#again: relative sizes are not precise

[asterwild]

penguins. you are aware of them

[thedevilspearl]

prone to bone — all brothers

author’s note ʚɞ i’ve been seeing prone bone floating around recently and also can’t get the brothers out of my head so here is my take on how the brothers feel about the position. spoiler alert: they fucking love it.

tags ʚɞ female reader x lucifer, mammon (filming during the act), leviathan, satan (power play), asmodeus (crying), beelzebub (size kink) + belphegor. explicit smut, minors do not interact!

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐑 feels an immense surge of control when he towers over you, his thighs on either side of you resting just enough weight on you to trap you underneath him, but not enough to hurt you. he doesn’t need to trap you; he knows you’d never try to move away from him when his cock is filling you up so well. but there’s something about you not having the choice to that adds to his total control over you. his hands rub up and down your back, taking a moment to grope your ass while he slowly drives his cock in and out of your pussy, grinding his cock to the hilt and ascending to a higher realm when he hears your lustful cries muffled by pillows. “my sweet darling,” he pulls away the pillows with a deep rut, causing you to yelp. “don’t hide your voice. i want to hear how dirty you are.”

𝐌𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐎𝐍 one hundred per cent records you in this position every single time. it’s the same position but each occasion that calls for it is a whole new experience. he just loves when the base of his cock presses against your perky ass. he loves the way your ass cheeks jiggle when he speeds up his pace, when they mould into his hands while he grabs them roughly. but most of all, he loves the strangled cries sounding from the body beneath him. oh, he knows he’s fucking you good; so deep and intimate is the way his cock buries itself in your pussy, dragging against all the right places. he can go round after round in this position, filming it on his ddd so he can watch it on repeat when you’re not around. “fucking hell,” he grunts, chuckling while holding handfuls of your ass. “ya look so pretty for me, don’t think i’m stopping any time soon.”

𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 loves the prone bone. it’s one of the positions where his confidence and self–esteem rockets sky high. he usually gets a bit shy being on top but he appreciates having your face hidden in the cushions while he does all the work, blushing the entire time; and it’s a relatively easy position, not too strenuous for him and his debatably poor stamina. but god, he just loves when you wear his shirt in this position, completely naked underneath but every thrust has him losing himself in the sight of your body as his shirt inches its way up your back. and along with his fingers interlacing with yours as they push down into the mattress and your ass bouncing up into him as he fucks you deep, it’s enough to make him finish in seconds. “i’m cumming!” levi cries, body collapsing on yours but he doesn’t stop fucking you with his twitching cock. “holy shit, it feels so good.”

𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐍 leans over you with his hands latched on each of your wrists, burying them in the bed sheets and with his thighs holding your lower body in place, there’s no way you can move. you desperately want to writhe and twitch in pleasure but he holds you perfectly still. your body shakes in the ripples of pleasure shooting through your body, a bliss only satan can bring to you as every grind of his hips is precise and perfect hitting your sweet spots again and again. it’s almost torture when he treats you like a toy, putting you in the perfect position for his greedy cock to fuck. you lay flat but your ass tilts upwards just the slightest bit, giving him the perfect angle to drive you both to insanity. “fuck! shit!” satan growls, so close to cumming but you defiantly fidgeted and disrupted his rhythm. “stay fucking still if you want to cum.”

𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐒 has a particular taking to this position because it’s so easy to fuck you into oblivion and back without draining too much stamina from either of you. but that doesn’t mean you won’t end up with tears dripping down your face and drool spilling from your lips. it’s the way you scream his name extra loud as he ploughs into you from behind. his hands grip your ass tight while your head hangs off the bed, bouncing with each thrust. asmo loves fucking you in the collapsed doggy style, and as you squeeze the bed sheets for dear life while your body lays flat and twitching, asmo continues fucking you from behind and he can’t find it in him to stop. the position turns him into an insatiable devil “aww sweetie, i know you’re tired,” he whispers gently in your ears as your body wracks with sobs. “but you can take a little more, can’t you?”

𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐙𝐄𝐁𝐔𝐁 loves putting his big body to the test, especially when he’s fucking you dumb on his huge cock. every position is a reminder of how huge he is compared to you, so it would be blasphemy to talk about beelzebub and the prone bone without mentioning his raging size kink. his fat balls rub against the back of your thighs while his thick cock stretches you open. it lays heavy in your pussy as he slowly grinds it back and forth, grunting each and every time. the way your pussy engulfs a beast like him, coating his cock in your arousal, it’s a marvel to him. his breath is hot and heavy, a signal that he’s extremely turned on. whether he’s towering above you or leaning over your shaking frame, he feels so fucking huge and that’s enough for him to want to fuck you in the position forever. “fuck, mc....you’re so tight, ‘s driving me crazy.”

𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑 is a lazy git who prefers positions where you do most of the work. however, prone boning you is a compromise. he’ll put in the work while you melt into the bedsheets, but it’s also a relatively low effort position that doesn’t tire him out, and that means he can last longer. and he loves lasting long in this position because the view of your ass between his thighs and the expanse of your back on display for him is addictive. for once, he loves that you’re the one squirming underneath him, crying out his name only to be muffled by the blanket tugged between your teeth because his cock is fucking you so deeply. “fuck baby,” he grunts rutting his hips quicker and harder as the minutes pass. belphie loses his mind when you quivers around his cock. “gonna make me cum so hard.”

[galactic-magick]

Be Proud: Viktor x Plus Size!Reader

Summary: Viktor's newfound fame as the co-founder of Hextech has taken its toll on your insecurities.

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: mentions and allusions to body dysmorphia/eating disorders

Author's Note: I starting writing this to play with the idea of how founding Hextech probably gave Jayce and Viktor celebrity status in a way and how that would affect them and people involved with them. It ended up turning into a vent fic about my body image issues as well, to the point I almost didn’t post because it got so personal. But I figured there’s people out there who relate and might find solace in reading this as I did writing it.

-

-

-

You’re so proud of him. Everything he’s accomplished, everyone he’s helped. He’s living his dream, creating the future, and he’s being listened to and valued by topsiders. This is all you’ve ever wanted for him, and you would never think of standing in his way.

Which is precisely why you’ve never told him how insecure it all makes you feel.

Before Viktor got involved with Hextech, life was so much more predictable. You both could live your days together in peace, never being in the spotlight and rarely interacting with the highest of powers in Piltover. Life was hard, sure, but nothing you couldn’t manage without some tasteful spite and stubbornness. Viktor always knew his background would be a stumbling block for him up here, and you really weren’t much farther ahead, being from a title-less family with half your relatives from the Undercity.

But you’re not used to being around such glamour and poise. As Viktor becomes more involved with the Council and the wealthier areas of Piltover, making Hextech gadgets per their requests and being invited to fancy events, you’re left mourning simpler times. You’ll never get used to people coming up to you on the street while you bring your husband some lunch, or people staring at you during conferences when you’re just there to support him. Everyday citizens want to know and analyze everything about you, simply because you’re married to Piltover’s finest scientist.

You don’t like to bother Viktor with how it’s affected you, especially since he’s so good at handling it all. He’s always been so proud of who he is—where he came from—because he’s had to be. He’s not phased by the new fame as the co-founder of Hextech, and he easily shrugs off any comments people make about his past or his looks. To him, celebrity status is just a slight annoyance that occasionally distracts him from doing his work in the labs. But for you, it’s brought back every insecurity you’ve ever had about yourself.

You’ve stopped joining him as much at dinners and banquets because you fear they’ll judge how you look in a dress. You’ve stopped chiming in to interviews so you don’t say something stupid and embarrass him. You’ve stopped visiting him so much while he’s working so people won’t talk to or see you on the street.

You’ve started picking yourself apart in the mirror again, fussing every morning until you might cry. You compare yourself to the beautiful specimens that surround you, perfect in face, body, and manners. You start wondering if people judge how you speak or how much you eat. You wonder if people gossip about your family origins or your marriage. You wonder if you really, really, tried—if you could look like them. If you could be like them.

Viktor has started to stay back from some events with you lately, claiming Jayce is better at being the face of Hextech anyway. But tonight marks the five year anniversary of the company, and Councilor Medarda insisted there be a grand celebration.

The feast and dance will be held in her personal mansion, with the rest of the council and all the investors invited, as well as several reporters and journalists. Jayce will give an update address on what they’ve been working on, and what they hope to achieve by the bicentennial Progress Day.

This is something you can’t get out of and you know it. You drive yourself crazy trying on every dress in your closet, hoping to find something suitable for the affair. Half of them don’t even fit, which sends you into a further spiral, and the ones that do still don’t look good enough in your reflection.

Now the floor is covered in failed attempts at getting dressed, negative thoughts taking over your mind. Thoughts you know aren’t true, but you can’t stop thinking them.

He’ll be embarrassed to be seen with me.

I’m not good enough to be here.

I should eat less.

If I tried harder I could look like her.

I should check how much I weigh again. What happened to that damn scale?

They only invited me because they have to.

They probably talk about me—

You’re so deep in your head that you jump when you see Viktor leaning against the door frame, eyes full of love and concern.

“Are you alright, darling?”

You look down at yourself, wearing the last dress you had in your closet. It fits perfectly, but that’s part of the problem.

Viktor moves towards you as tears well in your eyes. He wipes them away with his thumbs, smearing some of the makeup you put on earlier.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“No.” you reply, avoiding his gaze.

“No?” he chuckles. “Why not?”

“It’s so stupid,” you sigh. “I thought I recovered from this. I should be able to handle this.”

“Handle what?”

“All this publicity shit!” you finally look at him. “I hate being watched and talked about and judged for what I say and look like all the time. I hate being asked about personal things and nearly passing out because I’m scared to eat in front of people. I hate all these superficial gatherings that are probably just for show-”

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” he cuts you off, dropping his crutch to the floor and wrapping his arms around you. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been feeling this way? Why didn’t you tell me it was getting bad again?”

You sniffle, “I...I didn’t want to bother you with something that doesn’t seem to bother you. You’re so good at being confident no matter what people say about you.”

“You think it doesn’t bother me?” he questions. “You think it doesn’t hurt me every time I overhear insults about me or my home, let alone when they say it to my face? You think I don’t notice that most of these people wouldn’t blink an eye if I died if it wasn’t for what I can offer them?”

He squeezes you tighter before slightly pulling away to look at your face, “I’m just better at hiding what it does to me, darling. Having a drive to prove myself is not the same as confidence. Now,” he kisses your forehead, “Tell me why you’ve been in here for over an hour and still aren’t ready, hm?”

“Well,” you gesture to the piles on the floor. “Those ones don’t fit. I must’ve gained more weight but I don’t really know for sure because I can’t find the scale. And those ones I just don’t like. And this one does fit, but it’s tight and I’ve never worn something form-fitted to an event before. I don’t want to deal with comments about my stomach sticking out or my arms looking puffy or whether I’m proportioned to their tastes.”

“You truly believe they’ll say those things?”

“I don’t know what they’ll say. That’s what’s so scary.”

The tears return, falling slowly down your cheeks.

“Darling,” Viktor says softly. “No one will ever think or say anything as horrible as what you think and say about yourself. I promise you that.”

You nod, allowing him to soothe you, “I know.”

“I need you to tell me when these thoughts are getting bad. Do you understand? I never want you to go so long feeling this way ever again,” he tilts your chin. “Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now, if you really don’t want to go, I’ll make up an excuse to get us out of it. But…” he slides his hands down your curves, “...it would be quite a shame if I didn’t get to see you wearing this all night.”

“You actually think it looks good?”

“Of course,” his eyes travel down your figure. “You always look perfect to me.”

“But-”

“No buts. Listen to me,” he faces you towards the mirror. “This body has gotten you through so much. I want you to be proud. Most of these people have never known a day of true hardship, but not you. You’re strong and you’re soft and you’re beautiful, and you’re the only one I’ll ever desire.”

You smile, knowing he means every word. You try to see what he sees, remembering every time he’s showered you with praise. You know he’s never once agreed with any of the horrible things you think about yourself. You know he loves everything about you, including how your body compliments his smaller, angular one. He’s never made you feel bad about anything, so why is it still so hard to believe him?

“Thank you, Viktor,” you say, turning to kiss his cheek. “I’ll try to be proud.”

“Good,” he nods. “Now, no more worrying about the scale or falling into old habits, alright? I want you to enjoy yourself tonight.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll try,” you laugh a bit. “You know what happened to it, though, don’t you?”

“Of course. I threw it out months ago,” he smirks. “You think I didn’t notice you checking it every single day?”

“You’re too good to me,” you bend down to pick his crutch up off the floor and hand it to him. “Let me just fix my makeup and we can go.”

“No more crying it off, alright?” he chuckles.

-

Jayce and Mel are waiting for you, welcoming you both to the celebrations. You can already feel the eyes and cameras on you, but you hold your head high, squeezing Viktor’s hand extra tight.

It’s been awhile since you’ve attended an event, but they always seem to go the same. Investors and council members come up to chat, mostly directing their questions towards Jayce. Sometimes they act as if Viktor isn’t even there, which boils your blood to the point you’ve said something on multiple occasions. Viktor has told you many times that he doesn’t mind being behind the scenes, and that Jayce is better at talking anyway, but you can never fully let it go. If people are going to gossip about him and your lives but not actually talk to him, you’ll gladly take the liberty of giving people a piece of your mind. You’d rather focus on lifting him up than dwell on your own self-consciousness, anyway.

One thing is different this time though—being that Viktor is a lot more handsy tonight than usual. He’s not normally one for public displays of affection, sticking to hand-holding and a few reassuring touches here and there. But tonight he can’t keep his hands off you.

It doesn’t matter what you’re doing, whether it be listening to the conversations, answering questions, or participating in the feast and drinks. He always has a hand on your waist or your thigh, gliding to your hips and stomach every so often. It seems mindless, as if he does this every time you’re out together, but you know he’s putting in a special effort to make you feel good.

And damn is it working.

You feel more at peace than you ever have since entering the public eye, proud of who you are and who you’re with. Who cares if people are whispering about their opinions on the Zaunite inventor? Who cares if there’s pictures of you in tomorrow’s tabloids with unflattering angles? Maybe all that matters is you’re having fun with your husband, and he’s making you feel oh so beautiful.

The night goes on for hours, attendees fizzling out until there’s only a handful left. You convince Viktor to dance with you before you leave, leaning against you and swaying simply. You wrap your arms around his neck, wiggling your fingers into his hair. He looks at you with such admiration, such devotion.

How could you ever doubt yourself under the gaze of those eyes?

“You lovebugs ready to head out?” Jayce approaches you both. “Viktor and I have a meeting with Heimerdinger in the morning.”

“Ah, yes, we do,” he briefly looks away from you. “But...perhaps we could push it until the afternoon?”

Jayce rolls his eyes and chuckles, “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you guys are in for a long night. Have fun.”

He waves and walks away, and you burst out laughing.

“Is it really that obvious?” Viktor jokes, returning his full attention to you.

“Viktor, darling, you’ve been all over me since we got here. I’d say the entire city knows how bad you want me tonight.”

“Maybe I want them to know,” he grins, sliding a hand up your dress and squeezing your thigh.

“Viktor!” you gasp, playfully slapping his hand away.

“Alright, I suppose we can go home first,” he pivots around, moving towards the door and extending his arm to you, “Shall we?”

You nod, quickly returning to his side.

Jayce was right, it’s going to be a long, lovely night.

[inkytoru]

any characters of your choice reacting to tongue and nipple piercings :p I look forward to your writings

♯┆ TEAM TONGUE PIERCING OR TEAM NIPPLE PIERCINGS .ᐣ.ᐟ ★

★ 𓂃 CHARACTERS: rafayel, sylus, zayne, xavier ★ 𓂃 A/N: 18+, mdni. FIRST REQUEST ON THIS BLOG FULFILLED LFG!! been itching to write for the lads boys so i'm hoping you like them fjshgglgjs thank you for the request! i defaulted to a gender neutral reader since you didn't specify. also, caleb isn't included because i just got introduced to him in the story, and i also apologize if characterization might be off; i am also relatively new to writing the lads boys and to the game ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ RAFAYEL

he’s batting for team nipple piercings! as an artist, he has a fine eye and aesthete’s appreciation for human anatomy, especially yours. he not only loves your mind and personality, but your body as well. no matter your size or whether you have cellulite or stretch marks, he will remind you time and time again that he still loves every inch and curve of yours regardless. he would love to watch the way the metal of your piercings would catch just right in the light as he pounds into you. if you have tits, he’s definitely grabbing at them and admiring the way your piercings accentuate them. planting kisses all around them, maybe even cooing to them just to fluster you. “you complement them so beautifully, don’t you?”

rafayel is staring so hard at your chest, you think he’s committing the shape of it to memory. there is a blank expression etched onto his features. “so uh… do you like them?” you ask cautiously, starting to raise your hands to self-consciously cover your now pierced chest. “don’t.” he stops you, grabbing your hands and pulling them away, gaze still glued to your pierced nipples. finally, after about what felt like an eternity, his eyes flicker up to meet yours halfway and he nods approvingly. “the human figure is already a marvel as it is, but this? you’ve somehow managed to make it a sight to behold.” . . . “rafayel…” “mm?” “stop talking to my nipple piercings as if they’re re— ahh!” at that precise moment, your cheeky boyfriend decides to ram right into your core, feigning obliviousness. “what was that, love? couldn’t quite hear you over how pretty your nipple piercings are.” “that doesn’t even make sense!”

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ SYLUS

this man is going right for the nips, baby. he already knew you were going to get them, as he does most things. it seemed like a very you thing to get—so naturally, he figured you would. absolutely goes feral over how they look on you, by the way. terribly down bad, even. he can’t resist licking his lips whenever he catches them protrude through your shirt, or when you’re riding him. definitely one of his favorite piercings on you, he thinks it suits you well. sylus would also playfully tug at them when you’ve been a bit too mouthy with him, and would even lick at them. he wouldn’t mind the metallic taste so much; blood was no different, anyway.

“oh? what’s this, kitten?” sylus asks, groomed brow arched as a smirk begins to curl upon his lips. “surprise!” you exclaim as you proudly show off your newly pierced nipples, beaming ever so cutely up at your boyfriend. “it was only a matter of time,” sylus’ deep chuckle spurns confusion onto your face. “what do you mean?” “i knew you were thinking of getting them.” a pout forms on your mien as you cross your arms across your chest. “no fair. it was supposed to be a surprise…” . . . your sweet, sweet moans were always a symphony sylus could never tire of hearing. they were all the more sweeter now that your nipples were no longer bare. he was immensely pleased that you would wear the jewelry he’d custom order and buy for you, and it would be a treat for him to get to watch them as you bounce up and down on his leaking cock. “so gorgeous, my beautiful baby,” his voice would drip with lascivious desire. looking at the little dual charms with his initials engraved upon them jerk around as you lose yourself on his lap would never fail to be one of his favorite pastimes.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ZAYNE

tongue piercing enjoyer, though was neutral about it at first. didn’t quite understand why you would undergo the process to have metal pierced through your tongue—but being the considerate doctor he was, he’d ensure that the healing process went smoothly for you. his tune would soon change once he sees the way you’d lewdly gaze up at him as you slobber all over his cock, pierced tongue on full display. merely thinking about it would even get him hard, so he was secretly grateful it was in a less conspicuous place than other piercings.

“babe, look!” you singsong as you run over to your lover’s desk as he was finishing up his paperwork before going on break. “yes, lo—” he’d start saying as he takes a moment to organize the papers, cutting himself off when his stare finally shifts to your face. you were lolling your tongue out with half-lidded eyes, even wiggling it a little for emphasis on the stud now perfectly nestled within the center of the muscle. zayne was speechless for a moment before a frown and furrow in his brows appear on his visage. he exhales as he sets the papers down, concern flashing in his eyes. you falter a bit. “what’s wrong?” “you know you can’t perform oral intercourse or do any kissing for at least three weeks, right?” a look of horror dawns on your face. “what?!” his lips twitch, fighting a smile as he watches you panic adorably. “standard aftercare procedure,” he says, voice warm. “but don’t worry… once you heal properly, i’ll make sure it’s worth the wait.” . . . the three weeks were definitely worth the wait, zayne thinks to himself while you had a mouthful of his cock underneath his desk. he groans, deft fingers carding themselves through your hair. he wasn’t expecting that the added cool sensation of the metal would heighten his arousal, and yet here he was, head thrown back against the back of his office chair with his eyes shut in bliss. “just like that…” perhaps the three week abstinence period you also instated just so the experience of the piercing during a blowjob had helped. either way, zayne would take a liking to your new look; it grew on him the more and more you’d swirl your tongue around the base of his cock.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ XAVIER

wouldn’t have much of an outward reaction to your newest body modification, if his prolonged silence over your messages were to say anything. it disappointed you, but little did you know internally, xavier’s brain was actually steaming from how sexy he found you with it. he just wasn’t sure how to articulate this to you due to his awkwardness—but his sudden increase in requesting for blowjobs would tell you everything you needed to know. (his breath had also hitched in his throat when he initially saw it, but you wouldn’t have known.)

xavier looked at his phone, blinking a few times. you had sent him a rather risqué selfie with a wink and your tongue stuck out just enough for your new piercing to be caught on camera. you mistake his silence for disinterest, as he wouldn’t respond for fifteen long minutes later. first, he had to refrain his hardest from relieving his newfound problem in his trousers as he had an important UNICORNS meeting to attend in the next few minutes. but, the poor boy couldn’t wait till the meeting was over; he’d excuse himself for a restroom break where he’d lock himself in the nearest janitorial closet and hastily pull his pants down to fist his cock in his hand. images of you on your knees before him would flash through his mind. he made sure to send you a more than risqué selfie back without a single word. . . . thrilled your boyfriend eventually had assuaged your fears of him being turned off by your new tongue piercing, you were quick to greet him excitedly once he got home. xavier would curtly greet you back, before demanding you lay on your back so he could hurriedly slot himself in between your legs and piston relentlessly into you. he’d make sure you had your tongue hanging out too; with his phone in hand, he’d take a few photos to commemorate the day. to this day, they’re some of his favorite nudes of yours to date.

© INKYTORU — do not repost, translate, feed AI, or plagiarize any of my content. please refrain from sharing or recommending my work on other platforms outside of tumblr such as tiktok.

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x Naerys Velaryon (oc)

summary: Naerys returns to King’s Landing after ten, long years. Arriving to support her younger brother’s claim to the Driftwood Throne, she knows she will stay to fulfill her betrothal to her uncle, Prince Aemond Targaryen.

word count: 4.5k

tags/warnings: strong!oc, older sister!oc, arranged marriage, oc rides Seasmoke but is terrified of fire, flashbacks to Aemond's eye loss, he won't be nice, oc and Aemond have a swordfight, enemies to lovers, slowburn (plot before we get to the smut, and trust me, we'll get there)

(narrated in first person, eventually dual pov)

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

Naerys

Mist cloaks the view ahead in a soft veil. The clouds part for us, their shape breaking as we dance between them. I grip the ropes tighter, my legs adjusting around the saddle. It has not been long since the cries of Arrax and Vermax faded into the wind. They cannot be that far behind.

I need to go faster.

We flew past Duskendale’s Harbor and the Dun Fort right before I parted from Jace and Luke. If my timing is precise, we ought to be above the apple orchards of Rosby, meaning King’s Landing lies a short distance to the north. I have to make it to the Dragonpit before either of them does.

Determining their location is nearly impossible with no other lead than my own perception of time, but it wouldn’t be the first instance I manage to pull off the trick.

They already know how it’s done.

The aim is to gradually ascend as high as reachable while maintaining the right path set forward, unknown to other riders. The weight and size of the dragons are crucial factors at play, that coupled with the relative youth of both, are not in their favor. The fact that neither matches mine is already a shortcoming. Now, the time between reaching the desired height and the free fall to the target destination is nothing but a gamble—one that I always win. It is no fair game to them, most definitely. But then again, nothing truly is.

I could be a good sister and let them taste victory, if only once. And I might.

But not today.

For ten long years, I have avoided returning to the capital of the Realm, despite being born and raised underneath the shadows of its towering spires.

Ever the lonely girl, I drifted through the castle halls with a book in hand, seeking a hidden spot to devour its pages. Inked words on paper became my dearest friend, a hollow replacement for the bond I desperately longed for. My dragon egg never hatched. Void of life, its iridescent scales remained cold on the hearth by the cradle. Instead of spending my time with winged creatures, I soared through history with the ancestors that rode them. From the Doom of Valyria to The Conquest and every reign until Viserys, I had memorized every passage ever written. Nothing seemed to satisfy my need for knowledge, though in truth, all I craved was experience.

The Red Keep’s training yard is where my heart belonged. Between dull blades and rounded arrows, I stood with a wooden stick, fighting off the giant that threatened to push me down with bare hands. The mock sword has now become sharp steel, and the giant was none but my father. The man who taught me to aim for the guts, or preferably, the groin.

His memory still lingers, a cut that never mends.

Every other night, in my sleep, The Stranger takes him away from me. And soon, his ghost will chase me through the walls of the place where I last saw him alive.

It was at Aunt Laena’s funeral that I learned he had left for Harrenhal. A day of loss, in more ways than one, that showed me for what I truly was. Just another card in our deck, pulled to patch the damage I had not caused.

At only four years old, my brother Luke took Aemond’s eye, leaving him half-blinded and scarred. As the second son of King Viserys and his second wife, Queen Alicent Hightower, such a maiming could never go unpunished. An eye for an eye, she demanded. No hesitance, even as his son’s actions were laid bare.

Laena’s remains had only been buried under the waves of the narrow sea when Aemond risked his life in a desperate attempt to claim her dragon, and astoundingly, succeeded. Vhagar chose him, before her late rider’s youngest daughter could be given a chance. Rhaena and her older sister Baela, refused to accept the outcome. They slipped out of bed and into the corridors of Driftmark to confront him—and we followed.

As Aemond entered the castle, he was met with the fury of the twins, consumed by their grief. To them, it was nothing but the theft of their mother’s old mount, if such a thing can truly be said. A dragon cannot be stolen, it chooses its rider. Inheritance in this matter does not rely on blood. Yet they cornered him, four against one, as if that could break the bond that had just been sealed.

Being the eldest of my siblings, I should have known better than to let it come to blows. His greed was not without reason—not to me. I envied his courage, for had I been brave enough, I might have been the one with a dragon that night.

All concern vanished the moment I heard the word escape his lips.

Bastards.

A truth so evident, only a fool would deny it.

Jace shoved him to the ground. He punched and kicked as Rhaena, Baela and Luke joined in. They could have killed him, while I stood there, frozen in place. Still, Aemond rose to his feet, not a single flinch as he grabbed Luke by the neck, a rock clenched tightly in hand. Ready to strike, his voice broke in anger.

You will die screaming in flames just as your father did.

It was only then that my instinct flared. I lunged forward, and we both rolled over one another until I was pinned beneath him, the rock lost and forgotten in the chaos. Fire crackled from a nearby torch, its sparks threatening to lick at my skin.

He smiled, baring his teeth at me before the weight of his words crushed my lungs.

You don’t know, do you? Harwin Strong is dead.

Jace wrenched him off me, but it wouldn’t end there. Not after what he had said. The twins had certainly begun the ambush, but the fight soon became ours.

Aemond staggered, ready to strike back, when Luke surged forward with the small dagger he’d hidden in his belt. The pale steel of the blade glinted in the dim light as it carved an awry cut up his cheek.

The blow landed swift but true. My once unmarred innocence was slit, as was the right eye from his face.

At eight years old, I could only believe what I was told, even if doubt existed. I was a Velaryon, and my father was Laenor, son and heir to Rhaenys Targaryen and The Lord of the Tides. Nothing to be questioned. That was what Mother always said.

As if the truth was not always there to greet me through the mirror. He was my father. Our father. And he never heard us call him that. Because Aemond had been right—he was dead.

The guards arrived only when his screams became deafening, echoed by Vhagar’s excruciating roars. They dragged us all to the throne hall of Driftmark, where we would answer for our outrage.

None of it could be undone, albeit avenged.

The queen would not rest until justice was bestowed upon the inflicter of her son’s pain, even as the king demanded Rhaenyra be awaited. Aemond sat in the center of the room, knuckles white from gripping the arm of the chair as he tried to remain in place. His eyeball lay in a nacreous shell, cold and bloodied. The maesters removed it from the socket after they deemed it completely lost and began sewing it shut forever.

My own eye twitched in response each time the needle went in through his skin. Remorse clawed at me, but I knew he wouldn’t return such sentiment if the tables were turned.

When Mother finally appeared, the man that gave us his name was not who stood behind her. It was Daemon. Laenor, per usual, was nowhere to be seen after dusk.

As she abruptly lowered to her knees to inspect Luke for wounds, Jace pulled from her skirts. He called us bastards, he told her bluntly, in our defense. Fire danced in her violet eyes when she raised to her feet again. To accuse the heir to the throne’s offspring of being illegitimate is treason—and so she stated.

Viserys paled before his daughter’s words. His younger son would be put under sharp questioning for such accusations, the insult suddenly becoming the source of his worry, not that of his maimed child.

His wife would not have it. There was still a price to be paid, and she would see to it herself, if need be. But the King concluded that there would be no such thing as revenge. Aemond had questioned our legitimacy and birthright. The loss of his eye served him well.

Everyone that stood there that night at Driftmark’s throne room bore witness to Viserys' promise. If anyone dared to suggest his daughter’s children were the result of adultery, there would be no gods they could pray to for mercy.

Still and all, the matter was far from settled.

My mother’s claim to the Iron Throne hung by a thread. After centuries of solely male heirs, the Realm was rightfully reluctant to accept the reign of a woman whose charade of a marriage mocked tradition and law. Without a strong match, a lady has no power. Laenor proved to be anything but, and marrying another man while the current husband was alive, could never be an option. He needed to die—or to be thought dead. The strategy orchestrated with the help of her now uncle-husband was hardly liable. My father in name would be slain by one of his male lovers, leaving my mother a widow and free to remarry, but Princess Rhaenys with no children in less than a moon.

Sacrifices need to be made, she assured me. For the sake of us both. It was not only her claim that was at stake, by consequence, so was mine.

I already knew my fate. Before our relocation to Dragonstone, my hand was offered in marriage to Prince Aegon, the king’s firstborn son and my eldest uncle. Mother presented it as a symbol of genuine reconciliation, a gesture to heal the rift between our families. An arranged marriage that would quell the growing unrest over the succession, for Aegon would sit the throne, the way some thought he deserved.

The proposal was swiftly declined. Plans were already in motion to wed Helaena to Aegon before year’s end—a suggestion from the Hand, their own grandfather, as she had already flowered and they were both considered to be of age.

Neither the king nor his wife would reconsider their decision, and the urgency to settle matters without further discord left no room for careful deliberation, leading to irrevocable mistakes.

My mother cared little which of Alicent’s sons I married, I realized then. After bearing the king three sons, it was only expected that she would want one of them on the Iron Throne. All that mattered was securing the chance for one of them to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And so, Princess Rhaenyra bargained to protect her—our—claim to rule, but it is I who will pay the price.

No amount of years could spare me the weight of such a curse.

We come to the capital to defend Luke’s right to Driftmark—to secure his place as the next Lord of the Tides, should our grandfather, Lord Corlys, succumb to the fever he caught on his recent sailings. Once that is resolved, title gained or lost, they will return to Dragonstone.

I am to remain. At last, forced to face what I have dreaded for more than half of my life.

Marriage.

The letter with the three-headed dragon seal and the king’s own handwriting arrived a fortnight ago, summoning me to court. No more delaying.

I have spent enough years prolonging the inevitable.

That ends now.

“Embrōt!” I command Seasmoke to descend. His silver wings spread wide with effortless grace as he dips his head down. We plummet downwards. My stomach clenches, my lungs struggling for air as we plunge lower. I fight to keep my grip steady, fingers digging into the handles, until his body levels and the flight steadies once more.

Even without a dragon of my own, and knowing my egg would never hatch, I held onto the hope that one day I would fly over King’s Landing. I just never imagined it would take so long, or so much.

Leaning towards the left, my leathers scraping against the saddle, I try to commit the image to memory. The sky is a deep shade cerulean, the sun gleams high above the red-tiled rooftops, gold glinting atop every tower, and the soft breeze rolling in from the sea. For a brief moment, I am nothing but words and ink on a page, part of a story written with no quills, that easily slips from the tips of my fingers.

A deep growl rumbles beneath me, urging me to return to my senses.

The bond between dragon and rider has never been wholly explained or learned, even if it is thoroughly established that each is unique and irreplaceable. There are passages that would go as far as saying the strongest of them can transcend the very flesh and mind. I myself cannot comprehend the true depths of ours, nor how it is possible that it came to be at all.

I do know, however, that his warning comes with reason. Not so far above me, the shapes of two smaller dragons take form, already making their way down to land.

Seven Hells.

I shift higher in my seat, just enough to catch sight of the weathered stone of the castle walls. We are flying toward the Red Keep, the Dragonpit already behind us.

“Pālegon, Embrōrbar!” I shout for him to turn around, and though he obeys with no hesitation, it is with complaint. His deafening roar, followed by that familiar wave of heat erupting through his body tells me enough. He wants to unleash, let his irritation soothe with the flames. No, no fire.

His burning scales find the cooling gush of wind, the pace of our flight increased by tenfold.

Seasmoke has grown larger over the years, and though he might not be built for war, his agility remains unmatched. It’s no challenge for him to reach the Dragonpit with a couple bats of his wings, even as Vermax circles Rhaenys’s Hill, ready to land.

Pity. He was actually close to beating me this time.

Sharp claws sink into the earth, the ground quivering beneath us, barely a short difference to Vermax’s landing.

Quick now, Naerys.

I deftly untangle the ropes from my legs, already poised to slide down the left wing. The moment the soles of my boots meet the dry grass of the hill, a soft thud announces Arrax has arrived. Not that it matters, anyway. I am the one who touched ground first.

“That was definitely a tie,” a voice calls out behind me. I turn to find Jacaerys smirking, clearly proud of nearly besting me at my own game. I’m tempted to point out that if were not for my distraction, I would have been right in this same spot, boringly waiting for them both. I bite my tongue, not wanting to give my thoughts and worries away.

“Well done, Jace.” I approach, patting his shoulder. “When Vermax is fully grown I won’t be a challenge for you anymore.”

“You think he could someday reach Seasmoke’s size?” he asks, raising a dark brow.

I glance up at his dragon, then back at mine as we wait for Luke to dismount. “Seasmoke may still grow,” I reply, “but knowing Vermax hatched from Syrax’s clutch, the odds are good. He might even grow larger.”

He studies my dragon—father’s dragon— his gaze lingering on his imposing form, soft brown eyes filled with silent hope.

“Same with Arrax. Don’t get too smug about it, dear brother,” I tease, smirking at the annoyed scrunch of his nose.

“Ah, so encouraging,” he says, raking a hand through his messy dark curls.

“We aim to please,” I return with a slight bow of my head.

“We should meet Mother at the gates,” Lucerys mutters, nearing us.

I exhale sharply, letting out a shaky huff. “Let me say goodbye at least, will you? I hate leaving him here.”

“As if I could command you,” he answers, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

“I fear one day she will truly command us,” Jace chimes in with a heavy sigh.

“That is uncertain,” I counter, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “I might die before I even get to be queen—leaving that burden for you to bear.”

There is no need to look to know he rolled his eyes at that.

I turn back to Seasmoke, my hands grazing his rough scales as I press my forehead against his side. The heat radiating from him wraps around me in a safe embrace, his wings tucking me in closer. “Not long until we fly again,” I murmur.

Heavy-hearted, I step away from him. Beside my brothers, I watch as our dragons disappear into the darkness of the Dragonpit’s caves.

No one welcomed us into the Red Keep. In part, I am relieved to avoid the usual formalities and the reception from the queen and her children—especially that of one of her sons. Although, it does seem rather impudent not to have anticipated the arrival of the Princess of the Realm and that of her family. Clearly, things have changed around here over the years, with my grandfather’s condition worsening by the day.

Both my brothers ventured inside the castle walls, eager to explore the place like they had never been here at all. I, on the other hand, had to endure a tedious talk about manners and purist expectations. Was told to keep an eye on the other two, of course, save them from trouble before they are in it, were that be possible.

I descend the wooden stairs that lead to the training yard. The thrum of weapons clashing lures me in, like a soft whisper that demands I indulge my curiosity at the sight before me. A large crowd gathers in a tight circle, their shouts and cheers echoing in the open air.

I bet that’s where Jace and Luke are.

Weaving through the agitated public, I search for them. Some of the onlookers part for me, eyes looming in a mixture of wonder and disapproval. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they recognized me. No, their stares are fixed on the sword at my hip and the dagger attached to my thigh. A lady with weapons. Such atrocity.

“Is that all you got, Cole?”

I pause, startled. That voice— oddly familiar yet somehow foreign. I push my way toward the front, determined to discover the reason for everyone's enthrallment. My heart leaps into my throat, pounding as if it might burst out of me entirely.

Swift, precise movements from a lithe man command the yard with effortless mastery. Each strike is deliberate, expertly executed, testament to years of training. The morning sun blushes his pale skin, shining down upon his sharp features as if carved from marble. Long silver hair flows like molten strands of moonlight, a stark contrast to the dark leather eye-patch that covers his right eye, enhancing the bridge of his straight nose.

The boy of my nightmares stands right in front of me, a child no more, but a menacing grown man.

He moves with unnerving ease, sidestepping each of Ser Criston’s blows with his morningstar as if they were mere trifles. Every motion brims with undeniable skill—and searing arrogance.

I stay rooted in place, my feet refusing to let me retreat, even when my instincts urge me to run back to the safety of the castle walls.

Before I can fathom his next move, the sharp tip of his blade is already poised at Ser Criston’s throat, finishing their duel. The crowd erupts into applause, and judging by their fervor, this is far from the first time the one-eyed prince has claimed victory.

“Well done, my prince. You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.” To my surprise, Ser Criston humbly accepts his defeat, his words laced with content. A proud teacher, I see.

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” his cold tone cuts through the praise like a honed dagger. The blade remains in position, purposefully pointed in the opposite direction as a dangerous smile curves his lips. “Nephews, have you come to train?”

Fuck.

There they are, just a few steps away, nervously exchanging glances, searching for an escape. Idiots. Luke averts his eyes from the prince to avoid confrontation, but his gaze meets mine. He elbows Jace, whose hand has instantly gone to his own sword, making my presence known not only for him, but for all. Realization dawns on him then. Too late.

“Princess Naerys,” he calls my name with a low rasp, his voice strained from the fight. My skin crawls. “At last we meet again.”

His lavender stare drifts over my riding leathers, tracing my form in scrutiny, before settling back on my face.

“Prince Aemond,” I nod curtly, forcing a tight grin. “It has been far too long.”

Dozens of eyes intently survey our interaction, truly aware now of who I am. He takes a rapid step forward, closing the distance between us. I hold my ground, refusing to let his imposing height diminish me.

Steadily, the prince leans down, and for a fleeting moment, I think he’s reaching for my hand. His fingers close around the hilt of my sword, and in one fluid motion, he draws it from its sheath.

I hold my breath.

“What do we have here?” he muses, twisting the sword lightly in his hand, testing its weight and balance. His eye narrows with disdain. “Such a heavy sword.”

I was wrong. Arrogant falls short to describe his attitude.

My lips part, ready to demand he return what’s mine.

With a swift motion, he throws the sword back at me, hilt-first. I barely manage to catch it, the blade almost slicing through my fingers. The crowd gasps.

Jace surges forward, ready to intervene, but Aemond moves first. A devilish gleam crosses his face, as he raises his sword and charges directly at me.

I dodge the first strike, instinct driving my body away from the blade, and brace myself for his next assault. His laugh echoes through the yard, low and bursting with satisfaction, a predator delighting in the chase.

“Come now, dear.” He takes a step back, adjusting his stance. “Grant me this duel.”

I cast my brother a warning look, a silent order for him to stay out of this. I am not just some girl who plays at being swordsman. The weapons I carry, I know how to use.

My blade clashes against his with a loud clang. If he wants a fight, I am more than willing to oblige.

He pulls away, spinning his sword behind his back—a flaunting performance of skill. I duck his next strike as well, and a flicker of disappointment tugs at his lips.

“Oh, please. Do not hold back,” he taunts. Our blades collide, the sharp edge hovering mere inches from my face. His tone drops to a whisper, “Show me what you can handle, darling niece.”

My heart pounds faster, the rhythm echoing in my ears like a war drum. He is toying with me. Surely, he would revel in demonstrating this crowd just how easily he could best me. However, I suspect that what he desires most is not proof of his strength over me. No, he wants my shame. To let all those present know I am not his equal, nor I could ever be. Remind them I shall hold no true power.

The pressure between our clashed swords is intense enough that neither of us dares withdraw and risk losing balance. Falling would mean giving him the upper hand, and I am not willing to take that chance. Forced into a stalemate, we pull away in the same instant��then dive right back to our fray.

A frustrated groan escapes him as he tightens his hold on the hilt, knuckles white. The clattering of steel turns frantic, each blow harder and faster than the last. Our labored breaths become an aggressive tune, accompanied by grunts of exertion.

A burning ache spreads down my arms, hindering my responses. Cold sweat slicks my fingers, the grip on my handle faltering despite my efforts to keep it restrained.

His frame, though far from hefty, speaks of unyielding endurance. The muscle etched onto his body does not strain him as it does other men, to my dismay. I catch the fierce glow in his eye, and an unsettling question surfaces—what lies beneath the eye-patch?

The sword slips from my hands, meeting the ground with a resonant noise as the crowd holds a breath.

Aemond lunges, ready to point the tip of his sword to my heart. I fall back, bending down in what might seem a desperate attempt to retrieve my weapon. Instead my hand darts to the silver dagger attached to my thigh. When I rise up to face him, the edge of his blade finds my chest, but my dagger presses flat against the delicate skin of his throat.

The fleeting surprise in his expression vanishes, replaced by solid resolve. He lowers his sword, then his free hand snakes around my waist, pulling me in until our bodies are flush against one another.

“Look at you, betrothed. Such a strong lady, are you not?”

Strong.

The word drips from his tongue like poison. My fingers tighten around my dagger, the urge to drive it right through his flesh overwhelming. I could do it—twist the blade and slit his throat. I would be killed afterwards, of course, but the dead cannot marry, and right now that sounds like the better choice.

His grip on my waist doesn’t waver, anchoring me in place as his gaze roves over my features before settling on the darkness of my hair. He lets his sword clatter to the ground, his now free hand raising to find the few strands of silver among my brown locks, gathering them between his fingers with a gentle tug. My eyes remain on his, searching for any hint of his thoughts. All I see is black taking over the violet.

The crimson gates of the Red Keep swing open, revealing a grand carriage adorned with the Velaryon sigil, its golden engraving glinting in the sunlight. Vaemond, my grandfather’s nephew, has arrived to press his claim to the Driftwood Throne.

As everyone’s focus shifts to the commotion caused by the new arrival, Aemond leans in, his breath hot against my neck. “Jiōrnon arlī, ilībōños,” he whispers before abruptly releasing me.

Welcome home, bastard.

[arminreindl]

Still no new croc stuff from me (but I got something in the works), so instead more general paleonews. Today, a new pterosaur ancestor and it looks WEIRD.

This is Venetoraptor gassenae (Gassen's Plunderer from Vale Veneto) is a new lagerpetid literally just published a couple of minutes ago. According to its description (and as seen in the image) it had a toothless premaxilla that was hooked like the beak of a raptorial bird. It may have been covered in keratin, which is interesting as the skulls of early pterosaurs appear to have been smooth. The hands are obviously enormous and the size differences between the fingers are well in line with what pterosaurs would later have (i.e. the fourth finger is the longest, the fifth is reduced in Venetoraptor and absent in pterosaurs), but the legs are still much longer. The claws are described as sharp and scythe-like and again, its interesting that the fourth is the longest, as in other lagerpetids its usually the third that exceeds all others in length. Interesting connection between Veneto and pterosaurs for sure.

In terms of relationships it was found to be nested deep in lagerpetids, which, expectedly are recovered as the sister group to pterosaurs.

It seems to represent a whole new ecomorph not previously known from this group and interestingly coexisted not just with the related Ixalerpeton, but also with some early dinosaurs like Buriolestes. The beak is also interesting. Similar beaks have evolved multiple times in Triassic archosaurs and the hooked tip in particular is common even in modern birds, tho the authors argue that we know too little to say what precisely it was used for. Could be used for ripping flesh (like in falcons) or for eating fruit (like in parrots, fun fact, falcons and parrots are close relatives). As for the hand, the authors suggest that a big driver for ornithodirans playing around with them as the fact that they were not forced to be quadrupedal, so they could be more experimental, leading to hands fit for grasping, climbing and eventually flight.

Also for all those aware of the issues surrounding Brazilian fossils, rest assured, the fossil is being kept at the Centro de Apoio à Pesquisa Paleontológica da Quarta Colônia da Universidade Federal de Santa Maria, so it is in Brazil. The authors are primarily Brazilian (including the lead author Rodrigo Müller) and Argentinian, with two from the USA. Linke: New reptile shows dinosaurs and pterosaurs evolved among diverse precursors | Nature

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jay Kuo at The Big Picture:

When I write about the latest horrific policy or action by the Trump administration, often a reader will comment, “The cruelty is the point.” We all sense, and in many ways accept, this as true. How could we not, given everything we have seen and experienced for years under Trump? But there has always been something unsatisfactory and circular about this assessment. It asserts that Trump and his lackeys are cruel just to be cruel, presumably because that is their nature and they enjoy it. That feels correct, but also incomplete. Cruelty serves a number of other purposes beyond the sadism of those who inflict it. We’ve witnessed this wherever atrocities occur anywhere in the world. Soldiers not only kill enemy soldiers but systematically rape, torture, and execute innocent civilians. Vulnerable minorities, whether Jews in Nazi Germany or LGBTQs in Uganda, become targets for cruelty not only because they are easy targets and people are awful, but because the state has an agenda and the cruelty is a twisted part of it. The United States is not somehow immune to this and never has been. Throughout our history, our government, acting through our military and our courts, has repeatedly inflicted intentional cruelty upon whole populations within our borders. This has led to the worst chapters of our nation’s story: Indigenous genocide, centuries of Black slavery, and the Japanese American internment. Today, cruelty has once again become a feature of U.S. policy, particularly as practiced against migrants to our country. Given where our policies have led in the past, it is not enough to shake our collective heads and conclude that such cruelty is the point, that they are cruel just to be cruel. We need to look behind that cruelty and ask the harder question: But what’s the goal?

Creating an enemy

Scholars of fascism will tell you that the first pillar of fascism is to create domestic enemies. As the Public Leadership Institute writes,

[Fascism creates a myth of victimhood, that the majority population is in a humiliating decline from a past greatness because of singled-out minority populations. It’s an us-against-them crisis, the myth goes. The targeted racial, ethnic, religious or gender minorities, and the “liberals” who support them, are thus framed as not just opponents but enemies, demonized so the majority can feel justified in hating and repressing them. In fact, “Make America Great Again” is the quintessential fascist slogan. It’s a myth that celebrates the good ole days of white supremacy.]

This is precisely why Trump has targeted migrants and falsely labeled them all as criminals and undesirables who are “poisoning the blood of our country”—a line favored by Adolf Hitler. Migrant communities are relatively small in size here. They are politically powerless in the face of concerted attacks. It is therefore the responsibility of those with greater social and political power to step up in their defense. That’s why the first response of a democracy to any attack upon its most vulnerable members must be to recognize and call it out as fascist. Trump isn’t trying to make our communities safer from migrant crime, which is not a widespread thing. He is trying to divide us, to make us fear and despise other human beings who live in our communities, and to gain power from that division and fear.

Brandishing the power of the fascist state

The White House first announced that it was rendering members of “Venezuelan gang members” to a prison in El Salvador under the pretense that we were under “invasion” and Trump was justified in invoking the Alien Enemies Act. When the migrant flights began, the government of El Salvador released a deeply disturbing video depicting the operation in action. The sheer number of armed guards and police and military vehicles, complete with an ominous Hollywood movie-style soundtrack, sent the message: We are the government, and we have the power to do whatever we want, to whomever we want. There’s a reason that Trump wants to spend tens of millions on an unprecedented military parade, which happens to coincide with his birthday. It’s a show of force and lethal power, meant to stir awe and admiration among his followers while intimidating his enemies. [...]

Sowing doubt and creating mass fear

Recently, the White House announced it was ending Temporary Protective Status (TPS) for hundreds of thousands of refugees from war-torn, dangerous, and stricken parts of the world, from Haiti to Afghanistan. With respect to the latter, he even turned our nation’s back upon the very people who collaborated with the U.S. during the long war we started there. These refugees now face persecution and even death should they be returned to the Taliban-controlled country. Despite its welcome stance on the fundamental right of due process, the Supreme Court has proven no bar to the mass deportation of millions of migrants previously under protected status here. Just yesterday, apparently agreeing that immigration decisions including TPS lie within the ambit of the executive branch’s authority, the justices permitted the Department of Homeland Security under Secretary Kristi Noem to end TPS for 300,000 Venezuelan migrants. This termination is now happening long before their statuses were set to expire. This means that all of these people, who arrived here legally after accepting an offer to come here from the Biden administration, are now subject to deportation. The lesson to the world is that the offer and promises of a prior U.S. president mean nothing to the new one. The message is both deeply unjust and utterly lacking in humanity: You may have come here legally, but we will find a way to send you back anyway. As a result of this ruling and Noem’s draconian order, the lives of hundreds of thousands of Venezuelans, along with millions of their families and friends, have suddenly been upended. Many justifiably fear what will happen to them next. Will they be seized off the street or out of their cars? Will they be held indefinitely in decrepit and dangerous ICE detention facilities? Will they be sent back to their native country or instead to a third country, perhaps even to prison there? The U.S. has already demonstrated that its en masse mistreatment of migrants is intentional and without remorse or recourse. There are now well-documented horror stories of scores of men who are wholly innocent of any criminal activity being sent to El Salvador’s CECOT prison.

[...]

Making cruelty the new normal

There is a fourth, and perhaps most disturbing, reason for the administration’s cruelty: conditioning the U.S. populace to it. For those of us who remain horrified by its actions, the White House is hoping we ultimately treat it like we now do mass shootings. That is to say, the administration hopes it becomes so commonplace that we hear about it, shake our heads in resigned hopelessness, and begin to accept it as inevitable. For the cult followers of Trump, there is a still more dangerous goal. He wants them to absorb and appreciate the cruelty and make it part of their political identity. When flights bearing migrants to El Salvador began, the White House put out a video depicting the preparation and use of chains and shackles upon migrants being rendered or deported. Along with the video, it used the acronym ASMR, which stands for “Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response.” [...]

Pushing the boundaries

Earlier in this piece, I noted that the creation of “domestic enemies” such as migrants permits the government to target not just the migrants themselves but the liberals and activists who support them as “enemies of the state.” The White House is now attempting to sow doubt and fear among its political opponents by using the power of the state to intimidate them and even lock them up, too. Specifically, the administration has now begun to target members of other branches of government. These include Judge Hannah Dugan in Wisconsin, who was recently indicted on two federal counts of “obstructing proceedings” and “concealing a person from arrest” as ICE agents sought to detain a migrant attending a criminal proceeding in her courtroom. Federal authorities have also targeted Rep. LaMonica McIver of New Jersey, who as of today stands charged by the Justice Department for “assault” at an ICE facility near Newark as she sought to carry out her statutorily protected right to inspect a migrant detention facility in her state. This is a deliberate test, not just of the administration's own willingness to cross traditional boundaries and infringe upon the judicial and legislative prerogatives and immunities of the other governmental branches, but of the public’s willingness to tolerate it.

The Tyrant 47 Regime’s policies on immigration are about cruelty.

[sainteclectic]

i.dont know what to ask but. you know who i wanna hear about,,, {thymos. its thymos,,} /silly

thymos hmm... I think it has tremors, mostly in the hands. obviously it shakes a lot because it's soso scared but even relatively calm, its hands tremble. and it's frustrating because trembling hands make it hard to play instruments, not speaking makes it almost impossible to sing - music unites all of them, what does that make thymos? is it too far gone to find concord again?

it continues on. it plays guitar with its claws after learning its fingers always fumble the picks. still can't get the hang of ukuleles, the strings are too small. it uses weighted keys to play the keyboard. it avoids the drums - less precise movements, but they're too loud and the crashing bangs remind it too much of gunshots.

surprisingly, it really likes the xylophone! it found an ancient childhood xylophone stuffed in the back of whole's closet while hiding there one day, and it's tiny and childish but the noise is way less scary. heart and mind get it a proper vibraphone and though it's a hurdle to actually get thymos out of hiding to play a full sized instrument, it has a lot of fun doing jazz numbers with them. and maybe it can heal despite everything, despite all the pain and terror and grief. it just needs to be met where it's at first.

[stquilts]

2nd Quilt top finished!!

I’m calling it a Split Rail Window Pane Pattern.

I’m pretty proud of myself! I think it came out great. The sashing around the blocks was the right choice. I have a light lilac backing fabric and will be piecing the binding with some of the leftover strips from the jelly roll. Finished size should be around 58-59”. Hope my mom likes it!

Part of this journey is sharing the ups & downs (strikes & gutters) of learning how to quilt. Here’s what I have for you today…

My background is sewing clothes. Sewing clothes is a little more forgiving than piecing quilt blocks. Quilt Sewing requires:

VERY straight cutting - Fabric moves and rulers slip. The world is an imperfect place. Make sure your shit is square. “Close enough” will most likely give you a headache later on.

VERY precise measuring - See above.

Ironing, ironing and more ironing- I hope you like your iron. You’ll be using it A LOT. Steal the water bottle your spouse uses to squirt the cat when he’s being an asshole because you’ll need it. Easier to spray than refilling the iron all the time. I’m considering spray starch to keep pressed seams in place. I read somewhere that you could use a water/vodka mix as a DIY hack but I buy GOOD vodka and I’m not wasting the good stuff on a DIY spray starch.

MAJOR attention to seam allowance - When they say 1/4” they mean ONE QUARTER INCH. Use a 1/4” foot, one with a guide, painters tape to mark the base of your machine, anything to help you keep that seam straight and 1/4”.

My sewing machine is still relatively new and I’m still figuring it out. I got a Pfaff Passport 3.0. One thing I learned is that I never knew how much I needed an auto thread cutter until I had it. That is AWESOME and I’m never going back. I’m still dealing with some “nesting thread” when I reverse to lock the beginning of a seam. I’ve tried rethreading and redoing the bobbin (the sewing equivalent to the IT “have you tried turning it off and back on again?”) but still does it. If anyone has an idea what it could be, I’m all ears.

I’m a little nervous to start quilting because the Passport is a little on the smaller side. I got it because I already had some compatible Pfaff accessories from my previous machine and I really liked my old Pfaff. I didn’t really have this idea of trying to quilt until recently. I think I’d like to get into teaching sewing or maybe designing quilts. Perhaps it’ll fund my early retirement!

Stay tuned for the trials and tribulations of creating a “quilt sandwich” and topstitch quilting on a smaller machine.

[little-lego-ninjas]

repetitive motions

It has been a minute, guys. Sorry for my lack of activity! I do have another little oneshot for you all to enjoy, though. Here's Zane knitting and generally having a good time for once in his life (no he isn't obsessed with completing tasks what are you talking about) (also also he may have a crush on Kai i am unsure feel free to interpret it however you'd like)

(1.7k words of Zane living life)

It was a relatively peaceful afternoon, as far as Ninjago City standards were. There was the usual hustle and bustle, the traffic coming in and out of the city, the deliveries of mail and take out punctual despite it all. The shoreline was alive with the late Summer rush, tourists maxing out the last of their vacations and highschoolers ignoring their upcoming responsibilities for just a little bit longer.

It was a lovely afternoon to relax, in Zane's opinion.

His chores had already been dealt with for the day (tidying his room, taking care of his laundry, and cleaning out the spam in his hard drive), and dinner was something he didn't need to stress about, since Kai was taking over tonight to give him some much-needed reprieve. Which left him with little to do other than indulge in his hobbies.

One he had picked back up recently was knitting, having missed it during the chaos of the past year or so. So much had happened that it had gotten nudged aside in favor of less time-consuming tasks and hobbies, and Zane felt a little bad that he had forgotten about his projects. Thankfully, he had memorized the pattern of blanket he had been trying to create, and he was excited to finally add some more stitches to it.

Settling down on his bed, Zane made certain that he had all of his needed supplies. His three rows in "blanket" was laying in a bin, neatly tucked away with his needles, and his yarn. His phone was on his bedside table in case anyone needed to reach him, and his door was partially open in case it was someone just deciding to come see him.

He nodded to himself. He was ready to get to work then. Curling his legs underneath him, Zane picked up his skein of yarn and his project, placing it the yarn next to him and the project into his lap. Mentally, he brought up the pattern's instructions so he had a base to follow in case his memory served him incorrectly, and he placed his fingers against the needles in the proper position for efficiency.

He drew in a deep breath, and then began to knit. It was a tedious process, repeating the same motion over and over again, row by row, but he liked seeing the progress slowly grow with his efforts. It made him feel like he was doing something, like he was working for his reward. It reminded him of baking, meticulous in the measurements, precise in the numbers, everything laid out to be followed exactly as described for the proper results.

He smiled as he cast off another row, ready to begin the second. The blanket had doubled in size with his short bit of work, and it was steadily beginning to look like an actual blanket, rather than a strangely long cat toy. Zane was quite pleased with himself for his neat stitch-work, happy to keep on going until he was stopped by an outside force.

"Hey, Zane, sorry to bother you but do you know where the good dutch oven is?"

Well. There was the outside force.

Zane looked up from his blanket, unsurprised to find Kai hovering in his doorway, one shoulder against the frame. He was dressed very casually, almost like he was preparing for a nap. Maybe he didn't want to dirty his nicer clothing with his cooking.

Then again, that's what aprons were for…

"Not the bad one that's the neon orange color, but the older one?" Kai asked, gesturing with his hands for the rough size.

"I believe it is in the cabinet to the right of the stove," Zane said after a moment of thought. "Is it not?"

Kai shook his head, rubbing at his left eye with the palm of his hand. "Aw, I forgot we reorganized the kitchen last month. No wonder I couldn't find it. Thanks, Zane."

Zane nodded. "Happy to have helped."

Kai left his room, and Zane was eager to get back to his knitting. He didn't want to loose the good work flow he had began when he started. Picking up where he had left off, Zane started adding a new row to his project, wondering if he should add more colors than just blue to his work. Perhaps he should invest in some new skeins next time he went into the city, just to keep his hobby afloat. There was only so much he could create out of the same ice blue shade before it became egotistical of him.

Maybe he should make something red for Kai next, something nice that he would enjoy, but not something that he wouldn't use. Perhaps a pair of gloves. Zane nodded to himself, waiting until he finished his next row before he set his project down on his lap. He needed to make a note in his phone so he could remember his next project, just in case something went wrong with his memory.

Again.

Zane pursed his lips as he typed into his notes app, adding red yarn to his growing grocery list as a second thought. He set his phone back down and went back to knitting, pushing aside his negative thoughts of memory loss and struggling to find himself again. It was in the past, and he was in the present now, so it was alright. He didn't need to dwell on it anymore.

He paused when he noticed his ice blue yarn was turning a murky, reddish shade as he kept adding stitches to his row. Zane knit his brows in confusion, lifting the string of the skein he had been using, finding a good portion of it stained with a reddish substance. A quick scan identified it as cranberry juice.

Zane sighed softly, undoing his row to remove the coloring. He would have to cut the stained yarn out and splice in a new piece to keep going. That was probably the price he paid for using Mrs. Walker's old yarn that hadn't seen hands that weren't a toddlers in over a decade. It was kind of her to give it to him though when he expressed an interest in learning, so he wouldn't complain. It was just a minor setback in his productivity.

He just needed a pair of scissors and he could get back to work in no time.

Zane carefully set his project aside, getting to his feet. The kitchen was the most common place for the countless pairs of scissors in the monastery to end up, and it was the best bet for finding a pair quickly. He picked his phone up, pocketed it, and then left his room in search of scissors, eager to return to his blanket. The sooner he finished it, the sooner he could get to work on his next project.

Would Kai prefer fingerless, or fingered gloves? Hm…

Zane slowed his walk to the kitchen halfway through the living area when he realized how quiet it was. It was never quiet with a monastery full of young adults. Curious, he glanced around at his surroundings only to find that he seemed utterly alone. If not for Kai's soft humming from the kitchen, Zane would have thought everyone had gone on a mission, or had decided to spend the day acting their age, out in the Summer heat rollerblading, or watching a movie.

Poking his head into the kitchen, Zane found Kai dicing vegetables, his phone on the counter playing music. Not wanting to startle the ninja with a knife in his hand (which happened far too often for how trained they were), he stayed by the door before he spoke. "Hello, Kai."

Kai lifted his gaze for a moment, nodding a hello since his hands were full. "Need something?"

"Just a pair of scissors. My yarn is stained in a section," Zane answered, moving toward their resident "junk drawer", that remained that way no matter how many times he cleaned it.

"Ah." Kai slid the knife across the cutting board, collecting the onions he had been dicing, depositing them into the dutch oven with practiced ease. "That must suck."

"Not entirely," Zane mused as he dug through the drawer for a pair of scissors. "I just have to retie the yarn before I can continue. Nothing too bad."

"That's good, then. I figured it would be, like, a nightmare to work out." Kai threw a grin over his shoulder at Zane, "Can you tell I don't knit?"

Zane giggled. "It is only a little obvious. Your creative talents lie elsewhere."

"In what, drama?" Kai asked, laughing at his own joke. "I think it's cool that you're making something that's gonna be useful to someone else. You've always been like that though, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised."

Zane paused in his search for scissors, looking over at Kai to watch him add another knife full of vegetables (peppers of some sort) to his pot. "Just another thing about you that makes you you."

Suddenly, Zane didn't want to work on his knitting anymore. He closed the drawer and made his way over to the other side of the stove, leaning against the counter. "What are you cooking?"

Kai glanced over at him. "Well, I was gonna do carnitas, but I found a pack of stir fry in the freezer that really needs to be used, so I'm doing both."

Zane nodded, resting his chin in his hand. "Mind if I assist?"

"You're kidding," Kai said, stopping what he was doing entirely. "I literally said I'd cook tonight so you could just…"

He gestured vaguely, "Relax, or something."

"I have found myself bored and lonely without anyone else to keep me company," Zane admitted. "Everyone else has found something to do, and I enjoy cooking with others."

"I hear the 'if' in there," Kai teased.

Zane rolled his eyes. "Yes, if they don't burn down the kitchen in their cooking endeavors, then I will cook with them."

Kai smirked. "There it is."

"Is that a yes or a roundabout way of telling me no?"

Kai laughed, nodding to the sink. "Wash your hands, let's get this done."

Zane smiled as he rolled up his sleeves to follow orders, already in a better mood than he had been before.

[theother456-stories]

Diego had worked at Sweet Dreams Pudding Factory for years, overseeing the daily production of its famous pudding vats. It was a relatively quiet job, and Diego enjoyed the sweet, comforting aroma of vanilla, chocolate, and caramel that filled the factory every day. But there was one rule that everyone knew: Never mess with the colossal pudding vat.

The colossal vat was the crown jewel of the factory, holding enough pudding to fill thousands of jars. The engineers had designed it with industrial precision, and a long, sturdy hose attached to the vat allowed the pudding to be transferred into the packaging machines. To Diego, it was a thing of beauty—and a source of endless temptation.

Late one night, after most of the crew had gone home, Diego found himself alone in the factory. He stood by the colossal vat, staring at the golden hose that snaked out from its side. The idea had been teasing him for weeks: What would it taste like straight from the source? He knew it was against the rules, but curiosity gnawed at him.

“Just one taste,” he muttered, gripping the hose. “No one will know.”

Diego switched the pump to manual mode and brought the hose to his lips. The first taste was heaven. Warm, creamy pudding flowed into his mouth, richer and smoother than anything he’d ever tasted. He couldn’t stop himself. He took another gulp… and then another.

But then, something went wrong.

The suction on the hose suddenly increased, locking it tightly to his mouth. Diego tried to pull it away, but it was as if the hose had a mind of its own. The pudding kept flowing, faster and faster, and Diego’s belly began to expand.

“Uh-oh…” he mumbled around the hose, his eyes wide as he looked down. His stomach, once flat, was already rounding out beneath his shirt. The pudding showed no signs of stopping. Diego stumbled back, his hands gripping his now-bulging belly, which sloshed audibly with each step.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” he shouted, though the hose muffled his words. He fumbled with the controls on the vat, but it was no use—the pump had jammed, and the entire colossal vat was emptying straight into him.

Within minutes, Diego’s belly had grown to absurd proportions. His shirt ripped clean off as his skin stretched to accommodate the sheer volume of pudding. He stumbled to the floor, forced to sit on his ballooning belly as it grew larger and larger, pressing against the machinery and walls.

“HELP!” Diego tried to shout, but the hose refused to budge. He hiccuped, sending ripples through his pudding-filled belly. His legs dangled helplessly off the sides as he grew too big to stand. By now, his belly was the size of a car, wobbling and sloshing like a living pudding vat of its own.

Alarms blared through the factory as the colossal vat began to empty completely. The hose finally dislodged itself with a loud pop, and Diego gasped for air, his face red and his body trembling under the weight of his newfound size. The room fell silent except for the sound of his belly groaning and gurgling.

By the time the factory manager arrived, Diego was sprawled in the center of the production floor, his belly so large it filled nearly half the room. The manager stared, slack-jawed, as Diego hiccupped again, sending his massive pudding-filled belly wobbling like a gelatin dessert.

“Diego!” the manager shouted. “What in the world happened?!”

Diego groaned, his face red with embarrassment. “I, uh… I got curious.”

The manager pinched the bridge of his nose. “Curious? You drained the entire vat! Do you realize how much pudding that was?!”

Diego’s belly let out a loud, gurgling groan as if in agreement. He tried to move, but his body was far too heavy. He sighed and flopped back onto the wobbling mass.

“I think I might need a little help,” Diego muttered.

[inamagicalhallucination]

A lone figure crept through the front door of the small apartment. Despite its size, the apartment was decorated in apt preciseness to maximize the space to create an open environment, as best as it could. There really was no better word for it other than “practical” though the owner would call it “ideal”. Still, though, there were hints of “mistakes'', little flaws that ruined the overall ideal nature of the apartment. The gray sweater thrown across the back of the couch, the forgotten watch on the side table, the bandages stored in a basket on one of the shelves rather than with the first aid kit in the bathroom. And of course, the body creeping its way towards the bedroom door.

Dazai didn’t bother turning the light on, knowing that it would piss off Kunikida and not in the fun way where he huffed but ultimately moved on at the next distraction. He hadn’t really planned on bothering Kunikida tonight. He’d gone to work like a good little boy, walked himself back to his dorm, done all the things he was supposed to and then he’d gotten ready for bed. Sleep didn’t come to him.

It often didn’t. But he’d been spoiled at the Agency, getting to take mid-shift naps, getting invited to sleepovers. Company helped him – not always, not in the past. But the agency had a strange way of making him feel… comfortable. 

So the nights that sleep didn’t come became more and more bothersome. Back in the mafia, he could go days on end without sleep and be relatively functional. But now he’d become soft. He couldn’t go to long, it made him miserable and miserable to be around. 

The agency noticed.

Of course, they noticed.

And now his sleepless nights were filled with invitations for movie nights, or hot chocolate, or whatever other thing whoever it was could think of to help him. It was sweet. It was too much. Ironically, he’d found a solution in an effort to avoid the kind, earnest faces that made him want to melt and claw off his skin at the same time. 

The solution being, of course, Kunikida.

Something about his presence just made the noise in Dazai’s head quiet. He couldn’t afford to lose that by irritating him at this moment. 

So, instead, he opened the door quietly, taking care to not make too much noise. And then, slowly stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

Kunikida liked to sleep in the dark. Dazai liked a little light if he was ever honest with himself – which meant he usually slept in the dark too. But tonight, it wasn’t just the moonlight seeping through the curtained windows that illuminated Kunikida’s sleeping body. Instead, on one of the sockets, a small night light was plugged. Kunikida’s tall body wasn’t visible under his blanket, just the curves and edges of his silhouette. 

Dazai crept closer. 

Kunikida’s face wasn’t visible, but Dazai could see the top of his head, blond hair peeking out. 

He crept closer.

“Kunikida-kun,” he whispered. Kunikida didn’t stir. Dazai leaned forward and whispered again.

Kunikida’s body tensed, years of partnership meant that Dazai was attuned to him and his reactions. 

“It’s me,” Dazai whispered.

KUnikida’s head peeked out from under the blanket. He blinked a few times, face scrunched up in annoyance and sleepiness. Then he squinted at Dazai, unable to see him clearly in the dark and without his glasses. Then after a second, he groaned. Despite that, though, he shuffled to the other side of the bed, leaving space between himself and where Dazai was leaning. Dazai waited.

Kunikida lifted his blanket up from the side he’d vacated. Dazai grinned, quickly climbing into bed before he changed his mind. He grinned at Kunikida, but he merely huffed and closed his eyes again. 

Dazai scooted closer until they were a hair’s width away.

He always slept better with Kunikida there.

[raindrenchedstories]

Forever Home renovated Chapter 1

The city was cold, and quiet save for the crunching of boots on asphalt. With a bag slung over one shoulder, in addition to the backpack, a man trudged forwards. His dirty face was streaked with blazing patches of clear skin. One flood, one flood was all it took, and his future was gone.

Just one more misfortune in a line of many. He’d practically grown up in an apocalypse. The many scars that littered his body under his baggy shirt and pants were enough to indicate such. It used to be he travelled with other people. First his parents. Then a close friend and his family.

For a while, things looked up. He even had someone. He rubbed his face. He couldn’t think about her right now. Not so soon after. The river flooded. Now he was alone. He’d never been alone in his life. At least the rain let up for now. Though he was aware of the flashes of lightning in the distance.

The lone man struggled through a hole in a relatively stable building. It looked like it had been a grocery store. It was picked clean now, and only served as shelter for the evening. Just in time too, another thunder clap sounded from the deep, overcast skies above.

He wanted to eat, but his stomach wouldn’t allow it. Too upset to really chance anything more than water. Even then, he was scarce on that. With a huff, he settled behind what had been the counter of the store. There was an open space under the physical cash drawer. Something that had also been picked clean indicating looting during the early days.

It was that empty space he made his bed in. Bags tied to him, and curled around anything of value. He took a breath, and let his eyes shut. It had been a bad day. A very bad day. So when the ground started shaking, he knew he was in for more of the same.

Quietly, he listened closely to the sounds. It was either a jötun, or a very loud ogre. Both were terrible to encounter. They started arriving four years after the disaster. Right after the other things. Ogres, Jötuns, even actual dragons started tearing apart houses and kidnapping people. Worse yet, they were frighteningly effective at it.

He held perfectly still. Silent as a mouse. Yet even that wasn’t enough. The wall exploded inwards, and was pried apart with frightening precision. He collected his things, and bolted. The damn thing must have watched him enter the building.

He got as far as over the counter, before large fingers entangled around himself and his things. He struggled, kicked, and bit. Finally, he screamed. As loud as he could, at the top of his lungs. A warning to any potential survivor nearby. He counted himself as doomed when he was unceremoniously shoved in a sort of wooden crate.

It was only large enough for him to stand. His affects were squished snugly against his stomach and back. There was an acrid smell that lingered in the wood’s surface, soaked in. He continued screaming until the lid was shut, and his voice was muffled. He was alone, aside from the monstrosity that had captured him. And now they travelled in some direction he could hardly make out.

At least the box had air holes. He slammed his head into the wall, and screamed again. This time in rage. It would be the first of many boxes he’d occupied in the next three months.

~

It was done. His perfection. His magnum opus. He’d had a table custom made with a high wall, able to sustain a small garden, and still prevent escapes. One wall jutted forwards, with a series of compartments and framed off with glass. These were made up to look like a dwelling. Complete with water pump, and shallow basin for the equivalent size.

For an enclosure, this was pretty much the best he could make. It took up a large section of his kitchen. As that was where he spent the most time anyways. He’d positioned a chair near it, and charts to keep track of the little thing’s health. Under the enclosure’s main area was a water tank, that could be easily removed if need be. As well there were drawers for everything he might need.

Keeping a micro climate was second nature to him. Thus it only made sense he started something like this for a tiny pet. They took up only the space of a palm. Much like elves, or merfolk. Yet they made up for it in bold personalities, and a habit of terraforming and modifying their environment in ways neither of the previously mentioned species did.

Yet, they didn’t appear to speak any known language. If at all. They hardly had any defences for the monsters and beasts that were native to the area. Finally, their native environment looked to be destroyed. It was a given that the larger races had to intervene. Especially the elementals.

Most large folk kept them as pets. Although, they were apparently spirited, they were easy to care for and safer than elves. What confused the forest giant the most, was the lack of information available. No spells for animal speech were attempted, no effort given to understand. He decided to take on the task. Step one, was to actually get the subject of study.

The giant settled onto a chair, and wrote the date into the journal. [Leaving to pick up subject now. Looking for adult or sub-adult male.] With that, he threw his jacket on, and left the house. He trodded down the flagstone path, idly looking over the tops of his most mature trees. They hardly made it past his elbow, but they were still young. The forest before him was much more dense, and reached eye level.

Delicately, he picked his way through the thick woods, and arrived at a massive copper structure. Two spires crackled with magical energy, a permanent teleportation spell was carved into the flagstone between them. Any charge they picked up from thunderstorms, kept the magic fed.

He passed through them easily enough, and landed in the city of the colossus. The city smelled of sulphur, and was made of molten rock. It’s citizens sparked and crackled as they moved. Living fire made flesh. It was one of the few giant settlements. Most giants lived solitary lives, only meeting their neighbours once or twice a decade. Unless they were close friends. The city of Colossus was the only one that held shops, and businesses that specialized in giants.

Dragons often visited as well. Rarely did they purchase anything, but they sold plenty. Iron, and raw gemstones were a popular market from such creatures, and the treasure they were paid added to the hoards they grew. Two of which were arguing over who brought the finest of silks that day, and if it was worth selling or commissioning to be made into something.

The giant ignored them, as he entered a small store, labelled as a pet shop. When he entered, a young stone giant perked up. His marble like skin polished, and shined as he forced a fake smile, that fell to shock and awe as he spoke. “Welcome to Missy’s miraculous pets. How may I- I KNOW YOU!” He jabbed a finger at the forest giant. “William Heart!”

~

The man sighed. In the three months after his capture, he grew a rough beard that itched. His hair had matted and his muscular structure had weakened slightly. He’d gone from survival to existence. No longer did he strive to live and breath every day. He was fed regularly, and water was provided. He’d gone through a month of what he assumed was a quarantine period, and was brought to a large room. Everything provided free of charge.

Yet he was more isolated from the others. In quarantine he could see, speak to and even touch other people, albeit through wire bars. Then he was brought to this place. He could hear other people. If he shouted he could even speak to them. There wasn’t much to say though. Besides the occasional plan or theory shouted across the massive room.

They’d deduced that they were in some form of shop. Whether it was a pet shop or grocery store was up for debate. Though he personally leaned towards the idea of a pet shop. Grocery stores didn’t tend to separate the lobsters. The debate never went too far though. They’d lose their voices before long.

There were sounds of other animals as well. Strange shrieks, neighs and yowls. So many live animals was also not typical of grocery stores. The kicker would be if there was pet supplies as well. Which couldn’t be seen from their vantage point. They’d have to be able to see more of the store to really tell.

During one of the ‘screaming nights’ as he affectionately called them, a plan had been hatched to end the debate. Lead by his neighbour. A woman by the name of Mary-grace. She’d been brought in a day after him. In that time, she bit two of the workers. It had been her who proposed a plan to call out what was happening to the next person who sold.

The human community had mostly agreed that the next person to be sold would yell one word when being rung up. Pet, or food. Then as new people were brought in, the ones who remained would fill them in. This plan had been shouted from across the room late at night. Not everyone agreed, they reasoned ignorance was bliss. The others tried to convince the out-layers, but he decided it was their right.

At least if they were in a pet shop there wouldn’t be some horrific death after. Then again, it would also mean he was the equivalent of a hamster. He supposed he’d always wondered how a gerbil felt. With that in mind, he watched idly as a mother and daughter meandered around the store. At least he assumed they were mother and daughter. He was both horrified and mesmerized as blazing creatures shopped about.

They crackled like molten lava, cooled to dark, ashy colours. Fire only rose from them when excited. Their skin hissed softly as they moved. The child practically was aflame as she dashed ahead of her mother. He’d seen many of them, both when a free man, and now. Yet they never ceased to confuse him.

He was perplexed by the fact that their skin didn’t burn anything they touched. Even living creatures were safe in their grasp. Jötun came in so many kinds. From sheer ice, to solid stone, yet he felt most endangered by the flaming ones. Thus this pair made him the most nervous as they perused his side of the store.

He discovered he hated Jötun children during his time for sale. The constant faces pressed far too close, or the tapping on the glass was enough. Their shrill calling and presumed baby talking was more the reason. Thus he was highly uncomfortable that this blazing girl was scampering about. She was tapping on his glass now. He curled himself away, and took to sheltering behind a sort of privacy screen in front of a grate. Otherwise known as the bathroom.

He still kept his eye on her through a small peek hole in his privacy screen. The mother’s face entered the view of his enclosure. She commented something to the child, and received a shake of the head. He was confident they wouldn’t be picking him today. Instead, they looked at another cage, the child bounced on her feet and started to cheer. An employee sidled his way up to the duo. Someone had been selected.

His neighbour screamed beside him. He never saw her face but he knew she was a fireball herself. So of course it would be her that had to be selected. Wouldn’t it? He felt his heart pang with guilt. If he hadn’t hid, maybe she’d be there another day. Even if that meant he wouldn’t.

She cried out for help, but there wasn’t really anything he could do. So he just rested his head on the wall behind him. She was pried from her cage by a worker, and shoved in a box. The mother and daughter conversed lightly as they went. The child looked a little saddened by the screaming and crying from the crate in her hands. He hoped she knew the weight of what she’d done. Taken a whole person for herself.

Mary-grace was carted around a far off section of the store. She yelled from across the building as loud as she could. The man started to show himself more as the pair returned to the counter. They had objects but he couldn’t see what they were. Mary-grace was silent during the ring up. Then shouted as loud as her lungs could bring about. “PET! They’re Se-” She was cut off as she was taken out the door.

Pet. Well that explained things. He’d suspected it all along, but now he was vindicated. The noisy food tray that screeched with every drag, the water bottle that you had to press a bead in the middle to drink from. The isolation. Oh god the isolation. He could see other people but couldn’t touch or talk to. The crates he was transported in. The glass wall and wire back of his cage. Now he knew why.

He thought it would be a comfort to know. Instead there was a wash of unhampered emotion. There was rage, there was hurt, and terror. What was going to happen to him if he didn’t sell? What was going to happen if he did? He slammed his palm against Mary-grace’s wall. Then punched it for good measure. Every day he’d felt mocked, and humiliated. Every day some new, horrific face would peer in at him, or tap the glass. He gave himself time to breath, and circled the room slowly.

There was chaos outside his enclosure as everyone else dealt with the same feelings he was. He heard people screaming. Some arguments about whether or not it was better to know. It was all overwhelming and loud. He found a good comfortable corner, on his bedding, and curled up around himself. When the bell chimed again, everyone fell silent. Then the cashier yelled.

~

The giant let out a strained laugh. “Well, my friends call me Bear.” He deflected. Only one person really still called him William. With that, he held up his carrier. “I’m here to adopt.”

The cashier bounded from behind his counter and led the man to the different cages. Though he started at animals like horses and such. When Bear started for the little critters the young man followed along. “Oh! Are you interested in a speaking companion? We have elves.” Someone from the elf section cursed loudly.

“No, I’m more interested in these little fellows. What are we calling them now?” He crouched before the first enclosure he saw. A female was flattening herself against the back wall, and searching for an escape. He grimaced.

“Oh, well we’ve been calling them Scamps. Though that’s more of a nickname. See someone you like?” The young man was eager to please, staring at Bear with adoration. The older giant stood, and paced slowly.

“Not yet, but I do have something in mind. I’m looking for a male. Preferably one who’s used to the goings on around here and know where food and water come from. Who’s been here the longest?” He stared around the room. There were no enclosures near the ground, everything had to be at eye level. The younger man slapped his hands together and lead Bear to a single enclosure.

“Easily this fellow. He tends to hide or frighten easily. He was found in a little nest. Took the whole thing with him. He’s not a big fan of loud noises, and hides any time he sees children. Well, he hides whenever he’s unhappy. Which is often.” The teller sighed. “So he’s been here for two months. He’s the last of his batch.”

The scene melted Bear’s heart. The scamp was curled in around himself, and refusing to make eye contact. He sat atop a nest made of old, ratty material. He’d sported a small beard and shaggy hair of a light brown colour. He’d probably require grooming, but for now, he just had to get out of that store. “Yep. He’s the one. How much?”

The cashier scooted off to start the process of ringing him up. This left Bear with his hand on the glass. The little fellow noticed him, and lurched back. “I guess you’re coming home with me little guy. What should we call you?”

~

The large, hairy face outside his enclosure was an unwelcome sight. Though the creature’s eyes crinkled with a warm smile, the black hair and beard almost drowned out anything else. There were flecks of green crawling up the creatures cheeks and temples like vines.

Something wasn’t right. This new intruder wasn’t looking around at everyone else. He wasn’t going back and forth. He wasn’t moving on. The man’s stomach dropped. The cashier had returned, and reached for the latch on the front of his cage. It had been locked, but he knew they could open from the front.

The one staring at him had a crate in hand. The human made a very clear decision that he was not going in that box. He bolted as soon as the first hand reached for him. He didn’t have much leeway to run, but he was going to deliberately make himself a problem.

As the clerk reached in again, he made a break for it. He skidded under the second attempt at a grab, and bolted from another hand coming for him. The clerk was using both hands to coral him, which he could easily slide under. His ‘wild’ days had given him plenty of practice ducking under and out of danger

The only thing he didn’t count on, was the water pipe. His head collided with it, and he was sure the sound it made was audible for even the jötun. He expected to hit the floor. Instead something warm, and broad lay beneath him. It didn’t take a genius to figure he’d fallen into one of their hands. He rolled to his stomach and bit down into the flesh below him.

He shook his head violently and tried to dislodge a chunk of the offending hand. He was satisfied when he started to taste iron. Until the fingers around him calmly closed, and pinned his upper half. Still grinding his teeth into the wound, he switched tactics and began flailing his legs. This was utterly useless as he was swooped upwards. Three months since his first capture, and the feeling of being lifted into the air was still disorienting.

It wasn’t the first time something picked him up like this. Though normally they’d restrain his whole body. He made an effort to keep his legs free, and forsook his plan to bite off a piece of his offender. He was starting to be lowered, he could feel it. His feet shot out either direction and wedged him outside the door way of the container.

Calmly, he was lifted again. He tried to re-wedge himself, only to have his legs gently swung counter clockwise. He couldn’t find the foothold afterwards. Despite his best efforts, he was in the box. He stamped about and screamed at the giant, kicking his container. When the hand returned, all his bravery dropped, and he slammed himself against the nearest corner, in the most troublesome place he could manage. His bedding was dropped inside with him. Including his backpack and from the day of his capture. He’d managed to keep that, at least.

The lid was closed, and he was carried around the store. There were shouts behind him, that he largely ignored. Instead, he turned about, and examined his surroundings. Desperately he tried to confirm or dispute Mary-grace’s opinion. First he had to figure out his transport. The walls were thin stone, polished and smooth. Air holes lined two sides, and if he put effort in, he could climb them.

There wasn’t much light, except for what was outside of the air holes. So he made use of what he had, and worked his way to look outside. From there, he could see where they were going. The rest of the ‘pet’ section of the store was filled with strange assortments of animals.

For one thing, there was a pen of horses in a set up more suited for guinea pigs. A large hut in the back of the enclosure made for a stable, and the animals more or less meandered about unbothered. Long desensitized to the massive creatures around them. He tried to make out patterns but saw nothing more than strange stripes on one.

Another cage, from his view, acted more like a fish tank. Much to his wonder and amazement, there were mermaids in there. Real, actual mermaids. They swam in circles and followed the giant as he walked. Unlike a fish tank, it was supplied with a large platform for his aquatic counterparts to climb up on.

Finally, he spotted a cage with an actual gryphon in it. From his section, the creatures were so far away. He could hear the other animals of course, but never actually saw them. He also caught sight of another kind of person in those separate cages. Slender, and pointed were the two words that came to mind. They glared at the Jötun as he passed them by.

Once all was said and done, he saw the other section of the store. Tools, water dishes, toys and strangely enough clothing were all hung on neat little racks. Things no future meal would be provided with from a grocer. His apparent master started sifting through some of the items. The man on the other hand, still had a duty to perform. While his master took his sweet time, he breathed in.

His voice was unpractised and hardly used outside of cursing out his caretakers or communicating with his fellows. Yet it still did the job. “I CAN CONFIRM! WE ARE BEING SOLD AS PETS. I REPEAT, PETS. WE ARE NOT THE ONLY ONES EITHER!” The creature buying him jerked at his sudden shouting. He gave a short nod, and let himself drop. Once the others started calling out that they’d heard him, he knew he had to rest.

Somehow, he doubted his troubles were going to end soon. It was best to take what respite he could get. He heard the cash register. Heard the sound of the door opening and closing. He even cued in to the sound of his new owner’s footsteps crunching on the road. The air wasn’t as fresh as he’d hoped. More like rotten eggs than fresh trees and flowers.

He tried to doze off when he heard Mary-grace yelling again. He sat up and listened to her words. He caught the tail end of another tyrade. “-Throw you in every pit of hell I can find!” Well at least she wasn’t taking such indignity lying down.

“Mary!” He shouted. His owner jerked again. He took no heed of it, and simply watched out the air holes of his carrier. He could see her arm sticking out of the box she’d been shoved in. The giants were standing so close to one another now. He could almost see her. They didn’t even have to yell so loud now.

“Richter?!” It occurred to him he’d hardly heard his own name in a while. A giddy laugh bubbled up from him as he tried to stick his arm out to wave. The air holes weren’t quite large enough. She on the other hand waved vigorously. “What the hell? When did you get sold off?”

“Right after you. Look. I don’t know if we’ll ever talk again after this. So thanks for being a good neighbour while you were one. And thanks for clearing up the store’s concerns.” He had to leave her with something positive. Something good to remember. Though he was worried for her safety.

She was silent a moment. Then she spoke again. “Don’t freaking give up alright? We’re not dead. And we’re not dying. So don’t give up!” He let that hit. The Jötun mother and his master shared a laugh, and just like that, they were separated again.

Richter sat back in his carrier, and sighed. Last words were never easy. He’d said plenty more than he should have in his life time. He slid to the floor, and rolled onto his side. Whatever happened, happened. She told him not to give up. He wanted to believe that was an option. Yet the concept of giving up was loose at best. What would giving up even look like?

Would it be better to fight with every last breath, and risk angering his master? Or would it be better to be sweet until he could find a moment to escape? Was escape even a viable option? The thoughts were too heavy, he let them exhaust him to sleep.

~

Bear sat down at his kitchen table. He brought the journal with him, and opened the lid of the box. His little fellow was curled up asleep. None the wiser to the peering gaze above him. He sighed and began sketching. He took in the matted hair, and rough beard. He’d probably need to provide the little fellow with a bath at some point. For now, he’d take him to the sink. After a wash and a change, he’d probably feel pretty good. But that was a problem for another time. For now, it was probably best to put in the small comforts.

With a sigh, Bear began placing the last bits and bobs in the large enclosure. He slid open the top pane of glass in what was meant to be a sleeping chamber. With love and care, he painted the back wall with stars. Hand sewn the pillow that made up the flooring, and added some feather pillows for the sake of it. He set the clothing there, and closed the tinted glass.

The next part was recreation. He placed those in the room at the bottom floor. He’d arranged it so the feeding zone was under the sleeping area. The recreation zone was across the hall from there, and the bathroom area was across from the feeding area. He’d have liked to have it away from both rooms, but the small ones didn’t care for their waste to be near their food.

Next on the docket, was removing the little thing from his carrier. With the scars of the recent struggle still pink on Bear’s hand, he chose a much safer approach. He gripped a soft towel, and stuck his hand in the carrier. The creature woke with an alarmed scream.

As it turned out, he could still bite through the towel. Hard too. Bear let off a long suffering sigh. He worked with many a small animal. This was nothing new. With one hand, he lowered a glass bowl to the water pump. He had to set the little fellow down while he used both hands to draw water into the bowl.

In that time, the little rat made a dash for it. Bear watched him idly. There wasn’t really any place to go. When the little one saw the edge of the counter, he backed away and broke for another place. Once again, he was stopped. This time by the daunting sight of the breadbox.

Bear took that time to warm the water slightly with a sealed spell. A magical marvel in his opinion. Some just carved the spell on a stone, and it was there for later. Like an enchanted sword, only for utility purposes. Soon the water was a comfortable temperature. Much safer than heating it on the stove.

He took the hot spell, contained in a ball of crystal and placed it in a safe container. “Well. You’re going to bite me bloody again. We both know it.” He looked at the little creature, who was only now looking at the bowl. He glared at the giant, and backed away slowly. There was hardly enough water to cover the whole creature. He had to know he wasn’t at risk of drowning.

So when Bear set out the towel and soap, he was less than surprised to see the little thing trying to escape. Again. “I suppose you’ve had a bath before then.” He plucked the creature up by his shirt, and received a series of angry snarls and yaps. “Sure doesn’t look like it though.”

Now, how was he going to work around the clothing? Should he even try? Elves hated being bathed, it was considered more humane to allow them to do the work themselves. They were also speaking creatures though. Something Bear could never keep. That was an actual person just being dragged into the house. Despite their crimes, it felt unfair.

That was a matter he had no interest in thinking about though. The little fellow struggled out of his shirt while Bear was distracted, and landed himself in the bowl quite by accident. It was a wonder he wasn’t injured. Though Bear picked him up to be sure. The creature lay limply in his hand, with a glare. In a very person like way, he through his hands up.

The bath went rather simple after that. The little thing hardly fought, though he did keep biting at Bear’s hands every time he got too close. It was decided that an actual bathing setup was needed for the little fellow. They were reportedly clean creatures, so if provided with tools, he’d probably just wash himself. Bear made a point to note that in his journal.

With a spare set of clothing set down, Bear started to search for a cup. He found an old tin mug and it would have to do. He was tired of being bit for his efforts. Some things needed time. He thought of the little fellow like a wild grizzley, only smaller.

Thus the best solution wasn’t to brute force affection on his pet. Instead, he offered the mug down by the bath. There was no hesitation when the little beast crawled in. Apparently eager to be out of the water.

“I’m still going to have to dry you. You do realize this right?” The creature popped it’s head out of the mug as he was lifted to the table. There was a sense of cuteness somewhere in there. Curiosity was clear in the beady little eyes. Though it quickly turned to hate and rage as Bear lifted the towel.

He screamed bloody, indignant murder as he was towelled off. In this time, whilst ignoring the multiple bites and punches to his fingers, Bear thought of a name. “Skippy? No. Nibbles? More like Chomper.” He pondered these things, and once the pet was thoroughly dry, he let him be with the fresh clothes.

“Maybe we should call you Spirit. You’ve sure got a lot of it.” He glanced at the ruffled creature on his counter top. Now he wished it did speak. Possibly a spell of beast speech, but that would require touching him again. Something that was clearly stressful.

There was a bark from the counter. The little beast was dressed, and irrate. “Right. Ready to go to your house?” He smiled, yet the little thing still glared at him. Still, he begrudgingly climbed into the mug once it was offered. The fact that his new pet comfortably sat at the bottom was honestly adorable. Bear took him slowly to his new home.

~

A bath. An actual bath. He hadn’t had one since before his capture. Unless you counted nearly drowning in a river. His dignity might have been stripped, along with his clothing, but he was clean. His hair was still matted, and his beard still itched, but he was washed. If he could get to his backpack, he’d had a razor in there that could take care of the rest.

Had he pulled it any time before, when he was in quarantine or the store, there was a good chance he’d have lost it. Not that it was more than a shaving razor. He had to chuckle at himself, travelling in a tin mug had to be one of the strangest experiences he’d had. Though he had to fold his legs to fit, he was at least able to sit somewhat comfortably. He dared not stand up and look over the edge again. The earlier view had been terrifying.

It was still a little strange, but far better than being in someone’s hand. He’d take it. The debate in his mind of how to act from here on out still warred. Fleeing the situation wasn’t really an option from so high up. Perhaps if he was stuffed in a hamster ball. However, if this man was willing to carry him in a teacup to avoid being bit, he probably wasn’t going to be handled any time soon.

Richter found himself swooping low as his new master set him on a grassy field. He didn’t dare to hope that freedom was at the end of this ride, but the idea of walking on grass was pleasant enough. Maybe things were looking up. He crawled out of the teacup on all fours until his hands touched grass. Then, he stepped out into the high walls of his newest enclosure.

From his perspective, it was a dollhouse on a table. A table that happened to be planted with berry bushes, and grass. There were high walls, and a tree across from the house. There was a small tamped down section that made for a path. It looped about and returned to the house section. If it could be called that.

The building was mostly made of glass on one wall. With four square rooms at the top and bottom. Each had a small divot in the middle. Those were probably able to be moved in some way, like a door. The bottom half of the enclosure was clear. The top left room was tinted purple. Only one wall was completely opaque and couldn’t be seen through. He could guess the nature of that room.

Richter sighed. His suspicions about the access hatches were confirmed when the top of one wall was pulled neatly to the side, and his bedding was placed within. That must have been his bedroom then. Meanwhile his master babbled. On and on he continued until something finally clicked. He’d make a suggestion, and reject it. He was naming Richter.

Richter scoffed. He’d have to figure out his position on the big guy quickly. Was he even alright with being renamed? He needed time to think. Time he just wasn’t getting. With a huff, he made his way to the house. He supposed it wasn’t really worth trying to fight for a name he couldn’t even articulate to the monstrosity.

He chose not to worry about that just then. If he had to answer to a different name, so be it. So long as it wasn’t something too demeaning. Too... Demeaning. His mind started to slow down. Was this his new life? The giant started to repeat one word. He listened idly to what would probably be his name from now on.

“Sahndey.” The giant spoke it proudly. Richter rolled the name over in his mind. Sah-day? San-day? No, that sounded off from what the giant was saying. Sandy? Was he really thinking of naming Richter SANDY? He scoffed. “My hair’s brown, not blonde.” He stormed out the door.

Was he going to be a pet? Fine. Was he going to like it? To be determined. Was he going to put up with a name like ‘Sandy’? Hell no. He had a name. A good one. Given to him by a good man. Sandy was what you called a golden retriever. He threw his hands up and shouted for the jötun’s attention.

The giant eyed him brightly. He jabbed a thumb to his chest. “RICHTER.” He announced at the top of his lungs. If this big bastard couldn’t understand, he’d be made to. Richter determined he’d disobey every order given to ‘Sandy’. Any trick or even call for attention. He was not going to be renamed.

His master tilted his head. “Sah-”

“No. RICHTER.” He barked back. He enunciated every letter of his name clearly. He wasn’t going to take this. Whatever happened after this, would happen. He was plucked up from his old life, dragged into a pet shop, bought, stripped naked and dunked in a bath. Though admittedly he probably would have had a much gentler introduction to the water if he didn’t struggle as much.

Even still. He lost his home. He lost his family. He lost his friends and the love of his life. He lost his freedom, and his dignity. He’d be god damned if he lost his identity as well. This one thing. He desperately wanted to keep at least this one little thing.

“Sahn...Rick?” There was a genuine attempt to understand. Confusion, and concentration creased the corners of his captor’s eyes.

“Rick-Tur.” Richter spoke slower. Clearer. The jötun leaned in closer. He watched every syllable.

“Richter?” The human threw his hands up and cheered. He just about danced on the spot. The giant leaned back in his chair, with a smile of his own. “Richter.”

His victory was clear. That, at least wouldn’t change. If the big fellow was willing to learn his name, then there was a chance this situation would be tolerable. There was a possibility of at least comfort, if not escape. “Ricky!” His master boomed in delight.

Richter let his shoulders slump. It was probably too much to ask that the stupid brute got it right away. The dumb bastard probably thought he was just making a fun noise. Something that made for a cute name. He’d have to take it in stride. Ricky worked for now. It could at least be considered a nickname. He’d yet to decide what he wanted to do, but it looked as though his relationship with his new master would be acceptable.

Though the human hardly expected to be surrounded by a large hand. He was cut off from his shelter. Was he going to be grabbed again? Picked up? Did he do something wrong? It didn’t track with the behaviour but neither did the sudden hand in his face.

Richter’s fight or flight instinct kicked in, and chose freeze. His body locked up against his will. The giant withdrew as though he’d been burned. The giant said something, he sounded panicked but honestly the human couldn’t comprehend it. Once his legs started moving again he bolted for the door, and fled up the stairs.

He locked himself in the bathroom, gasping for air. Scratch that acceptable comment. Tolerable, maybe. Perhaps that was an absent minded grab, or something else. There was still quite a lot to sort through. His master was already talking softly outside the shelter. And wasn’t that just the peaches on the cream? He had a ‘master’.

His hopes, dreams, and opportunities were stolen from him the moment he was captured and sold with him. There had been a physical, monetary price on his life. Someone actually paid that price other people put on him. Just took him home like a hamster. Adding to the indignity of it all, he was trying to be fine with it.

Richter dropped and let himself finally break. He had privacy for this at least. He took several deep breaths, and couldn’t hold himself together any longer. He screamed. He pulled at his own hair and let himself fall against the door he’d just locked.

His greatest victory in those past months, even before he was captured, was that he sort of got to keep his own name. Lucky him right? At least he got to keep that. At least he got to have some connection to a life that was always messed up by other forces. He folded in on himself and started to heave deep, near sobs. He had to calm himself before he did something stupid or made himself physically ill.

He took a breath, and slowly considered his situation. He had a shaving kit. It would be nice to feel more like himself. Reclaim that, at least. His master heard him screaming and banging about. He should probably show his face, before he caused concern. A shave, then a tour of the house. He could do those things, and settle himself in the process.

[letsdrawcuties]

Welcome to loving Hal Jordan club we are happy to have you. Hal has some fun ships to pick from most just don’t get that much traffic sadly cause of the relative fandom size. Hope you find your perfect Hal ship or ships soon.

Aaaaah, I already feel so welcome! Honestly, I had forgotten how cool people on Tumblr are. I hadn’t been active here in four years, but it’s funny because I came back precisely because of Hal! He was actually the very first DC character I fell in love with, but then Bruce came along, and I spent years in Batman fandom, dreaming of writing a BatLantern fic. In 2023, I finally started writing, and now I have one fic posted and three WIPs.

But I felt like I needed to learn more about Hal (since I already know so much about Bruce), so I started diving into the older comics. That’s when I noticed how much more naturally his dynamics with Barry, Oliver, and the rest of the Lantern Corps flow, compared to what he has with the Trinity (or more specifically, with Bruce)

I kind of lost my enthusiasm for BatLantern and started exploring Hal in other ships… and honestly, I’ve been loving every single one of them! Who knows, maybe I’ll return to BatLantern again someday, especially since I hate leaving fics unfinished (even if those three WIPs are still just sitting in my computer files).

I still love Bruce deeply, but right now, Hal has all my attention.

Thank you so much for your ask, anon! Let’s keep loving our Hal Jordan together He deserves it! 💚

[pure-ablution]

Best way to get through Greek/Latin texts?

I had a whole little system I set up that worked for me. It only really works if you have a good grasp of the language—I wouldn’t recommend it for beginners—but it’s a very effective way of getting through, understanding, and remembering your texts.

Go onto The Bridge and download a frequency vocab list for the text. I found it best to add in an ‘exclude’ function for a general frequency list like Diederich or the OCR AS defined list, so that the resulting vocab list was more precise. Once you’ve downloaded your list, make sure that you know the vocabulary on it well before you move onto the next step. Anki or Quizlet, or paper flashcards, are best for this.

Find a good and relatively literal English translation of the text online—I like A. S. Kline’s Poetry in Translation website for any verse, and Wikisource is quite good for both prose and verse. (Of course, if you have to translate your texts into a different language, then find a translation in that language and not in English!) Take this text and put it into a plain Word document or PDF. Make sure that your phone/computer has some kind of text-to-speech software—almost all do, just look up text-to-speech in the settings.

Find an interlinear version of your text, if you can. This step is optional, but definitely advisable especially for poetry and more syntactically complex works like those of Cicero. Versions of the text where the word order is rearranged to make more sense in English (e.g. J. Coderch’s Vergil’s Aeneid Rephrased in Prose) also work perfectly well for this. If you can’t find an interlinear/rearranged version, you can skip this step.

Print out/photocopy your interlinear text, in a font/size/colour combination that’s easy for you to read, and have the paper and a pen in front of you.

Now, you’re going to read the text by eye, in the original language, whilst simultaneously listening to the text-to-speech software reading it in slow English. This works especially well with interlinear texts because you don’t need to chase about the page looking for the verb and end up distracted. Don’t stop the audio until it’s time for a break, and try not to read the interlinear translation beneath—simply underline any word that is unfamiliar to you, and move on.

Any underlined words can now go into a separate vocabulary list/flashcard set as words that you found personally difficult, and revised frequently according to the Leitner System.

Once you have read through the whole of your text using this listening method—it shouldn’t take all that long if you’re diligent and read a good amount each day—then you can take your prescribed edition of the text (not the interlinear version) and begin preparing it in the usual way: translating line by line, paying attention to the syntax and vocabulary. Again, if any words are still unfamiliar to you, then add them to your list. Preparing your texts should now be much quicker than it would have been had you not read everything according to the listening method beforehand, and you should be able to get the gist of the content and context much more easily.

When you have a proper translation of your text, then you can go through with multiple commentaries and annotate it like I described in this post.

If you’re going to be examined on translation, I recommend putting your own translation info flashcards, one verse/section per card. Test yourself frequently by giving yourself random passages to translate, closed-book. Listening to the text being read in the original language (if you can find an audio version with good and clear pronunciation) is also a really good way of testing yourself on comprehension, especially if you don’t have the words in front of you and simply have to understand by ear.

[thekingofgear]

Colin with his Sadowsky NYC Precision-style Bass

On September 16, Sadowsky Guitars shared this new photo of Colin with his custom bass guitar on the company's instagram page. Although the post's description didn't contain much info, they have shared quite a bit in the past.

Back in July 2018, Colin stopped by Sadowsky's shop in New York City in between Radiohead shows at Madison Square Garden (the band played the venue four times that week). His visit was to discuss a custom build with shop manager Lisa Ellis Mitra-Hahn. Roger Sadowsky has made custom guitars in NYC under the Sadowsky name since the late-1970s, but in the intervening decades the company has expanded to a team of custom builders, plus relatively-lower-priced models produced in Germany under the MetroLine moniker.

Colin stopped by again to pick up that custom build nearly a year later, on the morning of June 10, 2019. This time, Sadowsky provided a lot more info on the build, including a bunch of close-up photos of the instrument. Visually, the bass instantly draws a resemblance to the worn 1963 sunburst Fender Precision that Colin used heavily during the A Moon Shaped Pool era (not to be confused with the 70s sunburst P-bass that he mainly played during the OK Computer era). According to Sadowsky, the custom bass was meant as a stand-in for that vintage instrument, and Colin said much the same:

"This bass was inspired by the P Bass that Donald Duck Dunn used that had a jazz-sized neck. I wanted a comfortable, lightweight, touring instrument with the soul of a P Bass but the comfort and feel of a Sadowsky instrument." — Colin Greenwood

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the bass was Colin's special request, mentioned at the end of the Facebook post: "he is colorblind and has trouble seeing white side dots under blue stage lights." Lisa Ellis Mitra-Hahn's solution was to install orange side dot markers, rather than the traditional white dots.

Much is made of Jonny's red-green colorblindness, and the ways Colin would tease him. One incident stands out in particular: “Jonny is colorblind, and when we were young, I gave him a red crayon to use for the grass he was coloring. It was a blood bath” (RollingStone). However, Colin hasn't mentioned his own colorblindness before. Perhaps Colin's is milder, or the rarer blue-yellow colorblindness.

A photo of Colin discussing his newly acquired Sadowsky with Lisa Ellis Mitra-Hahn, who built it, at the Sadowsky showroom in Long Island City, Queens in June, 2019.

In a comment on Facebook, the company further explained that the bass is "active but has an active/passive push pull switch in the tone knob." The controls for the active pickups are presumably the stacked knobs near the end of the pickguard (in the spot where you'd find the output jack on a traditional 50s/60s P-bass). As a result the Sadowsky bass has its output jack on the side, like an early-50s Tele-style P-bass. The Sadowsky active preamp offers a +18 dB boost at 40 Hz on the bass control (bottom half) and a +18dB boost at 4 kHz on the treble control (top half).

A close-up of the orange side dot markers!

Some nice photos of the instrument itself in 2019.