#cryptologist

[postcards-and-postcrossing]

Sunday Stamps: Women

…is the theme for today’s Sunday Stamps Switzerland – 2022 Aargau is one of the most northerly cantons of Switzerland. It is situated by the lower course of the Aare River, which is why the canton is called Aar-gau. Wohltuend means pleasant, refreshing in German.Aargau presents itself as a spa canton on its special postage stampFour muses for the four thermal baths in Baden, Rheinfelden,…

[bat-yellow-eyes]

i just found a blog from one of the devs of disco elysium (I don't know from where tho). It contains some designs of Harry, evrart, roy from the pawshop and so on. It also has a link to gameplay from the alpha (maybe on the same channel you can find more, I haven't dug in). And I want to mention Kim was supposed to have volition and endurance stats (you can see them above his portrait) and Cuno and C weren't by the tree yet.

In the dev blog there is also link to an interview with Rovert Kurvitz (without any spoiler). They mention the authority failure with Acele (one of my favourite honestly), and they talk about influences and give a general idea of the concept and ambiance but also the gameplay.

There is also a lot of text explaining the system of checks and the skills which I find very entertaining to read.

I wanted to highlight that at some point in development Lena was actually going to be a party member (but the wheelchair had a lot of problems in the map, and they wanted to center a lot on interactive dialogue which was expensive with only one party member).

And lastly, this amazing image of the blog

Some people surely know about all of this but I find it so cool to see the snippets of the game while it's still in development.

[dirtyriver]

Cryptology is a new zine from TwoMorrows, celebrating horror comics, movies,... edited by From the Tomb's Peter Normanton.

The first issue is sollicited in June 2024's Previews for an August release, but the covers of the first four issues of the quarterly mag—its whole first year—have already been released!

And here's a closer look at its host, the Cryptologist:

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Enclave Cryptologist by Igor Kieryluk

[scgarhigh]

" oh great, it's you again. just when i think i'm finally going to know peace, the universe throws it's biggest asshole my way. "

[qmorningcrew]

qsmp museum au

[psqqa]

my alarm just woke me up from this absolutely wild dream in which a deeply chaotic professor……not so much “tricked” as “concealed with purpose” us into watching human centipede in order to get us to grasp some incredibly complicated (read convoluted now that i am awake) cognitive concept involving being unable to decipher unknown scientific reports without accepting certain premises of their argument or fucking something. “the audience is fixated on the ghost (of the argument)” is something prof. chaos scrawled across the board before erasing it two seconds later.

anyway “the film’s structure builds an argument that requires us to see the climactic scene as a moment of euphoria, but it’s still framed as a horror film because the writers understood that the notion was so anathema that visceral horror would be the only possible audience reaction” is a real sentence i uttered in this dream that i very sincerely doubt bears any resemblance to the actual plot of human centipede.

[thecheesywritingcabin]

A Pre-2024 Update

Hi. Long time no post. How’s everyone doing? Surviving what’s left of 2023? I hope so.

Anyway, before 2024 starts, I thought I’d break down 1) where I’ve been and 2) what I’ve been up to. This update is now 3 months overdue after all.

What’s Been Going On

So, the last time I posted an update was April. I was firmly in “Act 2/3 territory” back then, so where does that leave me? Don’t worry, I won’t drag out the reveal.

As of September 27th, draft 3 of The Case of the Crawling Shadows is done. We all have read over the book, and are at a point where we're ready to share it with people.

I can't overstate how happy I am about it - we've been working at this thing since April 2022, and we're finally here. We can start talking about publishing this thing. I CAN SHOW PEOPLE THE BOOK.

Back in September, I intended to do a post about it. There's a draft announcement saved on my computer somewhere for that purpose.

I remember reaching the end of the book, and then scrolling back to the top as I usually do. I didn't find any outstanding comments, or weird spelling/grammar, or even a sentence I thought looked funky. As I read through, searching for weak points, none materialised. I was happy with the book.

It was the weirdest feeling, almost melancholy. For those of you who don't know, I've never finished a novel before. Starting them isn't a problem, but I tend to keep going and just...abandon them. This was a first. I enjoy writing, and it was a bit sad to not be writing this story that consumed a large portion of my life any more.

So, I told the others I was done with my side of the edit, stepped away for a bit, and then threw myself into some writing exercises to feed the itch. The others finished their edits and read-throughs not long after.

From here, the plan is simple. The three of us are sending it to some beta readers (ie: close friends to double check things) on Tuesday. After that I’d like to send it out for a sensitivity read, do tweaks according to both sets of feedback, then…yeah. We’re good.

The plan at this point is self-publishing so @fioriisketches and @lazyninjartist have the freedom to design the inside and outside of the book. I'm hype to see what we can do with the layout.

What Else Has Been Going On

So, it's been 3 months, and there's been a bit going on between now and September. First and foremost, I started drafting pieces of book 2 (yes, we want to do another book) and doing character studies in November. I'm probably going to pick up a 4thewords subscription next year after how much fun I had during NaNo 2023.

December I took a break from writing a bit to compensate for how much I was doing in November. The plan is to ease back into it Janurary/February - then again, my plans have failed before.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to what 2024 brings - I'll hopefully see you all there. For now, I'm going to leave you with one of my favourite parts of The Case of the Crawling Shadow. @lazyninjartist handled the opening section during draft 1, then @fioriisketches and I came in to embelish and adjust dialogue. It's one of the chapters that's changed the least since we started, I think.

[lordofthestrix]

“And also, taking in consideration the brush stroke. I mean- I haven’t seen any similar style of handwriting like this in the early 1900s, but I have in medieval- ”This was unique. It was puzzle within a riddle and if she wanted to believe in her gut then maybe a cipher in it as well mixed with symbolism. Who was this person? Why did they code their thoughts so fully? Reflections and intuitions of one Liesel Ivanov concerning Tristan's writing.

@noblehcart

[slowd1ving]

KILLER ・゜゜MOZE NSFW

"All you are to me is a bleak obsession I am the mark intent on burning the street How many times can I ask you? How many days can I go without you?" Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs, even if the pair in question is a homicidal crow and a brokenhearted cryptologist. art by @ ma_mori74 on x!!! moze can we honestly e date? you’re so beautiful. You always make me laugh, you always make me smile. You literally make me want to become a better person I really enjoy every moment we spend together. My time has no value unless its spent with you. I tell everyone of my irls how awesome you are. Thank you for being you. (joke) (not really) this was kinda rushed so :3 errr consider this like part 3 of tales of a disgruntled corvid pairing: moze + male reader warnings: nsfw, male reader, mentions of blood/death/violence, alcohol consumption, jealousy wc: 4.5k  

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs. 

Fortune. It is a humorous concept for Moze: tasting of a fleeting childhood dream and the dregs of hope. Fortune, as some know it, comes in all forms. From gilt wealth and corruption, to finding a strale dropped on the street and getting to bed on time—everyone, it seems, tastes good fortune somewhere along their paltry lives. 

Moze’s good luck surmounts to meagre things: not getting blood beneath his nails after a mission; evading the prying eyes of the Yaoqing as he slinks into the shadows; working by himself; and most of all, not running into you. Good luck equals a tidy house and leftovers in his fridge. Good luck equals not needing to stock up on the tools of his trade and knives that don’t need sharpening. Good luck equals a fresh steamed bun and a slow day perched on the roof of a building. 

The point must be made. Moze does not experience auspicious encounters often. 

Conversely, those afflicted by confirmation bias might say misfortune comes in threes. Misfortune, for Moze, is significantly easier to quantify—but to stratify it into threes grossly underestimates the cesspit of chance he’s been allotted. 

One: being outside currently at Jiaoqiu’s food stall while rain drizzles down on him. It could be argued it’s only by his own volition that he’s slurping on steaming chilli-infused noodles as petrichor stains the air, yet that stupid fox decided this was the way to go in terms of conveying intelligence from Feixiao. This was the hell crafted by Jiaoqiu’s hands seeped green with pungent herbs. 

Two: getting his apartment lease renewal rejected a week ago over a development project at his block. Though he had been planning on starting afresh—never one to stay in the same area for too long, just like the rest of the Shadow Guards—he quite liked the nondescript studio. It’s a tidy place: plain and unassuming. What a pity. He’s read the message from his landlord over and over: growing a tad bit more incensed each time. 

Three: the sudden absence of suitable apartments in the districts that he sticks to. None of the flats he browsed were innocuous enough, and the ones that were perfect for his schedule and profession were in dismal condition. 

Four: you purchasing a flat a month ago which perfectly fulfilled his conditions. Two-bedroom, in the lower districts of the Yaoqing, with reclusive neighbours and a walking distance of the Seat of Divine Foresight. Had he gotten the notice for his lease rejection earlier, it might’ve been him there. 

Five: upon asking about his dilemma, Feixiao’s eyes gleaming bright. This was the indicator for certain disaster—an omen as ill as he ever saw. And unfortunately, her gaze next fell on the scripts you were working on, before flickering back up to you. Shit. That was the only thought running through his mind, before she pitched her idea to have him simply move in with you. Say no, he pleaded mentally, but alas—

“Sure,” you mutter, red ink spilling from your pen onto the parchment. Bold characters sign the form off and the letter is folded neatly onto a cycrane absent-mindedly; before you finally look up at the assassin who flinches as your eyes land on his. “S’long as he pays rent.”

Six: you agreeing to this stupid deal. Why? Why? It can’t possibly be the deep veneration for the Arbiter General. Surely your adoration of her cannot be deep enough to let this guy room in your house—an assassin, at that. You aren’t a follower of Qlipoth, but where the hell is your sense of preservation?

Seven: him not actually finding any fault in the building. Not in the surroundings, nor the modest room across from yours, nor the lazy grin on your face as you showed him around the apartment—still expecting him to vehemently shake his head. 

He signed the damned contract, and that was that.

“What’s got you sighing?” Jiaoqiu eyes him from where he’s pulling noodles: sleeves rolled back to avoid dusting the salmon hues with flour. Fragrant red wafts from the pot on the stove, and he’s suddenly reminded of the crimson shirt you wore just this morning—rippling around the taut lines of sinew and muscle as you worked diligently on decrypting ancient alchemical texts. “I thought you found yourself a place to stay, so why the long face?”

Moze keeps his silence. Well, tries to—but it’s not like a singular word will make him any less laconic. Tapping his chopsticks against the rim of the blue-toned porcelain, he evades the question and focuses right on the middle of Jiaoqiu’s sentence. “Somehow.” 

“Right! Your dearest partner—” Jiaoqiu drags the word out, characters stretched tight until they wind right against Moze’s eardrums. He glares: visibly annoyed, yet this only makes the man in his peripherals close his own eyes in satisfaction. “—took pity on you, didn’t he?”

“Maybe.” The assassin slams down the rest of the piquant broth: lips dripping with sanguine. His response is a question in itself—because why the hell did you agree to Feixiao’s request?

“Curious?” Of course he’s curious. 

“It’s not much of a surprise, really,” the foxian sighs, twisting the strands into a neat circle and letting it drop into the boiling water. “Poor thing’s probably still in shock from his breakup. I think he would’ve agreed to pretty much anything coming out of Feixiao’s mouth at that point.”

The man can only stare incredulously. Every part of that sentence is laden with a bombshell. 

“Wow, I thought you would’ve known. Guess what’s said at Qiu’er’s stays there too.” Jiaoqiu’s golden eyes gleam slightly at the mention of the downtown bar. No, Moze didn’t know. No, Moze isn’t currently outright staring at the man no longer in his peripherals. No, Moze cannot hear his chopsticks creaking beneath his grasp. “Woah, don’t break those.”

The fox eyes the crow warily. “Seriously. Cool it.”

Eight: you’re still not over your boyfriend cheating on you. In the drizzle beneath the canopy, this is how your new roommate diligently listens to how his work partner and resident cryptologist really can’t catch a break from bad men. 

“That includes you, you know,” Jiaoqiu squints at an unusually contemplative Moze. Flickering amber lights and the buzz of cicadas makes the assassin seem even more shady than usual. “You don’t have a chance, so don’t even try.”

“The hell are you talking about?” For someone like Moze, his piece of good fortune is that his voice remains steady in almost any sort of situation. This means that anyone hearing this man speak right now would naturally presume he’s affronted at Jiaoqiu’s response out of its complete implausibility. But on the flip side, those who’ve known Moze longer have learnt to watch for other irritated tells of his rather than a wavering voice. The subconscious flex of long fingers. Minute shifts in the elbows propped up on the bar. Biting the inside of his lip, just enough that it’s unnoticeable. But these aren’t things the assassin really takes stock of. 

For a brief moment, Jiaoqiu’s friendly smile drops and he peers at the man askance. Is he brain dead? “...Okay.”

And that is how the tall man—hunched over in the downpour to not let his noodles get too cold—first learns of matters of a more personal note of yours. In the rare grey skies that cast over the Yaoqing, it’s a chance to digest this information he’s learnt. 

But he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. 

・゜゜

A painful month passes for Moze. 

There’s nothing else to describe it—psychological torment is the only fitting description of your behaviour. Outwardly, nothing changes. He still hates you, and you still hate him—two arguing peas in a pod with a mutual dislike being the only thing in common between the two of you. Outwardly, behaviour-wise, nothing changes. Outwardly, appearance-wise, something does. 

He first notices it about three weeks after that waterlogged conversation with Jiaoqiu. There’s a faint aroma of sweet-smelling smoke on you—a long cigarette holder between your fingers as you read a thick book on the couch. He’s never seen the thing before in all your months together. Sure, the Yaoqing tobacco scent fades quickly away to not linger  in the case of a borisin’s especially sharp senses—but he’s never seen that sort of heavy-lidded expression on you before. When you glance at him, it’s usually irritatedly—not like this, where your glance is hazy and your lips are parted to blow plumes from your mouth. 

Shit. He doesn’t quite know why his heart speeds up. 

The second thing he notices is that every week or so, there’s a clinging perfume to your body: never your usual clean scent, one that clearly belongs to a different person. This is the same time he starts noticing you slipping on shirts with longer necks on missions—a darker imprint just about peeking above the material. 

He’s not an idiot. He can put two and two together. 

The third instance of misfortune is your habit of wandering around after a shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around your waist conservatively. Sure, the area from your hips to your knees is covered—but what about the rest? He finds himself growing more irritable during work hours. Marks not caused by injuries still bruise your skin; as you turn your back in the kitchen to make yourself a mug of tea, his eyes rove the dips and valleys of your back. Categorising each wound. Systematically detailing each little infringement on your skin. 

He doesn’t particularly know why. Maybe his obsession with tidiness crosses over to people too. 

・゜゜

It happens like this. Occasionally, a man as ill-fortuned as Moze receives gets a break. 

There’s a tumbler of whiskey on the low coffee table in the living room. Polished chestnut—if you had to describe it—with the light shining through the amber liquid just so, until it reflects onto the varnished surface. A cube of ice sits dainty in the middle, clinking as you tip the glass this way and that. 

“Don’t spill it,” the assassin murmurs. From behind the couch, breath ghosting just past your ear. You don’t shriek (perhaps he hoped you would)—you don’t even glance his way. 

“I feel like that was a redundant warning,” you remark brusquely, taking a swill of the liquor. It’s sweeter than it would’ve been normally: courtesy of the saccharine pipe nestled betwixt your fingers and the smoke still lingering in your mouth. “Were you hoping I’d jump?”

“Yes.” Short. To the point. Laconic. That’s how those outside this home would describe the man currently leaning down, hands splayed on the backrest of the couch. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, and you still haven’t done the dishes.”

“It’s your turn,” he adds, because he likes seeing how this man’s expression wrinkles in exasperation, likes that stupid cant of your head—for it means Moze has won this little encounter. It’s all because he strongly dislikes his roommate, no other reason. 

“You suck.” Syrupy plumes ghost his face as you exhale into his face above—he doesn’t move back, even as the traces of burnt caramel become far more prominent, even as it feels like you’re blowing him a kiss more than anything.

“And you need to clean and go to sleep before you’re late,” he grits out, more annoyed than he was a moment ago. He’d say it was due to your lack of responsibility, but this angle allows the loose robe to expose your bitten collarbone—like some stupid fucking trophy. “Like you always are.”

“I’m never late, A-ze,” you enunciate each word in such a way that makes it clear you’re not drunk—so clearly the nickname is just to piss him off. A last-ditch middle finger; a threat that hasn’t worked for some time, one that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably but not enough to admit defeat. “You’re just up stupid early.”

He goes silent, in the way he does when you’re right. Instead of saying anything, he instead plucks the glass from your hand: downing the smooth alcohol from where you drank it, enjoying how for once your mouth closes just like his. The pipe in your hand tilts this way and that as you take a drag thoughtfully—recovering far too quickly for his liking. 

“A-ze.” Like this, with wisps exiting your mouth and silk draped over you, you look good enough to eat. He freezes at the implication of his thoughts, freezes at the sound of the name blanketed in some gruesome replica of affection. He hates it; hates how his heart squeezes and a faint flush of red dusts his cheekbones. Aeons. 

It is common knowledge to not toss a starving dog a bone before it hungers for more. 

“What, you don’t hate it anymore? Here I was, hoping you’d turn tail and leave,” you sigh, theatrically despondent—much like you normally are. Too damn dramatic for your own good. 

So desperate, drinking your sorrows away as if that’ll possibly work. He scoffs, striding the short distance over so he can tower over from the front. 

“Maybe you just like calling me that,” he breathes. There’s a smile playing on his lips: the rare one he gets when he knows he’s got a point, knows when he’s right. It’s unconscious—he’s far too oblivious to notice it only occurs around you. 

“I do,” you murmur. “Bet it warms your heart though. No one likes you enough to call you that.”

“So you like me?” There’s an odd buzz in his veins tonight. As the orange lights from the street blink into existence, and the room is no longer illuminated by ‘day’, he’s glad for the darkness that conceals the heat in his face. Your clothing rustles as you stand—practically nose to nose with the man in front of you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze,” you mutter, and the heated breath from your lips fans over his sensitive skin—mingling with the tobacco wisps and alcohol vapour. He swallows. “It’s pity.”

“Pity?” he sneers. “Like how you sleep around to get over your boyfriend? That’s not pitiful?”

“Like I said—” your tone becomes frigid as you shift closer: until his chest brushes up against yours, until he can count every lash that glows amber in the incandescent street lamps, until he can practically taste the rolling fury off your tongue. Warm. Scalding heat ebbs from your body and flows right into his own. “—don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze.”

His breath comes in ragged waves. So close. When he stands so near to a human, it typically means he’s feeling life flow from them. Not like this; but he cannot bring himself to get away. 

He’s never been more thankful for his unwavering voice. 

“Don’t give bones to starving dogs,” he murmurs, mellifluous rather than jarringly annoying. “They’ll bite.”

Smoke wafts into his face as you survey his expression: flushed, brows knitted taut, lips still slick with liquor. 

“So you’re a dog, now?” Your fingers graze his chin, canting his head this way and that as he makes no moves to evade your grasp: heart beating miserably in his chest. There’s a strange sort of hunger in your gaze. 

He’s never seen it before. 

“No, it was proverbial—” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “—you know?”

“Just as desperate as one,” you mutter. Trailing your finger down until they graze his collarbones, it’s no wonder he flinches—and you stare at him, unimpressed. “If I tell people about this, your reputation would immediately disintegrate. How many years have you cultivated that stupid mysterious image?”

“Hah—who would believe you?” It’s true, not many people would—but alas, the important ones have already witnessed this man looking at you. 

“Jiaoqiu, but I guess he already knows what a loser you are.” And you miss how when he lowers his head, he looks like a completely different person—flushed visage mired in shadow, like the assassin he truly is. He’s staring right at you, unblinking as he watches the cruel movement of your lips. 

“Don’t talk about him right now.”

And so, you don’t. 

・゜゜

This is the prelude leading up to this particularly humiliating scene. 

Humiliating, because propping himself up on his elbows on your bed isn’t a position he thought he’d ever find himself in. Humiliating, because he never gets drunk, so why the hell is his head spinning? Humiliating, because for once the mellow deep of his voice is pitched a note higher—larynx taut with suppressed groans. Unsteady, in a way his voice has never been. 

You taste like the pipe still tipping in your fingers: candy-sweet and saccharic. But there’s also the heavy aroma of liquor on your breath, mingling bittersweet with the plumes of smoke wafting from your fingers. Beneath that, blood from a scrape on your lip—acrid and metallic. That is what he knows, so your lips moving gently against his feels so utterly foreign: and not just in the way they taste. 

When you pull back for air, his eyes are blown wide in surprise; his mouth has only ever been used to bite, after all. You seem to instinctively know this as you take a long drag from the stick, blowing the curls of vapour into his mouth when you pull back in: to induce a slight tingle into him presumably (but Lan knows he doesn’t need aid to feel that buzz). 

Languorous. That’s how he’d describe it—for it seems you only ever work lazily. There’s no hurry as you lick past the seam of his lips. There’s no hurry as both your scalding mouth and your arid fingertips trail downwards, past the vales of his tense abdomen. There’s no hurry—but Aeons he wishes there was, for your hand slipping under his shirt and against his stiffened nipples are much too damn slow. 

“Do you—do you even know what you’re doing?” he mocks, like he isn’t currently jolting as you roll the pink flesh between searing fingers. You raise a brow: lucid against the otherwise irritated thoughts. 

“Do I?” you copy his broken whine, gripping the fat of his tits coarsely while the rise and fall of his chest becomes ever so slightly more shallow. If only he could see himself right now: jarred at every turn, pupils blown out, and the residual sheen on his lips. Every damn hue of purple littering his neck and collarbone. And if only you could see better in this darkness—spot that obsessive fervour in his gaze, one neither of you are quite aware of. 

“Do you have any experiences to compare it to?” you counter, twisting your hand while he glares at you heatedly. Nothing. Quiet as a corpse when you make an irrefutable point. 

No, that’s right, you grin sardonically as you slip the long cigarette back into its place on your nightstand. Syrup drips from your mouth as you twine your free hand in his hair, tugging until he groans into your lips with his own in that mellifluous cadence. 

You’re harsh as winter. 

No, cruel.

Cruel, as you trail your hand from his chest to his waistband—palming him roughly through his pants. Cruel, as you pinion his hips against your bed to prevent them from bucking into your hand—fingers digging desperately against your sheets as you grind against him. Cruel, as you swallow each whine with your warm mouth: so sweet, so gentle even as you wrench your hand into sinew, flesh and everything beyond. He can taste the arid heartbeat through your mouth, and he’s sure you can feel his own—pulsing hotly as he yields his worries to you, just for a moment. 

Or two. 

He’s inexperienced, but even he knows what the tension in his abdomen signifies. The distinct tremors in his legs, the pain as he digs his nails into your thigh, the tightness coiling his body into rigidity. Puppet-like beneath your machinations: manipulated this way and that way with strings unseen. 

Fucking his hand has never felt like this. 

As he writhes, he greedily swallows you whole. Taking everything, including your bloodied lips, including the faint caramel tracing your tongue, including the strangled gasp as he grasps your nape with burning urgency. Aeons. He’s breathless; judged human lust far too soon. Against your brutal palm, the fabric of his trousers is slick with his release—wet patch a testament to his sin. 

Yet still you rock against him as he rides out the mind-numbing pleasure: limbs infinitely heavier from the tension suddenly all releasing. 

But he forgets how cruel you are. 

One final sweet kiss later—nails raking past his scalp and the other hand warmly pressed against his cheek—and you pull away with a lazy smile. 

“Go to sleep.” The directive jolts him awake, like a bucket of ice-cold water breaking apart a dream. Dissolved like candy, like the damn fluid in Penacony connecting the conscious and unconscious. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, remember?”

Like the cat that got the cream, you smile Cheshire-bright. A fucking riddle on your lips. “And I still have to do the dishes, remember?”

He’s left stupefied: numb lips, a reeling head, and an impercipient body. Once more, the shower he douses himself in is frigid—but nothing could be as cold as what just occurred. 

What the hell? 

He presses his palm to the lower half of his face in shock. 

What the hell?

Seriously, there’s something wrong with you. And as he glances down, he realises with utmost horror that his problem has not yet died down yet. 

What the hell?

Important things must be said thrice. Duplicitous in nature, Moze’s fate both turns for the worse and better simultaneously. 

The bone has been tossed. What will the starving dog do?

・゜゜

All actions have consequences. 

That is a proverb universally recognised by all walks of life: trodden on by kings, revered by alchemists, and vowed by the weak. You reap what you sow. What goes around comes around. Equivalent exchange. 

The natural outcome from that night is mutual silence. You don’t speak of that evening, and neither does he—face flush with implication, yet unwilling to actually divulge his thoughts on the matter. Sure, he finds himself with his hand attempting to recreate your rough friction (teeth clenched around his shirt as he paws at his lean chest)—but it never quite works, and all of his colleagues are privy to his especially curt mood. 

Joint missions with you are now a thing painful. Tense. 

The strings that bind him to you are taut with the feeling. Constricting, tightening, until he can sense their imminent breakage. 

This leads this unusual pair to this scenario. You, fresh out a shower and post the nth mission of this month. It’s only been three weeks since that night, and watching you meander about the kitchen with only a towel slung low on your hips is giving him heart palpitations. Steam curls from your body; each time you shift, he’s excruciatingly aware of how it appears just like that smoke from that night. 

“A-ze. What do you want?” 

That’s the golden question—what snaps him out of the trance—and makes him realise he’s practically pressed up against you from the back. No, scratch practically. His arms are on either side of the counter, pinning you in position as you continue stirring the fragrant drink. Feeling that damned sear of your skin is driving him into the throes of madness. 

He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and not heeding the rivulets that seep into his clothes. So warm, he wants to murmur—but talking is for those who want to speak, and he does not want to. Not in this moment, where he’s appreciating the soap you used, the lotion spread onto damp skin, the inherent smell of you. 

His teeth graze the vulnerable juncture. You turn, and he can see your eyes waver, feel the rapid thrum of your pulse as you become aware of just how desperate he is. “A-ze.” And your hands roam his waist, tracing the taut muscles betraying his anticipation. 

His lips are heated as he leans into you: a snarling mess. Trembling fingers trace the expanse of your soft body, like you’ll ghost away just like the wisps you smoke. 

“Need you.” It’s not a plea—the rough deep of his voice makes him sound demanding, as arrogant as ever. “Haven’t I behaved?”

He’s so damn desperate as he grasps your body: bruising and fatal. He’s desperate as he kisses you heatedly, desperate while your hands brush past the feverish skin of his stomach, desperate as you push him against the couch—too hasty for the bedroom. Now, he chokes out. Now, now, now. Please. 

Pliant beneath your hands, it’s not exactly the longest time until he’s gasping beneath you. So tight, you may have commented: drunk on the sensation of him fluttering around your probing fingers. Aeons. 

He’s so malleable: arching into you as soon as you line yourself up. It almost makes you feel bad for him: feeling him flinch whenever you brushed past him, watching his face bloom scarlet as he saw the marks on his neck in the hallway mirror. Almost.

It’s because he’s so cute like this: drooling amidst all the broken noises as you slam into him. You’ve never quite seen him this dishevelled, not even during that night. Hungrily, he’s sucking you right in—paying no heed to suppressing the almost-pained moans dribbling past his open lips. 

What a mess. 

Physically, it can only be described as such. White globs decorate his flushed skin messily: pearlescent in the dim lights of the living room. He can’t even begin to count how many times his weeping tip has stiffened, not when you’re so damn insistent that he forgets how to speak properly. It’s not like you’re any better; each time you look down there’s that frothy ring that strings you two together. 

Emotionally, it’s also quite the mayhem. You don’t particularly know where to look when his eyes have that gleam in them—a sort of fervour that one rarely ever sees. Even now—pupils hazed with lust and eyelids lowered heavily—he’s staring right up at you, content as can be whilst you drill mercilessly into him. 

Fuck. 

“Come on, you—ah—can do better than that,” he taunts. As though he doesn’t look completely fucked-out, as though there aren’t tears leaking from his foggy eyes. You’re not sure where he gets his audaciousness from. 

He’s beautiful. 

“This is why no one likes you,” you hiss, sharply tugging his hair back to hear his surprised whines. Supplicantly, he does exactly what you expect. Loser. Aeons, he sucks. 

“Yeah?” he grins. “What does that say about you?”

“That I’m a no one from the Intelligenstia Guild,” you answer against his neck, feeling his throat constrict as he swallows. Though it’s only minutely, his nails dig somewhat deeper into the flesh of your back—marking you up just as much as you’ve marked him. An acknowledgement of your words. 

Well. 

You suppose you’ve always been drawn to the pathetic ones. 

・゜゜

[aflo]

Look at you post you why dog rapper

i have a team of scientists and cryptologists in a war room with huge tv screens and computers analyzing the syllables and word choices and trying to decode this as we speak

[seat-safety-switch]

They say you should follow your dreams, but sometimes your dreams are stupid. Last night, I dreamt that I had invented a number that goes between 36 and 37. A bunch of famous movie stars were giving me an award at like the Sydney Opera House. Total nonsense, right?

Thing is, I woke up and found myself in an unusual Australian hotel. I was so irritated that I didn't even notice the award on my bedside table. After doing my customary woke-up-in-a-strange-hotel routine of putting a bunch of buckets in the shower and running it – free water, I might need that later – I headed down to try and see if this was one of those places that gave you a continental breakfast. On the wrong continent, sure, but still one nevertheless.

"Sir, you did an amazing thing inventing 36.5," claimed the bellhop as he shook my hand. He then stuck his other hand out for a tip for that handshake. I forked over a couple bucks with a picture of a strange Queen on them – not mine, somehow different – and continued on my merry way.

At the breakfast table, I was just about to tuck into one of Sydney's infamous Firstmeal Tacos, when I was rudely interrupted by a boot. That boot was connected to my academic supervisor, and the other end of the boot was my table, which went flying across the hotel's lobby and into a fishtank.

"You're finished, slut." Dr. Chu said, sneering. "A team of cryptologists from Poland just presented a paper about how they think 36.4 exists. They can't prove it yet, but you're done here."

[knitmeapony]

Hey folks! My post about the D&D stamps went nuts when they were first announced in December, so I thought y'all might want to know that they are officially being released at GenCon Indy -- August 1-4, 2024 -- so you should be able to get them at your own post office not long after that, and on USPS.com as well!

Other cool nerdy stamps you can get right now:

Regular letters:

Alex Trebek: https://store.usps.com/store/product/alex-trebek-stamps-S_485304

Carnival Nights: https://store.usps.com/store/product/carnival-nights-stamps-S_485104

Life Magnified: https://store.usps.com/store/product/life-magnified-stamps-S_484004

Women Cryptologists of WWII: https://store.usps.com/store/product/women-cryptologists-of-wwii-stamps-S_482204

Priority mail:

Pillars of Creation: https://store.usps.com/store/product/pillars-of-creation-stamps-S_122804

[maknaasfalti]

It must be so fucking hard to be a scientist in a fictional story, cuz you know that anytime you argue with some crackpot cryptozoologist - you know ,that even tho all the evidence supports you, the fact that the cryptologist was introduced as a character in the first place must be chekhovs gun to his theories being right all along.

And even if nobody witnesses it, you know that the audience still gets a shot of the cryptid as a nudge. Fuck my stupid life.

[4theluvofsapphos]

Butterfingers - ch.1

pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x Futch Mechanic!Reader

a/n: HI FIRST MEL FIC AHFUDJ the worms…the voices…. anyways i don’t usually describe reader since i know that can take away from the experience but a tall buff himbo futch reader x a petite angry italian is just too good 😭 enjoy! i plan for there for be some possible smutty smut in the FARRRR future but this is first and foremost melissa learning how to love again!!-

chapter 2 here

“I didn’t know we had a new vending machine guy! Gregory, we have a new vending machine guy!” Janine looked to Gregory, who in turn nodded and looked up from his laptop.

“I noticed…uh- hi, by the way. That’s Janine, I’m Gregory.”

You looked to the two from your kneeling position by the old vending machine, matching names to faces before clearing your throat to introduce yourself in turn.

“Hi Gregory, Janine…my name I-“

“Who the HELL took my mug?!” A loud voice bellowed from across the room, the doorway now occupied by a stout looking redhead, and an angry one at that.

“…Which mug? Oh..” Gregory immediately blurted out, looking from his to the sink’s counter. “I thought- I figured this was a communal mug, was this- not a communal mug? I’m sorry, I- I’ll just go get a new mug for you Melissa-“

The fiery features of the redhead son softened, her brow knitting together in confusion. “Did ya not read the front? It says ‘Schemmenti’s the best teacher ever’ on the front, see?” The woman marched over to where Gregory stood, spinning the mug around with her one hand and pointing with the other.

“Right, okay. To be fair, I am not enough of a cryptologist to decipher 2nd grader writing. But now that you said it- I…I definitely see it, yeah.”

—————————————————

You stayed kneeled on the floor, Janine blocking your view slightly, and Gregory standing in the way of the redhead’s sightline. She hadn’t yet seen you, and you didn’t know whether to feel grateful or petrified…A mixture of both swirled in the pit of your stomach, growing heavier with each passing moment. Janine then turned to look at you, smiling sheepishly and sidestepping to walk towards the pair.

“Hey so Melissa- Uhm…you left the mug here yesterday, so I cleaned it for you and put it on the rack to dry. I’m sorry if that was what caused all this.” The woman, who’s name you now knew was Melissa, seemed dissatisfied with this explanation.

“Look hon, next time you don’t know, just ask?”

“Sure, yes, of course! You’re right. Sorry Melissa.” The young teacher bowed her head, nodding in agreement and proceeding to stand awkwardly next to Melissa for the next minute or so in silence.

—————————————————

After Gregory had settled back into his seat, the previously controversial mug now emptied into a default ‘employee lounge’ mug. You had continued your work quietly, not looking at the room much to avoid the palpable tension. As a couple more teachers filed in, a young twinkish teacher, and a teacher that seemed around Melissa’s age. She gave you a small smile, introducing herself as Barbara. In return, you told her your name, shaking her hand gently, before asking if she had any requests for the machine.

“Me? Oh, no.” She waved the question off with a dismissive hand,”However, if you want to make some friends, I’d ask the others.” She then gestured to the few that sat a few feet away.

“Gushers. Please.” Janine blurted, grinning. “The other guy used to bring in Gushers, but since Meliss-“ Gregory held up his hand, cutting off his coworker.

”Nah ah ah- not important. You want Gushers- she wants Gushers, please.” Janine nodded excitedly, and you smiled back.

“Uhh, Gushers? Sure! I can probably find something at the warehouse.”

“I got a guy that works at a candy store.” A voice piped up from the table to your right. You looked to see it was Melissa, fork in hand, what looked to be some leftover ‘rigatoni Calabrese’ in her Tupperware.

“Oh! It’s no worries. I remember seeing a few packages on the east wing by the back. I can bring them tomorrow, if I have time.” You reply, standing up to talk properly with the others. Melissa watched you carefully, seeming to hold your gaze with a challenge behind her own. For what, you weren’t sure…But you were feeling the heat from her, and it was making your palms sweat. It wasn’t about the fact that she was glaring you down— it was the way she was doing it that made you nervous. You weren’t a small girl by any means. You were nearly 6’2”, with enough workouts in you to put a bouncer to sleep. The problem was that you knew she didn’t like you.

Melissa glared with contempt. Behind her eyes, the gears were churning up something ugly.

You weren’t the guy she knew, why should she trust you? The last one went horribly wrong, why wouldn’t this one?

Regardless of your social standing with her, you took a few steps towards her, offering your best smile. “Well, do you want anything for the vending machine? I have no problem stocking it.”

You had been working there for a few days at this point, but most of your job consisted of doing maintenance on the vending machines in the cafeteria and halls. But after your employer noted an extra vending machine in a non-documented area, you did some digging and found that the previous technician noted an extra vending machine in the employee lounge…thus— here you were.

Melissa replied by shooting you a pointed look. “No. I’m fine.” After a long pause, she tacked on a little ‘thanks, though’ at the end. You nodded, taking your queue to head back to the machine. As you finished loading the already available inventory, the teachers all began to head back to their classrooms.

—————————————————

When you got up, you expected to see the room empty. You were wrong— Melissa stood behind you, her controversial mug in hand, and an unreadable look on her face. You cracked a little smile, clearing the hair from your face and setting down the empty box you were about to leave with.

“You got Butterfingers?” She asked, raising a brow.

“Oh- I don’t- I’m sorry! Did I drop something?” You looked around the floor, trying to think if you recall dropping any inventory while you were stocking.

“No! I meant the candy, hon.” She sighed, pinching her brow and shaking her head slightly. You felt your face go red with embarrassment at the misunderstanding. She seemed to be amused, but you felt stupid.

“That- that makes a lot more sense. I have Butterfingers, yeah! Would you like me to stock some..?” She thought for a moment, and shook her head.

“It’s— kind of a guilty pleasure. You think ya got any more discreet ways to slip me one or two every now and then?”

You looked to the machine, then back to Melissa, before nodding. “I can do that…no problemo!” You gave her a little thumbs up, picking up your empty box, before heading for the door.

She followed after you, giving you a small smile and nodding. “Maybe you ain’t so bad. Thanks, hon…my name’s Melissa, by the way.” She held the door with her foot, looking up at you when she spoke.

You looked over to her, chuckling lightly. “Pleasure to meet you, Melissa. I’m y/n. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Before you headed down the hall, you looked to her coat. It was a nice leather jacket that you felt matched her tough exterior. “I like your jacket, by the way. It suits you.”

“Yeah? Thanks.” She offered, but the appreciation seemed rehearsed. Something in her eyes faltered, before she turned on her heel and quickly left in the direction of what you presumed to be her classroom.

Melissa Schemmenti was an enigma to you. But you would figure her out eventually. It couldn’t hurt…could it?

[thomasmartinnutt]

Enigma message decrypt. Bletchley Park cryptologists, 1945