#vapor America

[envisitadecortesia]

Las tres vidas del "Trinacria"

Desde primeras horas de la mañana del 9 de julio de 1921 se había concentrado un gran gentío en la Estación Marítima del puerto de Barcelona, que lucía un impecable aspecto con adornos de la bandera tricolor italiana. Y no era para menos ya que para ese día era esperado el vapor “Trinacria”, el que antaño fuera el yate de la familia real italiana y ahora visitaba la ciudad Condal convertido en…

[mounir4]

Help us please 🙏🙏

We fled under the random shelling of the army. We fled and miraculously survived, me and my children. We left everything behind us. We have nothing. Now we want to buy a tent to sleep in, me and my family, in the safe areas. The price of the tent is$1000😭😭😭

@fromjannah @classyeyeballs

@autisticmudkip @fading event 608 @transgenderwaterrat

@bixlasagna

@paparoachercoby @rainbowravioli @guppieishere

@amvs4palestine

@anadia-chan

@gaza-evacuation-funds @gazavetters @gazav-blog @gaza

@90-ghost

@northgazaupdates2

@ana-banan

@corpse-rat @dirhwangdaseul

@wearyworrisomewarlock @vettedfundraiser

@jolyne-best-jojo @lordzannis @palhelp

@isuggestforcefem @backfliips @xenodile

@mahoushojoe @deepspaceboytoy

@dykesbat @riding-with-the-wild-hunt

@arboret-art @lhuigna @mayonaisalspray

@arboret-art @lhuigna

@rainyfroggy @guldentusks @anarchenby

@moomoobug @bixlasagna @paparoachercoby

@fading-event-608 @trans-leek-cookie

@fromjannah @classyeyeballs

@autisticmudkip

@colombogramme @nevert-the-guy

@tortiefrancis @comrademango

@deathly-awake

@monstermashpotato @raatwitch

@crapscicle

#@vaporize-employers

[malerie-rose]

[tommy-h-bff]

AHAHAHSHAHSHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

bitch

I'm fucking crazy too

Mmmmmmm. Now that I have emerged from the earth, and out of the darkness? I chirp. I'm chirping a song that let's every other cicada know, that it's okay to be who we are.

Why am I like this? Hm. I'll tell you why.

I'm cold because I have always been at the bottom. Hm. Given all the scraps and always forgotten. No love. Just me and my thoughts.

Now I get why Satan hated God. I feel like a fallen angel, demonized for being someone not favorable or worthy of love. But Satan? Welcomes everybody. This fire that burned me. Made me rotten. You God worshipping nazis? I'll roast you on a skewer. I will fuck you up.

Breathe. Other people.. who look at me are always horrified. Why? Because I say how I feel? Because I am who I am, and that's just how it is? Yeah. Sorta I guess. I've always been made to feel less. It's maddening. And most importantly? I'm sick of it. I've worked so hard to mean something in this country, all to come to accept.. it means nothing. I mean nothing. I shouldn't have to feel that way. Nobody does. We matter. If anyone has a problem? With who you are? Then that's their problem. Be you.

This psychology is a puzzle, a massive rabbit hole I've been falling in for a very long time. It got to us. We need to accept each other for our differences, but never make us feel unworthy of happiness and love. Its.. a mind game. It is psychological warfare so that the rich can be nazis and control the masses, and eliminate eliminate the weak.

If they burn me like a witch? I'll cackle. It will be exciting. This is the most fun I've had in a very long time, because I know I beat them. They cannot erase me. Or anybody else made to feel like they have no human right to live. No. I will protect you all from that. This drove me insane. He trolled me into madness. I hate musk. In my mind? Ohhh I can see this vision.

That vision is where I lay him out and beat the shit out of him. Punch his stupid fucking face in because HOW DARE he TRICK EVERYONE into thinking we can't have empathy and compassion for one another? He is a disgrace to humanity. He will kill us all.

Trust me. This got to me. I couldn't eat, sleep, or shower. I was.. gone. I kept falling down this rabbit hole, trying to find the answer.

Why?

Why don't I matter? Why doesn't anyone love me? Why doesn't anyone care? Why is it like this?

Elon is an evil mastermind and I tracked every pattern of behavior when I investigated. I feel like a psychic. I am the one. This is the matrix. The internet is not real anymore. Do not fall for the illusion. He made the illusion. He controls it all because he had all the money. Powerful..?

Nah. He's a little bitch. A failure of a father to his kids, especially his daughter. I hope they never love him. I hope? they torture him. Because what he did? To my country? is unacceptable.

He got to our heads and he fucked up our government, making it where the weak can die first. We'll I'm not dead yet, bitch. I won't let you scare me or hurt others. I will destroy you.

You pathetic excuse for a man. We'll drain you. We'll eat you alive, and roll around in your guts like it's all your money. Because that's your life. We hate you. I hate you. Get out. Get the fuck out. WE WILL END YOU.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

End-stage capitalism

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in BLOOMINGTON TODAY (Apr 4), and in PITTSBURGH on May 15. More tour dates here.

Karl Marx predicted that capitalism would eventually fail, torn apart by its own contradictions. He called the bourgeoisie, who epitomized these contradictions, capitalism's "grave diggers":

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/10/31/books/review/a-spectre-haunting-china-mieville.html

In the Communist Manifesto, Marx and Engels marvel at capitalism's adaptability, its ability to reinvent itself in the face of seemingly terminal crises and emerge in a new form. For nearly two centuries, Marxists have treated capitalism as an intermediate stage between feudalism and socialism – a lengthy, but still impermanent, regime whose purpose was to produce the systems of plenty that socialism would deliver to democratic control.

But as capitalism lurched from crisis to crisis, some Marxists speculated that capitalism would give way to something even worse. In 2023, Yanis Varoufakis proposed that capitalism might end up being a transitional phase between feudalism and another kind of feudalism – technofeudalism:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital

But Trump's disastrous policies – tariffs, suspension of the rule of law, pointless military expansionism – doesn't serve Varoufakis's technofeudalism or any other kind of feudalism. As Hamilton Nolan writes, Trump represents a rupture of the customarily unshakable class solidarity of the wealthy. Trump's policies are not good for business. Trump is going to make America much, much poorer – and since the vast majority of American wealth is held by a tiny minority of very rich people, any program that vaporizes an appreciable fraction of American wealth will make a lot of rich people a lot poorer.

Hamilton Nolan wrote about this a couple days ago, enumerating all the ways that Trump – who LARPed a TV businessman – is extremely bad for business:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/divergence-from-the-interests-of

Gutting state capacity

As Nolan writes, there are plenty on the right who don't care about the idea that public education produces the skilled workers needed to run and expand the economy, and who believe that paving half the national parks and putting a $500/day admission price on the remainder will suit them just fine. But even the most hardcore plutocrat needs a functional immigration system so they can source workers who can do the jobs Americans won't – or can't – do. You can't be a finance guy in a country with a collapsed, corrupt Treasury Department that periodically reaches into institutional bank accounts and drains them of millions in pursuit of "obscure witch-hunts":

“stupidly breaking the parts of the government that allow our financial markets to function smoothly with no apparent plan" is not “populism” any more than a bite from an alligator is a kiss

Ending the rule of law

Anyone who claims to love "free markets" loves the rule of law. The predictability of a laws-based society is a necessary precondition for capital formation, long-term investing, and the use of contracts to coordinate business within a transparent, known set of rules.

Trump's lavish corruption – his crypto companies (which someone called "a tipjar for the Oval Office"), his sale of commutations and pardons to flagrant criminals, and his purging of Democrats within the DoJ to create space for "buffoons" who run his witch hunts – all offer good reason for investors to stay the hell out of America, and for businesses to get the hell out of the country:

https://thehill.com/homenews/senate/5182515-senate-democrats-complaint-ed-martin/

The spectacle of the top executives of world's most powerful multinationals openly paying bribes to Trump, while seated at Trump's own members' club, makes an eloquent case for seeking your business opportunities in another country – practically any other country:

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2025/mar/05/trump-dinner-mar-a-lago

Then there's Trump's interference in the Fed, "endangering financial markets for short term political gain":

https://www.project-syndicate.org/commentary/trump-bid-to-control-fed-puts-us-economy-at-risk-by-kenneth-rogoff-2025-01

And finally, there's his defiance of federal court orders, and his attacks on law firms that employ lawyers who had the temerity to sue him. As Nolan writes, "This is not good for business." Sure, it's grimly satisfying to think about all those rich fools who howled because Biden had the temerity to suggest modest tax hikes and improvements to labor law now having to watch as "the world’s most sophisticated corporate legal regime [is replaced] with a system in which you must grovel at his toes in a ridiculous red hat in order to get anything done."

Military adventures

Trump is apparently going to go to war with Iran, Canada, Denmark, Mexico, and several other countries to be determined at a later date. Sure, America's military spending is higher than all the rest of the world's combined, but getting involved in several wars at once is – once again – not good for business. For one thing, he's going to kill Boeing, Lockheed, and all the other US-based arms dealers that rely on a friendly relationship with America's erstwhile allies for billions of dollars per year in business. Things are no better for the companies that do other kinds of business with the countries America is apparently on the brink of war with. This kind of "Hitlerian" program of economic growth was a failure in the previous century, and it will fail again:

Did Hitler’s wild invasions ultimate make Germany richer? No. They started a world war. And, no matter what anyone tells you, world war is not good for business.

Tariffs

Finally, there's Trump's deranged tariff plan. As David Dayen writes for The American Propsect, these aren't really tariffs at all – they're sanctions, punishments visited upon every country in the world (even uninhabited islands!) for a bunch of imaginary crimes:

https://prospect.org/economy/2025-04-03-theyre-not-tariffs-theyre-sanctions/

Trump's tariffs make no sense as an economic policy, but they are familiar to anyone who's spent time around organized crime (like, say, Trump):

https://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2016/05/donald-trump-2016-mob-organized-crime-213910/

Dayen likens Trump's approach to "a mob boss moving into town and sending his thugs to every business on Main Street, roughing up the proprietors and asking for protection money so they don’t get pushed out of business." Trump's demands – such as they are – include forcing America's trading partners to do away with their privacy, food safety and antitrust laws:

https://tacd.org/wp-content/uploads/TACD-Statement-Tariffs-3-April.pdf

Even if it was worth it for other countries to dismantle their laws to enjoy continued access to US markets (it isn't), no one trusts that giving in to Trump means that he'll carry out his end of the bargain. As Brad DeLong reminds us, Trump personally negotiated the USMCA terms that Canada and Mexico have been living under since he last left office, and those are the two countries he's most pissed off at:

https://braddelong.substack.com/p/draft-mar-a-lago-discord

This isn't capitalism – it's gangsterism. It's a system that will annihilate trillions of dollars in value to put billions of dollars in the pockets of Trump and a few of his cronies – at the expense of all the other rich people.

Nolan concludes that Trump is "insane" – that his actions are irrational, disconnected from reality, impossible to understand. For Nolan, the question isn't "What is Trump trying to accomplish?" It's "how has this insane man managed to gain control of the government of the world’s richest and most powerful nation?"

He's got a hell of an answer, too:

That, my friends, is the unfortunate outcome of an economic system that has so profoundly failed to enforce economic equality, and a political system that so profoundly failed to protect its democracy from the influence of capital that it allowed itself to be totally captured by extreme lunatics backed by extreme wealth.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog: https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/04/anything-that-cant-go-on/#forever-eventually-stops

[reality-detective]

BOMBSHELL: APRIL 8, 2025 — SUPREME COURT SIDES WITH TRUMP, BLOCKS 16,000 DEEP STATE REHIRES

The Supreme Court just dealt a fatal blow to the Deep State. In a 6–3 ruling, the Court sided with President Trump, reversing a California judge’s order to reinstate 16,000 “probationary” federal employees — the very operatives embedded to sabotage Trump’s return.

THE SHADOW ARMY JUST GOT VAPORIZED.

These weren’t harmless clerks. These were sleeper agents, injected into federal agencies during Biden’s collapse — a last-ditch firewall meant to resist Trump from within.

But the Supreme Court just pulled the plug.

They’re gone. And they’re never coming back.

This isn’t just paperwork. It’s war.

And the battlefield just tilted hard in Trump’s favor.

DEEP STATE LOSES ITS LAST HUMAN SHIELD

That California judge tried to freeze Trump’s purge under the illusion of “workforce protection.” But the Supreme Court didn’t blink. They upheld Trump’s constitutional authority to fire federal employees — especially the unvetted infiltrators posing as probationary hires.

The ruling wasn’t legal housekeeping — it was a wrecking ball through the permanent state.

THIS ISN’T A COURT CASE — IT’S A COUNTEROFFENSIVE

This is part of something bigger. The digital war on bureaucracy is here.

Elon Musk knows it. Trump’s allies know it. The Doge Army knows it.

They’ve had enough of bloated government, censorship, fake regulations, and hostile sabotage of America First innovation.

The swamp is being drained by force.

THE JUDICIAL COUP HAS BEEN EXPOSED

For years, activist judges have hijacked courts to block Trump and shield their regime.

Now the mask is off. The Supreme Court just declared: We’re not your puppets.

This isn’t just a win — it’s a strike against a corrupted judiciary that thought it could operate above the Constitution.

IMPEACHMENT JUST GOT REAL

Now the House GOP has new firepower.

Multiple Republicans are signaling impeachment proceedings against judges who violated the Constitution to stall Trump.

This is no longer political theory. It’s a tactical operation.

The judicial coup didn’t just fail — it got marked for takedown.

THE RESET HAS BEGUN

April 8, 2025: The day the Deep State got burned.

Trump is dismantling their firewall. One institution at a time.

The 16,000 embeds? Blocked.

The rogue judge? Discredited.

The system of sabotage? Malfunctioning.

This isn’t the end. It’s another strike. 🤔

[lethargiclitany]

obviously the best headcanon for george's relationship with thomas when he grows up is the one where george is also gay and he looks to thomas for advice/community/understanding/etc. be it in person (he can move to the us) or through mail

BUT consider the second best, and debatably funniest, headcanon for their relationship in the future: which is basically the bertie & his gay cousin dynamic. like, george is straight and marries a nice girl and everything, but he's a sensitive, kind person, who doesn't treat thomas' sexuality the way robert did (with tolerance but irresponsibility and disregard for thomas' feelings and privacy) or thomas' ex-coworkers (poking fun, using it against him, outing him left and right, not understanding how hard it is for him, etc.). instead, he explains to his wife that the reason why he still keeps in touch with his once servant, is that thomas was the one who spent the most time with him throughout his childhood, allowing him and his siblings to ride on his back for hours at a time while his mother was supervising the estate and going out, often out of town, other adults not being much less busy, and the endless stream of nannies not being very interested in playtime. he waxes poetic about how kind thomas' smile was, and how he was the only adult who was never, ever annoyed at them, not even slightly, who seemingly always had time for them despite his many duties, who has never spoken a single ill word or made an irritated sigh towards them out of tiredness. how, one day, thomas left for good, and he asked his mother why would thomas choose to leave downton when they had so much fun playing together, and his mother said "because he found a person who would make him really happy, and that person lives in america, so they left to be happy there, together". how he taught himself how to write so that he could write to thomas in america, to ask him what was so good about that person, and then what was so good about america, and then what was thomas doing exactly, and then they just kept in touch. thomas never revealed the identity or gender of that person, not even when george discovered that you could fall in love with girls, and started to ask thomas for advice (he would never give his sisters that ammo), since apparently he was so in love with some girl that he moved across the ocean for her. thomas gave him some great advice, although george did find it a bit, well, vaporous at the time. at some point, george discovers gay people (insert your favourite scenario here), and has his hmmm moment, after which he puts all of his writing skills into the effort of helping thomas put his trust in him in regards to his sexuality and choice of partner. having perfected the art of discussing thomas' private life in their letters, he tells his wife (obviously with thomas' consent) about the amazing home that they have built together and about their role in their local community and about how amazing and brave thomas is to have lived through what he did and come out on the other side of it as such a considerate, emotionally developed person, and how much he admires thomas and treasures their correspondence as a genuinely important interpersonal connection in his life, and will never allow anyone who wants to stay in his good graces to disrespect thomas.

TLDR; george & thomas = bertie & his cousin, allyship headcanon 4lyfe

[blackkatmagic]

If ur taking Moonknight ships, Marc Spector and Steve Rodgers with mind control!

“Fuck you, that’s a lie,” Marc hisses, pressed as flat as he can get to the wall of the shrine that the Prince of Orphans led them to. The Mandarin was supposed to be here. The Mandarin is not here.

Scarlet Witch is, though, and it seems like she’s having one hell of a bad day.

Sprawled out in his throne, one leg crossed over the other and a dusty glass of something that absolutely isn't wine in his hand, Khonshu chuckles. “I would never lie to my knight,” he lies. “It’s the simplest way to break her control over him, my son. You asked for a cure and I've provided one.”

“Fuck you,” Marc growls, and ignores the look Clint is giving him from the other side of the small shrine. Clint knows Khonshu is real, or he’d better, after their detour into ancient Egypt that one time when the West Coast Avengers were still a thing. “Give me a different cure. A better one.”

Khonshu cocks his head thoughtfully, like that will hide the gleam of wicked mirth that swirls through the galaxies in his empty eye sockets. “That would require a quest seeking my sister-son Heka, my knight, and a remedy brewed by his divine hands. I don’t believe you have that much time at the moment.”

“If you depart your body now of all times,” Valkyrie tells him, low but very definitely dangerous, “I will tell your cab driver friend where you hid all of his false mustaches.”

Marc grimaces, ducking a little more as there's a loud crash, a thud, a groan. The Prince of Orphans lands hard on the stone, and Natasha drops down a few paces from him, breathing hard with a bruise already disappearing across one cheekbone.

With a loud, ringing thud, Steve’s shield embeds itself into the stone of the wall just to the left of the Prince, and heavy footfalls sound.

“Shit,” Marc mutters, and closes his eyes, ignoring the heavy weight of Khonshu’s amused stare. Breathes, steeling himself—

“Moon Knight,” Valkyrie warns, alarm sliding into her tone. “If it is that foolish an idea—”

“All of my ideas are foolish,” Marc tells her. "If he throws me across the room, try to catch me.”

“Moon Knight!” she protests, but Marc ducks away from her grab, vaults the wall, and then stops dead, something thudding in his chest. Steve is staring at him, looking dangerous as hell in the black of his old Nomad costume, even though no other man alive could probably pull off that V-neck. His eyes are red, though, and his expression is icy cold, in a way Steve would never be when standing in front of his own team. Whatever Wanda did to him—

Whatever she did, Khonshu gave Marc the way to fix it. It’s just a really fucking stupid fix.

“Moon Knight,” Steve says, and there's a rough, almost gravelly edge to it that makes Marc feel like a stupid teenager sneaking Captain America comics and fantasizing about them again. Him again. Which is absolutely not an appropriate thought to have when Steve’s currently a brain puppet of the Scarlet Witch during one of her breakdowns over her teenage kids getting pissy at her. Especially not given what Marc is about to try and do.

Steven would be better at this, Marc thinks, mostly resigned to getting punched in the face. Too bad Steven is a squishy human and Cap would turn him into a slinky.

“Hey, Cap,” Marc says, and tries to think of a way to say how about you let me get within grabbing distance without breaking my arms in a way that will go over well. “If Iron Man sees you walking around like that, you're going to give him the vapors.”

Steve’s expression darkens, and he flexes one hand like he’s imagining closing it around Stark’s neck. That’s a pretty standard reaction to Stark, though. It does give Marc cover to take two steps towards Steve, braced to move if things get violent, and he opens his hands, like an offer.

“Think you want a henchman?” he asks, and hears the bursts of indignation that come from four different directions as the team catches his words. Ignoring them, because Natasha is the only one close and conscious enough to be a threat if they decide to dogpile him, marc reaches up, pulling his mask off deliberately, and tells Steve, “Look, I don’t want to stick with these lunch detention nerd rejects if you're going off to do your own thing, Cap. I can be a good little right hand if you want me to.”

There's a pause, more thoughtful than before, and Steve finally turns, gives Marc his full attention rather than keeping one eye on Natasha and the Prince. “You want to be my henchman,” he says, flat, and the red light clinging to him like a second skin flickers, whirls.

“Henchman, goon, pet damsel if that’s more your speed,” Marc says, taking another two steps closer. He’s almost within arm’s reach now, and Steve still hasn’t tried to twist his head off his neck, so that’s promising. Probably. “I look great in a pink feathered negligée.”

Somewhere behind him, Clint gags pointedly, and Marc tries not to scowl, making a mental note to put ink in his coffee as soon as he gets the chance.

“Pink feathers?” Steve asks, and for the first time his tone slips out of cold anger, right into bemusement.

“I can lounge around your secret lair and let you test it out, if you want,” Marc offers, not even bothering to try for charming. Steven could manage that, but—yeah, Steven isn't going to touch this one. Besides, Steve seems blindsided enough by the offer that Marc steps right up to him, reaches out, and presses a hand to his broad chest without losing his head. When he looks up at Steve, halfheartedly trying to make it looking through his lashes like Marlene sometimes used to do to him when she couldn’t tell it wasn’t Steven in front of her, Steve looks down at him, something Marc can't read on his face, but—well. It’s not violent, at least. Marc got worse responses from other guys in the Marines, and given Steve’s from the 40’s, he wasn’t holding out much hope of better.

“So what about it?” he asks, leaning in, and Steve’s hand settles on his waist—

Marc kisses him, hard, no time wasted with finesse. He slams their mouths together, and feels more than hears the dry-bone-rattle of Khonshu’s laughter. Something burns, burns right through him and into Steve, as bright as the moon hanging full and round above them, and Steve jerks. His arm snaps tight around Marc’s back, and Marc braces to get tossed like a frisbee—

Instead, there's a groan, winded, warm. The kiss gentles, and a hand curls over Marc’s cheek, tips his head into an angle that’s a little less awkward. It feels a bit like an electric shock, and Marc twitches, almost jerks away, but…this is actually kind of pleasant. Not just awkward bodies, like sometimes happens, but—well. All those years spent crushing on Captain America probably have something to do with that.

Then, slow, gentle, Steve draws back, the shimmer of red around him gone. His eyes are sky-blue again, bright and familiar, and Marc takes one look at him, catches his breath, and says, “Fuck. Cap?”

Steve blinks, blinks again. Then, all at once, his eyes widen, and he says with deep relief, “Marc. You broke her control?”

“It was the image of the pink feathered negligée,” Marc tells him, flat, and desperately tries to jam his mask back over his head before something in his face gives away the whole I have a crush on the most unattainable man in existence thing. “You’re welcome. Thank Khonshu.”

“If I'm thanking Khonshu, I feel like it probably wasn’t that,” Steve says, and grimaces, putting a hand up to his head. “Ugh. I think I have a migraine.”

“Wanda’ll do that to you,” Clint says, cautiously poking his head above the edge of the low wall. “Moonie, did you really just break the evil witch’s curse with a kiss? Are you a fairy tale princess?”

“No, I'm Sailor Moon. And Wanda’s not evil,” Marc says, rolling his eyes, and drags his mask down a little more securely. “Shut up, bastard.”

Khonshu, still chuckling, tips his glass full of unidentified and unsettlingly-colored liquid at Marc. “You would make an excellent henchman, my knight,” he says, and is gone in the space between seconds.

“Damsel?” Natasha asks judgmentally, raising one red brow.

“Who wouldn’t want an easy retirement?” Marc counters. “If Cap wanted to take over the world, I think he could.”

Natasha weighs that for a moment, then snorts and waves in agreement, leaning down to check the Prince of Orphans.

“Please don’t ever let me take over the world,” Steve says, one hand still pressed over his eyes. “Even for the sake of your retirement.”

“Don’t look at me,” Clint tells him. “I look terrible in pink feathers. And my kiss can't break a curse.”

Marc flips him off, going to grab Steve’s arm and steer him out of the shrine. “Come on,” he says pointedly. “You should probably lie down. The birdbrain can handle getting everyone back to the ship.”

“While you play damsel? Come on, I can rock purple feathers—”

“Not as well as Moon Knight,” Valkyrie says, and between her and Natasha, they heave the Prince up. “Retrieve the good Captain’s shield, Hawkeye.”

Marc very firmly kicks the door closed before he can hear Clint’s protest.

Steve makes a quiet sound of amusement, body heavy where he’s leaning on Marc’s shoulder. “Do we need to have a talk about you offering to be a villain’s henchman?” he asks.

Marc rolls his eyes. “Only yours,” he counters, but instead of getting uncomfortable, the way he expects, Steve shoots him a thoughtful look.

“We should have downtime in Berlin once this mission is over,” he says after a moment. “I know you normally go back to New York, but you should stay. If you meant that kiss.”

Electricity, again. A frisson, sharp through Marc’s nerves, but—it makes breathing a little more difficult than it really should be.

“I could mean it,” he says, and looks away, feeling entirely too self-conscious. It was a bad kiss. Right up until Steve took over. “Assuming I didn’t scare you off.”

“I'm hard to scare,” Steve says gently, and—

Well. There's a fine line between supporting Steve and walking with Steve’s arm over his shoulder. Not that Marc is about to protest.

[meidui]

stevetony sex pollen fic recs

for @fluffystevefest day 5: aphrodisiac 💕

Aphrodisiac by @kandisheek

Steve gets hit with some sort of sex pollen. It must be the universe's idea of a joke to let Captain America die from horniness and make Tony his only chance at survival.

Simple Biology by @stark---contrast

“God, I'm sweating bullets in this thing,” Tony said, already unzipping his undersuit. “It’s not just me, right? It feels like a sauna in here.” And Steve's resolve crumbled by each inch of sweat-slick skin that was revealed.

Or, Tony gets hit by sex pollen. Fortunately, Steve is there to help him out.

the thorn in his side by @fohatic (or @moon-language-0 until justice is served)

It had been there from the beginning. There was no end to it, that mutual wanting between them—forever unresolved—that had grown so terribly soft and unbearably romantic with age...

But there was an unspoken rule between them, as well: an understanding that they could never act on it.

That is, until an alien parasite's brood nest gets violently dislodged from its Chitauri Leviathan host during the Battle of New York, dispersing its contents directly over two time-jumping tourists who are very much in the wrong place and the wrong timeline.

All the Love You Hold and Hide by Mireille

On a mission, Steve triggers a booby trap that turns out to be a skeevy sex curse, of the "fuck or die" variety.

Tony volunteers as tribute.

Exposed by @festiveferret @sirsapling

Of all the people Steve could be stuck with while this agonizing drug surged through him, of course, it had to be Tony Stark.

I Want to Hurt You by @festiveferret

How could Steve ever look Tony in the eye again? He loved Tony, so desperately, but he didn't know how to come back from this. He didn't know how many apologies would be enough to make up for what he'd done.

He could still feel Tony's soft skin giving to dark bruises under his fingers.

Side Effects by @elimymoons

"So what I'd like to propose," Tony continued on, "is for you to let me help you out a little, yeah? We'll work off some of this energy, some of this adrenaline, and you don't have to worry about hurting yourself anymore, okay?"

Steve's in a bit of trouble. Tony wants to help him out. Sexily.

Emergency Contact by @valdomarx

Steve has been exposed to sex pollen, and for some reason Tony is the person who's been called in to assist him.

Tony knows that he can't take advantage of Steve in this desperate state, but it's awfully hard to remember that when Steve is rubbing up against him and describing all of his deepest fantasies in excruciating detail.

Double Blind by @loftyperch

Steve signs up for a drug trial. Naughty side effects ensue.

Long Distance Relationship by @cookinguptales

So what do you do when your boyfriend gets sex pollened and you're thousands of miles away? The correct answer here is Extremis sex. Obviously.

Messes We Make by @navaan

Commander Rogers locks himself in his office with a sex-pollend Tony, he's not exactly back on speaking terms with. Things get out of hand.

calling (screaming) your name by orphan_account

in which the whole team gets vapored during battle and it affects everyone differently. Tony finds out, first-hand, how it affects Steve.

Dishonest John's Special Rates by @meh-guh

Steve runs afoul of sex pollen and Tony reaps the benefit

honey from your hive by @meidui

"Steve, stop that," Tony says, sounding strangled as his grip tightens and Steve stops, letting Tony grab his face and tilt him up. "You're kind of scaring the crap out of me. What is it? What's going on with you?"

"We blew up the lab," Steve manages, and something dawns on Tony's face. "Everyone had a reaction 'cept me. Think 'm having it now."

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 4 EPISODE 01 || AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

“What’s this?” I ran my hand curiously over the box.

“Oh, only a wee present.”

He didn’t look at me, but the tips of his ears were pink. “Open it, hm?” It was a heavy box, both wide and deep. Carved of a dense, fine-grained dark wood, it bore the marks of heavy use—nicks and dents that had seasoned but not impaired its polished beauty. It was hasped for a lock, but there was none; the lid rose easily on oiled brass hinges, and a whiff of camphor floated out, vaporous as a jinn. The instruments gleamed under the smoky sun, bright despite a hazing of disuse. Each had its own pocket, carefully fitted and lined in green velvet. A small, heavy-toothed saw; scissors, three scalpels—round-bladed, straight-bladed, scoop-bladed; the silver blade of a tongue depressor, a tenaculum … “Jamie!” Delighted, I lifted out a short ebony rod, to the end of which was affixed a ball of worsted, wrapped in rather moth-eaten velvet. I’d seen one before, at Versailles; the eighteenth-century version of a reflex hammer.

“Oh, Jamie! How wonderful!”

He wiggled his feet, pleased. “Oh, ye like it?” “I love it! Oh, look—there’s more in the lid, under this flap—” I stared for a moment at the disjointed tubes, screws, platforms and mirrors, until my mind’s eye shuffled them and presented me with the neatly assembled vision.

“A microscope!”

I touched it reverently. “My God, a microscope.” “There’s more,” he pointed out, eager to show me. “The front opens and there are wee drawers inside.” There were—containing, among other things, a miniature balance and set of brass weights, a tile for rolling pills, and a stained marble mortar, its pestle wrapped in cloth to prevent its being cracked in transit. Inside the front, above the drawers, were row upon row of small, corked bottles made of stone or glass. “Oh, they’re beautiful!” I said, handling the small scalpel with reverence. The polished wood of the handle fit my hand as though it had been made for me, the blade weighted to an exquisite balance. “Oh, Jamie, thank you!” “Ye like them, then?” His ears had gone bright red with pleasure. “I thought they’d maybe do. I’ve no notion what they’re meant for, but I could see they were finely made.”

I had no notion what some of the pieces were meant for, but all of them were beautiful in themselves; made by or for a man who loved his tools and what they did. “Who did they belong to, I wonder?” I breathed heavily on the rounded surface of a lenticular and brought it to a soft gleam with a fold of my skirt. “The woman who sold it to me didna ken; he left behind his doctor’s book, though, and I took that, as well—perhaps it will give his name.” Lifting the top tray of instruments, he revealed another, shallower tray, from which he drew out a fat square-bound book, some eight inches wide, covered in scuffed black leather. “I thought ye might be wanting a book, too, like the one ye kept in France,” he explained. “The one where ye kept the pictures and the notes of the people ye saw at L’Hôpital. He’s written a bit in this one, but there’s a deal of blank pages left at the back.” Perhaps a quarter of the book had been used; the pages were covered with a closely written, fine black script, interspersed with drawings that took my eye with their clinical familiarity: an ulcerated toe, a shattered kneecap, the skin neatly peeled aside; the grotesque swelling of advanced goiter, and a dissection of the calf muscles, each neatly labeled. I turned back to the inside cover; sure enough, his name was written on the first page, adorned with a small, gentlemanly flourish: Dr. Daniel Rawlings, Esq. “What happened to Dr. Rawlings, I wonder? Did the woman who had the box say?” Jamie nodded, his brow slightly creased. “The Doctor lodged with her for a night. He said he’d come from Virginia, where his home was, bound upon some errand, and his case with him. He was looking for a man named Garver—she thought that was the name, at least. But that night after supper he went out—and never came back.” I stared at him. “Never came back? Did she find out what happened to him?” Jamie shook his head, batting away a small cloud of midges. The sun was sinking, painting the surface of the water gold and orange, and bugs were beginning to gather as the afternoon cooled into evening. “No. She went to the sheriff, and to the justice, and the constable searched high and low—but there was nay sign of the man. They looked for a week, and then gave up. He had never told his landlady which town it was in Virginia, so they couldna trace him further.” “How very odd.” I wiped a droplet of moisture off my chin. “When did the Doctor disappear?” “A year past, she said.” He looked at me, a little anxious. “Ye dinna mind? Using his things, I mean?” “No.” I closed the lid and stroked it gently, the dark wood warm and smooth under my fingers. “If it were me—I’d want someone to use them.” I remembered vividly the feel of my own doctor’s bag—cordovan leather, with my initials stamped in gilt on the handle. Originally stamped in gilt on

the handle, that is; they had long since worn off, the leather gone smooth and shiny, rich with handling. Frank had given me the bag when I graduated from medical school; I had given it to my friend Joe Abernathy, wanting it to be used by someone who would treasure it as I had. He saw the shadow drift across my face—I saw the reflection of it darken his—but I took his hand and smiled as I squeezed it. “It’s a wonderful gift. However did you find it?” He smiled then, in return. The sun blazed low, a brilliant orange ball glimpsed briefly through dark treetops. “I’d seen the box when I went to the goldsmith’s shop—it was the goldsmith’s wife who’d kept it. Then I went back yesterday, meaning to buy ye a bit of jewelry—maybe a brooch—and whilst the goodwife was showing me the gauds, we happened to speak of this and that, and she told me of the Doctor, and—” He shrugged. “Why did you want to buy me jewelry?” I looked at him, puzzled. The sale of the ruby had left us with a bit of money, but extravagance was not at all like him, and under the circumstances— “Oh! To make up for sending all that money to Laoghaire? I didn’t mind; I said I didn’t.” He had—with some reluctance—arranged to send the bulk of the proceeds from the sale of the stone to Scotland, in payment of a promise made to Laoghaire MacKenzie—damn her eyes—Fraser, whom he had married at his sister’s persuasion while under the rather logical impression that if I was not dead, I was at least not coming back. My apparent resurrection from the dead had caused any amount of complications, Laoghaire not least among them. “Aye, ye said so,” he said, openly cynical. “I meant it—more or less,” I said, and laughed. “You couldn’t very well let the beastly woman starve to death, appealing as the idea is.” He smiled, faintly. “No. I shouldna like to have that on my conscience; there’s enough without. But that’s not why I wished to buy ye a present.” “Why, then?” The box was heavy; a gracious, substantial, satisfying weight across my legs, its wood a delight under my hands. He turned his head to look full at me, then, his hair fire-struck with the setting sun, face dark in silhouette.

“Twenty-four years ago today, I married ye, Sassenach,” he said softly. “I hope ye willna have cause yet to regret it.”

[dustedmagazine]

Godspeed You! Black Emperor — "NO TITLE AS OF 13 FEBRUARY 2024 28,340 DEAD" (Constellation)

The night of the election in America, Godspeed You! Black Emperor played a show in Toronto. As they almost always do, they said nothing. No interaction beyond playing music and then expressing wordless thanks to the crowd as each stepped off stage to the roaring feedback surge that closed out “Piss Crowns Are Trebled” and the concert. Even if they’d taken a moment to check the news that night, what was there to say? As suggested last time here, the ineffable, unspeakable power of the Montreal collective can be read at least partially as the only possible response to the deranged and deranging power of repression and evil in the world. 2021 felt dark. Suffice it to say that things have not gotten better and appear set on getting quite a bit worse.

The title this time, of course, is a reference to the verified (and thus almost certainly lower than actual) death toll of the genocide in Gaza at the time of creation. Associate and Constellation labelmate Jessica Moss released her own powerful statement on the same issue this year, and again, things have not improved in the meantime. It’s enough to lead to a rare appearance of lyrics, with “RAINDROPS CAST IN LEAD” featuring a poem in Spanish read (and written? as always, the band remains gnomic) by Michele Fiedler Fuentes. Of course the current album will be viewed in light of current events (they almost beg you to do so, from track titles and statements on down), and while no Godspeed You! Black Emperor record is exactly drowning in levity, they cast a particularly grim panic over affairs here.

If G_d's Pee AT STATE'S END! frequently felt like the massive, sweeping motions of some sort of gestalt entity, it’s fitting that things here feel fractured at times, if no less cohesive. Halfway through “PALE SPECTATOR TAKES PHOTOGRAPHS” it feels like there’s a fire alarm going on behind the banks of sound. One of the guitarists frequently sounds as if they’re trying to pickaxe their way through a boulder (especially on parts of “BABYS IN A THUNDERCLOUD”). The opening “SUN IS A HOLE SUN IS VAPORS” sounds equally as if they might be tuning up for most of its length and like it’s a shame they’d already gotten around to using the name “Anthem for No State” as a title.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor has always been oriented towards apocalypse (the machine has been bleeding to death since their first album as a group, if not long before), and it continues to be queasily terrifying how swiftly the world rushes to meet them there. These are always someone’s last days; the rest of us wake up each morning and fall a little further down. They themselves say, this time, “what gestures make sense while tiny bodies fall? what context? what broken melody?” That may be the reason they close with “GREY RUBBLE - GREEN SHOOTS,” a tidy just-under-seven-minutes that presents both a stirring crescendo and an aching coda. Determined as always to nurture what is left growing after all the valedictions and maledictions are handed out. Every triumphant moment here feels wrested from the jaws of death, all too aware of who still gets claimed. They, and we, have to keep going.

Ian Mathers

[ragewritings]

Revelation

By: D.D. Campbell

A man on edge discovers a new way to slake his appetite.

Horror

Tw: violence, murder

What does one do when the soft layers they have placed between themselves and the world are stripped away?

When one sickens of drink and excess; when their gut, hung heavy with the ghosts of cocktails past, finally ripens into cyanosis and crippling pain? When the risk of cancer becomes just high enough to chase one away from the smoke and vapor?

When the spirit goes from one's loins from too many years of indulging the cock's every passing fancy. When one must delve deeper into the deranged, diving the depths of depravity just to ignite that damned and damning spark. Even then, only finding a pale shadow of the lust that once pounded there?

Christ, the sepia tones of a world without vice.

Vice lends the world color. And damn me, but I was a fucking virtuouso. I made art of naught but my body, a bottle and a thousand sultry nights.

And yet here I sit in the stinking August heat sinking steadily into my sofa, watching some inane docu series about serial killers and trying to ignore the oompah oompah coming up through my floor.

Have you ever thought about how funny H. H. Holmes would have been to watch in action? Because it makes me laugh until my eyes tear up. This murderous bastard, itching to kill someone, feeling the addiction like a vice at the base of his spine, right? And what does he do, go strangle some folks? Beat a man to hamburger meat barehanded? Nope, he pulls a McCauley Kulkin, sneaks around a tiny hotel setting his little tricks and traps.

In my mind, I can see it so clearly. Holmes, walking down a hallway with arms spread wide showmanly, describing the perks and amenities of America's first Blood and Breakfast. He steps lithely around a loose floorboard, and when the petite granny who rented suite 7B hits it? Wham, two by four full of nails to the face. Of course that doesn't do the job, granny lived through the dust bowl, she's a tough old bird. But it makes her stumble back to the stairs and slip.

That does the trick. The second impact enough to snap her spine, but she keeps ragdolling. Blood sprays from the new holes as she pinwheels down. Holmes steps on a pedal opening a secret door to the cellar where Oma Mendelson lands on a pile of other guests. Splat!

Of course, like all my other lovely little hobbies, the world does not let me keep this. The documentary reveals the long held secret of H. H. Holmes we've all been waiting for on the edge of our seats. He was boring.

Kevin McAllister The Ripper was just a common fucking conman. Every single bloodthirsty kill and bloodstained Victorian drama? Just a desperate attempt to cover up shifty little white collar crimes. The murder hotel? Made up for the papers after the perfectly normal building burnt down. My laughter dies in my throat. Color abandons me. The sepia creeps back in.

Desperate frustration drives me to the bathroom. I rip down a gray box full of nicotine gum, and dump the contents into the sink. Six sheets of blister wrapped bits of gum sit there innocuously. I struggle to pop one out for a full minute, guttural cursing escaping me the whole time.

I catch sight of the mirror, and what awaits on the burnished glass is a vision from pre-history. Hair in disarray, foam flecked lips, blood shot eyes. Forehead jutting like a caveman amongst crude cut features. Breath boils out of me, laced with petty frustration more black and potent than any rage. Finally, I manage to claw the foil off the entire pack in a single motion and a half dozen pieces clatter on the mildew and piss stained floor.

There isn’t a moment of hesitation. I snatch the closest few sticks and cram them in my mouth.

It tastes like inadequacy and artificial fruit.

The music starts pounding again next door.

…

You're not even wearing a hearing aid you old piece of shit.

The sounds of polka damn near drowned that thought.

“I'm sorry Jefe I don't mean to bother, you know” Old Jank was half hollering over the music, which stoked the rage in my stomach even higher. It meant he knew full well how loud it was. His liver-spotted hands pawed at a sweat stained wifebeater, out of which a carpet of graying tangle peaked, and a piss-yellowed pair of Jockeys.

Why did society tolerate old men who gave up common decency at the first excuse?

Old Jank was called Old Jank because the man looked like a Scooby Doo stereotype. He belonged in a shack next to an abandoned gold mine or some defunct amusement park somewhere, not in here stinking up the high rise. Over his shoulder was an apartment piled high with the sort of trash that got you a reality tv intervention. Stacks of old magazines and yellowing newspapers, boxes of trash used as packing material for Hummel figurines. The sort of mess you didn’t end up living in if you had anyone on earth who loved you.

“Just fuckin.. turn it down man. Don’t make me come down here again.” The menace lacing my tone did nothing to him. His shallow unconcerned gaze didn’t waver for a second. Fucker.

Deluding myself into thinking he was intimidated, I turned and stormed away. The fact that the music became slightly quieter fed the poor starving self deception. The fatass-shaped mould in my sofa called to me, and I filled it gratefully.

Ed Gein was up next. Now there was a true American Hero. Killed like, nine people, and grave robbed a dozen more, and made modern fucking art with their bits. I mean, the man wasn’t any good at arts and crafts, a middle aged mom could have made better corpse chachkis, but hey points for style. Maybe if they’d taken a bit longer to catch him, he could have refined his art a bit better.

Of course, in a stunning repeat of their last performance, the documentarian saved the disappointment for right at the end of the episode. Gein wasn’t an artiste. There was no passion. He was just trying to build a fucking mommy-suit. My god, never meet your heroes. No one in this world is worth saving.

In disgust, I killed the boob tube, and flung away the remote. Guess there was nothing to do but nap. Better the dreamless void than the itch growing in my spinal cord. The couch would do well enough for a few hours.

Oompah

OOMPAH

OOMPAH OOMPAH OOMPAH.

THAT MOTHERFUCKER. The slam of my front door rattled the pictures on the wall almost as hard as the bass boosted music beneath my feet. I barely remember the flight down to 14C. Jank was smiling knowingly when he finally opened the door, wearing an apron over his grungy duds that said Cafe Esteban in ancient faded vinyl cursive. After maybe five minutes of knuckle-bruising knocks. I didn’t know what i was going to say, but that fucking smile made up my mind for me. No words. I just cocked my fist back to teach the old fuck a lesson.

GLURK

Jank wasn't standing in front of me, I couldn’t fuckin breathe and everything was bursting with pinpricks of light. The rings of bone that ran round my adams apple felt like they’d gone a few rounds with a cricket bat.

“Can't be acting like fucking animals, Rat-shitkowski” I couldn't breathe enough to get mad. His words sounded.. more than pleasant, the man sounded genuinely excited. I felt his bony hand clench around my shirt, with that long hairy bare leg against the back of my knees, and before my sluggish instincts kicked in, he launched my ass into the apartment. Some kind of body weight momentum type shit, jiu-jitsu maybe?

Take-off to touchdown was maybe a half a second. I rolled onto my back after a second to see Esteban saunter towards me.

“This tantrum shit that young people do in this country? No, good my friend. If you want to hurt me?” He paused to punctuate his point, contemplating me. I shot my left hand out to snag his ankle hoping to yank the old bastard down. Too slow.

Esteban took a half step back, easily dodging my clumsy attempt, then brought his full weight down on the offending limb, heel first. There was an internal snap, and the sepia retreated from the world. The blue in his eyes was electric.

“Just hurt me. Don’t fuck around.”

The smell of over-spiced Cuban beef hit my senses, followed by the sizzle. Then the pain, as the shriveled old scrotum of a man drew up a bare foot and stomped full force on my crotch.

He missed my testicles on the first try, slamming his heel into my public bone, but that must have helped him calibrate his efforts because the second shot caught the fellas. I threw up. Vomit streamed through clenched teeth, painting the front of my hurricanes jersey with that distinctive orange brown. Coughing followed, as the rest slid back down the wrong pipe.

Esteban was so kind as to bury his heel into my diaphragm, and the explosive exhalation blew chunks all over his face. He didn't so much as flinch.

Fists after that. Somewhere around the third blow I realized I was laughing. The pain felt right. This was real life, stripped of all its drab covering and exposed to the cold air of reality. No shrinking back from the pain as the old Cubano threw a vicious jab into my gums. There was a pop and a crack as I parted ways with a lower canine and chipped something else. Hands gripped my throat, pulling me from the grimy linoleum, then bashing me back against it.

He was flagging. Youth had long since abandoned my Jank, and it showed. A few more shots from his bloody knuckles and he was done, pushing himself agonizingly back to his feet, and stumbling away chest heaving.

“I… am glad.. you enjoyed yourself, gringo” he forced out. I choked over my dying laughter and spit a wad of bloody phlegm and enamel onto the floor. “I trust you can see yourself out” he limped away from the little kitchenette, and my amusement died.

He wasn't going to fucking finish me? He was going to turn his back to me and fucking walk away?! I forced my ruptured core to engage, every fiber of muscle in my body protesting. Sitting. Vomit again onto the peeling tile patterned plastic. Roll over. Push myself up? Nope, left wrist is clearly broken, and every shift made whoever had their hand around my balls squeeze.

Fuck it. The pain was just color. Jenk and I had made art together just then. The palette was brown and yellowed white and utterly gorgeous, breathtaking RED. But it wasn't perfect. Esteban had forgotten his main course on the stove. It was starting to smoke and blacken.

I did the old man a favor. I reached out with my right hand and clicked the gas burner off. My hand closed around the handle of the formidable weight of the wrought iron pan. Jank had made his way towards the decaying leather armchair in the living room, but when he heard the music he stilled. I tipped the beef onto a chipped, gold-rimmed China plate.

Five limping strides carried me across the room. He didn’t move, turn around, flee. My mouth curled slightly. Burning grease dripped onto my wrist as I raised it above my head.

“Thank you"

[pxmun2]

With his appearance in the TV show, his involvement with Vault-Tec, and that New Vegas is somewhat still standing (mainly the Lucky 38). I believe House is still around and that he is part of the reason as to why Lucy's dad Hank headed to Vegas. As for the fate of Vegas, if the show runners don't use any of the in-game endings, I think they'll at least fudge it so Mr. House can remain alive. From a speculation angle from seeing Vegas in the end credits and that in TV series canon the NCR capitol of Shady Sands was vaporized (At least a good portion) I speculate that once word got to the NCR stationed in Vegas about the fall of Shady Sands, they tried to take over Vegas in a desperate attempt. This could've caused a chain reaction were other factions started fighting for control and would fit in with Hank's speech to Lucy about factions. The factions wiped each other out on the Strip and any survivors escaped to the smaller settlements outside the Strip as we do see campfire smoke rising from a few of them. This leaves Mr. House as the only living sole left in his beloved city and possibly open for agreements in helping Hank or not if Lucy can get to him first and convince House otherwise. From my own perspective, I'm hoping the show will do more justice for Mr. House instead of turning him into a greedy capitalist that was for Vault- Tec dropping the bombs. I'm hoping it'll turn out that he was smart and insightful enough to conclude that the dropping of the nukes wouldn't be from Pre-war Americas enemies and that the reason he was at the meeting was to confirm his suspicions and counter act Vault-Tecs plan to save Vegas. I think it would be a good addition as to why the platinum chip was delayed would be due to Vault-Tec intervention because they figured out Mr. House used them for his own advantage by playing along.

[cypher-is-sane]

[Pandora had seen all those ads about not connecting to random unsafe networks or not giving information to websites. They were basically ingrained into her memories at this point. And yet here she was, doing that while doing menial stuff, like messaging her friends or booking the fiftieth ticket to America.]

[She should’ve expected her stuff to start messing up. She would’ve used someone like her as easy food back in her early days. But she didn’t, and grumbled to herself.]

For fuck’s sake…

(@vapor-web)

<< it was simple little things at first, things that could be passed off as a brief lapse in your internet connection. Like the computer glitching when she messaged her friends and deleting all her text. Or the buttons to book tickets shifting just enough to make her miss them, just once. >>

<< that was until it got worse. Some of her contacts would go missing, but messages from them would still come in. The contacts would often reappear in different groups after a while. Sometimes the computer flat-out just shut off, emitting a horrid buzzing noise. >>

<< this was no simple lapse in connection. >>

[caelenath]

In some alternate timeline, when Galaxia came for Mamoru, Usagi also sensed it a split second before like he did, and both their Crystals flared, being like 'Nah, not this again', and put up a shield that Galaxia splatted against like a bug on a windshield (or vaporized, whatever you like).

With that out of the way, Mamoru was free to leave for America, but on a later flight, as he and Usagi spent some time in the airport cafe processing what just happened and reassuring each other. This may mean he had a chance to subtly assert his territory when a certain famous trio with a certain admirer walked by, trailed by a not so subtle mob, but we don't talk about that.

Mamoru kept his promise to write and call often, but what might otherwise have been thrilling stories in the life of a pre-med international student was overshadowed by Usagi's reports of strange Senshi showing up with a zombie-like demeanor and matching gaudy gold bracelets. Some of them meowed.

I wish I could say I know where this goes, but it's too early for that.

Good morning.

[wendievergreen]

Miscellaneous Snakes

I'm proud of myself for drawing 14 snakes in one week, but I also kind of regret it (￣ ￣|||) spread myself a leeeetle thin. Real snakes cited and quick thoughts under the cut

1: Mlegtugwam (Calloselasma rhodostoma, Malayan pit viper, Malayan ground snake, Malayan moccasin)- most of the asps were assigned random venomous snakes. I picked the reference image based on the pose.

2: Girtranaeg (Xenopeltis unicolor, sunbeam/iridescent snake)- god its eyes look so silly. Anyway, y'all should look up sunbeam snakes, they're beautiful

3: Hrukgolklo (Micrelaps bicoloratus, Kenya two-headed snake)- I didn't draw it in a circle shape because I was so charmed by the original photo. They really look like they have two heads, it's adorable.

6: Tafmiwukri (Micruroides euryxanthus, Sonoran/western/Arizona coral snake)- red because its victims sweat blood

4: Thagolgrom (Naja naja, Indian/spectacled/Asian/binocellate cobra)- obvs I had to include the most iconique serpent somewhere

5: Shabalrang (Rhabdophis subminiatus, red-necked keelback)- in my sketch its eyes were closed, but than I remembered that snakes don't have eyelids😔

7: Krefemklog (Vipera berus, common European adder/viper)- I really like how the vapor turned out.

9: Nrogklongo (Neelaps calonotus, black-striped burrowing snake)- just a little guy

11: Zriggwanto (Chrysopelea ornata, golden tree snake, ornate flying snake)- ZHOOM

8: Kraehozdim (Elaphe quatuorlineata, four-lined snake, Bulgarian ratsnake)- lives in Italy, on the larger side for a European snake. The pattern is from a stereotypical dairy cow, the white lip is a milk mustache.

10: Samgleshti (Crotalus cerastes, sidewinder, horned rattlesnake)- I'm 90% certain I found the original species during research. Luckily, there's a very similar snake in North America, lol. Horns are inspired by Jacob sheep

12: Kramlengga (Macrovipera lebetina, blunt-nosed/Lebetine/Levant viper)- I like how its eyes turned out. So piercing! (◉-◉)

13: Galwinglik (Bitis schneideri, Namaqua/spotted dwarf adder, Schneider's adder)- the smallest venomous snake

14: Yeakrindra (Leptotyphlops carlae, Barbados threadsnake)- the tiniest snake of all!

I finally got around to listening to the Maniculum Podcast this week :) I love it! 10/10