#but underneath just that superficial layer

[dnangelic]

feels like i should clarify that while dark is definitely thing-being-hosted by the niwa, he's also never been outside of them. he's never ever been his own entity, only a part of them, which is why he constantly, continuously states that he is them, an alter ego in the truest sense. dark can't exist or properly function in the real world without being a part of the niwa and their bodies the same way daisuke can't survive in a dream world for long by himself without dark. but what i'm mostly specifically saying is dark's relationship with the niwa goes just a tiny bit deeper than say yuji and sukuna, greed and ling, izumi and migi, because from the start, dark was born thanks to the niwa themselves, their feelings, and just a massive overload of hikari magic. 'if it weren't for you, i would never have existed.' this is entirely a true statement. between dark and daisuke, it's never just been about daisuke confronting an external identity, a secondary force to come to understand and bond with, but quite literally aspects of his own self, as well as the literal and metaphorical embodiment of the very first human dark (the og niwa ancestor,) and his family inheritance as a phantom thief. dark is truly not a separate thing from daisuke. they're just two different facets of each other.

[lemonhemlock]

tried watching the new queen charlotte series but was immediately put off by the ridiculous anti-corset propaganda, so get ready for another rant.

first of all, this is the georgian era so what she's wearing are called /stays/ - corsets are a victorian invention. why do we still not know this in 2023 when period productions have remained consistently popular throughout the years? the concept of tighlacing (the goal being a reduction of the waist) is also victorian and was not the norm at all and v much an extreme practice. this understanding of history is so superficial, it's as if an alien were to open up People magazine and conclude that all human women resort to butt injections and lip fillers to stay with the fashion of the times. also, no, you cannot tighlace in stays to obtain a waist reduction because they are shaped like a funnel (picture 1 = long stays, 2 = short regency stays, 3 = corset)

charlotte goes on to complain about how dangerous whalebone is and that it might kill her if she makes the wrong move. what the actual fuck? whalebone was actually the very best material to use for this because it was sturdy yet flexible and allowed the /stays/ to completely and comfortably mold around a woman's unique body shape. one of the reasons why today it is v difficult to replicate the same effect in corsetry is because we do not have access to whalebone (killing whales is not cool for obvious reasons) so corset-makers have to resort to other materials like plastic or metal, which CAN break. whereas whalebone doesn't really break as easily. furthermore, stays/corsets were NEVER worn on bare skin, but with a chemise/shift underneath.

why did women in the past resort to this type of undergarment, you ask? well, apart from the fact that women need bust support, the stays also serve the purpose of allowing all the many skirts and petticoats to be placed comfortably onto the waist. you try piling on that much fabric around your bare waist and see how you like it and if you can even carry it all around without it cutting into your stomach.

clothes throughout human history did cater to the popular fashions of the time, yes, but they also reflected the technological limitations and there was thus a practical aspect to it. this is a time before elastic bands, before industrialization and fast fashion, clothes are v difficult to make, everything is done by hand, so a lot of care is put into preserving them, because they are /expensive/ and labour intensive. you don't want your fancy outergarments to get ruined so you wear a lot of undergarments to absorb your bodily fluids since those are easier to make and don't have to look "pretty", can be stained and patchy etc. again, why do you need so many layers in the first place? because this is a time before comfortable heating, with poorly isolated and drafty houses, and it's bloody cold otherwise.

the third reason why that monologue was so dumb is because CHARLOTTE is the reason regency court dress was so preposterous. long story short, in a few decades, the fashionable silhouette changes wildly from the late 1700s to the 1810s.

the regency waistline was much higher and the gowns were much more flowy and unstructured than the late georgian ones (what's commonly known as the empire waistline). the long stays of the late 1700s were now replaced with short stays that really were similar to modern bras. the scene in the first season of bridgerton where they squeeze penelope's sister into what looks like a pair of long stays (?) is bonkers bc no one would wear a waist-constricting boned undergarment under a regency dress. why would they? the natural waist is not even emphasized in any way. this is just another reason to peddle the women-were-oppressed-by-their-lingerie agenda. so if charlotte really hated long stays that much, regency would really have been her time to shine, right? wrong. the woman loved the fashions of her youth so much she forced everyone who came to court to still comply to them, which is why we get the absolutely atrocious regency court dresses - essentially a combination of the georgian style with side panniers, but with an empire waistline.

yeah, this is how daphne SHOULD have looked like when she was presented at court in front of charlotte. i can understand why the showrunners decided to just leave her in a regency silhouette because this is ugly af. but, anyway, queen charlotte is the last person on earth to be complaining about how uncomfortable stays are.

creative licence aside, the reason this pisses me off is because it is SUCH lazy storytelling. the show wants us to know charlotte is a spunky pseudo-feminist character so the easiest way to do that is to have her complain about the evil 'corset' trying to kill her. it is so profoundly ahistorical and does nothing to contribute to the conversation about women's true problems and true limitations during that time. instead of genuinely exploring social history and women's actual lived experiences, we are STILL, in the year of our lord 2023, diverting the discourse towards fabricated issues that never existed in the first place.

the reasons actresses complain about boned underwear in interviews are manifold. costume designers are very overworked, they have to produce clothes for hundreds of people in a very short time, so they simply do not have the time or resources to construct corsets/stays that fit the actresses like they are supposed to. in the past, these garments were made individually for every person and completely to their own requirements. they also make these actresses wear the boning on BARE skin to look extra sexy to the audience or to emphasize their oppression - that never happened, a shift was always worn underneath (hello dakota fanning scene in the alienist??).

moreover, they lace them up until they constrict their ribcages - these women are already super thin and their bodies cannot support more reduction - instead of relying on the historical practices of padding and illusion. nowadays, body parts are what's fashionable - that's why so many resort to fat transfers or breast implants or starving themselves to achieve a flat stomach. in the past, anyone of any size could have accomplished the fashionable silhouette because they had a wide array of accouterments to plop underneath their garments - panniers, bustles, hoop skirts, padding of any sort. it didn't matter how big your waist was, you just padded other areas until you achieved the desired shape. fat women wore corsets/stays, too. working women, who did a lot of physical labour, did the same. how were they able to perform all of their tasks if they were incapable of moving or breathing? even today, people wear medical corsets all the time.

TLDR the media's obsession with portraying modern women as so liberated because they wear bras instead of "patriarchal" underwear is so tedious.

EDIT: Some very basic chronological tadpoles to make this easier to place within historical context. "Georgian" is used to denote the 18th+ century when Great Britain was ruled by several kings named George, so roughly 1714-1830. Within this interval, we refer to the Regency period as encompassing the regency of Prince George, future King George IV, when his father George III was incapacitated by mental illness. The official political regency took place during 1811-1820, but culturally speaking, this was extended to roughly the end of the 18th century up to maybe 1830 or 1837. This is the time period of Napoleonic wars and Jane Austen novels, so all her heroines should normally wear Regency styles. Think "empire waistline" as in Imperial France and Napoleon. The Victorian era (and its corsets) follows throughout the rest of the 19th century. Queen Charlotte was a contemporary of Marie Antoinette's, so they should be dressed in similar fashions (robe à la française vs robe à la anglais).

[darkfictionjude]

I find it incredible how your characters break out of their cliché archetypes. Imre is the golden boy considered perfect and beautiful by everyone but underneath he is extremely manipulative and a liar. Nia is rich and superficially a preppy, but she is not a damsel in distress and can be threatening as an enemy Lorcan is a tough bad boy, but deep down he's just a guy with a lot of problems and is extremely sensitive. Even Mc who is the protagonist but is not perfect is being fucked up both psychologically and emotionally. In short, all your characters have a complexity and deep layers, neither good nor bad, congratulations on that Jude and I hope that in the future IFs you make, you still make the characters like this

I had hoped I would be able to create something like this. Because when I was creating the characters I did first find character tropes and then thought of how I could flip them. I always think good characters are those that are cruel but can have moments of kindness and those that are kind but can have moments of cruelty. It corresponds to life

[topazpearl]

tuurmil as in tuuri/emil from stand still stay silent?... speak on that? i've never considered it but i'm curious 🤔

Me when I get to talk about my rare pair ship!!!!!!!!

Alright where to begin………. You see, it all started back in the year of our Lord 2014. The comic was just starting…. characters were still being introduced… And nobody knew Tuuri was gonna die lol! In the earliest chapters, Emil and Tuuri carried a decent portion of the MC dialogue since Lalli is so introverted and knew no Swedish. So I got attached to the idea of them being a couple fairly quickly. And I wasnt the only one!!!! lol!!

I mean like, Tuuri was literally enamored with the idea of Emil since day one when she heard about him so 😂 Im not completely insane. (He's not as tall as she wanted but yknow, love conquers all.) And of course Emil tries to impress everyone, but the fact that after he's only known this girl for one day, he pulls this kind of shenanigans in front of her/??? It speaks to me. (Something something, being comfortable to show your true self to someone)

ALSO!! If you got the book 1 you know theres a bonus comic thats not published online where Tuuri drags Emil into a bakery and theres a couple nuggets of cuteness in there I waaaaaaaa

(a completely normal way to look at someone that you've only known for a few hours)

Oh and there's another bonus comic where he's like "hey who'd win in an arm wrestle match you or Lalli" to her like????? akjalsdjlsfj the way the hotakainens bring out the silliness in this boy i swear. anyway

Basically a lot of this ship for me is (literally unattainable) Potential.

You have Emil, who's kinda a jerk on the surface but that layer is very superficial and underneath is a wholesome, caring guy. And then you have Tuuri, who is very happy and friendly on the surface, but underneath can be kinda conniving and sour. Tuuri beats around the bush, while Emil is often straight to the point. So they keep balancing each other out, and I kinda love that. Also she's the mechanic and he's the pyro: they're the Gasoline Duo! lol If Tuuri had lived and they were given a couple more years to cook, with Emil maturing more, I think they could've been a good couple. (Emil is already so different by the end of the story). They're not perfect of course (every relationship has its pros and cons) but their dynamic is interesting to me.

If you're ready to jump into this canoe with me I highly recommend listening to "Wasteland, Baby!" by Hozier and then crying about it bc it's Their ship song to me

[rini-rushed]

graveyard

notes: watch me try to be poetic about my sheer hatred for my own sport, something i've done for almost a decade

notes: i wanna get into writing oneshots, but here we are..

where passion used to lay, i only see a rotting corpse, a shell of what i used to love

now mounded into the dirt and mud, the skin was basically a worn out, shitty rug

so thin you could see the shit underneath those superficial layers, bugs eating out every cell of it

she's grotesque to look at

it's even worse when it's your turn to lay in it

slipping my limbs into the space under the dull and dirty bones that is my body, it's still me

big shoes to fill

my shoes don't even belong to me

then i lay in this cage with a change of heart, not knowing its just the creepy crawlers munching away at my organs, already rotting

i am rotting

then as i feel my insides grow thin and my skin torn and worn, i spot a figure

a body of life and eyes dull, it's looking down at me with this disgusted face,

like i'm a grotesque creature who didn't deserve to live

they toss the old bones away, kicking it with a swing of disdain, but their tears betray and unveil the layers of discomfort that they feel

i don't understand, why are they kicking all the shells and in this grave yard apart?

to make room for the future ones of course.

tags: @babyghoul138 @gimmeurmoneyagh @reaper-in-reverie @shrii-kk

you guys cause i wanna have some sort of feedback or just a comment on this english mess

[ihatesocialmedia45]

Chapter 5: Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch

There is no love for a woman out of her mind - except a man who's lost his as well.

The woman sat across from Homelander in the café, blowing gently on her drink as he cut a plain croissant into eighths, before sticking a portion onto his fork. The scent of coffee, earthy and mellow, wafted around them in thick plumes, mingling with his scent. She sniffled to disguise the deep inhale she took, breathing him in. He smelled... clean, like the scent of rain. A hint of ozone lurked beneath the fresh note, a bolt of lightening on a clear blue sky. Homelander set his knife and fork on the plate as he chewed, the metallic clink of the utensils delicate against her ear.

They'd more or less been silent for the past five minutes, subtly sizing each other up, asking benign questions and giving superficial answers; the Seven, the Expo, what it was like to fly. She'd tried her hand at humor, (a shy, "So, how is the weather up there?"), but he'd only given a tight, "Cold," in response, so she'd abandoned that attempt in favor of a pensive nod, considering his reply. 

Cold, she thought with distaste. Winter was her least favorite season.

"You always make it look so... effortless," she said, keeping her mind focused on not leaning in. It wouldn't do, to spoil this after everything was going so well. He'd invited her, for coffee. He'd wanted to see her. She thought back to what he'd said at the Expo, face growing warm at the memory.

'I actually care about my fans'

His fans. His.

She... was his.

She willed him to hear it somehow, but Homelander only gave a soft smile, though not as genuine as before. He looked... disappointed, she saw; he kept his eyes from her, cast just above her face, or on his croissant, her hands. But never her eyes. Her hand twitched; she wanted to bring it to his jaw, angle him to meet her gaze. She shifted in her seat.

Look at me... I can't stand this. Please.

"I don't know if I could manage flying - I hate the cold," she continued, pulse quickening when he finally glanced up at her, his eyes softening the smallest degree. The memory of her apartment, warm, home, echoed in his bones. He shifted, leaning in the tiniest amount.

I know, Homelander thought. I do, too.

The confession seemed to melt the layer of frost around him somewhat; he scooted closer, eyes suddenly glowing with a soft, boyish excitement.

"I don't feel the cold in the same way a regular person might... but the gloves do help. They're good for cutting through wind resistance," Homelander said, bringing his hand to the table. He gestured toward it with his head, a lopsided little smile on his lips.

The woman's heart pounded, eyebrows raised slightly. An invitation... to touch him? Slowly, she brought her hand to his, a light tremor running through her as she graced a tentative palm against the back of his hand, admiring the leather, the strong feel of his tendons underneath. Brushing her fingers against his palm, she felt the ribbed material, the minute flexing of his hand, and her mouth watered, the urge to take his fingers into her mouth sudden and demanding.

She raised his hand to her eye level, an undeniable longing radiating off her in waves - but she simply turned his hand, back and forth, before placing it on the table, and smiling at him.

"Yeah, I'm sure! Is that... full-grain?" Homelander gave a surprised "Hm!", nodding.

"Yes, actually. Do you... work with leather?" She shook her head, a woeful expression on her face.

"Oh, no... the last time I tried was a disaster. I looked at a YouTube video, so I'm basically an expert; I don't know what went wrong," they laughed together, the chill of their earlier conversation forgotten.

Homelander eyed her as she giggled, the subtle shifting in her seat making the gears turn in his mind. She clearly wanted to lean in, move closer to him - so why didn't she? He'd even taken the plunge first, scooting in, letting her know: It's safe. You can lean into me.

Please, lean in to me.

He'd been... a bit put out, by her banal attempts at conversation at the start of this little test. She'd showed promise at the Expo, a hint of that fervent longing she'd voiced during New Year's. But as soon as they'd arrived at the coffeeshop, it was over; Homelander watched the chance of them kissing whip through the wind, too fast for him to catch. He couldn't help the dismay that overtook him. Where was that girl, the one who'd wanted him? He'd misjudged her, he thought, morose, as she prattled on about the Seven, about the fucking weather... had he really been so foolish?

Even the thought of killing her brought no joy - he just wanted to go home, and lie under the covers. Spend the day at Everest. 

But then... once again, she'd surprised him, with that little bite of contempt: 'I hate the cold' - and he'd looked up, the memory of her apartment, warm and comforting, flashing to his mind.

She was being... honest. He thought back to her whispered confessions, her absence on her mother's account. Perhaps... she knew what the cold was like. Perhaps she'd even caught his disdain for it, as well. The thoughts tumbled in his mind, and a slow smile crept across his face as he raised his hand to her, scooted closer.

He hadn't expected her to bring his hand to her face - he'd sucked in the quietest breath as she did, studying the palm of his hand like she might commit it to memory, her eyes molten, pulse racing.

For a second, Homelander thought she might kiss him there; he willed her to know that he would let her, but so intense was her gaze, that she missed the near pained look in his eyes - one he quickly stuffed away. 

They met each other's gaze for a beat, a tentative understanding forming between them, like threads being woven to fabric. She leaned in - and Homelander let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Do you wanna... get out of here?" he asked, the flash of nervousness leaving him entirely as she'd nodded before he'd even finished his sentence. He smiled, genuinely.

Sage paced the perimeter of her room, Maeve watching her through the corner of her eye. The laptop they'd just been huddled over now sat forgotten on the desk. What they'd just seen could mean disaster for Vought, the idea sending their minds into chaotic spirals; Sage's, brain teemed with plans, while Maeve's settled into quiet apathy. 

The moment they'd arrived at the Tower, she'd dragged Maeve by the arm into her quarters, and started clicking away on her laptop, plugging her phone in and transferring the camera footage she'd hacked from the Expo's security system.

They'd watched silently; Homelander, expression dark and lost - before he left for... who knows what. Then, fast-forward five minutes later, his return; he'd looked angry, jaw snapped tight as he walked on stage. Sage fast-forwarded through his speech, the Q&A... and let the video roll, hearing Maeve's soft gasp.

A woman, her demeanor shy, was making her way to Homelander as he sat, head in his hands. The two women watched as he flew down to her, the way they both seemed to careen toward each other, like underwater plants. Sage paused; Homelander, almost imperceptibly, had raised his hand - just an inch, but the implication was clear. Maeve looked at Sage, eyes wide, disbelief etched onto her face.

"A girlfriend?" she breathed. "No," Sage murmured, her tone heavy with dark realization. "I don't think so."

Sage bounded for the door, Maeve scrambling to meet her, the two swiftly making their way down the hall. "Where are you going?" Maeve's tone was hushed.

"Stan Edgar. We have to alert him."

Stan Edgar sat in his office, fingers steepled as the two women flanked him behind a large mahogany desk. The glow of the laptop cast an eerie whiteness onto his face, Sage thought, averting her gaze. His tone, as always, had been polite, if a bit cold, as he'd let them in, listening patiently as Sage relayed their investigation to him. Finally, after a moment of silence that hung on too long, he'd asked to see the footage, a faint smile gracing his lips.

"So, you posit that this woman... may hold some significance.. to Homelander," he started, looking up at Sage from beneath the rims of his glasses. She nodded.

"Yes. The nature of their relationship remains unclear - it's possible she's a Supe with powers of interest to him. We believe that he might be planning some form of alliance." Maeve's eyes widened.

A team up... that was the last thing they needed: Homelander joining forces with someone who was not only willing to work with him, but seemed to enjoy his company, on top of that - she had to have been just as unstable as he was.

"I appreciate your insights," Stan said smoothly, "but rest assured: Vought has been keeping tabs on Homelander from the outset. This footage, while... informative... doesn't serve to change much, in regards to our plans for him. The situation is well under control. You needn't concern yourselves with this... investigation." Sage felt her blood boil at the dismissal, but Stan had already closed the laptop and was pressing it into her hands, that same smile hinting around the corners of his mouth.

"I'll let you know if we ever require your assistance," Stan told her, and, thoroughly dismissed now, she and Maeve left his office, Sage's brain sparking.

"He... already has a plan?" Sage was confounded. Maeve pat her on the back, her face calmer since the meeting; Stan's words, though condescending, had dissipated the worry that had been brewing within her. She could imagine being talked to in such a way would infuriate the world's smartest person - and the lack of consultation on this plan Stan had was bound to sting -  yet for Maeve, Stan's assurance meant she could finally relax. Stan would handle Homelander, as he'd done for years. 

"Of course he does. Stan is the only one Homelander has ever really respected. He's more or less the only thing keeping him in check."

Sage grimaced. "I just don't like the way he dismissed me," she muttered. Maeve put a hand on her shoulder, fighting a smile; she'd been right. - Sage was moody. She rubbed her shoulder as Sage pouted, her voice assuring. "Well, he's a business man. You know he'd never ask for help... and besides - he knows how smart you are. It's a matter of when he asks you - not if."

Sage gave an appreciative smile, eyes warm on Maeve's face. "Thank you," she said, a little ruefully, though Maeve's words did little to calm the barrage of questions that flashed through her brain. What did Stan know about this, that he was so calm? Was he calm, or was it just a front? And what did he intend to do?

But Maeve smiled down at her then, offering to treat her to lunch, and she tried to put her anxieties to rest. "I'm thinking... Polynesian. What about you?" Sage nodded.

"Mmm... that does sound good."

Homelander walked side by side with the woman, the heat of her body a whisper away - yet he kept his hand firmly by his side. They'd been out since 10; getting coffee, strolling around town, even stopping by a good truck. Homelander, never one for greasy foods, looked on disapprovingly as she dug into her street tacos, but couldn't say no when she'd offered to share. She'd wanted to share with him.

They passed by a thrift shop, and he looked down as they grinned in excitement. "Oh, I love this place! I get all my figurines from here!" they exclaimed, and unthinkingly, she grabbed his hand as she headed for the door, the cheery door chime like church bells in Homelander's ears.

Homelander took in the shop; it was a bit shabby, with warm but flickering bulbs, with  a trail of fairy lights adorning the celling. Strange décor littered the space, from a wall full of Garfield memorabilia, to a collection of Victoria Neuman bobbleheads. He'd never seen anything like it, he marveled. Vought only ever took him to high-end boutiques, and all of his furniture was shipped straight to his room. He tried to recall the last time he'd been into a store at all... and came up blank. The woman touched his arm, the softness rippling under his skin.

"I have an idea," they said. "You... find something, and I'll find something. Then, we can trade!" She smiled, pleased with her idea.

Homelander returned the gesture, though his heart felt as though it might burst through his chest with the way it was hammering. A gift? She wanted to find something... for him?

He nodded. "Alright," he said, easy tone belying the tremor of his hand, watching as she bounded off for the tchotchkes. 

Homelander swept across the humble establishment, trying to envision her here, on her off days, after work, looking wistfully through the windows after closing - and found that he could, quite easily. She was in her element here, looking through the knick-knacks with practiced ease; he looked on as she picked up two near identical figurines, deliberating. Homelander focused. One was porcelain, the other cheap glass; he raised a brow as she looked, gaze steely, before choosing the porcelain one, slipping it into her basket.

Returning to his search, he sifted through the fluttery scarves and baseball caps, lips pursed in concentration. Something... Homelander's mind came up blank, followed by a flash of irritation. How vague...

Something... what? Homelander paced now, shuffling through the jewelry that called to him with its glinting allure - though he refrained from looking closer. Even now, he knew that would be a bit much - and besides, he assured himself, she hadn't proved she was worthy of such a gift. He nodded. 

Soon, he found his way to the ornaments, and he soon understand why she'd chosen to start here. This section was chock full of intriguing little baubles; a miniature set of shepherd boys, crowded around a sleeping lamb, a glass mermaid filled with some sort of blue liquid that gurgled when Homelander tipped it upside down... slowly, a sense of subdued curiosity wound through him, and he searched earnestly, unaware that the woman had already made her choice, and was looking over at him, expression fond.

Homelander lost himself in the perusal, turning over ornate silver pans and antique-looking desk clocks, genuinely enjoying himself. He found a piggy bank that had been painted to look like a clown, a pair of bunnies sharing a carrot, a cat lapping at a bowl of cream... before he finally found it: a duck, maybe a swan. The figure was made of alabaster, soft white and creamy to the touch. It lay on its stomach, a dark downward flick painting its eye closed, while its neck swooped in a graceful bend. It was perfect. Homelander plucked it from the shelf, excitement racing in his veins.

They walked up to him then, a smile in their eyes. "The cashier compted us! She said you'd saved her son last week - the bus-jacking on 5th and Walker?" Homelander vaguely recalled, a shy grin lighting up his face. "Oh!" he said, waving a hand at the woman behind the register, who grinned - and a thought came to him. Looking around, he searched for the marker he always kept on him for times like this, and found an old portrait. 

Thanks so much! he wrote in looping cursive.

You're the real hero

Homelander

He looked around, before placing the portrait in the employee's office, taking the woman's hand and smoothly striding out, giving the cashier another wave. 

Maybe "New year, New Homelander" was right, he mused, looking into her smiling face with a brighter one than he'd given in ages.

The sun was going down as Homelander and the woman walked down the street. He looked over at her, to see that she'd been looking at him, and he gave a teasing grin when she flushed, caught staring. 

"I don't think I've ever enjoyed myself this much before," she said, taking his hand. Homelander squeezed, and nodded.

"I've never been to a place like that before. Thank you. I... I liked it."

They took their seats on a park bench, where she sat the thrift store bag, then looked to him with a cheeky grin. "Okay. Are you ready?" Homelander nodded. "Ready."

He looked, eyes expectant and a little nervous, as she rustled through the bag, breath catching in his throat when she gave a dramatic turn, his gift perched in her hands. She grinned.

"Ta-da! It's a little wax warmer!"

Homelander looked it over, taking it from her with a gentle hand and turning it this way and that. It was a sturdy little contraption, built to resemble a small fireplace, complete with a cheery assortment of stockings that hung from the mantle, the enamel coating smooth against his gloves. He looked up, curiosity piqued. "What do I do with it?" 

"You put scented wax in it! And it makes the room smell good."

"Oh," Homelander said simply, brow furrowed. "But... I don't have any wax." 

"That's okay! I have a bunch, at my apartment - if you'd like to come? You can look through what I have, and see if there's anything you like."

Homelander snapped his gaze to her, heartbeat thudding hard in his chest. Come to her apartment?

This wouldn't be like last time he'd been there, which he tried to wipe from his mind. He'd had to get rid of the weakness she'd imbued him with, he thought. But now, that was over - she was inviting him over this time. Letting him in, where once she'd closed the door. He imagined the warmth that would envelop him the minute they stepped through the door, sitting on the couch that seemed to pull him into its deep recesses like a hug. The soft glow of her lamps, the scent of dinner on the stove... He imagined coming home to the scene, night after night, the business of the Seven and Vought irrelevant. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed, the upturn of his mouth soft.

"Yes," he murmured. "I'd like that."

Hand in hand, they walked to her door - the knob had been replaced, Homelander noticed - and, just as he'd hoped, a cloud of heat wrapped around him in a thick, welcoming plume as they entered her apartment. Homelander looked around, though he'd already committed the layout and design to memory, and made his way to the couch, sinking down into it, eyes sliding shut. It was just like his Everest recliner - except the warmth wasn't confined to the seat. It billowed around him, carrying the woman's scent, the smell of her home, into his nose. Her apartment smelled like brown sugar, and books - the scent of a freshly blown out candle. He felt a contended rumble sound in his throat.

The woman joined him then, bringing her tub of wax warmers. "Okay, I have apricot, leather, wool, vanilla, birthday cake - which is different," she said sternly. "I'm sure," Homelander chuckled, his hand brushing hers as he inspected the variety of melts. He brought the two to his nose: vanilla and birthday cake. She was right; they were different. While the vanilla had an earthy note to its sweetness, the birthday cake melt possessed a depth the other didn't, and a slight nutty undertone. She held a melt up for him to smell, her eyes warm. He leaned in, the room silent, save for the whisper of his inhale. 

Leather. 

Once again... warmth. The scent was smoky, and earthen, deep -  with a faint metallic tang. He took another sniff, and then another, his thoughts whirling in his head, hand beginning to shake - and just as she was about to ask him what he thought, he was leaning in, and kissing her, gently placing the melt on the table next to them and holding her face in his hand. 

She leaned into him, head inclined, a lock of her hair brushing his cheek. Moving to kiss him deeper, she pressed him into the back of the couch, and - Homelander gasped into her mouth - settled onto his lap, her arms around his neck. She kissed him slowly, savoring the taste of him, tongue almost shy against his. He cradled the back of her head, pressing into her, before sliding his hands down, to wrap around her waist. She moved to kiss his neck, his jaw, the brush of her tongue against his pulse making him tremble, before returning her mouth to his, their movements languid as the couch enveloped them both in an embrace of its own. 

They pulled from each other slowly, the charge of the kiss still running through them, though it cooled to a calm domesticity as she slid to rest her head on his chest. "I'm guessing you liked the leather one, then," she joked, and he laughed, the sound rumbly against her ear. He brought a hand to her back, holding her close - and hoped she could hear more than his heartbeat.

In front of them, on the table, sat their gifts - Homelander's new wax warmer, and the swan he'd picked out for her, the small duck he'd returned resting within the loop of its neck.

[fauvester]

Ask Game for someone’s OC(s): ✨🍀🍎🍩 svsss ocs?

OOOOH DAAAAA MOSHANG KIDDOS!

🍀 - What originally inspired the OC?

I like making fankids... my cringe fandom achilles heel... and it would be funny if they weren't like golden halo protags and were instead kind of cringe.

🍎 - What is the OC’s relationship w/their parents like?

OH THE MONEYSHOT!

My hot take is that moshang would earnestly do their best to parent but have a lot of baggage that would make it challenging to emotionally connect with children (in addition to 2-3 very time consuming logistical jobs taking up their time.) They're definitely the best parents in SVSSS but the bar is in the Abyss. They love them, but they're not always the best at showing it in a way that they understand.

Oldest son and crown prince Xuejiao (proud, spoiled, inclined to be lazy, prone to crippling migraines that render him indisposed and a bitch) gets along best with Qinghua. Both of them collect palace gossip and like to micromanage; Qinghua gets back into writing and Xuejiao enjoys proofreading while lounging on his father's bed like he owns the place (not the smutty stuff, though, at least he's not supposed to read that.)

He and Mobei Jun have a respectful but distant relationship. I think deep down XJ has some shame that he isn't as proactive about preparing for and fighting for the throne as MBJ, but as a teen he doesn't want to enough to do something about it so he just avoids those feelings by avoiding his father. They're both very aloof and really need a sticky extrovert to bring them out of their shells..

Tiehan by all accounts should get along best with Qinghua because he's the BAAaAaAaAbY and he's small and smiley and very very talkative. But that's all superficial, and underneath that thin layer of cultivated silliness he's as mercenary and brutal as any demon. Mobei Jun is happy to have a child that jumps at the chance to go on hunting trips and put down minor rebellions with him (XJ is NOT leaving his chaise lounge to go OUTSIDE, THANK YOU.) He tramps around in muddy shoes and brings beasts into the palace. Qinghua feels a little guilty that he really can't stand to be around his youngest for more than an hour at a time.

🍩 -Who is your OC’s arch-nemesis or rival?

Other than Various influences in the Northern court that initially conspired to try to poison the crown prince as a baby (those influences are no longer present, or living, and have been rendered unto a soup like homogenate) the closest thing either has to a nemesis is probably the head disciple of Bai Zhan Peak that Xuejiao was inflicted on. She's a jock and a bit of a bully but in her defense her new shidi (who she was NOT consulted on the admission of into her cohort) is arrogant, spoiled and completely disregards her authority. And she can't beat his ass too badly because Liu Qingge himself specifically brought him in to train (at Shang Qinghua's prostrated begging request)

It's always the lot of the Bai Zhan seniors to have beef with half demons, it's how things are done.

[golvio]

Another thing I quite like is that while there are elements of Demon King!Ganondorf that are clearly meant to evoke Demise, upon closer inspection Ganon’s not a 1:1 copy of Demise. In fact, his elemental affiliations are very different from Demise.

For example, the “ruffles” on Ganondorf’s robes are meant to evoke Demise’s scales, but they’re not actually real scales. They’re just the fabric of his robe torn up and glowing after being soaked in Gloom. His actual physical markers that denote both his inhumanity and the nature of his powers are underneath the clothing, on his skin; these peekaboo openings of see-through flesh on his chest showing the Gloom pulsating and churning within him, like his body’s a transparent glass vessel storing the stuff. He looks sodden and wet with Gloom, and his hair moves like he’s eternally underwater.

Demise’s hair is either made of fire or meant to evoke fire with the limited graphical capabilities the Wii possessed. Ganon’s hair, while evoking flame by being red and glowing, isn’t actually on fire. He’s actually got these prehensile tentacles of “hair,” and if you look closely you can see the Gloom pumping through each tendril to move it around like a hydraulic pipe. I also noticed that when Rauru stops Ganon’s heart, his hair stops moving and his body stops glowing, implying that what’s making the Demon King light up is not some “inner fire” but his own lifeblood, pumped through his veins and allowed to seep out of his body by his own heart.

So even though they’re visually similar, elementally the two kings are actually opposites. While Demise is fire and volcanic rock and “superheated things erupting from the earth,” Ganondorf is more like water, blood, maybe some associations with the sea and tides through his affinity for the moon. If Demise’s Upheaval was like a volcanic eruption forcing lava through the earth, then Ganon’s Upheaval was more like a geyser of ultrapressurized and superheated groundwater finally breaking through the layers of rock it was trapped under. If Demise was like the chaos at the beginning of the world when the earth was still a lifeless ball of molten rock, then Ganondorf was like what came after—the rain and the primordial sea, the precambrian explosion of life in the monsters called up by the sacrificial spilling of his own blood, the ancient nonvascular plants and giant fungi of his realm/prison in the Depths that had long since gone extinct on the surface. And after his escape, his Gloom spatters around the depths like a trail of bloodstains leaking from his death-wounds.

They’re superficially similar, but in reality they couldn’t be more different. I think that’s really neat.

[ophiocordyceps]

new fallen bug gabby description just dropped for all those who observe

gabriel in his fallen state is a hulking insect-like presence, standing well over 8 feet and with a heavy build. his armor doubles as a carapace and as such is physically part of his body, with tarnished metal and more organic seeming patterns and joints.

the front plate of his helmet is broken off, save for the cross that decorated it (usually), revealing a dark void underneath. a pair of large, layered antennae like those of june beetles conceal this exposed 'face' in a way that gives them the appearance of wings. this void can manifest any number of eyes within it.

The bottom golden trim of the helmet is split and grown apart into stag beetle-like mandibles, and the broken remains of his halo have fused with the rest of the helmet into slightly branched horns that roughly correlate with the original shape of the halo (structurally, its similar to the horns of banescale dragons, with a couple extra prongs growing off the back of the base portion)

the relatively unarmored sections of his body, such as his neck and torso are thickly scaled in a way similar to fuzzy moths, and from his waist sprouts a pair of raptorial limbs similar to that of a mantis or mantis shrimp. the fingertips of his main arms sport claws and his pauldrons have grown somewhat more form-fitting as part of the carapace. his once-pauldrons and forearm plating sport small spikes.

his legs are bug-like and superficially digitigrade, with two hooked claws on each foot. the patterning of his once-knee guards are somewhat visible still.

the tassets around his hips fuse together in the back, extending into a sharp scorpion-like tail, though it holds no venom. the base of the tail is wider and more akin to a lobster or mantis shrimp before tapering off into the more scorpion-esque anatomy.

his wings are shattered apart into four sharp, wicked-looking, vaguely spidery appendages that are not particularly conducive to flight.

[unapologetic-ciri-shipper]

SNIPPET - GOD from the PAST

Fear-filled dreams haunted her this night, as they did almost every night. Not that Ciri wasn't used to it. Most of them had their origins in her childhood: the ominous black rider who always turned into the Wild Hunt or dreams of her grandmother Calanthe's death and, again and again, the sea. Wild tides that broke the ship on which Ciri sailed through her dream and dragged her down into the depths. In the current dream, she let all this happen, listening to her heartbeat and watching the ever-shrinking bright surface of the water as she sank down into the depths. Yen had taught her that. Conscious dreaming, influencing dreams and from Geralt she learned to face her fears. Not to forget them, but to see fear as a useful companion that showed her danger and gave her access to her instincts. When she was afraid of the dark, she and Geralt spent a night in the forest training sword skills in complete darkness. When she was afraid of the water, he taught her how to swim and dive and, of course, how to defend herself against drowers in the water. Yen and Geralt's training prepared her for the confrontation with her fear. And so she floated in her dream and watched calmly as she drowned. Admittedly, there was something peaceful about it. Once she had accepted these superficial layers of fear, she knew where it came from. She dreamed of her mother's death, falling off the ship, drowning in the storm, in the darkness, in the sea off Skellige. When her panic used to take over when she was alone, she saw the apparition again. The image of white-green light, the magical manifestation of her elder blood, then pulled Ciri out of the water. But this time Ciri was very calm and watched the anxious thoughts pass her by. The figure would not appear like this. Ciri realized that she had never asked it for its name - if the magical being had a name at all, after all, it was nothing really physical. It was simply the embodiment of the Elder Blood itself.

Ciri smiled and watched the moonlit surface of the water, which was getting smaller and smaller.

'Enough of this dream. I can imagine better things.'

Ciri closed her eyes and when she opened them again, she was standing on a snow-white plain. Dettlaff was standing in front of her. Heat rose to her face.

'This is definitely more beautiful.'

"Dettlaff? This isn't just my dream, is it?"

Dettlaff nodded.

"Do you remember the last time? The dream level where you fought the shadow monsters. Only this time it's Regis who's allowing the resonance."

Ciri smiled at him as she walked towards him.

"Right, it's the same feeling."

She stepped closer to him and saw his tired, almost sad look. His smile didn't mask the emotions underneath. As she scrutinized him, he turned his face away.

"Is everything all right with you?"

"Not really... But this place is peaceful, more peaceful than what I dreamed."

Ciri's hand moved almost automatically to his forearm.

"I can understand that very well. My dream was cruel too."

"But you were calm. I didn't sense any panic from you."

"Ahh that... training from Geralt and Yen. Conscious dreaming and a kind of witcher's meditation to pull yourself out of frequent nightmares. I don't know if I can teach you anything new. But if you want, I can show you some of the things I've learned from them?".

Dettlaff smiled, this time the underlying sadness was less prominent.

"I'd like that."

Ciri paused and briefly considered whether to ask the following.

"What were you dreaming?"

Dettlaff swallowed and looked at the gleaming white floor. The pain was written all over his face, a pain she knew. She took a step towards him, but didn't dare take his hand. She knew how she felt at times like this and how upset she had been by the odd well-meant but unsolicited touch in the past.

"I won't ask any more... Would you like me to keep you company?"

He nodded again and Ciri sat down in front of him, her legs crossed and her hands resting loosely in her lap. His breathing was erratic and his nails clawed into his thighs as he tried to bring what was apparently bubbling inside him back under control. Ciri tried to feel into the connection, Regis created unconsciously between them, to catch something of his emotions, what he felt at least from what Ciri knew of this resonance. But Regis' own emotions were far too present in the background. And so she waited patiently, her hands subtly and unobtrusively palm up as a gesture to him. And to her surprise, Dettlaff grasped her hand, trembling slightly.

"I deserve to have these dreams, since I killed these people."

Ciri squeezed his hand.

"Don't forget the woman who had put you in this position..."

"Irrelevant. I killed her."

She screwed up her face. Syanna's story had shaken her deeply when Geralt and Regis had told her about it in Toussaint.

"Which she absolutely deserved."

Dettlaff looked up at her in surprise.

"And yet I regret it."

She fell silent, painfully lost in memories of her time in the rat gang. Her raids through the countryside, where she took her anger out on others, with that alias name, Falka, and like Falka hundreds of years ago. Not burning the ground, but soaking in the blood of those who stepped within range of her blade. Her sword made no distinction between young and old. The blood of innocents was on her hands and no matter what her motives were then, those motives left a stale taste on her tongue now. Ciri saw how Dettlaff gently turned her hand upwards and, lost in thought, traced the lines on the inside of her hand, which suddenly triggered a crazy feeling in her.

This could have been a perfect moment. A moment in which time almost stood still, the moths barely noticeably flapping their wings or the dust in the air forming a glittering swirl. But instead, all the light on this dream plane disappeared. She could still feel her fingers on Dettlaff's cool skin as she tried to reach out and grabbed at nothing.

"Dettlaff!"

Her hands scanned the smooth floor where he should have been sitting and she cursed aloud. As panic began to rise within her, she took a deep breath and felt into the bond. The amount of foreign magic was overwhelming, compressing her chest and making it hard to breathe, but she sensed Dettlaff somewhere. Ciri remembered the magic lessons with Yen about reading minds. She adjusted her breathing, searched for a ley node and drew magic from it, but the tightness didn't vanish. She tried again... Nothing.

A familiar figure of light appeared beside her, illuminating the area.

"They're attacking us, you and Dettlaff... I'm afraid you'll have to rely on my magic, my dear Ciri."

Ciri screwed up her face at the thought of how exhausting this would be for her body and sighed heavily.

"I know..."

The light figure resembling her image looked at her and smiled.

"I will help you. It only takes an ounce of our magic to banish this dream mage... And just a little more to kill him. It's your choice."

Ciri puffed out a laugh.

"Not today, but I want it to hurt. Hurt a lot... Nobody attacks Dettlaff!".

Well this is it so far. That chapter will be betaed at first in german than translated. I am currently writing the following chapter. Hope you like my version of Dettlaff x Ciri shenanigans and the concept of Ciri's source magic. Feel free to comment and share your thoughts ❤️

Read the series in english here

[parabelllvm]

okay so Brodi :)

i think i'm gonna first get my brainworms about their physique outta the way because it has been playing drums with my attention span since about 2 pm.

as mentioned in their bio on the side muses page ( which I will be moving at some point to give them a standalone page ), Brodi's build is more or less... concealed to some extent. Cadaylle's climate is temperate and can get warm from time to time, but the area near Ailmtinne'eadhe is always more manageable. in the colder months ( winter, late parts of fall, and early parts of spring ), Brodi's usually bundled up or has layers of robes that are comfortable for them.

as it gets warmer, they'll don garments with shorter sleeves, no sleeves ( reserved when it's sweltering but not necessarily sunny ), or simply opt for lightweight, or breathable, airy clothing with longer sleeves ( think linen clothing ).

when they do show some skin, their muscle definition is very obvious. part of it is due to Brodiaea trying to stay in shape ( as in, they're very hands on and doesn't just sit on their ass, eats well when they remember, trains but not as much as they used to , etc ) but the other half of it is magical strain. Brodiaea is OLD old and has a dense magical makeup, so they have a series of practical runes and sigils baked into magical tattoos. some are superficial but others are either runes tied directly to them or their soul or runes that are tied to the souls of others. I'll go over the positional composition of that in another post.

after literally thousands of years of enduring this strain, their body has just.... adjusted to match. below are a couple examples of what their physique is underneath their clothes

no, they're not bursting out of their clothes but they can serve very tasteful upper arms and forearms 👀 they're not necessarily shy about how they look, it's more that... what they wear is what they wear. they've been on the realm for thousands of years; so long as it fits them and they like it, they're wearing it.

[detective-and-dreamer]

Answering that question about Nora and her feelings on mysterious people reminded me of something I was thinking about recently: the responses you'd get for asking her and Emory what do you like about each other? Not that I think they would give most people a genuine emotional response, but we'll ignore that.

Because on a superficial level, they do not seem well-matched to most people. Not in social or economic status, not in general interests (they're a zailor and she hates the Zee, for fuck's sake), not in temperament.

For Nora, it's the fact that Emory is exactly what he seems to be: a kind, clever, fierce person who does whatever he can to keep his loved ones happy and at least somewhat safe. She had become so used to unraveling dozens of little layers of pretense and then finding that there was just...nothing underneath. A game that started out fun and ended in disappointment. So many shallow friends and lovers, most of whom wouldn't go out of their way for her even if she would do the same for them. She can and does have a good time with Emory, but she can also trust them to be there when things are hard and to let her discuss her negative emotions without fear of pity or judgment (even if she does feel bad for dragging them into all of her Nemesis-related mess). Sometimes she thinks she can even see what he loves about zailing - she also enjoys her relative freedom and finds happiness and excitement in her work.

Emory is thrilled by Nora. He never would have imagined that being roped into acting as a detective's sidekick for a few days would end up being so exciting, let alone lead him to making one of the best friends he's ever had. They may be pretty laid-back for the most part, but they do love the adrenaline rush of a hunt or a fight, and running around with her often provides that. And then they found that she brings the same intensity to just about everything else, including the way she cares about people. He was admittedly wary of her prying, but even when she figured him out, it didn't bother her for a moment that he was raised by criminals (and sometimes still is one himself). She's passionate, she's encouraging, she's generous with her time and resources. Even when she's reckless and gets herself hurt or lost, she always makes her way back to them, and she's as much a safe haven for them as they are for her - someone they can always come home to.

Basically, they understand each other, and even when they don't, they don't try to change each other. That gets them past any differences they have.

[marcusrobertobaq]

Not me again frying my brain trying to get how this fucking skin works. Everytime look at images, GIF's, videos and i get even more confused.

It's supposed to be liquid. Check

Got a blue effect when it disperses/melts. Check

Doesn't look like it forms a thick (epidermis or dermis like) layer. Check

I can work with the first and second one, but this third one...breaks my legs in almost everything. I remember seeing some concept arts and even some in game sections where u CAN notice a certain thickness but sometimes it looks like...like this:

(Markus's one seems more natural inside what i think that happens)

Get what i'm talking about? Shit, idk how to explain in english, i don't know the fucking words.

If we look at Lucy it seems like the skin when in process of deactivation (state) looses the texture (gets thin and more transparent) and just melts like a fucking (color of skin) liquid. U can see and feel the plastic layer texture underneath this "liquid" especially if it's damaged somehow.

Would explain a few things but not where this shit goes when totally deactivated. It just ... dissapears in a weird way and sometimes without this process-like looking. Actually shit looks like a fucking hologram, an illusion of skin depth, like if u touch u ain't gonna feel a skin texture but this smooth plastic layer:

One thing i know is this superficial plastic layer "mimics" some muscle movements and major bones 🤔 but not details like veins. That's why i think the skin should got some thickness, to give some depth, but well...🤷🏾‍♂️

I give up, idk how to explain.

[strawberrygorechata]

RESEARCH ENTRY #1

// K9 UNITS FOUND ABANDONED, PARTIALLY TORN AND BURNT SLEEPING BAG BURIED UNDERNEATH SUPERFICIAL MULCH LAYER. INSIDE OF WHICH A SEARCH PATROL VOLUNTEER FOUND A HUNTING JOURNAL THAT APPEARS TO HAVE BEEN SIMILARLY TREATED, DUE TO WHICH SOME OF THE CONTENTS WERE UNRETRIEVABLE AFTER RESTORATION ATTEMPT.

[REMAINING LEGIBLE CONTENT OF FIRE DAMAGED HUNTING JOURNAL FOUND AT SCENE]

11/02/1993

City folk love talking about how quiet it is when they leave their suburban homes and enter the quiet outskirts of the forest, and how nature blossoms and the air clears up.

They never go any deeper though, staying only as far as they are able to see the night lights of a life they claim to be escaping from. I never liked pretending to be listening to them while they excitedly asked me what camping spots were good since I “seemed to know the area”, then watching them pretend to enjoy the diner food they well know is the same they force themselves to eat downtown. 

They don’t know how loud it really gets in the forest, especially at night when predators prowl around, looking to hunt the creatures that couldn’t find refuge in their underground tunnels, hollow trees, or even because they couldn’t keep quiet while hiding from them. The scuttling of the leaves when one of them senses that pending doom looming above their heads, followed by unnerving silence, as every living creature holds their breath hoping that they are not the ones found, ending with sudden sounds of struggle and squeals of agony. Rinse and repeat.

There’s a reason why I stopped coming to sleep here, but now the noises at home are just as bad, if not worse, than the sounds of the food chain in action. There’s something calming about knowing that I’m the apex predator in this forest, like the status itself protects me from following the same fate as everything scurrying about around me. I become the loud thud in the night that decides when silence starts, even if for a moment. I wonder if that’s what he feels when he’s drunk and [SCRIBBLED OVER].

12/02/1993

Came back home around 4 am after the wind blowing through the trees woke me up and the air going through the knitting of the branches started sounding like loud whispers. It freaks me out when things sound like something they could never be.

He was passed out on the couch, reeking of piss and alcohol and barely illuminated by the distorted image of our CRT TV. He probably hit it again. I stood in front of him for a few minutes, trying to see if he’d wake up if I disturbed him enough. He didn’t, so I kicked his dirty leather boot a little, which made him snore as he adjusted his skull around the headrest, scratching his neck and squinting his eyes. I don’t understand how he can sleep so peacefully, knowing what he does when he’s awake. 

My hands felt red hot and itchy, I reached into my pant pocket where I kept my skinning knife and reassured myself with the same lie:

“One day.”

[AUTHOR SKETCHED A PORTRAIT OF A MIDDLE-AGED MAN WITH AN ANGERED EXPRESSION] // FOOTNOTE: K9 UNITS FOUND WHAT SEEMED TO BE BLOODY RAGS PLACED INSIDE A HOLLOW TRUNK, AFTER INSTRUCTING THE CANINES TO FOLLOW THE TRAIL, THE TWO ELDEST REFUSED AND STARTED SHOWING SIGNS OF AGGRESSION TOWARDS ANYONE REATTEMPTING INSTRUCTION. YOUNGEST K9, HOWEVER, SHOWED EAGERNESS TO FOLLOW THE TRAIL, TO THE POINT OF ESCAPING HANDLER AND DISAPPEARING UNDERNEATH BURROW, ATTEMPTS TO FIND UNIT PROVED UNSUCCESSFUL. ATTEMPTS TO FIND ANOTHER EXIT TO THE TUNNEL PROVED UNSUCCESSFUL, LENGTH OF TUNNEL EXCEEDED WIRED CAPACITY OF AVAILABLE EQUIPMENT.

[taylorgraymoore]

November 30, 2023

Well, I didn’t go to Avenue du Mont Royal. I felt like I was fading, as I finished dinner, and thought it was best to stick to close by where I was staying. This was one of these fateful decisions, or at least it was what shaped the night.

I started to walk back towards the AirBnb. Via Duluth, which has always been a favourite street to me—I thought I would go along it and then just end up back close to where I would fall to sleep. I had been meaning to stop at some place I’d passed on St-Laurent earlier, when I’d been dragging my bags up it, have a couple of beers and then go up to bed. But a couple blocks short of the Main, still on Duluth, I saw a second-floor-bar up inside on the building across the street. I stopped—because I was my first night in Montreal, so why pass by a fleeting inspiration? It won’t be this second ever again. So, across Duluth and up the stairs I went. Unlike the jazz place, there was still room. I got a seat at the bar, next to someone going over the draft of a story in French while sipping a wine. I got out the white sheets of my own draft, ordered a beer and set to get a head start on that project.

Got to the third page of what I’d brought to work on, while I was there. More than I expected to get done that first night, which was nothing. It got harder to work on it after I was done my second drink, but I was still more than satisfied. I sent my friend Matvey, who lives nearby in Vermont, a picture of the bar out of happiness, because we used to go to places like this. 

Hey! Turns out Bar Suzanne (that’s the name of the place) is also Matvey’s latest favourite spot in town. Small world. He was quite happy when I sent him the picture, and he recommended I try the dumplings. I had already eaten, but what the hey, I’m in Montreal, so I tried them. They were good. 

All this sounds silly and superficial, I know. but these things are draped in the emotions of a past. You have no idea what Montreal in general is draped in, for me. Everything in this city, down to the dust motes, is draped in all that for me. So I get a lot out of it past that layer I can put into words in a space like this.

I took his advice there and on where to go next—Big in Japan Bar, which is directly underneath where I’m staying—when I wasn’t even planning to go anywhere. This ended up shaping the entire night.

Big in Japan Bar looms large in memory. Nothing here is important but memory. I only when there once then, back in the Montreal phase of my life, but it does loom large. It’s important, is what I mean. Matvey showed it to me, that first and only time. How well do I remember it? I think he brought me there early one evening after we’d been on a long walk. The place would’ve had to have just opened that day. Matvey said you’d have to be early to avoid waiting in line outside. I listen to Charles Aznavour as I write this and something is thereby infused in it. La Boheme, if it matters, it is late and I am drunk. 

Excuse the quality of this entry, because I wrote it drunk—even though I’m fixing it two days later, that is the context I found it in.

There wasn’t any line when I waltzed in this time: that might’ve been luck or it might’ve just been the eight years in between. That time, we sat down in the same seats I took this time. Or, roughly—but let me have the synchronicity. 

Why is memory already so fragmentary? I want to remember details, but I have nothing I can call a narrative. I have flashes. I have snapshots. 

But tonight: I order a champagne and the plate of artisanal chocolates, per Matvey’s recommendation, because he steers one in a good direction if you can handle the price tag. I finish that, get an impulsive martini, because the ingredient list is so odd (it has sake in it). It, unfortunately, just tastes like a martini. Something exotic on the nose, but still a martini. I would’ve left after that, except, as I was finishing it, the woman seated just across from me asked me what it was I was so intensely focused on. 

I had had my nose in my notebook. Over the two drinks, I’d written a couple of little poems and the first notes of what became this entry you’re now reading. I tell her that. And we end up talking. 

Justin and Diane: they were my company for the rest of the night. Sitting across from me, the two people other side of the flickering candlelight. The room fades to darkness as it passes behind them. I really had noticed them before—Justin was having beer, and seeing him have that made me aware of how much money I was spending on champagne and cocktails—but it hadn’t occurred to me that I might interact with them. I’m used to being an atom; it doesn’t occur to me that I’ll occur with anyone. 

We all—the two other people nearby, over my right shoulder, eventually get roped in—start talking. The conversation is good. Since it’s clear I’m staying for longer now, I order a Manhattan, the other retro-classy choice, the sound of Otis Redding and an electric organ. Diane goes to Vancouver often, and likes the food there, and we talk about sushi on Robson St to the sound of Charles Aznavour—that is why he’s still in my life as I copy this out. She asks for recommendations and I give her some, off the top of my head. Because it is identical to the one she’s drinking from and because I’m distracting her, she picks up the candle’s glass and burns her hand. She flexes her hand against the heat in it and reaches for the glass with the other kind of flame, the one she can drink. 

Justin hands me a two-panel dubble-dubble comic that has been ripped in two. He says the bartender gave it to him, and he asks me to explain it to him. It’s “Pud.” I remember “Pud.” Let’s see if I can remember the comic: first panel has our Pud filling a bubble bath, and he says he wants more bubbles. The next panel shows the outside of a house and bubbles are pouring out all the doors and windows. I had the two halves back to Justin and explain the joke is that he fills the bath too much and it consumes the whole house. It’s not really much of a joke, but I don’t say that. Diana suggests that it’s a pun on the name of the gum: double bubbles.

Haha. Ahaha ha. Ha. It’s a better joke than the comic could’ve come up with. 

The music in that place is very good. Half of any place like that is the music. While I’m taking a moment of silence listening to that, the other two I mentioned are roped in properly. Zach and Brian. They ask for a poem, I wrote one. Here it is:

Brian and Zach

Eavesdropping

Got roped into the night

And we introduced each other

Humanity accumulates this way,

It forms clumps of event

And grows like that

And the night endures as an imprint

In ink of itself

And reclines in immortality there

Like the chipped and fading youth

Who live on the side of an excavated urn. 

There it is, with very minor edits. Forgive me if it isn’t any good, I was several more drinks in by this point. 

Everything past that point is going to be in flashes and fragments. It’s already a memory to me now, see, and I only have these notes in front of me to work with to build the narrative of it back up. You never do realize how fleeting a present moment is while it’s still the present, but it does hit you over the head when you’re trying to copy it all out in black and white like you were still there.

I asked Justin what it was like being a lawyer: he said that sometimes you feel like you’re fighting for something meaningful, fighting the good fight as they say, and that is the part that makes it worth it, and things click then; the other half of the time it feels like fighting for nothing. Like everything in the world, those two halves. I know those halves too. I tell him so. 

The night is vanishing into smoke, like the day Charles G.D. Roberts wrote about that one old poem I forget the name of that I read that McGill once. Night is the day here. The whole world is smoke except for what we put into words and maybe even that. (See how drunk I am, scribbling this down? Or was—it’s really two days later, I’m recalling the smoke as best I can—but don’t think about that.) 

What do you see when you blink?

This is a blink. All this is inside a blink. Tomorrow this will have been a blink, but look at all the population in it. 

Diana asks for my impression of the two of them. I am on the spot, but I tell them. I am unusually honest, blame the drink, but I have nothing bad to say. I like Justin and Diane. I’ll keep my exact words between the three of us, because it was for them and not for all of you--but I said, more or less, that I thought they were honest and human. 

Excuse me, for I am drunk.

The place is emptying out around us, and we’re still here. Never let anyone tell you that isn’t a good feeling, having the bar empty out around you as your night endures: we’re going to get to see if we outlive the candles.

The chanson continues; therefore life continues.

(There is an absurd amount of ice in the urinals here. They’re like American glasses of coca-cola.)

We all settle up, and our bills all come to the exact same amount. The bartender gets roped into conversation too, at this last moment. I think I may have given him one of my cards. He writes his name down on a napkin, as I put my coat on, because he’s the last person there whose name I don’t know. “Majd”—it means ‘Glory,’ he tells me. The three of us who’ve just paid up blow out the candles in front of us. I pick up the glass around the dead flame, hold it like something is in there. 

Then we file out into the street. A man stumbles over from across the street, stares at us like he’s never seen people before. I give him a nod. Say goodnight to Justin and Diane, walk two doors over to the building I’m staying in—so much for an early night. 

[countlessrealities]

🍀🍀🍀

Time For Some Positivity || Accepting !

send 🍀 and i'll recommend an oc rp blog

Alright, here some more!

@dynamoprotocol

There's so much to say about Locke and Clarissa, I don't even know where to start from x'D They are both delightful, and I'm really, really glad that he decided to follow my silly blog, because our interactions have been amazing and I had a great time also discussing dynamics and talking to him! As for Clarissa, she is such a real character. She is strong, flawed, still wounded, but also fighting hard to pick up the pieces of her life and put it back together. The backstory her mun came up with is very captivating and Locke puts a lot of attention into making sure that all Clarissa's issues and mental problems find their roots in something that happened in her past. I'm also really looking forward to the "Good ending verse", where Clarissa not only manages to gain back control on her life (as much as possible), but also gets the chance (yes, little pun x3) to properly discover herself...or well, himself. Writing a character's transition can be easy, considering what a complex matter it is, but I'm positive that Locke will do an awesome job (also for obvious reasons) and he's gonna dish us yet another fascinating arc!

@moonspower

I've probably said this already, but what gets to me every time about Virote's character is how he can be at the same time very down-to-earth and above everything and everyone x'D It's an attitude that provokes both admiration and irritation, which is a rare combination, if you ask me. But that's testament to how much Diren has worked to create and make their character grow! Of course, that's just the superficial layer, and underneath there's a whole universe to explore. I really respect and appreciate all the work Diren has put in building Vi's psychology, giving it very solid foundations that still have consequences despite all the work and the therapy he has gone through during his 20s. It really makes him feel more real. Also, I'm always stunned by the amount of details make up Virote's character. I'm a real person (or well, that's what I've been led to believe) and I don't have so many detailed tastes and specific stuff I like. Gotta admit it, it's a little intimidating xD But he's a wonderful character to interact with, so strongly recommended!

@vortship

I've started to interact with Mega, but I'm already loving her and her muse! It shows how passionate she is about Hal and Hal herself is really fun! Her character is very well fleshed out and the lore Mega has built for both her backstory and her universe in general is always interesting to read. I like how she can convey with her muse, her writing and, in general, her vibe the atmosphere of the show. I'm hoping to stick around and see more and more of Hal, because these first impressions / interactions have been really great!!