#Structural Rivets

[marinsawakening]

My most unpopular Zelda opinion is that I sincerely think LOZ is at its worst when it's trying to tell some serious epic fantasy story. Like nobody agrees with me on this but it's a hill I'll die on.

[jobsnotices]

Foreign Job Opportunities in Zambia 2024

Foreign Job Opportunities in Zambia 2024. Solo Asia Recruitment Private Limited has published a demand notice for United Capital Fertilizer Zambia Company Limited for the following numbers and positions of workers. Interested and qualified Nepali citizens can contact Manpower office for interview at the address mentioned below. Foreign Job Opportunities in Zambia 2024 Company: United Capital…

[macleod]

Tesla has recalled all Cybertrucks ever made and delivered in the US over a trim falling off the electric truck, which can be a dangerous hazard if it happens while driving. (March 20th, 2025)

Tesla is recalling ALL 46,000 Cybertrucks, because they "used the wrong glue" to hold their heavy, useless, steel trim panel onto the vehicle. Before this recall, starting two years ago, there have been hundreds of complaints filed about them flying off the vehicle while in motion. I don't even know how this this is allowed to remain on the roads if this piece of steel can fly off at any time:

They are replacing it with a "glue known to not be prone to environmental wear", oh, and also a stud welded to the panel that will be clamped to the trucks structure. You know, what they should have done when it was first made? Adhesive + Heavy Steel is not a particularly great idea in any form.

Their "reasonable" estimate is 1% all Cybertrucks have this issue, but could be up to 10% or more. There are over 200 "official" complaints before this recall.

This is after they had the same issue that caused the accelerator pedal (to make the car go, and speed up) to have its steel top cover slide off, become lodged and stuck, and force the car to go at maximum speed. They fixed that, by the way, by having a single rivet put in place. Which they knew they should have done to begin with.

This isn't even the first time they've been recalled due to their panels falling off, and it won't be the last, as most of their outer panels are supposedly "glued" using the same method and materials or similar as the trim piece above. Not riveted. Not welded. Glued.

If you're driving and see a Cybertruck, make sure to give them a good old "roman salute" (while laughing at them) as a courtesy reminder for their idiocy, and then staying about six hundred feet away. You may just save your life, others, and theirs (if they get rid of it out of total shame).

[insanityclause]

A creeping sense of dread washed over Tom Hiddleston as he read the script for “The Life of Chuck.” He knew that its director, Mike Flanagan, wanted him to play Chuck Krantz, or, as the actor put it, “a harbinger of the apocalypse.”

But as he read on, there came excitement, a thrill. Chuck has a secret: He loves to dance.

Hiddleston, 44, loves to dance, too, a discovery he made when he was a teenager. “It was instinctive,” he said in a recent interview via video. “But it was only for me. I didn’t train, I wasn’t in dance classes.”

He went out dancing with friends. The 1990s were his time. “My love for Daft Punk,” he said of the electronic music duo, “is enduring and real.”

While he is foremost an actor, Hiddleston has become something of a dance ambassador. Lean and elegant, he has the air of Fred Astaire. His limbs are long, but they don’t slow him down; his feet are fast and accurate. Known for his spontaneous eruptions of dance joy — on talk shows and the red carpet — Hiddleston is a natural with rhythmic acuity and, at times, riveting attack. His dancing, whether smooth or sharp, is instinctive and shaped by coordinated fluency.

Tom Hiddleston discovered he loved to dance as a teenager: “But it was only for me. I didn’t train, I wasn’t in dance classes.”Credit...Ariel Fisher for The New York Times

What’s apparent is the pleasure he gets from it: Certainly, there is Hiddleston the man, but also discernible is the boy within. There is innocence and fearlessness in his love of motion. An avid runner, Hiddleston said, “I’ve always thought of running as dancing forward.”

There’s no faking of abandon. “Tom dives into movement, and he’s not afraid,” the “Chuck” choreographer Mandy Moore said. “It’s like heart first, head second. He is a very smart mover, and he does think about where his body is in space. It comes across that he is not thinking about it — that it just comes from feeling.”

The dance in “Chuck” is long and complex — it lasts around six minutes — but Hiddleston performs it as though he’s making it up on the spot. As he read the script, he envisioned it as an explosion of emotion. “I just wanted it to fly, “ he said. “I wanted it to be the most vital and dynamic expression of joy and movement and freedom that it could be.”

In the film, Chuck is a mystery at first, appearing on billboards that read, “Thanks, Chuck!” accompanied by a photo and “39 GREAT YEARS.”

The story, mirroring the structure of the Stephen King novella on which it’s based, unfolds in three acts that travel backward in time. In the first, when the billboards appear, the planet is on the brink of extinction. Gradually it becomes clear that Chuck isn’t well.

Hiddleston with Annalise Basso in the dancing scene from “The Life of Chuck.”Credit...Neon

When the dance happens in the second act, Chuck, a businessman, is on a walk. He hears the beat of a drum played by a busker (Taylor Gordon). Instead of continuing on, he halts, dropping his briefcase. His hips give a soft, subtle sway. With two raised fingers, he wags them to the beat and takes a few steps back before stopping on a dime, switching direction and dashing off a quick pirouette.

It’s so unexpected that what follows is a beat of silence and stillness — a prelude to the dance, which, Hiddleston said, is “the last truly alive moment of Chuck’s life before his illness takes hold.”

“This is a moment of defying gravity,” he added.

And defying, for a few minutes, his fate. The number seems like a spontaneous release, but as we learn in Act 3, it dates to Chuck’s early years learning dances in the kitchen with his grandmother. As she cooked, she taught him jazz, swing, salsa, samba, Bossa nova, polka — styles that Hiddleston glides through in his dance.

He slips in a moonwalk, too. And there are signatures from his own dancing — things, Hiddleston said, his family would recognize, like a kind of shuffle. “My body just wants to do it, and I don’t know where it comes from,” he said. “My legs fly out from underneath me. And then I cross and they fly out and cross again.”

In the film, the dance draws a crowd, as all good street performances do. Janice (Annalise Basso), a young woman who happens upon the scene, is swept into the choreography as Chuck’s partner, and together, they fly. But during much of the duet’s creation, they weren’t even in the same room together.

Hiddleston was in London, and Moore and Basso were in Los Angeles. With the help of an associate, Moore started a training program with him, she said, “to work on the basics of jazz, some ballroom techniques, cha-cha, some salsa, a little bit of old school jazz just to see how his body moves.”

She choreographed by sending videotapes of movement phrases, but it wasn’t until they got in a studio together in London that the dance could be shaped and refined. “It was such a space of freedom and exploration,” he said. “Mandy believes so powerfully in the transformative power of dancing. And I felt so safe with her. She said, ‘You’re playing Chuck, but Chuck is you.’”

In many ways, that’s the key to his effervescent performance: You see the person inside of the dancer. In Hiddleston’s case, it’s the clarity of his connection with Basso and Gordon — really, the number is a pas de trois — and his delight as he finds his flow. By the end of the shoot, which took place in the Alabama heat, holes had burned into the soles of his shoes.

“I’m only approximating what a professional dancer feels, which is like after four days of doing it, I thought there was a kind of economy to it,” he said. “It was like my body was accustomed to the routine, and so there was a sort of precision there that maybe wasn’t there at the beginning. I found it easier to make big extensions and bigger shapes and for it to feel a bit looser without sacrificing the form. As we were coming to the end, I was like, ‘I wish I could do this every day.’”

The dance has a weight to it, which is a shift from some of his most identifiable performances. In 2013, Hiddleston appeared on “Chatty Man,” Alan Carr’s talk show, with two other guests who started rapping. Carr asked Hiddleston if he would do a rap, too. Instead, he offered to dance. “They put some music on, and I just did a little dance, like completely spontaneously,” he said. “I remember my microphone pack fell off from the belt of my trousers.”

“As we were coming to the end” of shooting the scene, Hiddleston said, “I was like, I wish I could do this every day.”Credit...Ariel Fisher for The New York Times

He thought nothing of it, but years later, it went viral. In terms of coverage, there was, “an extraordinary energy around it,” he said.

“I actually became a bit self-conscious about it. As if it was something that people kind of wanted me to do.”

Eventually, he got over his discomfort. “Maybe I’ve lost that because I’m getting older,” he said.

And dance has continued to surface in his acting life. Recently he appeared in Jamie Lloyd’s London production of “Much Ado About Nothing” in which the cast dances: “We were doing eight shows a week to these ’90s bangers,” he said happily.

But he knows that the message of “Chuck” — and its dance — is serious: “Its message is, do whatever gives you that feeling of being alive,” he said. “Dance, do math, paint, write, run, play the piano, sing, skateboard, surf, climb mountains, whatever it is that gives you deep joy, that is a transformative force in life. Life is brief and precious, and it needs to be grabbed with both hands. It takes courage to follow the joy and to find it.”

He continued, “For Chuck, it’s dancing. And to some extent, for me, it’s dancing. So dance while you can.”

[wulfhalls]

watching shoguns beautiful meticulously crafted high wire act of depicting women navigating patriarchal power structures while balancing high concept political intriguing and riveting character based storytelling without bombarding its audience with dumbed down exposition and flat uninspired writing really brings home the point how much of that hotd isn't

[blueiscoool]

Viking Silver Bracelet Hoard Found in Norway

Archaeologists have unearthed a set of uniquely decorated bracelets on the site of a "large and powerful" Viking Age farm.

Archaeologists in Norway have discovered a Viking Age treasure that had remained "untouched" for more than 1,000 years.

The four silver bracelets had been buried nearly 8 inches (20 centimeters) in the ground on a mountainside in Årdal, a village in southwestern Norway, according to a translated statement from the University of Stavanger.

"This is definitely the biggest thing I have experienced in my career," Volker Demuth, an archaeologist and project manager at the Archaeological Museum at the University of Stavanger, said in the statement.

Archaeologists found the bracelets ahead of construction of a new tractor road.

Further exploration revealed that the location once housed a "large and powerful" Viking Age (A.D. 793 to 1066) farm comprising multiple houses for people and animals, according to the statement. The researchers found the buried bracelets within one of the smaller structures, which likely housed enslaved individuals.

In addition to the jewelry, researchers discovered an array of artifacts, including soapstone pots, rivets, knife blades and whetstones for sharpening tools. There's also evidence that the farm had been burned down, which "coincides with a period of great unrest in the Viking Age," according to the statement.

"If people who lived on this farm had to flee from an attack, it would be natural to hide away the valuables you had before escaping to the mountains," Demuth said. "And perhaps in a place where you would not have thought that a treasure was hidden."

By Jennifer Nalewicki.

[druidwolf21]

Stress relief part 1

Sanguinius / F reader

Your angel, tired of dealing with imperial squabbles, needs some stress relief

Tw: It's Smut. Short, unadulterated smut. I guess dubcon if you really squint? Sanguinius is a bit mean

you have been warned

Tags: @beckyninja @moodymisty @thisuserislilsilly @jaghatai-khock @echo-of-damnation @laura-naruto-fan1998 @lemon-russ @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @astrohymn @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @incrediblethirst

Slam

You jumped at the sound as it echoed off the metal walls and reverberated down iron clad hallways, ringing a doleful harsh melody through the ship before dissipating into the depths. You sat for a moment contemplating the sound, your data slate forgotten for a moment between your fingers before rising to your feet. Tossing the tablet onto the velvet chaise, you made your way towards your door, the scarlet chiffon of your gown sweeping across the cool riveted floor with each soft step across the room.

Befitting a primarch, the walls reached high above you culminating in a towering ceiling, dwarfing you in its structure. A glittering chandelier shimmered softly as it leaked warm light across the room, casting shining twinkles across the ornate paintings speckled across the tarnished walls.

A large bed sat at the back of the room, littered with downy pillows and soft satin sheets still rumpled and stained; last night's revelry hidden behind heavy scarlet curtains wrapped around its posted frame. Behind you, your reading nook sat nestled in the corner, the chaise lounge, spotlighted by a soft Promethean lamp was almost completely hidden beneath the spotted animal hide roughly flung across it, behind it, against the wall, lent a full length mirror, golden and shining.

Your fingers barely ghosted the doorknob before it flew open. Lurching to the side your vision of heavy steel was replaced by vermilion robes and cotton white feathers as the primarch thundered into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. You smiled, reaching out to him and brushing his clenched fist.

Sanguinius turned, shoulders stiff and wings bristled as he looked down at you, a frown carved across his handsome face as he knelt. Before you could speak, he was pressing against you as his lips found yours. The kiss was hot, hungry, desperate as his hands trailed down your body, lingering on your hips and squeezing. You pulled away, arms on his shoulders gasping for air as his mouth trailed down your throat, hovering above your pulse point.

"my love what-"

You shuddered to silence as his mouth found your skin, nipping and sucking a bruise to the surface. A large hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back as his tongue traced a hot line up to your jaw.

"sshhhh" he whispered, peppering kisses along your throat and jawline.

You nodded, melting into his touch as he released your hair and slid to the back of your dress, teasing the corset ribbons free and allowing the fabric to slide down your body. His lips returned to yours and you matched his energy, tongues fighting for dominance as he lifted you, wrapping your legs around his waist. You bit his lip, smiling into the kiss as you felt his chest rumble with a growl. You met his eye, smirking as you pulled away when he leant in for another embrace. Another grumble vibrated through him before you were tossed onto the bed, legs spread and hair tousled as he looked down at you silently, chest heaving in great bellows.

"stressful day, my lord?"

You yelped as he grabbed your ankles and pulled, dragging you across to the edge of the bed as he loomed over you, wings slightly spread and puffed behind him.

"Looking to find some... Relief?" You sighed, trailing a finger up your thigh, pausing above your core, enjoying the way his eyes followed the movement, pupil blown into black pools. His gaze flickered to your face before he dropped to his knees and gasping your thighs, he wretched them apart and buried his face into your groin with a moan.

"you talk too much" he hissed, lapping at your cunt as you twitched.His tongue lapping at you before circling your clit, sucking and flicking until you shuddered and writhed. His grip on your legs became bruising as he forced them open, fighting you as tried to squeeze them shut. You felt your orgasm cresting as he plunged a finger inside you, curling it against the spot he knew made you wail.

With a cry you came, arching into him as he kept going, Ignoring your whimpers as he devoured you. His grip tightened and he pulled you closer, humming and groaning as he lapped as your slick.

"p-please, too much"

He paused, golden hair draping around you as looking up at you. His face slick with your cum and his eyes wild as he watched you claw at the sheets.

"I've heard enough opinions today, I don't need yours"

Shocked, you watched him rise to his feet and pull off his robes, flaring his wings he stood at the edge of the bed, slowly stroking himself as he smirked at you.

"come here"

You slowly dragged yourself off the bed, standing before him of quaking legs for a moment before you were twisted and spun, bent over the back of the chaise lounge. You found yourself facing the mirror, watching as Sanguinius positioned himself behind you.

"watch" he whispered, resting a hand on your hip as he nudged his tip against your hole before slowly sliding in, leaning over and gripping the chair as he slipped in inch by inch. Your head dropped as you swallowed back a cry, feeling him stretch you out slowly.

"I said watch"

You choked as his fingers wrapped around your throat, pulling your head up until you were meeting his feral stare in the misting glass of the mirror as he fully cheated inside you.

"watch what I do to you"

His grip tightened as he began rutting into you, his balls slapping against your clit and hips hitting your ass with every rough thrust.

The grip on your neck and the delicious drag of his cock against your walls had your eyes rolling back and your back arching, pushing yourself back against him with every thrust.

"throne" he stuttered, feeling your walls clench around his as you came, squeezing him as he rutted into you, slick pooling around his base as you wheezed.

Finally releasing his grip, he clutched at your hips, nails digging into your plush flesh as his thrusts became erratic. You gulped air, relishing the high from your orgasm and oxygen as your nerves buzzed.

You fell forward with a contended whimper as with a last rough thrust sanguinius came, his cock twitching as he filled you. You lay still as your breathing calmed, slouched over the sweat stained cushion as the angel hovered above you, hands clutching the wooden edge of the chair in support as he panted. After a moment, he rose to his feet and you whined as he pulled out, feeling his spend pool out and dribble down your thighs, dripping onto the velvet seats.

He gripped your arm and pulled you up gently, pressing a soft kiss to your temple and dragging the spotted fur from the sofa across your love bitten shoulders.

"better?" You questioned, blinking up at him. A tired smile played across his face as he knelt in front of you and took your hand.

"better"

[seafoamreadings]

week of may 25th, 2025

these are written predominantly for the *rising* signs but they are also intuitively "channeled" enough that they should work for any dominant energy you have! (try your sun if you don't know rising, or more advanced readers can try moon, anywhere you have a stellium, etc and see what works best for you!)

aries: if you're feeling the urge to build community start local or on the internet for best results. a community garden in your neighborhood, a group on social media to find likeminded people, etc. this is the time.

taurus: really try this week to let your focus be on money or similar resources like time, energy, and stability. these things should be in flow and exchange, and not hoarded. the time to build wealth is later. this is the time to put resources to work.

gemini: say what you mean and mean what you say. you're so good with words and expression that you sometimes tend to be not very literal. at this time, just get to the point and don't beat around the bush, or keep secrets unnecessarily. all above board with your cards on the table.

cancerians: no matter how much social pressure you feel to ditch your feelings in favor of cold hard facts don't give in. facts are all very well and you don't have to ditch them either, but your feelings are with you for a reason - you more than most people. listen to them and FEEL them.

leo: you'd be hard pressed to find a better time to spend with friends or making new friends. while i do often encourage alone time, this is the time for you to be with your people.

virgo: this week is mercurial without being particularly virgoan. your focus may (or should?) be on your public sphere of influence and your image and reputation. if you want to get a message out that makes a difference, and impact, do it this week.

libra: airy, breezy vibes this week make for a pleasant time for you if you have chit chats to have or social functions to partake in. even if you just want to chill at home, a simple and leisurely activity is auspicious. but you can effectively use this time to learn, meditate, or connect with people.

scorpio: you're having an 8th house kind of time, which probably sits reasonably well with you. do something magical, maybe also put some money in a savings account. but mercury trining pluto, your ruling planet, from its domicile over in your 8th house, is incredibly good money/wealth vibes.

sagittarius: commitments are in sharper focus than they have been for you in a long time, maybe in your entire life. this could be marital or anything you're really locked into a commitment to - whether you want to be or not. assess it and adjust if needed, but do you best to really give your all where you have promised it.

capricorn: your ruling planet is not comfortable in aries and some of that discomfort may be reflected in your own life. but you're basically designed to alchemize discomfort into power or at least productivity. take some time now and then to ground yourself but then get back to the alchemy - the structures you build now will be so worth the effort in time (sometimes not even a very long time.)

aquarius: heavy gemini vibes make for a fun time. go out of your way to carve out time for hobbies, flings, and adventures, whatever tickles your fancy.

pisces: your home life may be in a state of upheaval, or of positive change, but it's unlikely that it's settled and still. if so, almost for sure your family of origin or ancestors are up to something fluid, dynamic, and riveting.

watch the transit posts in real time to have the best guide through your week. want a little more? have a look at my patreon or ko-fi.

check out my etsy for a private reading or fill out this form to set up a reading through venmo, cashapp, or paypal.

[maybe-boys-do-love]

Don't you see that Spare Me Your Mercy was all about love from beginning to end? The only question was what kind of love.

Dr. Kan introduced a love that was wild, indigenous, communal, and, most importantly to the plot, extralegal. Here I discussed my observation about the rural-specific parallels between acceptance of death and acceptance of queerness, and now finished with the series I stand by it firmly. Tew had assimilated into an upstanding individualistic perspective as he left his rural upbringing for the metropolitan world to find acceptance for himself, the kind his mother had for him but few others amongst the male leadership in his hometown. Kan tries to offer him a perspective about connection to the world that would allow him to live in his hometown and withstand the grief and suffering of a queer life.

It struck me watching the finale, and hopefully struck many other viewers, that much of what Kan said about euthanasia's legality in his confession to Tew applies equally to the state of queer love historically: "Is the law wrong?;" "It's legal in other places," "The law never understands the inequality, the lack of resources, the suffering." Its an ethical view that puts others humanity first before society's rules.

The question looming over the series was how Tew would process his mother's death. As your local queer tragedian, I love the artistry with which the show answers the question (without killing off our gay lovers). Tew confesses his love as he drives his paramour to jail in handcuffs. That is the essence of Tew's love. His love is a prison for people to suffer in for his own pride. He's deeply selfish @respectthepetty pointed out in a conversation with @poetry-protest-pornography, and so is his style of love--or style of cathexis, as bell hooks (my rural buddhist scholar crush) might label it, adapting from psychologist M. Scott Peck. Cathexis is the investment of feelings or emotions into someone often confused with love, what's been translated in Buddhist literature as attachment. Acted upon, cathexis is obsessive, controlling, and possessive. Those tendencies might serve an emotional purpose in establishing the early stages of a relationship (puppy love is fun!), but left unchecked they can also lead to things like, you know, tapping your lovers' car and following them. Right, Tew?

That's what intrigued me about the development of the pair's relationship. It integrated the layers of paranoia inflecting Tew's character. His police investigation, his reticence about his own queer expression back in his hometown, and his egotistical approach to relationships all braided together. Kan loses the pen Tew gifted him, for example, and it ignites suspicions for Tew of murder, being outed, and Kan's fidelity all at once. Meanwhile, the doctor, whose demeanor and open flirtation mark him as out and comfortable with his sexuality, knowingly accepts Tew's double-dealings hoping while he's doing it the detective will discover the kind of love and acceptance (of queerness and euthanasia) that Dr. Kan has found.

The genre of BL that SMYM skirts made Kan's perspective seem especially possible, and I, for one, felt riveted by the real mystery of where the show would land between its bleak murder-mystery and romance genres. Personally, I think we BL fans need to become more comfortable with the breadth romance can truly cover rather than simply getting mad at tragic love and ambiguities. Shows like SMYM and Only Friends are delivering masterfully executed series, but our aversions to difficult characters, duplicitous writing, and tragic plot structures have people failing to recognize their skill or purpose, entirely. Let me tell you that having gay tragedies that aren't about people dying because of homophobia is JUST AS RADICAL as gays with happy endings.

SMYM depicts a variety of queer men's lives. They come from different backgrounds in different generations. They've faced different obstacles and led imperfect lives. They've hurt some people and helped others. And they've committed to different approaches to understanding how people are meant to help with the experience of suffering based on their queer experiences but not solely. This is the story of how their views come to a head. It's tragic and an exceptionally well-done detective series that provokes incredible questions if you're willing to let go of the idea that series are here to make you, personally, happy rather than something to engage with.

*Unrelated note to all this, but I'm also appreciating how the song used, Northern Breeze (thanks @thaisongsengsub for translating here), has a lot of relevance about the fleeting nature of love and life, but it's also the same tune as Daisy Bell (A Bicycle Built for Two) which was FAMOUSLY sung by the robot HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey when they euthanize it shut it down.

[word-wytch]

Try Your Hand

Silco x Vander [3.7k] Inspired by this drabble.

☞ Summary: "Don't embarrass a guy by telling him his fly is open in public. Just be a man, walk over there, and slowly zip it up for him."

During a busy shift at The Last Drop, Silco does just that, and Vander can't stop thinking about it.

All he could think about was Silco’s fingers—long and slender, presently idling themselves with the condensation on his glass. He’d seen them do plenty of things. Seen them covered in soot, seen them gripping the handle of a hammer, seen them splitting rocks when they were really suited for the delicate grasp of a pencil. But in all his years of friendship, he’d never expected to see them do that.

☞ CW: smut, nsfw 18+, sexual tension, hand fixation, jealousy, vander has a bisexual awakening, young zaundads, pre-relationship, blowjob (vander receiving), vander pov, size difference

[also available on AO3]

Janna, it was hot in here. A crushing sort of heat from all the bodies, even on the business side of the bar. Vander swiped a towel across his forehead and slung it over his shoulder, nodding to the next customer approaching. It was all he could do to keep his eyes on the cocktail he was straining into the glass, careful not to spill any more than he already had. 

All he could think about was Silco’s fingers—long and slender, presently idling themselves with the condensation on his glass. He’d seen them do plenty of things. Seen them covered in soot, seen them gripping the handle of a hammer, seen them splitting rocks when they were really suited for the delicate grasp of a pencil. But in all his years of friendship, he’d never expected to see them do that. 

Vander set the cocktail on the bar, brushing against his denim trousers to pocket the coins he’d palmed from the patron. He could almost still feel it—the warmth of Silco’s hand on his hip, the surprising strength of his palm as it pinned him to the bar. How nimbly those fingers had located the zipper of his fly. How self-assured they were. As hard as he tried, he just couldn’t shake the feeling, and it did nothing but contribute to the sweat pouring down his temples. 

In the corner of his eye, Silco was leaning against the bar, chin propped on his palm as he thumbed at a page of his book. A book of all things in a bar packed shoulder to shoulder. Probably another page turner about structural government, or tactical warfare, or some other riveting topic that made Vander’s eyes glaze over. Sighing, he wedged a lemon on the rim of yet another cocktail, careful not to let his gaze linger too long on Silco’s fingers as they tucked a rogue strand of ink-black hair behind his ear.

A strange and yet familiar heat surged up his neck and Vander quickly wiped it away with the towel. He’d felt it before—glancing up the legs of girls whose skirts barely covered their asses, mesmerized by breasts that threatened to escape their tops, bouncing to the pounding bass in one of those skeevy little nightclubs Silco dragged him out to. Always with women though, never—  

“Silco!” came a cry from across the room. 

Silco turned over his shoulder at a man emerging from the shadows—big and broad with green spiked hair and a trench coat—a man Vander recognized immediately as one Silco had gone home with after a night that started at the club and ended in the basement of the butcher’s shop making chem deals. Historically, Silco had many encounters like this. That’s all Vander could really call them. None of them ever stuck around to elevate them to partner or glorify them with boyfriend. He was beginning to wonder if Silco preferred it that way. 

A large hand clapped between Silco’s shoulder blades, and Vander caught himself tensing as he followed its path down his spine until it settled at his lower back. Vander blinked, hard, shaking his head as he lined up a glass under the tap and pulled the handle, but he couldn’t stop himself from imagining he was on the other side of the bar, that it was his hand there instead. Silco and the man whose name escaped him spoke for a brief moment—about what, Vander was unsure. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered is that the hand broke its contact, raising to a friendly wave before vanishing into the crowd. What mattered more was the immediate relief it brought, which was alarming to say the least. Silco turned his attention forward once more, catching Vander’s eyes for a second before taking a swig of his drink. 

In the wee hours of the morning, when the bar had emptied out into the neon streets and the open sign flipped closed, only Vander and Silco remained. It was no different than any other night—except that it was.

Silco was on the business side of the bar now, a stack of wet glasses off to the side, his drying rag abandoned for what Vander assumed to be a more rewarding task—watching him do all the work. His sharp elbows rested casually against the countertop, wrists hanging limp and relaxed. Vander had felt his eyes on him all night, increasingly so since the bar got quiet—hot on the back of his neck as he counted the drawer, burning into his shoulders and arms as he wiped down the bar. But even then, Silco’s attention had been casually diverted to the glasses and the towel, or it had been until now. 

Vander heaved a sigh, hunching down to fish a trampled lemon wedge from under the liquor well with his broom, but broom head collided with the side of Silco’s boot, preventing its retrieval. Straightening with visible annoyance, he shot Silco a glare. “Are you going to help me or just stand there and look pretty?”

“You think I’m pretty?” Silco confronted, eyebrow raised, lips curling into a grin that was outwardly teasing and smug, but something else flickered deeper.

“I—” the words caught in Vander’s throat. Yes. He couldn’t say that though. Could he? What would that mean? For him? For them? Instead his mouth just twitched, eyes darting between the two ice-blue ones staring up at him, into him. They held him captive. Frozen. Stunned. It was all he could do but follow their gaze as it descended down to his own lips, eyelids fluttering, hovering there for a moment before flashing back up to meet his eyes—a wordless question. 

Time stood still. The look in Silco’s eyes was dangerous. But danger was a look he wore well. Comfortably. It fit him like well-worn pair of gloves. He’d never directed it toward Vander though. Not like this. His eyes burned with a question Vander knew he could never return from, not if he answered the way he wanted to. 

In the end, the only response Vander could manage was a swallow. Silco queried with a tip of his chin, lowering his gaze to Vander’s lips again, closing in with agonizing slowness, as if any sudden movement would cause him to flee. He stopped about an inch from Vander’s mouth, close enough to feel his breath between the gap. And with that, the last thread of denial holding Vander together snapped entirely.

Fuck it. Vander descended on him, lips crushing for a whole breath as Silco’s hands flew to cradle his jaw. Their lips reset and locked again quickly, again and again as those long, slender fingers wound themselves behind his neck, under his ear, into his hair as if they’d been itching to do it for longer than just this evening. Suddenly, Vander’s hands animated from their limp, dumbstruck position at his side to grabbing Silco by the waist. In the hazy mush his brain was becoming, Vander traced the landscape of his body. A deep thrill rose up at the feel of Silco’s slender hips under his broad palms, how they dominated the small of his back, how he could almost wrap his hands around his waist and have them touch. 

Whatever dam had existed that kept them apart crumbled right then, drowning him in feelings he couldn’t sort out. He only knew that it felt good. Felt right. Felt nice to feel the svelte muscles under the fabric of Silco’s shirt. Vander groaned at the discovery, flicking his tongue against Silco’s bottom lip. He opened happily, welcoming Vander’s tongue with an eager flick. Silco tasted like cigarettes and bourbon and something indescribably, irresistibly him. It was heady and intoxicating and deeply confusing yet Vander was past the point of trying to make sense of this. Silco’s nose jabbed into his cheek, and Vander took a moment to admire it with his own, running down the long, knife-edge of it, lips parting slightly just to trace the full length. As if that was something he’d always wanted to do. As if it wasn’t until he’d done it that he’d realized. The two of them just stood there a moment panting, foreheads pressed together before Vander had the courage to open his eyes and sober to the realization of what just occurred. 

“Shit, I—I don’t know what’s gotten into me, I—” Vander breathed. 

“It’s ok,” Silco said softly, fingers trailing around Vander’s neck, over his collarbone, lingering at the pockets of his vest. “We can stop if you—”

“No, I don’t—” Vander cut himself off with a sharp sigh, wringing a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s just that—shit, you know I didn’t even think I liked men.”

“Neither did I,” Silco admitted, a subtle unease creeping across his features.

“I like you though. I know that much,” Vander admitted quietly, to which Silco visibly brightened. “But… I just don’t want to ruin anything between us. You’re my best friend.” 

Silco gave a soft hum, nodding toward the floor as he calculated his next response. “This can be whatever you’d like. It can end here, it can end tomorrow, it can… happen every day if you want.” There was a softness to the last part; hopeful, but guarded. 

Vander drank in Silco’s features—sharp and gentle all at once. Truthfully, Vander had no idea how to respond. His head was still spinning from the kiss, too fuzzy to form words let alone a plan for where this would go, how long it would last. Following the thin curve of his lips, all he could think about was how badly he wanted to taste him again. Without a word, his hands cradled Silco's face, drawing him into a deep, crushing kiss. 

Silco was ready this time, emboldened—it would seem—by Vander’s acquiescence. This time it was Silco who deepened the kiss, pressed his tongue against the seam of Vander’s lips to pry his way inside. Not that he was met with much resistance. There was a hunger about him that took Vander by surprise, an urgency that he seemed to have awakened with his permission. 

Vander mapped Silco’s face under his thumbs—the angles of his cheekbones, the hard ridge of his jaw, admiring how delicate and yet simultaneously strong it was. It was a face he was deeply accustomed to, and yet now it was like he was experiencing it for the first time. Silco plunged his tongue deeper, widening his jaw, twisting those long fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing his body close. Using Vander’s shoulders for leverage, he pressed himself flat against his body, rolling his hips, arching his back, drawing his pelvis in an upward arc across Vander’s. There was a fluidity, an almost felinity to his movement that was entrancing. Vander had noticed it before—on the dance floor amidst strobing lights and other moving bodies—but never allowed himself to look for too long. The feelings that arose always startled him out of it.

Vander gasped into the kiss, head spinning with sensation. Encouraged, Silco did it again, and this time Vander responded by drawing his palm down Silco’s spine, tracing until it lay flush against his lower back. Draping his arms over Vander’s broad shoulders as if he was in the midst of a dance, Silco rolled his hips again, and this time there was something more—a hardness that made Vander surge with heat. 

Something snapped in him, and Vander pressed Silco into the bar, forming a cage with his arms. He broke the kiss for a moment, just long enough to get a good look at him—back arching against the edge of the counter, face flush, panting, heavy-lidded. Completely trapped, completely at his mercy. Vander rolled his hips this time, pressing him against the counter, watching with rapt attention as a shaky breath squeezed out of him. Vander eased off, suddenly aware of his own size, how his forearm was half the circumference of Silco’s torso. How easily he could break him if he wasn’t careful. But Silco didn’t seem alarmed, if anything, there was a certain thrilled awe that lurked behind his blown pupils.

Silco was delicate—but not like a flower, like a blade. 

Silco’s mouth struck Vander’s neck, hands tugging at his hair, sucking with a hunger that made Vander wonder how long he’d been bottling this up. His teeth made Vander shudder, eyes rolling back as Silco made a meal of him. Vander stepped back slightly to give him space to move, and those fingers he’d been eyeing all night made themselves busy. They got to work with the buttons of Vander’s shirt as Silco’s lips trailed close behind, teeth nipping at his collarbone, his sternum, pressing kisses down the carpet of his chest. His fingers were nimble, curious, impatient as they tracked down Vander’s stomach, feeling his thick waist until he reached the ridge of his trousers. They paused. 

Vander tipped his head back for a moment just to breathe, staring into the cobwebs that laced through the rafters, hardly believing this was happening, that this was real. That he wasn’t about to suddenly wake up from the dream he was surely having. Silco’s mouth pinched him awake, right below the nipple. He glanced down at him for a second, meeting his eyes that shone with another question, bony fingers poised at his waistband. With a nod far more confident than he felt inside, Vander granted him permission. 

He’d seen Silco’s hands do a lot of things. Seen them balled in firsts, swinging wildly, robbing corpses, burying evidence, seen them slicking back his hair as he caught his breath. But what they were doing now made the rest of it seem like child’s play. They breeched the ridge of his belt, trailing down, down, down exactly where they landed earlier that night, the first time Silco caught him off guard. Only this time instead of reaching for his fly, they dipped lower, deep between his legs, cupping him under his package, admiring its weight before drawing slowly upward again. Then those long, bony fingers traced the outline of his length—angled down his right pant leg—and paused at the tip. Silco let out a small, suppressed gasp, eyes wild and sparkling at his discovery. Flashing Vander a heated look, his fingertips got busy, thumb rubbing small circles around the tip, watching carefully for Vander’s reaction. 

“I’ve been wondering,” Silco muttered, barely audible. 

Vander’s knees felt like they were about to give out. His whole world spinning and swirling to a single focus—Silco’s hand. His breath came in heavy pants, dick twitching under his touch.

Silco reset his hand, drawing a firm, languid stroke down his pant leg, admiring the outline of it. He liked the pressure Silco was using; just the right amount, thumb settling just under the heart-ridge of his cock, rubbing little circles there. He’d never spent much time imagining another man touching him like this but it turns out there were benefits. He knew exactly where to touch. How to angle this thumb, where to put the pressure, how quickly to move. From beneath his lashes, Vander watched the curve of those delicate fingers stroke him up and down, resetting themselves beneath his package, admiring his whole length before pinching and twisting at the tip.

There was a sudden impatience that came over Silco—a sharp sigh through flared nostrils. His fingers reached toward his fly, pausing there as he locked eyes with Vander. “May I?”  

At least he’d asked this time. “Yes,” Vander huffed. 

With the same precision and confidence as he’d done before, those nimble fingers dove under the flap, pinched the metal and dragged slowly downward. They made quick of pushing the pesky buttons through the holes of his trousers, shrugging them down around his knees. Then, with agonizing slowness, that same nimble hand traced his cock—still confined to his briefs—thumbing at the dampness near the tip with wide-eyed awe. It was slow and almost teasing. Did Silco like that? Did he like to tease himself? His partner? Both? The two men watched with trance-like awe as Silco’s hand made ripples in the fabric, the way it stretched over his generous erection, the thick outline in the grey cotton. How it dwarfed the hand caressing it.

Suddenly, Silco dropped to his knees—a sight which stirred Vander deeper than he could have imagined—and tucked his fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs, tugging them downward to free him. It was all Vander could do just to watch Silco’s expression—parted lips, blown pupils, raised brows. A sight he’d never have admitted he yearned to see until he saw it. And then, in an instant, those lips were on him, around him, tongue darting out against his leaking tip. Vander gasped, heart pounding, eyes pinching shut at the sudden, wet warmth.

Whatever Vander had seen of Silco’s hands, his mouth was something worse. It was a sharp thing. Quick. Cutting and witty. A wicked instrument. Sharper than any blade. Always weaseling them out of trouble, wedging them out of corners. Silco’s tongue could reduce any man, and Vander was no exception. He dragged it slowly from base to tip, swirling there, sucking with a hunger that threatened the stability of Vander’s knees. 

Silco’s eyes flicked up to meet him, ice-blue, burning with such intensity that Vander almost had to look away. They flicked back down to his cock, following his own fist as he stroked him, widening with delight at the glisten it earned him from his slit. He swiped his thumb over it, twisting, using it to lubricate his strokes. Then he licked his lips, parting them in preparation. Vander was big, and though Silco certainly seemed to have experience with this, he still couldn’t mask the flicker of intimidation from its size. But Silco liked a challenge, Vander knew this. Though Vander had been with his fair share of women, oral was something he’d grown to never expect. Sure, they would try. Never get very far. Settle for their hands or cunts instead. 

Silco unhinged his jaw as far as it would go, tongue warm and wet against the underside of Vander’s cock. It was a tight fit, teeth dragging ever so slightly against his shaft, but Silco took him, inch by inch until the sharp tip of his nose met the brown thatch of hair at its base. It was a breathtaking sight, one Vander had never even allowed himself to imagine. It just about undid him.

He’d never touched the back of someone’s throat before. Let alone that of his closest friend. The sensation made made his balls twitch, his hands itch for something to grab hold of. He didn’t dare touch Silco though. Not in this delicate state. Not when it risked disrupting the pleasure he so generously offered. Instead he settled for a clenched fist, a deep moan. Silco moaned back, and Vander had to garner all his strength to still his hips.

Silco reset himself, drawing back, inching forward, taking him slow and deep as his jaw trembled wide, gagging slightly but recovering quickly. He did this for while. Longer than Vander had expected anyone to tolerate his size. In and out until drool dribbled down his chin and onto the floor. Maybe Silco sensed that Vander was close, maybe his jaw had had enough, but finally Silco withdrew with a pop, glancing up at Vander. Spit slicked his whole chin, lips puffy with friction, mouth parted and gasping for air. The sight alone nearly sent Vander tumbling over the edge. Silco replaced quickly replaced his mouth with his hand, pumping him, parting his mouth again so that Vander’s tip lay flat against his tongue. He didn’t bother to wipe his face. There was a determination in his eyes, a quick flitting of his other hand to cradle Vander’s sack.

“Fuck, Sil, I’m gonna—”

“Good,” Silco said quickly, mouth wide, tongue ready to catch what was coming. 

The sensitive tip of his cock slapped against Silco’s waiting tongue with every stroke, hot breath fanning over it in sharp pants, eyes wide with anticipation. The vision was enough to unravel him completely. Vander felt the edge approaching. The rising of his balls toward his body, the tingling sweat that lit his skin from head to toe, the pounding of his heart against his ribs. And then it all went white. Sound fizzled out, vision clouded, eyes rolled back into his head as his ragged moans filled the rafters. All restraint gone, he tangled his fingers in Silco’s dark locks, raking them across the top of his skull, pulling his hair from the messy bun at the base of his neck. 

Silco lapped his spend up eagerly, jaw stretching wide, taking as much of him as he could manage while still keeping pace. He pumped him until there was nothing left. Until there was just empty spasms. When Vander’s breath finally steadied to weary pants, Silco gave his cock a final squeeze, making sure he got the last drop. It beaded like a pearl in his slit, and Silco lapped it up eagerly before releasing him.

They stood there a moment with nothing but their breaths to fill the silence. Silco was a gorgeous mess. Hair pulled from his bun in loops that draped across his ears and cheeks, lips red and puffy, spit like a sheen across his chin. He looked up at Vander with heavy lids and swallowed. 

Vander knew in that moment he would never be the same. He would never look at that mouth or those hands the same way ever again. What transpired between them had altered things forever. Unsure of what to do next, Vander offered what little he could—his hand. 

A soft smirk played on Silco’s lips before he took it, rising to his feet before wiping his face on his sleeve. The fabric of his trousers was tight against his narrow hips, leaving little to the imagination. His cock curved up toward his hipbone; perky and attentive. Sizably appropriate considering his waif-like stature. 

“What about you?” Vander asked, unable to divert his gaze. 

Silco’s smirk broadened, a playfulness shining in those wicked blue eyes. “If you zip up your own pants this time and follow me downstairs, I’ll show you.”

[thecurioustale]

I Went into the Caves

I reread nostalgebraist's The Northern Caves (TNC) this weekend for purely selfish reasons, and wanted to share a few thoughts...

I originally read this book when the final installment was published, late in October of 2015. For me, this happened to be during the single sharpest downward gradient of my entire life: I'd just finished up the so-called Year of 32, my most creatively productive period ever, but my life circumstances had changed drastically for the worse, with health and financial and family problems (and more) all at once, and I had found myself thrust into a new chapter of life that I call the (Joshalonian) Troubles. To go from one of the best years of my life to one of the worst was not a fun thing.

I had read TNC while still early in the "fall"; in fact things would go on to get much worse for me from there. But the seed had been planted for this story to be very important to me personally.

For those who aren't familiar, TNC is about a fan forum for the fictional Chesscourt series, by children's fantasy author Leonard Salby. Some members of this forum get the chance to explore Salby's unpublished final work, which, unlike the quaint children's fantasy novels of the Chesscourt series, is a cryptic, 3,000+ page tome of gibberish and horror and surrealism. The monstrous nature of the book gets into the minds of these forum members, and they end up in a drug-fueled, days-long manic state, reading the book together out loud at the house of one of the forum members.

For me, this monstrous book, which also has the title "The Northern Caves," was the draw of Rob's TNC. Even though we only get to see a few fragmentary excerpts of it, I was completely riveted by the premise and by the excerpts. The story of Rob's TNC, about the forum members engaging with this work, wasn't what drew me in. Yet when I was rereading it this weekend, I also read some of the AO3 comments on the chapters, and I found that most people had been almost completely absorbed in that aspect of the story, and didn't seem to be trying to directly comprehend Salby's TNC at all. It just goes to show that different people will get different things out of the same source material.

One of the things I most deeply crave in life is to encounter and experience "the other world," i.e. the mystical, the beyond. This has always been a pursuit of my storytelling, and is indeed how my mind has been structured for my entire life. Even when I was very young, I would map this desire onto things like vacation road trips, where we would drive away from home and into some other, wonderful place, by way of passing through many other, wonderful places, liminal places, to arrive at our destination.

Well, those final months of 2015 and the first several months of 2016 went very badly for me, till in March of 2016 I finally escaped the situation that was the single biggest source of my stress. But harm had been done to me, damage of a kind I had never before sustained. What followed was the mortal demise of the old Josh: Once I was in a safe place again, albeit with many other troubles still among me and ahead of me (not least that I was homeless at the time, and relying on the hospitality of friends), I first felt a great fatigue, which preoccupied me for several days. Then, a few weeks later, I had one of the most interesting experiences of my life: I think the term that would most quickly get the point across is "psychotic episode," even though I wouldn't use that term myself, as I was fully in control of my behavior and speech. But a funny thing happened to me when I would sit down to write, in that sunny office of the home where family friends were hosting me, during a week when they were out of town for Passover and I had the whole place to myself:

I composed a series of short pieces loosely telling a bizarre story. This is where the seed planted in my mind by TNC months earlier finally bore fruit, for my style was very much inspired, directly, by the Salbian style in TNC.

My story consisted of material like this (this is one, continuous excerpt; there are no cuts here):

May I ask you a persona lqoeutns? How do you know ll 26 nbubers? If where more than 26 numbers how would we have mathemathicsmomg? A don’t nw’ ijow gonigo to the bakery o ngo minutes on et imo elovne fnow tmrweio ncoirrect toemperautre.

HUSH NOW MY DARLING THE NUMBER NINE IS

static

Gracious are the houses of the DORAL> Plentiful are the tables he spreads for his esteeme dugest. Even though the splendors of his bounty are bested only by the GREAT SLN.

FLESDGLFGING MY WINGSO THIDID NOW THOGING THNOW NOW EW E FALL FROM THE NEST OTO BA F TAKE FLIGHT AFOR THE FIRSRTR TIMRO BUT THE WUNDERCARRIAGE OF OYUR WINGS IS TNDER AND YOUNG AND WE CANOT GUARATNEE EGHEROGUNA AND THE FLIGHT IS ROUGH EVEN WITHOUT THE TRUBULENCES WTHAT WE KNOW ARE ALL AROGUND US THOU IT LOOKS EASY BY THE ECAMPEL OF THE EPXIERENCED GENERATION YET WE STRUGGLE AIND FLUTTER AND WE ARE TRIRED WHEN WE LAND.

good grief gentle gosling now for the dinner table you are

if we don’t know what the air is ssupposed to be?

IU WANT AND EXPLANTION FROM THE CAOSMOR.

Understandably the selkie preferred to eavesdrop:

“Pray what is the abstractification of fulfillment?”

“Let us go ask Father Christmas.”

And thus a great transversal of geography ensued.

“Father Christmas what is the abstatication of fulfillment?”

“Do not take that tone with me child.”

“Then what of my many toys?”

“They have been destroyed.”

“How is this a reply?”

“It is none other but a reply.”

“So be it Father Christmas I now know the antithesis of what I ask and thus I know what I ask.”

“Yes you do stripling. Now go on to Mount Sghar where F shall await you. and though in fact it be only the month of April may your Christmases ahead be equally merry.”

“It shall be so and merry do.”

What I wrote in that strange week wasn't principally a mimicry or emulation of Salby's writing, although Salby's writing was clearly the inspiration and certain conventions and devices used by Salby were appropriated into my own work at a low layer—such as the deliberate spelling mistakes, a character ("F") known only by a single letter, the direct reuse of certain words that were still in my mind months later such as "vouchsafe," and so forth.

But the work was all original. I didn't copy any of it, either directly or in the manner of rewriting phrases and passages that Rob had written. I wrote all of it myself, and rather effortlessly at that. I did not labor over every last spelling and misspelling; it all just "came to me."

What I would say, then, is that Salby's TNC was "the right inspiration at the right time." It was what my brain seized on to express the inexpressible. What I was actually going through was nothing less than the mortal demise of the Old Josh. My entire life as I had known it, and my sense of self, had perished, and I had escaped just enough of my ongoing emergency to have a few weeks of rest, and that was when I "grieved" or "coped" or whatever word you want to use. Really it wasn't grieving or coping; it was a spasm. A spasm of the psyche, poured into words.

Something that I have struggled with my entire life, although I only developed the language to talk about it very gradually over many years, is the fact that I find it exceedingly difficult to say what I really mean. If you know my writing (fiction and nonfiction) you know that it tends to be overbuilt: formal, in-depth, pretentious, and quite verbose. This is, in great part, a result of me trying to say what I really mean. Pithy, aphoristic speech doesn't usually serve my needs, and although I am at least moderately capable of writing it I don't tend to reach for it often. It's much more typical of me to try to pack as much meaning as possible into my words, resulting in quite a lot of words and rather a slow pace.

But with this week of essays I abandoned all of that, by saying what I really meant without regard to its comprehensibility to the reader. Everything I wrote that week, including the excerpt I shared up above, has a meaning. I can look at it right now and still see the meaning nine years later. It is perfectly clear to me; it makes as much sense to me as a typical piece of writing from me.

The only difference with it is that I'm quite sure it makes very little sense to you. It isn't readable. For that one week, I abandoned the effort to be understood—another lifelong struggle of mine—for the sake of saying what I really mean.

While the individual excerpts are fascinating by themselves (I think), they combine to become something considerably more interesting. Taken as a whole, the story I told isn't a particularly coherent one at a face-value narrative level: Very loosely (and with much oversimplification on my part here), the action of the narrative is about carefully following "indicators" to traverse "atmospheric geometries" and arrive at a place called "Mount Sghar." However, it does this by way of many detours, such as:

A1: CLASIFEDS

WANTED: EVIL LOGICIAN

aAre you prepared fro a fast-apaced career in the exciting world of LGOI>?e Yet you don’t wish to sopend oyour life giving lectures to students who don’t want to be there and engaguing in intraepartmental fueds with other lecturuers.? You think there’s no other way don’t you fiend . findout there’s another way o redound into the WORLD OF WORK!

PUll up your jodhpurs and your justaucorps until rthe sentiment overtakes you that LOGIC shall deliver your remittances frmor the cEntral Authority.

Live in the lap of luctury with swimming pools and bars and wet bars and gymnasia and sitting rooms and drawing rooms and solaria and convenientiously spacious closets with thpower of EVIL LOCI> But don’t fret supplicant! Your candidacy is not ineligible soimply because you have no logica ofl your wn. All you need is THE ONE OAMEWETH. then the appointment shall be yours without ado.

must have own railroad, biogenic weapons program, a trifle really

That's a classified ad. It doesn't literally figure into the story before or after its appearance. It is a standalone statement if you will, a single "sentence" embedded in a larger paragraph. But because so much of the writing for this story comes in incongruous and disjointed forms like this, it isn't really possible to extract a coherent plot per se, nor is there a protagonist or even a point-of-view character most of the time. Those roles are filled by me, personally. It's like a first-person POV story without the first-person POV.

As for what the story is actually about, it's a mixture of two things: The first, though I didn't consciously realize it at the time, is that, like I said, I was dying. It was the end of the old me. But that doesn't actually say anything about the contents of the story. For that, and the true answer to the question of what this story is about, is that this is a story about trying to be understood. Ironic, huh? 😂

I wanted to say what I really mean so that I could be understood. This was what I was expressing, during this death-of-self, because I had never truly achieved it, and I was bitter and frustrated, and I was leaving this world without closure or resolution on those matters.

To "not be understood" is one of the fundamental conditions of aloneness. We are each apart; we cannot truly share our perspectives in full. We can never be understood in totality. And that fact hits a lot harder for someone like me who never had unconditionally loving and emotionally present parents or a ludicrously loyal and always-on-call gaggle of "best" friends as a kid.

In full disclosure, this story is saying a lot more that I can't see myself getting into here, because to explain it in communicable terms would, after all, be a rather tall ask; that's why I wrote it so incomprehensibly in the first place.

Rob's TNC gives us Salby's TNC as something that is deliberately meant to be inscrutable but with profound insights just-on-the-cusp of becoming realized, as a way of engaging the mind of the reader, giving it something to chew on. The story I wrote isn't "deliberately inscrutable"; it's not a toy for readers. It has a clear message—to me perfectly clear in every detail; I'm sure I could account for you nearly every single turn of phrase in the entire thing, even nine years later—but it necessarily isn't clear to you. That's kind of the point. It is a demonstration of my struggle to be understood.

This is the last thing I wrote in my journal before those stories began:

I am so frickin tired of playing by the rules: having to communicate coherently, having to crack my eggs from the right damn end, having to live like a bolt of lightning in a suit and tie and cubicle. It’s not dignified and it’s not true.

That statement about the comprehensible stuff being both not dignified and not true really rings for me even today. The incomprehensible stuff was more honest, in a way, and carried more majesty in its word count.

That one week was a very special time in my life. I have never been able to write like this before or since that one week. I've tried for much of my life; see for instance the words of Sourros in The Great Galavar, from 2014 before any of this happened.

The Troubles would continue for another two years, and in March of 2017, eleven months after I had my crazy storytelling week in California, I wrote the first major contribution to what would become the Galaxy Federal Inaugural Novel, which in many ways is the direct continuation of my work in this incomprehensible story. I've even found ways to incorporate some of this bizarre text!

Rob's story gave me an "other world" I could sink my teeth into. I find Salby's disturbing philosophy of Mundum very interesting, and am able to comprehend it (I think) without actually subscribing to it. But Salby's unhinged writing in particular is a lasting wellspring, and it shows how "built different" I am that so few other fans of TNC focus on this aspect of it. Like, I just don't really care all that much about the adventures of the Chesscourt forum members as they get together and pop pills. They were merely vehicles for me to get more glimpses of Salby's TNC. Rob's work in creating the coherent-yet-inscrutable ravings of Leonard Salby is extraordinary, but, ultimately, unless I have missed Rob's meaning (which would also be ironic, lol), there is no deeper purpose to it than that. My inscrutable ravings, on the other hand, are "real." They actually contain important messages that I personally endorse.

There is something so compelling about text which is perfectly meaningful but nearly incomprehensible to anyone but the author. What happened to me that week was just an altered state of mind. But of course it felt at the time, and ever after, "magical." Such is the sentimentalism of the human mind.

I don't struggle to be understood any more. I accept that I won't be. And in some ways the Galaxy Federal Inaugural Novel is me describing how I feel about that. But! While its ultimate messages may remain forever hidden, unlike the gibberish above at least you'll be able to read it.

[c1qfxugcgy0]

adventures in QA

(previous post in this series)

My shop in Advanced Midbody - Carbon Wing (AMCW) at Large Aircraft Manufacturer (LAM) is at the very end of the composite fabrication building. Hundreds of people carefully lay up a hundred foot long slab of carbon fiber, cure it, paint it, and then we totally fuck it up with out of spec holes, scrapes, primer damage, etc. The people who write up our many defects are from the Quality Assurance (QA) department.

Every single screw and rivet on a LAM aircraft can be traced back to the mechanic who installed it. Back when even everything was done in pen and pencil, it was joked that the paper used to produce an aircraft outweighed the plane itself. Now that everything is computer-based, of course, the amount of paperwork is free to grow without limit.

(Haunting the factory is endless media coverage of an emergency exit door plug popping out of an Advanced Smallbody - Upengine (ASU) plane during a routine flight a few months ago. Unlike that airframe's notorious problems with MCAS, this was a straightforward paperwork screwup by a line worker: the bolts were supposed to be tightened, and they weren't.

As a result the higher ups have visited hideous tribulations on non-salaried workers. Endless webinars, structured trainings. Here at the Widebody plant we have received a steady flow of refugees from the Narrowbody factory, hair-raising tales of receiving one hundred percent supervision from the moment they clock in to the second they clock out from FAA inspectors who can recommend actual jail time for any lapse in judgement.)

A single hydraulic bracket Installation Plan (IP) is around four brackets. The team leads generally assign two bracket IPs per mechanic, since each bracket set is something like a foot apart, and while working on the plane is bad enough it's much worse to have another mechanic in your lap.

Let me list the order of operations:

One: Find where you're supposed to install these brackets. This is harder than you might think.

Firstly, it's a hundred foot long plank of carbon fiber composite, with longitudinal stringers bonded to it to add stiffness. The stringers are pilot drilled in the trim and drill center, a truly Brobdingnagian CNC mill that trims off the composite flash at the edges and locates and drills part holes for us. But there's a lot of holes, so you must carefully find your set.

A minor difficulty is that the engineering drawings are laid out with the leading edge pointing up, while the wing panels in our cells hang from the trailing edge. Not so bad, you just rotate the paper 180 when orienteering, then rotate it back up to read the printed labels.

A major difficulty is that the drawings are from the perspective from the outside of the panel. But we work on the inside of the wing (obviously, that's where all the parts are installed) so we also flip the drawings and squint through the back of the paper, to make things line up.

Large Aircraft Manufacturer has a market cap of US$110 billion, and we're walking around the wing jig with sheets of paper rotated 180 and flipped turnways trying to find where to put brackets.

Oh well, we're paid by the hour.

Two: Match drill the aluminum brackets to the carbon fiber composite stringer. I can devote an entire post to the subtleties of drilling carbon fiber, but I can already tell that this post is going to be a miserable slog, so I will merrily skip over this step.

Three: Vacuum up all the carbon dust and aluminum swarf created during this process. This step is not optional, as your team lead will remind you, his screaming mouth clouding your safety glasses with spittle at a distance of four inches. LAM is very serious about FOD. Every jet airliner you've ever ridden in is a wet wing design-- each interstitial space is filled with Jet A. There is no fuel bladder or liner-- the fuel washes right over plane structure and wing hardware. Any dirt we leave behind will merrily float into the fuel and be sucked right into the engines, where it can cause millions in damage. No place for metal shavings!

If you are nervous about flying, avoid considering that all the hydraulic lines and engine control cables dip into a lake of a kerosene on their way from the flight deck to the important machines they command. Especially do not consider that we're paid about as much per hour as a McDonalds fry cook to install flight-critical aviation components.

Four: Neatly lay out your brackets on your cart, fight for a position at a Shared Production Workstation (SPW) (of which we have a total of four (4) for a crew of thirty (30) mechanics) and mark your IP for QA inspection as Ready To Apply Seal.

Four: Twiddle your thumbs. Similarly, we have three QA people for thirty mechanics. This is not enough QA people, as I will make enormously clear in the following steps.

Five: Continue waiting. Remember, you must not do anything until a QA person shows up and checks the box. Skipping a QA step is a “process failure” and a disciplinary offense. From the outside, you can observe the numerous QA whistleblowers and say “golly, why would a mechanic ever cut a corner and ignore QA?” Well...

Six: QA shows up. Theoretically, they could choose to pick up the mahrmax you prepared for them and gauge every single hole you've drilled. But since we're three hours into the shift and they're already twenty jobs behind, they just flick their flashlight across the panel and say “looks good" and then sprint away. Can't imagine why our planes keep falling out of the sky.

Seven: Apply the seal to the bracket. P/S 890 is a thick dark gray goop that adheres well to aluminum, carbon fiber, fabric, hair and skin. Once cured, it is completely immune to any chemical attack short of piranha solution, so if you get any on yourself you had better notice quick, otherwise it'll be with you as long as the layer of epidermis it's bonded to. LAM employees who work with fuel tank sealant very quickly get out of the habit of running their hands through their hair.

Eight: Now you wait again. Ha ha, you dumb asshole, you thought you were done with QA? No no, now you put up the job for QA inspection of how well you put the seal on the bracket. Twiddle your thumbs, but now with some urgency. The minute you took the bottle of seal out of the freezer, you started the clock on its "squeeze-out life." For this type of seal, on this job, it's 120 minutes. If QA doesn't get to you before that time expires, you remove your ticket, wipe off the seal, take another bottle out the freezer, and apply a fresh layer.

Nine: Optimistically, QA shows up in time and signs off on the seal. Well, you're 100 minutes into your 120 minute timer. Quickly, you slap the brackets onto the stringer, air hammer the sleeve bolts into position, thread nuts onto the bolts, then torque them down. Shove through the crowd and mark your IP "ready to inspect squeeze out"

Ten: Let out a long breath and relax. All the time sensitive parts are over. The criteria here is "visible and continuous" squeeze out all along the perimeter of the bracket and the fasteners. It is hard to screw this up, just glop on a wild excess of seal before installing it. If you do fail squeezeout, though, the only remedy is to take everything off, throw away the single-use distorted thread locknuts, clean everything up and try again tomorrow.

Eleven: QA approved squeeze out? Break's over, now we're in a hurry again. By now there's probably only an hour or two left in the shift, and your job now is to clean off all that squeeze out. Here's where you curse your past self for glopping on too much seal. You want to get it off ASAP because if you leave it alone or if it's too late in the shift and your manager does feel like approving overtime it'll cure to a rock hard condition overnight and you'll go through hell chipping it off the next day. You'll go through a hundred or so qtips soaked in MPK cleaning up the bracket and every surface of the panel within three feet.

Twelve: Put it up for final inspection. Put away all your tools. (The large communal toolboxes are lined with kaizen foam precisely cut out to hold each individual tool, which makes it obvious if any tool is missing. When you take a tool out, you stick a tool chit with your name and LAMID printed on it in its place. Lose a tool? Stick your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye, pal, because the default assumption is that a lost screwdriver is lurking in a hollow "hat" stringer, waiting to float out and damage some critical component years after the airplane is delivered.)

One tool you'll leave on your cart, however, is the pin protrusion gage. There is a minimum amount of thread that must poke outside of the permanent straight shank fastener's (Hi-Lok) nut, to indicate that the nut is fully engaged. That makes sense. But there's also a maximum protrusion. Why?

Well, it's an airplane. Ounces make pounds. An extra quarter inch of stickout across a thousand fasteners across a 30 year service life means tons of additional fuel burnt. So you can't use a fastener that's too long, because it adds weight.

On aluminum parts, it's hard to mess up. But any given composite part is laid up from many layers of carbon fiber tape. The engineers seemed to have assumed that dimensional variation would be normally distributed. But, unfortunately, we buy miles of carbon fiber at a time, and the size only very gradually changes between lots. When entire batches are several microns oversize, and you're laying up parts from fifty plies and an inch thick, you can have considerable variation of thickness on any given structural component. So you had better hope you had test fit all of your fasteners ahead of time, or else you'll be real sorry!

And, if you're really lucky, QA will show up five minutes before end of shift, pronounce everything within tolerance, then fuck off.

And that's how it takes eight hours to install eight brackets.

[seat-safety-switch]

Everyone knows I hate rust. It's the number-one reason that my vehicles have been claimed before their time. After a mere fifty or sixty years, most of the car will turn into some kind of death-croissant of flaky ash, no matter how many purloined road signs I can pop rivet and tek-screw into the body to hold it at bay for another winter or two.

Now, it's a matter of opinion on just how rusty a car can be, before it becomes "too rusty." It's not a measurable, quantifiable kind of deal. Nobody makes a Rust-O-Meter that you can point at a used car and see "fucked" show up on the gauge. Which is kind of a shame, because I could sure use one of those the next time I buy a car. I fall in love with the interior, you see. If it's got two or fewer whole mice inside, it makes me feel like someone really cared about it. Instant sale, and then I get it home, only to find out that it only has three wheels. So that's what that weird noise on the highway was.

Even countries that have inspections – and thankfully I don't live in one of those lawful hellholes – will vary widely in how crunchy a shitbox really is before it has to be taken off the road. Take it to a particularly grumpy (and, ideally blind) dude if you suspect it may have gone under some unintended weight reduction. The big fancy chain shop down the street will get mad at a common fault like a slightly rusty suspension spring, or a standard engineering-grade repair like holding your back seats in with ratchet straps and zipties.

The most important thing to remember about significant structural corrosion is to have fun with it. It's going to happen to all of our cars eventually, and the worst thing you can do is unnecessarily stress yourself out worrying about it. There, again, is that relativism, except it's come to save your ass this time. Chances are your car is not nearly as fancy as you think it is – it's rusty, after all – so feel free to slap your worst booger-weld on some sheet metal you cut out of the neighbour's discarded dishwasher and cover it with some black spraypaint.

[pursuitseternal]

“Bites in the Night:” a series of Astarion x Reader drabbles from the days on the road…

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Part 1: “Go back to sleep, darling…”

Astarion x Fem!Reader | M | 1.4K of Romance

Summary: you’ve been fed on before, but you cannot deny how much you are the one who now hungers for it…

CW: consensual biting, blood kink, flirtation, a bit… angsty? First kiss

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No more bites in the night, he had promised. True to his word, Astarion always waited for your invitation now. Just a little offer thrown his way with increasing frequency. You can feed on me tonight.

You can’t help it, how addicting it is, waking with just that little ache in your body, watching the way he smiles at you, knowingly, as you sit and eat whatever breakfast your other companions had thrown together. It makes a pool of heat settle in your belly, as if you are the one now full to bursting and yet not sated. As if you are the one cursed with eternal hunger.

He always fights so beautifully those days after he drinks of your blood, almost dancing as he pounces and stalks and rips out throats like the true predator he is. You can almost feel it after, however, the expenditure of the limited power you grant him each time he feeds.

Soon, those ashen pools would settle beneath his eyes again, his movements slowing the longer into the day you journey.

The same happens today, that lethargy visible as the sun begins to set. So tonight, as you make camp, you find a reason to hesitate by Astarion’s tent. He is busy setting up the colored canvas of his structure. You see his hands are shaking as he bends down to tie and fasten the tether to the stake in the ground.

“I’m… gathering firewood,” you stop shy of his crouching body.

His head snaps as he looks up at you, brows furrowed in confusion. “And?” he snips. Perhaps the efforts he expended today took a greater toll on him that the grey in his skin even tells you. He sneers, clearly exasperated and annoyed. “I’m busy if you’re asking for my commonly-sought-for and usually riveting company.”

“No,” you force a easy laugh. “No I’m capable on my own, thank you.”

That earns another, deeper furrow of his brows, his fist clutching around the handle of his hammer now. “Then what do you want?” he purrs.

“You… didn’t happen to notice if there was anything that looked promising on the way here?”

Standing slowly, his face quirks into that familiar smirk, those brows now canting as he looks down at you. Crimson eyes flicker over your face, finally resting on the lingering marks of his fangs from last night. “Oh, I never stray my gaze far from the most promising things, but as for firewood? No.” He cocks his head, eyes heavy lidded as he scans your whole form now. “No, I was perhaps too… distracted to search my surroundings for something so mundane.”

You shrug. “Nevermind then,” you toss casually, ignoring the way your heart is rapping against your ribs.

“I… don’t think you wish me to nevermind,” he comments with equal indifference. Even as he slides one step into your path. “What did you really wish to say, darling?”

The words bubble from your throat before you can make them seem dispassionate. “You can feed on me tonight.”

His smirk tweaks just a hint higher. “I was hoping you would offer, darling…” He leans back, as if he is out of your way. “See you tonight, even if you won’t see me, my sweet.” You push past him, your hand accidentally brushing past his own arm, the chill of his body sending a little shiver through your frame. “Good luck,” he purrs as you enter into the brush and trees at the edge of camp.

Your evening passes with little event. Your pulse never slows, even as you lay in your bedroll, the soft crackle of fire unsuccessful at lulling you into any sleep deeper than a soft breathing with sweat-covered thoughts that grip your mind and body. Not dreams. No, you lay on your side in semi-consciousness, facing towards the dying embers of the fire. That’s how you hear the almost imperceptible tread of a foot in the dirt.

It’s slight, just a soft rustle and a gentle scuttle in the dirt beside you. But then you feel his breath, cold on your neck. Easily mistaken for a night breeze, except you have waited to feel it all night.

For a man who drips with sex, his very voice meant to make you tremble with need, he does not creep too close. His hand rests on your shoulder with uncertainty. The other gently sweeps back the stray strands of your hair from your neck.

His touch is reserved, hesitant, only brushing your body where necessary. Beneath that shell of seduction, you feel the self-doubt, the nerves worn to a shred from 200 years of abuse. And for as much as you long to turn and wrap your arms around him and his suffering soul, you fight the urge. You shut your eyes tighter, counting the second of your every inhale and exhale to make them sound sleepy.

Then comes his bite. That delicious puncture of your skin that hurts for a second, quickly tenderly cared for with soft laps of his tongue as he drinks from you. You try not to twitch, try not to lean your body against him as he crouches. He must think himself so stealthy, and you wouldn’t want to take that from your rogue.

All too soon he withdraws, but you feel the mass of his body lingering. You can almost hear his head twist as he observes you. “Go back to sleep, darling,” he whispers. “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me…”

“How…?” you begin, shifting in your bed to look up at him. His hair luminous in the starlight, his skin as pale as the moon.

That smirk only widens, a trickle of your blood runs from the elevated corner of his lips. “Please,” he gives a little chuckle, bending down to whisper right into the curves of your ear, “two-hundred years, and I know the dance of a sleeping heart… and the beat of one who just can’t get enough of me being so near them.”

You turn your head, looking right into those crimson eyes, now glowing a bit with his renewed strength.

“Next time you wish to do this again awake, you have but to ask, darling…” his lips purse as he finishes his words. But you notice that ripple of hesitation again. “I’m eager for any and all your suggestions, my dear.”

Now you hesitate, your eyes flicker between the way his long, dexterous fingers rest on his bent knee to the way his lips still are stained with your blood. You breathe, “Will you…” You swallow, unable to get the last words from your dry throat.

“Yes?” he encourages you, his voice barely more than a rasp.

“Will you… kiss me?” You feel your stomach drop in horror at your boldness.

But your daring earns you a smile that flashes his brilliant white teeth at you. “I thought you would never ask, darling…” he purrs, lowering his mouth once more. It is quick, well, quicker than you would like. His lips press softly on yours, the coppery taste of your blood touching your tongue. He begins to withdraw, but you aren’t done, your heart races again. Your hand flies into his silver hair, holding gently at the base of his neck, trying to hang on for one more moment. You feel his muscles soften, relaxing as he feels your want. That you invite him closer. His own hand moves similarly, tenderly lifting your chin, his lips beginning to move almost imperceptibly between yours.

You taste yourself more on his mouth, the slow languorous way he works into yours, sharing that flavor bit by bit.

Until he pulls back. You let him. Careful not to push, or tug him. Not to break his trust, for as much as he begs you for yours.

“So much for no more bites in the night,” he laughs quietly. “I… do like that, you know. It is ever so much more fun when you are awake.”

You say nothing. No coherent words can form on your tongue or in your mind. So instead you nod, you smile, your hand trying to grab the twisted blanket to fit back around you.

But his pale hands reach for it first. “Go back to sleep, darling,” he repeats, quieter than before as he pulls the woolen wrap to cover your body.

You feel sleep tugging you under at last, the soft throb of your neck almost as sweet as the ghost of his kiss on your lips.

And as you close your eyes, you breathe, almost feeling that powerful, glowing gaze watching you from his tent. Watching over you until the light of dawn.

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My other Astarion x Reader fics:

“The Rogue You Were:” part 1–Welcome me (NSFW)

“The Rogue You Were:” part 2-Cleanse me (NSFW)

“Just A Drop:” drabble as he turns Tav

[blackbird5154]

Cirice (from the Meliora series)

Summary: A story based on the song

Characters: Papa Emeritus III/Cirice

Tags: Romance, Seduction

Gratitudes: As always, I want to say thank you to @osiiiris and @1blondeabreu-blog who helped me so much!

The author of the illustration is unknown

It was already dark when Cirice walked up the hotel stairs. She gave her name at the front desk along with the number of the room she was visiting, adding that she was expected. Without a word, the clerk scanned his records, gave a brief nod, and invited her to the elevator.

In the corridor on the upper floor, next to the door to the designated room, a ghoul was waiting for her. Silent and straight as a sentinel, with his hand behind his back, he opened the door for her and bowed slightly. Cirice took a step inside, confused by the polished manners she'd never expected from a rock musician. Apparently, Papa's authority over his entourage was not only nominal. Wondering if that should have alarmed,or even frightened her, she stopped just outside the threshold. The door shut softly behind her, and she could hear footsteps retreating down the corridor.

The room was dark and empty. The perfectly made bed, the clean marble surface of the desk, some kind of tourist brochure on the nightstand… It looked abandoned. Only the slightly off-frame closet door, from which a travel suitcase too large to fit inside was visible, hinted that the room was inhabited.

There was a single candle burning on the table.

The door to the spacious loggia was ajar, the lights of the cityscape beckoning behind it. Cirice crossed the room, her gaze lingering on the candle, which seemed to be the only living thing in the apartment. She looked outside.

Papa was there, standing at the parapet, his back to her. He wore a fitted black shirt, a high stand-up collar cut the line of his neck. In one hand he clutched a glass of clear liquid. She thought she should somehow make her presence known, as she approached silently, treading softly on the carpet with light steps.

Suddenly, without turning around, he swung his hand toward the city and, holding the glass with four fingers, pointed at something with his little finger.

“You know what's great about the Eiffel Tower?”

Cirice hesitated for a moment, then joined him at the railing, standing beside him. Below them, Paris shimmered in the night, drenched in constellations of golden lights. The heavy, spicy scent of lilies wafted from somewhere. Without looking at her, Papa continued.

“It's ugly. Look, it resembles a radio tower. All metal and rivets. In fact, that's what it is - a huge radio tower in the center of town, decades ahead of the high-tech style.” He gave Cirice a brief glance and smiled. “Paradoxically, it had become the world's most famous symbol of romance. Neither Big Ben, nor Italian palazzos, nor Versailles could compete with it. Well-chosen proportions and skillfully applied light make the severe structure of steel beams turn into something that seems light and beautiful... But it's a trick of the eye.”

“I guess it's all about form,” Cirice said. She tried to keep her tone calm, though her heart fluttered in her chest like a moth caught in her hands as she approached him. “See? The heavy base of it stands firmly on the ground, with the top pointing up into the sky. It's as if it's trying to fly, but it remains chained to the support.”

Papa cast a steady gaze at her, shifting his eyebrows slightly. 

“Eiffel is considered a genius for giving a pile of metal the illusion of flight,” she added.

He turned his whole body toward her, scrutinizing her face, while she stubbornly continued to stare at the night landscape, trying not to meet his gaze.

“So, shall we glorify illusions?” He lifted his glass, a slanted grin tugging at his lips.

It had been weeks since she'd first been to one of his concerts. Then he had held her hand for the first time, and she had felt the power of his gaze on her. It struck like a sudden obsession, as if the mysterious singer had seen straight through her, penetrating into the deepest, hidden chambers of her soul. With just a few words, he had drawn out the pain buried at the bottom and cradled it gently, like a weeping child in his arms. The feeling of misunderstanding, of rejection, of loneliness had been replaced by a sense of acceptance when, looking into her eyes, he told her that he saw her pure essence, there, deep inside, behind her scars. It seemed to her that for the first time in her life someone wasn't rejecting her dark side, but instead was willing to understand and share, accept and love, along with all her unhappy past.

But it was only a song. And he sang it to so many others.

Now she knew the name of the state she had been in all her life: she was lost. Before meeting him, she had borne that cross patiently and humbly, but when she walked out of that concert, she realized: that was it. Her soul was no longer whole. A piece of it remained in his hand, and she needed to return to meet that understanding gaze once again, to squeeze his palm, to feel herself found.

She began to follow the band, attending concert after concert, reveling in the same illusion. For five minutes it seemed to her that their merge was limitless, that the emptiness inside her was whole. Even when he reached for other girls’ hands while singing her song, it still felt as if every one of them was her.

It had become an addiction. She would walk out of the concert, and the feeling of devastation would come over her with renewed vigor. She knew that tomorrow she would follow the tour again, stand in the audience again, devouring him with her eyes. Meanwhile, their gazes began to meet frequently, and he lingered on her for long periods of time, making her soul clench into a small, throbbing, shrieking lump of fear and delight. Then he did it again. He sang for her. And then, after the concert, a ghoul caught her in the empty auditorium and invited her backstage. In the staff room, surrounded by white walls and some kind of equipment, Papa brought her hand to his lips kissing its knuckles lightly and asked her what she was doing the next day after the concert.

So they began to meet every few days. He took her to some local restaurants, where they  discussed the national cuisine of each country and chatted about nonsense, about insignificant and cute things. But never once did they talk about the deep intimacy she'd felt at the concerts.

“Martini?”

He reached for the bottle with the red circle on its label, lifting it from the table. With his other hand, he set the glass before her, where a few ice cubes shimmered faintly at the bottom.

“Too sweet,” she said.

“Like something bad,” he grinned, filling her glass anyway. “This is Extra Dry. Not so sweet.”

Their fingers met for a second as he handed her the drink. She inwardly flinched, but managed to maintain a semblance of calm while smoothly bringing the glass to her mouth. She even managed not to spill it when the first sip made her throat constrict. She'd always been hypersensitive to alcohol. Papa never took his eyes off her.

“I wanted to tell you that I've enjoyed spending time with you. These weeks have passed quickly. The tour ends soon, we're heading back to Otrogothia. We're not giving up our glorious tradition when we get home, eh? You don't have to answer right now, just think about it.”

She looked furtively at him, hiding her face behind her glass. She was grateful he didn't demand an instant answer. How could a simple ‘yes’ possibly express everything that overwhelmed her soul? How could it contain all the hope awakening in her at the thought that he might truly need her? The word caught in her throat, too small for the meaning laying behind it.

She took another sip and felt her cheeks blush. Thankfully, he turned away again, spreading his arms across the parapet and contemplating the shining city.

“You said the tower was good because it was ugly. Why?”

He reflected for a moment.

“Because things that are beautiful both outside and inside are boring. Take, say, Versailles. You walk through these precisely measured gardens, walking up to the palace. There's all these statues and bas-reliefs. You go inside - gold, decoration, paintings on the ceiling. Everything is beautiful. You come out and think, ‘That's it?’ All expectations have been met. Everything's in its place. No surprises. But look at this,” he waved his hand toward the tower. “Every time I see it, I wonder how it manages to be so ingenuous and yet so inscrutable.”

They both looked in the same direction, contemplating the illuminated steel trapezoid for a while. The sky gradually darkened. The last shades of late sunset were melting into the horizon. Cirice looked down for a second. It was so high, that she involuntarily thought of falling.

He suddenly turned around to her.

“Cirice, do you dance?”

“I...” For a moment she seemed to have forgotten all the words. “I guess I don't really... I might step on your toes,” she smiled faintly.

“Don't worry about my toes. My shoes are already holey - I've been spinning on them too much. Wait a minute.” He left the glass on the parapet and retreated into the room where the lone candle kept burning. She heard him rummaging around, anxiously waiting for something to happen. She looked over her outfit - a simple black dress with a slouchy zipper rocker jacket thrown over it - the clothes she'd taken on the tour. Perhaps she should have taken off the jacket? But the dress underneath didn't fit the circumstances - it was far from Coco Chanel's standards.

Meanwhile, there was slow, relaxing music coming from the room - some kind of calm jazz. Papa appeared on the doorstep and gallantly offered her his hand. She took it, and he led her into the semi-darkness of the room. Before she realized it, his hand had slipped around her waist, the other had picked up her palm, and he slowly led her around himself, swaying slightly in a dance. His painted face was so close that she could catch the scent of incense, absorbed into his hair and skin from the time he'd spent at concerts.

“What's the music?” She asked aloofly, just to fight the dizziness.

“Bohren & der Club of Gore. They are Germans, playing dark jazz,” he said, and she sensed that neither he nor she cared what he meant. There was something different in his timbre, in his soft, rough voice. He moved so close, leaning toward her that their temples almost touched. “Their concerts take place in almost total darkness. You stand in the audience, seeing the stage only in fragments, where it's highlighted by cones of white light. It falls on separate musicians. You hear the measured beats of the bass drum. The rustle of brush on cymbals. The slow strumming of the keys. And then,” he breathed over her ear, and his hand advanced on her waist. “The lingering saxophone. So slow and languid... Sensual... Like a moan in the night…”

Everything he described seemed to echo in the background as he spoke, filling the room with that slow, atmospheric melody. The velvet thrum of percussion sounded like the stealthy steps of a panther moving in the dark. Slowly, Cirice felt herself drifting, gradually losing awareness of where she was, or why she was even there. It felt like his shoulder was the only thing keeping her grounded. All she could see was a candle that floated somewhere behind his back. He continued to speak, and she no longer cared about the content of his words, all that mattered was to keep listening to his voice. Hypnotizing, filled with overtones, it enveloped her consciousness, and somewhere on its edge she felt him pulling her closer and closer to him. Like a leisurely predator, she thought with belated fear.

“Your heart is pounding so hard,” he whispered. “I can feel it even from here.”

She slid her hand down his back, tugging at the fabric of his shirt.

“You've been looking for me, Cirice. I could hear how you were inwardly calling for me. How you needed me. I can give you what you've been missing. What you've long lost and can't find... It's all here... In me…”

His lips were nearly brushing her ear. She could feel his voice taking over her, subjugating her to his will, consuming, driving her to obsession. Something in her recoiled from that feeling of fusion, from those melting boundaries that made her sense of self dissolve into the dense morass he'd induced.

“So this is what you're doing?” she said in a weak voice, pulling away from his chest.

“What?” he asked confusedly.

“You tell them they're lonely. That you can see through them. That they're lost without you. You make them believe that you're the only one who gives them meaning in their lives. Then they come to you, begging to be saved.”

He was silent, swaying gently with her in a dance. At last he spoke:

“Who - they?”

“All those women you sing to.”

“Are you accusing me of philandering?” he grinned. “That's a serious accusation.”

“How do I know you see me as me and not as part of your faceless entourage? Not just one of the faces in the crowd?”

He pulled her just far enough to look into her eyes. She painfully avoided his gaze.

“Didn't I make it clear to you that I wanted to keep seeing you?”

“This is all too good to be true.” She felt tears come to her eyes and a spasm build in her throat. “You pick me up at concerts. You take me to restaurants. You show me the Eiffel Tower. Wearing that mercilessly fitted shirt. There had to be a catch behind it all.”

He moved her hand to his chest and put his arm around her shoulder.

“You were treated very badly once,” he said. “You don't trust anyone.”

“No, no,” she looked away. “Now I understand. You sing that song to every one of these women. They feel like you're addressing them personally. That you see right through them. They don't realize you're just a skilled illusionist. Every one of them has enough scars. You don't have to read people's souls to hit the mark.”

“But right now, you're the one I'm dancing with.”

“Because you see me as a convenient victim. A soul empty enough to fill with yourself. Because that's what you want. To possess. To make me dependent. You feed me illusions to make me think I'm nothing without you.”

He kept his gaze on her for a long time, never breaking the rhythm of the dance. Perhaps it was the candlelight, but the lines between his brows seemed deeper now, making his expression more heavy and thoughtful. Finally, he spoke again, even more calmly this time.

“Cirice. You have a choice,” he leaned in slightly, peering into her face. “You can think of me as a manipulative man who wants to lure you into his web, to bind you to him and string you along. I won't argue that this is not true; my exhortations will only reinforce those thoughts. On the other hand, you may see me as someone who felt a kindred spirit in you. Someone who knows the hell of rejection you've been through. Someone who offers you a hand. Whatever you choose me to be, that's who I'll be. Because we create our world based on our expectations. Decide what you want.”

She dared to look into his mismatched eyes. One of them looked at her sharp and piercing, as if expressing a mute order that tolerated no objection. The other, half-covered by a heavy eyelid, was soft and sympathetic. She realized clearly that he contained both of these sides, that they were inseparable, that the choice between them was in fact illusory. Trusting him, she would be at the mercy of his gentle manipulation, his shrewd tyranny. He would cast a spell, and she would wander in the darkness, afraid to let go of his hand lest she be lost again. She was already there, and there was essentially no choice for her.

She clung to him, wrapping her weak arms around his neck, and he took her into his arms in return. So they swayed in the dance until the music ended.

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