#but that's... inelegant. functional but inelegant.

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

i’m not joking when i say i think you could do the entirety of “make sdv into a ghost town where the only inhabitants are you, the junimos, and the traveling merchant” with only cp and maybe some tmxl btw. i really do think it would be that simple.

[legionofpotatoes]

Is Andromeda worth revisiting? I'm about to finish ME3 but didn't know if I should give it another go. Didn't care for it when it came out.

I mean if you didn't care for it then probably not? It didn't change much. A few bug fixes, couple performance patches, negligible character model and animation improvements but overall nothing major. It's still the same game.

I personally fell in love with it for some of the reasons that I love ME1, but I wouldn't expect anyone to like it now if they didn't before!

[tiktaalic]

It’s crazy how many people are content with being bad at their jobs. I don’t mean #act your wage I mean genuine incompetence where you do not have the skills required to do what you are paid to do. This is about the crazy amount of books published that aim to be functional and absolutely nothing else. Complete inelegance. Sentences built as daintily as a six year old builds with legos. Like it’s crazy. They’re the kind of sentences I expect from a stem pilled report writer and they’re being defended as Art. So many books are just Clunky. Which seems like something you would not do if you were good at writing? And seems like something you would not publish if you wanted to publish good books?

[purplemirrorart]

CaitVi Fan-Fiction - Part 3 - Learning to Weep

This is a follow up to this post (Parts 1 and 2) and is based on a loose idea of a possible ending for season 2. Please read the accompanying comic before reading this fan-fiction.

Also this is my first fan-fiction so...I dunno, go easy on me I guess. I hope you guys like it!

------------------

Vi had gotten pretty good at forgetting things. At this point, it was a necessity. If she remembered everything that had happened to her in Stillwater Hold, if she’d held that in her mind at all times, she’d never get anything done. Some might call that unhealthy, she saw it as a practical solution. She needed to keep going, keep functioning, and keeping those things locked in the back of her mind helped her do that. By now, she figured she’d be able to do it on command if needed.  

This was not something she could forget. This was not something she could block out. 

She had killed her sister. 

Despite her best efforts, the memory had seared itself into the fabric of her mind, playing again and again on repeat. She remembered how it felt as she thrust her arm forward, feeling the impact of her hextech gauntlet hitting Jinx…hitting her sister’s chest. She remembered feeling the bones in her ribs crunch and snap under the force of the blow, and the instant regret that followed, regret like she’d never felt before, violent and visceral, crashing through every nerve, every cell in her body in horror at what she’d done. What she couldn’t undo. She remembered the blood that spilled out of her sister’s mouth, it was a deep dark red with the slightest hint of purple from the shimmer that ran through her veins. She remembered feeling the blood splatter across her face, making her recoil backwards. She remembered looking down, and being surprised at just how much blood was on her gauntlets, and on her clothes. She remembered feeling guilty about how little of that blood was her own. She remembered how her sister gasped for air, her lungs collapsing under their own weight with each breath she took in. She remembered how little time she had to hold her in her arms before the body went limp, the life fading from her wide, pink eyes. She remembered the burning in her lungs as she screamed, her throat sore and her eyes red and watering as she shouted out curses at both herself, and the universe. She remembered burying the body, using the gauntlets to dig out a hole in rock and the dirt, covering it with stones. She remembered writing every letter of that gravestone…she figured her sister deserved this much; to not lie in an unmarked grave. She remembered turning around and seeing Caitlyn, standing there behind her a short distance away, her breathing heavy as if she’d just ran there…and she remembered the look in her eyes. She was horrified.

Vi bolted up in her bed, breathing heavily. She was drenched in sweat, and her head pounded with pain as a result of copious drinking the night before, no doubt in a fruitless effort to drown her sorrows. Truth be told, she couldn’t remember where exactly she was. Probably whatever Inn down in the undercity that’d let her keep drinking until she passed out and the staff had to drag her back to her room, which they’d inevitably kick her out of the next morning. 

“Fuck…that fucking dream again…shit…” she groaned to herself, head in her hands. It’d been about a week and a half since it’d happened, and she’d barely been able to sleep in that time. Usually she was too afraid to sleep for fear of running through that whole experience on repeat again, so she simply got blackout drunk in order to get any rest. It was an inelegant solution, but a solution nonetheless. Judging from the light outside, she figured it was probably still late at night, or early in the morning, which one didn’t particularly matter. What mattered was that she needed another drink or else her brain was gonna start working again any second now. She reached for the bedside table, where she vaguely recalled she’d last left the bottle, though as her hand stumbled around the countertop in the dark, she couldn’t find it. She turned over in the bed, looking at the dimly lit floor next to the bed in the hope that it’d just fallen onto the floor, but nothing. Then suddenly a light in the corner of the room clicked on. Vi’s head throbbed with pain as she covered her eyes with her arm, trying to adjust to her surroundings. 

“Fuck! Jeez, just leave me alone! I’ll be out of here in the morning…” Vi groaned, assuming that it was one of the staff at the inn telling her she’d overstayed her welcome. 

“Vi, it’s me.” Replied a steady, calming voice with a rather distinct uppercity accent. Vi recognised the voice immediately.

“Caitlyn?” Vi said, taking her arm down and getting a look at her. She was sitting at the opposite end of the room in a rather stiff looking office chair next to a simple desk, the light of the lamp bathing the room in a warm orange glow. She wasn’t in her enforcer uniform, rather she was dressed in the same purple cloth and corset that she wore the first time they travelled to the undercity together. Vi couldn’t help but note how the light hit Caitlyn’s face, how warm her cheeks looked, how intense her eyes were. She didn’t want to admit it, but it was a comfort to see her. Right now, Vi didn’t want comfort though, she didn’t deserve comfort after what she’d done. 

“How long have you been sitting there?” Vi asked, a little ashamed that Caitlyn had to see her like this. It was pathetic. 

“A couple of hours now. I didn’t want to wake you…you seemed like you needed the rest.”

“I wish you would’ve…” Vi grumbled. If she never had to sleep again, she wouldn’t. Bad enough being alone with her thoughts when she was awake. “How’d you even find me?”

“You didn’t make it easy, but I eventually narrowed it down to one of the taverns you hadn’t been kicked out of.” she said, with the slightest smirk. Vi chuckled a little.

“That’s smarts, Cupca-” She stopped herself, the half said word hanging in the air like something rotten. Vi cleared her throat before continuing. “Why'd you come looking for me?” She asked, cautiously.

“I was worried about you.” Caitlyn responded, plainly, trying her best to keep herself calm and collected. “When you didn’t come back to Piltover I thought-”

“Why would I come back to Piltover?” Vi said, bluntly. Caitlyn frowned, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

“I don’t know, I just…” Caitlyn’s voice trailed off, weakly, unable to find the words. 

“Caitlyn I…you don’t want me there, trust me. We did what we…what we had to do…” Vi’s voice wavered, before she choked down her tears, collecting herself. Now wasn’t the time for that. It never was. “But that’s over now. Did you think I was just going to go back to Piltover and be an enforcer? I don’t belong in that uniform.”

“I know, but-” 

“Now if you’re gonna sit here and try and convince me of the good we can do with a badge and a rifle then be my guest,  but I’m telling you now, I’m never doing that agai-”

“Vi, I quit the enforcers.” Caitlyn interrupted. The statement itself was practically enough to break through Vi’s hangover, and she was now laser focused on putting together how the hell those words made sense. 

“I…sorry…you did what?” She stammered, utterly perplexed. 

“I quit. I handed in my badge and my rifle one week ago. I’m relieved of all duties.” She said, still holding onto that matter of fact tone that you could swear she spent time perfecting in the mirror every morning before leaving the house. 

“But…but that’s…why? I mean, you’ve been working your whole life to be an enforcer, why now?” Vi asked. With Vi becoming a recluse following the death of Jinx, Caitlyn stood to take credit for bringing down the terrorist responsible for the attack on the council, and ending shimmer production from Zaun. If she wanted to, she could have become chief investigative officer, maybe even chief of police as a whole in a few years. For her to quit now…it just didn’t add up. 

Caitlyn sighed, before standing up and walking over to the edge of the bed. She cocked her head slightly downwards, silently asking if it was okay if she sat there. Vi promptly scooched up, giving her the space to sit on the edge of the mattress, the springs squeaking slightly under the weight of both of them.

“The things you said…the last time we saw each other…” Caitlyn started, her voice more solemn and quiet than before. Vi immediately felt a familiar pang of guilt run through her body. She remembered every word she said, and she also remembered how much of an idiot she felt like after she’d said them.

“Caitlyn I’m sorry, I didn’t-” 

“No. Vi, you let me finish.” She said, this time a bit more sternly, her voice wavering slightly. It was clear even to Vi that she’d been thinking about this for a while. Vi sat up straight and shut her mouth, making it clear she was going to be quiet until Caitlyn was done. 

“What you said to me…it hurt. It hurt a lot…because I knew it was true…” Caitlyn said, her voice shaking slightly, her bottom lip quivering before she took a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her lips. Vi leaned forward slightly towards her, she wanted to comfort her but…the last time she’d laid hands on anyone was…she just didn’t want to hurt her. 

“I was so full of anger…I’m ashamed to admit it but I was upset that I wasn't the one to…I wanted that. I wanted revenge…at least I thought I did. But looking at that gravestone you placed…” she took another deep breath and sighed. This whole time she was looking down at her hands, which held tightly onto one another. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Vi.

“What Jinx did was terrible…and I still don’t know yet if I have it in my heart to forgive her, even now. But Jinx wouldn’t be Jinx if it wasn’t for what happened to her…to both of you…you both deserved so much better, and if you’d gotten it maybe none of this would’ve happened…looking at it all…I realised the world doesn’t need another enforcer…another angry woman with a gun…” Caitlyn said, clenching her fists tighter.

“Caitlyn you…you’re more than that.” Vi said, softly, moving a little closer on the bed. She could feel her stomach tying itself in knots, hearing Caitlyn speak like this, hearing how much she’d changed. It took her aback. 

“I can be…” she replied. “I can be better than that, but the fact is I wasn’t…and so now I’m trying to be.” Caitlyn finally turned to Vi, tucking a strand of her long blue hair behind her ear. “As it stands, Piltover is without proper council. Maybe there I can do some good. Real good, that doesn’t involve pushing people down.”

Vi gave Caitlyn a reassuring smile “Ah, now there’s the girl scout I know.” She teased. Caitlyn let out a relieved laugh, happy to see that Vi approved of her plans. “You’re gonna make a lot of enemies, Cait, making changes like that…it’s gonna piss people off, both in Piltover and here.”

“I know.” Caitlyn said “which is why I’ll need someone to…help keep me safe…” her voice dropped to a soft whisper as she moved her hand on top of Vi’s. They touched for only a moment before Vi pulled back, shifting almost instinctively back into the bed, almost like a frightened animal. “Vi…” Caitlyn whispered, worriedly. 

Vi didn’t want to admit to herself how nice it was to feel Caitlyn’s touch again, even if it was only briefly. But then it all came flooding back. What those hands had done…all the blood that still stained them, even now, beneath the surface. She shook her head, her breathing becoming more rapid and uneven.

“I…I can’t…I can’t Caitlyn, I can’t…I don’t want to hurt you….” She said, her voice breathy and hoarse as she tried her damndest to keep herself together. “Trust me it’s better if-”

“No, Vi. Not the oil and water again, I don’t want to hear it. You’re not pushing me away again.” Caitlyn responded, sternly but earnestly. “I want to be here for you, Vi.”

“Don’t you get it?! I can’t keep you safe! I can’t keep anyone safe! All I do is hurt and hurt and hurt and I can’t…I-I can’t…” Vi stammered over her words, her face straining to hold back tears, her breathing short and rapid. Her hands gripping the bed sheets so tightly they might rip. 

Before Vi could let out another word, Caitlyn darted forward and wrapped her arms around Vi’s body, hugging her tightly, her head burying itself into the crook of her neck as she held onto Vi for dear life. Vi could feel her breathing almost halt completely, her eyes wide. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Vi…and I’m not letting you go…never again…” Caitlyn whispered. 

“But…but…I don’t wanna hurt you…” Vi mumbled, quietly. 

“Vi, listen to me…meeting you…getting to know you…you’ve changed me for the better. I don’t want to think about the person I’d be without you, Vi.”

She pulled back slightly, looking into Vi’s eyes, gently placing a hand on her cheek and softly caressing it.

“You told me I’m more than just a gun, so I’m telling you, Vi. You’re more than just someone who hurts. So much more than that…you’re brave…you’re ferocious…you’re determined…and I’ll be damned if you condemn yourself because you don’t see how brilliant you are…”

Vi leaned into Caitlyn’s touch, unable to stop herself from embracing the soft comfort of it. She’d almost forgotten how good it felt…how right it felt. 

“Damn, Cait. You’re gonna make me blush.” She said with a weak laugh, trying her best to smile through it all. To brush off her prior state of panic as nothing more than a brief lapse in her composure. Caitlyn leaned in a little closer. 

“Vi?” She asked in a soft but serious whisper. 

“Yeah, Cait?”

“When was the last time you cried?” She asked. 

The question pierced Vi, right to her core. She could feel herself faltering, both from hearing Caitlyn ask it, and from thinking over the question in her mind. She remembered the tears from after she…but she’d hardly given herself a moment back then to truly let it all out. There’s a difference, after all, between simple tears and truly allowing oneself to cry. To really cry. Going back before that…she couldn’t remember. It must have been years now…maybe at Stillwater…maybe even earlier. 

“I…I don’t…” Her voice cracked, her eyes going hazy as she felt the droplets begin to roll down from her eyes to her cheeks, down to her jaw. Caitlyn pulled her close again, as Vi began to cry. Not just cry, but sob. Weep. For the first time in years it all came flooding back. All that pain, all those things she’d locked away to keep on moving. To keep surviving. 

Tonight, in Caitlyn’s arms, she let herself be weak. She let herself be fragile, for the first time in such a long time. She clutched onto the back of Caitlyn’s shirt as her face became a mess of tears, her nose running, her eyes red like her hair. It was a messy, shameless kind of emotional outpour, the exact kind of thing they both needed. 

Caitlyn, of course, was crying too. It was hard not to, after everything they’d been through together. It was almost like Cait couldn’t release, couldn’t let it flow until she knew Vi had too. All that grief the two had shared, finally being expressed, together.

“I miss my sister… I miss her so much…” Vi cried out, over and over again. This was probably the first time she’d really said it out loud. Always felt it, ever since she’d lost Powder the first time, all those years ago. But this was the first time she’d really felt like she could say it. That she could admit that to someone. 

“I miss my mum…I miss my mum…” Caitlyn cried back. The two continued to cry, holding onto each other as tightly as one might hold a raft at sea. They cried for what felt like hours, before eventually their breathing slowed. The tears stopped. They simply held one another, and it felt good, better than Vi had felt in a long time. For so long she hadn’t allowed herself peace, whether it was because she thought she didn’t need it, or she didn’t deserve it. But right now, at this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to turn it down, not that Caitlyn would let her. 

They both moved back, looking into each other's eyes. Vi wiped the tears from Caitlyn’s eyes, and Caitlyn wiped the tears from Vi’s. As Vi’s thumb brushed the tears away from Caitlyn’s cheek, it just barely grazed against her lip. 

Caitlyn glanced down at her lips, then back up to her eyes. She could feel Vi’s steady breathing. Her hand moved back slightly, running through Vi’s soft, reddish pink hair.

Vi, almost on instinct, leaned forward, her forehead pressing lightly against Caitlyn’s. They looked at one another, eyes half lidded as they embraced. 

“Cait?” She whispered.

“Yes, Vi.” she responded. 

“Can I still call you cupcake?” she asked. Caitlyn smiled, then laughed. 

“God, I love you” She said, before pressing her lips against Vi’s. 

As much as it seemed like it at that moment, their troubles weren’t over. In the coming months, the two of them would face hardships and sadness, trials and tribulations, red tape and political meddling from all sides. Caitlyn’s attempts to broker peace between Zaun and Piltover would be met with opposition and aggression from all sides. Their battles were far from over. There would be losses. There would be tragedy and violence, hate and division. But in the face of it all, every once in a while…the two of them could always hold each other for dear life, and cry their hearts out for as long as they needed. Together. 

[txttletale]

:fire: video games

there's a particular type of like -- inelegant intrusion of a non-core mechanic into the main loop of the game that pisses me off. like--it's hard to exactly articulate what it is, it's a very 'know it when i see it thing', but when it feels like the dev is an angry parent who's made a meal and is like 'i made this food, you're not leaving the table until you eat it' to their kid except the food is a game mechanic. shit like forced vehicle sections in shooters. i like when using secondary gameplay mechanics is encouraged, but when it's forced it just makes me think less of the designers for not being able to intergrate it more elegantly.

i think a good example of this is transistor, actually, it has a 'good' version of this and a 'bad' version of this--unlocking the lore for each function by using them in a different slot is a really good 'soft' way of encouraging engaging with the loadout building part of the game. losing a function when you die is a really lame 'hard' way of doing it that feels punitive and like supergiant just gave up on finding a better way to incentivise experimentation--even when the better way already exists and is in their game!

[saffron-gold-stardust]

I only recently found out about swap dreams. What's the au about?

Cause there's shattered dream but that's a whole different story

Soooo here’s the funny part… I had a pretty hard time finding out the exact beats of the original storyline for Swapdream (outside of the origin story), so I did my best research, and then kinda just… started writing my own AU with the window dressing? I do that a lot for a lot of concepts I find interesting, but maybe don’t love the actual story that currently exists. Hence the distinction of the sgs!swapverse tag (even tho i think that name is pretty inelegant LOL). What I’m cooking is a totally different meal. Song__A was the original creator of the concept, but their blog was deleted forever ago, and I’m not sure where their work is anymore.

The original Swapdream seems to swap details as opposed to roles. I guess it’s more a story shift compared to a direct swap. Dream is the one who snaps, eats the golden apples instead of the dark apples to protect a battered Night, and is immolated by their power as he is corrupted into the crazy bird guy. From there, it kinda isn’t super clear, other than Night taking up the role Dream normally would have. Idk what happens after that, so that’s where I started jotting my own ideas and making stuff up.

I kinda wanted to see how a version of Underverse would function in an altered universe like this, and Swapdream (Helios) got to Cross in the void first. Cross eventually becomes his knight and takes on the name Corvus, entering into the twisted role to escape the pain of his sins and XChara’s harrassment.

There’s other details I planned, like this universe having a Destroyer Ink and a Creator Error (Sumi and Mender, respectively, idk if posted them yet lol), they’re also involved in a sort of swapped version of their Underverse roles. Of course SwapNightmare/Swan (Cygnus) is acting as Dream would, with a different approach and vibe to how he fights Helios. (Also none of the weird brother stuff. No thanks. Just gonna make the object of Helios’ affection be Cross/Corvus)

So everything here is me playing around with some version of that, maybe with a touch of Helios’ madness and Cross/Corvus’ failure to cope driving everything off of a cliff, haha.

[collaredattachment]

Classroom Blues

Character: Melissa Schemmenti Word count: 3,310 Warnings: Car accidents, panic attacks, PTSD Genre: Hurt/Comfort Rating: T

Description: Tires screech against pavement, shrill and cruel. Aluminum crunches. Glass shatters. Every single kid stops what they’re doing. --- It’s never been so frightening to look out the window

“That’s looking great, Noah!”

You smile over his shoulder, and he beams back at you before returning to his crayons.

Second graders are so easy to please.

You walk past him to get a look at everybody else’s paper plate dinosaurs. Nathan’s is breathing fire. Tyrone gave his a little princess crown. When you asked, Jamila said hers is ‘a apatopasaurus’ and that she refuses any further comment.

Fantastic work, overall.

It’s looking mighty fine outside too; the day is stretching into afternoon, and the sun blazes into the art room, etching on the walls the shadows of the easter bunnies the first graders had made last week.

The clock is slowly ticking towards two, and you’re only fifteen minutes away from a hot McVegan — no tomato, and two hours of the Good Place. Jamila lifts her hand as high as she can and speaks before you can even get to her.

“I’m all done,” she says. Her apatopasaurus is made of three plates instead of one, and the legs have pink pipe cleaners for both claws and a tongue. There’s a little tear drawn beneath its googly eye.

“Oh, wow.” You turn it around and smile at the glitter glue spots drawn on the other side. “This is really great, Jamila. You wanna help me put it on the—“

Tires screech against pavement, shrill and cruel. Aluminum crunches. Glass shatters.

Every single kid stops what they’re doing.

“Look!” Samantha yells and runs to the window. Half the class follows her, crowding in a line to catch a glimpse. God’s mercy that most of them are too short to see past the supply shelf. It offers you no such protection, though.

Just by the crossing outside, a black car is crushed against a DHL truck. Must have been going way outside the speed limit; you’re barely allowed to hit 40 out there because of the kids. The left side is completely collapsed around the truck’s hood, but you can see the driver just fine from here.

Dead.

He’s dead.

You snap into action.

“Hey, come on,” you say and start herding them away from the windows. “The ambulance guys will handle it, okay? Let’s get back to work.”

Your voice sounds distant to your own ears, like you’re speaking into a bottomless tunnel. The kids don’t seem to hear you either. More likely they’re just not listening because they’re eight-year-olds and most of them haven’t had time to even think about death yet.

They haven’t been to a funeral on a perfectly sunny day, just like this one.

Haven’t hung upside down by their seatbelt in a upended car.

Or seen how broken glass mangles a face.

Stop.

You blink yourself back into the here-and-now. Your knees are already beginning to feel weak, ready to buckle under the slightest strain.

Just breathe. Ten years of practiced technique, honed to perfection. Breathe.

For the kids, if not for yourself.

The minute hand on the clock ticks over to fifty-three. A few kids, the same ones who always put the watercolors back where they belong once they’re done, were kind enough to head back to their seats, but that still leaves you with eight children glued to the glass, watching the driver get dragged out of the car. He’s dropped onto the pavement. Someone’s trying to resuscitate. You can tell from here that it won’t work.

“Okay, I mean it this time.” You try to cover your trembling voice, to apply the gentle authority you’d seen Barbara pull a thousand times. They don’t move an inch. Maybe it’s the gulf of difference in experience, maybe it’s just Barbara being Barbara, or maybe they can tell that you’re afraid.

You sigh and peel the kids off the window one by one and escort them into their seats. Inelegant. Methodical. Your limbs function outside your jurisdiction in a world entirely of their own. When you bring your hand to hover in front of your face, it feels lightyears away, a limb puppeted without its master.

You can still feel crumbled glass embedded between the creases of your palm.

Breathe, damn it.

“Who was that guy?” Jamila asks even after you’ve sat her back down by her dinosaur.

“I don’t know, buddy.” You brush cardboard clippings off her shorts and onto the floor. The fabric is void of feeling under your prickling fingers. “But I’m sure they’ve called an ambulance. They’ll take care of it.”

Sure enough, when you glance at the road, Janine is buzzing around the truck driver, her phone already glued to her ear.

The bell rings at last. The kids yell out in joy and their wave of conversation washes you back ashore for a second. They grab their bags, forget their plates and stickers and markers, and are out the door in record time. They’re so excited.

You can’t tell them to slow down, to stop, even, until the commotion outside is finished. You can’t do anything but stand still and listen as their voices ebb away into just an echo.

Pills. Where are your pills.

You stumble to your bag and search it with trembling, unsure hands, like fingers against a jammed car door, dipping into the seams to tear the whole thing off if you have to. You throw your keys on the table, same as your wallet, your planner, your lighter, and a handful of stray pens; all of them in a heap that slips over the edge and to the floor. You turn the whole bag inside out, but can’t find the pill bottle.

Your chest is getting tighter, heavier, like the spaces between your ribs are stuffed with cotton, like you’re trapped under a ten ton truck careening off the highway uncaring of casualties.

Breathe. Remember to breathe.

You can’t breathe, that’s the whole fucking problem.

The room is empty. Your only companion is the sun, and even she’s about to dip behind the buildings on the other side of the street.

You fall to your knees, grasping at the collar of your shirt, your fingers far too stiff, too jittery to undo one single button. You tear them open anyway. One flies under the shelf, like a body clean through the windshield. He said he didn’t need the seatbelt; it was such a short trip anyway. His legs were bent wrong six times over down in the ditch.

The world becomes muffled, stuffs your ears with ringing to keep you from hearing your own scratchy, frightened heaves for air. To save you the fear. The shame. You claw at your throat, at your chest, hoping you might dig out the chunk obstructing your windpipe.

You want to scream. So much. You’re mentally holding yourself by the shoulders, begging yourself to keep quiet. You’re in a position of authority. A child sees you like this, it’ll go down to the parents and you’re in trouble. Abbott’s in trouble. You can’t afford that.

You remember the mud staining your shirt when you’d crawled out, your leg broken and your face dripping with blood. You still don’t know if it was yours. Sirens, nearby. A broken airbag. A broken neck.

Blood.

You back up against the wall and your head bangs into the bricks with a sudden jerk, though the pain is nothing, nothing compared to—

A hand lands on your shoulder. You jump back in fright, your other arm flying to shield your face. Something hot drips down your cheek, but you can’t bring your fingers up to check, can’t trap yourself in that knowledge.

“Whoa, okay,” someone says. “No sudden touching. Gotcha.” The voice sinks like a rock into deep, dark water, far off and twisted. You can’t move to see who it is, who’s come to watch you in your weakest, most undignified moment.

“I’m gonna take your hand,” they say. “That okay?”

You nod, but the movement is stiff and thick with tension, just like the neckbrace they’d given you, after everything. You had a rash for weeks.

Your hand is enveloped by another, the touch soft, the fingers a little cold. There are rings right above the knuckles: two of them plain bands and one with a big, sharp stone on it. You squeeze the hand hard, hard enough to make the other person groan a thick, hefty ‘ow’.

“Okay. Think you could try and breathe with me? Doesn’t have to be perfect.”

The person doesn’t wait this time. They take a deep breath, exaggerated enough for even you to hear, and then exhale, like wind in the trees on a stormy night when nobody should’ve been driving in the first place.

Your attempt in following them is sad and broken. The air remains trapped in your throat, refusing to flow all the way into your lungs, no matter how you try to wheeze it in or out.

“Good, keep going.”

It’s not even remotely good, not even passable, but you keep it up anyway. In and out, but it’s more like i-i-i-i-in-in-in and ooo-out-o-ooout. This doesn’t deter the person sitting next to you, though. They keep their breathing even and deep, and you follow them, out of pace and rhythm in a one-sided dance where you keep crushing your mystery partner’s toes.

“You’re doin’ real good,” they say, and a thumb is drawn across your knuckles, soft and soothing, free of crusted blood or thick, soupy mud. “Just keep going.

Ain’t no point in rushin’ it, right?”

You do as you’re told. In and out. Your pained attempts slowly start to resemble what the other person is doing, more of a mirror than a reflection in disturbed water. The locked knots in your muscles start unwinding themselves open one by one, and you suddenly find yourself sagging forwards without control.

Arms wrap around your torso and your head knocks into someone’s clavicle instead of the floor. You’re shifted like a living doll into a more comfortable position and your nose buries itself into the nook between the person’s neck and shoulders. You inhale a lungful of syrupy perfume and papaya shampoo.

The clock keeps ticking. The rhythm anchors you, keeps you safely here on the classroom floor where there’s no cars, no highways, no forgotten seatbelts.

“That any better?”

Melissa Schemmenti moves her hand to your back to draw big, smooth circles into your shirt. You manage a dazed, exhausted nod.

The classroom is swimming back into view, bit by bit, color by color. Chairs abandoned where their occupants leapt out of them, craft supplies all over the floor. Tamir forgot his backpack.

“The kids—“

“Are fine,” Melissa says. Her arm slides off your back and around your shoulder instead. She squeezes you tight. “Janine and Gregory were on herding duty.”

“Ok,” you whisper. The clock ticks on, and your stomach dips when you read the face: ten past three.

“You wanna talk about it?” Melissa asks.

The scenery fades in and out, transforms into the woods by the highway and back into an elementary art class in disarray. A mess, both ways. You press your knuckles into your eyes and watch the sparks.

“I’m not sure,” you say.

Melissa nods and clicks open her phone. She shoots someone a text, though you only realize to look away by the time she’s about to write something to Janine.

“Thanks, though” you mumble into the crook of her neck. Your body is dipping straight past relaxed all the way into half-dead. Your fingers feel like spaghetti noodles.

Melissa huffs a laugh. “It’s no trouble.”

You sniff and wipe your cheeks. Apparently you were crying after all.

“How did you find me?”

Melissa puts her phone back in her pocket and you can feel her jaw tighten. She’s thinking.

“I was coming to check on the kids because, well. You know.” She waves her free hand toward the window. “I saw you go down. Fell right off your feet. Scared me to hell, you know.”

You grimace. “Sorry.”

“Pssh,” she says. “Like I said. It’s no trouble.”

You watch the splotch of sunlight, still persistently on the wall. Another hour and it’ll be gone.

You start to peel yourself off of Melissa, pausing mid-movement to wait for the ringing in your ears to ease up, and lean against the wall instead. Melissa, thankfully, keeps her arm around you for support.

“I was in a car accident,” you say.

Melissa’s brow shoots to her hairline when her head whips around.

“It was bad.” You rub your fingers together; a feeble attempt to get some feeling back into them. “I was sitting in the back and my best friend was driving. Her boyfriend was in the passenger seat.”

Deep breaths. In and out.

“They both died.”

“Jesus,” Melissa says, spits the lord’s name in a way that would make Barbara send both of you to sunday school. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Still.”

“Yeah.” You clear your throat, hoping to buy yourself a second of time to stave off any further admission; words you know you can’t keep to yourself right now but ones you’re embarrassed to admit regardless. “I can’t even watch tv shows about that stuff ever since. Of course it would find me in the front yard.” You scoff. “Figures.”

Melissa sighs, soft and smooth, so unlike your own strained, barely calmed breathing. “Shit.”

You can’t help the smile. “Yeah.”

“You feeling any better?” she asks.

You give your neck a little roll, wiggle your fingers and your toes. “I think so. I don’t think I can walk just yet, though.”

“That’s all right. My dinner plans can wait a couple minutes.”

Footsteps draw your attention to the hall. Barbara appears in the doorway in her light brown jacket, her and Melissa’s purses both slung over her shoulder. She takes a quick look at you and then stares meaningfully at Melissa, posing a silent question.

Heat floods into your cheeks, your neck, your ears. It could’ve been Janine, could’ve been Gregory, even Jacob, but of course it has to be Barbara Howard, the singlemost composed person in the whole world, who stumbles in on you crying into Melissa’s shoulder.

Her divorce papers were recently filed, though, so if anything, she’s probably very familiar with the feeling.

Melissa mimes ‘five more minutes’ at Barbara, and there’s a silent battle of wills between them, a conversation you couldn’t even begin to understand, after which Barbara sighs with a smile on her face, bows her head and disappears back into the hall.

“You gonna get home okay?” Melissa asks you when the sound of Barbara’s heels has faded.

“Yeah. Usually I bike, but I think I’ll walk home today. I’ll be fine.” Melissa’s face dips into a frown as she very seriously doubts you. There’s no escaping that look, and it only takes you a second to start sweating. You wonder how people actually trying to fight Melissa Schemmenti aren’t immediately recuded to cinders.

“I swear,” you say, and draw a cross over your heart. Melissa smacks her lips and tilts her head as she assesses your woozy, bulldozed self. Apparently you aren’t shaking that bad, because when she straightens herself, she says, “Okay. But.”

You want to groan. A good sign. Your feet are a little closer to ground again.

“You text both me and Barb when ya get home. Is that clear?”

You lift your hand in a salute. “Crystal.”

Melissa laughs, a smoke-worn, throaty sound that pulls you another inch closer to reality.

“Keep that up and no Schemmenti leftovers for you,” she says. “Cheeky little shit.”

She somehow drags a laugh out of you, short and genuine and good, and it’s not like none of this happened, but it lets you put a band-aid on the wound at least.

“I think I could try getting up now.” You try putting a little pressure on your foot, and though your leg doesn’t immediately smack right back to the floor, it does tremble a significant amount. Heat crawls down your neck again as you ask,

“Could you, uh…”

“’Course.”

Melissa gets to her feet with a strained groan and a ‘fuck my fucking knees’, but manages to get herself standing. She offers you her hand and you take it, keeping your free palm firmly against the wall as she pulls you to your feet. It’s an unsteady operation, one that leaves you dizzy and winded, and nearly back on your ass more than once.

Once you’re safely standing, Melissa gathers up the contents of your bag and hands it to you, but only once she’s made sure that you can actually carry it. She holds you by the shoulders all the way to the hall, and doesn’t let go until the door has safely clicked shut. You still keep your hand by the wall, though. Just in case.

“I’ll have to come in early tomorrow to clean up,” you say with a sigh.

“Don’t even think about it.”

When you look at her, Melissa is staring you down with the intensity of three suns. Whole solar systems, even. You put your hands up in surrender.

“Only if you’re sure,” you say. It is a relief, you have to admit. Especially if you still have to run to the pharmacy to get your prescription refilled.

“Don’t you worry your li’l head about it.”

She walks you all the way to the entrance, where Barbara is still waiting with a paperback book propped on Melissa’s bag.

“All cleared up, then?” she asks.

“Yup,” Melissa says. Short and sweet. Barbara doesn’t ask any further question, though you doubt it’s from lack of interest. At least Melissa has a dinner story to share, if nothing else.

You all slip out the door, but Melissa stops you there. She looks you over, head to toe, her lips pursed and her hands fiddling with the strap of her purse.

“You sure about this?” she asks. “I could give you a ride.”

You fish your keys from your bag and close your fingers around the one meant for the lock on your bike.

“I’ll be okay. And I’ll text you.”

Melissa raises her brow.

“Both of you.”

The idea of sending Barbara Howard a text of any kind outside a professional environment feels like some kind of a breach of protocol, but Barbara herself doesn’t seem phased. Outward, at least.

Janine is going to lose her mind when you tell her about this.

A cool breeze slides under your thin shirt, and your arms erupt in goosebumps.

“I better get going,” you say, but can’t get yourself to walk over to the bike rack just yet. Your fingernail digs into the notches of the key, and you try to figure out something to say, anything that could put into words just how much Melissa has done for you in one afternoon. In the end, you decide to go with something simple.

“Thank you, Melissa.”

She looks amused, truly like she’s done what anybody else would have. Like it’s nothing. You wonder if she’ll ever know how much it means, even if you tried to tell her.

“Eh.” She shrugs. “It was no trouble.”

How perfectly Melissa of her.

“See you tomorrow,” you say, and with one final wave and a smile goodbye, you start heading for home.

Behind you, once you’re definitely out of range, Barbara turns to Melissa.

“What happened?” she asks.

Melissa watches you clear the crosswalk and waits until you disappear behind the Subway.

“I’ll tell you later, hon.” She presses a kiss to Barbara’s cheek. “First we need to eat. I am too fucking hungry to talk.”

“Melissa Ann Schemmenti,” Barbara gasps, “you watch that tongue of yours.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Barb.”

“Incorrigible,” Barbara mutters and heads for the car. Melissa doesn’t miss the smile on her face.

“Love you too.”

[archduchessgortash]

I'm pretty sure Gortash was supposed to be a southpaw.

Or they flipped the model for his outfit.

His primary weapon is the Fabricated Arbalest. The extremely ornate rings that he wears on his right hand as part of the Netherstone gauntlet would probably get in the way when firing it, if the trigger is that green bit by his finger and it is fired similarly to ballistic projectile weapons. Some crossbows have larger, lever-action type triggers, but this one looks more modern. The gold pieces on the sides of the foregrip appear to be an homage to older trigger designs, but their positioning makes them decorative rather than functional. The Arbalest also lacks the foot stirrup, likely owed to the fact that it is a magical weapon. In addition, there's no way the prestigious Chosen of Bane would use a weapon that he had to bend down just to reload. How terribly inelegant.

Based on the fact that the index and middle fingers of his left hand are mostly bare, it would make more sense if he held the weapon on the opposite side, but Larian never created left-handed combat animations.

They probably did just flip the model for the Cloth of Authority, but I like my theory, and he's a lefty in my fics.

[gorey]

@anicemyth you're about to make us soooo autistic about this you don't even know bless you

so group theory: this is a very rudimentary explanation but in mathematics a group describes all the ways a structure can be symmetric aka every operation or transformation that can be done on a structure while still it remains unchanged. for example a symmetry of an equilateral triangle would be mirror flipping it on its axis or rotating it 120 or 240 degrees. the untransformed state of the structure (e.g. rotating said triangle by 0 or 360 degrees) is also counted as one of the total symmetries within the group. There's a lot of detail in the defining of this regarding the arithmetical and algebraic behavior of groups that the resources I'm going to add at the end will surely do a better job of than I could.

A group of these symmetries can be broken up into "building blocks" similarly to how an integer can be broken down into its prime factors. These building blocks of groups are known as simple groups. putting aside the fact that there are infinite simple groups bc let's not even go there - the monster group is one of the finite simple groups.

through an incredible mathematical undertaking it has been proven that we have discovered all the possible finite simple groups that can exist. they fall into categories based on their properties and this categorization is depicted in something that looks a lot like a periodic table of elements:

in the colored columns are the 18 assorted categories of group - cyclic, alternating, etc, but at the bottom the 2 rows in light green show the sporadic groups which are 26 groups that do not fall in any of the above categories. at the bottom right is the monster group.

the reason why this is crazy - the numbers listed at the bottom of each box there are the total number of symmetries contained within the group. for an equilateral triangle like I mentioned above you get 6 symmetries including both rotational and reflectional symmetries and including the baseline state of the triangle without any transformation having been done on it.

The monster group? Contains about. 8 x 10^53 symmetries. That is

808,017,424,794,512,875,886,459,904,961,710,757,005,754,368,000,000,000

symmetries. what the fuck. both massive and specific. if that triangle with 6 symmetries is 2 dimensional - with this many symmetries how big must this monstrous object be?

196,883 dimensions.

in addition to that the monster group actually contains (including itself) 20 of those 26 sporadic groups. (Fun fact those groups contained within the monster have been dubbed the Happy Family with the 6 outliers being named the Pariahs lmao). it's notable also bc it is very difficult to represent it concisely compared to other finite simple groups including the rest of the sporadics.

so it's just this.... thing. that is out there. we know what it is, we know its incredibly specific parameters, but of course we don't know WHY it's there or WHY those are the numbers you arrive at (if thats even a reasonable question to ask), it looks very arbitrary but it is ultimately a fundamental mathematical entity regardless of how inelegant it may seem, the universe is an interesting place

this weird abstract yet very specific structure has connections to other fields of mathematics - it has a connection to modular functions as described by the monstrous moonshine conjecture. yes it's actually called that and it is waaay above my paygrade but this somehow connects to a 24-dimensional variant of string theory (note I absolutely hate string theory for unrelated reasons but the mathematics of it is very interesting) in some way.

in short there exists an incredibly high dimensional object with an obscene number of symmetries that can can be used in tandem with something from a seemingly totally unrelated area of mathematics (the modular j-function) to describe a physics theory. ?????????? they called it moonshine bc they thought it was an absolutely batshit thing to even consider but apparently it works

that is my best attempt at explaining this so here are some resources I really recommend:

additionally I'd like to just plug John Conway as a whole here he's in the first video linked talking about his work regarding the monster group and the moonshine conjecture. you can find him on the channel speaking on other topics including the game of life which is an unrelated but very interesting cellular automaton that is available free online to be played with. his group theory work is what stands out to me though, he sadly passed of covid a few years back at an old age but he is one of my favorite mathematicians of all time not only because of his work but also because he just seems like a chill fucking guy

my fanciful conclusion is like. this Thing evokes in my mind images of angels or eldritch horrors or what have you. vast and incomprehensible it dwells in a space so complex it defies any human understanding beyond the mathematics used to describe it. it is beautiful and unthinkable and perhaps i want to kiss it. the end

(If anyone with a better mathematical background than us which is not at all a high bar to set wishes to add to this please do!)

[oneefin]

crosswords | prev | next

12 tone serial concerto

a cross-staff-word by onefin (me). this one is a bit spicy 🌶️ be warned

crosshare link: https://crosshare.org/crosswords/NYQo7TQnXbtb6ZIRUyl6/12-tone-serial-concerto

solution and constructor's notes below the break (spoilers!)

SOLUTION

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

i made this crossword because one of my friends suggested that i write a 12-tone serial concerto, as a joke

i thought about it for a bit, and then wondered how possible it would be to make a convincing crossword fill that contains every solfege note exactly once.

i think other crossworders aren't as familiar with this because crosswords typically disallow two-letter words, but i have the names of all 12 solfege notes, including the pairs of names for enharmonic equivalents of accidentals, committed to memory:

the fill i came up with (the solution to the puzzle) was a 10x4 that looks like:

it definitely has problem points (looking at you, OLID), but i think it's shockingly functional given the restriction.

putting this together was an entirely manual process, but i did write a quick script to spit out all of the candidate 8-letter words that i could use. LITERATI is the one i went with, but as a bonus here's crossword clues for the others that i could reasonably have chosen (remember, the solfege notes have to all be different):

like a long, boring drive (in more than one sense?)

not quite fully uncommon

it's around 3 minutes and 45 seconds for the record holder (2 words)

get up after sleeping in too much (2 words)

hope you enjoyed it, despite the inelegancies!

[play-now-my-lord]

saw a thread about inventing a magical language from existing languages and had a basically irrelevant remark to make: the sages held that praying in any language was acceptable, but it was also widely held among the educated in the late roman era that the angels could speak any language besides Aramaic. this leads me to an opposite track of thought from the OP of that thread: we need to invent an antimagic language, one in which casting spells or writing effective contracts with higher powers is difficult or functionally impossible. the antimagic language should be inelegant, with an enormous inventory of vowel sounds and an unusual density of atypical consonants to make rhyming nearly impossible and memorization challenging. it should have tones, clicks, load-bearing glottal stops, a tremendous pronoun inventory which relies on arbitrary distinctions between otherwise alike things; reduplication to unfix it in space, naming taboos to unfix it in time.

we have too many conlangs that propose logical consistency, the bugbear of lawyers, programmers, and other sorcerers. we need a language that kicks you in the teeth with its fluidity and unwillingness to reflect the world as it is

[feith-rikya]

All these characters are from an RPG campaign called; Gehenna's Gates, set in the world of Vampire The Masquerade. Feel free to ask any questions!

Danya Vetranov & Jonah: 

Danya met Jonah as the owner of Elysium, thinking of him as just an eccentric person, with his head in the clouds and a fixation on whales. So, in her innocence, she had befriended him, treating him a bit like the child he seemed to be, and on the other side the ancient vampire didn't seem to mind. After many gifts of whales of all kinds and sizes, they became like siblings, but neither was truly aware of the other's abilities.

Danya had a rude awakening when she discovered that behind the figure of the Mother, the True Black Hand, the death of hundreds of Malkavians was actually Jonah's doing. Jonah, who was nothing more than the projection of the desire of an old madman to exterminate every single vampire on the face of the earth. Born with hatred for his own kind and himself, restrained only by the love of the people around him.

When the altars were discovered, Jonah's behavior became more erratic and unsettling, leading Danya to accidentally summon Lucifer, unleashing a fight that nearly killed Jonah. After this betrayal, the Malkavian took away from the entire coterie the “Gifts” he had granted. It meant he had implemented a discipline on them and their loved ones that nullified the curses of their clans, bringing everyone a bit closer to the beast.

Jonah retreated into the labyrinth after the injury and was declared an enemy of the coterie. But Danya couldn't let it end like that; she wanted to find that good part of him and bring her brother back home. And so, she wrote him a letter:

“Dear Jonah,

I hope this letter finds you somehow, even though I still don't know how to deliver it to you.

Well, if you are reading it somehow, I managed.

I'm not sure what I'm trying to accomplish, I know I don't want to blame you or justify my behavior; I don't think it would do much good. Perhaps I just want to offer you some of my truth in exchange for what you've given us. It's possible that you don't care and will tear up this letter as soon as you read my words, but if you decide to continue, I hope you can find something in it. Anything. Forgive me; I am far from being a writer, so be lenient with my grammatical errors and my inelegant style. 

You know many things about me — when I was born, where, who my father was, and even the name of a mother who is totally unknown to me.

I wonder if you know other things.

Like the winter in Kiev, the snow knee-deep, having to make our way through the cold with old and worn-out clothes that no longer kept the chill at bay. Staying inside a worn-out tent, trying to get warm with a semi-functional stove and hoping the warmth allows you to open your eyes the next day. On those winter nights, with the punishing snow falling on the city, it was impossible to wander around begging or robbing passersby.

So, we were forced to stay in the tent, close together, trying to warm ourselves as much as possible, with the little food we managed to get from the soup kitchen.

It was during those winter nights that my father taught me to read. Sipping his usual whiskey and holding me on his lap while flipping through the children's book he had stolen for me from a flea market. He pointed out the words and made me read them over and over, then moved on to whole sentences, then the small paragraphs of the illustrated book, until I could read it aloud on my own. He even had me mark the letters and words in the blank parts of the book, so I also learned to write.

In the package accompanying this letter, you will find a copy of that same book. I only found out recently that it was a rather renowned children's book. "The Giving Tree."

When he finally managed to reveal the meaning of the graphic signs accompanied by simple drawings, I was quite disturbed.

It was a rather tragic story to learn to read, and I found myself practically reciting it by heart.

I'm sorry it's not an important, ancient, unique book, written in a nonexistent language and containing the secrets of the world. It's just a simple children's book with a sad ending that taught me to read.

For you, perhaps, it won't mean anything. You have read so much, studied so long, and know much more than can be known in ten lifetimes.

But for me, it was the only source of culture in my life for a long time, and one of the few ways to reflect on the world. Even if I might not even be able to tell you what this book is trying to teach, maybe nothing, maybe just that not all stories need to have a happy ending.

Sometimes I think that maybe we won't have one either, no matter how hard we try or how good our intentions may be...

But in the end, what will remain, and what no apocalypse can take away, not even the apocalypse itself, are the bonds we have created and the people we have touched with our being.

When that day you spoke about how you felt, that anguishing sensation of sinking into the cold abyss of the ocean, I felt closer to you than ever.

You touched me deeply.

It might seem strange to you that someone like me, who doesn't share a fraction of the burden you carry, can even understand what you feel...

But at that moment, I knew exactly what you were talking about.

That feeling of helplessness, the constant and futile effort to stay afloat, only to see the surface getting farther away, and the light becoming dimmer and more scattered.

The darkness of the sea claiming you, and immense beasts ready to devour you, oblivious to your dreams and hopes.

I feel that way almost every day, sometimes more, sometimes less, even in times when we've been at peace. I was aware that a small wave could destroy my sandcastle.

Or a big whale could devour me and take me into eternal darkness.

You will find a second book in the box, "The Adventures of Pinocchio"; surely, you know it.

It's a book I read when I was still in the circus.

My sire had the habit of picking up everything the audience forgot inside the fair, keeping the valuable things for himself and sharing the rest.

But I must say that for me, he always kept the most useful or cute objects, "fit for a young lady," as he jokingly said.

I read it slowly but with great attention; at the time, I found it hilarious and grew fond of it. Unfortunately, my copy burned away with my circus, and like it, all I have left is the memory and nothing more.

I will candidly admit that this book makes me think of you in a much more polymorphic way than you might imagine.

Sometimes, I have felt like the puppet of the story, naive, careless, teased, and manipulated by creatures much bigger than him. In those moments, I thought of you as a strange but wise-talking Jiminy Cricket wanting to show me the right way.

At times, I thought of you as Pinocchio, so eager to become something different from yourself. Perhaps a bit arrogantly, I hoped to be the Blue Fairy helping you reach your dream.

But recently, I must admit I have felt more like the puppet who never learns from his mistakes, and you as the whale about to devour me.

But despite the fear, frustration, my inability to understand the reasons behind all this, and at the risk of being entirely devoured, I don't like the idea of you being alone in that dark maze.

I don't like leaving you to sink without even trying to throw you a lifeline.

In the box, you will find an MP3 in which I had Mr. Frost record a melody for you. Please listen to it when you feel particularly bad; it should help, or at least I hope so.

I don't want to ask you for anything or beg you to put things back the way they were; I don't think it would lead to anything. I'm not even sure others would agree.

The only thing I hope is that you can see some goodness in my actions, as I see in yours.

It wasn't our intention, but we hurt you, and for that, I am sorry, for whatever my shaky words are worth on this paper.

I close this letter, hoping it keeps you company along with the things I've given you.

I will always be your sister, Jonah. Remember that.

With love,

Danya”

That letter convinced Jonah to return to Danya, at least to see what she wanted to accomplish. Despite his initial reluctance, tension, and the fear she felt, he eventually gave in. No vampire so young had ever shown him so much courage, after all he could have obliterated her mind with just a thought. Embracing her, he apologized for his behavior, and between them, there was nothing left to hide. If he wanted to destroy vampires, she would do everything to stop him, and they both accepted it. Since then, the peculiar Malkavian has settled in Danya's home, seeking in her the serenity and carefreeness he had never had. Meanwhile the Ravnos, besides keeping an eye on him, desired to recreate that extended family she missed so much from the circus.

[the-quicksilver-diary]

The Plague

When Shirley awoke, the air in her chambers was thick, hot, and wet. Her skin clung to itself, oil and sweat dripping. The faculties of her nostrils were all but non-functional, leaving her equipped only with the desperate apparatus of her chapped mouth through which to draw in stale air. The heavy stench of sickness was one Shirley recalled all too well. She turned to move her head and look at the time. Her muscles were wound tight, and her bones crunched. The digits of her alarm clock blurred into a red haze, and the blinding sun bleeding in from the outside offered no assistance to her ability to discern the current time. Shirley faded in and out of consciousness for several lifetimes, each moment perceived an immeasurable hell. She lie there for another two hours. As her head pulsed with a dark malevolence, her body ached, and her senses dulled, Shirley surmised that to feed was her most suitable course of action. Upon standing, her sight was flooded with an array of dancing stars. Her surroundings flitted out of being, and she was alone. It was just her and the dark. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she stumbled her way to the kitchen by way of fighting through dizzying starlight. Each step sent a jolt of electrical pain through her legs, her spine, her brain. "Why was I-" Her voice was hoarse, and all at once her throat filled with sand and razor blades and hatred. Before she could finish her thought, she was seized by an attack of hacking and wheezing. Her diaphragm tried to keep up and take in air to keep her consciousness intact, and her body spasmed and convulsed in the disgusting fashion of a marionette. After a time, the coughing died, and she regained the ability to wheeze in another breath and continue to her task. No more of that, then. Shirley opened her fridge to see its contents. She found herself unable to remember what she had prepared the night before. A lightbulb within flickered to life, casting a harsh light on forsaken plastic containers of past meals. The machine's compressor sputtered to life, and a breath of cold spilled onto the floor at her feet - clumsy, inelegant. Three opened bottles of ketchup, languishing in the refrigerator's door, giving each other a semblance of company until the day they all perish at once from infection in the dark, in the cold. In the back, a bowl of what once could have been called mashed potatoes. It has since been consumed by the bloody war waged between white fuzz and green splotches. A platter of chicken, blackened on the bottom and served with a selection of vegetables cut into too-large pieces. This will suffice.

She closed the door and went to warm her day's nourishment. A sudden possession overtook her then, contorting her face into a wrinkled monstrousness. Her sigh grew dim, and she lurched backward. Within her skull, a spring wound itself tight. Click. Shirley's skull unleashed a hurricane, her sinuses stinging white hot for just a fraction of a second for the duration of the sneeze, before she regained a bit of clarity. Oh right, the microwave. Shirley set her meal in the microwave, set it to warm for ninety seconds, and watched it spin. The juices within the meat sizzled and popped, eager to escape its fibrous and charred prison of flesh. Tiny ice crystals within the vegetable medley began to thaw, making damp the assortment of carrots and broccoli. The plate spun, catching the attention of Shirley's plague-addled mind. Oh, how the plate spun and spun. With its contents sufficiently heated and time depleted, the microwave alerted its user to its task's completion. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. It took a few rounds of this to snap Shirley back to her senses and grab her food out of the device. She staggered to her dining room table, seating for one. After her first forkful of food, she paused. She was cursed with a dreadful realization, a knowledge too awful for her to bear. Within the blink of an eye, she built within her the rage to shatter the very heavens, the essence of her soul withered within her as she lost all hope she might have had to fight through this disease. An awful truth became overwhelmingly apparent: she had lost her ability to taste. And so Shirley ate the rest of her meal, her expression taking on the quality of melted wax. The sound of her fork against her plate, the only one present, was dampened by the thick miasma of disease that so lingered and swirled in the air of her home. She went to bed after this, coughs straining the rusted springs of her mattress. After a long time of tossing, turning, and wheezing, Shirley finally returned to the quiet bliss of rest, rheum sealing the features of her face shut for a very long time.

[molsno]

I think one of the most annoying things about javascript is that even when they do add native functionality it's difficult to use and makes your code look bad. like, if I want to display a timestamp in relative time ("3 days ago" as opposed to a precise date) , I have to use Intl.RelativeTimeFormat. this requires me to specify a locale, even though it should just determine the locale automatically by default, and requires me to manually calculate the amount of time that has passed since the timestamp I want to display. so you end up with something like this, which looks inelegant:

meanwhile, you could just install moment.js and accomplish this in a single line of code, but it would require installing a very large package that contains all sorts of other things that you probably don't need, making it overkill if you only want to use it for this one feature. but who could blame you when the native implementation is so poor? why have we built all digital infrastructure on such a poorly designed language?

[cellard0ors]

Laura lets out a sound of relief when the warm water sprays over her body.

While nothing in comparison to her home waters, its always a blessing to experience the relatively simple joys of life. She was denied them for so long, and while the last six years of Travis’s life have been a nightmare, Laura’s have been something of a surreal dream.

(cut for sex shenanigans/dirty talk)

Being free of Eliza’s captivity has been so liberating. Not being confined to her tank – being allowed to walk, to run! Eliza had forced her to choose land at her First Embarkment, recognizing the functionality of it, but whenever she didn’t need Laura to do hard labor for her on land, she found herself trapped in a dank tank of her home waters.

Sure, Eliza did spells to keep the water as clean as possible, but facts were facts – Laura was trapped in a stagnant mockery of her home. Trapped and witnessed by random strangers who thought her a mere fun freakshow attraction.

None of them seemed to care about her sadness. None of them seemed to recognize that what they were seeing was real. She was merely an oddity to them. Silas was much the same – it was how and why they bonded.

He too, benefitted from the six years of freedom. But when Laura found the cure he was just as eager as she was to make it happen. He often spoke of ‘the girl with the kind eyes who saved him.'

Kaylee, no doubt, and Laura doesn’t know how to break it to Travis that she’s relatively sure her brother has a crush on his niece…

What, with Eliza dead and gone – with her unable to continue performing the age retention spell – Laura and Silas will no doubt finally begin to age naturally. So, while Silas is too young for Kaylee now…

Again. Not something Laura is ready to tackle, and as she ducks her head under the warm spray of water she hears the bathroom door open and close.

Blinking water out of her eyes, she’s just about to call out to Travis questioningly only for him to open the shower door.

To open it and climb inside behind her.

Nude.

He’s nude!

Laura only catches enough glimpses of his flesh to confirm that fact before she directs her full attention on the shower wall before her, cheeks aflame, “Um? What?”

It’s inelegant, but it’s asked.

Travis chuckles, “Should I go?”

“Uh, I-?”

“Or would you like me to stay?” It’s whispered huskily against her right ear and Laura goes rigid, an unfamiliar throbbing suddenly forming in the pit of her stomach.

His voice…

His actions…

So different from the Travis she remembers, but exciting nonetheless as she swallows thickly and shakes her head, “Ah, no? I…I’d-? Y-you can stay. If you want?”

“Oh.” His breath on her skin is so hot, “I want.”

His hands suddenly rest themselves fully on her hips, long thick fingers and big palms encompassing them before carefully soaring upwards. Laura's nipples immediately tighten and she whimpers, waiting for them to touch there, for him to cup her breasts.

But he doesn't. Instead his hands stroke up her ribcage, fingers tracing circles beneath her armpits before soaring back down again. He continues these up and down torturous motions for a few moments before she finally gasps, "What are you-?"

"Remember what I promised you?" He kisses the right side of her neck, "Nothing but pleasure."

Laura moans, her head tipping back and she can feel the back of her wet scalp brush against his skin. His hands still haven't gone where she wants them though and something she does or some sound she makes must signal him into that as he laughs, "Are you sure you're ready for more?"

"Travis, please..."

"Fuck." He sighs the word like he hates it, "I wish I didn't love the sound of you begging so much..."

Her head cranes back enough that he can kiss her, open mouthed and wet, his tongue surging deep and she's helpless, only able to answer. His hands still don't go to her breasts though, oh no - they're much more wicked.

Instead one of them curls around towards the front of her legs, seeking fingertips dipping unashamedly into her aching cunt. Laura, not expecting this, makes a startled sound within their meeting mouths, a sharp intake of air and a tight moan.

Travis smiles, not answering as his fingers just...trail delicately through her moist folds, gently stroking them, the broad pad of his thumb rubbing across her clit in a back and forth motion that makes her knees tremble.

His name comes from her lungs as if it's been tightly squeezed out, a compression of sound and he kisses her again before speaking, voice gravel, "Have you ever done this before? Touched yourself here?"

Laura shakes her head and he frowns at the very idea. She whispers, "I'm not-? When I was allowed on land, I never had time to-?"

"What about in the water? Are you able to-?"

"I told you," her voice comes in shaky gasps, "We mate on land."

Travis hums 'such a shame' even as he continues to thrill her with his intimate touch, with his words, "I'm sorry, Laura. You were supposed to be my first - but after I forgot you, I didn't know any better. Those others - they didn't matter. I didn't love them. But I did learn from them..."

One fingertip teases around her entrance, dipping in and out of her channel with tantalizingly sporadic movements, each time she thinks it's going to thrust up into her deeper, it doesn't, making her feel like she's going crazy.

Laura's barely been touched for years. No hugs, no hand holding, not even handshakes and now this! It's overwhelming and beautiful and fantastic, but he has to do more and fast and soon or she'll kill him!

More laughter fills her ears and she realizes she must have said some of that out loud as he croons softly, "Patience, patience..."

Her answer to that is to reach her own hands back behind her, to reach for him. To find his hips and his ass and try to draw him closer to her, get their bodies to touch better, but with a little misdirection she clearly hits something she shouldn't as he hisses in pain, withdrawing from her entirely.

Laura spins around to face him, worry coloring her expression and he looks sheepish as he admits, "Um, oh yeah. Totally forgot your brother tore my back to shreds."

Laura's hands rise up above her nose, the classic 'oh no!' gesture even as he continues, "I guess between the adrenaline and the cold, I forgot."

"I...I could help." Laura admits and looks at him shyly, "You did say you wanted to hear me sing..."

Intrigued, Travis nods and Laura begins to sing...the words wash over him, warm and soothing, and the sharp stinging he feels all along his back slowly disappears.

Suddenly he feels so good, whole and healthy and then the song draws to a stunning close. He blinks owlishly a couple of times and, curious, he reaches behind to feel his lower back.

The marks are gone, the wounds healed, and Laura gives him a little smile, "They weren't too deep, so-?"

"That's amazing!" He breathes and then an old memory crops up, "Hey! You could have done that back when I was twelve and scraped my knee when I fell off my bike!"

Laura looks startled for a moment and then laughs brightly, "You fell off your bike ALL the time! It was an important lesson for you to learn - you were terrible at bike safety!"

"Oh, like you were so much better, Ms. Let-Me-Sit-On-The-Handle-Bars!"

"I never fell and scrapped my knee." She points out airily, as if this fact wins the argument. All it does is make him grin, a realization coming to him, "No, you never scrapped your knee, but there are other things you've also never done...things I'm going to teach you..."

The air in the room is once more thick with tension and Laura swallows thickly as Travis suddenly reaches down and takes a hold of himself.

Laura can't help but let her gaze drop, can't help but watch as he wraps one hand around his length. She's actually seen his cock before - back when they were randy teenagers the desire to see and touch too much for either of them to ignore.

He'd always only contented himself to her breasts, so much so that she still misses the feel of it and had thought for sure that's where he would start instead of, well, where he did start.

For her part, she'd been more exploratory. Hence having seen his cock, albeit never touching it, because he'd always warned it would be too much for him.

Apparently it's not now.

Now it seems he has stamina or strength of will, or something else that allows him to openly stroke himself in front of her, not missing a best.

The sight makes her shiver and she wishes she could replace his hand with one of her own. But would she even be able to wrap her fingers entirely around all of him?

...Laura doesn't remember him being so thick. So big.

And his grip pulls back to the base as he mummers, "Here, let me show you something..."

He edges closer to her and then, very carefully, he slides his length along her folds. Laura gasps, reaching out to grip his shoulders hard and his smile just grows, as he does the same movement.

The head of his cock, the shaft, they tease against her lower lips, in and out, a gentle stroking and she whimpers at the feel, confused and aroused and he comes closer to her to whisper, "This is close to what it will be like...except I'm going to push myself up inside of you."

The sound Laura releases is obscene and he said he likes her begging and she's more than ready to beg, his teasing driving her to the point of break.

Her legs wobble and suddenly Travis releases himself, reaching for her to keep her upright as he asks, "Are you ready?"

Laura manages a nod and he lets out a soft, 'okay' before turning off the shower and opening the door, "Then follow me."

She does.

[thegreenleavesofspring]

Um…I saw you can do a braided crown? Any technique tips?

...no. Sorry. 😶 My braided crown is deeply inelegant - much more functional than aesthetic - and also my hair is down almost to my knees, so... for anything shorter I wouldn't be any help. Sorry. 😶 Maybe YouTube?