#workable space

[dead-generations]

orbits are straight lines is the fucked up thing. straight lines described by energy! unless they are three body orbits in which case things get really strange, but they are actually still completely straight lines. just dynamic ones. They aren't just straight, they are constant.

[raexbecrafting]

Been busy between work, MSQ, and grinding out this and the new crafting set.

Raex is pretending to be a sexy bun who wasn't so bothered by how big and bulky the gloves looked that he glammed them over

[shroomsnail]

fixed a little thing that i believed only i noticed or cared about in the lab then a day later a lab mate points it out and says its great

[thisisadecisionimayregret]

trying to get furniture is wild. like say you want a cabinet table type thing for your entryway. and like you go to thrift stores and antique stores bc getting something secondhand feels like a better deal and also probably better for the planet, but options are all way too big for your space and you're limited how far you can travel for it bc you do not have a car and would have to hire somebody or bully a friend into helping you get it home anyway. so you exhaust the thrift and antique stores near you in a decently sized city, and decide to google like. second hand furniture online. and you look around on fb marketplace or craigslist, nothing promising there unfortunately, or you run into the 'pickup only and I'd have to rent a van about it' problem, and so you start looking at other sites promoting secondhand furniture and you open one and it's like hey here's this little cabinet that costs more than what you make in two years :)) what a steal! and it's like damn yeah uh i guess this counts as secondhand bc it is not brand new but jesus christ. you coulda clarified this was the secondhand furniture store for millionaires

anyway. i've now spent like two hours looking at cabinets on wayfair cause well. they're at least within the ballpark of affordable without being like straight up plastic or flimsy plywood, and no offense to ikea but good accent cabinets they do not have

[whentherewerebicycles]

.

[essenceofarda]

ugh does anyone else find that Clip Studio Paint's UI/interface is wayyyy too big on MacOS? It's not the resolution of my display tablet, because the icons are also blown up on my higher resolution macbook screen. It's driving me crazy bc i have a pretty large display tablet and I can only use like 3 inches of it -.- Anyway,,, I've been googling and searching for answers for three hours now, if any fellow mac users out there has any tips,,, I'd very much appreciate it,,,

[resurrection-if-game]

re:Surrection is an upcoming interactive fiction game made in choicescript with high stakes slice of life and cyberpunk elements written by username zozopuff

Summary: You’re a bartender at a seedy neon bar on a space station in the not-so distant future of 2141. What the suspicious owner of the bar doesn’t know is that you have a secret – many secrets, really, but the important one would probably be that you’re a government experiment; a corpse brought back to life after an untimely death.

You’ve been sent into the workforce to prove to the researchers back at the facility that you can assimilate into society, resulting in the success of their experiment. They’ve given you a time limit of 30 days. If you can manage not to get fired, end up in jail, or get killed in a bar fight, then you’ll be free! If not, you’ll be another failure and culled.

Oh, and because they fried your brain a little during the reanimation process, you have a proclivity for violence. But you’re sure you’ll be fine. Mostly.

Features:

High stakes slice of life

Play as male, female, or nonbinary

Choose from four different backgrounds: ex-smuggler, ex-military, ex-xenobiologist, ex-salesman – I mean, marketing lead.

Survive 30 days as a bartender in a seedy bar that’s only safe when old Detective Black comes for a drink; and without strangling your shifty coworker (how hard can it be to fry chicken?).

Maybe romance the customer, Wren, (gender selectable) who understands your position quite literally, or what about the scientist who led the project to bring you back to life?

Figure out who you were and how you died. Will you do something about it?

Avoid filling your rage meter and going berserk. Or do.

Manage your health or fall apart at the proverbial seams.

Each day is slightly randomized so every playthrough would be unique.

The goal is to have a playable demo by the end of 2025 (this is a generous estimate as this is a side-project) that consists of an introduction and the first 5 days of gameplay. I plan to have a weekly devlog (this helps me keep on track lol). Progress on the demo is: Introduction (finished), Day 1 (~75% finished), Day 2 (plotted). I have posted a private playtest of the short introduction to re:Surrection on my patreon under the free membership option if you're interested in seeing how the game is shaping up.

My other work in progress is an adult high fantasy romance adventure game with RPG and dungeon break elements with a workable playtest that you can check out here.

[mavlabajuri]

What is Beskar? - A Breakdown

Beskar, also called Mandalorian iron, is a rare metal found only on Mandalore and its moon, Concordia. For Mandalorians, it's not just valued for its strength. Beskar is considered sacred, a holy material bound to identity, ancestry, and creed. The act of forging it is not merely a craft but a rite, performed by Mandalorian Armorers to bond warriors to their people through armor. Beskar is more than a metal: it represents resilience, heritage, culture, and soul.

Physical & Chemical Traits

Heat Resistance

What we know: Beskar can take direct hits from blasters and withstand lightsaber strikes without melting or deforming.

What that implies: It likely has an extraordinarily high melting point, higher even than tungsten (~3400°C). This places beskar among exotic, refractory metals or even unique energy-stabilized alloys. Canon also shows beskar resisting thermal shock (e.g., explosions) without shattering or fragmenting.

Durability & Toughness

“It’s beskar. It doesn’t dent.” - Medrit Vasur

What we know: It’s practically indestructible. Armor made of beskar resists slashes, blasterfire, lightsabers, crushing blows, and kinetic impacts. Even micronized forms can shatter bone.

What that implies: Beskar has immense toughness and impact dispersion. It doesn’t deflect energy like a shield; it spreads the impact across its surface. Think of it as a hybrid between metallic glass, Kevlar, and high-energy damping alloys. It doesn’t break, but the force still transfers to the wearer.

Malleability

“Mandalorians jealously guard their beskar-working skills and refuse to sell the formulas for any price.” - Imperial commentary on Mandalorian forging

What we know: Mandalorian smiths shape beskar into armor plates, wire, mesh, transparent film, foam, and even micronized particles.

What that implies: Beskar is incredibly workable when properly forged. Canon describes repeated folding (like Damascus steel), suggesting that its structural strength is enhanced through expert lamination and layering, a craft only mastered by Mandalorians.

Density & Weight

“Jaina examined her beskad; a blade forty-five centimeters long, maybe five or six centimeters wide, with a single cutting edge curving to a point—and much heavier than it looked, perhaps more than two kilos.” — Legacy of the Force: Invincible

What we know: “Full-density beskar” is heavier; alloyed forms with carbon or other materials are lighter but less durable.

What that implies: Pure beskar is likely denser than steel, possibly approaching the density of uranium or osmium. Alloying reduces weight and slightly lowers protective capacity. Export variants (like downgraded starships) use lighter, less refined beskar composites.

Corrosion Resistance

What we know: Beskar doesn’t tarnish, rust, or degrade over time, there’s no mention of upkeep for oxidation or weathering, even after centuries of use.

What that implies: It’s likely extremely corrosion-resistant, maybe through a naturally passivating surface layer (like titanium or stainless steel). That’s important for armor that’s expected to last generations, even in combat, salt air, or deep space.

Sound Signature

“Beskar had a sound like no other metal, all heavy dull solidity, no high tinny frequencies like durasteel when hit.” - Republic Commando: True Colors

What we know: When struck, beskar gives off a heavy, dull sound, different from the “tinny” sound of durasteel.

What that implies: This suggests high mass and excellent vibration damping. Materials that sound dull when struck often have lower resonance and greater ability to absorb kinetic energy, another point in favor of beskar spreading out impact forces instead of rebounding them.

Alloying Elements

“Anyway, this is top-grade beskar—full density, two percent ciridium, no fancy lamination or carbon-alloy.” - Kal Skirata

Known additives:

Ciridium (2%): A canon example from Skirata’s armor; Possibly a heat stabilizer or strengthener, unique to the gffa.

Carbon: Might lighten the material, increase flexibility, or improve strength (like real-word carbon steel).

The Shapes of Beskar

Plates - Ship hulls, traditional Mandalorian armor (beskar’gam)

Laminates - Layered armor, combining flexibility and protection

Wire/Mesh - Lightweight undersuits or integrated systems

Beskar-impregnated fabric - Beskar armorweave

Foam - Padding that still retains durability

Micronized particles - Used in crushgaunts

Transparent film - Rare; possibly used for HUDs or specialized optics

What’s in a Color?

"Armor colors and markings can indicate many things, from the clan or family to more ephemeral concepts such as state of mind or a particular mission." - Karen Traviss

Mandalorians don't just wear armor, they live in it. Beskar’gam is handed down, reforged, or remade, and each new generation adds their own mark. Painting one's armor is a declaration of individuality, experience, and lineage.

Cultural Significance

Declaration of identity: Some Mandalorian clans use distinct colors and markings to signify allegiance or heritage, including clan symbols or cultural symbols.

History and Feats: In some traditions, marks of honor, like jaig eyes, were painted on helmets to signify acts of bravery​.

Expression and accomplishments: Sabine Wren, regularly painted and repainted her 500-year-old armor as both personal expression and symbolic evolution through her life’s stages and affiliations​.

For Mandalorians, armor isn’t just armor, it’s a second skin. It's a visible oath to one of the six tenets of the Resol’nare: wearing beskar'gam. Choosing to paint one’s armor (or not to) says something.

Practical purposes: protection, camouflage, and preservation

While beskar is incredibly durable, painting it serves practical roles too, especially for older, heirloom and alloyed armor:

Corrosion control

Durasteel components, often used in place of beskar or to supplement it, can be vulnerable to environmental wear. Paint protects these surfaces from oxidation and corrosion, especially on long campaigns or in hostile conditions.

Camouflage & visibility

Mandalorians often operate in diverse terrain, paint lets them both blend in or intentionally stand out.

For stealth missions or ambushes, darker or terrain-matching colors can make a life-or-death difference.

Battle damage

A warrior's beskar'gam can take a hit, but it remembers every blow. Paint can mask surface damage, hide vulnerabilities, or maybe even accentuate past battlescars.

“The battles, the history, the blood all live within it. And the same goes for every Mandalorian.” - Sabine Wren

Painting Mandalorian armor isn’t merely cosmetic, it’s an ambulatory cultural mural, a testimony of paint and pigment. Every color, symbol, and stroke tells a story, and in true Mando fashion, it’s often one they’re not afraid to let you see coming.

K'oyacyi! // Mavla

If you have any comments, feedback, corrections or speculations, they are as always warmly welcomed!

[mumblesplash]

hot(?) take the witch in the alps lost cat story is in fact unsalvageable because it’s not a story. it’s an absence of one. it is a shadow in the negative space of a thing with actual substance and there is nowhere to take this premise that would not turn it into something else entirely by the time it was fleshed out into a workable game plot. it cannot meaningfully exist in a way that would not render it unrecognizable.

[skylordhorus]

like i can get him off skyhold it’s just.. accounting for the out of character mood swings and also that there are now reports of a large beast going after the livestock around mistral after finnigan comes back early from travel because he was attacked by a strange aggressive Creature

still tryin to figure out how to finagle werewolf!finnigan au so that it’s not immediately obvious to everyone that finnigan is. yknow. a werewolf

[probablyasocialecologist]

Making worlds is not limited to humans. We know that beavers reshape streams as they make dams, canals, and lodges; in fact, all organisms make ecological living places, altering earth, air, and water. Without the ability to make workable living arrangements, species would die out. In the process, each organism changes everyone’s world. Bacteria made our oxygen atmosphere, and plants help maintain it. Plants live on land because fungi made soil by digesting rocks. As these examples suggest, world-making projects can overlap, allowing room for more than one species. Humans, too, have always been involved in multispecies world making. Fire was a tool for early humans not just to cook but also to burn the landscape, encouraging edible bulbs and grasses that attracted animals for hunting. Humans shape multispecies worlds when our living arrangements make room for other species. This is not just a matter of crops, livestock, and pets. Pines, with their associated fungal partners, often flourish in landscapes burned by humans; pines and fungi work together to take advantage of bright open spaces and exposed mineral soils. Humans, pines, and fungi make living arrangements simultaneously for themselves and for others: multispecies worlds.

Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing, The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins

[toskarin]

I generally don't get the hate towards mtl, it's better than nothing. I see claims that it prevents proper translations cause they take away the precedent, but that never seems to actually be true even in fan translation scenes. Guess this is a bit unrelated lol, but curious if you have thoughts on this

this may sound harsh because it's a common point of tension in translation, but if MTL is workable, what can be gained from someone else with no knowledge of a language using MTL that can't be gained from you (presumably also without knowledge of the language) using it?

having worked with scanlation groups in the past, it also must be said that MTL releases absolutely do eat up space where more proper translations could exist. in manga, television, and light novel translation, works with no available translations are prioritised. on basic premise, "better than nothing" (if only slightly) means that works with nothing will be prioritised

by all means use MTL as a personal tool to help understand things around you, but it's not a substitute for having someone who actually understands a language translate an artistic project written in that language

[teencopandthesourwolf]

can also be found ON AO3 HERE

.

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Huh? What's that, big guy?” Stiles mumbles, answering the query with one of his own without looking away from Derek's laptop screen. The laptop Derek kind of bought for Stiles for when Stiles is at the loft.

Whatever. 

There's a ballpoint pen shoved in the kid's mouth—God, that mouth—and another slid behind an ear, the latter ready and waiting for Stiles to click to death in the In Between Typing Times.

The others dispersed a few minutes ago. Apart from Derek and Stiles, only Lydia and Deaton now remain at the loft. They're deep in conversation about the preliminary theory of who or what is killing the humans of Beacon Hills this week, and are standing at the opposite side of the open-plan space, making more coffee. Scott and Malia left to rally the other ʼwolves (not answering their phones as they're at a cinema screening), plus find and talk to Argent to arrange a pack meeting proper about the situation so they can all get to devising a workable plan.

In other words, there is no one who can viably eavesdrop on Derek and Stiles's (albeit stilted) conversation.

Granted, there is Peter to consider. He must be lurking somewhere, what with lurking being one of his favourite pastimes, and he can obviously hear any and all conversations that are, or could be, going on inside of the building. Although—not for the lack of trying and much to Derek's dismay—Derek has never been able to hide much of anything from his uncle anyway, so he supposes it's kind of a moot point. 

He thinks about elaborating on the question he asked Stiles to remind Stiles what he'd said, but can't.

He tries not to stare at Stiles and all his pretty, and fails. 

Stiles is squinting at the screen with intent, looking like he's forgotten that Derek said anything at all. Or that Derek is still hovering close by. Or that Derek, you know, exists.

Derek is just standing there, all difficult and awkward in his own fucking home and his own fucking body, looming over Stiles like a creeper as Stiles taps away furiously at the keyboard violently, zig-zagging a fingertip across the mousepad like an actual lunatic.

Derek almost laughs at that.

The Boy Who Runs With Wolves.

“Why wouldn't I?” Stiles now asks, still mumbling around the chewed ballpoint pen that Derek is trying not to be jealous of. 

“I—what?” Derek's caught off guard; always and only by Stiles. 

Stiles doesn't skip a beat (unlike Derek's heart). “Why wouldn't I ask?” he adds.

Oh, right.

Of course Stiles knows what Derek meant. Of course he does. 

“I, um, I don't... ” Derek trails off pathetically, swallowing any confidence he'd previously mustered.

He looks away, even though those big, brown devastating eyes aren't even aimed at Derek in this moment. They are, predictably, still zoomed-in on whichever web page is currently yielding the most information.

Dusk is quickly closing in and all around them, and the light filtering through the loft's huge window has begun to dim somewhat. The glow of the computer screen is now filling Stiles's eyes with bright, dancing sparks and arrhythmic shapes as his pupils flicker like lightning from one tab to another, then another.

As mesmerising as it is to watch Stiles through this lense, looking as though he is brimming with magic, the sight becomes too much for Derek. It's too lush for his beastly gaze, and looking away becomes his only option.

That doesn't last.

Just as Derek's eyes find their way back to his own personal little red riding hoodie, Stiles' long, large-knuckled fingers still their rapid movement. 

Derek watches the kid as if he's being pulled in by him, like a lifeline.

An anchor. 

Dirty sneaker-toes slowly spin the swivel chair around, so that Stiles is facing Derek where he stands with his arms crossed reactively over his chest (his heart).

“I asked if you were alright because I wanted to know if you were okay, man," Stiles divulges, as if that's nothing at all. As if it's something Derek hears often. He tilts his head to catch Derek's eye—which works, of course. It always works, no matter the nature of the moment they're caught up in. "Like, I was concerned, y'know?” 

Derek feels guilty just for looking. Not only because he wants to touch, but because he wants to let Stiles care.

“I care, dude,” Stiles says on cue.

Derek tries to self-implode while Stiles just waits, probably for Derek to look at him and say don't call me dude while hoping not to have his head bitten off or his throat ripped out. 

Derek does look again, only not for very long. Offers the kid barely a glance. He can't afford himself too much Stiles when Stiles is looking directly back at him. It's safer that way, self-preservation and all.

“You do know that, right?” Stiles tries again. “That I care.” 

Derek wants to ask Stiles if they can talk, if he can tell Stiles things. He wants to ask if Stiles will stay and let Derek spill his all secrets, tell Stiles everything, like Derek never does with anyone these days. Derek wants to ask if Stiles will hold his hand when Derek cries about it, the way Derek never allows himself to anymore. He wants to ask Stiles if Stiles will let Derek touch him and hold him and if Stiles would hold him back, if Stiles would ever want that, if Stiles could ever be his.

Derek wants and he wants and he wants. 

“Don't call me dude,” is what he actually says, because he can't not.

Then he steals himself—head full of staticky white noise and heart thumping against his ribcage—and after what is probably too-long of a pause (but he's trying his best to be as fuck it about this as he can) he dares himself to add, “And yeah, maybe I do.” 

Then they just... look at each other.

Just look.

They look, and they look, and they look.

Derek looks at Stiles and Stiles looks at Derek, and they keep looking at each other for what feels like a really, really long time. Definitely too long for two people supposedly not much more than acquaintances. Allies, maybe. Comrades at tenuous best.

Then they look for longer. Look for more. Look until it starts to feel as if they are the only two people in the room, in the building, in the world.

Whatever happened to self-preservation?

Something is happening right now, something that might change things, and Derek's pretty sure it's not just happening to him.

He finds he is equally as stunned as he is thrilled as he is completely fucking terrified by that. 

Eventually, Stiles breaks the spell by saying, “Derek, we're friends.” Then he's licking his lips and looking Derek up and down, shameless, adding with a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder, “Till we're not.”

The latter part is spoken like a dark secret, but it's one without the slightest hint of malice; that's not how the kid means it. It's more promise than threat, if Derek is remembering correctly what genuine affirmations sound like.

The sparks from Stiles' eyes are then matching the flashing blue in Derek's, and Derek could swear he feels every last neuron firing inside of him, all at once, as each of his mutated cells flare into overdrive.

Nail beds and gums tingling, the short hairs on the back of his neck and his forearms and hands all stand up on end like they're waiting for something (or someone).

He feels utterly alive.

It's a struggle not to whine and pant like a damn pup, and Derek's truly never been more happy of the fact that Stiles is unable to scent chemo-signals because, honestly, Derek would be so fucking fucked right now.

He has a reply for Stiles, but it keeps getting caught in his throat, the sentence forming and solidifying fast as a quick-drying glue, before dissipating and forming all over again in a pitiful, silent cycle. 

Stiles is fidgeting, elegant fingers twitching and front teeth gnawing on gorgeously plump lips.

Derek wants to lick him all over. 

Not that he could move. He's just—standing there. Motionless, stock-still, statuesque (or maybe more like clothes store dummy), alternating between trying to swallow his words and attempting to speak them, like a first class dip-shit who is doing nothing but staring.

To be fair, Stiles is still staring too. 

In an entirely mortifying turn of events, it's the sound of Peter's low and mocking chuckle from some tucked-away shadowy place in the loft that is the thing that manages to force Derek unstuck.

It genuinely takes all the restraint in the world for Derek not to roll his eyes to the back of his skull and growl out I'm going to kill you again now, uncle. 

Which would be bullshit, actually, because If werewoves could die of embarrassment, Derek would already be a goner.  

Mentally shaking himself out of a spiral, he takes a breath. Un-clenching his fists he tries for a smile—or at least a hint of one. He doesn't want to freak Stiles out.

Stiles' eyes go wide as the ocean. 

Derek then repeats the kid's words back to him, in an affirmative tone somewhere just above a whisper.

“Till we're not.”

In a paradox only Stiles Stilinski could create, the human's devastating lips then form shapes to make healing words that ask, “Can I stay for the evening? You can talk to me while I research. I always work better with noise and your voice is like, really soothing or some shit,” like he's ordering pizza instead of answering all of Derek's prayers.

Derek kind of forgets how to breathe. 

He notes how the kid's often erratic eye-contact is weirdly as unwavering as his often erratic heartbeat, which is now weirdly as steady as a metronome. 

That's a lot of weird, even for Stiles. 

Derek fights the sudden urge to bite into his lip with his fangs. He wants to draw blood, and to taste it.

Fuck. 

Embarrassingly, he feels his eye twitch and his breath hitch when he has to dare himself to do this.

He splutters his question as if he's only just learned how to speak.“What do you want me to talk about?”

Slowly, Stiles swivels back around towards the light of the laptop. His already ethereal milky skin and dark moles bloom with luminous magic again in its white-blue glow—at the very same time the night's first moonshine peeks through clouds and seeps through the loft's huge skylight, like heavy cream swirling through black coffee. 

Derek is memorised. 

Stiles annoyingly starts clicking away at the Clicking Pen as he shoves the other back between those pouty lips of his, mumbling around the chewed end once more as he speaks his answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the universe. 

“Everything, Der.”

.

for @poebin, for asking <3

[fandomtrumpshate]

Totals Time!

It's been a year of records and record-breaking. Of reaching new fandom spaces and building new community ties. It's been wild. And absolutely fantastic.

When we closed the auction signup window we had 981 offers —nearly 150 more than we'd ever had before. When we re-opened it for 4 more hours, hoping to find another 19 folks (because we wondered what an auction with 1000 offers would look like) you all came through in spades, boosting the auction everywhere and bringing back 100 new offers in 15 new fandoms, bringing us to 1081 offers this year - a 33% increase over our previous record.

And you all weren't done breaking records. Shattering them.

This is the first year that any of our supported nonprofit orgs has received a 5-digit sum. And? TWO of them did.

So. Are you ready to see what our community has done? Are you ready for the numbers?

This year

thanks to all of you

FTH raised…

$67,931.28

The breakdown of donations to orgs looks like this -

This brings our eight-year total to

$307,439.14

Huge thanks to our 797 creators offering 1081 auctions in more than 400 different fandoms and subfandoms, and to everyone who bid! And to our 17 fan crafters who brought in $4,127 of that total —60% more than our previous crafting record!

So, what's next?

Contact deadlines:

Creators, be sure you contact your bidders by April 1, and bidders, on your end please respond to their communication by April 15!

Bidders need to provide their creator with a workable prompt by June 30 (unless you've worked out a different timeline together) to ensure they have plenty of time to finish their fanwork.

Once the fanwork is posted, let us know via our form (can you believe FOURTEEN creators have already finished??) and if you’re posting it on AO3 be sure to add it to the Fandom Trumps Hate 2024 collection. If you’re writing a fic for FTH and need help from our Regiment of Fan Laborers, email us! As always, the deadline for completed fanworks is December 31.

We hope that for at least some people, your involvement in FTH will lead to continued action throughout the year. Sign up for our organizations’ email lists, check out their volunteer opportunities, and help boost their signals on social media!

And if you’d like to run your own fanworks auction for a good cause, we can help get you started!

We have a packet of organizational materials we’ve been sharing with other auction organizers since 2017; we’re planning to spend the month of April overhauling and updating these materials to incorporate many of the improvements we’ve implemented since then. If you’re thinking about organizing an auction or fanworks exchange in your fandom to raise money for a good cause, we would love to share those materials with you. Contact us at fandomtrumpshate at gmail.com and we can send you our auction playbook, as well as answer any questions you have about our process.

Your mods (@porcupine-girl, @captainbunnicula, @tiltedsyllogism, @anyawen, @renjunbabygirl, @trickybonmot, and @a-still-small-vox) are going to be going into post-auction hibernation mode (or, for most of us, post-auction deal-with-all-this-other-stuff mode) for a little while. So if you email us, don’t panic if we don’t get back to you immediately! We will start actively monitoring the inbox again by April 15 at the latest.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Dark Blue

Symbolism of Dark Blue

In color symbolism, dark blue color meanings include:

Cool temperatures: All shades of blue, including dark blue, signify cold temperatures. Cool colors on the color wheel include blue, green, and purple. Additionally, blue skin can indicate a low body temperature.

Intelligence: Many people associate blue shades with knowledge, intelligence, and concentration.

Loyalty: Having a “true blue” friend implies commitment and dedication to the relationship.

Masculinity: Historically, the lighter blue tint of baby blue signifies the male gender; however, all shades of blue, including light blue, medium blue, dark blue, and navy blue, suggest traditional forms of masculinity.

Night sky: Whereas you associate sky blue with a daytime sky, dark blue signifies the sky at night. Midnight blue connotes a moonless night, with a heavy saturation of black combined with a deep blue.

Predictability: The phrase “out of the blue” means the occurrence of an event you weren’t expecting. In a similar vein, “once in a blue moon” implies an event that doesn’t happen very often.

Sea: You can use dark blue to symbolize a stormy sea or a deep body of water. Though many shades of blue signify water, including blue-green or aqua for tropical waters, dark blue suggests a more mysterious depth or ominous quality.

Power and authority: Dark blue signifies power and responsibility. Police officers often utilize dark blue or navy blue colors for their uniforms. The slang term “boys in blue” refers to the police.

Sadness: To “be blue” or “feeling blue” means you feel sorrow or despair. In Korea, dark blue is the color of mourning.

Social prominence: A “blue blood” defines a socially prominent person or someone born into nobility.

Though sometimes confused with navy blue, dark blue represents a specific color code.

In the RGB color space, dark blue (hex code #00008B) contains 54.5% blue and no red or green, while

in the CMYK color space, dark blue contains 100% cyan, 100% magenta, no yellow, and 45% black.

Some Pros of Using the Dark Blue in Design

Dark blue implies professionalism and reliability, which explains its use in graphic design by many banks and corporations. In design, dark blue:

Complements darker rooms: Acclaimed interior designer Corey Damen Jenkins encourages you to work with your room’s natural lighting rather than fighting it. When decorating a low-light room, “go for the more smoldering, rich, dark, sexy colors that actually enhance the lighting,” like shades of dark blue.

Connotes authority: Dark blue works well as a design choice if you want to exude strength, expertise, reliability, and trust with your design.

Serves as an alternative to black: If you need a darker shade in your work but want to retain color, a dark blue color scheme offers a workable solution.

Works well in color combinations: Use dark blue with complementary colors such as orange to create an appealing color scheme. Or play with other shades of blue, such as light blue or teal.

Some Cons of Using the Dark Blue in Design

Though you can use dark blue in your designs without worry, keep these possible negative traits in mind as you work:

Absorbs heat: If your project involves something significant in size, remember that dark shades like dark blue absorb heat and can make a room or enclosed space feel warm.

Can fade: Dark blue–painted art or objects fade in saturation over time, particularly in sunlight. Potential fading makes dark blue a better choice for low-light rooms than for rooms with lots of bright sunlight.

Can feel oppressive: Too much dark blue can make you feel as if you’re surrounded by darkness, especially in a small room. Walls painted dark blue can make a room feel more cave-like.

Shows scratches: Like all dark colors, dark blue shows every scratch, chip, or imperfection, and you may have trouble getting touch-ups to match.

A Brief History of Dark Blue

Egyptians first used blue pigment.

They created a lighter blue shade from ground limestone and copper minerals.

Dark blue pigments didn’t appear until the 6th century with ultramarine, a deep blue color pigment made from grinding up the mineral lapis lazuli.

Ultramarine proved popular with medieval European artists for its deep blue quality, but its expense made it accessible only to the wealthy.

Cobalt blue became the more affordable and popular blue pigment amongst artists in the 8th and 9th centuries, particularly in Chinese porcelain and later with Dutch Delft porcelain.

Artificial ultramarine appeared in the mid-19th century, replacing the more expensive version.

Indigo dye became popular in the 16th century, becoming the color of the Beau Brummell blue suit in the 18th century and blue jeans in the 19th century.

The British Royal Navy adopted navy blue (also known as marine blue) for their uniforms in the 19th century.

Prussian blue, a vibrant darker blue, appeared in the early 1700s and became Pablo Picasso’s pigment of choice during his Blue Period.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[nevertheless-moving]

unable to stop dwelling on the discworld trouser leg of time where, in the penultimate fight scene in Nightwatch, Carcer manages to kill teenage Sam Vimes.

Which means that the future that Duke Vimes came from can no longer exist, which means he can’t go home. Meanwhile you’ve got a bunch of history monks with stored up temporal energy, a prepared space outside of time, and the need to do some desperate damage control before the Auditors get involved. Death shows up, reality is unweaving, Sam is reading Carcer his discworld miranda rights because what else is he supposed to do.

and finally, with little other option, the monks de-age Sam so he fits the time period and send him back out into the fray.

(they didn't call it deageing of course. His memory is hazy, splintered during that terrible in between moment, They....took the time out of him? Sanded away the edges of his self for a terrible, workable fit? It...wasn't a good feeling.)

Just—damn. Sam Vimes having to live his whole crapsack life over again, but this time as his disillusioned-reillusioned, unwillingly-character-developed, noir-epic, Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes self. 

Younger (Older? He's never felt so Old, His steps so Childlike, reality twisting in his gut like one of Dibbler's pies) Sam Vimes walking around in a haze after the revolution. Desperate to go home, knowing he can’t. Wanting to drink. Knowing he can’t.

The whole precinct feels pity, he really took Keel’s death hard, hardly speaks except to do his job. Eventually he has to grit his teeth and start being present, because what else is there to do?

Resists the urge to drink until Colon takes the whole watch out to celebrate because -he’s going to be a father!

Come on Sammy, one drink won’t kill you— and after the first drink he’s cracking jokes and after the second hes smiling and after the third hes honestly the life of the party and sometime after that he’s crying about how he was going to be a father and my wife would be ashamed if she saw me drinking like this and— 

Oh shit, Did anyone else know he had a wife?? A PREGNANT wife??? What—aren’t you like 12—no you're 17 now aren't you but when did—

You guys n’ver met ’er—oh gods none if you ev’n know ‘er, is jus’ me...

What—when did you lose—

I lost her the same damn day I los’ ev’rythin else, whadya think...bleeding Carcer...the fuckin revolution...

So! That! Sam only vaguely remembers the night, but rumors travel faster than light on the disc, so by the next day the whole damn city knows about poor Sam brung low by the loss of his poor, tragic, pregnant wife, so young to be a widower, and the Seamstresses nod because they already knew, don’t ask them how, somethings you just have to know in that trade.

And his mother—I don’t know, sue me, I’m a time travel fiend but there’s something deeply intriguing about a man meeting his dead parent, who is somewhat younger than him, and stepping into the old relationship like a badly fitting thing that's supposed to fit well. She would know, right? How would she deal with her son’s impossible grief? Maybe she wouldn’t know—he spent most of the time out of the house, running with different street gangs, maybe he avoids her until she dies and lives with the guilt twice over. God, we don’t even know her name. There’s just so much narrative and emotional potential that I don’t even know where to start.

When he’s on duty, which is most time - it’s agonizing because at first he remembers cases, saves lives that would have been lost. But the more time passes, the hazier his memory because in the original timeline he was becoming an alcoholic. Fuck! A kid dies and he could have saved her if he hadn’t been such a drunk, if he had just remembered where the asshole lived, but it’s all a haze, and he wants to drown out his guilt, but that’s what caused this in the first place.

Good young Sammy, who spends his rare off-time in dusty libraries (and yes, the irony that he’s apparently Carrot now is not lost on him) reading gods-only-know.

It’s not like he can ask the wizards for help, cutthroat and vicious as they are now in the not-so-distant-past.

Good young Sam, who...talks to the Broken Drum’s pet Bouncer like he’s a real person and not a dumb rock? That’s a bit weird, but he’s a bit of a funny guy.

Good old Sam, who believed the testimony of the dwarf who said the humans were trying to rob him and let the dwarf go??

the PROBLEMS this man would cause, good grief. Can you imagine a moderately progressive middle aged man with some degree of begrudging diversity and equity training that he did, for all his sins, pay attention to, suddenly going back to like, 1990, going back just 30 years, and going...oh damn this is kind of fucked up, no man you can’t say that, holy shit.

Except Sam’s lived through even more rapidly shifting social moroes! There’s no seamstress guild, there’s no women allowed inside the university, there’s no black ribboner’s society. People hunted trolls for their teeth! But Sam can’t just unlearn everything, and he can’t shut up, and he has no real luck and anyway he would absolutely get himself (temporarily) fired.

FUCK. Sam has no idea what to do with that. None. Zero clue. Wanders around in a haze until that dwarf he saved from police brutality finds him and insists on repaying the debt. No, he insists, do you have any idea what debt means to a dwarf?

“Sort-of?” he replies hesitantly, and that honest admission of incomplete knowledge shows a hell of a lot more respect and understanding than any self proclaimed dwarf-expert ever did.

Gets a job as a surface man, hauling rocks into the city. It’s backbreaking work, but, in true Discworld fashion, it’s also one hell of a workout (again the irony of being Carrot is not lost him. he freezes for a minute while hauling a rock cart, when he remembers he's technically Lost Nobility too, in a strict sense, but someone curses at him in the street and he's comfortingly grounded)

And here is where this au slides into a SPECTACULAR romantic comedy, BEAR WITH ME. Because in his time on the Watch he’s already done noir, action adventure, war story, detective who dunnit, psychological horror, but guards guards only allowed him to be a romance protagonist in an extremely limited context.

Give me righteous, twenty-something-looking, can’t-say-he-doesn’t-have-style, young Sam Vimes, not an alcoholic,  being fed three square meals a day by his dwarven forced found family, hauling rocks. He is startled to find him bumping his head on a low hanging bar that he doesn’t think used to be there, eventually realizing that he’s an inch or two taller than he remembers. Huh. Guess all that bearhuggers really did stunt his growth.

Still doesn’t get what some of the looks from women he’s getting are about, sure, he’s dirty but so is everyone else. Fine, he took his shirt off, but it’s hot out, there’s far wrinklier than him hauling heavy loads, get a life. 

Happens to glance in the Ankh one day when it’s particularly slow and shiny and is startled to realize that he might be turning heads for a different reason. Oh. Right, not that he was ever a heartbreaker, but he did alright for himself... when he was a younger and his face hadn’t been broken so many times. Which...it isn't now.

Is mildly disturbed by the revelation.

Especially once things blow over at the precinct and what with high mortality rates, he ends up with getting hired again. The boys are delighted to have him back, nevermind that he’s an odd one, noone is ever quite in your corner like Vimsey, absence makes the heart fonder, no one else works that hard, and he’s not even competition for promotion. All around great guy, we should set him up with somebody and just, no.

It just keeps getting worse! He’s literate! He’s a feminist! He believes abuse victims! He’s got a tragic backstory! He’s unreasonably good in a fistfight! He’s kind to animals! Word gets around that there’s a good man on the watch and he’s just waiting for a good woman to come snap him up. The widower excuse doesn’t hold people off completely, and for some it’s its own sort-of appeal. 

Things REALLY become stressful after he rescues that carriage full of noblewoman.

What’s he supposed to do? Let them get robbed? Or worse? Chasing down and beating up 10 goons is as easy as beating up one, when they’re that stupid, getting separated like that, drunk and distracted, and he knows these streets better than anyone, really it’s nothing. And oh lord he’s Modest too.

I mean, they were genuinely greatful, as genuine as people like that are capable of being, the skill having grown rusty. And then there is something...magnetic about the man. An air of command.

So, soon enough you get Lady Marigold of Marigrave calling on Treckle Road for that gallant young officer who rescued them, she really needs to thank him. And Viscountess Elanor Thitzferal specifically requesting that he guard her at her next soiree. And Baroness Julieta van Shoeholten insisting that he come to her home while her husband’s away, for... manly protection.

Aaaah just zero sympathy from the guys. None. 'It’s become a competition, they’re just trying to see who can get me into bed first, it’s like I’m a piece of meat, you can’t send me sir, the Marquess greeted me in a nightee last time you made me go to—' and 'small gods Vimes are you even listening to yourself, shut the hell up'.

Simultaneous to this, (again this is several years into the timeline) swamp dragon accessories come into style. Which means abandoned swamp dragons scrounging on the street. Vimes takes one back to his apartment, blows his paycheck on dragon medicine, and eventually, heart in his chest, brings it to the Ramkin estate. The sunshine orphanage doesn’t even exist yet and he’s just standing outside the gates like an idiot, what is he thinking. Turns around, but her carriage is pulling up and—

well. they meet. it's cute. he's never felt so young. he's never felt so old, too old for her, too poor—

and certainly her thoughts linger too long on the awkward, kindly, handsome young commoner, but is it any wonder she doesn't quite connect it to the stern, dangerous, sexy young guard the ladies seem to be in some quiet, cuthroat competition over?

i have this gorgeous, absurd scene in my head in which Vimes is strong armed into standing guard at some high society soiree and one of the pushiest ladies insists he dance with here, or, if he prefers, if he's not confident about his skills, he can dance with her in-private at her home and he’s like [grinding teeth, looking for a way out, seeinf one] “I would be honored to dance with you.”

Steps right into some ultra-complex dance with multiple partner swaps (she never thought he'd pick this one, devilishly intimidating to one not strictly trained, and you barely spend anytime with your first partner).

But he does alright. Better than alright, for a common man, sometimes misstepping but his hands and feet always end up where they need to be. Raises several eyebrows part way into the song because he's throuwing in some slightly scandalous, no innovative, extra lifts and twirls that wouldn't become fashionable for another decade or two. Who even is that guy? Some out of towner? No, no he's in a guards uniform...how very strange.

Gets to Sybll and she's used to embarrassment during these dances, she tries to get out of them when she can... but can't always. Men awkwardly skipping the lifts, or worse, trying and failing. But him — oh it's him, the one who helped little Erold, and looked at her like—like—well like she was someone beautiful. And he's doing it again, and he's strong and there's a quiet moment where she's in the air, they lock eyes, and the rest of the room melts away.

And then the partners change again, the moment ended.

Just...living throught it all again. To the left, a dance he almost knows the steps to, throwing others off balance with erratic moves , honest mistakes, and delibrate stepping on toes. Improvising. Ruining. Improving. Getting far, far too much attention.

Hes almost excited when the first assassains start coming after him. It's like a hobby.

Everyone tells him he should get a hobby.

Interactions with young vetinari...I don't have the energy to write it all down, the slow circling in on each other, both burning with the need to fix the city, save it, their city.

needless to say he ends up fired again, life under real threat after offending some high lord.

Conveniently enough he has an employment opportunity- bodyguard to fucking Vetinari on his 'grand sneer.' The bastard knows vimes isn't what he seems, though sam is pretty sure that he doesnt know the exacts.

Vetinari hypothesis:(the ghost of keel? Keels son, with some hereditary curse? Or a larger spirit of justice possessing a string of unrelated souls? He knows things he shouldn't- mind reader? Fortune teller? Havelock once arranged for a wizard to bump into him on the street, the magical fool gave an odd double look and then muttered something about destiny looping in on itself giving him a headache. Destiny? Lost noble? And hes far too familiar with sybyl, one of the few bearable noblewomen in this city. And his thoughts on guilds, when havelock can trip him into speaking... Most of all, if hes reading him at all correctly (for all the mystery hes not that hard to read, unless thats a very clever cover) then it seems that behind those dark haunted eyes is Respect. Loyalty. For vetinari. What an interesting man. A puzzling asset. An intriguing threat. )

Did I mention the timeline is changing, healing slowly around the place where it was torn? Healing enough around scars to perhaps get some flexibility back, with some painful stretches and...massaging of said scar tissue?

And hes heading to unresting uberwald, a place where a werewolf pack still hunts humans and, truely unrelated but perhaps equally exhausting, an eldritch spirit of vengeance just might be looking to stretch its legs in a hapless vessel?

Opening drabble Vimes Vetinari Meta (Unwell) Scene from the Uberwald Grand Sneer