! thank you so much, i hope you are doing great as well 💛

first of all, here's a bit of fandom lingo for you, we usually call this act 3 nonsense "the penultimate episode curse", because the second to last episode is when - if shit hits the fan and things are bad - it's usually already irredeemable.

second of all, prepare yourself - this is gonna be the size of an essay:

so, i wouldn't go as far as to say that atots was ruined in act 3, but (controversial opinion incoming) i didn't find the conflict of the finale, in particular, to be believable at all. i feel like they did a lot of telling and not showing, and they also ran with the assumption that we all agreed tian must leave the village and go abroad to study, and that there are no other options for him, which i don't understand to this day. ultimately, they wrapped things up pretty well, and overall i still find atots to be a fantastic series, but the final conflict felt very much like "oh, this thing could potentially be an obstacle to their relationship, but we won't explain how exactly it is an obstacle to their relationship, we just want the angst before the ultimate happy ending".

now, 2gether was indeed ruined for me because of act 3, and though still2gether (while i have some qualms about it as well) did a great job fixing and explaining away those mistakes, it couldn't fix them to the point where i would be satisfied with the last two episodes of 2gether. i don't think anything could do that at this point.

in terms of the specific issues act 3 of 2gether had, i could sum it up as 1) negating all your characters' development, 2) making them act completely out of character, and 3) writing in a lot of nonsense - all in order to make it rain angst before the rainbow happy ending can appear.

sarawat, in particular, wasn't sarawat at all (him going to sleep when tine is clearly in distress and not visiting him at the hospital (which was canon at the time)? like,,, who is this guy, i don't know him); the sudden lack of communication after episode 11, the whole point of which was that they decided they should always talk to each other about what they think and about how they feel; and the whole structure of the finale, the majority of which we spent deep in nonsensical angst, and the conclusion to which was ultimately unsatisfying (also, there were way too many flashbacks taking up space that should have been utilized in literally any other way). there are many more details, and also likely things i am forgetting (because i did - in fact - not watch those two episodes ever since they premiered), but i am hoping the general gist of the issue is clear enough as is.

in general, i think the problem a lot of creators run into when writing act 3 is that it's almost customary to follow this narrative. they think there must be a huge conflict, which leads to absolutely devastating angst, and which is resolved last minute - regardless of whether it actually makes sense or not. which is why, i think, the series that had the easiest time escaping this issue were series with a plotline separate from the relationship/romance plotline.

the best example here would obviously be manner of death, where we did have our huge conflict and high stakes, but all those things were connected with the investigation/police plot point, which allowed tan and bun to stick together through it all, as that made complete sense and overall made for an incredibly satisfying ending. i think another thing that manner of death did really well was that they made a point of settling us into the happy ending if that makes sense? it wasn't just a small "but in the end, they were happy" - they showed us a good bit of tanbun's relationship after the main plot point was resolved, and we were left with a real feeling of "yes, in the end, they are happy".

at the same time, it's fair to say that there have also been instances where the relationship actually had a satisfying ending, but the other plotline was wrapped up in a way that kinda sucked - history 3: trapped case in point. that being said, i feel like the reason why an unsatisfying conclusion to the romance, in particular, annoys us all so much is that most of us are ultimately here for the relationship, and only then for any other plot.

as for your question, i think the majority of mlm kdramas didn't follow this structure (or at least presented it in a very different way) - i would point out light on me and color rush here specifically. and, out of the series that did follow this specific way of narration in act 3, but which have done it in a way that makes sense, and that followed it up with a satisfying showcase of a happy ending, i would definitely point out manner of death (of course) and cherry magic as the series that had the best, most satisfying endings. quite a short list, i realize, but that should tell you why i'm so worried for bad buddy.

[orangerosebush]

Perfume headcanons

Let me start out with a bit of background.

There’s a common misconception that perfume = for women, cologne = for men. This is false. Although the scents we think of as feminine versus masculine are ever-shifting (many vintage women’s scents would now be considered more unisex, for example), whether something is a perfume or a cologne doesn’t even have to do with whether the scent is feminine or masculine — perfumes contain a higher concentration of essential oils in the water and alcohol base, whereas colognes contain a lower concentration.

To address what makes a scent ‘feminine’ or ‘masculine' : feminine scents are generally soft florals or vanilla, and certain woods, whereas masculine scents may be muskier (cedar and oak rather than sandalwood) and be cut with spicy notes (cinnamon, tobacco, etc).

Early in his career, I think Butler would make a point not to use cologne or perfume — having a signature scent would be identifying during missions, and smelling of anything strongly could interfere with sneaking about. However, when he is older and semi-retired (think: post-book 5), I think he would go for older masculine perfumes. Essentially: ‘sports’ colognes are off the table. I think very, very light applications of scents that have a vibe like… an autumn walk through the woods on a sunny day. Rich, woody notes with a slight mossy undertone (though in a way that smells somewhat bright rather than musty), and lighter notes that have tines of cinnamon or cumin. Alternatively, darker fruits like pomegranate or honeyed figs that interplay with an underlying musk that captures the smell of a fire pit that’s just been extinguished (and perhaps a few notes of dried herbs). Another musk note I could see in perfumes for him would be a kind of... natural leather scent? Very much not a new car smell. To sum him up: you know those children’s books with witch houses, where there’s perpetually smoke coming out of the chimney while the smell of canned jams and jellies floats across a garden, mixing pleasantly with the dry thyme and rosemary that’s been left out by the window? That, basically.

There’s an evolution with Artemis as well, I think. Similar to his sartorial preferences, I think that with age, he’d come to understand what his personal aesthetic is beyond his initially childlike understanding of what constitutes the presentation of someone of his social class. After the sinking of the Fowl Star, I think (and I didn’t pick this because of the name) Creed Green Irish Tweed. It’s sometimes described as being akin to a walk through an herb garden on a sunny day. It’s a classy, versatile scent that isn’t season or setting specific (it could work as a scent for the office or after work), and when worn correctly, is almost like an aromatic ghost trailing after its wearer. I do think he’d keep with more conservative scents when he gets older and actually futzes around with finding a perfume he finds fits his aesthetics, but he’d move a bit away from lighter earthy notes and more towards richer, more unisex earthy notes. I like the idea of Une Rose by Frédéric Malle for him, which is a rose perfume with a woody, amber base. The florals and muskier notes combine nicely to create this soft, earthy-creamy base which remains intriguing with bursts of peppery notes that sneak through now and then. Similar to Angeline, there’s an almost cerebral, yet home-y warmth to the perfumes that he uses.

I think bright, unusual, and borderline unisex perfumes would work for Juliet. I would point to Iris Gris (by Jacques Fath) which, in combining the odd bedfellows of iris and peach, created something that occupied a liminal space between the two scents, all mouth-watering plummy notes and earthy, ‘spring-when-it’s-about-to-rain’ bases. The clean, freshness of lemon seems fitting for her, also, and I like the idea of this being given more depth by smoky vanillas that seem almost tinged by tobacco. Or, perhaps, given more earthy, musky undertones that are kept youthful by just a dash of spice, like cinnamon. You know on road trips, those strange small businesses that seem to be hawking exclusively lawn ornaments and incense? Think… a more youthful version of some of the diffused essential oils that seem to have seeped into the old wood of the building over the years.

With Holly, I think any perfume she’d wear (though I do sort of have the minor headcanon that the People naturally have a kind of… perfume-like scent about them) would be earthy, yet cut with notes that make the scent less old-person-y. I actually like the idea of Creed Green Irish Tweed for her as well, as I think herb-y notes like dried rosemary and sage are quite fitting. However, I think there’d be more unisex notes as well, such as lavender and a mature iris or germanium note. If you could somehow bottle the woods themselves — I’m not talking about a walk through the woods, I am talking about the forest as it exists beyond human exploration — and let a citrus note waft in, sly, I think you’d have her aesthetic. I’m reminded of a story told by Diane Ackerman in her book A Natural History of the Senses:

My mother once told me about a drive she and my father took through the Indian River orange groves in Florida when the trees were thick with blossom and the air drenched with fragrance. It overwhelmed her with pleasure. “What does it smell like?” I asked. “Oh, it’s delightful, an intoxicating delightful smell.” “But what does that smell smell like?” I asked again. “Like oranges?”[…] “Oh, no,” she said with certainty, “not at all like oranges. It’s a delightful smell. A wonderful smell.” “Describe it,” I begged. And she threw up her hands in despair.

How do you describe the smell of moss before it rains, as the drop in pressure leads the earth to yawn out those peculiar, musky notes? It’s like the ground is aware it usually isn’t the center of attention and is finally tapping you on the shoulder to make sure you are aware of the beauty hidden between blades of grass and warm, wet dirt. You do not articulate nature, you experience it, and that’s 100% on the money for Holly.