#Hatch Show Print

[sinceileftyoublog]

Jon Langford Interview: Serve the Song

BY JORDAN MAINZER

When you ask Jon Langford what he's up to in the near future, he'll likely list a few upcoming concerts and art exhibitions before you realize he's referring to just this upcoming weekend. For the singer-songwriter and painter, the Mekon and Waco Brother, his past, present, and future discography and levels of participation seem just as vast. During his most recent visit to Austin (of which SXSW was a mere part), Langford played twelve shows: four with The Waco Brothers, three with The Far Forlon (his Austin-based band that plays Langford solo and Mekons songs), and five with The Bright Shiners, his new band that just released their debut record, Where It Really Starts (Tiny Global Productions). But Langford views himself as a mere thread rather than the center. "I am lucky to get to work with people more talented than me," he said to me over the phone after returning from SXSW. Sarcasm aside, Where It Really Starts epitomizes that democratic approach. "I love having not all of the responsibility on myself to come up with stuff," Langford said. "It's not a solo album. It's better than that."

The Bright Shiners started when Langford and John Szymanski, his frequent musical partner, attempted to make a duo acoustic guitar record that resulted in some interesting tunes, but not enough to resist contacting singer and keyboard player Alice Spencer. That is, though the Austin-based Spencer played in soul-funk band Shinyribs, Langford and Szymanski were enraptured by her solo work and Mellotron playing. Spencer was on board, and then Langford and Szymanski brought in violinist Tamineh Gueramy. The four wrote the majority of the songs on Where It Really Starts, with Langford concocting first drafts, Spencer arranging, and the group taking them to fruition. The result is easily the most lush music of Langford's career, from the steadily chiming "For The Queen of Hearts" to the dulcet "I Have A Wish".

Where It Really Starts is rich without being overstuffed, a natural combination of layered guitars and vocal harmonies, piano, pedal-affected strings, looped percussion, and of course, Mellotron. In other words, it's folk music with contemporary touches, Langford's storytelling firmly in the present while sometimes sounding appropriately old-timey. His vocal delivery resembles that of a troubadour on the fluttery, swaying "Awake The Land Of The Shadows"; he passionately trills on "Seahouses". And on "Discarded", a duet with Spencer, the two finish each other's sentences like a sardonic country couple. "You can talk about love, you can talk about society," sings Langford, "But when push comes to shove, you wiped the floor with me," responds Spencer, atop brawny, off-kilter horns. "Seahouses" and "Discarded", specifically, contain a multitude of musical ideas Spencer brought to the table, the former's filmic feel and the latter's horns. And even producer Brian Beattie gets his kicks: The album's final track, which sounds like an outtake from or demo of "Discarded", was actually Beattie playing all of the instruments in the studio and recording his half-hearted attempt at the lyrics of "Discarded", which The Bright Shiners found so funny, they decided to put it on the album.

My interview with Langford was not set up through a publicist. I literally said hello to him when I ran into him at The Beer Temple, at which point he mentioned he had a new record coming out that he'd be down to talk about. Two weeks later, we spoke on the phone. He and The Bright Shiners signed a two-album deal with Tiny Global Productions, so you can expect to hear more, but who knows what else--spontaneous or otherwise--Langford will get up to. In the meantime, read our interview below, edited for length and clarity.

Since I Left You: When did The Bright Shiners form, and when did you start writing Where It Really Starts?

Jon Langford: It was more a social thing. We were talking. Alice Spencer was in a band...she's a keyboard player and a very good technical singer. She was doing other solo stuff which was really fascinating. She has a jazz background, but isn't into that virtuoso jazz stuff. We decided to write a few songs with John Szymanski and Tamineh [Gueramy.] John [had] been working with me, and I said to him [about Alice], "This woman's playing a Mellotron." And he said, "We should form a band with her." I didn't know there was such a thing as digital Mellotron. It's really kind of fascinating to me. Most of the songs are co-writes by the whole band. But I was handing over sketches and [Alice] was turning them into fully realized arrangements with vocals.

SILY: Did you come up with the lyrics?

JL: All the lyrics are mine.

SILY: How did you finish the songs? Was that a group effort?

JL: Yeah, the arrangements and the songs. The guy who produced it with us, [Brian Beattie,] had been working with Alice a lot. They'd done a duo together. The studio is called The Wonder Chamber. Alice was doing some recording there and sent me some video. I said, "Where is this? This is fantastic! If we do anything, this is where we should do it."

SILY: Is it in Austin?

JL: Yeah.

SILY: It seems to me that this album, more than your other solo albums, exists in the folk tradition but with more contemporary touches. Maybe that's the digital Mellotron. Would you agree?

JL: Yeah. We just wanted it to be kind of minimal. We started off with acoustic guitars, because John and I had been doing that for quite a while in a duo. We tried to make a record just me and him with acoustic guitar. It was alright, and we had a few ideas, but that's kind of on the backburner.

Music is so inherently collaborative. I've had solo records where I was totally in charge. This is basically something else. The song "Seahouses" was this epic thing Alice came up with based on something I'd sent her. I thought, "I don't remember writing this." It was mind-blowing. So beautiful, so different.

SILY: It definitely is a song that sounds like the seaside.

JL: There's something cinematic about it. I want to bash things down as simply and plainly as possible. That one has some epic moments. It's minimal in the sense that it's not a jam band. It's more like a dub reggae record where you have parts that lock and drive the song along and serve the record. When there's no singing, the parts get kind of detached from it. You can listen to these individual parts. It's getting away from the virtuosity and soloing: Just trying to serve the song.

SILY: Was there anything different this time around that inspired your lyrics?

JL: That's a good question. I'll have to talk to my therapist about that. [laughs] The lyrics are quite personal. They are inspired by the visual art I do. "For The Queen of Hearts", there was a painting called The Queen of Hearts that I made, a country singer that's like a playing card, body on top and repeated underneath. She's got two heads and is singing. The other one is a skull. I thought the song was kind of based on that.

SILY: Are you contextualizing each song with paintings you've done that might have inspired them?

JL: Some of them. "Seahouses", I went to a place called "Seahouses". It's a really dramatic place in the north of England, kind of bleak, pebbles rolling and smashing against each other, permanent and impermanent at the same time. The transitory nature of life and time itself, or something. It sounds really bonkers when I say it like that. [laughs]

Each song, I guess, has its own life. There's a lot of visual stuff in them.

SILY: There seems to be a good mix of songs that are reflective or internal and others more about storytelling, such as "Tell Me Your Story".

JL: I wrote that with a friend in Chicago, Jenny Bienemann. She had a project where she would write haikus and would hand them out to [people] to write a song from it to perform in a concert. There were 15 haikus, and she said, "Pick one you like." I thought "Tell Me Your Story" was fantastic. When you meet someone, you want to find out everything about them.

SILY: When you write or listen to folk music, do you tend to draw parallels between the modern day and the past?

JL: I think I write pretty much in the present. I'm not writing nostalgic or particularly optimistic [songs] anymore. I've tried to temper realism or pessimism.

SILY: A song like "The Emperor's Fiddle", with lines about talking to the dead and necromancing, and a line like, "We have more guns and disease than you can ever use" sounds like something that could be from an old folk song, but you could apply it to the modern day.

JL: You can apply it to the modern day. It's about going up the river and selling the Natives whiskey.

SILY: Why did you choose to throw in an unlisted track at the end that's basically an outtake of "Discarded"?

JL: That's actually Brian Beattie setting up the studio before we even arrived and playing all the instruments himself. [laughs] The first time I sat in the studio properly, he played me that. [laughs] I could have walked out. "Are you taking the piss? Are you making fun of us?" We all find it really amusing. "Is it you...I?" It grew on me in the end. I was like, "It's gotta go on."

SILY: It's like when people leave in studio chatter, but taken to the extreme.

JL: It exists. I don't know what else we were gonna do with it. Put it in a box and bury it somewhere? [laughs]

SILY: Did you do the album art for this?

JL: It's a collaboration between me and Jim Sherraden, the master printer at Hatch Show Print in Nashville. It's his woodcuts and my central figures.

SILY: How does it relate to the story of the album?

JL: It's parallel. I started working with him when we started The Bright Shiners. It was work that I was making. The idea of two people with a guitar flying through the air. There's an ethereal nature to a lot of these songs that ties in quite nicely. I like the idea of the printmaking. It's ornate. I like repetition. Mark E. Smith said, "It's not repetition, it's discipline." I find that in a lot of music I like. There doesn't have to be a high point or piano solo for people to show off their virtuosity. I thought that was a good parallel to the album. It can be beautiful and serious, but it doesn't have to be.

SILY: You can apply what Mark E. Smith says to listening, to, especially more repetitious songs that take a level of discipline or commitment, especially when they have abstraction to it.

JL: This is sort of artistic conceit. It wasn't just folk songs. We were definitely thinking about robotic, repetitive things going on. Some sort of hypnotic thing. "A Scale of One to Nine", I just wanted to [write a song] that sounds good when it comes back. [laughs] It's really relentless.

SILY: Any time you include wordless harmonies, it wriggles its way into your head.

JL: I don't like when people ask if I've made a concept record. Every record's a concept record to me. It's not like I've made a rock opera. It's a definable narrative. There's a story.

SILY: For how long have you been playing these songs live?

JL: [For] probably about eight months. After playing [at first], we understood what we wanted, and the writing process became a lot easier. We didn't do a whole album in one sitting, it was about four sittings, a few songs each time, and we got better at working. The song "I Have a Wish" is completely live. We wanted to see what it was like all playing together. It was really beautiful. We knew what we wanted to do. It's a simple song.

SILY: It has a really nice lilting melody.

JL: Alice is a really good singer. Most of the songs are duets. She really listens to phrasing and writes harmonies over the top. A lot of the time she's doing quite odd harmonies that are kind of cool.

SILY: How was it adapting some of the other songs to a live performance?

JL: It was pretty easy with this. We don't try making it sound exactly like the record. We did some gigs with a bass player and percussionist last year. Economically, we can't really do [that all the time]. We need to make it work as a four-piece. John and I have an understanding, telepathically, if I go up the neck, he goes down. The snare drum is often playing more percussively than he is, and he's finding notes that are similar to what's on the record but not exactly. Everybody sings really well, as well. We all sing together. There are beautiful moments. Tamineh uses pedals for the violin, and there are a lot of violin effects she's using. She'll use them in place of electric guitar on the record. Some Mellotron sounds are pretty fantastic. The violin with pedal delays can sound like a whole orchestra.

SILY: Did you put horns on "Discarded"?

JL: We did. Alice wanted to put a Salvation Army [brass] band on a track. I wasn't there when she did it. She got some people from Austin. I mirrored the part she was playing on the Mellotron and made it into something bigger. I wasn't sure about that song.

SILY: Are you always writing songs?

JL: Yep. I haven't for a while. I think when we finished the album, I definitely went through, at the end of last year, a phase where I wasn't doing anything. It's like a muscle. Once you turn it on again, it's like a tap. If you're not writing, you are writing somewhere in your head. A lot of things in the songs seem strange to me now because I didn't know what I meant when I wrote them, but sometimes, when we sing them on stage, I go, "Bloody hell, I wonder whether that's what that means." [laughs] It's kind of revealing tapping into the subconscious. That's where a lot of the stuff gets written.

SILY: Do you find it the same when someone in the audience might ask what something means or say a song means something different to them? Do the songs then change meaning for you?

JL: I kind of like the limitations of being a songwriter in the sense you can try and communicate something, but it might be misconstrued. I think that brings responsibility to what you talk about. It's so boring to set up a message, and say, "This song is about." It's a delicate balance to start writing songs and not be pedantic but still be authentic. Hopefully, people think about what you're singing about.

SILY: Is there anything you've been listening to, watching, or reading lately that's caught your attention?

JL: I listen to a lot of reggae still, but it's not new. I've got a vinyl player in my painting studio. I like that it stops every 25 minutes and you have to go and choose something else. You can't just put on a playlist. A lot of British reggae music from the 70s and 80s which wasn't appreciated at the time but is pretty fucking great. Steel Pulse, Misty in Roots. Bands I saw and played with at the time.

[chaotic-minds-think-alike]

Biiig image hopefully it like translates well but oughhg vultures,, Info/hcs about them below: (warning- long/wordy post)

General information:

Their entire lifecycle is based off bugs and thus they go through instars or larval stages of growth before they eventually cocoon and pupate and finally emerge as fully fledged adults

Through some strange modifications to their genetic and biological code, the ancients were able to make them grow their own biomechanical components through ingesting inorganic and organic material

Much more detailed under a microscope, their biomechanical structures are layered as if they were 3D printed on, but include interwoven organic components such as nerves and blood vessels

Vultures are opportunistic and will even result to cannibalism

Hatchling / 1st Instar:

multiple hatchlings will hatch all at once in a single clutch and immediately fight each other, eventually killing and consuming the loser, thus resulting in only a few grubs surviving

Nutrients gained from their siblings and material eaten from the environment around them is used to form the headpiece as quickly as possible

the modified head is used as its primary defense in the larval stage, calling adult vultures in hopes that it'll deter it's attacker- though the vultures that do arrive are most likely not the parents and will eat the grub at any given chance

5th Instar:

By now the grub has eaten as much nutrients as it could and will soon undergo pupation

The grub's first four legs have elongated to aid in travel as they will seek refuge in high perches where they will hide away and cocoon

They are swift and hard to spot in this stage because of their grime covered coat

Pupation / Near emergence:

After spinning its cocoon, the silk hardens and thickens into a tough ball

The silk is woven in with specific nutrients that promote plant growth to further hide the cocoon

After an undetermined amount of time, the cocoon gradually expands as the pupa grows into the adult form; the expansion leaves translucent areas where the silk is thin

Adult Vulture:

The engines and mask are a result of a mixture of bone-like material and metal-like material and are very hard to break

They are aware of how strong their own mask is so they stray from fighting each other, only ever attacking another vulture if they've lost their mask; this is an instinctive behavior both driven by their opportunistic nature and seeing a maskless vulture as sick or injured

As with the majority of creatures, the skin of a vulture is smooth and porous, but instead has patches of hair-like protrusions

Through a mysterious process, vultures are able to synthesize various chemicals to aid in flight, namely helium gas, which is pumped into the feathers

This process brings toxic byproducts: chlorine and iodine gas, which is forcefully expelled alongside the helium through the engines and out of the creature

A vulture's engines are raised occasionally to allow more airflow and a faster exchange of gas as standalone they accumulate these chemicals regardless of exertion

The feathers of a vulture are akin to swim bladders and are inflated with helium gas to allow the creature to fly, the feathers retain their flat shape but the skin is expanded and shows the true colors of the wings, when deflated the feathers are black in color

When on the ground, the feathers of a vulture are deflated and much tougher, their wings will curl into "fists" as they walk, occasionally extending their wings to grab ahold of things with their prolegs

Previously as a grub, they had 4 developed legs before they pupate, the mid legs turned into a pair of weak grabbing arms, mainly used to preen the creature

The grub's last pair of legs became fat reserves

The jaws of a vulture are pretty animal-like and only have a top and bottom jaw, they also have pedipalps which are used to preen, grab, and feel things

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

King Vulture:

Unknown as to how they originated, bear slightly different genetic coding compared to normal vultures, namely noticed with the mysterious brand on their masks

the vulture is larger to accommodate a second pair of lungs solely used to power the harpoon mechanism

The harpoon is shot via a swift expulsion of air similar to a sneeze, through the cables that they stiffen and expand, sending the harpoon flying at dangerous speeds

Relaxation of the cables allows them to slowly retract back on their own

[copperbadge]

The Country Music Hall of Fame was a lot of fun -- actually more than I expected it to be, and I say that as someone who actually enjoys the bulk of country music. The museum is very well-designed and has a nice variety of exhibits. But the real hidden gem is the Hatch Show Print tour, which is an add-on tour with the Hall of Fame.

Hatch Show Print was a small print shop in Nashville that started out doing ads and handbills and ended up doing the poster art for a ton of artists who came through Nashville particularly in the early 20th century. Their style is what I think of as Great Depression Googie, very simple and retro, and I love it. And the tour itself is awesome, it's basically a little printmaking class with a history lesson thrown in. Hugely good time, do recommend.

[ID: two photos; the first is of the Hatch Show Print gift shop, which is crammed with posters announcing things like "Free Beer (tomorrow)" and "Y'all Means All". There are also several hand operated antique letterpress machines. The second photo is a close up of a machine in the "classroom" where they tell you about the history of the shop and let you do a print of your own; it has a sign on it reading "I am the oldest press in the shop". Not mentioned is that it was made in Chicago and I was oddly proud of that.]

[multiwreckedmess]

Kinktober Day 1

Prompt: Costume Pairing: San x fem!reader WC: 1,900 Summary: When you and your boyfriend have a minor disagreement on what to do for your halloween costumes, you hatch a plan to have him see your side.

This is a work of fiction, it does not represent San or any Ateez member. On top of this it is an 18+ work. For my comfort and boundaries please if you are under age do not interact with this. 

TW/CW under the cut

TW/CW: Sort of petplay, reader called “kitty”, “kitten” as well as “babe” and “sweetie”, oral (m. receiving), unprotected intercourse, finishing inside, tail plug mentioned. I think that’s about it.

Staring into the monochrome abyss of San’s closet you huff. “Babe? What are we wearing for Hongjoong’s Halloween party?”  He doesn’t turn from his game, frantic clicks of the mouse filing the space where his reply should be.  “Babe?” You ask again, foolishly hopeful.  More clicking, punctuated by a flood of curses under his breath.  You purse your lips and turn to him, the silhouette of his chair blocking him. “San?”  His fist slams into the table, “SHIT! Sorry. Dead. I got 1 minute. What? Sorry.”  “Costume. Halloween party?”  “I was thinking we’d buy a couples-”  “BUY?” Your eyes bug incredulously. The thought opens wide a can of childhood trauma. Years of your parents insisting that you create your costumes with clothes either from the second hand store or existing closet pieces with minimal single use articles. While others got to dress as Jesse from Toy Story or Cinderella, you had to figure out your best approximation of what a witch would look like in modern dress.  San’s brows furrow in confusion. “What? Yes? How else do you get a costume?”  “Where is your spirit of creation?! I might as well dress up like a cat if you’re just going to buy some shitty costume.”  San rolls his eyes, exasperated. “You can’t make a cat into a couples costume.”  “You go ahead and buy the costumes. I’ll put together mine and show you how much better it is.”

 It’s manipulative, you know it is, as you examine yourself in the mirror. You’d probably never wear this ensemble out, but it was about the message. Fuzzy ears clipped to the top of your head matched beautifully with the tail plug tickling the back of your thighs from under your skirt. It was almost unfair, almost.

 Leaning against the doorframe you watch him click away, unaware of the treat sitting mere meters away from him. You knock and wait patiently with a small smirk tugging at your lips.  “He-holy shit,” San turns and stops in his tracks, eyes racking over your body. Whatever he was doing or going to do long forgotten he launches himself from the computer chair. He whole body throbs for a second as his arms tighten around you and lift, moving you with ease. For a second he considers tossing you fully onto the mattress but decides better, it would be a waste instead placing you in the center of the bedroom. “Such a pretty kitty,” San purrs, pushing your hair behind your ear. Nails scratching lightly at your scalp, his eyes shine as as shiver runs down your body.  “So you like it?” You tug slightly at the half gloves covering your wrist, smoothing them taut to you. Small rubber paw prints adorn the palms, soft and squishy and pink. Your stockings have them too, just at the ball of the foot, with matching pretty pink bows at the tops of the thighs. You twirl, tripping lightly as the rubber paws grip the ground more than you’re prepared for. San’s arms wrap around you again and secure you as his chest blocking your tumble.  “Maybe a little dangerous to wear out,” he muses, hand trailing your spine.  “We’ll have to take care of that, won’t we kitty?” His mind feels hazy as the blood flow redirects southwards. He shouldn’t be as attracted to this outfit as he is. You just look so cute, so so SO cute it makes his head swim.

 It’s impossible to hide the pulse of interest in his sweatpants, comfy and breathable grey cotton leaving nothing to the imagination. “Take care of what?” You bat your eyelashes dumbly, prolonging the game. Your hands skim down to the waistband of his pants, feeling the flex of his lower abs as his breath catches. His own hand pushes up the back of your skirt, tugging lightly at the tail, stirring the plug within you just enough to make you whine.  “Don’t worry kitty, just follow me,” he smiles, palm cupping your ass. “get on your knees for me, won’t you?”  You’ve never dropped to your knees faster, looking up at his toned body with wide eyes. He barely moves his head to look down at you, only his eyes following. Your mouth waters, staring at the tented outline pressing insistently to the fabric.  “Be a good kitty and open your mouth for me,” his thumb strokes your cheek, your jaw softening and falling open in his hand. One handed, he pushes the top of his pants down, thick cock springing from the confines. Heavy and musky he taps the head on your outstretched  tongue, sucking in air through his teeth. It the eager twinkle in your eye as you patiently wait for his next instruction that stokes the fire in his gut. “That’s it, now just the tip sweetie, just a little lick for me,” he coaxes.

 Tongue flicking gently against the underside you listen for his breathy moan, mischievous smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. You barrage him with sweet kitten licks all over the head of his dick. As much as he can control his body he couldn’t control his expression, fighting to keep his eyes open his eyelids flutter. “Li’e tha’?” You ask, words slurred with your tongue lolling out.  “Just like that,” he sighs, “just keep your mouth open babe, let me do the work.” Letting the weight of his member rest heavily on your tongue you hold your head still, eyes fixed upwards, gazing at his face. Gathering your hair into a loose fist at the base of your scalp, his hips press forward into your inviting heat. It’s barely halfway down before he feels the resistant tight ring of your throat against him. Hazily he shallowly thrusts against it, the sound of your soft gags awakening something primal in him. Tears welling in your eyes you work hard to breath through your nose as he loses himself briefly to the rhythm. “Doin’ so well-,” he gasps, “a lil’ more. Such a good obedient kitty. A lil’ more for me.”

 Your core throbs impatiently, gut twisting and tightening. His choked back moans and lack of oxygen have you lightheaded, your own hand wandering between your thighs to provide some relief to your unattended sex. Subtle twitches of his thighs and cock tell you he’s close, an unrepressed moan burbling up from your lungs has him retreating quickly, strands of spit and salty precum bridging the gap in your bodies.  “Don’ wan’ cum?” You gulp and gasp, wiping your lips on the back of the arm warmers.  San shakes his head, eyes unfocused and breathing heavily.  You don’t have time to question why before he is pulling you up by your forearms and tossing you face down into the unmade sheets of the bed like you were little more than a misplaced pillow. He’s on you nearly as fast, hand running up the back of your thighs to your slit.  “Practically dripping,” he growls and giggles all at once, giddy. You push back on his hand with a moan.  “All for you,” your voice is horse and ragged.  “Good kitty.”

 The blunt pressure of his cock breaching your entrance forces a harsh exhale from you. Your skirt is bunched and balled into his fists at your waist, little more than makeshift handles for him to use as he pushes his way into your tight heat. The slickness of your arousal eases the push as his hips roll against you, deeper and deeper with each stroke until he’s fully seated in your cunt. Elated, you wiggle back at him, shaking the tail still snuggly held in by the plug.  San marvels at how your walls stretch and hug to accommodate his thickness. The audio visual experience of your small moans and tight hole eagerly sucking him back dulls his wits. For a moment he drops the skirt to palm your ass, spreading you so he can better watch himself disappear as he shallowly fucks into you, absentmindedly stroking the fur of the tail draped down your back. It’s just enough to jostle the plug, tight ring of muscle flexing to hold it in.  Your chest tightens and vision blurs, elbows faltering and falling cheek first into the mattress. “It feels good,” you try to say, only bubbles of spit and moans managing to make their way out of your mouth.  “You’re so fucked,” San laughs as his hips snap into you faster. “You’re so hot.”  “Fuuuuck,” you groan in agreement. “I’m fuuuuucked.” The words bounce with the shaking of your body, uncontrolled and automatic. San fists your strip of a skirt, using it as leverage to fuck into you harder and faster. You can hardly breathe as your orgasm rolls over you, one after another, walls clenching and spasming around his cock. Fingers claw at the bed, twitching as you pant and groan and swear underneath him.  He drops his hold on your skirt, unceremoniously allowing you to crumple to the bed as he pulls from you.  “Nooo,” you whine pitifully at the loss of sensation. Exhaustion plagues your muscles but your gut needs more, craves more. You ragdoll as he pushes you to your back, clambering between your thighs again. It’s rougher than he’s every been with you. You stomach flutters and flips and he practically folds you in half, pressing your knees up to your armpits and sliding back into you.  “Don’t worry kitty, you’ll get your treat,” he murmurs in your ear, breath tickling your jaw.  This angle is a different kind of intense, his body weight heavy on your lungs, restricting your airflow just enough to have you buzzing. His biceps flex as he holds himself and your legs up as best he can, your stockinged feet waving loosely in the air with each thrust. You hold onto him, clinging to his back with all your might. Your ears ring and rush as you lose yourself in his motions.  “Cum, please, cum,” you chant into his shoulder. “Fuck your cum into your cute kitten.” Spit and sweat commingling on your lips. You curl up, forehead pressed to the junction as you climax, vision darkening and eyelids fluttering.  You’d scream but your lungs are empty and diaphragm clenched. Everything burns from the inside out. Gasping, you bite down on his trapezius, his strangled groan of pleasure and surprise breaking through your haze as his hips stutter and slam as deep as he can go into you. The warmth of his release coats your walls as they work him.

 San whimpers and then giggles quietly.  “Sorrysorrysorrysorry,” you spew in a whispered prayer.  “Don’t apologize to me,” he kisses your cheek. “Intense right?”  You don’t answer, eyes closed in bliss. All is quiet except for your breaths and the occasional light smack of lips to skin as you pepper eachother with pecks. You let him lower your legs to the bed, release slightly seeping out around his cock as he moves you. “You like the costume?” You trade an obvious question with a second obvious question.  “Skirts ruined, sorry,” he giggles again. “Pussy ruined.””

 You glare at him. He shifts slightly, balancing himself on one arm as he grabs an errant ear from between the pillows. “See? Pussy ruined. Besides, not a couples costume so-” it was such a San answer, letting you win the battle but not the war.

I’m really not promising much if anything but I wanna write more frequently sooo here you go. As usual, please let me know if I am missing tags or if you’d like me to add any TW/CW that are sensitive for you to any upcoming fics!

Also i noticed the formatting is a little fucked on mobile i’m so sorry i think it’s that i copy paste in from another doc but like...it’s hard to tell. It’s the first paragraph. Sorry!!

[archeolatry]

This took ENTIRELY too damn long from idea to fruition. I got inspired by all the cowboy movie posters yesterday and got me thinking about Hatch Show Prints. (Guess who's on her preferred manufacturer's brand of meds now and has WAY too much concentration for something this late and frivolous?)

[hanafubukki]

I wanted to show some of my precious haul from AX ☺️💚💞

From @plebisian

Their knight collection is amazing 😭💞 and you know I had to get it. Look at them!! So precious!! I wasn’t expecting the quote with the napping babies and lilia standee and it’s so precious and sweet and 🥹💚 (I have the entire collection lolol I just put the prints away in my folder so it would be safe) 💞💞

From @mauhandraws

There was never any doubt I was running and getting these day 1 ahhhhhhh I mean?? Look at him???? Just??? HOW CAN I NOT??!! (The spectrum in this photo makes me laugh hahaha) I have their entire diasomnia collection. 💞💞 oh, if you want their diasomnia dorm print, I would recommend getting them before they sell out. I believe she’ll stop production of them after a certain point. 🙏💚

LILIAS WAIST IS SO GRABABLE IN THIS 💞💞💞💚💚💚

From @zeldacw

AHHHH THE WAY I WAITING FOR THE REVEAL. From the little hints I kept seeing on twitter ahhhh. This print is beautiful!! You can’t see it on the picture because of the art book, but it has this shiny glitter quality?? It’s beautiful 😭

AND THIS IMAGE?!? The way I gasped when I saw it. The general mask disintegrating. The way Lilia is preciously holding malleus close to him. The happy smile and tears. The way he’s not general Lilia anymore and hasn’t been for awhile. Just the fae who’s love hatched malleus. 😭😭💞💞💞

The moon! The bats! Baby mal 🥹💚💚

[mattzerella-sticks]

if it cannot hatch from its shell, the chick will die without ever truly being born. (ao3 link)

Rated: T

Word count: 2,324

Pairing: Buck/Eddie (pre-relationship)

It's missing-Christopher-Diaz-hours at the Diaz House, party of one. Until Buck crashes his pity party with a little gift to help turn Eddie's night around for the better. Now stoned, Eddie convinces Buck to watch a television show with him that Eddie hasn't seen in years. The show dredges up old feelings for Eddie. He and Buck talk them out.

Eddie’s pushing dinner around when he receives Buck’s text asking to hang out. He answers immediately. No. Without further explanation or any uncertainty. That doesn’t stop Buck from following up, telling Eddie he’s already outside.

               “Dammit, Buck…”

               He throws his fork against the plate. Its clatter overpowers the scrape his chair makes as he stands and stomps towards the front door. Buck waits for him there. Phone in one hand, brown paper bag in the other.

               Buck squints down at Eddie, a sheepish grin creeping across his face. “Hey, Eddie…”

               “I’m not in the mood, Buck.”

               “I know but… give me a minute. And – and if you still aren’t, I’ll leave.”

               Eddie should turn Buck away. Return to his unappetizing, freezer-burned microwaveable meal puddling on his table and wallow, alone, like he had planned for the rest of his evening. But then Buck bat his eyelashes at Eddie. He bats them twice. Three times, and Eddie surrenders.

               “Fine.” Eddie steps aside so Buck can squeeze past. “You have one minute. Starting… now.”

               Buck guides Eddie into the living room wasting his allotted time to set him onto the couch before speaking. He reaches inside the brown paper bag and produces a large, shrink-wrapped, chocolate-chip cookie. Eddie spots the dessert’s label. He recognizes the tiny seven-tipped leaf printed on it.

               “Is that –“?

               “Figured you’d prefer this over a brownie,” he says. “Since the last time I brought brownies over was… not our most pleasant conversation.”

               Eddie’s gaze drifts from the cookie to Buck. He looks all too eager for Eddie to lunge at the opportunity like a fish with bait, though his appearance is also suffused with poorly masked worry that he, perhaps, miscalculated. That Eddie would still deny him, send him away.

               The idea is tempting. So is the cookie. He weighs both options in his mind as the minute he gave Buck runs out into overtime.

               Buck squirms underneath his scrutiny. “So? Are you in?”

               His answer was inevitable in the end. He sighs. Reaches out to Buck and, crooking his fingers, Eddie says, “Hand it over.”    

They split the cookie between them. Each cookie half is about five milligrams. Eddie nibbles on his treat to wade into his high. The warm, tingling numbness starts at his ankles, climbs his shins, his knees, rising higher and higher until it reaches his head and then he’s fully submerged, floating in a gooey, imagined embrace. That happens around the thirty-minute mark.

               Buck, the lightweight, was giddy after his first bite. His only bite.

               “What the hell did we just watch, Eds?” He’s laughing. His fingers lazily ghost the hairs at Eddie’s nape as he speaks. “Seriously? I know we’re stoned but that felt like an acid trip.”

               Eddie rolls his eyes at him. “No it didn’t.”

               “Did too.”

               “Shut up.”

               The credits end and the video skips onto the next in the playlist; the second episode begins despite Buck’s giggled, stilted review of the first drowning it out.

               Eddie pauses the video. “Are you gonna watch the show, or do you want to keep talking over it?”

               Buck’s lips twitch and tremble against his smile while he schools his features into a heavy caricature of seriousness to apologize. Laughter hiccups from him regardless and, though he tries clearing his throat to hide it, Eddie notices. “Sorry, sorry,” he repeats. “I just… I’m still trying to wrap my head around what we saw.”

               “What are you hung up on?”

               “…Everything?”

               “Buck…”

               “Okay, okay – I guess the whole… dueling thing threw me. Where did the arena come from? The upside-down castle?”

               “They’re just there.”

               “And everyone’s cool with fighting there? With swords?”

               “They have to. It’s part of the Contest for the Rose Bride.”

               “That’s another thing! How is everyone so cool with a contest where the winner practically ‘owns’ this poor girl? I mean, even those other kids saw how badly that green-haired douche was treating her, and they let it happen because ‘he won’. What was that?”

               Eddie sighs. “It sucks, but those are the rules. Whoever’s engaged to the Rose Bride can do what they want, and in return – at the right time – the Rose Bride will grant her betrothed the power to revolutionize the world.” Buck almost protests but Eddie cuts him off. “This was only the first episode. If we keep watching, they get into it – deconstruct it a bit, by way of the main character.”

               “Is the sword the power they’re all fighting for?”

               “No, the sword’s just a sword.”

               “That happens to live inside a girl?”

               “Yes.”

               “Then what are they all fighting for?”

               “Buck!”

               Buck pouts at Eddie. It curbs the frustration bubbling beneath his surface, that threatened to kill his buzz. Eddie breathes deep and releases his jittery tension in a long exhale. Finished, he sags deeper into the couch as he casts a dull, half-lidded stare across where Buck had fully sprawled atop its cushions and the nearby coffee table.

               “Do you want me to put something else on?” he asks. “Because if you’re not interested, I can.”

               “No, no. I’m interested. I wouldn’t be asking this many questions if I wasn’t interested.”

               “Promise?”

               He nods. “Yeah, you can start it up again. I’ll stay quiet.”

               “You sure?”

               “Positive.”

               Eddie presses play, the screen unfreezes, and the episode continues.

Eddie has been watching Buck rather than the show for the past few minutes, more interested in how the television’s fuzzy glow softens the edges of Buck’s rapt attraction to the story. He looks younger in its light. Stubble hidden; eyes wider. Eddie could tell him to close his mouth, to keep bugs from flying inside it, but he can’t navigate his thoughts around the roadblock that is Buck’s adorableness to form a coherent sentence let alone gather the strength and shatter the enchanting silence by speaking.

               True to his word, Buck hadn’t made a peep during the entire episode. Why must Eddie?

               Why must Eddie look at Buck and, without meaning to, ask, “You really like it?”

               Buck holds a finger to shush him, his eyes trained on the screen. Eddie fumbles for the remote and stops it midway through the obligatory dueling scene.

               “Eddie!”

               “You like it?”

               Buck meets his gaze and blinks. “Uh,” he runs his tongue over his top lip, his bottom lip, his top lip again. “Yeah. I thought I told you that I was…”

               “Interested? I know,” Eddie shrugs. “You could’ve been saying it to say it, though.”

               “Why would I do that?”

               “You wouldn’t be the first.”

               Eddie realizes it’s the worst thing to have said because now Buck has forgotten the show and misplaced all his attention onto Eddie. Half his face is lost in shadow. The half Eddie can see he doesn’t like. The softness is tinged with sorrow, his parted lips turned down, and Buck’s eye had sharpened to better pierce him. Like it might probe all Eddie’s memories, every moment he shared an interest, let someone in, every attempt which ended in failure as they thought it, thought him, too weird to make an effort, until he stopped sharing those parts of himself, with one, mighty jab.

               Not that it was remotely possible Buck could know all that from a single look...

               …Right?

               “Eddie,” Buck says. “I’d never lie to you about liking something. If I did, you’d still be a lousy cook.”

               “Oh. Right.”

               He’s not sure how to proceed, so Eddie decides his most prudent course of action is to pretend this hadn’t happened and resume watching the show. Except the remote had somehow ended up in Buck’s hands. Dammit.

               “Does this show really mean a lot to you?”

               “A lot?” Eddie doesn’t remember communicating ever being this hard. Was it the weed, or the conversation topic? His tongue sits awkwardly inside his mouth as he talks. “I like it, yeah. Have ever since I was a kid.”

               “You watched this as a kid?”

               “It was one of my favorite shows,” he says. “I… watched a lot of anime growing up.”

               “You like anime? How do I not know this about you?”

               “You like anime?” Eddie parrots Buck’s question back at him instead of answering.

               “I… didn’t watch much television as a kid,” Buck admits. “My folks thought most cartoons airing back then would only make me dumber, so they limited what I watched. But I remember seeing a few episodes of Dragon Ball Z, when I’d hang out at a friend’s house sometimes.”

               “I watched that. I wasn’t as obsessed with it like all the other kids at school were.”

               “Why not?”

               “I don’t know… it just felt long. And there was a lot of fighting.”

               “There’s fighting in this.”

               “Yeah, there is.”

               “What about this show’s different?”

               Eddie looks at the screen, at where Utena is locked in battle with Saionji during their rematch. Utena winces while Saionji bears down on her. As he studies the screen Eddie reflects on why he’s so fond of this anime over so many that he’s seen. When he reaches a conclusion, he glances back at Buck, finds him waiting, and chooses to share.

               “I guess I liked the main girl’s whole deal.”

               “What do you mean?”

               “She’s this girl. And everyone has expectations about how she’s supposed to act, like they’re trying to box her in. Yet she doesn’t stand for any of that crap. She looks the world in the eye and says, ‘this is who I am. I won’t stop being who I am because it makes you uncomfortable’. It’s… it was inspiring, back then.” For a boy who always felt like the shoes he wore were bigger than they were supposed to be. Who was boxed in by the world from the very beginning, but who couldn’t stand as tall as her. Who can’t.

               “I’d say it’s pretty inspiring now, too,” Buck whispers.

               “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”

               Buck taps the remote against his thigh arrhythmically. “So you saw a lot of yourself in Utena?”

               A prickling warmth creeps up Eddie’s face. “I guess.”

               “Cool.”

               He holds the remote out for Eddie to take.

               Eddie grabs it, but he doesn’t press play yet. He’s on the right side of being stoned that this next admission wouldn’t hurt like it should. Eddie can talk about it like he would the weather or how the Lakers played in their last game. He doesn’t waste the opportunity. “I wanted to watch this with Christopher.”

               “You – you did?”

               Buck recognizes the gravity imbued within his speech, even in his inebriated state, and pulls closer to Eddie’s orbit to listen.

               “Yeah.” And Eddie’s glad Buck is here, that he brought the weed-infused cookie. “I wanted to share it with him, show him a part of my childhood.”

               “What were you waiting for?”

               “For him to get older,” Eddie chuckles. “But I guess I waited a little too long, huh?”

               “There’ll still be time, Eds.”

               The most wonderful thing is that Eddie can watch the twinkle in Buck’s eye as he says that, and knows he means it from the very core of his being. Makes Eddie briefly believe it himself.

               “Yeah. Yeah, there will be.”

They resumed the episode. At the end, as the credits began to roll, and a vocalist sang the closing theme in a language neither understood as the dub declined including subtitles for the music, Buck asks Eddie who he thinks Buck is like in this fantastical world, if Eddie is Utena. “Am I the friend? Waka – something?”

               Wakaba? Eddie does not think so. She always reminded him of Shannon.

               But Buck… “You’re more like Anthy.”

               “Anthy?” Buck blinks at him. “You mean the girl everyone’s fighting over?”

               “Yeah.”

               “Why?”

               Eddie cannot parse through the vast number of reasons swirlimg around his fogged mind, so he shrugs and cops out by telling Buck, “If you watched the show, it’d be obvious.”

               “I am! It’s not my fault we’re only on episode two!”

               “Then we need to watch more.”

               Buck groans, but he’s also flashing Eddie that special, private smile he has whenever they’re alone together that leaves him breathless. He blames it, and the resultant oxygen deprivation, on what he does next.

               Eddie lays his hand flat over Buck’s heart. It thump-thump-thumps beneath Eddie’s palm at a slow, deliberate pace.

               “What are you doing?”

               “Trying to pull a sword from your chest.”

               Except that’s not quite true. As his one hand rests there, both men wholly consumed by the comfort in their contact, Eddie’s other hand slithers towards Buck’s neck and scrapes its blunt nails across a patch of skin forcing Buck to yelp, jump, and draw his shoulders high as he could to shield himself from another strike.

               “Did you just tickle me?”

               Eddie’s laughing. He gloats, “Yeah. I did.”

               “Oh. Oh, it’s on.”

               They miss the entirety of the third episode because of their tickle war. Eddie’s body aches worse than after suffering through Gerard’s tortuous drills he forces on them ever since returning to lord over the 118, and while he might have been tossed onto the floor by Buck’s long, flailing legs sweeping him off the couch, Eddie does not care. He feels too much like a kid to care about those sorts of things.

               Not the kid he was. The kid he never got to be.

               Eddie stares up at Buck, his back groaning in protest, chest heaving with every breath, face flushed and sweaty, and thanks him. “For tonight.”

               Buck nods. “Thank you. For this.”

               He must mean the show, for letting Buck view a part of himself Eddie hadn’t revealed in years, trusting him with this knowledge… because any other reason Eddie might suspect has to be imagined, brought on by the drugs roiling inside.

               Buck helps Eddie back onto the couch and once they have made themselves comfortable, pressed against each other, not an inch of space between them, the two boys restart the episode.

[bigbrotherlouis]

something about the preds pride logo this year caught my attention and i wanted it so badly on a hatch show print-inspired poster. so i made it! x

[imawreck]

Present

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x Original Character

Summary: Bucky grows closer and closer to losing himself in the attempts to find Max, becoming more like The Winter Soldier once more. While they are searching for her, Max is losing more and more of herself.

Warnings: Pretty much the same as last few chapters so please be very careful with your reading!

Word Count: 3,252

Steve-

There wasn't a second to waste when the jet landed a mile out from where Tony had pinged the surge. Everyone was storming out of the hanger the second it touched the ground, Buck leading the charge.

I was following right behind him. I might not have had the best relationship with Max or believe that she was the best for my best pal but seeing him this close to falling apart was so much worse.

We approached the rubble of what was left from the old Hydra facility. All of us shot Tony questioning glances, because who the hell would set up camp here with no cover? There were hardly trees here. It was simply a couple of crumbled remains of a building or two in a flat clearing. No one would willingly use this as a base of operations, especially if they were going to use a weapon like the Scepter.

Tony frowned. "This is where the ping came from. I'm sure. Spread out but keep on the Comms. Look for some kind of sign that they were here."

When I turned to follow after Bucky, afraid he wouldn't be alright alone, he was already gone. Well, several yards away, anyway. His back was to me as he searched the ground, obviously following some sort of trail in the grass. I hustled over to him, noting the subtle footprints here or there, the half impression of a heel every few feet.

"They were here recently," he mumbled, "Could still be here."

I watched him closely as I trailed after him. Bucky had gone from remotely friendly and sometimes conversational to a downright ghost around the tower ever since Max's capture. I hardly heard a word out of him during the weeks afterward, only heard him talk at the meetings he attended. If they didn't revolve around finding Max, he wouldn't even show up to those. Instead, I'd find him in the gym or locked away in his room. Sometimes catch him coming out of her old room with a blank look on his face and an agony in his eyes. 

Bucky had become a looming figure around the tower. Both physically and emotionally. His time in the gym was evident on every inch of him as I watched him search the ground. Tony even had to order him a new suit to fit. Despite his stature, every single step he took was silent as ever in the way only he could do. He was so starkly different from the Brooklyn boy I grew up with that I hardly recognized him nowadays. Especially in moments like these when he slipped back into The Soldier. 

When his face went slacken and his eyes became nothing but cold calculation. When his shoulders remained tense and nothing and no one, even me, could stop him from his mission at hand. I followed him as he pressed forward, following the trail of boot prints to who knows where.

"Buck," I called out, "We have to stay within eyesight of the team. We don't know who's up here."

He didn't listen, merely stalked forward. I pursed my lips and hustled after him. The brush was getting a little thicker, and it looked like Bucky was struggling a little more with following the trail. Every few feet he would stop and scan the area for who knows what. The training he possessed wasn't something I had, and I barely knew what to look for. I just tried to keep up with him in hopes that I could provide some kind of help if we were ambushed.

Suddenly, Bucky stilled.

He stood stalk still with his eyes trained on the ground a few feet in front of him at something in the brush. I raised my shield on instinct, approaching him as quietly as I could manage. Right in front of him, half buried in the dirt, was a concrete hatch. The dirt was smudged around the edges as if it had been heaved open and someone or multiple some ones had clambered out of it. 

Several sets of prints were scattered all around the dirt surrounding the hatch. Some were deeper than the others, some just partials as if they had been running. Bucky didn't waste much more time before he was reaching down with his metal arm and wrenching the door clear off its hinges. 

"Bucky!" I ran around in front of him. "What are you doing? We don't know what's down there, and we have to wait for the team. You can't go down there alone." I made sure to enunciate the importance of waiting on the team, tried to reason with him that this would most definitely be the worse way to go about things if there were still Hydra agents down there. "If you want to get her out, we do it as a team. It's the only way we can."

Bucky stalled, his eyes sweeping over to me and pinning me with the blankest look I think I've ever received from him even as the Winter Soldier. This was a side of Bucky I hadn't ever encountered before. There was a ferocity in his eyes that made me stop and really think that maybe trying to reason with him wasn't the best idea. He didn't look like there was a word in the entirety of the universe that would make him wait another second on anyone.

But he waited, lifting his hand to his ear and murmuring into it. I heard his voice echo back in my Comm as he listed off our coordinates to the rest of the team and allowed them to come into view before he dropped down into the hole without another word to me. I dropped in behind him, keeping a few feet between us and covering behind us as the rest of the team began filing in down the hatch one by one.

Bucky pressed ahead with his gun raised. He checked every single corner, searching each room one by one, but every single one of them was empty. The only thing that gave any indication that there were people here was the disturbed dirt on the floor or the occasional imprint on the dusty countertops of the labs we came across. 

Nothing else was left behind.

The closer we got to the main room, the more I could see the stress heighten in Bucky's shoulders. I knew the lack of evidence that Max was really here was getting to him. It was getting to all of us, even me.

But Bucky was unstable, and I feared that our failure to get here in time to find Max would push him to the edge. That it would put him somewhere so dark I wouldn't be able to reach him no matter how hard I tried.

We entered what looked to be the main chamber, a large room with several empty steel tables set in a semi-circle near the center. They were obviously new, and recently used at that. Unlike the other tables, there wasn't a speck of dust left on any of them. In the middle of the room was the obvious signs of something square being left there. A cage perhaps. In its absence, settled in the center of it, was a small brown box wrapped haphazardly in a paper sack and tied off with a black ribbon.

Bucky went impossibly still as the rest of the team filed in behind me. Everyone's eyes fell to the box. The only sounds that reverberated off the empty cold walls were the uneasy breaths of the team and the whir of Tony's suit. 

No one moved for what felt like forever, several minutes at least. I was afraid to speak, to breathe. I was afraid the smallest movement would set Bucky off, or whatever Roman Giles had put in that box. It could be a bomb.

I raised my shield at the thought, but I didn't have much time to do anything remotely heroic before Bucky was slinging his gun over his shoulder and snagging the box off the ground.

Panic welled up in my throat. "Bucky!"

But he was already opening it, already tearing through the paper. 

Wanda was raising her arms beside me, and Vision glided easily up beside her. "Sergeant Barnes, we don't know what's in there. It would be unwise to—.”

Bucky obviously didn't give a shit, because he flicked open the lid and glared at whatever was inside. What he pulled out was small and rectangular, not any bigger than my hand. I recognized it almost instantly from years ago. It was a recorder. I had stumbled upon the exact make and model some of the first years as Captain America taking down Hydra facilities. The scientists at the time used them to record their experiments.

As the information settles itself in the forefront of my mind, a dread sinks into the pit of my stomach. "Bucky, that could have something you might not want to hear on it." I knew very well that Giles had left it for us to find, for Bucky himself to find. This was child's play to him, a game he was very well winning.

Bucky's eyes met mine for a moment, a tidal wave of emotions crashing in them. But he didn't speak, simply clicked the button and let the recording echo off the walls of the facility.

"Tell me what you'll do to keep us from getting him." 

I flinched as Gile's voice ricocheted off the walls, rattling around in my ears. What really had my knees buckling was when a small, wobbling voice answered his demand. I could hardly recognize Max from the vulnerability leaking into her words.

 "I'll do anything, just don't hurt him. I'll kill if that's what you want. I'll become whatever you want me to be, just don't touch him. Leave him alone." 

A choked sob, garbled further by the recorder.

"I can't watch him die again, not anymore. I- I can't."

As I watched Bucky grip the recorder, eyes vacant and pinned to the floor as he listened to their exchange, I knew exactly who they were referring to. How he had made her watch him die; I could only imagine wasn't at all pleasant. Hydra was cruelly creative.

Giles spoke again, "Did you hear that Seargent Barnes? Isn't she sweet? Sacrificing herself to save you." He laughed, the sound like nails on a chalkboard and added, "The next time you see her, she will be but a husk of the woman you knew. Chow!"

At that, Bucky sent the recorder flying into the wall across from him. All of us flinched, diving out of the way to avoid the flying debris. The next thing to go was the table closest to him. His metal fingers snagged under the edge and sent it flying into the lights which sprayed us all in sparks in return. We all scattered to avoid them, immediately going into defense. 

There was a wildness in Bucky's eyes, a glimpse of a side of him we thought remained dormant without the mention of those wretched words. Alas, here he was. The Winter Soldier had come out at the mere pained voice of this woman. This woman who had somehow wormed her way so far into his heart that even this heartless killing machine had fallen for her, would break all mental bounds to come to her aid.

I was the first to snap into action, shield up and aiming for his left shoulder. I would have to disarm his strongest weapon before I had the upper hand. Bucky was stronger now, larger than I was. The fight would be over in minutes if he was fully functional. With that in mind, I rammed my shield into the plates of his shoulder as hard as I could.

Bucky stumbled, careening to the side with the impact. I had underestimated his strength, because a second later I was flying into the concrete wall. I hadn't even registered he had hit me until my head collided with the wall, effectively removing me from the equation as the room spun uncontrollably. That left it up to the rest of them.

Tony and Clint tag teamed him next, the latter shooting off several arrows that triggered into snares once they made their homes in his metal arm. Cords wrapped themselves around his torso in tight circlets. Tony took the opportunity to pin him to the wall and allow Barton to fire off a few more restraining arrows. Bucky struggled against them, yelling his head off and grunting in efforts to get away from them. 

I pulled myself from the man-shaped hole left behind me as I stumbled over to them. "Buck, you have to calm down."

If a man could snarl, that's exactly what Bucky would be doing right now. The anger on his face would be enough to send any lesser man running for the hills. 

"Buck," I repeated, "We're going to get her back, but you've got to come back first." I figured if this Winter Soldier like state he had snapped into wasn't triggered by words, then he could come out of it on his own. Right? "I promise we will."

There was a moment where he just stared at me with all the hatred in the world held in his eyes. But there was a pain there too. A pain I almost missed. Slowly though, that pain grew until it was all encompassing. His shoulders shook and his face began to twist as tears gathered in his eyes.

And just like that, Bucky began to weep.

He wept hard. His whole body wracked with the sobs that left him. I turned to the others, begging them silently to give us a moment. Tony caught the drift and motioned the others to exit the room. I turned back to Bucky, all tied up against the wall, and gathered him up in my arms. "I'm so sorry Buck." It was all I knew to say and I knew it wasn't even close to enough.

"They've tortured her, Steve. They've done God knows what, and I can't even find her." He sniffled, wiping his nose on the Kevlar on his shoulder. "I'm one of the most trained for this bullshit, and I can't find her."

I could only pull him closer, desperate to keep him from going down this dark rabbit hole. "We will find her. I'll make sure we do. I just need you to stick with the team, okay? Keep your head level as best you can while we sort this out."

He nodded weakly, but a yes was a yes. I cut him loose, letting the ropes fall to the ground and waiting for him to collect himself before we both headed back towards the jet where I knew the rest would be waiting up for us. 

It would be difficult and dangerous, but I'd be damned if I didn't give finding this girl my all.

_____

Max-

I fucking hate tranq guns. 

That was my first waking thought. The second was that I at least got a sound rest untouched by nightmares or plaguing memories. At least I had that. 

It took a few minutes to come to, finally registering the restraints around my body. I still felt week. Extremely weak, more than I had been since my initial capture. Which was never a good sign. I curled my fingers around the evident arms of a metal chair, feeling the cool surface bite against my skin. Felt the pull of the cold cuffs securing me to it. 

There was something masking my vision, a blindfold perhaps. I didn't know why; it wasn't like I could go anywhere or tell anyone if they let me see where I was. Maybe Giles just liked the suspense. I was not impressed or willing to participate. I was tired and missing the tower, missing my friends.

I hadn't allowed myself to think about them since I landed in this lovely situation. It would just bring me more pain, so I had pushed them away for my own safety. Now that I was sure things weren't going to get any brighter, I allowed myself to savor my memories of them before Giles stripped me of everything I was.

Because I knew that's what it would do. That serum, whatever he had created it with, could do that to me. I had felt it eating away at my mind when he first injected me with it, and I had to fight tooth and nail to claw my way back from it. It nearly took everything I had. But now... now that I know what they'll do to Bucky, how easily they had broken into the tower, I didn't have any fight left in me.

There was the familiar creak of metal hinges before footsteps echoed in the room I was held in. I knew that gait, the soft brush of fabric against his knees. Giles.

"Good afternoon, little bird." Something scraped against a table, "I hope you are as excited as I am."

I didn't answer, couldn't even think of it as fear began to snake its way into my veins.

There was more shuffling and then the blindfold was removed from my eyes. I flinched at the bright fluorescent lights, blinking away the pain and focusing on Giles frightening face. He was grinning, like always, and holding a syringe alarmingly close to my arm. I jerked away only to be met with the restraints once more. I fumed at him, "I'll kill you for this!"

He laughed, loud and maniacal, "You won't be able to lift a finger without my command, don't you get it? You're mine. You won't do a damn thing without my say so."

I reared my head back and spit in his face. It was the only action of resistance I could perform at the moment. "Burn in hell!"

Giles sighed, plunging the needle into my arm unexpectedly. "I'm sure I will." 

Then the burning started.

Every nerve in my body was alight, blazing with whatever the hell was in that damn syringe. I screamed, writhed in the chair, desperate to get away from the pain. Giles just watched, that wretched smile plastered on his face. My head began to pound, pulsing as my heart pumped the serum through my body. It wasn't long before I felt myself slipping.

First it was just tidbits, where I was for a moment, then it was more. Fast. In a matter of minutes, I was struggling to remember how I even got here. I was grasping at straws, clawing at my memories as I felt them slipping out of reach. They were going somewhere dark and far away.

Then the confusion chased away the pain.

 Was I supposed to be trying to get away? Who was this man standing in front of me? 

I... I had something important to do but I-- I can't remember.

A flicker of a man with blue eyes, beautiful blue eyes.

A faint thump of my heart in my ears, a pull from the image.

What... What was his name?

Feelings became harder to connect with. With each passing flicker of my life, something else in my heart was taken with it. I felt myself empty out 'til I was just the wrappings of a person who no longer existed. An echo.

Tags<3

@cjand10 / @greatenthusiasttidalwave / @imdoingathingmom / @blackbirdwitch22 / @hzdhrtss / @calwitch

[smallestapplin]

Reverse lost joltic idea: emmet fretting and sticking up lost posters and encounters one that just says is this your joltik? and its a picture of his little joltik in a new silly hat then underneath it says not any more :D then underneath that it says call XXX to discuss child support payments

I honestly found this idea so cute.

-

-

Emmet is panicking.

Just several weeks ago, he hatched a few beautiful joltiks. He named them all, gave them their own ribbons, and spoiled them all rotten.

Until one went missing.

He isn’t sure when, but we he came home from work and said hello to all his baby Pokémon, he noticed it.

A light pink ribbon was missing from his bunch.

Emmet calls Ingo frantically, asking his twin if he has peaches.

He nearly weeps when his brother says he hasn’t.

He tried to calm down, his joltiks have done this before, they’ll just show back up in a day or two! Yeah, yeah he just has to wait.

Emmet is not a patient man.

By the next day he already had fliers printed, fully ready to post them and hang them everywhere he could.

But it seems someone beat him to it.

In his hand is a flier that he didn’t put up, of his missing joltik, who looks safe and happy. Her ribbon still on, but with the addition of a small flower barrette

‘This your joltik? Not anymore! Please call xxx-xxx-xxxx to discuss child support and shared custody.’

- y/n’

He wants to laugh, he wants to cry, he’s relived his baby is okay, and that this had to be the funniest way he finds out.

Emmet doesn’t hesitate reaching for his phone, and punching in the number.

“Hello?”

“I am Emmet! You have my joltik, peaches!”

“Oh so you’re the dad to this little cutie.”

He can hear the cooing in your voice, and a quiet squeaky sound. You chuckle at his audible sigh, sounding like a weight was lifted from his shoulders.

“She’s doing just fine, she’s been nothing but a sweetheart. She was so scared when I found her, obviously I knew she had to belong to someone.”

“Thank you, I’ve been worried sick!”

“If you’d like we can meet up at a café and discuss split custody there.”

You were serious? He knew his joltiks were the cutest, and sweetest! But he won’t mind.

Knowing his pokéchild, she must’ve gotten attached to you, as much as you to her.

Emmet is quick to agree, wanting to see his Pokémon again and make sure she’s truly okay.

He was there within ten minutes.

Sitting by the window, to try and look out for anyone with a ribbon having joltik.

He was still in his uniform, so he hopes that’ll give him away.

He doesn’t know how he missed you, but you walked right up to his table. Peaches the joltik riding happily on your shoulder.

You coo as you sit down, watching said Pokémon jump off your shoulder and right to her original trainer.

“I found her about a block or two away from the subway station.” You started.

Catching his attention. Emmet looks away from peaches, and to you.

“She looks so nervous and scared, I couldn’t just leave her there. Her ribbon told me she had to belong to someone around here, she’s too friendly and trusting not to.”

He only nods along as he pets the small spider.

“So that’s why I have to ask if you’d be okay sharing her. She’s awfully cute, and the sweetest little tv buddy.”

Emmet was debating, or, he was.

Until peaches jumped from him and back to you, nuzzling against your hand.

How could he deprive his child of that?

“I work weekdays. We can meet at a park to switch.”

You smile so brightly at him.

“Thank you! You’re much too kind.”

You held you hand out and introduced yourself.

Emmet’s own warm hand reached out and shooks yours.

-

He wasn’t aware just how long ago that was.

How could he have ever known losing one of his joltiks, would’ve landed him the love of his life?

He looks over to your sleeping form on the couch.

Little peaches, now a galvantula, laying on top of you, sleeping with you.

You must’ve been trying to stay up for him again.

He’s truly so lucky.

[batteredshoes]

Hatch Show Print

[maranello]

[ December 22, 1990. ]

JOSEF NEWGARDEN in the style of HATCH SHOW PRINT, the legendary letterpress print shop in Nashville, Tenessee that has been in operation since 1879. Hatch Show Print has been the creator of many iconic posters since its inception, using its vast collection of vintage woodblock types and classic imagery. It boasts all sorts of clientele from country music, rock stars, sports entertainment, and even presidential campaigns in its time. You can learn more about the fascinating story of Hatch Show Print and admire more of its designs here. The posters that inspired/served as the basis for this edit are below the cut. 

[misty79]

☘️ Marichat May 🍓

Day 25: Makeover

Drawing and designing was always Marinette’s favorite, she sat at her desk, sketching away. Since her and Chat Noir had started dating all she could think about was him, the Chat themed outfits throughout the last few pages of her sketch pad were proof enough.

Chat opens the hatch and jumps down, “Hey Purrincess! What’s up?” he walks up behind her. “Hey kitty, I’m just working on some designs,” she says spinning around to face him. “Can I see?” he asks with his adorably wide eyes and Marinette can’t help but smile. She hands him the sketchbook, “It’s just some silly design ideas for your suit.”

He taps his lip for a moment, “Like this?” a bright glow covers his suit, the same one as during transformation. When it fades his normal suit is replaced with one of the drawings Marinette just showed him, green trim around the markings, his boots, and gloves with a big green paw print on his back. “Ooo~ it looks so cool,” she stands up, amazed seeing her creation come to life. “It’s simple but all the green accents look super cool!”

She steps back for a moment, “Can I do your hair?” he laugh and nods, “yeah sure.” He sits down in front of her and Marinette starts brushing his hair.

——

@marichatmay

[goldenpinof]

Do you think Dan and Phil are like...too socially awkward to rehire people? (I'm being generous) At this point I don't see how they haven't rehired people they've been working on their house since they bought it in 2017 and it's STILL not done + there was a leak in the room where they have expensive equipment. It's actually insane that it's still not done and there are already issues and after months all they (the builders) do is put in a hatch ??? Dan and Phil need to do something this is crazy.

could be that.

and also could be a problem of trusting someone new. + if they hire a different company or individual construction workers they will need to explain to them how everything is done from the very beginning and show blueprints (if they even have those, considering that they changed the original layout, and god knows where the pipes and wires and etc are). generally, it shouldn't be a big deal if the workers are experienced and dnp have all documentation printed out and saved, but idk maybe it's one of the factors. because if dnp are calling the guys (company) that built this thing, then they are familiar with everything.

but, god, i hope they rehire and sue. like, it's not funny. it's either poor materials (which shouldn't be the case knowing who dnp are and how much money they are willing to invest in their home) or a poorly done job. and in both cases it can't keep happening till dnp die (or sell the place, which is unlikely).

[usafphantom2]

SR-71 pilot recalls when he set 13 acres of Maryland on fire by dumping fuel after one engine exploded during his last Blackbird flight

The SR-71 Blackbird

In the 1960’s, the US Air Force (USAF) developed the SR-71 Blackbird, a plane that could travel more than 3 times as fast as the sound produced by its own engines.

Throughout its nearly 24-year career, the SR-71 spy plane remained the world’s fastest and highest-flying operational aircraft. Flying at Mach 3+ from 80,000 feet, it could survey 100,000 square miles of Earth’s surface per hour. And in the off chance an enemy tried to shoot it down with a missile, all the Blackbird had to do was speed up and outrun it.

SR-71 T-Shirts

CLICK HERE to see The Aviation Geek Club contributor Linda Sheffield’s T-shirt designs! Linda has a personal relationship with the SR-71 because her father Butch Sheffield flew the Blackbird from test flight in 1965 until 1973. Butch’s Granddaughter’s Lisa Burroughs and Susan Miller are graphic designers. They designed most of the merchandise that is for sale on Threadless. A percentage of the profits go to Flight Test Museum at Edwards Air Force Base. This nonprofit charity is personal to the Sheffield family because they are raising money to house SR-71, #955. This was the first Blackbird that Butch Sheffield flew on Oct. 4, 1965.

Its engineering was so cutting edge that even the tools to build the SR-71 needed to be designed from scratch.

What it’s like to fly the world’s fastest plane

Spencer Hall interviewed for SBNation former SR-71 Blackbird pilot Rick McCrary about what it’s like to fly the world’s fastest plane.

McCrary explained;

‘You waddle out there in your spacesuit, carrying your little cooler because it gets quite hot in that spacesuit. You go out to a van with some La-Z-Boys in it, these big recliners, and they drive you out to the airplane. It’s sitting there with all the cables hooked up to it, just like a space launch. It’s outgassing stuff, people are checking it, and then people start unhooking it and leaving and then it’s just you and the crew chief. You get into the seat, close the hatch, and you’re in your cocoon.

‘Startup was also a unique thing. It had this special fuel, because the temperatures during flight got up to over 600 degrees Fahrenheit when you’re at speed. The worry is that normal fuel, which you want to explode quickly during flight and have a low flashpoint, well…you wanted the exact opposite with the Blackbird. You’re carrying so much fuel that the last thing you want to worry about is it self-igniting.

Join this SR-71 Blackbird driver for a top secret recoinnassance mission over North Korea

A Boeing KC-135Q Stratotanker refueling an SR-71

‘You’d burn 80,000 pounds of fuel in about an hour and twenty minutes. That’s a lot of gas. You’re on the boom a lot, and that was why in-flight refueling experience was such a critical part of the screening process. You didn’t have a lot of time to do it, and you had to get it right the first time. Three refuelings was common, but on longer missions you’d refuel six or eight times. Those were long days.

Last flight on the SR-71 Blackbird

‘You’d light up the afterburner right after that first refueling, and take it to full power for the next hour. That’s pretty amazing, because no other plane can fly in full afterburner continuously. All other planes have either a three minute limit, or five minute limit on that, but you’d be going at full afterburner for an hour, hour and a half.’

When Hall asked McCrary if he remembered when his last SR-71 Blackbird flight took place, he answered;

‘The answer is kind of an interesting yes and no. There came the time to move on, and we had a good deal. We got to take it to the National Air Show in Washington, DC and put it on display there. That was going to be our last flight.

SR-71 print

This print is available in multiple sizes from AircraftProfilePrints.com – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS. SR-71A Blackbird 61-7972 “Skunkworks”

Setting 13 acres of Maryland on fire during last flight on the SR-71 Blackbird

‘As we took off from there and came back around for a pass, the right engine exploded. We had to dump gas, and set about thirteen acres of Maryland on fire as we did that. That was kind of interesting, just spewing flaming fuel and titanium pieces around.’

McCrary explained that this wasn’t rural Maryland;

‘Actually, we were pointed at the White House out of Andrews Air Force Base. It was funny listening back to the voice tape because I start by saying “Well, we’ll go out over the bay here and dump this fuel.” About thirty seconds later I say “Screw it” and just dump it. We defoliated southern Maryland, but we got it back on the ground, which was great. After all that happened, I absolutely remember shutting it down. My legs started shaking uncontrollably with the adrenaline from it all when I knew it was over with. My co-pilot never flew again, either.’

Be sure to check out Linda Sheffield Miller (Col Richard (Butch) Sheffield’s daughter, Col. Sheffield was an SR-71 Reconnaissance Systems Officer) Twitter X Page Habubrats SR-71 and Facebook Page Born into the Wilde Blue Yonder for awesome Blackbird’s photos and stories.

@Habubrats71 via X

[puppylove24680]

the boy, he is here

full explanation under the cut (it is long)

Okay so basically the idea is that each egg started out very human to "blend in" as a species survival strategy but slowly they grow more and more dragon like until they "hatch." The egg is their true form but this is what they present as if that makes sense?

So, Chayanne!

Base:

at this stage he very much resembles Missa if he were human and not a skeleton, he has his dark hair and eyes and his skin tone.

Fangs:

Chayanne's first dragon feature is sharp teeth, but what makes his unique is that his lower fangs are more pronounced, looking like tusks and somewhat resembling Techno as a result, driving home the resemblance in Phil's mind.

His shirt is somewhat reminiscent of Tommy, further driving home that family connection for Phil, and of course its green because that's Phil's color. So we have a kid with Missa's physical resemblance who looks like people Phil knows in the small details.

Claws:

Chayanne gained claw quickly after starting to live on the wall, as a sort of help for navigating up and down it.

Eyes:

After Charlie's attempt on his life, Chayanne's eyes became slitted. Phil became very protective and beefed him up in armor and padding to protect him. Basically people kept calling the kid really buff back in the early days and I visualized his armor as full football gear. "01" is a reference to his QNPC number at the time. like a real jersey his name is printed, on the back it reads "MINECRAFT-SINFONIA". His eyes additionally gained a slight green tint to them, his true eye color now being revealed.

Tail:

Chayanne gained his tail after his first real death (neglect), it's feathered due to his bird genes.

Horns:

His horns came in immediately following the nightmare, as a sort of visualization of it being in his head and leaving a mental scar.

Scaled Feet:

His legs were almost "reinforced" after Tallulah's first death, because he was trying to sprint around and wasn't fast enough. He removed his helmet the day Missa came back the first time, as a way to remember oh yeah this is the dad I resemble and to once again show that physical resemblance.

The scars are a parallel to the cracks of his egg form.

Wings:

The wings are a result of "spending too much time at his other job" specifically the incident where Chayanne confronted Tazercraft at the nether portal while creative mode flying. Their feathered due to his bird genes. At this point he has grown out of needing padding to protect himself and now just wears the jersey as a normal shirt.

Scales:

On the day before his disappearance Chayanne woke up with scales on his face and dirt covering him. Along with seemingly more cracks. Every egg basically experienced a major growth spurt that forced them to the final stage of development.

Return:

Upon his return Chayanne no longer felt the need to wear what amounted to a big name tag (admin switch), he began wearing roses in his hair due to his belief in Rose protecting his family.

Color:

After waking up from his slumber, Chayanne's scales had all changed color to his favorite, orange. He put his dark hair up in a way that resembled Phil's. He pierced his ears along with Tallulah, both of them deciding to wear earrings that reminded them of each other. His are a set of poppies.