#no shade it was just necessary for science

[enverwhoretrash]

hands behind back? slut behaviour

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. ﹙ the hybrid mad scientist. ﹚: rishen herrera 209 .𖹭 ݁

. . . that boy is a monster !! 🍒 : “ eyes on me, mi cielo. . . those pretty eyes are just for me, huh? all mine. even when you have long since passed, I shall hold your heart within my hands. ”

꒰ verse ꒱ 209

꒰ species ꒱ moth-spider-mantis monster

꒰ ethnicity ꒱ mexican-indian

꒰ age ꒱ 38

꒰ gender ꒱ genderfluid, amab

꒰ mbti ꒱ istj

꒰ alias ꒱ red widow ( heroes ), the mad scientist ( the resistance ), the lunatic ( the resistance ), the scarlet plague ( mutants/resistance )

꒰ story ꒱ 

charming grins and lavish effortlessnness with a possessiveness for all that is his.

after undergoing experimentation, rishen emerges with a spider-moth-mantis mutation and a hatred for his fellow enigma. ceo of the mega science company, valence, after his father’s sudden death, he aims to lead the world with knowledge and science. while also working his way to top as a seemingly benevolent, charming businessman and world renowned scientist.

behind the scenes is where the mask falls. rishen has no issue with the mass experimentation on the enigma. being a driving factor of the enigma genocide across his world.

alongside his mad doctor partner in crime and husband, jingyi herrera, the two become an unstoppable and dangerous couple. committing atrocities and puppetting world order behind the scenes. deeming the control of enigma necessary in their self-righteous mission.

 

꒰ appearance ꒱

maroon eyes, with slitted pupils ( wears contacts to hide his pupils ). typically uses winged eyeliner and sometimes red eyeshadow. he can have multiple pairs of eyes if his mutation is showing; his sclera and pupils might disappear completely in this case

mid-length, layered, fluffy and slightly curly very dark brown hair that trickles down his shoulders

very androgynous face, with sharp and soft features combined. has a bronze skin tone

slender physique, stands at the height of 6’2” ( 187cm ). can appear a bit feminine

typically dresses in reds and blacks. ranging from a classy style that can bleed into vintage. very genderfluid in his way of dressing

beauty spots: scattered on the right side of his face with one at the left corner of his lips

lips usually painted shades of red depending on his mood

retractable fangs with venom and claws

elongated tongue

fingers/hands covered with rings and chains, with long, red painted fingernails

ear piercings: a pair of standard lobe and industrial piercings — his right ear dons a transverse lobe, rook, orbital and snug piercing while his left ear holds a daith, stacked helix and forward helix piercing.

piercings: venom tongue piercings, septum piercing and nose ring, nipple piercings, navel piercing

can extend strong, flexible, scarlet and black tendrils from his back and arms

four spider legs that tear out of his back but he can retract

overall, if his mutation is having a bad day or he is going feral, he may display spider features such as multiple eyes, pincers, mouth glands that can secrete acid and so on

 

꒰ personality ꒱

oh so deceptive, in his smile, his voice and overall appearance. charming, sickeningly sweet with a faux amiability

even when he is hands-deep into an experiment, he keeps false kindness and friendly façade. gives off an eerie vibe to those with a good intuition

morally evil with a chilling lack of ethics. extremely cunning and two-faced

silver-tongued and charismatic

so effortless on everything that he does, exuding a cool confidence

intelligent and quick-witted. loves playing mind games on people and getting into their psyche

certain that whatever he is doing is for the betterment of humanity, beyond self-righteous

quite stubborn and makes sure to see his projects through, as a result has a tendency of overworking

may appear serene but is quite temperamental, displays his anger and bitterness in a scarily calm way with a charming smile and smooth words in spite of his horrific actions

 

꒰ with a lover ꒱

a yandere lover

that charming personality does not fade with a lover, rishen is often quite flirty and all sorts of teasing with his beloved.

loves flustering you — it is a part of his favorite pass-times. fluster you and then grab you by the waist, only to tease you further.

affection is mainly displayed in a physical manner. he will touch anything and everything on you that you allow him to touch and kiss, all so that he can worship you and make you feel good.

another form of his affection is through gifts. he adores spoiling you with a wide variety of whatever it is you either need or want.

very verbal in his love for you and shameless in every way; his tongue holds no filter.

late night dances in his office, bringing you coffees or teas through the day, and finding you in the middle of the day simply to pour his affection out on you.

he is a very passionate and dedicated lover — however, there is a darker side to it. rishen grows obsessive and quite possessive, his nature that of a yandere.

and yes he takes it to the extremes. . .

should someone merely look at you in a way he deems wrong, it is their funeral.

do not fight him on this, he’ll lock you away for his eyes only.

 

꒰ strengths ꒱

intelligence: highly intelligent from a young age, resulting in advanced, prodigal level of skill in science and technological fields.

increased bodily function: advanced strength, speed, agility and durability.

heightened senses: advanced sight, smell, hearing, taste and awareness of surroundings.

healing factor: an average healing factor that heals his injuries far quicker than an average human

tendrils: strong, resilient, red and black tendril-like appendages that can be produced from his back and extend from his hands

spider legs: large spider legs that tear through his back at times, it is extremely painful for him but are very useful in combat.

fangs & claws: retractable fangs that secrete paralyzing venom at will along with retractable claws from the pads of his fingers that can tear through a variety of materials.

 

꒰ weaknesses ꒱

mutation: his mutation as a whole, while it does grant him a wide variety of abilities is also his greatest weakness.

metabolism: has an extremely fast metabolism that requires him eating a lot through the day.

abandonment issues: he suffers from horrible abandonment issues, which can cause him to get erratic and panicked whenever someone he loves does leave him on purpose after arguments, tiffs, etc.

heart condition: suffers from a heart condition that requires him taking medication in order to make sure his heart stays stable.

stabilisers: in order to control his mutation, he is required to inject himself with stabilisers on an alternating daily basis.

 

꒰ relationships ꒱

jìngyí herrera: husband, best friend, business partner

javier herrera: father, deceased

rishima singhania: mother, deceased

alessio agresta arias: best friend, deceased

wèi lìxuě: enemey

liú tàishī: enemy

zhào haitāo: enemy

lorenzo agresta arias: enemy

park tae-hyun: enemy

 

꒰ extra ꒱

he is the ceo of valence and practically runs the city of nueva york

speaks spanish ( latin american ), speaks mandarin, speaks hindi, speaks tamil.

he knows asl.

has a cat named Beatrice Herrera Reina the 2nd queen of the abyssal dread. ( his and his husband’s “daughter” )

he has four dobbermen: cupcake, vani(lla), (cara)mel & macha

he sometimes smokes

[talk-danmei-to-me]

hello hello!! <3 for the danmei fanfic nightclub, how about some chengxian mafia au? with the 4 big sects being mafia clans too. (it could also be omegaverse if u want, but not necessary!) :D

I got so carried away with this! Honestly, I think it could be it's own multichapter fic. Anyways, thank you so much for the prompt, any excuse to write Chengxian ;) I gave it an omegaverse flavour as requested (Omega Jiang Cheng for the win). Oh also... shout out for Cuckji:

It had been four months since Jiang Fengmian sent Wei Wuxian to the Lan family as a show of good faith. Now, his adoptive father was dead, and Wei Wuxian allowed the gang leader’s youngest nephew to fuck him every day to assuage his boredom.

In all honesty, Wei Wuxian hadn’t given his relationship with Lan Zhan much thought, yet as he walked into the member’s area of the restaurant, which served as the preferred conference room of the four great families, he couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about what Jiang Cheng might think. Yet that guilt quickly morphed into excitement when he actually saw his adopted brother. Positioned at the head of the table, Jin Zixuan to his right and Nie Mingjue to his left, Jiang Cheng carried the manner of a man who’d led a crime family for years. It felt bizarre to acknowledge the drive by shooting that stole Jiang Fengmian’s life happened a mere week ago. The sight of him made Wei Wuxian’s heart swell. Though the second he sat down, he soon became aware of a familiar scent, thick in the air.

‘The Wens’ are invading our patch again,’ Jin Zixuan said, starting the meeting in earnest, ‘We need to do something about them!’

‘I already told you, our mole knows their next location. We can easily set a trap to take out Wen Chao. He’s always been weak to women, no one would be shocked if he turned up dead in the pleasure district.’ Lan Xichen said.

Both appeared completely oblivious to the growing stench around them. It was sweet. a little floral and terribly nostalgic. Wei Wuxian racked his brain, trying to recall where he’d smelt it before. The meeting continued around him, but he failed to pay any attention to the schemes being put forward due to his own growing arousal.  

‘Why does it have to be that club? Our girls are just as capable?’ Jiang Cheng wore an irritated expression.

‘I’m sorry, is nobody going to comment on that smell?’ Wei Wuxian asked unable to hide his frustration a second longer.

Lan Zhan frowned, ‘I assume an omega in heat is nearby.’

‘I know that! But why is it so strong in here?’ Wei Wuxian shot a pointed look at Jiang Cheng.

The other man’s face turned a shade pinker as he scowled, ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Obviously not!’

Jiang Cheng covered his eyes with his hand, ‘You always ruin everything,’ he seethed before withdrawing his hand, ‘I wasn’t going to say anything until the end of the meeting, but apparently my brother is incapable of ignoring the obvious.’

He pointed to the door that led out to the car park, ‘Outside, a van is filled with some of our best omegas, all are in heat, all are skilled in delivering pleasure and have been chosen specifically to match your desires.              Consider it my gift to you all. A thank you, for your support in the wake of my father’s murder.’

‘That’s not necessary,’ Lan Zhan said.

Jiang Cheng glared at him, lifted his cup to his lips and downed the contents before he replied, ‘If you don’t want one, you can go home.’

‘I’ll take two,’ Nie Mingjue said, ‘So, let’s settle the matter of the Wens quickly, shall we?’

Wei Wuxian failed to listen to the outcome of the Wen issue. Instead, he studied Jiang Cheng for the remainder of the meeting, as though he were a science experiment. A faint sheen of sweat began to form on Jiang Cheng’s skin causing him to glisten when the light hit him just right, his breathing became increasingly erratic the longer the other crime families argued. Perhaps Wei Wuxian’s favourite observation was the way Jiang Cheng shifted uncomfortably on his seat every now and then, seeking friction, seeking release. It was equal parts dangerous and obscene. Jiang Cheng’s slick had always gushed from him, staining countless amounts of furniture and bed sheets. That he was allowing himself to be so lewd in front of the other crime families made Wei Wuxian’s cock rock hard. He imagined pulling him onto the table and defiling him right then and there, audience be damned. But if their criminal empire discovered one of it’s most well-respected families was run by an omega, a drive by shooting wouldn’t be punishment enough. Wei Wuxian knew what the men around him were like. If Jiang Cheng continued to push through, he’d find himself in a brothel serving all manner of pond scum by the end of the night.

The only option available to Wei Wuxian was to shuffle further under the desk to conceal his body’s reaction and hope Jiang Cheng was smart enough to wrap up the meeting sooner rather than later.  He continued to talk and so Wei Wuxian downed the jug of Emperor’s Smile in front of him.

Once all eyes were on him, he wiped his mouth and asked, ‘So, when do we get the omegas?’

He felt Lan Zhan bristle beside him, but Wei Wuxian didn’t care. That was a problem that could be solved back in Gusu, with a well-timed blow job.

Jiang Cheng moved to the door without preamble, ‘So impatient, have them now why don’t you!’ 

He opened the door  and the members of the Jiang family that manned it suddenly sprang into action. They opened the van’s back doors. As promised, a handful of barely dressed omega’s, slick shining between their thighs, rushed in, seeking an appropriate alpha to fill them up. Jiang Cheng managed to vanish in the chaos.

‘Let’s go,’ Lan Zhan said.

Wei Wuxian nodded and followed him into the corridor, the smell of Jiang Cheng’s heat assaulted his nostrils once more, subconsciously he raised a hand to his face.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, nothing!’ Wei Wuxian waved the hand that covered his nose in front of his eyes, in a pitiful attempt to look casual, ‘I need the toilet before we go. Wait in the car for me?’

‘I can wait here.’

‘No! What if one of those omega’s comes out and tries to get you! I’d be so jealous! The car is much better. Please?’ Wei Wuxian punctuated his sentence with an adorable beam.

‘Mhm.’

With that, Lan Zhan left the restaurant. Finally alone, Wei Wuxian headed for the place he was certain to find Jiang Cheng.

As a result of the restaurant being Jiang Fengmian’s favourite, he’d been granted his own private room. A room Jiang Cheng now had access to. Wei Wuxian headed there without a second thought. Jiang Cheng was in a very sorry state, crouched in the corner, one hand clamped over his mouth to stifle his moans as the fingers of the other hand pistoned within him at a punishing pace. His trousers and underwear tossed to one side, ruined by slick after he’d tortured himself for forty-five minutes in a room full of alphas. In the close confines, Jiang Cheng’s scent was too much to bear and Wei Wuxian flew across the room to him like a wild animal. One hand clasped around his throat whilst the other pulled his hand away from pleasuring himself. Without even giving Jiang Cheng chance to respond, he shoved three fingers inside his wet hole, bending them just so, he brushed against Jiang Cheng’s sweet spot again and again and again.

Jiang Cheng instantly threw his head back and bucked his hips wildly, grinding against Wei Wuxian’s palm as he chased the sensations his brother provided. 

‘What the hell were you thinking? Coming here in this state? Why didn’t you take your pills?’

‘Aah! I wanted – fuck- wanted you to notice me.’

Wei Wuxian ignored the way his own cock strained against the confines of his trousers and leaned in closer to press a kiss to the corner of Jiang Cheng’s parted mouth, ‘Don’t I always notice you?’

Somehow the question summoned a sense of lucidity within Jiang Cheng. He wrapped his arms around Wei Wuxian’s shoulders and pulled himself onto his lap, rocking against his erection he said, ‘I know you’re fucking him.’

‘I’m not,’ Wei Wuxian said. He retracted his fingers from Jiang Cheng’s eager hole and set to work unfastening his own belt.

Jiang Cheng whined from the loss, though he continued to dry hump him like a dog, ‘You’re such a liar,’ he forced the words out between pants and moans.  

‘I’m not,’ Wei Wuxian promised, stilling Jiang Cheng with a firm hand so he could line his cock up with his entrance and take him properly, ‘He fucks me.’  

[marsipaniscool]

I have to ask about your thoughts on how kars was radicalized because i've seen the wham post and now I'm curious

:D! okie dokie! 1.7k words of young kars angst is served hot and ready! also slight esikars in part 2 ! :) TW: brief description of violence [1/2] under the cut for length

(I will be assuming that Kars' former tribe is the only pillar tribe on earth, I simply haven't thought about other tribes :,) ) SO let's start with just a general overview of Kars' life. He's 103,000 years old, according to the wiki. It's mentioned several times, both directly and indirectly (Wamuu and Santana's ages now vs. when they were shown to have been taken at infancy), that the pillar tribe was only slaughtered by Esidisi and Kars 10,000 years ago. So, that's 93,000 years Kars spent with his tribe being abused and chastised.

The pillar tribe was a small and tight-knit community with few distinctions politically, economically, or socially. This social wealth fostered an attitude of peace towards nature, humans, and themselves. The tribe had long made peace with their inability to bask in the sun, fostering a story similar to that of Abrahamic Adam and Eve. A group of pillar people upset the sun god, and, as punishment, their people were banished from the sun for all eternity. Surviving the night of life was necessary for the light of the afterlife.

Kars, when he came of age, followed in his family's footsteps and became an apprentice to his father in natural philosophy, with a focus on medicinal alchemy. He didn't mind, having had an interest in science for as long as he could remember. His parents, masters of the subject, lovingly fostered this interest. Every star and constellation, every planet, every asteroid band, everything in the night sky he knew. He knew the clouds too—that odd shade of grey. He wasn't fond of them very much; they blocked out the stars.

It started with irritation at having to rush miles into the forest surrounding the temples at dusk, just to hope to get to the blossoms he needed for his latest project. He often failed, the flowers long since pruned by the creatures of the light. Even a scrap of a petal seldom remained for Kars.

That irritation became anger when the humans who worshiped them would have sun-kissed skin, and the children would still smell of the ocean waves. They'd laugh and tell stories of how warm and lovely it was. He rushed out into the evening one day, as soon as it was safe, only to feel heat boil in his chest as the air around him grew colder, no longer warmed by the sun. To indulge in the sun, all of it, to be able to feel the warmth on his skin and to be burned, if even for a moment, was all he desired. He wanted to pick the flowers and the fruits that flourished during the day and feel the life flow through them—life given by the sun.

It bothered him greatly that he came from the flesh of the earth, the same as any creature, yet he and his people are the only ones to be cursed like this. He doesn't understand why they're so complacent or why they're so accepting of their fate in the darkness.

First, he goes to his father, the man who spoiled him and loved him his entire life. He paces around frustratedly, hands running through his hair, horns fully protruding, and lets out centuries of buried anger. His father stops him mid-sentence with a hand, laughing loudly.

"The sun isn't a friend, nor is it a foe. It's not something to be feared nor conquered. It simply is not our dominion. While the moon doesn't hurt the humans that worship us, many fear it and the darkness it heralds. They tell stories of monsters, of horrific demonic creatures in the night. The sun is their dominion, as the moon is ours."

Kars went to the elders, only to be met with recommendations to visit the tribe's shaman and to be induced into a lengthy meditation with their moon goddess.

He was infuriated now. Why didn't anyone understand? Whenever he brought up concerns he deemed worthwhile, they were dismissed with, "This is just how things are!"

Word spread quickly among the small tribe, with the older men coming to mock him every morning and evening when he would head out to see the last rays of the sun peaking over the horizon. It escalated to outright mockery wherever he would go. At meals: "Is this food as warm as the sun?" Whenever he would wear jewelry of the sun, he was boisterously, cruelly laughed at, and had it ripped off of him. He used to love wearing gold, the colour of the sun; it complimented his hair and complexion so well, he thought. His tribe laughed at him and dirtied his garments with mud, rotted meat, and whatever vile fluids and liquidy things that were within reach. Black was the colour of the night, and it didn't show the stains. He started wearing his hair up, first in braids, then in buns, then in his wraps. He was tired of it getting mucked up, tangled, yanked, and abused.

One night he entered the galley, and as he stood on the stone pedestal overlooking the table, he realised there was no seat for him. He left as silent as he came.

[tumblingxelian]

I’ve made it clear I hate those HCs that have Jason struggling with science, technology or basically anything intellectual given the varying shades of classism and character assassination going on.

I do however think it would be very funny for him to see which characters are dumb enough to fall for such a ruse.

People who don’t fall for it, least to most:

Cassandra can tell when people are lying and doesn’t like or trust Jason and is newer to this stuff than him in some cases. She’d probably punch him if he tried it and so he doesn't. 

Stephanie and Jason have a pretty decent regard for one another and Stephanie doesn’t trust faux male incompetency like that given her dad. So her response would be, some variation of “Perish/Don’t fuck with me.”

Dick is the next least likely, he rarely doubted Jason’s intelligence, just his intent and they have that whole annoying sibling thing going on. So it’d be like, “I’m not falling for this Jason.”

Duke and Jason have a good relationship, Jason even mentored Duke a little so there’s respect. Duke’s better nature/relationship is the only thing that slots him into fourth place with, “You can’t? Wait a second, no, not falling for this.”

Barbara is last on the list, she tutored Jason, but did have a mixed memory of him and can have a bit of an ego at times and so assume the worst. It’d basically be, “You’ve got to be shitting me, all right I’ll... Wait, you are shitting me.”

Note: Babsgirl would 100% fall for it, unlike Oracle.

People who fall for it the most, least to most:

Damian doesn’t think highly of Jason but he does think highly of his mother who mentored Jason, but also thinks highly of himself. He’d fall for it for longer than you’d expect, give up ‘helping/ in frustrating only to realize when rooting around in the fridge that Jason was screwing with him.

Bruce’s memory of Jason is wildly inaccurate, but he can also often default to assuming the worst and doesn’t always trust Jason. Still, his mixed memories and complicated dad feels would ensure he sticks out trying to ‘teach’ Jason something very basic for a long ass time and then he’d be left doubting whether it was necessary.

Tim has near zero respect for Jason and loves being ‘right’ and ‘the smart one’. As a result it would only be his dislike of Jason that would eventually, after anywhere from days to weeks before he realizes Jason was fucking with him. If someone told him however he’d double down on assuming Jason can’t do it cos he can’t have been fooled.

Alfred would just do the task and blithely assume incompetence, or get someone else to do it and blithely assume incompetence and not really think on it more deeply than that, its the only reason he’s below Tim.

[isolaradiale]

"You know, there's more to this than I thought. I was just thinking about the psychological applications of colour, but there's a real science to all this, too." "They used to teach it in art class, when it still existed." "Hm!" "Actually, go back a page? I have a new idea. They have all these wonderful hues on them now, I think that's enough for phase two." "I absolutely agree~ I'll meet you back at the lab."

And as the two Stars continue to make life difficult for the island residents pursue their creativity, Tageta continued to wheel alongside the museum curator.

. . . . .

It's hard enough to navigate a grey city with all your feelings (and even your core beings) all scrambled and assigned to all these different colours.

Let's make it harder!

In an effort to test the limit of how people see themselves in these wonderful new hues, Mimosa and Solaris have decided to duplicate some of you in a different colour palette. So you may find a duplicate of yourself walking around the city, leaving paint splatters just like you! But there's something different about your new double...

...It's entirely made of paint!

Unlike your current selves, these doubles aren't greyscaled or monochromatic. They follow a specific property, both visually and fundamentally, as listed below:

Tint

A tint of a colour means white was added to it to make it lighter. If your double is a Tint of you, it retains your personality, albeit in a lighter tone that isn't as intense as you are. (Pink is a tint of Red)

Shade

A shade of a colour means black was added to make it darker. If your double is a Shade of you, it retains your personality, albeit in a darker tone that makes your double more moody. (Maroon is a shade of Red)

Analogue

Analogous colours are next to each other on the colour wheel. If your double is an Analogue, it will act mostly like you, but as if something in your story changed and you took a bit of a different path. Maybe your Analogue succeeded in a crucial part of your story where you failed, and act a little different for it. Typically, analogous colours create harmony with one another--how you interpret that is up to you. (Orange and Yellow are analogous colours to Red)

Compliment

Complimentary colours are on opposite sides of the colour wheel. If your double is a Compliment, it will act completely different from you in every aspect it can. Complimentary colours typically clash with one another, and your Compliment will oppose you--how you interpret that is up to you. (Green is a complimentary colour to Red)

Here are some guidelines to this new colour challenge:

It is not mandatory to have a double. This is just a fun little extra--you don't have to have one if you don't want to!

Each muse gets only one double, and it cannot be changed once you make a decision. So you won't be able to use a compliment AND a shade in different threads--you'll have to be consistent!

Every double is made entirely of paint, including their clothes and weapons. They are semi-solid and keep their shape, but are fluid enough to stretch and melt into different areas. They cannot outright transform, but can fit into tight spaces or containers if need be.

Your muse is still under the effect of the Colour Theory, meaning if your double splashes a certain colour paint on you, your personality will change accordingly! You might want to bring an umbrella.

Your double cannot actually use your powers and abilities. Any powers or abilities that have a visual or physical effect will instead be... made of paint. So if you can throw a fireball, your double will also throw a paintball that looks like your fireball. It's very messy, but harmless. If your muse has an ability that has no physical component, like mind control, your double cannot use it--it simply won't have any effect.

If you feel that it's necessary, you can destroy your double by using any technique that would get rid of paint--soap, water, turpentine, etc. You could also burn or freeze them, or find something to absorb them with. Needless to say, stabbing a paint blob wouldn't be very effective... but a garden hose would.

Your double might think it's the real thing. Or it might be aware it's a fake. It depends on how you want to play.

If you have any questions, please feel free to ask the Masterlist!

[darlingandmreames]

@inception30daychallenge Day 2: Classify each character according to the alignment chart

Dom: Neutral Evil. This sounds a lot crueler than I mean it to. I don't think Dom acts with malice and I do think he often believes he's acting in the best interest of others. But I also think he's very good at lying to himself. Most of what we see of him in the movie, both currently and in the past, is him acting in his own self-interest, without much regard to the impact on others and often to their (usually unintentional) detriment.

Ariadne: Neutral Good. On the other end of things, we have Ariadne. We see her take major risks and break major rules to help people (mostly Dom, though also Fischer to some extent) throughout the movie. I think she's got some True Neutral flair, but ultimately falls best in the Neutral Good category.

Arthur: Lawful Neutral. My boy loves rules and even when he breaks them, he tends to do so in methodical ways governed by rules of their own (e.g., paradoxes). He's also not one to take unnecessary risks and prefers there to be an orderly and well defined plan before going into something. I do think he's got a Neutral Good flair, particularly in the support of Dom and mentoring Ariadne, but ultimately I think his actions tend less towards intentionally helping or hurting others and more towards establishing an orderly way to achieve his goals, whatever they may be.

Eames: Chaotic Neutral. As a forger, I think identity is particularly important to Eames and he strikes me as someone who holds his personal freedom and identity as a priority above just about anything else. Similar to Arthur, I don't think he necessarily tends towards specifically helping or hurting others per se, but his primary goal is maintaining that personal freedom and he will help or hurt others to achieve that if necessary.

Yusuf: True Neutral/Neutral Evil. I think Yusuf kind of saddles the line between True Neutral and Neutral Evil. He strikes me as the one most removed from the actual dream process itself, viewing it much more as a dispassionate science than the others do. He approaches dream sharing in the same way he approaches the chemistry of making a compound, and tends to seek the correct balance necessary for a particular situation. He's also simultaneously very aware of the damage long-term dream sharing can have, especially with a very strong compound, and completely willing to ignore those consequences because doing so is good business.

Saito: Lawful Evil. Saito is a fabulously wealthy man with a very in depth understanding of the systems he works within and enough money to manipulate them to get what he wants. His goals aren't necessarily always bad (breaking up the Fischer-Morrow empire) but even when there are genuinely good outcomes (preventing a full monopoly), these outcomes are secondary to his personal motivations (protecting his business interests). He isn't one to intentionally harm others in pursuit of his goals, but he will manipulate the systems he's in and the people within them to achieve his goals.

Mal: Alive- Chaotic Good. Shade- Neutral Evil. Alive, I think Mal valued freedom above just about anything else and dream sharing encapsulated that, but only as long as she could wake up after. She convinced herself that she was awake in limbo and when Dom interfered with that, the consequences were drastic. And when she came to believe she was still asleep in the real world, she took the drastic steps she viewed necessary to regain her freedom and wake up. As a shade, I think Mal retains that ruthless pursuit of her goals, but she's also been infused with Dom's guilt and regret. And through that, her goal of freedom has been replaced by the goal of ensuring Dom suffers the fate he believes he deserves. Whatever impact that may have on others is no longer her concern.

[peregrine5]

Been reading a lot of sci-fi lately and I thought up a sci fi au! Details under cut :D

A bunch of hermits on a ship chillin’ and delivering merchandise! No reasoning to which hermits are in this au, I just picked ones I though would vibe together.

Originally Ren’s ship - the GigaCraft - it’s now home to Ren and a bunch of his friends/crew mates.

Ren- the Captain! They’re a pretty close-knit group, so not much captaining necessary, but he’s the most dramatic and it’s *technically* his ship, soooo

He wears sunglasses because he thinks they’re “retro”

He’s a (technically illegal) dog hybrid who escaped the lab he was raised in as a kid. He’s been a “cool space explorer” for a few decades by this point, but his backstory isn’t quite irrelevant yet…

False- the tactical and security officer! She’s human and False is a nickname (no one knows her real name though). She’s in charge of weapons, and while she’d like you to think her goggles do something, she actually just thinks they’re neat.

Doc- Doc’s from a planet of highly evolved herbivores (same planet as Zed) and he’s a goat species. He’s technically the doctor, but he can do just about anything scienc-y. He’s green because of a science experiment gone wrong, but it’s (probably) temporary. No one’s sure what happened to his eye, and if he lost it in an experiment or it was a purposeful upgrade, and he refuses to tell anyone. He’s not a big fan of wearing shirts.

Scar- the helmsman/pilot of the ship! He’s a vex and old friends with Cub. My interpretation of Vexes for this au is that their wings are mostly vestigial and non-corporeal, except when they’re emotional or in danger. Their skin and hair is normally varying shades of light blue, but when they get emotional veins of red shoot through their skin.

Zed- he’s from the same planet as Doc, except he’s a sheep hybrid. He’s the mad scientist- ahem, engineer - of the ship.

Cub- the science specialist. An old friend of Scar’s, also a Vex.

Joe Hills- he’s human. Probably. No one’s actually sure. He does basically anything that needs to be done around the ship. Though there are vision correction procedures in this au, Joe prefers wearing glasses as they seem more “authentic”

Cleo- she’s a “zombie”, basically a species with grayish green skin and dark grey vein-like streaks. Her hair isn’t really “hair”, it’s more like tube-like tentacles. They’re a sculptor that hitched a ride on the GigaCraft to visit Bdubs and Etho (designs pending). An old friend of Ren and Joe, she helps around the ship on the journey and her joining the population of the ship is where the story starts in my mind.

[fgfluidity]

pincera (part 6) (finale)

Summary: pincera- Latin, ‘cup-bearer, one who mixes drinks’ || He meets his songbird.

Pairings: Damien/DA, Celine/Mark, Celine/Will

Tags: Alcohol, Bootlegging, Adultery, WWI, Fights, implied Overserving, Abusive Parents, Autistic!Seer!DA

Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

find it on ao3 | donate to my kofi

@opprose @statictay @volbeast @otterlyinluv @flerpdederp @hapikiou @mirrorslament (and if anyone else wants to be tagged lmk!

He met them in university, and nothing has been the same, since.

No, it wasn’t a flash of light, a singular moment of oh, everything’s different. Meeting them in the library in the early days of his university career was just that-- meeting someone new.

Granted, they were a bit quieter than most people he’s met, but they certainly made up for it. They’re a listener, the observant kind of person you can’t get much past, and the day he meets them, it’s very clear just what he’s in for.

He’s in the library at his university. It’s a lovely, quiet place, a massive room full of books and papers and archives, wings stretching out for yards like a massive bird alighted on their campus. The smallest sounds echo over the stone walls and ceilings, glide over the shining wooden floor; it being a library, everyone takes great care to remain as silent as is possible, but every now and then a mutter of a word or a whisper of breath bounces from somewhere else in the building, too quiet to make out but unmistakable all the same.

In that way, it reminds him of his home, the hard surfaces more likely to betray your presence than hold you close and safe, but the similarity ends there. Where his home holds stark monochrome from floor to ceiling, here the floors are rich brown, the walls and ceiling soft gray, with plenty of furniture almost to call it overstuffed. Desks and tables and chairs of similar polished wood, gleaming mahogany, and soft cushions in deepest green, the color of a forest in high summer.

It’s why, amidst the forest shades of the library, shelves of muted books standing tall and strong as trees, a startling flash of yellow surprises him.

It went by quickly, between the gaps in the shelves, but with his attention newly focused on it, he can make it out once it comes back: a sweater, bulky but soft, the color of sunshine. A person.

A person just coming from the political science section of the shelves, and not empty-handed.

Quickly, he moves for that section, scanning across the shelves and comparing to the piece of paper in his hands, his necessary selections written down in his neat script. Of his five choices, not a one of them remains, plucked from the shelves-- and freshly, by the gaps still left between the rest. Damn.

His mind casts back to the person he saw, a stack of books under their straining arms, too many to take at once. Too many to read at once. If by the off chance they took even one of his books, perhaps…

He turns on his heel to follow where their path might lead, but with their quick step, he’s uncertain by the end of the next section of shelves. It’s like tracking a bird through the trees, he thinks. Here but gone in a flash, with only the sharpest-- and fastest-- able to keep up, and by design at that.

This bird, however, has bright feathers, a pop of color in the muted branches.

When he comes out from the shelves, it’s into an expanse of tables and desks, various students dotted throughout. Each has books at hand, open as they jot down notes or complete homework, pencils scribbling away. A study area, then, and with his greatest hope--

Yes, there, at the far end! His bird, settling down with a stack of books-- a massive stack of books, with at least a few notebooks at hand. A nest of words made for them, and only for them.

He ought not to intrude. It wouldn’t be polite, and voices carry through the library. They seem comfortable, simply going about their day; they wouldn’t very much appreciate someone coming to bother him about their study practices.

Then again, how polite is it, really, to take more books than you could feasibly need in one study session? His interest in them isn’t just passing; he’ll need all of them, eventually, and even just one right at the moment would be nice. Why would they take all five?

They’re reading as he approaches, book propped up to conceal their face. One hand, every now and then, taps out something against the faded cover where it rests. Then, quickly as it happens, a page turns. The other four remain in their stack, waiting patiently for their turn.

Turn. They don’t need all of them at once. Once a step from the table, he clears his throat as quietly as he can manage, hoping not to disturb anyone else in the study area.

They don’t speak to him. Instead, a page in mid-transition freezes in air for a heartbeat or two, before slowly moving to settle into place. Then, before he truly realizes it, he’s the one being watched.

A pair of dark eyes, peeping over the edge of the book. It’s difficult to say how they regard him at all, at first, face unreadable as they just look, eyes darting here and there, only at his face for the briefest of moments.

It nearly feels like Celine, he thinks, unexpectedly frozen under their gaze. Watching, almost seeing into things, used to noticing. Still, it’s different to her; at the worst of times, Celine’s gaze can feel hungry, searching not to sate her curiosity but to have every last thing laid bare, knowing all for the sake of controlling and predicting outcomes.

Hers is icy. This is warm, and when he truly meets their eyes, just for a moment, he understands, too.

A bit hesitant, perhaps, nervous, but not malicious-- far from it. Mostly, it’s curiosity, and for its own sake at that. A creature of the same standing, wondering if friend or foe, and the blazing intelligence to do with that information as it will.

They have lovely eyes.

He catches himself, warm in his cheeks, and clears his throat once more before pointing to their stack of books, neatly set aside. A question he hopes they’ll understand.

Their eyes flick over on cue, and they take another second or so before nodding, using one hand to push the stack closer to him.

Smiling, grateful that his hopeful expression didn’t read as desperate, instead-- or maybe it had, he can’t say-- he takes one off the top. Before he can so much as offer his thanks, something else scoots towards him, across the table.

A notebook. Theirs, turned to a blank page, with writing across the top. It isn’t the neatest, but it’s legible enough for him to read while standing.

Sit, please. It’s easier, should you want to look at something else.

When he looks up, there’s a twinkle in their eye that stokes the heat in his face once more, though it disappears so quickly he can hardly say it was there to begin with. A chair beside him scoots forward, seemingly of its own accord, and he takes it gratefully as his new tablemate straightens up in their chair.

It’s smart to use notes, considering how voices carry, and he whips out his pencil to write his own, nudging the book back once finished.

Thank you for allowing me to borrow it. Unfortunately, I need it for my class, or I wouldn’t have troubled you.

Almost immediately, a reply comes back.

I shouldn’t have taken all of them. I suppose I’m used to biting off more than I can chew. I apologize.

Well, you gave it back, and allowed me to join, so I see no reason to condemn you. I’m Damien.

I know who you are.

He blinks up at them, surprised. He doesn’t exactly try to be much of anyone on campus, let alone a notable name. Perhaps he isn’t as successful as he imagined.

You do?

Yes. You’re the mayor’s son. A legacy. People talk about you often.

Ugh. As he should have guessed, his father’s shadow overtakes him. He sighs and returns pencil to page.

I wish they wouldn’t. I don’t particularly care for being a legacy. I can’t imagine what others have to say is the most kind.

Not always, no. People equate you to him.

Is that why you hesitated?

I wanted to see for myself who you are. You aren’t like him.

You just met me, how could you know that?

In his periphery, he just catches the slight upturn of their mouth.

Well, for one, you don’t want to be. Besides, Damien, I see things about people. I wouldn’t have offered for you to sit if I saw anything bad.

See?

Notice. I get feelings, but I mostly just pay attention. You can know all you need to just by watching and listening.

Also, I sit behind you in class. You’re smarter than he could ever be.

He barks a laugh before he can stop it, and they’re both asked to either be quiet or leave. Their own laughter, warm but quiet giggles, solidifies their decision to leave, but he can’t bring himself to mind.

He learns their name, their major, their preferences. They like to sit out on the quad in the last of the warm September sunshine, sunning like a cat in the grass. They like to drink tea with their pastries and tease him over his black coffee without a single grain of sugar. They like to read and write and debate him over nothing, eyes shining when he grins over the challenge.

Mostly, they like to sit and watch.

In the dining hall, in the library, in the quad. In the local diner and the park. They sit and just take it all in, dark, curious eyes tracking the people around them.

They aren’t a gossip. They don’t tell him anything he couldn’t have guessed on his own, snippets of conversation he, himself, heard; still, he knows they hear and see more than they let on.

They only have a few favorite places to take a lunch, mostly because each has plenty of options his friend is actually capable of eating. It’s a solemn decision, one that neither of them take lightly, and a deviation from a choice can spell a ruined afternoon at the very least-- they don’t handle changes in plans very well.

Still, one very stormy day, they change course to the diner instead of the cafe, and not five yards away do they hear a crash. A branch, caught up by the wind, knocked through the front window.

They eye him another time before handing over their handkerchief. “Keep it,” they insist, eyes quite serious, and so he pockets it. What else could he do? At the very least, it will assuage his friend’s worries for him to keep it a day or so.

The next day, he can’t stop sneezing, feverish yet chilled. It’s difficult to rise from his bed, limbs aching and weak. He sleeps through most of it, and that handkerchief on his bedside table is a godsend when he can’t make it to his drawer for a fresh one.

Damien’s normally very good at keeping up with his coursework, but between his family and his other classes, a paper falls to the wayside. As he sits over it by candlelight in his dorm, the deadline of eight o’clock looming, his friend puts a hand on his shoulder. “You have time,��� they say, eyes too dark in the golden light. “No need to rush.”

He has less than twelve hours to complete five pages, and while their belief in his abilities is quite flattering, he just shakes his head. The next morning, however, his professor pushes the due date to the following week, rushing out in a hurry past the messenger-- he can’t very well miss his child being born for a few papers to grade.

They know things before he ever could, and he can’t say it’s just good guesswork, just observation, not when he knows what Celine can do if she really wants to. He doesn’t mention it to them, unsure if they even think it’s something preternatural, but he does wonder.

Whether or not it’s a gift beyond humanity’s capabilities, he finds himself copying their methods. Listening, watching, waiting before he speaks or comes to a conclusion. It doesn’t come quite so easily-- he’s unfortunately inherited a bit of a temper, growing up so with Celine and his father-- but it does a decent amount in tempering his impulses.

It comes in quite handy at their first college party.

Damien’s partaken of alcohol before, though not to excess; his friend, on the other hand, looks to the sea of bottles with fascination, though little temptation. “Should I?” They ask over the crash of voices, wincing a bit and covering their ears as a portion rises in a cheer. “I haven’t-- but that’s what college parties are known for, right?”

“If you want to.” He shrugs, looking over the array. Strong stuff, befitting the raucous nature of the party. “I’d start small, though. It doesn’t taste good-- maybe some with that mix over there?”

It looks similar to Celine’s drink, the last time he saw her-- cloudy citrus with the sharp sting of alcohol-- but it isn’t frosty, and the scent of clover comes from it, honey swirled in the mix.

His friend seems to enjoy it well enough, a smile on their lips after their first tentative sip, and he thinks nothing more of it. It’s a party, and he tries to have fun.

For the most part, he succeeds, properly speaking to other people his age about topics that aren’t politics, for once, hopefully proving the ones who find him a carbon copy of his father wrong. He partakes of his own drinks, though few enough to leave a simple, pleasant warmth in his stomach; there’s no need to overindulge.

Maybe it’s his own intuition, or perhaps a touch of some gift he can’t explain, or even simple concern for his friend, but he goes to find them the moment the urge hits him, something twisting in his gut. He must find them, and soon, but where in the whole sea of bodies could they be?

He takes a breath, and looks, and listens.

Whispers about someone drinking too much. Snickers about lightweights, eyes cutting toward the back of the party.

People give away everything when they aren’t paying attention.

Surely, he finds them on a couch towards the back. Their posture is too relaxed, the tapping movements of their fingers too languid and clumsy on the cushions. When he comes around to their front, noting another empty cup in hand, their eyes are glassy, distant. It takes them some time to properly focus their eyes to look at him, and when they do, they give him a smile-- big, not like their small, secretive one.

“Damien!”

Oh, yes, they’re drunk. Quite drunk. He sighs, though his irritation can’t override his fondness. “I imagine you’ve had a few too many, my friend.”

“They were… quite good,” they confess, attempting and failing to sit up properly. “I didn’t think… I think they put in a lot. On accident.”

“Perhaps.” He cuts his eyes back to those students serving drinks. Not a one of them looks back in their direction, but something tells him that’s less due to their responsibilities and more due to avoiding them. As is best, really-- if he finds out who... “You need to get home. Can you walk?”

They can, but only with one of his arms around their waist to keep them upright and stable. He steadfastly ignores any looks or whispers as they step out into the November night.

It’s cold. Not freezing, but cold, and it seems to sharpen his friend up a bit. “Brr. Uh… I’m sorry I… had so many. That we have to go.”

“That’s alright,” he assures them, and it is. “I was about finished. I can only take so much social interaction for one evening.”

“Rich coming from the future mayor,” they laugh, swaying further into his side, though whether it’s out of intoxication, warmth, or humor, he can’t say. It warms him all the same. “But… not for long. You will be, but then… he’ll...”

They stop suddenly, almost pulling him off-balance, and when he looks down, there’s a vague horror in their eyes. Distance that isn’t from alcohol, but in the way they get when… when they know something.

He swallows hard against rising dread, the warmth placed by a chill too deep to be the air around them. “My friend? What is it?”

“You…” They swallow, too, then: “The grass, quick!”

He winds up holding them up, out of their own sick, looking away lest the sight bring up his sick, and rubbing their back. “Thanks for the warning. Are you alright?”

“Uh-huh.” They spit and groan, leaning back on their heels for a moment. “I think… that got it out of me. Thanks.”

“It’s no trouble. Let’s get you home-- I’d rather the wrath of your mother seeing you drunk than the wrath of her for letting you freeze.”

Whatever they saw, whatever they were about to say before they were sick across the frosty grass, haunts him, though. It haunts him, until one day it’s tucked into the back of his mind, and then it’s too late to be of any help at all.

--------

Bee’s Knees

--

50ml/2oz gin

20ml/1oz honey syrup

10ml/2 barspoons lemon juice

lemon peel, to garnish

Add all ingredients to a shaker with ice and shake until well-chilled. Strain into chilled cocktail glass and garnish.

Simple and even nondescript at a glance, but with more depth than expected. Sweet, only a bit tart, and floral-- like spring sunshine.

And then…

They grow up.

And then…

They grow apart.

And then…

They have a party.

And then…

Everything changes. Forever.

[writing-whump]

The Road Less Smooth

Summary: Isaiah and Seline argue during a car ride, not realizing Seline's fever. Contains emeto. 

Seline didn't want to go.

Visiting the representative of the West European Pack seemed entirely unnecessary, if not downright dictatorial to her. Why did she need to go? She was from Eastern Europe, so she was resigned with the representatives at home. Why did they have to keep track of where she was studying, what she was doing, and where she decided to belong?

The audacity and injustice of it all were driving her crazy with anger.

Isaiah offered to drive her. The message came from him, so she wasn't happy with him, but since she was scared to drive anything over 50 kilometers per hour, effectively banning her from all highways, his offer shortened her 4-hour long train drive to a direct 2.

Seline knew she should be thankful. And not let her anger out on the messenger. Then again, she thought Isaiah didn't belong to a pack to be free and not to follow orders. Not to mention what a good mood he was in. He was smiling behind the steering wheel, fingers tapping it lightly in synch with the music. He had his formal suit on and his long black coat, which she was starting to see as characteristic to him. All polite greetings and smiles. Was he enjoying this?

"So. How is the university going? I hear you finished your bachelor's last semester. You decided to continue on the same faculty. You like it there so much?" One of Isaiah's many attempts to make conversation. 

Seline wasn't one for small talk. Either say something you really want to know or shut up. She would be content just leaning against the window and listening to music, though plugging in her headphones seemed a little too rude.

"It got real worse last semester," she grumbled at the reminder. "Got a really chaotic teacher that makes us do a totally useless project, just because they got money and funds for it. So much for scientific independence. You just research whatever the politicians see as trendy to research."

Isaiah raised his eyebrows, throwing her a look. "You intend to stay in science?"

"I wanted to. But now I think I would much rather be independent. Make my own writing courses of sorts. Not be bound by anybody else's decisions."

"Just the market's whims," he remarked with a grin.

Seline hissed at that but nodded. "Yes. But the market is way fairer than anything I would believe the state to do." Despite the a/c blasting in the car, she felt warm. Uncomfortably warm. She pressed her palm against the opening for the cold air.

"So, what are you specializing in? Where did the writing part come in?"

"I guess you could say I got that from the witchcraft. I'm a Singer. I sing water and air into obedience and the most effective are original songs. All the writing necessary made me into an expert on writing theory." She waved at herself, the air suffocating and hot but flashing a satisfied snicker in Isaiah's direction. "I bet you couldn't name a book on writing I haven't read."

"That's an unusual approach. Most witches I know use pentagrams or incantations. Did you want to study it at the university?"

Her face fell a little. "You can't exactly study creative writing in Europe. Buuuut there is a lot of other stuff you can study, like film analysis, popular culture, media communication, epistemology, psychological processes for creativity…I found a good master that combines all these, so I can research the creative process itself." She gave him a measured look, blue eyes the shade of an upcoming storm. "You are studying psychology, aren't you? Rather unusual for a shadow wolf."

He smiled at that. "I like to stick out a little."

"Yeah. I thought you were different." Selined sighed loudly, leaning her head against the window. "Except we can't manage everything we wish for, can we?"

Isaiah gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Whatever do you mean?" 

"They call, and you obey. Like a good little lapdog." Seline stuck her chin out, watching him defiantly. 

"Is that what you think?" Isaiah didn't seem ruffled at her words at all, a little grin growing on his face. "I don't agree with this any more than you do."

Seline scoffed at that. "And why should I believe you? You pretend to know the gold is just glitter on the cage - like you successfully got rid of it - yet you are driving me to the gates yourself."

A long, tense silence stretched between them.

"Should I be more angry, Seline?" Isaiah was still smiling, but there was something darker about his tone and the way he focused his gaze on the road. "Should I rage, provoke, and complain like you?"

"Better be angry than pretend to smile and do nothing!" Her voice raised before she could stop herself. 

"Anger is a weakness. It gives you away. Why should I allow such an emotion to rule me?" His eyes were fixed on the road. 

"You are a shadow wolf. It's kinda of expected. I can rage all I want, and it will always be inappropriate. But you got the perfect excuse,” she waved her hand in frustration. 

"I don't believe in excuses." His voice was quiet but cutting. 

"No. You believe in lies. Masks and moods and faces, it's all you are. The polite and funny one today, the serious and scary one tomorrow." Seline crossed her hands on her chest.

"All the masks are me. Different faces of me, different roles I take for the situation. They are tools. My extensions. Wouldn't you change your cloak according to the weather?" His dark sea-green eyes flicked to her for a moment. 

"I would not change it to fit other people's expectations," she said proudly. 

"If I know what people want, I can get what I want much more easily. So even if I disagree with this policy, it's better I take you myself and not let somebody force you. It's better to look relaxed while you are alert and watching. It's better not to be ruled by emotions while they rule everyone else. So yes, I'm taking you to the gates myself, but I also know all the holes in the fence." He eyed her, eyebrows furrowing slightly in annoyance, before smoothing over. "You just want what you think you can't have." 

Seline frowned angrily and looked away. As much as she disagreed, it got her thinking. She didn't realize he had so many answers figured out for himself. 

"I find anger safe,” she said into the silence. “It's better than fear. Gives you energy and motivation to do something. To stand up for yourself or change what's wrong."

He raised one perfect black eyebrow. "So you are afraid of me?"

"No-I…" She gulped, her throat constricting. Something about his intense tone, about the speed and emotion of the debate, made her keep talking. "I'm tired. Of not feeling anything. Of feeling too much and not being able to do anything about it, because it's unseemly for witches.” 

Because I should be calming you down, but I envy your freedom to be angry.

He gave her a long look. "You can be angry all you want around me,” he said quietly. 

She hid her face in her palm as if wanting to wash away the tension. "And you will stay calm? Is that the mask you want to wear for me?" 

"I'm the one who wants to wear the mask. I'm the one crafting it, the one willing to change it so it fits you better. Does that count for nothing true?" 

“You sure are poetic about it,” she grumbled, pressing her hand against her forehead. There was a dull pounding in her temples, and the air still felt disgustingly hot.

“Seline? Is something wrong?” Isaiah asked, concerned.

She wasn’t sure. The car ride, the smothering heat, the pins and needles in her arms…she wasn’t even sure why she was reacting so strongly to the conversation. Although she usually never got motion sick, her stomach was rolling rather aggressively. She squeezed her eyes shut, hand covering her mouth for a second.

“Do you think we could take a little break?” she pressed through her teeth. There was a nauseating shiver crawling up her spine and neck. If only the car could stop moving for a second.

“Sure thing,” Isaiah said, detecting the urgency in her voice. He turned towards the left line leading to the nearest rest spot. “Just a few minutes.”

Seline held her eyes closed, breathing slowly through her nose and mouth. Something was definitely wrong.

Once the car finally stopped, she immediately burst the door open, gulping at the sweet, fresh air. The nausea rocked through her like she was on a boat, and she could feel liquid coming up her throat.

Seline stumbled quickly out, only to sway and fall to her knees. Scrambling awkwardly, she wanted to get some distance between herself and the car. The world was spinning and blurry around her and she lost track of how far she was. A wave of vomit spluttered from her lips. Seline could do nothing but spit it out helplessly. 

Her stomach was hurting, cramping hard. She whimpered softly as another wave of sickness rushed out of her.

A cold hand on her arm made her look up. The outline of Isaiah’s middle long black hair, subtly wavy at the ends, hovered over her. He was kneeling beside her, pulling hair out of her face. She felt the milky-like vomit drip from her lips and chin and would have burst into tears if another wave hadn’t made her choke and hang her head in surrender.

“You are okay. Take it easy. You will feel better in a minute,” Isaiah said, hand running through her hair to her back.

“Ugh. What about this seems -uurp- okay to you?” 

He chuckled, rubbing her back as it arched again and she was heaving another gush of vomit. 

“Just a minute. It will pass soon.”

She took quick panting breaths, trying to clear her head. There was still that blurry film over her eyes, the green of the grass mixing with blue over her. Isaiah’s hand was grounding on her back, his touch assured and steady. 

She spit on the ground, her eyes clearing. “Go away,” she said. The embarrassment was hitting her hard now, frustrated tears running down her cheeks.

“A little late now,” he smiled, gathering the strands of hair on the other side of her face behind her ear. Then he charmed out a clean tissue our of his pocket. “You should have told me you weren’t feeling well.”

“Didn’t realize,” she mumbled, taking the offered tissue. At least she could clean up her face a little.

A cool hand pressed against her aching forehead. “You are running a fever.” 

“No wonder I was so snappy,” she admitted, leaning into his touch without thinking. Everything was so hot, only his skin seemed to be of desirable temperature. 

“I didn’t see a difference to your usual self,” Isaiah teased. His touch was so gentle like she was made of glass. “Do you still feel sick?”

She assessed herself, then shook her head no. Now that she had thrown up, the nausea lifted like it was never there. If only she wasn’t still so warm. Despite the sensation, a shiver ran through her and she hunched her shoulders.

“Your wish came true,” he said, wrapping his hands around her from behind, dragging her with him as he stood up. Her head felt woozy at the movement and she clutched at his hands around her torso. “The trip is canceled. You are going straight home tonight.”

He guided her towards the car and helped her sit down again. She blinked at the haziness that overtook her, feeling bone-deep tiredness crushing over her. Closing her eyes, she leaned back. 

She felt his shadow above her before disappearing to hunt down a water bottle from the back. Accepting the bottle, she settled it securely in her arms but didn’t have the energy to drink it just yet. 

The car jumped a little as he got inside, shutting the door gently. She rolled her head in his general direction, squinting. Everything was so hot and confusing again, swimming in and out of focus. Was this still real? Maybe she was dreaming.

Isaiah started the engine and then squeezed her knee. “Hang on, darling. We’ll be home in no time.”

[wewebaggit]

I think it was because he was abused or something and apparently had drinking problems? Like bruh you cannot claim to use subversion of 80s horror genre tropes and at the same breath make your black character one of the victims without even focusing on it. Its just...? St can really use some criticism sometimes

Yep it was because he had drinking problems and was a disgrace to his family as per the voiceover that Patrick and we hear as he's riding in the car with Jason n the gang. And then Lucas mentions that he once saw him with a black eye. That's it. That's all.

Patrick deserved way better. Even discounting the fact that he's black. The same episode had the stupid mid air fight between Murray Yuri and Jim's girlfriend. That lasted longer than necessary. That existed. Both valid reasons for having a more fleshed out buildup to THE MOTHERFUCKING SACRIFICE FOR ONE OF THE FOUR (NOT FOURTEEN) GATES.

Maybe if they cooled it on Eleven slow jogging through the lab, eyes wide, breathing heavily and emoting nothingly, Jopper doomsday fucking, Elmike/Mileven, (God stop milking it, it's not great writing, we are gaslighting ourselves to believe it is cuz there was a time we thought the most they'd do for gay Will is have his best friend say something INCREDIBLY HOMOPHOBIC to him), a Russian plot sillier than season 3's - fucking talent, I could go on we could've had something justifying (at the risk of sounding repetitive) A MOTHERFUCKING SACRIFICE FOR ONE OF THE FOUR (NOT FOURTEEN) GATES.

Also leaving you with some of this:

Jason to Patrick

Mike to Lucas

Billy to Max about Lucas

Mike about the science fair contest

(Let me elaborate: It was a state competition and the result was political? MY conjecture is it was not because of frogface or a boy with no teeth or a boy who his town thought was queer - I'm suspecting it wasn't a statewide consensus. Who's left?)

Jason with Lucas

Andy with Erica

I'm not American so I'm not someone who gets the whole American experience of it. But American cultural colonisation means I'm somewhat aware of the tendencies in media. N to me personally I don't resonate with a white/black/brown American character on a racial level but just by how they're written n how well the work is performed. I do not live in a post racial world bt my country has its own different version of racism. That is to say any character being white/other colour is of ZERO value to me. So when I am consuming foreign media, I'll be like this is well written that is not. But then when I arrange them in order of well written to not or underwritten, it's a shade card alright. (🙋🏻🙆🏼🙅🏽🤷🏾🤦🏿) So ya. It's like white ppl tend to write white ppl better. What a discovery. Idk if to call it racist or "I don't see colour" in that I only see white cuz it is not a colour. (How is that for colour theory?) That is NOT to say that X CANNOT at all write about Y. Writing is after all a collaborative effort. It just means you gotta do both: collaborate and put effort.

ST exploits the tropes more than / before it subverts them. And like not in a good way. It's a fantastic show with plenty of opportunity to love it and shit on it in unequal measure tipping more in favour of shitting. And I'll be doing both. Especially regarding the characters that don't go by the name of Mike or Eleven. But them too.

You'll also see me Kali raging soon. Very soon. She might also be (DEFINITELY IS) why I have this whole new account anyway.

El's abuse > Kali's abuse. Okay. At least accepted within text by the writers. Want the "yass girlboss El shoulda snapped Angela's neck for....er...breaking your diorama and ....er......throwing milkshake on you" crowd to respectfully go. Just go. Go Away!

[candles-by-mokosh]

Sun Kissed Hair ☀️

A simple glamour to naturally lighten hair, using the magic (and science) of the sun

If you like this spell, please check out my Etsy for more magical goodies! I really appreciate the support!

Rumor has it that sitting out in the sun for long periods of time can lighten your hair. The sun can lighten hair of any shade, but people with lighter hair tend to get the best results. If you have dark hair, the lightening won’t be as dramatic.

Remember: Always wear sunscreen when you’re outside – according to the Skin Cancer Foundation, 1 in 5 Americans will develop skin cancer by the time they’re 70, making it the most common form of cancer in the U.S. I’m not a medical professional, nor am I any sort of health authority. What you do is your actions, not mine. Please practice basic safety and common sense!

It’s true that the sun can lighten your hair, but you may need to take some extra steps to help it along. The sun and other natural hair lightening ingredients can be unpredictable and potentially damaging. Invest in a good conditioner and sunscreen before starting your quest for sun-kissed locks!

Sun Kissed Spray

☀️ Mix two parts warm water and one part juice from lemons in a clean spray bottle.

☀️ Wet all your hair or just the parts you want lightened.

☀️ Spray the lemon mixture onto your wet hair.

☀️ Sit in the sun for 1–2 hours to activate the lemon

☀️ Rinse thoroughly and condition hair.

☀️ Repeat as necessary!

Love & Light,

Mokosh 🌻

[gracheeez]

Serbia OC doodle compilation and facts about him!

First concepts (down here) New concepts (above)

So this is my dear Serbia, also known as Zoran Damjanić, so why don't we dive into his personality and some things about him?

DESIGN

He has pale skin with olive undertones, so not WHITE WHITE, but white. He can tan really nicely.

He has either greyish blue eyes OR brown honey eyes (I don't know exactly yet)

He has multiple war scars through his body. One can be found on his face; that goes through his right eye (I believe that's the right side); he also has some of them in his chest, arms, and legs, also on his back.

He has a beard and moustache, but it's not so prominent; I mean, it could be prominent, but he cuts it really close to his face, like a stubble, actually.

His hair is a dark chocolate tone but not so dark, like a really average dark brunette shade. Regarding the hairstyle, oh, that's the complicated part; he has messy hair; it can be said it's similar to a mullet. I believe I'll change it eventually; I'm not keen on mullets.

On his right arm, in the upper part, he has a tattoo of the Serbian Cross.

He uses glasses, specifically the rectangle type.

He has body hair, not so much as in other countries that are basically forests of body hair, but he does have quite some of it.

His body is toned but slim—not a skinny legend; he's fit and looks healthy; regarding height, he is 180 cm, 5 ft and 11 inches, I believe.

He usually wears a shirt with a vest (like the traditional clothing) with a pair of jeans and combat boots, OR a t-shirt with a random insult, jeans, combat boots, and a jacket.

PERSONALITY

Too bold, extremely bold.

Sometimes says the most obscene comments in the worst moments possible.

Extremely patriotic; he loves Serbia, but he's Serbia… So he has an incredible self-love situation, so yes! Self stem.

He is someone who can either be considered fucking crazy or a mad genius.

Serbia is someone really intelligent; seriously, he can be extremely silly, but don't let that fool you; HE IS A GENIUS.

Zoran has a fascination for science, engineering, and... war.

He can be cold, distant, and even mean sometimes.

He loves sarcasm; it's his second language.

He is someone who can either HATE someone or EXTREMELY like them.

He is kind of extroverted; actually, HE IS really extroverted and loud.

He has an accordion called Tajtana; he loves her.

He loves playing sports, and he actually is pretty good at them.

He can get jealous of others and is also kind of protective of the ones he enjoys being around.

He is a certified and proud asshole.

He loves drinking Rakija, when he gets drunk, there are two outcomes: either the happiest man alive, or I have a chair on my hands and I won't hesitate to hit you hard.

He is really stubborn, seriously.

Serbia can be really straightforward; he won't hesitate to say the truth to anyone.

He has the worst dark humour ever, but dark humour that makes you go pale.

He is also someone really nice, of course; he can be a cutie patotie.

RELATIONS

Slovenia (Alenka Krajnc)

Zoran respects Alenka for her organisation and patience, traits he doesn’t often see in his chaotic world.

However, her independence from Yugoslavia left a mark—Zoran still harbours a sense of betrayal, though he rarely expresses it openly.

Their conversations are polite but formal, with occasional sarcasm or subtle jabs. Alenka finds Zoran's bold nature exasperating, while he admires her ability to keep things together, even if he won’t admit it.

They rarely seek each other out but can cooperate if necessary (alcohol MUST be involved).

Croatia (Darko Perković) - brother

Zoran and Darko’s relationship is defined by bitterness and past betrayals.

As siblings, they have an undeniable bond, but it’s buried under layers of resentment.

Arguments frequently escalate quickly, with both being stubborn and unyielding. Darko is just as bold as Zoran, so their conflicts are quite intense (Can lead to physical fights)

Despite their rivalry, there’s a reluctant acknowledgement of their shared history. In rare moments of vulnerability, they might show fleeting signs of brotherly care—but those moments are rare. (And as with Slovenia, alcohol MUST be involved).

Bosnia (Damir Galijašević) - brother

Zoran and Damir have an outright horrible relationship.

The breakup of Yugoslavia amplified existing tensions, leaving both harbouring anger and grudges.

They avoid each other whenever possible, and when forced to interact, the atmosphere is icy, with sharp comments exchanged.

Zoran views Damir as overly sensitive, while Damir finds Zoran overbearing and selfish.

Their conversations often devolve into arguments.

They can be friends and have fun together if alcohol is involved.

Herzegovina (Zlata Hodžić) - sister in law

Zlata and Zoran can’t stand each other.

As Damir’s wife, Zlata sees Zoran as a toxic influence on her husband, and Zoran finds Zlata annoying and meddlesome.

Zoran’s sarcastic humor and blunt remarks only worsen their interactions, and Zlata is equally quick to fire back.

She dislikes how Zoran mocks Damir (even tho Damir mocks Zoran too).

Republika Srpska (Mirko Savić) - son

Mirko is the product of one of Zoran’s adventures, and Zoran genuinely loves him.

He takes great pride in Mirko and is very protective of him, more so than almost anyone else.

They share a lot of similarities—Zoran sees Mirko as a younger, better version of himself and encourages his strengths.

Mirko brings out Zoran’s softer side, and their interactions are full of warmth and humor.

Zoran is surprisingly patient with Mirko, which contrasts with his usual harsh demeanor.

Montenegro (Milica Vujović) ex-wife/ex-girlfriend/girlfriend

Zoran deeply loves Milica and considers her his best friend and closest confidante. However, his infidelity and brash nature have hurt her more than he intended.

Milica is incredibly naive and forgiving, which frustrates Zoran at times because he knows she deserves better. Yet he can’t imagine life without her.

He’s fiercely protective of Milica, sometimes to the point of being controlling.

Their relationship is filled with ups and downs—passionate love tempered by moments of regret and pain.

Despite the flaws, Milica’s unwavering loyalty keeps them together, and Zoran tries (and often fails) to be better for her.

Zoran and Milica's relationship is complex, deeply rooted in history, and layered with passion, jealousy, and a love that has weathered centuries.

They regularly break up and make up, leading to a cycle of constant emotional push and pull.

At times, their arguments escalate to full-blown fights, especially during the Yugoslav wars, but even in the peak of conflict, there’s always a passionate reconciliation afterward.

Zoran is intensely protective of Milica and gets extremely jealous when she talks to others, particularly Croatia or Albania.

Despite his unfaithfulness twice (he had Vojvodina and Republika Srpska with TWO different women), Milica stays by his side, choosing to focus on their deep connection and often forgiving him for his transgressions.

They've been friends since practically ever, and they got married in 1918; they divorced in 2006.

Zoran sometimes visits Milica at 3 am and throws pebbles at her window, then proceeds to play his accordion, trying to win her (it always work)

Vojvodina (Vuk Pavlović) - son

Just as Republika Srpska, Vuk is the result of one of Zoran’s past adventures, and Zoran has a very good relationship with him.

Vuk takes after Zoran in both intelligence and boldness, which makes Zoran proud.

They bond over shared interests like engineering and sports, and Zoran is always encouraging Vuk’s ambitions.

Their relationship is light-hearted and playful, with Zoran regularly jokingly teasing Vuk while still being supportive.

Kosovo (Luljeta KrasniqI)

Zoran and Luljeta’s relationship is deeply antagonistic.

The Kosovo conflict left wounds that haven’t healed, and Zoran is openly hostile toward her, refusing to acknowledge her independence.

Their interactions are marked by sharp words and confrontational attitudes.

Luljeta doesn’t back down, standing firm against Zoran’s arrogance.

Any attempt at diplomacy quickly deteriorates into arguments.

Zoran always mocks her on Facebook.

Albania (Erion Hoxha)

Zoran and Erion are sworn enemies, with a rivalry as intense as it gets.

Their arguments are explosive and often escalate to threats or worse.

Erion’s boldness matches Zoran’s, creating constant friction.

Both are stubborn, and neither will admit fault, fuelling their animosity.

Their interactions are frequently tense and dramatic, filled with insults and challenges.

They avoid each other unless conflict is unavoidable, at which point it’s a powder keg waiting to explode.

They mock each other on Facebook and basically every social media they can.

North Macedonia (Zivka Nikolovska)

Zoran and Zivka share a close and affectionate bond. Their friendship is built on mutual understanding and years of shared history.

Zoran sees Zivka as a younger sibling he genuinely cares for. He’s protective of her and enjoys her company, appreciating her easygoing and supportive nature.

They often team up to tease others or share jokes, with Zoran showing his lighter side when he’s around her.

They love being silly together.

Greece (Leonidas Kostopoulos)

Zoran and Leonidas are as close as brothers without the blood relation. Their friendship is built on shared values, deep respect, and camaraderie.

They have an easy dynamic, often sharing Rakija and philosophical discussions, ranging from history to war to cute girls, of course Zoran talks only about his dear Milica.

Leonidas is one of the few who can calm Zoran down during his aggressive outbursts, while Zoran admires Leonidas’ wisdom and composure.

Their banter is filled with friendly insults and sarcasm, but it’s all in good fun. They’d go to great lengths to help each other.

Bulgaria (Boris Dimitrov)

Zoran and Boris are good friends who share a mutual respect. While they don’t always see eye-to-eye, they enjoy each other’s company and bond over shared cultural similarities.

Boris appreciates Zoran’s boldness, even if it’s overwhelming at times, and Zoran likes Boris’ straightforward attitude.

They have a relaxed dynamic, often exchanging sarcastic remarks but with no malice.

They can end up fighting sometimes over who is the real best friend of Romania.

Romania (Ecaterina Popescu)

Ecaterina and Zoran are incredibly close, their bond rooted in years of friendship. They understand each other’s quirks and flaws, making their friendship unshakable.

Zoran appreciates Ecaterina’s playful and witty personality, while she enjoys his dark humor and protective nature.

They’re partners in crime, often causing chaos together. Zoran is fiercely loyal to her and would defend her without hesitation.

Zoran and Ecaterina have a relationship full trust and emotional support.

Turkey (Önder Mumcu)

Zoran and Önder have a strained relationship, with historical conflicts and clashing personalities creating friction.

While they manage to remain civil in certain settings, the underlying tension is palpable. Zoran is openly distrustful of Önder, seeing him as manipulative and overbearing.

Their interactions are filled with subtle or not-so-subtle jabs, with Zoran rarely missing an opportunity to criticize Turkey’s influence.

He always mocks Turkey's relationship with Nazrin.

Azerbaijan (Nazrin Hasanova)

Zoran views Nazrin with skepticism, seeing her as overly loyal to Turkey and unwilling to stand independently.

Their interactions are polite on the surface but laced with tension. Zoran’s sarcastic remarks often hint at his true feelings, which Nazrin doesn’t appreciate.

Despite the tension, they maintain a thin veneer of civility, though both are quick to snap if provoked.

Cyprus (Androula Christodoulos)

Zoran and Androula share a pleasant, easygoing friendship. They bond over their love of good food, music, and mutual understanding of complex histories.

Androula’s calm and diplomatic nature is a good counterbalance to Zoran’s boldness, and she often manages to soothe his more fiery moods.

They are bost best friends of Greece, so they usually meet when Greece wants to hang out.

Armenia (Gevorg Soghomonyan)

Zoran and Gevorg have a good friendship built on mutual respect and shared experiences. Both have faced hardship, and their bond reflects their ability to empathize with one another.

They often enjoy deep conversations about history, culture, and resilience, with a sprinkling of Zoran’s dark humor to keep things lively.

Zoran admires Gevorg’s strength and determination, while Gevorg finds Zoran’s boldness amusing and occasionally inspiring.

Hungary (Istvan Erdei)

Zoran and Istvan are friendly and get along well, despite some cultural differences. Their friendship is filled with playful teasing and sarcastic humor.

Istvan appreciates Zoran’s straightforwardness, and Zoran respects Istvan’s strength and sense of independence.

They’re the kind of friends who can share a drink and swap stories, with Zoran occasionally poking fun at Hungary’s history, to which Istvan retorts with sharp wit.

Poland (Anastazja Kowalska) - distant cousin

Zoran and Anastazja have a respectful and amiable friendship. Zoran admires her resilience and finds her eccentric personality amusing.

While they don’t always see eye-to-eye, Zoran respects Anastazja’s sense of pride and independence, and she appreciates his intelligence and boldness.

Their conversations are a mix of lighthearted teasing and moments of genuine understanding, creating a solid but casual friendship.

Czechia/Bohemia (Matouš Černý) - distant cousin

Zoran and Matouš share a mutual appreciation for history, culture, and dark humor. They often bond over intellectual discussions and their shared love for music and art.

Matouš finds Zoran’s bold personality entertaining, while Zoran appreciates Matouš’s cleverness and dry wit.

They have an easygoing relationship, often laughing at their shared dark humor while exchanging sarcastic remarks.

Czechia/Moravia (František Novák) - distant cousin

Zoran and František have a laid-back friendship rooted in cultural exchange and mutual respect. František’s practical nature aligns well with Zoran’s genius, making them a good team when working on projects or ideas.

Their conversations are a mix of casual banter and discussions about shared interests like sports, music, or science.

Zoran enjoys František’s grounded personality and considers him a dependable friend.

Slovakia (Viera Lukáčová)

Zoran and Viera have an incredibly close friendship, built on years of camaraderie and mutual understanding.

Viera is one of the few who can keep up with Zoran’s bold personality without getting overwhelmed at all.

They share a playful, teasing dynamic, with Viera often calling Zoran out on his antics while he enjoys making her laugh with his sarcastic humor.

Zoran is protective of Viera, treating her like a younger sister. She, in turn, admires his intelligence and bravery, even if she rolls her eyes at his over-the-top moments.

Russia (Yuri Ivanov)

Zoran and Yuri share a deep, almost familial bond. Zoran sees Yuri as a brother figure and respects his strength, resilience, and influence.

Their friendship is a mix of shared history and mutual understanding, as both have endured hardships that shaped them. They often drink together, with Zoran cracking dark jokes and Yuri laughing in his signature calm yet unsettling way.

Zoran feels comfortable being vulnerable around Yuri, trusting him with secrets he wouldn’t share with others. Yuri, in turn, values Zoran’s loyalty and fiery personality, finding it refreshing.

They’ll defend each other fiercely, and despite occasional disagreements, their bond remains unbreakable.

Belarus (Tatsiana Romachuk)

Zoran and Tatsiana have a strained relationship, constantly vying for Yuri’s attention and approval.

This rivalry fuels a tense dynamic, with both trying to prove who is closer to Russia.

Zoran finds Tatsiana’s cold and possessive nature frustrating, often clashing with her in arguments that range from petty to explosive.

Tatsiana, meanwhile, views Zoran as an annoying rival who doesn’t understand Yuri the way she does.

Despite their rivalry, they share a grudging respect for each other’s determination and loyalty to Yuri, though neither would admit it.

Austria (Francizka Schwarz)

Zoran and Francizka maintain a tense and bitter relationship, with Zoran holding a grudge against her for events during World War I.

He blames her country for causing pain to Serbia and isn’t shy about voicing his disdain.

Their interactions are marked by sarcasm, thinly veiled insults, and occasional heated debates. Francizka, in turn, finds Zoran brash and uncultured, which only fuels his animosity.

Zoran refuses to let go of the past, while Francizka occasionally tries to maintain civility and avoids him most of the time.

[rjalker]

it's just so fucking funny. Oh my gods.

A Square explaining how allowing disabled people* to exist in public would bring about the downfall of civilization

[ID: The meme of someone standing in front of a wall covered in red string connecting dots in a conspiracy theory, with the person replaced with A Square, a Flatlander seen from above. He has a grey exoskeleton, and insides of various shades of pink and purple. End ID.]

= = =

For context, Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions, is satire of Victorian England's bigotry, written in 1884. It's also about math and the theory of other dimensions. ("Romance" back then meant "adventure")

Read and download it for free from Project Gutenberg.

An amazing and hilarious audiobook on the Web Archive.

10/10 highly recommend. In the process of "translating" it into casual 2023 English so more people can read it easier.

This is the original text below. I keep getting distracted from "translating" it because it's so funny.

The entire thing is written to show you how absolutely absurd and ridiculous bigotry is.

= = =

Section 7. Concerning Irregular Figures

Throughout the previous pages I have been assuming—what perhaps should have been laid down at the beginning as a distinct and fundamental proposition—that every human being in Flatland is a Regular Figure, that is to say of regular construction. By this I mean that a Woman must not only be a line, but a straight line; that an Artisan or Soldier must have two of his sides equal; that Tradesmen must have three sides equal; Lawyers (of which class I am a humble member), four sides equal, and generally, that in every Polygon, all the sides must be equal.

The size of the sides would of course depend upon the age of the individual. A Female at birth would be about an inch long, while a tall adult Woman might extend to a foot. As to the Males of every class, it may be roughly said that the length of an adult's sides, when added together, is two feet or a little more. But the size of our sides is not under consideration. I am speaking of the EQUALITY of sides, and it does not need much reflection to see that the whole of the social life in Flatland rests upon the fundamental fact that Nature wills all Figures to have their sides equal.

If our sides were unequal our angles might be unequal. Instead of its being sufficient to feel, or estimate by sight, a single angle in order to determine the form of an individual, it would be necessary to ascertain each angle by the experiment of Feeling. But life would be too short for such a tedious grouping. The whole science and art of Sight Recognition would at once perish; Feeling, so far as it is an art, would not long survive; intercourse would become perilous or impossible; there would be an end to all confidence, all forethought; no one would be safe in making the most simple social arrangements; in a word, civilization would relapse into barbarism.

Am I going too fast to carry my Readers with me to these obvious conclusions? Surely a moment's reflection, and a single instance from common life, must convince every one that our whole social system is based upon Regularity, or Equality of Angles. You meet, for example, two or three Tradesmen in the street, whom you recognize at once to be Tradesmen by a glance at their angles and rapidly bedimmed sides, and you ask them to step into your house to lunch. This you do at present with perfect confidence, because everyone knows to an inch or two the area occupied by an adult Triangle: but imagine that your Tradesman drags behind his regular and respectable vertex, a parallelogram of twelve or thirteen inches in diagonal:—what are you to do with such a monster sticking fast in your house door?

But I am insulting the intelligence of my Readers by accumulating details which must be patent to everyone who enjoys the advantages of a Residence in Spaceland. Obviously the measurements of a single angle would no longer be sufficient under such portentous circumstances; one's whole life would be taken up in feeling or surveying the perimeter of one's acquaintances. Already the difficulties of avoiding a collision in a crowd are enough to tax the sagacity of even a well-educated Square; but if no one could calculate the Regularity of a single figure in the company, all would be chaos and confusion, and the slightest panic would cause serious injuries, or—if there happened to be any Women or Soldiers present—perhaps considerable loss of life.

Expediency therefore concurs with Nature in stamping the seal of its approval upon Regularity of conformation: nor has the Law been backward in seconding their efforts. "Irregularity of Figure" means with us the same as, or more than, a combination of moral obliquity and criminality with you, and is treated accordingly. There are not wanting, it is true, some promulgators of paradoxes who maintain that there is no necessary connection between geometrical and moral Irregularity. "The Irregular", they say, "is from his birth scouted by his own parents, derided by his brothers and sisters, neglected by the domestics, scorned and suspected by society, and excluded from all posts of responsibility, trust, and useful activity. His every movement is jealously watched by the police till he comes of age and presents himself for inspection; then he is either destroyed, if he is found to exceed the fixed margin of deviation, or else immured in a Government Office as a clerk of the seventh class; prevented from marriage; forced to drudge at an uninteresting occupation for a miserable stipend; obliged to live and board at the office, and to take even his vacation under close supervision; what wonder that human nature, even in the best and purest, is embittered and perverted by such surroundings!"

All this very plausible reasoning does not convince me, as it has not convinced the wisest of our Statesmen, that our ancestors erred in laying it down as an axiom of policy that the toleration of Irregularity is incompatible with the safety of the State. Doubtless, the life of an Irregular is hard; but the interests of the Greater Number require that it shall be hard. If a man with a triangular front and a polygonal back were allowed to exist and to propagate a still more Irregular posterity, what would become of the arts of life? Are the houses and doors and churches in Flatland to be altered in order to accommodate such monsters? Are our ticket-collectors to be required to measure every man's perimeter before they allow him to enter a theatre or to take his place in a lecture room? Is an Irregular to be exempted from the militia? And if not, how is he to be prevented from carrying desolation into the ranks of his comrades? Again, what irresistible temptations to fraudulent impostures must needs beset such a creature! How easy for him to enter a shop with his polygonal front foremost, and to order goods to any extent from a confiding tradesman! Let the advocates of a falsely called Philanthropy plead as they may for the abrogation of the Irregular Penal Laws, I for my part have never known an Irregular who was not also what Nature evidently intended him to be—a hypocrite, a misanthropist, and, up to the limits of his power, a perpetrator of all manner of mischief.

Not that I should be disposed to recommend (at present) the extreme measures adopted by some States, where an infant whose angle deviates by half a degree from the correct angularity is summarily destroyed at birth. Some of our highest and ablest men, men of real genius, have during their earliest days laboured under deviations as great as, or even greater than, forty-five minutes: and the loss of their precious lives would have been an irreparable injury to the State. The art of healing also has achieved some of its most glorious triumphs in the compressions, extensions, trepannings, colligations, and other surgical or diaetetic operations by which Irregularity has been partly or wholly cured. Advocating therefore a VIA MEDIA, I would lay down no fixed or absolute line of demarcation; but at the period when the frame is just beginning to set, and when the Medical Board has reported that recovery is improbable, I would suggest that the Irregular offspring be painlessly and mercifully consumed.

[helpmeimblorboing]

Just listened to Chappell Roan’s Good Luck Babe (great song btw) and this idea popped into my head.

The characters depicted are from my upcoming story Crimson Redux, and its eventual unnamed prequel book. This story, however, is non-canonical, though it shares some elements with the canon

Harry Jones bit back a sigh, lifting up one of his hands to shade himself from the burning hot sun - and wasn’t that a rarity, this deep into England Of the Stormy Skies ? God must have special-ordered it solely to piss his most-devout sinner off

He flinched slightly at the sting of pain that runs through him - his back was no longer what it once was - as he leans back to reorient himself, preparing to lift with his legs, as his dad always told him to, before… well… before that had irreversibly fractured their relationship

It was one thing to know your father doesn’t actually love you, and another to see it in action

For a moment, he pauses, memories washing over him with enough force to drown, to batter, to beat to death for who he was. In the distance, Lisa shouts at him to hurry the fuck up

That jolts him back to his senses, and he spares her an answering shout that was perhaps a touch more vitriolic than strictly necessary, before returning to what he had been doing prior to his little trip down Painful Memory Lane - staring at the pile of boxes stacked up on his doorstep and wondering how anyone, let alone a man gracelessly approaching his forties, was supposed to be able to move them

Before he could communicate that to his wife, however, he is suddenly acutely aware of a presence at his side, before a painfully familiar voice sounds out, so close that Harry could hear the almost painful lack of recognition in them, “You need some help with that ?”

His breath catches in his throat, and all of a sudden, bile wells up inside of him, burning the edges of his being like paper being held over a candlestick. He turns away, desperate to avoid his gaze, but it’s too late

He feels the other man stiffen beside him, hears the sharp intake of his breath (he still gasped the same way. The only difference was that now, there was no love in his throat. Not for the man who betrayed him), and then, perhaps most painfully of all, hears the fear as the other man asks, tentatively, like he was praying to be proven wrong, “Harry ?”

He turns around, resigned to this conversation, to this humiliation, only to reel back as if struck. That was him. Intellectually, Harry had already known that. But that was him.

Beautiful as the day Harry met him. As the day he last saw him, shouting obscenities at him through his door, face twisted up with rage and yet still so, so beautiful

“San…”, he swallowed, his throat suddenly dry as a desert. Santiago’s expression shuttered, eyes going cold and hard as he evidently remembered why, exactly, they had lost contact, “…Santiago?”

“It’s Serenity now, actually”, his voice was hard and cold, his gaze sharp as a knife. A pause, and then his upper lip curls in silent judgment, his voice venomous as he speaks, “You’re looking well”

“Thanks”, Harry breathes out, suddenly feeling like a butterfly pinned to a child’s science exhibition, left to slowly starve to death, alone and cold, “…I… you too…”

“Mhm”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but before he could, Lisa, apparently well and truly fed up with the delay, once again tells him to hurry the fuck up before she dies of old age out here, you ancient prick

He shouts something right back, his mind too preoccupied with the demon from his past impossibly standing right before him to pay much heed to what words were spilling from his lips

When he turned back, Serenity was staring at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes, an amused smile playing at his lips, “Who’s that ?”

“That…ah…”, he flinches as shame burns through him, razor-sharp and searing hot, “That’s my wife”

Abruptly, Serenity’s expression seems to distort with rage, eyes going wide and fiery. But it passes as quickly as it came, his features settling into the kind of placid neutrality that meant that someone was trying to keep themselves from shouting, “Ah”, he said, somehow managing to make the syllable sound like a litany of curses, all of them deserved, “You’re… straight ?”

He sucks in a shape breath at that, pressing his eyes shut. A beat, and then another, the awkward silence growing tense and painful. He prepares to tell Serenity that that was none of his business, but Serenity takes it upon himself to shatter the tension before he could

“Don’t tell me”, he hums, and he sounds… almost amused, “You’re not, aren’t you ? You’re gay as the day is long”

The unspoken I told you so lingers between them, existent as a flashing neon sign, painful as a cattle brand.

Harry tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. No matter. Serenity seemed intent on speaking on both their behalves, the smile playing at his lips almost cruel now

“Well now, isn’t that interesting ?”, he hissed, amused spite coloring his tone, “That’s almost exactly what I told you, all those years ago. Curious”

It wasn’t I told you so, exactly, but it was close enough to hurt

Serenity hummed, before going silent, as if contemplating something.

The unspoken weight hung between them for a second, two, three. But still the silence didn’t end. Harry finally chanced another glance at his face, before flinching back as if struck

The look in his eyes wasn’t cruel anymore. It wasn’t even amused. It was just… pitying. Like Harry was a man dying of an incurable disease (even the thought of incurable diseases made him flinch, a reminder of who he was, of the fear that had made him hurt the one person who truly cared about him so badly) and Serenity was a doctor who knew there was nothing he could do for him

The silence stretches on, but Harry didn’t have the strength to break it. In the background, Lisa seemed to have given up on getting her husband to pay attention to her, and was now leaning against the hood of their car, scrolling through something on her phone

Harry’s lips part, as he tries to muster up the strength to say something, but once again, Serenity beats him to the chase, “You are… so small, Harry Jones”

There was no resentment in his voice. No pain, no amusement, nothing. Just a cold, empty truth, a fact as axiomatic and immutable as the sky is blue

Somehow that was worse. Resentment would mean that some part of Serenity still cared, that there was something resembling a chance. But there wasn’t, was there ? This bridge was well-and-truly burnt, the river it had arched over dried up, its ashes already washed away.

He should know. He had set the fire himself

Before he could say something, Serenity simply smirks - not a malicious expression, just the small, secret smirk of someone hearing a joke that was funny, but not enough to openly laugh at - and shakes his head, saying, his voice low, “Well, then. I suppose that’s it”

He leaned back, his eyes drifting over to Lisa, before flickering back to Harry. His crooked smirk seemed to double in size, “Good luck, babe”

[grayintogreen]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Every other Wednesday I'm still gonna be posting wip wednesday snippets since I'm still writing, but at a slower pace and working on the next three chapters simultaneously. I'm debating what to do for off weeks just to keep my excitement up. Maybe some meta or talking about fic notes about the different arcs and why things changed and what themes I hoped to explore by changing things. We'll see.

For today, here's an extra long scene of the Tombtakers bonding post-horrors!

-

For the first night after half a week of creeping misery and trials, there was genuine laughter in Widogast’s Nascent Nein-Sided Tower again. It bubbled up from the area that Caleb had cleared away for the hot tub, spilling through a crack in a half-opened door like a coy invitation, alongside a little bit of steam.

Inside, five figures sprawled languidly in the water, naked and exposed to the open air, their scars on full display, and there was a method to all of them. Cree’s mostly hidden by her fur save for the nine bald patches across her body and the white ring of fur and burned scar tissue from Vess DeRogna’s collar; Lucien with fresher, erratic scars, boasting his habit of never cutting in the same place twice, though most of his were inflicted by enemies currently, not himself- thank you; Otis, mostly scar-free because their vitality paid out in the soul more often than it did in the blood and they believed fully that if you can cut yourself in the same place, you should and wore their primary scars on a bruised and calloused thumb that was swollen larger than all of their other fingers; Zoran boasted a similar mindset, albeit one that Jurrell used to call strangely artsy- the scrapes from the grater-edge of his maul had mostly flayed the tattoos from his tribe across his chest and shoulders until they were unrecognizable and he never scraped anywhere else, leaving strange patterns that made sense only to him; Tyffial was the worst of the lot with a combination of acid burns, stretch marks, and regular scars leaving pale, ugly marks across her brown skin.

Three of them had dull red eyes scattered about that stared judgingly out at Cree and Lucien, but no one was in the mood to bring that up and so they sat ignored and inert, courtesy of the necklaces that Zoran, Otis, and Tyffial wore- the one sacrifice to full nudity because it was necessary.

One would believe that the Tombtakers rarely indulged in public baths and the respite of steam and wine and that would be true- it was too expensive for a frivolity. Lucien had made them shell out precious silvers for bathhouses numerous times during their travels to get everyone clean and scrubbed to make a decent showing for whatever client he had found for them, but it was as practical then as it was in the Blood Chantry where the hot springs were used solely to wash the blood away after a mission as part of some sacred rite.

So to have Lucien, wine bottles in hand, suddenly suggest the hot tub for neither practical reasons nor religious ones was shocking enough that Zoran, Otis, and Tyffial hadn’t questioned it. They had followed out of sheer curiosity and shed their clothes and filled their cups and now, thoroughly soused, the five of them were laughing like they hadn’t in years.

“I don’t get it,” Zoran frowned in confusion at the latest bit of conversation. “So Ivan got bit by a lycan and you took his body, so now even though you’ve made his body look like yours, you still got his wolf in your noggin?”

“Aye,” Lucien sipped his wine. There was a flush to his cheeks that turned them the interesting shade of a bruise.

“So how come it’s so fuckin’ big, then? It don’t look right.”

“Experiments, he said. Some fey scientist.”

“Fey do science?” Tyffial guffawed. “There’s a thought.”

“We met one once,” Cree spoke up. “He was Rinna’s patron. He helped create these horrible abominations of living and dead flesh.”

“You think it’s the same one?” Otis grinned, unnervingly. They were perched on Zoran’s knee, because he took up so much space even in the considerably-sized tub.

“Why would it be the same one? There has to be more than one fey scientist creating abominations.” Lucien looked to Cree who looked deeply perplexed by that.

“I… That is something we should look into later when things are not so dire. We have so many other things to worry about.”

“Aye, well, let’s worry about none of them, then.” Lucien drained the last of his wine glass and went to fill his cup again. Tyffial watched him with raised brows in a way that made him prickly. “See something you like, dear heart?”

“You’ve changed, Lucien. How can you be so you and so different at the same time?”

“Considerable talent. You can’t learn it either. You’ve got to be born with it.”

Tyffial gathered up her long, thick hair into a sopping wet bun at the top of her head- an idle gesture meant to make him feel like his explanation was boring her and if he was going to keep on being a bore, she was going to do her hair while she had time. He gave her a look.

“Speaking of hearts and minds changin’, why’d you come back, then? I thought you were done with this.”

“It seemed like such a waste of over a decade of friendship to not finish what we started, yes?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Otis nodded, baring their teeth. “We gotta finish it.”

“Lot of folk here we can knock heads with. I don’t mind bein’ around ‘em.” Zoran shrugged.

Tyffial mimicked him. ”I do mind, but I can tolerate the idiots for a little longer, I guess, if they make my oldest friends so very happy.”

“Don’t be unkind, Tyffial,” Cree mocked her.

“This is me at my kindest!” She retorted, scandalized.

“And what a sacrifice you’re making,” Lucien chortled. “If you’re nicer, maybe the wizard will offer to put your body back the way it was.”

Tyffial went still. “What.”

Lucien recognized the importance of what he said, but not the significance of Tyffial’s stillness and therefore went on, gesturing with his wine glass. “I mean, look at the work he did with Ivan. Not a trace of the bastard left but his lycan shadow and we have a bit of an arrangement, the pair of us. It’s just me. And, obviously, he turned Veth from goblin into halfling.”

“Ohhh that’s what happened to the goblin girl,” Otis said, snapping their fingers- or trying do, given how wet and wrinkly there from the water.

“Tyffial,” Cree said, handing her wine glass to Lucien and moving closer to her. The water stirred and made waves as she and Zoran shuffled a bit to make room. “Caleb could do that, if you wanted.”

“He could not take the blood from my veins and make it less cursed,” Tyffial sighed, sinking lower into the water. “I would be ruined again in a month.”

“But what a month it would be,” Cree said, reaching up to help her pin back her hair as it began to fall down across her shoulders again. Tyffial made a sound like a little sniff and Zoran, Otis, and Lucien shared a meaningful look between the three of them.

“I will thank about it. I do not want to go into the middle of Eiselcross with baby fresh skin anyway. It is the start of winter! Could you have timed this any better?”

Cree tutted as she twisted Tyffial’s hair so tightly it yanked her back up out of the water a bit. She bit off the urge to caterwaul at her roughness. “I am sorry we did not wait until spring to trip into the apocalypse.”

“Shame on you. You are becoming stupid hanging with this lot.”

Lucien sipped wine from both his and Cree’s wine glass. “You got fucked over by the same bastard we did, Tyffial. Don’t pretend you’re so much better than we are.”

“I am better than you,” she retorted. “I’m not sipping Cree’s wine to get an indirect kiss from her when she used to give them freely.” This time a caterwaul did escape from Tyffial as Cree twisted her hair. “Don’t pull, you beast!”

“You had a tangle,” Cree deadpanned. “And Lucien and I do not need to kiss directly or indirectly.”

“Aye, she has her bonny bard back in Nicodranas that composes ballads to her rare beauty,” Lucien smirked, still sipping her wine. “He just has to put up with me at her side.”

“You gonna fuck him too?” Otis trilled.

Lucien didn’t dignify that with a yes or no answer and kept drinking, alternating between his glass and Cree’s like he was trying to decide whose backwash added to the bouquet better. Despite all airs to the contrary, Lucien was Creek trash through and through and behaved accordingly in private.

Cree finished Tyffial’s hair and grabbed her glass, now half-polished off, and rolled her eyes. Lucien lifted a brow and refilled it for her.

“You two are still disgusting,” Zoran said, half-amused. “Worse, even.”

“Even ground has a tendency to bring out the best and worst in us,” Cree laughed, clinking her glass against Lucien’s. “It… took us awhile to relearn how to navigate. There are things about all of us together that may take a great deal to work through as we go forwards, but I am so glad to have you all back… and trying. I don’t deserve it.”

“Well, I did almost fry your brains with intuit charges,” Tyffial sighed, drearily, reaching up to press on her bun. It would not come out for love or money now- Cree was always brilliant with her hair. “I suppose we’re even now.”

A silence fell upon them- peaceful, and therefore just as likely to be shattered as an awkward one. Otis was just the person for the job. “So tell us again how you told the Somnovem to shove it, Lucien.”

Lucien cackled and launched into the story. The main difference most people noticed between him and Molly when it came to performances was that he didn’t embellish the way Molly did. The real difference was that Lucien told a relatively straightforward tale like it was being written by a poet for archival in the Knowing Mistress’s own domain, full of eloquent turns of phrase and descriptions. It didn’t take long before he was being splashed and told to get on with it, but for every stanza cut short to get to the good bit, there were some allowed to go on forever with an audience as captive and shaken as he believed the tale deserved. He’d done something great and terrible and risky and he would not apologize for it, and he absolutely would do it again, if he had the right opportunity. And he would, perhaps sooner than he and his currently unshakable confidence would like. Attitudes like his didn’t survive on contact with them every time and he’d learned that the hard way the first time he challenged them.

That was borrowing troubles from the future, however, and thinking about it too much soured his buzz. After so many years of being forced to play the villain because being the hero wasn’t allowed- not for someone like him, not for someone with his background and personality and baggage- he had finally found a way to win that worked for him and people at his side that he trusted, rather than simply expected to follow.

Winter might have just started, but Lucien was in the final stages of a slow thaw. He could barely wait to see what he could make of himself as soon as he could crush the Somnovem, once and for all, so that he could have moments like this where he decried them for their weaknesses and idiocy and no more moments where they terrified him.

He finished the story with a flourish and Cree changed the subject to something else and the five of them continued to talk and drink well into the night until the hot tub and drink started to make them nauseous and sleepy and they crawled from it drunkenly to find a place to bed down.

While everyone else pulled on dry nightclothes and stumbled towards Cree’s room, Lucien fought with his boots and coat and prepared to go out. Cree stumbled against the wall and helped him to his feet as he tried and failed to stand up again. “Where are you going?”

“Had a thought while we were talking,” he mumbled. “There’s something I still have to do, just in case we somehow don’t pull it off.” He reached into his veins- or tried to- and frowned when he realized he couldn’t pull the alcohol from his blood. “Fuck, Mollymauk has that one. Mollymauk!” He started to yell drunkenly, but Cree hissed and planted her paw over his mouth. “He’s asleep, Lucien, like everyone else probably is at this hour. Here. Let me.”

She patted his cheek and gave him a lesser restoration that cleared the alcohol from him. He breathed in the sweet taste of sobriety and swore never to get that drunk again. He normally didn’t indulge so much, but the victory was so sweet and it required sweeter libations and, really, he can’t be held responsible for going overboard after so many vicious losses.

Anyway. “That’s better,” he kissed her knuckles and then turned to go, ignoring her pleas to tell her where he was going beyond a simple “I have a long overdue conversation to have” and a polite wave thrown over his shoulder as he exited the mansion and stepped out onto the familiar path leading towards the Estate Sybaritic.