#it crumbled under the cutter

[rottmnt-but-on-twitter]

Fun fact: this is based on a real event. I work at at a pizza place and was the one to cook the pizza three times longer then needed.

The smell still haunts me

[pinkiemachine]

I’ve only done some light reading on Selina, but even so, details on her past seem few and far between. Maybe there’s a reason, maybe I just haven’t looked hard enough, whatever. Someone can enlighten me in the comments. What I do know, however, is that she’s eluded to have experienced some form of abuse as a child. Now, this research came on the heels of brushing up on the rest of Batman’s rogues’ gallery and I gotta say, abuse as a backstory comes up a lot. And I’m just sitting here, like, “There are so many unique people in this world with unique traumas and hurts that this feels almost cookie cutter.” Am I wrong? I just wanna be more specific and explore problems more intimately. So… Selina Kyle. What to write for her backstory? I thought a lot about who she is as a character present day—her playful aloofness, her decision to become a cat burglar, breaking rules as if they don’t exist, always on the run, never settling down with anyone long term, stealing nice things for herself—it led me to this backstory: When Selina was a child, she was horribly neglected. Her father was almost never around and her mother was depressed, anxious, under the influence of alcohol quite often, and wished she never had a daughter. Selina found that it was always easier to live as though she were invisible. If she never got caught making a mess or being noisy or causing problems, her mother would never get mad at her, or even a acknowledge her, and neither would her father if he ever showed his face. She never received birthday gifts—or if she did, they were pitiful—and all of her attempts of reaching out via gifts to her mother and father were rejected. She was never loved and grew to believe that the only way she would ever feel cared for is if she just took care of herself and only herself. She was good at being invisible, and so she became good at stealing. She treated herself to nice things whenever she felt like it, and she rarely ever got caught. She never made close friends. She never really fell in love. She built up walls so high that no one could ever break them down… until she met Bruce. Suddenly, here was a guy who could consistently catch her red-handed. Who told her she needed to stop robbing people. Who believed she could be better. Who saw her. And even though she kept double-crossing him, escaping his grasp, and escaping justice, she found that it was a little bit harder to return to crime every time. She had always found him attractive… but the longer they chased each other around Gotham, and the longer he showed that he wasn’t going to ignore her or give up on her, the more that attraction turned into a deep feeling that Selina had never felt before. True love. She was scared of it. She didn’t know what to do with it. It was completely the opposite of everything she had ever known, and she secretly didn’t think she deserved it. After all, she was a criminal. She was a “bad guy.” Someone who stole from others for pleasure and profit. And yet Bruce believed she was a good person deep down. He believed she had the capacity for change. And in time, he would find himself falling in love with her too. By the end of their story, naturally, those walls had come crumbling down and they had each learned how to love again, something they both thought would never happen to them. 💜

[kcrossvine-art]

hi friends! :D y'all voted and fought neck and neck for this SO- heres the first entry into our little cooking journey of J. R. R. Tolkeins fictional food for his fictional little guys he puts in fictional turmoils for our enjoyment and awe!

 Before we get started i wanna say i owe my heart to all the LotR fans who upkeep the wiki, debate the cannon, and create their own versions of the foods mentioned. Both because of my love for people who LOVE (passionate people)(passion about anything) and because my own knowledge of this series is a little dusty. I've never seen the movies but I did read the books growing up. I'll be learning and remembering things from a fairly newbie standpoint, so no worries if you yourself arent familiar with the series! (and if you are familiar, hopefully youll forgive me!)

We will be making Lembas ('waybread') today! If you've made your own version of this please feel free to share it, similarly if you have any ideas for what we make next!

(As always you can find the cooking instructions and full ingredient list under the break-)

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes in to Lembas?” YOU MIGHT ASKWell so the funny thing is we kinda dont know. At least not entirely? The elves are dicks like that. But heres what we'll be using in ours-

Butter

Self-rising flour

Granulated Sugar

Raisins

A small dried fruit of your choosing

Almonds OR Pecans

EGG

Whole Milk

Heavy Cream

And if you would like for dipping-

Blackberry jam

To the extent i understand this is kinda like hardtack from the bri'ish military, but a fantastical version of it that actually tastes really good. Hardtack was a military provision with the texture of a brick that took a long time to spoil and could be easily carried with soldiers. So the texture we're going for is super dense, packed full with nuts and fruits (haha just lik-), but perhaps not that dense. We want something closer to a dog biscuit than actual tack.

I remembered something about corn being mentioned, thankfully the wiki clarified that no actually the british just referred to any grain as corn back in the day. Thank Fuck! Although I would like to try a version of this using masa in the future.

AND, “what does Lembas taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASK

Took a few tries but eventually got it perfectly chewy and dense

The raisins cook-in like little beads of flavortown sweetness

Cant speak for other fruits but for dried apple it softened up nicely, kinda matching the raisins in the end

Im a big pecan slut, pecans fuck on anything especially here. Crumble them on top after you coat the dough with the egg-mixture for some visual appeal

Somewhat flakey outside

The jam was my idea, it was nice but might be too sweet for some tastes

Would pair very well with a kiwi flavored drink

Or mead

I can see why this would a travelling provision. Its both sugary (a good thing when expending energy) and filling (also a good thing when youre travelling) while not being overwhelming with flavor (if youre prone to motion sickness. Horse sickness? Do get motion sickness on horses?)

Its like how if you're going hiking you want a good mix of sugars and salts, to balance your intake of water.

. If you wanna make it like the illustrations or the movie, use a cookie cutter for either triangles or squares . If you don't have a cookie cutter, an apple cutter also works ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ . try to keep the board you'll roll the dough out onto chilled before you use it, it seems better for the texture of the food though i dont entirely know why

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So from beginning to end, it took about an hour and half for the first attempt. Down to about 40 minutes for the second attempt. These are a real simple recipe because its not like a croissant where the margin for error is nonexistent. Middle-earth be damned my boy can work a grill.

I'd recommend storing in a tubberware container, but if you're deadset on using leaves please rinse and dry them first, and wrap the bread in either wax paper or saran wrap underneath. We dont have mallorn leaves in real life (as far as we know) but most salad greens should work, or as Marie Porter says (linked in the reblogs!) a banana leaf.

I really enjoyed the process of making this recipe, itd be really easy to batch-bake these en masse, and the process of eating said recipe. Like all jokes aside, i think this would be a great substitute for trailmix. Its not going to get smushed and even if it breaks a bit it wont affect the taste. It wont keep you fed for a whole day but pair it with some pickles or a salty snack and yeah itll keep your motor running.

I give this recipe a solid 10/10 (with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.) Let me know if you think I got something wrong, or if you ran into issues with the recipe. We're off to a strong start, lads!

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Ingredients:

6 TBSP butter, chilled

2 cups self-rising flour

1 TBSP granulated sugar

½ cup raisins

½ other dried fruit (strawberry slices, oranges, etc.), chopped

Handful of almonds or pecans, chopped

1 egg, well beaten

½ cup whole milk

4 TBSP heavy cream

Method:

Preheat your oven to 400 f.

Cut the butter into slivers/small pieces. With your hands, combine the butter into the flour in a mixing bowl until the mixture resembles coarse sand.

Chop your dried nuts and dried fruit until it feels right.

Mix in the sugar, raisins, nut, and dried fruit of your choosing

In a seperate bowl, beat the egg until combined, and then mix in the milk until combined. Keep a bit of this mixture to brush the tops of the bread.

Stir while adding the egg/milk mixture and the heavy cream into the flour. Mix just until combined into a soft dough.

Knead the dough until firm on a floured surface.

Roll into a half inch thickness and cut with a square or leaf shaped cookie cutter. (...or in my case, an apple corer).

Place on a lightly greased baking sheet, with about an inch of space between each piece. Brush the tops of the lembas with some of the mixture you saved earlier.

Bake for about 15-20 minutes, or until it turns a soft gold and the inside is chewy.

[feyburner]

May I ask what your favorite biscuit recipe is? (I tend to go for Nancy Silverton's, but it's so much work and so much butter that sometimes I long for something else.)

I use my own recipe! Here it is.

BUTTERMILK BISCUITS

MAKES: 8-10 biscuits

INGREDIENTS

2 ½ cups (300g) AP flour

2 Tbsp (yes, Tbsp!) baking powder

1 Tbsp white or brown sugar or honey

1 tsp kosher salt

¾ cup (170g) butter (ideally salted), cold, sliced thin

1 cup (227g) cold buttermilk (1 Tbsp white vinegar + fill to 1 cup line with milk, let curdle 10 min)

optional: 1 Tbsp melted butter + 1 Tbsp honey, to brush over tops before baking

optional: honey butter (4 Tbsp softened butter + 2-4 Tbsp honey to taste; creamed), to serve

DIRECTIONS

1. Preheat oven to 450°. Grease a cast iron skillet, or line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

2. In a large bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt.

3. Work fat into flour: Add the sliced butter. Toss to coat each piece in flour. Use your knuckles and fingers to smash, rub, and smear butter into flour mix until it resembles coarse, moist, crumbly sand, with granola-like crumbles of butter. Some larger flakes are fine. Work quickly: Keep butter cold.

4. Add buttermilk in 3 parts, mixing with a spatula in between, just until large clumps form. You might not need all the buttermilk! Dough will be shaggy and moist but not unworkably sticky. (If too sticky, sprinkle liberally with flour during next step; brush off excess as you go.)

5. Form layers: Turn dough onto a clean, floured surface. With floured hands and a bench scraper, shape into a mass. Do not knead or overwork. Pat or roll out into a slab roughly 1” thick. Fold it in half, then pat back out. Repeat 3-5x to form layers.

6. Cut biscuits: Pat into a 1” thick slab. Use a biscuit cutter to cut 8-10 biscuit rounds, OR shape dough into a 1” thick rectangle (about 6x12”; the goal is 8 x 3x3” square biscuits). Using a large, sharp knife, slice ¼” off the outer edges to expose layers. Slide the edge strips under the dough so they don’t show. Cut the rectangle into 8-10 biscuits of desired size.

7. Arrange biscuits in cast iron skillet or on baking sheet with the sides very lightly touching. Brush tops with honey butter if desired (you can also brush it on after baking).

8. Bake 16-20 minutes until tall and golden brown.

NOTES

- Cast iron vs. baking sheet: Either works. Baking in a cast iron = crispy bottom crust.

- Cutting: The edges must be sliced to expose the layers so they can properly rise—use a biscuit or cookie cutter, not a drinking glass, or just cut square biscuits. If using a biscuit cutter: Do not twist while pressing down—it will smear layers together and inhibit rise.

- Arranging: Biscuits love to lean on each other. Make sure their sides are very lightly touching (not too close; they will expand as they rise) so they can cling to each other and climb higher during the bake.

- Keep dairy cold. If butter starts looking greasy, chill dough in fridge or freezer 15 minutes.

[cloudycleric]

It has been one day, twenty four hours, since Mike woke up & saw that Will was gone. They had been sleeping in an alleyway next to an entrance The Party had found to some of the underground tunnels. Lately the tunnels had been poking into the town, festering there like a virus, making the infrastructure of downtown Hawkins crumble.

The two had been on look-out while they investigated the tunnels, though Will had been a little paranoid about being so close to the military base that had been set up half a mile from their camp. Mike brushed it off as Will being overly concerned, until he woke up & he was missing.

The worst part was Mike knew that Will had been right, even before Will went missing again. Will was always right about everything, which definitely didn’t help Mike’s lingering guilt about his everything in his whole life regarding… he didn’t quite know what exactly. But he did know he had to find him, & save him. & maybe kiss him. (Maybe.) Just kidding. He was just going to save him. & apologize to him, & possibly cry about how he was always right & Mike just never listened & a lot of other pent up things.

But all that didn’t matter as Mike took the fence cutters he had stolen from the crumbling garden store & put them to the metal gate in front of him. It wasn’t a great strategy to get in, but it was a method nonetheless. It brought him closer to Will. His heart was pounding in his ears & his head was throbbing with anxiety, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was Will. Poor, poor Will that Mike had always failed to protect. Always.

First when Will was little & Lonnie was being abusive. Mike was concerned, but didn’t know how to make things better. It didn’t help that Jonathan had said he had everything under control & that he didn’t need any help.

A few years later, after biking home from Mike’s house, Will went missing. Mike had a bad feeling about Will, an anxious pit in his stomach that night, & he watched silently as he saw Will bike off. The next morning, when Will didn’t come to school, Mike cried in the bathroom even before he officially learned Will was missing. The days after were a blur. That’s when El got involved, & it made things one hundred times more complicated, since her quiet & sensitive nature reminded Mike of Will. The fake body happened, the ‘funeral’, the learning about the monster from an unknown dimension terrorizing their town.

Will came back but he was always different after that. It made Mike sad & sick. He knew the old Will was still in there, he just had to find him.

Of course, then Will was possessed. After Mike had the same bad feeling & let Will go off on his own again. Then Mike got together with El after a confusing encounter, & Will changed even more. & then Will moved away.

Now Mike had Will back, back in Hawkins. Even though their hometown was falling apart at the seams, having Will’s presence by him just made Mike feel better—it was something he couldn’t put into words, & he had tried many times to describe that feeling. But he couldn’t.

Just when Mike was feeling better about having Will by his side again, the two working together & reconnecting, Will disappeared after Mike had a bad feeling. &, unlike all the other times, Mike wasn’t going to stand around & do nothing. He was going to save Will all by himself. Because he needed Will. It wasn’t even a thought in his head. He needed to save Will.

Mike cut through the metal of the fence.

[mayasaurusss]

Day ten: baking Halloween cookies.

Guys something came up and I had to write this in under half an hour; despite this I tried to make it as best as I could😭😭

"Lottie, how can you be so bad at this?" your girlfriend looks at you, her hands are covered in cookie dough and on her face is spread flour. "I am not bad at this, I'm just a bit..." the egg floats above the flour and chocolate chips, "...bad".

You had invited Lottie to hang out with you at your house. She told you that she would have liked to make cookies, since she was craving them. The occasion to finally teach her to cook so she would stop asking you to make food for her was presented on a silver platter. So, you took all the ingredients and started to bake. Except that Lottie was terrible at baking. She doesn't measure the quantities, does not check the steps to be done and doesn't mix the batter well.

To summarize, Lottie is utter shit at this.

"You have to- God, you have to mix the egg well in. Do you want us to get salmonella?"

You should cut her some slack, Lottie really does try. She is just really bad at it.

"Ok, let me do it" be gentle with her and she will learn in no time. The next batch she'll do will be somewhat...edible.

After letting it rise, it's time to cut the shapes. You have pumpkins, ghosts, bats and all kinds of cookie cutter shapes. After much trial and error, the cookies come out shaped and not like formless blobs like she did the first time.

It's time to set the oven. "You need to put it at...365 degrees" she nods and sets the oven at that temperature, then she places the tray in and waits.

Thirty five minutes pass before the smell of burnt spreads through the house. "For God's sake Lottie! Did you check the time?!"

She frantically looks at the clock on the wall and notices that she accidentally got distracted and let the necessary time for the cookies pass by ten minutes.

Needless to say that the cookies are completely burnt to a crisp. You can't even bite into them, while others are so burnt that they crumble like sand under your fingers.

Thank God you have the other batch of cookies ready to be cooked, otherwise your stomach would have remained empty.

You and Lottie sit on the kitchen table eating the cookies you have made.

"So...what recipe will we do n-" "No".

[kedreeva]

After Sark requested "biscuits I can make a breakfast sandwich with," I fiddled with the sourdough biscuit recipe until I began consistently getting biscuits that held their cut shape, came apart into halves (or close to halves) easily, and were sturdy enough for a sandwich. These are the small version; I just made a first batch of bigger ones and froze them, but I'm hoping they hold form as well. I had to lower the butter amount because the original recipe called for a stick of butter in 6 biscuits and was causing them to just fry on the bottom, and butter to leak out into the pan.

I'm quite happy! They freeze well and can be baked straight from frozen. They're also delicious with a drizzle of honey, which is how I eat them!

Editing to add the recipe and instructions under a cut, per request!

Frozen Sourdough Biscuit Recipe:

140-150g all purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder (actually a smidge more than 2tsp)

6-8g salt (to taste)

60-113g COLD unsalted butter (to taste)

230g sourdough starter discard

You will need: a mixing bowl, a spatula, a pastry cutter, a 2.25-2.5 inch round biscuit cutter (or bigger if you want bigger, I'm not your mom), a kitchen scale. Flat, clean, surface to freeze biscuits on (I use a piece of cardboard wrapped in tinfoil), and a freezer-safe bag to put them in after freezing. For baking: parchment paper and 2 baking trays, 1 of which can hold water.

If you don't have sourdough starter discard handy, it's basically just flour/water 1:1, so you could PROBABLY make these without it by adding another 115g of flour and 115g water. Don't quote me, I don't know what I'm doing either good luck.

TO MIX:

Add 140g flour, baking powder, and salt to mixing bowl. Stir lightly to combine.

Add butter, and use the pasty cutter to reduce the butter to small crumbles, stirring to powder them with flour.

I recommend starting with 60-65g and seeing how they taste and feel to you. More butter creates a crustier biscuit, and may result in frying along the bottom. Some people prefer this, I don’t. Using 60g will create a light, fluffy biscuit with a light crust and a soft butter flavor.

In a clean jar, pour the amount of starter you intend to feed (I pour 50g off), and then in your mixing bowl, pour in starter discard and combine with spatula until dough is combined but not kneaded. Dough will be sticky. Any leftover starter still in the original jar can be added to the clean jar for feeding or discarded.

Turn dough onto a floured surface. Using both hands, gently press and shape the dough into a ball WITHOUT folding/kneading (I mean you can, but you'll be making a different biscuit), add flour to board until the ball doesn't stick. Once the ball is fairly seamless and the outside is well-coated in flour, press into a 6-8 inch flat circle about 1 inch tall.

Use the biscuit cutter to cut 5 biscuits. After each cut, tip the biscuits on their side and lightly roll them in flour to smooth the edges. Form the last biscuit by putting the remaining dough into the biscuit cutter and shaping it. Roll in flour like the others. If you want, you can just bake them now. Or if you're making them to freeze, place them on your freezing sheet. Place in freezer for 2+ hours. Stack in baggie once frozen.

TO BAKE:

Preheat oven to 425F.

Place 1 tray (i use a brownie pan, deeper sides) w/ water on lower rack to steam. Biscuits may dry out or become crunchy instead of crusty without this!! BAD!! Do not for get the water!! You will be very sad!!

Put parchment paper on the other tray, and space biscuits evenly on it.

Bake for 20-25 minutes (ovens and taste vary). When done, biscuits will be golden brown on top and bottom.

Let cool and enjoy with topping of your choice!

[little-de-vil]

As recompense for me taking forever to respond to @tumblingghosts, I offer you My Ficlet. This is my first time posting about my Silly OC Thoughts, I'm terrified so please be nice!

This takes place during the 73rd Hunger Games, the main characters in this fic are Cassia (Slip Name) "Harlow" (Home Name) Sophro, an 18 year old tribute reaped from District 2 and middle child to Vance (SN) "Hawk"(HN) Sophro, the Victor of the 44th Hunger Games and a historic one as the first of the Cutters, and Dardanius "Dani" Bollard, another 18 year old tribute from 2, but a Volunteer. He's originally from the south, but his family moved up north after a tragedy. He's what's called a Cutter by Blood, someone who still holds onto the Cutter traditions but works (or in this case, his father) as a Keeper. He's trained as a Career, whereas Cassia has been trained by various Victors, those from 2 and not. @thegreatmelodrama let me know if I did your baby Dani justice! She's also a Snow but that's a topic for another day!

Sand continues to trickle into the cave as the storm destroys the supplies at the nearby Cornucopia. What a rarity, for the whole lot of Career tributes to be cornered and beginning to starve. Starving softly, unlike the chronic harshness other district children are so used to. Like the pair from 3, who are tangled together in wires and sparks bleeding out from a corner most camera.

“Why can’t we just destroy each other?” Dardanius asks Harlow softly. 

The question throws her off and she’s been so focused on perfecting the nose of the stone version of her district partner that it takes a moment for his question to register. She is, however, certain that he’s broken his nose more than once.

Who is the “we”? The pair from 1? The lone boy tribute from 4? Certainly not the ones from 3, who no one can really tell why they’re still alive, let alone with the Pack.

Or does he mean himself and Harlow? Are they the “we”?

He must mean them. Because if the years of watching District 2 pairs reach victory has taught her anything, it’s that those from 2 are loyal to their community. Of masonry or military. And that it’s the worst part of watching The Games in District 2, how much the animosity grows amongst the crowd at even the slightest difference in trade or birthplace is put to question the chance of triumph as one tribute falls. 

But is the answer so simple? A mere difference in industry? In home? The Cutters: hewer and layer masons, quarry-folk, stone and crystal miners, blacksmiths. The Keepers: soldiers—the common grunt and almost unheard of 2 born general—, cadets in schools, Peacekeepers stationed throughout the country never to return for 20 years, the hundreds working in The Peak. The southern desert folk and their blunt nature, intrenched in tradition that mirrors what it was before. The northern mountain people and their river sweet ways, creating new rituals after living so close to their invaded neighbors. 

No, nothing as simple as that. Their mutual destruction is not an echo of past rivalries, but of present vows.

A small piece of granite crumbles under the light tap of her brother’s chisel, and she looks back to see that Dardanius’ stoney eyes match his own. “Because we both made promises that work against each other. You promised my brother that you’d protect me. And I promised my father that I wouldn’t become him. Those two don’t work well together.”

He nods, but his brow tightens in concentration, mind locked deep in thought. His voice is soft and filled with sadness or maybe remorse, unlike its usual deep, assured cadence, “So what will we do if it’s just us?”

She blinks, having not considered this point until this very moment. But something deep inside her quickly finds the answer, “I give you permission to kill me.” She says sternly, mirroring his typical tone.

That comment can’t be playing well with the audience. What sponsor would back a tribute so unwilling to see their own victory? Hasn’t the Capitol been so generous to give these poor tributes the opportunity to better their life? And her especially, who has grown up in the greatest Capitol family of them all her whole life? What joy comes from watching someone fight who will never want the crown?

But this must also be playing horrifically among the Cutters back home. Self-sacrifice isn’t a Keeper trait, but Cutters aren’t known to back down from a fight when it comes to dishonoring their people. By allowing even this possibility to happen, she’s just repeating the cycle of those loyal to the Capitol can claim victory, and those traitors are always bound to fall at their hands. 

But her father must be proud of her for lasting this long, for sticking with her partner, for still Saying her Stones? Was he proud of himself when he was in her position 29 years ago, or did that pride diminish once his partner crumbled in his arms and the trumpets of victory rang? She wonders if he will still be proud of his eldest daughter when she returns cold and lifeless, sprinkled with hard tact bread given to her by a joint sponsor of the Master Mason and Head Peacekeeper of 2, spread generously at the end by her partner. Or will he be filled with disdain and fury for defying his one wish to not become like him, like her cousin of the 66th, like her neighbors of the Village who practically raised her. Only time will tell, she supposes, to whose promise will be kept. Or if District 2 will have two tributes sprinkled with bread.

[courtforshort15]

Chapter 3

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem reader

Word Count: 6,200

Summary:  It's a Wednesday when the sky quite literally opens up above you. The Battle of New York rages around you, and the only thing that gets you through is the stranger standing next to you. Matthew Murdock is more than he seems, keeping you safe in a city that is literally crumbling around you, and even once the dust settles, his hand is the only thing you don't want to let go of.

Trigger warning: none really, just some references to violence, some ableism

Chapter Index

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

When you were younger, you'd spend a few weeks at your grandparents house during every summer break. 

It was something they always did, taking in all five grandkids for two weeks, letting them run wild and celebrate the end of a successful school year, releasing all the pent up energy that came from nine months of sitting at desks and memorizing various facts and figures and historical dates. It was a win-win-win for all parties involved, really. Parents got to have peace, quiet, and alone time with their spouses; grandparents got a few weeks of spoiling their grandkids rotten; and kids got to spend time with cousins at the lakehouse. 

You'd loved it, and it was always extremely difficult to leave, trading open, non-fenced back yards for a cookie-cutter house in the suburbs. 

You were an only child, and existed smack dab in the middle of the five cousins with two older and two younger. And before the two older kids had reached their teen years and suddenly thought they were too cool for the younger ones, the five of you would spend countless hours playing hide-n-go seek across the property. 

Katie, the oldest, was extremely smart and observant, always seeming to know exactly where each kid had gone when it was her turn to seek, a master in knowing her cousins well and their favorite places for hiding. The game always went fast when it was her turn, quickly and ruthlessly hunting down the younger kids with no sweat. 

You were no different than the other kids, usually sticking to the same sorts of places; the types of places you could get in and out of easily, places that were difficult to see into. Dirt crusted on your fingertips and shoved under your fingernails as you hid under the porch, trusting the shadow to keep you hidden. Splinters forcing themselves into the palms of your hands from wrenching open the shed and squeezing yourself against the wood paneling inside, kneeling behind various boxes and tools. 

The shadow was home to you in these instances, trusting it to keep you hidden from your cousins, but your habit was well known to all, so it had never lasted long.

Today, darkness was once again keeping you hidden, keeping you away as much as possible from those that would do you harm. Gone were the days of games with your cousins, replaced gradually with the presence of adulthood, and now viciously tossed aside for something that quite literally could keep you out of reach from your family for good. This time, there would be no laughter as Katie or another cousin pulled you from your spot, no giggles to tell you that you lost and it was your turn to seek, no snicker as they remind you you're too predictable. 

No. No, not this time. 

This time, your reluctant exit will be met with a sight you'll have nightmares about for weeks, and without the childish laughter or your grandmother's voice calling you in for dinner. For once, you're trapped in a sense of darkness that is suffocating. The irony doesn't escape you, being afraid of the dark next to a man who has no choice but to live in it. 

The bathroom is eerie with nothing more than a glowing exit sign and a sliver of daylight creeping in from underneath the door, offering a pathetic attempt to provide you with any light. It's not nearly enough to give you a solid visual of the counter and stalls, but you suppose you're not in here for the scenery. It seems odd to you that such a tiny bathroom would even need an exit sign, though you certainly aren’t going to complain. Odder still is the fact that it’s even working when flipping up the light switch had done absolutely nothing.

You suppose you don’t get to be the one to decide what things will work and what won’t work during an alien invasion. It’s beyond your pay grade, apparently.

Both beside you and pressed against you, Matt pants heavily, though it's less from exertion and more from the adrenaline of almost dying, you're sure. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders tightly, and you're incredibly grateful that his strength is holding you up because you're not sure if the muscles in your legs would be able to support you with the way they're trembling. He drops your hand to brace it against the wall behind you, and he shifts so that he leans against it slightly. 

He could easily release his hold on you, easily move you so that you're balanced against the wall instead of on him, but he doesn't. Instead, he’s somewhat bracketed you in, large frame angling you so that his back is to the door. Without you noticing, he’s once again placed himself so that he’ll take the full force of whatever could come at the pair of you. And once you’re aware of what he’s done, you move to shift away, not liking the idea of him being the one to take the pain first, but his grip tightens just enough to make it difficult to move.

You don't fight him on it, your frame trembling too hard to have any chance against him.

Matt lets out a loud exhale and leans forward to lay his forehead against the wall, resting it there while his lungs struggle to calm down. You're not doing much better, one of your hands reaching up to cling to his suit jacket, and the shudder that wracks through his body is only mirrored by the one that seethes through yours. 

“Are you okay?” You ask quietly once you’ve caught your breath, chest still tighter than you would like, but unable to relax enough to let your breathing settle completely.

“I’m fine,” he whispers, and his voice in your ear is almost as close as it had been when he’d placed himself on top of you when the window had shattered. “Just some cuts, I think. Nothing major. You?”

Your head is nodding before you answer. “Same. My hands and knees are nicked pretty good, but I think that’s the worst of it.” You’re trying to ignore the stinging, you really are, but even in your fear and heightened adrenaline, your palms and knees hurt.

Matt finally pulls himself away and off of the wall and drops his arm from your shoulders, apparently having regained some of his composure, but he doesn’t step away from you, nor does he move enough to keep you from being shielded from the door. He still stands in front of you, though he’s straightened his spine, and somehow he seems both taller and broader than you had originally thought. 

“Give me your hand,” he orders suddenly, brow furrowed from what you can see in the low light. 

You can't help the confusion that flits across your face, or the way it colors your immediate question. “Why?”

“Just–just give me your left hand,” Matt says again, and though the tone is almost urgent, it’s not necessarily impatient. You consider him for just a moment, curious about why he’s asking, but you ultimately decide you have nothing to lose by placing your hand once again in his. He wastes no time in cradling your hand in his own left hand, and you can’t help but look down as he tentatively brushes a finger across your palm, directly over one of the cuts you’d sustained while clamoring to your feet in a mad rush to get to the bathroom. With a hiss, you try to yank your hand back, but he doesn’t let you, other hand tightening around your wrist.

“This one is going to need stitches,” he says quietly, fingers still running lightly around the cut in question. “It’s pretty deep.”

“How do you even know that?” You ask, hand throbbing in his, palm trying to instinctively curl in and push his fingers away. Matt finally lets go, allowing your hand to slowly pull away from him, and you immediately find yourself cradling it against your chest. Multiple parts of your body sting, including your other hand, but how could he possibly know it’s worse than the other cuts?

Matt’s head tilts in a question you're unsure he even wants to ask, but he does so anyway. “You said you trusted me, right? Did you mean it? Will you…trust me to keep you safe?”

You can’t help but frown at him. There’s not a single inch of your body that doesn’t want to keep clinging to him, to beg him to see this through with you, no matter where the horror of this Wednesday leads you. But the more you think about it, the more you come to understand that it’s not fair to put that on one person, to make your life their responsibility.

“Matt,” you begin slowly, eyes searching his face as best as you can in the limited lighting, this beautiful stranger who had placed your hand in his on that door step before immediately taking control of the situation in an effort to save you both. “That–that’s a lot to put on you. I can’t ask that of you, it’s…it’s not right.”

He’s shaking his head before you finish. “That’s not what I asked. Will you trust me?”

“I–”

“It’s a yes or no question, do you trust–”

“Yes.”

The bathroom is quiet for a moment after you finally answer his question to his satisfaction, even while the sounds you’d rather not think about continue to rage outside. The tile of the bathroom carries the word for just a moment longer, as if the word yes needs to be heard more than once for it to really settle in. It had only been one word, one single syllable, but for some reason, you think the word has never been more heavy, more resolute than anything else you’ve ever said in your life.

You can’t help but think that it’s tied you to the man in front of you more concretely than a rod of steel that's been welded to another, and it’s a tie that will last long after the dust of New York City has settled.

Matt inhales sharply as your lips finish forming the word, and his reaction is immediate. His shoulders square and stiffen, and he takes a sudden step around you, feet carrying him to about a yard away towards the counter you can faintly make out. Confused, you turn your body so that it still angles his, and you see the vague outline of him reaching for something. It’s only a split second before the sound of water trickling out of a facet fills the air. With a small gasp, you take a step towards him, hip bumping into the counter, suddenly desperate for a sip. You move to cup your hands to form some sort of makeshift cup, but the sharp sting in your left palm flares back to life.

His body twists towards yours, and a hand settles on your wrist. “Let me wash my hands, and then I’ll help you clean that cut out.” You wince, but you can’t really argue the idea of trying to clean the cut, especially if it needs stitches like he says. Nodding and sighing hesitantly, you listen as he washes his hands. When he’s done, his hand gently grasps your wrist, and so you reluctantly let your hand be led under the cool water. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers quietly when you hiss and jerk your hand back instinctively, but he doesn’t let go, just helps you hold your hand in place while the water runs over it. The smell of soap hits your nose before he adds it to your hand, and you turn your head away with another wince. He helps you clean your other hand, rubbing soap into the other smaller cuts, before he turns off the water.

You bring your left hand up to you for inspection, sighing when you see in the low light that it’s still bleeding sluggishly. He’s right, you think. It will need stitches.

Nose scrunching up slightly, you glance up at him. “I think…I think I need to wrap it. Can you help me tear a strip off of my shirt?”

“You can use my tie,” he answers instead, quickly removing it from around his neck, the fabric smoothly sliding against the collar of his shirt. A single second later, he’s reaching for your hand again, and you're able to catch a quick glimpse of the tie, barely noticing the blue with flashes of black, as he wraps it around your hand quickly. The fabric is too thick for him to tear, so he tucks the end of the tie underneath the layers. It’s bulky and feels strange, it doesn’t allow you to fold your hand in much, but you’re hopeful it’ll keep things from aggravating it further. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, the sound barely traveling.

“You’re welcome.” Matt’s head shifts slightly, the sounds of outside momentarily drawing his attention. The sound startles you, too, having been focused on the man who had been working on your hand so tenderly, and you can’t help the way your heart speeds back up as you're reminded of the death and destruction that's wreaking havoc on the other side of the building's walls. Jumping slightly, you glance up at the man, seeking the face that's managed to bring you comfort in moments of terror, and it just so happens that the light from the exit sign catches the skin of his forehead pretty clearly. Eyes wide, you notice for the first time the large cut just past his hairline, one that has caused a trail of blood to trickle down the side of his face.

“Matt,” you say in rapidly rising concern. “Your head, it–”

“I know,” is all he says, his shoulders vaguely shrugging. “We can take care of it later.”

You shake your head quickly in disagreement. “Uh, no. Let’s take care of it now.”

“It’s not necess–”

“If you’re honestly about to tell me it’s not necessary when you have a giant gash on your head, then you can just find a way to deal with me cleaning it anyway,” you tell him, already moving to turn the water back on. A wad of paper towels are in your hand a second later, and you wet them before he even responds. When you turn back around, Matt’s still directly behind you, hands on his hips. 

“Tilt your head down.”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m fi–”

You can’t help but snort, despite the situation. “I told you to tilt your head down, Matthew. I let you clean up my hand, and now it’s my turn to clean up your head.”

Instead of tilting his head down, he lifts up his chin and tosses his head back in something resembling defiance, sighing loudly . His shoulders are still stiff, every inch of body seeming untouchable, unwilling to accept help. Normally, you might have kept your distance from a man like this, someone who would fight you every step of the way to have someone take care of them. You’ve dated enough men who were closed off, men who pushed you away when they were hurt or scared, desperate to save face, as if experiencing such emotions made them less.

But this isn’t a man who seems afraid to accept help, but rather one who perhaps believes his pain wasn’t worth the trouble. So, respectfully and as calmly as you can, you take a step further into his space, thread your fingers in his hair as best you are able to, and pull his face down to yours. 

He makes a sound of surprise in the back of his throat, but keeps his mouth shut otherwise. Without a word from either one of you, you maneuver your fingers around his glasses and carefully wipe the blood from his face with the wet paper towels, grabbing new ones and wetting them as needed, until his face is as clean as it can be. His face is still hardly lit up in the dark of the bathroom, but you can't help but notice the small winces he makes every time you get closer to the cut, and the tongue that darts out to wet his lips.

Frowning, you grab one last set of paper towels and press it gently to the large cut that stretches an inch or so just past his hairline on the left side of his face, causing hair to be sticky and matted down slightly. He hisses, but unlike you, he stands still while you clean it, and it only lasts a few seconds before you are done.

Outside, the isle of Manhattan continues to collect a large number of gashes and bruises and fatal hits to its infrastructure and population, but nothing is more important in that moment than the man whose face is just a foot from yours.

Eventually, you sigh and take a step back, throwing the bloodied paper towels in the trash can, and Matt straightens, face clear of the blood that had been violently decorating his fair skin. 

“Uh…thank you,” he tells you haltingly, shifting somewhat awkwardly. He steps around you, once more settling his body between yours and the door, as if attempting to act as some sort of shield should anything come barging in, before turning back to you. 

You shrug lightly, almost helplessly, wishing you could convey the thought that his pain, his body mattered, even as he all but offers himself to go first in the battle that is raging outside. “You did the same for me.”

“Yeah, but—”

Matt doesn’t get to finish his sentence, not when the building suddenly rumbles and shakes, the walls creaking and groaning loudly. The sound is as terrifying as the actual vibrating and trembling of the building, and it causes your heart to drop to the floor. 

Once upon a time, you’d lived on the other side of the country in San Francisco. The apartment you’d tried to make home was small and in a gross part of town, but you’d done your best to make it work in a city where the cost of living was almost as bad as New York. You hadn’t stayed long, only a year or so, having moved there for a man you thought was worth the abrupt change at the time. It hadn’t worked out, for multiple reasons, and though you’d learned many lessons about what you wanted and deserved in a relationship, in this moment, you can't help but think that the best lesson you ever learned was what to do in an earthquake.

The collection of sinks to your right sits on top of a counter, but from what you can see in the dim lighting, it's one that doesn’t have anything underneath it, just a few twisting pipes and a stack of unopened paper towels. It’s not a great solution, the pair of you will have to make yourselves as small as possible, but it’s better than nothing should things really start to fall. 

Matt had grabbed you and done his best to shield you from the glass, but this was something you perhaps had the leg up on, so you waste no time in yanking him forward and pushing him underneath the counter, making sure his head doesn’t knock against the stone. You’re not standing for much longer, shoving yourself beside him, covering your head with your sliced up hands.

You’re not quite sure how long the building shakes and rumbles, but then again, the rest of the terror-filled moments had seemed to last forever, though in reality it had only been seconds. Matt’s breathing is loud and harsh in your ear, his head not too far from yours, one hand covering his face, the other forcing you further against the wall. You want to struggle against him, want to tell him that he needs to worry about protecting himself, too, but you can’t quite get the words out.

The building lets out a raging groan, shaking the walls loud enough that you can hear books outside crashing to the ground, rattling the glass that is already littered across the floor. With a groan of your own, this one filled with pure terror, you smash your face into your hands as roughly as you can, wishing for nothing more than your death to be a quick one, one that knocks you out hard enough that you just don’t ever resurface from the dark.

It’s incredible how quickly your life flashes behind your eyelids, and you want to laugh at how cliché the whole thing is. Your mind sifts through memory after memory, brief pictures of family members and old friends, thoughts of every heartache and accomplishment. A lifetime of moments all summed into a three second montage, and it leaves you feeling…unfinished.

No, you won’t die here. You’re not done, you can’t be done.

Eyes flashing open, you reach for Matt’s hand, pulling it away from where he’s attempting to cover you as best as he can at the awkward angle, and instead grasp it tightly in yours. His grip is bruising as it locks on, he’s only indication that he’s perhaps as terrified as you. But his fear doesn’t stop him from offering a level of steadiness you hadn’t thought possible in this moment. It’s almost as if he takes the small bit of comfort and determination you had been trying to convey, and somehow manages to return it tenfold.

Earlier, you’d told yourself that you’d met men like him. Men who hold things in for the sake of appearances, not wanting to appear weak, doing their best to come across as impassible and in control. 

But you’d been wrong, as he had already shown you. There are no men like Matthew Murdock, and you have a feeling you’ve only scratched his surface.

The shaking suddenly comes to an abrupt end, and you’re left reeling at the sudden quiet that spreads throughout the bookstore. The calm only lasts for a second, though, before the sounds of sirens and explosions creep back in from underneath the door, your moment of peace vanishing as swiftly as a strike of lightning.

The tension seems to drain from your body, but it doesn’t completely disappear. Your head rests against the wall, and you take in deep, gasping breaths, lungs still on edge but slowly regaining their ability to fill up completely rather than being all but frozen in your chest.

“I think…I think it might be over,” Matt says softly after a moment. “Something–something large landed on the building, but I don’t hear anything else.”

Nodding slightly, you squeeze his hand, acknowledging the quick reciprocal action with a small smile you forget he can’t see. “Do you think it’s safe for us to get up?”

Matt’s close enough to you that you can see the way he licks his lips as he pauses, some action he must do when deep in thought. He nods, or tries to seeing as how his head is all but crunched up next to a pipe, but the motion is enough for you to understand what he’s saying. With a shaking breath, you let go of his hand so that you can push a lock of hair behind your ear so that you can see better, and then steel your spine and force yourself to move.

Because you’re the one who sits slightly in front of Matt, the one who had pushed him underneath before clamoring in next to him, you need to get up first before he can join you. You find a way to get on your knees so that you can crawl out, doing your best to avoid putting pressure on your left hand. When your head is clear and runs no risk of banging against the counter, you awkwardly pull yourself to your feet and step to the side so that Matt can come out as well.

His exit from beneath the counter is much smoother than yours, untucking his long legs and standing a split second later, broad frame solid and bold even in the dark. You roll your head back and around, trying to shake out the stiffness that had set in from sitting so awkwardly, even though you hadn’t been underneath the counter for long. Matt does the same, rolling his shoulders as well, grimacing as he does so.

“You alright?” You ask as you fiddle with the hem of your shirt. It had ridden up uncomfortably when you’d dove underneath the sinks, causing the skin to scratch on something. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” he replies with a loud sigh. “Hit my head against the wall at some point.”

You can’t help but wince. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he says easily, still sounding slightly out of breath. “Thanks for pushing me under there. I’ve never…I wouldn’t have known–”

The huff of laughter that comes out is less from humor and more from a sense of shock that hasn’t left your body since the second you looked up and saw the sky being slashed open. “I lived in California for a small period of time. Small earthquakes are just a part of life over there.”

From what you can make out in the dark, his face appears to be one of incredulity. “That felt small?”

This time the laugh that comes out is a little more genuine. “Well…no. But you get used to knowing what to do when one happens, even if it’s small. The shaking of the building just…triggered something, I guess.”

“Gotcha,” is all he says in response, placing his hands on his hips. He takes a few more large deep breaths as if trying to orient himself. You move to take a step back, trying to give him the space you think he might need, just in case he needs a moment to reset himself without someone being so close to him. But before you can shift completely away, his hand snatches out and wraps itself around your wrist, halting your movement.

“Trashcan,” he says quickly in explanation, dropping your arm. “Careful, there’s a trashcan right behind you.”

Flushing, you step to the right and then take a step back. “Thanks.” 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you watch as he pulls himself together. He’s held it all in pretty well, this man who has somehow become your rock in this. But you see little nicks in his armor, little pieces of damaged steel decorating his form. You can only imagine what a man like him looks like when he falls apart, some sort of wilted frame that only sinks when no one else is looking. You can’t help but be immensely grateful for his strength, but there’s a part of you that wants to be around when he plummets, if for no other reason than to repay him in kind.

You find yourself leaning back against the tile next to the door in sheer exhaustion. “So…what next?”

Matt tilts his head. “As in, what should we do next?”

“I–yes,” you rely, hands twitching at your sides. You can only imagine what the rest of the bookstore looks like, can only imagine what the street directly outside looks like, and you can’t help but think that you’d happily wait inside the bathroom until emergency services came and got you.

But...what if they never did?

You try not to think about New York City being completely wiped out by whatever had come into the atmosphere from the gaping gash that had been ripped open over Stark’s tower. The whole time, you’ve been operating on the assumption that things would end, that Iron Man and god knows who else would be able to fix it. But what if they aren’t able to? 

What if…this is just the beginning?

Matt exhales loudly and it pulls you out of your head. “Honestly?”

A garbled laugh gets caught in your throat. “No, I want you to lie to me.”

You’re still standing close enough to see the way his mouth twists into a slight smirk before it drops back into something more grave. “I think…I think we need to leave.”

You wish you could say you were surprised, but you’re really not. And while it certainly doesn’t mean you’re happy about it, you seek to understand his reasoning. "Why? Tell me why you think that. Why do you think we should–"

"I just don’t think it’s a good idea for us to stay here," he tells you, and his words are rushed and loud, as if trying to leave no room for argument.  "I know what I said about us staying, but I really don’t think it's safe here. Not with the Hulk so nearby."

You can't help the way your eyes widen in alarm. The Hulk had been larger than life, bare feet digging into concrete and glass and God only knows what else on the street outside, muscles rippling in aggression, but he hadn't taken a single step towards you. "Matt, he was fighting them, he was on our side."

He runs an aggravated hand through his dark hair. His fingers catch on the tangled strands, which clearly makes him more irritated, and he drops his hand quickly. But you know that irritation is just a distant cousin of panic, and you can see it lurking on a face that is more expressive than he probably thinks.  "Are you from New York?"

"No–"

"But did you hear about what happened in Harlem a few years ago?"

"I–yes."

"Then you know what he's like when he's out of control," he says, his voice suddenly taking on a tone that sounds a little breathless, as if trying to keep some sort of panic at bay. Matt begins pacing in the small bathroom, the dark form of him difficult to trace, though he manages his steps and turns expertly. "He wrecked entire city blocks. It doesn't matter who he was fighting, it was a disaster. Things are only bound to get worse here."

Shaking your head, you try to make sense of what he’s saying. You know what happened, know the destruction Hulk had left behind a few years ago, know the mess and disaster he’s likely causing right at this moment, even if it might not be intentional and might actually be in service to the people of New York. "He protected us. He made eye contact with me and didn't come towards us," you argued, unable to think of much else to say.

"It doesn't matter," he replies tensely as his hands settle on his hips, voice still sharp and pushing back against your objections as hard as he can. "Even if he’s going against them, trying to help people, he’s still in this part of town going after them. And if he’s in this part of town, it means we're still far too close to the action, and we need to leave before things get worse."

Your mind is taking too much time processing the words, and you struggle to breathe through the anxiety. Nails digging into the palm of your hands, or as best as they can with the tie wrapped around your left hand, you stand there quietly for a moment, brain sifting through the situation and doing your best to acknowledge the fear before forcing its way into some sort of clarity. 

Yes. Yes…you did need to move. 

Fuck. 

The idea is terrifying, but so is staying here and doing nothing, just praying that the building won’t collapse on you from the weight of whatever has apparently landed on it.

"Okay," you say, finally relenting and taking a deep breath, nodding your head at the same time. "Yes, let's go. Where to?"

Matt stalls, and it's clear that he had been clearly expecting you to push back again, but the agreement causes him to pause briefly. He rubs at his temples in a sign of anxiety and frustration, though he stops his pacing altogether. You watch as he turns his attention to thinking about where to go, and you wrack your brain, too. 

"North. Definitely north."

The words have no sooner left his mouth when your head snaps up, an idea occurring to you. "Do you know where the nearest subway station is? It might be a good place to get to. It might–it might offer some real shelter, something more solid than here. No glass like this."

Matt freezes, as if a light bulb goes off in his head. "That's uh…yes, that's a good idea. There's one on 50th. Just a few blocks north."

"Do you think we'll be sitting ducks down there?"

He seems to think about it, head tilting in consideration before he answers. "We're going to be sitting ducks anywhere. At least there we won't have to worry about anything collapsing or falling on us."

“Ok,” you say with a loud gulp. Your hands twitch at your sides, and your lungs inhale with a full, heavy breath, resigned to leaving the space that’s been a safe haven until now. “I think…I think that might be our best bet. What do you think?”

Matt’s nodding before you even finish speaking, his dark hair momentarily lighting up from the glow of the exit sign. “Yes, I think-I think that’s what we should do. It’s, what? Four blocks north. We should be…we should be able to make that.”

Your feet shuffle on the ground loudly, and you let out an equally loud groan as something else occurs to you, this one not as beneficial as having an idea of where to go. Instead, what’s occurred to you is quite detrimental, and your shoulders sag.  His head tilts towards you in question as if he already knows you have something negative to say. 

You blow out a loud breath. “Matt, I’m wearing heels.”

He gives a curt nod. “I know.”

How could he…? No matter. Not the time.

Your spine straightens even as you glance down at your feet, hating your shoe choice for the thousandth time that day. “I can’t–I can’t take them off because of glass and everything,” you say quietly. “But we need to move quickly and I don’t know if I’ll be able to in these fucking shoes.”

“But you were able to make it when you ran with me,” he tells you, sounding vaguely curious but mostly concerned. “And when you ran to the apartment stoop.”

“Yes,” you agree, because you had, and you even have the popped blisters and torn skin to prove it. “But that was only a block or so, and with you it was only across the street. But four blocks might be…difficult. It makes me nervous.”

“Ok,” he says with a sigh, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. His pause is extremely brief, his moment of quick contemplation over before you had realized it had even begun, and he suddenly steps into your space, raising his hands to rest on your shoulders. “We’re going to do the best we can. If you trip, or lose a shoe, we’ll figure it out.”

Your lips twist into a wry, self-deprecating grin. “I wouldn’t blame you if you left and saved yourself.”

The dark frames of his glasses seem to flash in the limited light of the bathroom, his face almost like stone in the way it leaves no room for argument. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”

Your eyes land over his shoulder in some sort of defiance, though you’re not exactly sure in defiance of what. Perhaps it's the idea that someone would find you worthy enough to save. “But still–”

“I’ve been with you and holding your hand since you walked up to me and grabbed it,” he says quietly, and despite the war raging outside, it’s all you can hear. “What makes you think I’d let go now?”

It's exactly what you need to hear, even though your heart can't help but ache again, realizing this man was willing to do whatever he could to help you, possibly to his own detriment. They…don't make men like this anymore.

You'd taken one look at him on that doorstep, eyeing the blind man with some sort of pity, thinking that his odds of survival would be smaller than everyone else's due to his lack of sight and lack of anyone offering to help. You'd dismissed him as a vulnerable person, labeled him as a liability even as you rushed towards him, certain that the right thing to do was help a man who seemed helpless. 

But this man isn't a liability, he's your greatest strength, your greatest sense of safety on this random Wednesday, and nothing is going to keep you from linking your fate to his when he’s offering it. 

Something settles across his face, some sort of understanding from your silence, and wordlessly he reaches for your hand, links his fingers in yours, and pulls you behind him as he opens up the door and steps into the light.

[stareulogy]

your aware of different universes?

i am, it’s been a fun thing to be aware of. i’ve documented things i’ve seen, and conducted my own studies.

i’m friends with a few people on this funny website. don’t look at this stuff unless you want to have an existential crisis. it’s all fiction, nothing is real under the “read more”. go away.

okay, sorry. had to lie to the people. moving on.

i’m just going to share my findings. so basically, there is a “core” universe that we’re all branched off of. every single universe has different events, abnormalities that lead to different outcomes and different events.

but something that i found fascinating, is that we’re all variants of the same core cast. but we do have our own individuality, we have our own “core”, we’re just as important as the core.

our own thoughts, our own lives. you know, we’re just cut from the dough with cookie cutters. but we can be made with different ingredients, my dough won’t be the exact same as another variant’s.

and we can be made of the same dough, but we’ll crumble differently. we’ll break apart in a way that won’t be the exact same, nothing is ever a perfect match. we aren’t clones of one another.

even if we are different - being either the same cookie, or different cookies, we’re still cookies.

a gingerbread cookie is still a cookie, we’re considered variants of the core, but we’re still our own cookies.

and, with the abnormalities, we get baked differently. i was originally in an oven (original universe), before i got thrown into a pit of lava (current universe), baking me into what i am right now.

alternates, variants, none of that really defines who we are as people. there will be other people created from anomalies, for example there will be people who aren’t in the already existing core, who appear, and become a significant part of the core story (which is something else that we’re all probably aware of).

the same can happen with different characters, too. i’ve observed a major deviation where a kel alternate instead triggered the core story to happen between him and his brother. instead of mari and i being at the forefront of the core plot, it was him instead.

something like that technically didn’t happen here, as the transition from my original universe to this universe, triggered the core story to go out the window. that means the core plot can be completely avoided, as long as the conditions are right.

because as i said before, we’re our own “core”. sometimes, the story itself might not even happen, the series of incidents may completely skip a few universes, leaving people from the trauma.

... and thus, i’m aware. it’s a basic observation from my position in blackspace, i have done things with this information, to learn and to grow. but it doesn’t mean i can get an accurate read on a variant, or anything like that - i more or less struggle more with it.

it’s like space travel, but way cooler. right? right? i don’t even need a ship to do it, all i need to do is-

... nevermind! just focus on my alternative universe analysis. feel free to ask about more things regarding alternative universe travel.

.

.

.

and for clarification, i’ll share a list of terms that i’ve compiled.

core: the universe we are based off of

alternate/variant: people like me

abnormalities/anomalies: people who don’t exist in the core universe

story/plot: the string of events that appear to happen in most universes

i used the term cookie cutter as an analogy, and the cookie terms to further push the analogy. we aren’t actually cookies, unfortunately.

[retrosofa]

Let's conclude our Cutie Honey 50th anniversary trivia with the final episode: “A Poison Flower Falls to Hell.”

Screenwriter: Masaki Tsuji

Art Director: Urata Mataharu

Animation Director: Satoshi Jingu

Director: Osamu Kasai

With the exception of Junpei’s girlfriend Mami and the nameless Panther Claw subordinates, all of the (living) characters in the series appear for the final episode.

The suspenseful drumming that plays before Eagle Panther attacks the truck was lifted from Go Misawa’s soundtrack for Devilman.

Honey has always lovingly addressed her father as “papa”, but in this episode she refers to him as the more formal otousama or “father.” This was probably done to demonstrate to the audience how much she has grown from her battle with Panther Claw.

In the original manga, Sister Jill’s headquarters was called maboroshi jyou or “Castle of Illusion.” The name was probably changed to avoid confusion with Cutter Claw’s “Castle of Illusion” from episode 10. 

Jill’s headquarters in the manga looks like a traditional European style castle, while the anime version evokes more of a haunted house. 

The dreamlike landscape Honey falls into is modeled after the surrealist works of Salvador Dali, specifically one of his most famous works, The Persistence of Memory, which depicts melting pocket watches. The floating lips could possibly be based on Man Ray’s Observatory Time: The Lovers, a painting featuring a giant pair of lush red lips in the sky.

The second half of the episode features a few references to one of Toei Animation’s earlier films, The Little Prince and the Eight-Headed Dragon.

Released in 1963, the film tells the story of Susanoo, the youngest son of the gods who created the Earth, and his journey in finding his mother. The stylized film featured the talents of animation veterans such as Yasuo Otsuka, Yoichi Kotabe, Isao Takahata, and Kimio Yabuki. 

References to The Little Prince and the Eight-Headed Dragon: 

The human shaped fire that attacks Honey is animated almost exactly like the Fire God that Susanoo faces. 

The phantom serpents are a dead-ringer for the eight-headed dragon. The only difference is the coloring. In the film their colors are similar to Maleficent's dragon form from Walt Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. It’s worth mentioning in the original storyboard the illusions were meant to look like generic snakes.

After the Panther Chateau crumbles, the gloomy skies clear up and Honey finds herself in a flowerbed under a blue sky. This is similar to the end of the film, in which the defeated dragon turns into a field of flowers and the dark skies become bright and sunny.

The bone-chilling organ music that plays during Honey and Jill’s confrontation is Fugue in D Major, BWV 580 by Johann Sebastian Bach. The rendition featured in this episode was performed by French organist Marie-Claire Alain.

While the animation director for the finale is Satoshi Jingu of Anime Room, the key animation for the second half of the episode was handled primarily by Yoshinori Kanada. While he was relatively unknown at the time, he would go on to be a very influential figure in the animation world, working on titles such as Dino Mech Gaiking, Birth, Princess Mononoke and others. Kanada’s style is particularly noticeable during the “Honey Special” sequence and Honey's reunion with the Hayami family.

Although this is the only instance where Kanada is listed in the credits, Kazuhiro Ochi has confirmed he did in fact work on the other episodes that were animated by Anime Room (6, 13, 24, and 25).

Supposedly, the final episode was originally going to be handled by Shingo Araki and Hiroshi Shitara, but both men were too busy working on Majokko Megu-chan.

Despite getting pretty good ratings, Cutie Honey was canceled due to concerns over salacious content. According to Go Nagai’s autobiographical manga, Gekiman! Cutie Honey Hen, nearly everyone involved was blindsided by the cancellation. Toshio Katsuta in particular was quite surprised, since Honey made better ratings than its predecessor, Microid S. Katsuta was actually quite confident Honey would last three or four seasons.

Because of the series' abrupt cancellation, Katsuta and Nagai both agreed to have Honey defeat Jill at the end of the series, while leaving Panther Zora’s fate being left to the interpretation of the fans.

In an interview printed in the 1981 Cutey Honey Roman Album, Go Nagai talks a little bit about what Honey and Zora were up to after the finale. He says Zora began harvesting animals from the Amazon and transforming them into androids, probably in preparation for a battle against Honey. He also says Honey is destined to only fight Panther Claw, so she'd probably ignore any unrelated criminal activity. I guess we can assume Honey got a little downtime after her victory against Sister Jill?

And that's all our trivia for Cutie Honey! I hope you enjoyed all the interesting tidbits I've collected over the years. Maybe someday I'll do this for the other series...

Special Thanks:

@brickme

Ayumi Shinozaki

Josh M.

Charlie from Skaro Hunting Society

Phix Cabral

Jonathan Castleman

[yakketymax]

All My Projects!

Alongside the projects listed below, you will also see me refer to other smaller projects, such as the Gingerfolk Universe I share with my friends or my own kitchen sink universe called the Scullery Basin!

Home Is Where The Harv Is

A fake series composed of two movies and two book series following the titular character, Harvey “Harv” Sugarplume II, and his adventures- mis and otherwise -and experiences learning how to love in all kinds of ways. Harvey's job as the big bad General of the Cookie Cutter Army of the Winterbloom Kingdom has taken its toll on him, making him rough and mean and jaded, and his current situation certainly isn't helping, but surely there's still a heart in there somewhere…?

Tumblejack

"Tumblejack" is my concept for a musical adventure rhythm game, wrapped in a metaphor (or is allegory the word I'm looking for?) for identity and the LGBT+ community and the challenges we face in this world! In this world, there is a list of types of music that are allowed and a much longer list of types of music that aren't allowed under ANY circumstances. If you are caught playing restricted music, your ability to do so is taken from you forever… unless you agree to comply to the rules society has put in place and play the "proper" music they tell you to. But who wants to do that! Here, you play as one half of the titular characters, Crackerjack- a peppy polka-playing punk pirate who is doing every little thing in their power to bring happiness and smiles to the people of this world, despite the ridicule they might get in return just for being themself.

Teacher's Pet

"Teacher’s Pet" is my concept for an action thriller video game centered around the rescue of seven living puppets from their now crumbling studio (and from an entity far more dangerous than a broken down building…). You (the player) seem to be the only person to have any memory of these characters from a children’s game you used to play about going to school and making friends and learning your numbers and such, but when the only thing you can seem to uncover about the vague memory is a cartoon based on it that never got off the ground, you take it upon yourself to visit the half finished address listed before you and investigate what might have happened.

Two Moons

"Two Moons" is a story that follows Synthwave Doughnut, an alien from another galaxy that's had an unfortunate accident during their space travel and crash-landed here on Earthbread… eight years ago. Though they've been stranded and forced to disguise themself to stay safe here, they're still determined to make it back home to their family even after all this time. Now joined by their closest friends in THIS world- their coworker, Galaxy Jam, a kindly mechanic, Astronaut Oreos, and the first person to take them in, Moon Cheese -Synthwave is closer than they've ever been to getting there. But, still, repairing a spaceship from a whole nother world takes an immeasurable amount of time, so, until the day finally comes, Synthwave looks up at the white moon of Earthbread, still hoping that one day it'll rise pink and yellow like their own moon back home. The blog for this project can be found here!

[orqheuss]

Free and young and we can feel none of it

(Platonic!Ominis Gaunt and the Sallow's HURT/COMFORT)

Solomon Sallow POV

Summary:

Stability he could do. Stability was something Solomon was comfortable with. He could be the support beam to Ominis’ crumbling walls. And when they woke, his niece and nephew could help pick up the pieces and put them back in their correct places. They could do this. Together. *** The game dialogue hints at the fact that Ominis left his family home before the events of the main story. This is how I feel it would go. Title from the song "Sedated" by Hozier.

Word count: 3.7k

Tags: referenced child abuse, neglectful family, bruising/violence

AN: Little different from what I usually do. Hope you like it! This one's for my Solomon lovers.

The small town of Feldcroft was not one that people traveled to often, if they knew about it at all. It was not a popular destination for tourists to the area, and very few took notice of the communities there. Some would even say that the people of the town fit into the same cookie-cutter shape of everything else. That is, of course, if they didn’t pay attention to the finer details. Feldcroft, quaint, lively, but quiet all the same, stood against the rolling hills of the Scottish countryside. Each unique cottage breathed life into the fields— within, their walls were resolutely upright, bricks meeting neatly with the roughly tumbled cement below, and doors were sensibly shut against the calling winter chill beyond their sanded wood finish. Yes, it was a simple town, and the people there liked it that way, thank you very much. 

It was not a particularly special night in the tiny village when it was startled awake by a rapid knocking on the Sallow cottage door. The moon was high in the sky by this time, only the soft sound of handmade bone-chimes and settling snow singing in harmony could be heard outside of the incessant pounding— it would be a long time before the sun even considered breaching over the horizon. Solomon Sallow was the first to rise, a light sleeper by trade and with a plethora of enemies to match that could be at his door this very moment. With his wand tucked securely in the sleeve of his night clothes, he quietly made his way towards the home entrance, pondering what he would find on the other side of the wooden barrier. His work as an Auror made him fear the worst in almost all occasions, and this situation was unfortunately not a new one in his years and travels. The common folk of the wizarding world would be surprised by how many dark witches and wizards would knock first before storming into a building, hoping to catch the homeowner off guard and lower their walls for a friend. Whom else would be knocking with such vigor than someone with ill intent? Not a friend of the family— not at this time of night. 

As silent as he could possibly move he crept closer to the door, his steps timid as he tried to avoid the squeaky boards under foot that he never got around to fixing, lest he wake his niece and nephew sleeping in the adjoining room. They were still so young, just barely into their third year of Hogwarts. If something terrible was beyond the foundation of their house, he needed them safe, not on the front lines with him, no matter how much they would fight to be beside him. Solomon had only recently taken them in after the deaths of their mother and father— his brother and sister-in-law— and even now he could see remnants of their knowledge and fiery personalities in the young children. The youngest of the two, only born mere minutes after his sister, was the worst of the bunch. Sebastian was headstrong, resilient, and downright pugnacious at times. Smart as a whip, and can crack just as hard. Solomon saw a lot of his brother in the boy, not just in his unruly brown hair or how his hazel eyes glimmered with delight whenever he read about some knowledge he was not originally privy to, and if he was to be honest it scared him at times. That fire, that bullheadedness was what did his brother in in the end— he didn’t want to see the youngest fall prey to the same fate.  

As for the daughter, the eldest of the two siblings, Anne was not that different from the boy. She was less confrontational than him, but had just as much spark. Where Sebastian thrived in knowledge, she thrived in action. There was never a day where Solomon didn’t see her running up and down the Hamlet, practicing every and all spells she had learned so far at the school just north of their house, performing little tasks for her neighbors like delivering things or wrangling escaped farm animals, or just rolling around in the dirt after a heavy rain because she simply could. If Sebastian was his father, Anne was most definitely her mother— he was the scholar, and she was the experimenter. 

Sebastian wanted to understand why something ticked; Anne wanted to see what would happen if she set it on fire. 

Even still, with her proclivity for offensive spells and her desire to run rampant, free of all binds holding her down once her schooling is over, Anne was the more reasonable, the more docile of the pair. The boy could fly off the handle at a moment's notice, while the girl would be there to hear all sides and weigh everything out like the god Osiris, the feather of truth on one side of the scale and your heart on the other. 

Solomon believed she would make a great Auror one day, if she wanted it. 

The eldest Sallow stood before the door, his shadow no doubt peaking through the stained glass windows atop the low archway and hopefully intimidating whomever was on the other side. Still the knocking persisted, growing more frantic as the seconds ticked on. He sighed silently to himself, squaring his shoulders like his father always taught him to do before a fight and shrugging on his house coat, bracing himself for the cold winter air just beyond the range of the homely hearth burning away just beside their tiny kitchen. It was now or never, he mused to himself, as he cast one last glance over his shoulder, checking that there were no newly minted teenagers behind him before reaching his hand towards the door handle, his wand firmly grasped in his other. 

Just as his fingers just grazed the cool metal, the pounds stopped, bathing the room in silence once more. Solomon stood befuddled, his shoulders once again slumping as gravity took hold of his sleepy limbs. Could they have given up trying to get his attention? He didn’t think it took him that long to get to the door— it was a tiny cottage afterall. Still inquisitive, he forgoed just shrugging it off as a harmless winter prank and instead leaned closer to the door, pressing his ear against the wood and straining his hearing to identify anything on his land. The wind howled outside, rustling whatever remaining leaves clung to the trees lining the town and shaking the freshly fallen snow from their branches. It was sure to storm again soon, the air still smelled heavy with the scent of cold and incoming onding. He could hear some remaining jobberknolls flying south before the breaking of dawn, preparing their long flight as the yule tidings began across Scotland. Everything natural, he reasoned. Nothing out of the ordinary. But, as he was about to lean away from the door, content with crawling back into his warm bed and sleeping the night away, something else caught his attention. Just beyond the natural was a small slosh at his steps, like someone was toeing at the ground with the tip of their boot and digging into the icy path leading to the door. They were light in weight, that much was for sure, barely enough for their shoes to make a crunching sound as they paced. 

Steeling himself again, Solomon creaked open the door and peered out through the crack, casting his eyes to and fro in search for their late night visitor. Upon not seeing anyone at first, he opened the door more, pulling it until it was inches from the inner wall and wide open to the world. His eyes were hard as he glared into the night, his wand hand raised and prepared for anything while his other pulled his house coat tighter across his body. 

His voice was strong and resolute as he called out, careful to keep his volume low so as to not wake anyone. “Who goes there? Show yourself!” 

There was a moment of stillness before a tiny voice piped up from his feet, barely auditory over the banshee-ish wind. “Mister Sallow?” 

Solomon shot his gaze downwards, his eyes hardened and prepared to fight as he took in the form sitting on his steps. Curled around themselves was a young boy, his blond hair as pale as the stars above and skin littered with constellations of birthmarks. He had to be the same age as the twins, maybe even a bit younger if the eldest Sallow took into account how skinny he was. Once his sleep-muddled brain caught up with his eyes, Solomon realized he recognized the boy as the young Ominis Gaunt, a close friend of the children. He was shivering harshly, the cold seemingly seeping into his bird-like bones and chilling him to the core. 

The boy’s home life was no secret, even if the Sallow man wasn’t a retired Auror he would still recognize the last name. The Gaunt’s were known for their dark magic and pureblood status, their descendents going all the way back to the Hogwarts founder, Salazar Slytherin. Solomon had seen the family's cruelty first hand before, and because of this tried to forbid his brother’s children from talking to their new friend. That was, of course, until he met the boy. Ominis was small for his age, and definitely wise beyond his years. Not one ounce of dark magic could be found in his veins, and he detested the very idea of following in his family's footsteps. Not only that, he was exceedingly kind, something rarely seen from such high society families, especially to those that lived in the “slums,” so to speak, like Solomon and the children did. The boy helped around the house where he could, pointing out things with his location charm that even a sighted person could not find. He talked to Solomon about his work, and was often found playing games with the twins in their garden during summer break. If the boy was here, on his doorstep, that means something terrible had happened in the Gaunt manor. The ex-Auror startled quickly upon the realization, hastily ushering the trembling boy into the house before he froze to death. 

Now safely under his roof, the Sallow man took in the lithe child, his eyes moving across his figure as he analyzed the state he was in. Wrapped around his neck and lower face was a thin scarf, likely grabbed quickly as it was distinctly not weather appropriate. No winter cloak sat over his shoulders, just a thin housecoat hung loosely around him— more for propriety than functionality. Underneath was a sage green sleep shirt, some of the buttons in their proper place and others, particularly the ones near his collar, hanging on my the tiniest bit of string— like someone took him by the throat and shook him until they popped loose. Covering his legs was a matching pair of sleep pants, the knees dirtied from the muddy sludge outside— his left knee visible through a small tear in the fabric. Solomon could see some crimson blood decorating the edges of the slice. The boy’s slippered feet shuffled anxiously against the hardwood floor, the skin of his bare heels tinged slightly blue from the near freezing temperatures outside. 

It was clear that the young Gaunt boy had not planned on fleeing that night. 

Ominis had his wand clutched in his hand like a lifeline, his head downcast but still shooting from left to right, his ears straining to hear anything that could be deemed a threat. Every creak of the floor sent a jolt up his spine like he was being continuously struck by lightning. He was wound as tight as a spring, constantly on edge and ready to flee at the drop of a pin. 

What was most concerning, though, was that the smallest bit of bruising was peeking out from underneath his scarf. Just along the collar of his shirt, once likely covered by the cloth but shifted after his dash to the door, was a distinct ring of purple spots, so deep and dreadful that if Solomon looked close enough he could probably see the swirls of each individual fingerprint. The ex-Auror was sure that if he pried the fabric off of the child he would find a similar bruise in the shape of a palm wrapped around his tiny throat. No doubt his father was the culprit— Erebus Gaunt was not one to be trifled with, even if you were his kin. 

While one could argue it was part of the job, Solomon was not very keen on consoling fearful children. Sure he had encountered a few during his days as an Auror, but he was not proud to say that he primarily just shooed them away towards the nearest person that seemed equipped for the task. It’s not that he didn’t like children, he tolerated his niece and nephew after all, but he just didn’t know how to act around them, especially when they were processing some big emotions. 

Hesitantly, he kneeled in front of the trembling blond boy, trying in vain to get a good look at his face— if there was bruising around his neck, there was sure to be some wounds that he needed to tend to above his jaw. Solomon awkwardly raised his hands from his sides, moving them slightly towards the boy’s shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting touch, only for Ominis to take a shaking step backwards, a whimper unconsciously weeping through his clenched teeth. The man’s hands stilled in the air in shock, his heart cracking at the fear that seeped from the boy like a murky fog. 

Trying a different approach, the eldest Sallow held his hands upwards in a placating manner, still within touching distance but far enough away to show he meant no harm. His voice broke through the encompassing silence of the cottage, the tone low, hushed, and, he hoped, calming. 

“Ominis, you’re safe now. Nothing is going to hurt you here.” He sighed at the apparent trepidation that took over the young blond’s face, more anxiety than annoyance in the puff of air. Solomon tried again, schooling the shake from his voice, “I would like to take a look at your face and neck, is that alright?” 

The boy sighed to himself, a deep and foreboding thing that seemed to shake him to his very core— like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and it was only now safe for him to put it down and rest— and nodded, stepping closer to the elder man and more into the light of the dimly burning braziers. Solomon was gentle with his hands, more gentle than he had ever been in his life, when he touched the young Slytherin’s chin, tilting it upwards and revealing the damage done to his face by the people he had once considered his family. 

Solomon felt his soul crack when Ominis’ visage came into the light. Under the tufts of blond that fluttered across his temple were his ghostly blue eyes, both rimmed with red from his tears and the skin colored a dismal purple— whether from lack of good sleep or a slap to the face, he wasn’t sure. They sunk deep into his skin like they were permanently a part of his features. Across his left cheek, still plump with a bit of baby fat from his young— much too young— age was a long jagged scar, blood pooling at the surface and streaking down his face, just shy of dripping onto his once starched collar. The man thought of the onyx ring that adorned the ring finger of the Gaunt patriarch and had to swallow down his bubbling rage. Cradling the young boy’s face like one would cradle a fragile family heirloom, he carefully pushed Ominis’ bangs to the side, only to still when the boy winced. At the upper corner of his head, right where his hairline began, was a thin line of bruising. Solomon sucked in a breath as he peered closer, mapping out the injury to himself to see how well he can possibly heal it. There was a distinct diamond shape at one end, the dark plum and incarnadine colors blending together into a deeper, more concerning shade of maroon. Small curls, like scrapings of widdled wood or peeled fruit, could be seen in a pattern across the rest. The man felt anger spin into a burning knot just under his ribs when he realized what that could mean. A table. They slammed their son, their own flesh and blood and bone, into a table hard enough to leave indents. Finally, Solomon’s eyes flicked downwards towards the young Slytherin’s neck. His earlier suspicions were correct. The soft, pliable skin decorating the limb that kept his head afloat was covered in deep, angry fingerprints. Large ones. If he wanted to, he could put his own hand over the bruising and it would likely be a near perfect match— palm to palm, fingerprint to fingerprint. 

Underneath all the physical pain, though, there was something deeper. A glimmer in the young boy’s eyes. A tremble in his fingers. A stutter in his breath. Ominis’ hands shook at his sides, the tiniest of twitches sweeping through his small frame as if ants were crawling underneath his skin— biting at his fragile bone marrow. Through his years as an Auror, Solomon Sallow was well versed in the after effects of particular spells. This one, he was all too familiar with, and his rage knew no bounds at the thought of it being used against such a small soul. Such a gentle soul. Such an undeserving soul.

The cruciatus curse. 

The eldest Sallow’s eyes softened with pity, a deep frown turning down the corners of his lips as a soft sigh puffed out of his chest. There would be time to wreak havoc upon the heads of the people who did this to this young boy in the morning. Now, though, he was needed here. His hands trailed down the sides of Ominis’ face, smoothing his hair behind his ears before taking him by the shoulders and gently pulling the boy into an embrace. 

How heartbreaking it was, how quickly the boy clinged to him. Even after growing in a den of snakes, he sought kindness first.  

Solomon’s left hand raised into the boy’s soft hair, combing his fingers through the knots with his fingers as he leaned his chin against the top of his head. His voice whispered through the silent cabin, the words awash with sympathy and care. 

“Oh, my boy…”

That was all it took for the dam to break. The youngest Gaunt child wrapped his shaking arms around the man holding him even tighter than before, his jaw clenched so tight that the creak of his teeth was near audible, his eyes shut as tight as the shutters lining the windowed walls, and openly sobbed for the first time since arriving. Solomon held Ominis as tight as he dared, feeling the young boy’s fingers dig into the fabric at his back as he clawed onto the first solid thing he could find. He quietly shushed him, the hand still in his hair softly carding through the silken strands and his other soothing up and down his back. Never had he been the one to comfort others, but this felt right. This felt like what he needed to do. 

All he could do was hold the small, trembling boy with every ounce of care he had in his body. No words needed to be said— no curses towards the loathsome family of his hiding behind their tall metal fences and mile-high blood wards— no words of sympathy whispered against heaving necks and snow soaked pajamas. Now, there was just kindness and silence. Everything else would fall together in time. 

Solomon held Ominis until the early hours of the morning, only taking note of the time change from the clouded colors of his little stained glass decorations streaming through the beige living room and catching on the soft blond head wrapped in his arms— like the sun against the melting snow just beyond his door. Through it all, his hand did not falter once in its path up and down the young boy’s back. The ex-Auror’s heart did not once change its ever-present rhythm against the sobbing child’s cheek. He held the Slytherin’s tiny world together for him, because the eldest Sallow knew that in that moment the youngest Gaunt could not hold it himself. 

Stability he could do. Stability was something he was comfortable with. He could be the support beam to Ominis’ crumbling walls. And when they woke, his niece and nephew could help pick up the pieces and put them back in their correct places. They could do this. Together. 

So when the boy finally fell asleep in his arms, exhausted from the journey to his tiny cottage and from crying until he had no more tears to shed for his uprooted life, Solomon did not hesitate to scoop him up and carefully tuck him into the armchair in the corner of the room, the family tartan blanket wrapped around his frail shoulders and the fire roaring in the handmade hearth. He did not question when he leaned down to press a chaste kiss to his alabaster temple, for it was as natural as protecting one's own. Because Ominis was his. Not by blood, not by name, but by choice. 

And as he would with any of his family, he silently, secretly, cared. He watched. He listened. He loved. 

Solomon’s voice did not stutter as he whispered a soft “Goodnight, my son,” against the blond’s temple.

And he pretended that his heart did not warm when he heard a hushed, almost inaudible hum of “Goodnight, father,” be spoken in return.

like what you read? here's more!

[satanstwinkson]

Things feel stagnant lately.

Murky, turbid, full of sludge.

To trade the wild woods for

Cookie cutter houses

That crumble in just a few years time.

Oh to be wild,

To walk the earth,

To be seen by the trees that tower

That whisper and speak in the wind.

That quietly acknowledge your presence.

To sit and listen

To all the life around you.

To the beating of wings, songs of birds,

Rustlings of a rabbit, babbling of a brook,

Whispering of leaves, crunch of gravel under foot.

All while the sun shined warm on my skin.

How I miss it all.

[pixiemage]

MCYT Fic Worldbuilding Concept: BLOCKS, GRAVITY & CRAFTING

This is now the second time I've decided to ramble on about the way I picture the Minecraft universe functioning in the fic world. The first time I chattered on about armor and inventory space, and this time it's how Minecraft blocks behave in a world where the characters...uh...aren't so blocky. (This is gonna get long, so strap in!)

Blocks are such an intrinsic part of the Minecraft in-game universe that it felt wrong to exclude them from fics, even though the characters we portray are decidedly less cuboid and sharp-edged on paper. So when I write within the MCYT world, I tend to write under the assumption that both crafted items and hand-made items exist at the same time.

Now, this all comes down to the idea that any MC universe is based in code, that every single item and person and mob and - anything, is made of ones and zeroes. Crafting is the same, and it works as a shortcut of sorts to bring new items into being using specified supplies. Two sticks and a few iron ingots? Boom, you've got a pickaxe. However it's also possible to build one by hand, if you have the skills required to do so. (TFC is one such player who I tend to imagine built his mining equipment with his own hands rather than a crafting table because the craftmanship would have been higher quality and it was a more personal and enjoyable way to gain his tools.) Crafting tables often result in cookie-cutter, standard-built tools that work well enough for what the average player needs...but if you're looking for something higher grade, you'll want to go to a professional. For example, a crafted bed would be comfortable enough, but getting a bed hand-made would potentially be softer, larger, and/or more intricate than what would come from a crafting table.

(This also means that personalized items can't be stacked in your inventory. So if - say - Impulse was to hand-make the clock he gifted Bdubs in Double Life, then it would always occupy its own inventory space, even if Bdubs dumped half a stack of crafted clocks into his inventory with it.) (EDIT: It JUST occurred to me that this ACTUALLY ALREADY MAKES SENSE with in-game mechanics! If you name an item, that item is now different from other items of the same type and it cannot stack with items that don't also have that name. So this tracks!)

BUT coming back around to blocks - the same concepts stands. A single block of wool is a whole block, a standard item recognized by the coding of the MC universe as a craftable item. So is a standard chest, a block of obsidian - even Pixlriff's precious deepslate emerald ore. Blocks like those, when placed, are assigned that location by the coding of the server, and have the ability to defy gravity if no blocks are placed beneath it. (Excepting, of course, gravel or sand or concrete powder or - you get the picture.) Once a standard crafted block is altered, it no longer can defy gravity the way its unaltered brethren can.

For example: the burning of the ranch in Double Life. If I were to write this scene (which I definitely need to do in the future), then any blocks that were burned would lose their structure and have the capacity to fall and crumble. A ceiling could cave in or a wall could collapse or a door could fall off its hinges. Any unscathed blocks would remain in mid-air...but damaged ones wouldn't be so lucky.

On a related note, a player could alter blocks purposefully if they so choose, either to carve detailing into wooden walls or break pieces off of a block of ice or...so on. A block of wool could be torn apart into fluffier pieces or spun into yarn, and a block of wood planks could be separated into individual planks if a builder wanted to so something a little more hands-on than simple block placement. Copper could be hammered into jewelry, glowstone could be chiseled apart to make small ornaments, and slime blocks could be...uh...separated into...smaller slime? (I'm not sure what the practical application would be for that one, but hey, it's possible.)

The crafting-vs-hand-made concept also works for food, in that a crafting table (or furnace, sometimes) can give you good food, but the choices are more limited and you can't personalize it the way you can if you cook/bake something yourself. Though I suppose, it also would mean the flavor of what you've crafted would be consistent and reliable every single time, meaning that - for anyone who has sensory issues - there would never be a risk of a favorite food being different and unpalatable if that favorite food is a crafting table recipe.

I'd love to see how this concept could be expanded upon as well! I imagine that it would be fun to write into other worlds, or fold this idea into the mold of certain characters and their known tropes and characteristics. Grian, as a known skilled builder, may be more likely to alter his building blocks once he has a crafted-block base built for the sake of detailing, while Mumbo - who has only begun to expand his building skills in more recent seasons - may rely more heavily on crafted materials. Tango, being knowledgeable in intricate redstone, may have a custom set of tools he uses specifically for manipulating his circuits, while Bdubs' fascination with the intricate inner workings of clocks has led him to acquire a very different set of tools of his own. Maybe Gem is skilled in hands-on gardening the way TFC is skilled in the world of true mining, and maybe Welsknight creates his own armor by hand since his more medieval apparel isn't something that can be made on a simple crafting table.

Just...some food for thought. 😉

[longlistshort]

For Hew Locke’s exhibition, Listening to the Land, at P.P.O.W. he has created intricate sculptures and paintings that are fascinating in person.

From the press release-

Locke is known for exploring the languages of colonial and post-colonial power, and the symbols through which different cultures assume and assert identity. Furthering the themes explored in his celebrated commission The Procession at Tate Britain, and his concurrent installation Gilt on the façade of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, this exhibit engages with contemporary and historical inequities while reflecting on the landscape and history of the Caribbean. The exhibition draws its title from a poem by Guyanese political activist and poet Martin Carter which situates itself between two opposing forces of the landscape – sea and forest. Locke’s show features new sculptures and wall works with recurring motifs of stilt-houses, boats, memento mori, and share certificates referencing tensions between the land, the sea, and economic power. Reflecting on these links, Locke notes, “The land was created to generate money for colonial power, now the sea wants it back.”

Translating to ‘land of many waters,’ Guyana and its physical, economic, and political landscape serve as one of the primary sources for Locke’s work. Having spent his childhood in this newly independent nation, the artist witnessed first-hand an era of radical transformation. Now, the country teeters on the precipice of an oil boom and is one of the world’s fastest growing economies. Juxtaposing personal meditations on the climate crisis with political commentary on the history of a globalized world, Locke contemplates the ways in which colonies were exploited to accumulate capital, and observes how Guyana’s economic future lies in the exploitation of its waters. Locke’s new boat sculptures The Relic and The Survivor embody this broad worldview as the two battered wrecks drift through time and history. Evoking the fragmented and diverse legacies of the global diaspora, the boats’ patchwork sails are interspersed with photo transfers of 19th Century cane cutters and banana boat loaders, while their decks are loaded with cargo that could allude to colonial plunder, trade goods or personal belongings.

Based on an abandoned plantation house, Locke’s newest sculpture Jumbie House 2 features layered images that unveil the spirits that haunt this colonial vestige. Presented alongside are a series of painted photographs of dilapidated vernacular architecture across Georgetown and rural Guyana. Constantly under threat of being washed away by storms or rising sea levels, these crumbling structures echo anxieties surrounding climate change and historical erasure. A new series of mixed media wall works, Raw Materials, is derived from antique share certificates and bonds. Locke richly decorates the appliques with acrylic, beads, and patchwork to draw attention to the complex ways in which the past shapes the present. The image of an 1898 Chinese Imperial Gold Loan behind painted Congolese figures connects the global economy at the height of Empire to current Sino-African trade networks. In another work, a painted representation of a Nigerian Ife mask, alongside an image of David Livingstone, is layered on a French-African Mortgage Bond from 1923, connecting exploration and exploitation of African land, to current conversations surrounding the repatriation of artifacts. Taken together, the works in Locke’s Listening to the Land echo William Faulkner’s adage “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

This exhibition closes 4/1/23.

The Procession, mentioned above, can now be seen at Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art, in Gateshead, England until June 11th, 2023.

Gilt, also mentioned above, is on view at The Metropolitan Museum of Art until May 30th, 2023.