#and you are in the middle of the ocean about it

[sashayed]

i'm finally reading moby dick and there's a lot i didn't know about it such as that the first several dozen chapters are very funny! to me ol Call Me Ishmael has a kind of "what if bertie wooster were 1. american 2. competent" narrative vibe, although admittedly i am what one professor once called an "idiosyncratic" reader, meaning u should not trust anything i say. anyway the book i THOUGHT "moby dick" was going to be doesn't start until captain ahab finally stumps upstairs in chapter 36 and then boy does it ever, because he has I Am In A Tragedy disease and it is contagious and now everyone who was normal two pages ago is monologuing ominously in the dead of night. did you guys know herman melville is a very good writer? have you heard about this? he really knows that if you encounter someone who has you doing soliloquies you should Leave. if you encounter that person while you are on a boat in the middle of the 19th century ocean you are fucked for sure. poor starbuck is out here like "i really would prefer to be in a story about doing my Fucking Job"

[leejeongz]

🫧 enhypen reaction - you have a hidden tattoo 🫧

pairing: boyf!enhypen x gn!reader

genre: suggestive (sunghoon, jake, sunoo), fluff

warnings: newly established relationship, enha see your body, physical affection, pet names

𓆉 heeseung

“where is it?” heeseung probed, teasingly. his hands tickled at your sides before moving to your stomach, making you get slightly mad.

“stop it,” you swatted his hands away, “it’s not there.”

his smile faded apologetically. “sorry, i just got a bit excited, i didn’t even realise you had a tattoo!” his voice gained momentum as he spoke, clearly getting more excited about the idea again.

“it’s not that exciting, honestly,” you turned to show him the tattoo on your back.

he read it quicker than you expected him to, giving him time to snake his arms around you and kiss your cheek from behind, “art is long, life is short,” he recites, “and yet none of it is as gorgeous as you.”

𓆉 jay

“i literally had no idea that you could speak japanese?” he looked at you puzzled, wondering how he managed to overlook that cool fact.

“yeah, i even have a tattoo in japanese,” your tone suggesting he should’ve seen it before.

“y/n, believe me the last thing im looking for is tattoos when i see you,” he admitted, “but now im curious.” he rocked back on his chair, expecting you to simply roll up your sleeve or show him your ankle.

you looked out of the window of jay’s studio to ensure that there was no passers by before pulling the hem and turning around. “my lower back, can you see it?”

“mhm,” he leaned closer to see what it said, “muse? well, i’m glad that you know.” you turned back around and found yourself suddenly in his arms, “my muse.”

𓆉 sunghoon

“sorry that we have to share a bed,” your lips tugged to one side of your face guiltily.

“babe, it’s okay,” he lay in the middle of your single bed, “you can lie on top of me if there’s no room,” he smiled to you cheekily, not expecting you to actually climb on top of him.

“isn’t it funny how you have wardrobes full of clothes,” his hands rested at your sides, “yet you still HAVE to wear my shirt?” his fingers moved slightly, tickling you, causing your arms to flare around and his shirt to raise, exposing your thighs.

“hm what’s this? it’s beautiful,” his thumb held the shirt just high enough to still see your upper thigh, right where your tattoo sat. you blushed, giggling for lack of a better response.

his arms wrapped around you, his hands meeting at your back to pull you in closer and tighter, “you’re beautiful.”

𓆉 jake

as soon as jake mentioned going to the beach on the sunniest day of the year, you knew you had to find your cutest swimwear. you slipped it on under some loose fitting clothes and headed to the beach, where you met with him and a few friends.

“i laid you a towel down, i knew you’d forget to bring one,” he laughed, noting your almost empty beach bag. “come on, let’s get to the ocean!”

you hurriedly took off the outer clothing, revealing more of your body than jake had seen yet. he tried to hide a smile but ultimately failed, turning into a chuckle as he muffled out a compliment. “damn! look at you.” he took in your figure before his eyes landed on it.

“is it basic?” the question slipped out before he could even say anything, but you were relieved when he shook his head in response.

“it’s hot,” his teeth pulled at his bottom teeth, preventing him from saying more, but it wasn’t quite enough as he rolled his eyes, “fuck, you drive me crazy, baby.”

𓆉 sunoo

“honestly, it’s fine, you’re my boyfriend,” you giggle, “i’ll just get changed here.” you spun your arms around his room, as if to suggest there was plenty of room to do so.

he nodded, attempting to look away as you lifted your shirt over your head, but he just couldn’t.

“oh wait, y/n, what’s this?” he stood from his desk chair. his thumb rubbed at your waistline, right over your tattoo.

“it won’t come off, sunoo,” you laughed, taking his hand away to reveal a small moon and singular star.

“oh my gosh, it’s so pretty, i never knew you had a tattoo here?!” his hand ripped from your grasp and went to touch it again, sending a hot flush through your body. noting your reaction, sunoo’s palm covered your tattoo, pulling you in closer to him.

“you should show me what other secrets you have,” he whispered against your lips.

𓆉 jungwon

you lay with your torso to your bed, jungwon rubbing his hands together across the other side of the room.

“just the top of my back, it’s so painful, i don’t know what i’ve done!” you tell him.

“okay, i’ll get my best masseur hands on then,” he walked over to you, a little too excitedly. the minute is hands touched you, you could feel the tension escaping. the relief was instant. “the other side too?” he asked, lifting his hands. before you could respond, his voice filled the room, “you have a tattoo?! nice”

he took a closer look, taking in the intricate fine line details of the artwork - a small flower on your right shoulder.

“it’s so pretty, baby,” he complimented, “so pretty.”

𓆉 niki

“i’ll just shut up then, shall i?” you watched as niki’s eyes drifted from your own to your shoulder for the fifth time in a single minute.

he snapped out of his trance, “sorry, i was trying to listen, but there’s something there under your sweater,” he pointed.

“huh?!” you exclaimed, swatting it away, “what is it? get it off!”

his hands held your arms to your sides, forcing you to be still for moment as he investigated. with your eyes squeezed shut, you obviously weren’t to know that niki was currently sporting a huge grin. “a tattoo, y/n? i never expected that from you.”

your heartbeat slowed, finally, realising what had happened, you opened your eyes again.

“ohhhh that, yeah i got it done last year, have you never seen it before?” you asked, puzzled.

“nope,” he looked to you with his finger hooked over your off the shoulder sweater and you nodded. he pulled it down ever so slightly to reveal the scattered butterflies. “i like it though,” he added, “let me see it more often?” he pleaded, with his doe eyes that you can never say no too. “only i can see it, though.”

[talonabraxas]

Ouroboros

Ouroboros meaning and origin

The ouroboros symbol, often depicted as a snake eating its tail to form a circle, is one of the oldest and most recurring motifs in the mythology and iconography of various cultures around the world. Next, I will tell you about some of the most notable origins and meanings of ouroboros in different cultures:

Ancient Egypt: One of the first known records of the ouroboros comes from ancient Egypt, where it was associated with the serpent Uraeus, a protective deity represented as a cobra. Ouroboros was related to the cycle of life, death and renewal, and was often found in amulets and funerary jewelry. It was also linked to the idea of ​​eternity and the unity of time.

Ancient Greece: In Greek mythology, the ouroboros is sometimes associated with the serpent Ladon, who guarded the Garden of the Hesperides and is often depicted as a serpent eating its own tail. This symbol is related to the idea of ​​constant regeneration and the infinite cycle of nature.

India: In Hindu tradition, the ouroboros is found in the image of the Ouroboros Ananta Shesha, the cosmic serpent that supports the god Vishnu as he floats in the cosmic ocean. This snake represents eternal time and the infinite cycle of creation and destruction in the universe.

Alchemy: During the Middle Ages and Renaissance, the ouroboros became an important symbol in alchemy. It represented the union of opposites, such as the masculine principle (the Sun) and the feminine principle (the Moon), and symbolized transmutation and the search for the philosopher's stone, which conferred immortality.

Other cultures: The ouroboros also appears in Chinese mythology, where it is known as the "Jade Dragon." Additionally, it is found in Mesoamerican cultures such as the Aztec, where it is associated with the feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl.

The general meaning of the ouroboros is the idea of ​​an eternal cycle, renewal, the unity of opposites and eternity. It is also interpreted as a symbol of self-reflection and self-transcendence, where the individual seeks understanding and wisdom by exploring their own limitations and potentials.

Overall, the paradox of the ouroboros challenges our conventional understanding of time, renewal, and the relationship between opposites. It invites contemplation and reflection on the interconnectedness of all things and the complex nature of existence. The paradox inherent in the symbol has made it a powerful and enduring motif in various cultures and philosophical traditions.

In summary, the ouroboros is an ancient and universal symbol that has evolved throughout human history and culture, representing profound concepts related to the cyclical nature of life and the pursuit of wisdom and transcendence. His legacy endures to this day as a reminder of the richness and depth of human symbolic thought.

[cute-little-crow]

you desire asks, bestie?

consider: in the middle of a sleepy morning cockwarming session with zayne and dawnbreaker takes over

What a wonderful idea… 🥹

The first rays of the morning sun creep across bare floorboards, soft breathless moans and the rustle of crisp sheets give way to whispered pleas, and the warmth of skin on skin soothes away any lingering weariness.

Not often do you wake before Zayne, but today has been one such day. His face appeared peaceful—handsome as ever—and content in whatever dream occupied his subconscious.

It had been far too tempting not to admire more of him; pulling back the covers carefully so as not to disturb him and running explorative fingertips across his bare chest and down the slope of his abdomen.

Not until your hand dipped below the waistband of his pyjama trousers did Zayne truly begin to stir. The sensation of you cupping his balls and teasing his morning erection was more than enough to rouse him from the worst of his sleep.

He had welcomed the affection and the desire, cupping your face before running long careful fingers through your hair. His voice was thick with sleep, though few words were exchanged, more or less you understood one another without the need for proper sentences or questions.

It was just as easy to straddle his waist. Just as easy to pull aside your underwear, warm and wet from arousal. It was even more easy to sink onto his cock with one long exhale of satisfaction.

For a long while you lay draped over Zayne’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat and drawing fine, intricate patterns on his bicep and shoulder. Your eyes were heavy and given the early hour, you couldn’t be sure if you dozed or not, and the same could be said about the man keeping you stuffed and satisfied despite the lack of movement or friction.

Only when his body gave a jerk did you crack one eye open. He was staring at you—dumbfounded. The apples of his cheeks were a glowing pink and his throat bobbed wildly as though he held far too much saliva in his mouth.

Zayne’s heartbeat spiked and his cock twitched within your snug walls. He seemed panicked though evidently still aroused, given how his palms settled at your backside, kneading with such care you openly moaned.

“Is this a… dream?”

You hummed, confused but not alarmed. “No, this is reality. I like spending lazy mornings like this with you,” you assured, pressing soft kisses to his sternum and towards his still working throat.

As if testing the waters, Zayne raised his hips slowly and cautiously until you squirmed and clenched around him. Desire and something you couldn’t quite put your finger on tugged behind your navel…

His eyes.

Something wasn’t quite right. It was clearly Zayne, but also not the Zayne you knew and loved. This was a man you had only glimpsed from the corner of your eye and very rarely.

He looked lost; set adrift in an ocean of solace. It hurt to maintain the eye contact and despite the reservation growing in your chest, the desire to care for him overwhelmed everything else.

Slowly, just as carefully and deliberately, you rolled your hips back and forth. Watching as his jaw tensed then fell lax, his eyes fluttering shut to show a fan of black eyelashes against his cheeks. He bit his lip and panted harshly.

“Let me love you… let me show you something different. You don’t have to be alone, not right now,” you whispered into his ear before slowly and tenderly making love whilst the winter sun continued to crest over the horizon.

[read-marx-and-lenin]

heyo- a friend is trying to get me to read 1984 because 'it'll totally change your worldview on government and anarchism', but i've heard some bad things about the book itself/george orwell. should i read it? is there anything similar/more theorylike i could read instead?

thank you! your blog rocks <3 <3

Go ahead and read it if you want. It's a classic entry into the genre of dystopian science fiction and it has spawned many imitators since its publication. However, if you're looking for actual theory or history, you won't find it there. I would recommend Pat Sloan's "Soviet Democracy" or Anna Louise Strong's "The Soviets Expected It" and "The Stalin Era" if you want real accounts of the Soviet Union under Stalin.

Orwell never actually visited the Soviet Union, and 1984 is based not on his own personal experience with the country but instead on Western propagandistic views of the country and his own displeasure towards the fact that during World War II, when the UK and the USSR were allies, the British press was much less keen to publish anti-Soviet works right at the same time he was trying to get Animal Farm published. You must also understand that his wife worked for the UK's Ministry of Information as a censor and Orwell himself worked at the BBC producing wartime propaganda. It is not a coincidence then that the main character of 1984, Winston Smith, is a censor and propaganda official working with the fictional "Ministry of Truth" and eventually finding himself battling against state control of information.

Ironically, after stylizing himself so much as a defender of liberty and freedom against the "totalitarianism" of the time, Orwell would write up a list of alleged subversive writers for the British Information Research Department, a secret department tasked with publishing anti-communist propaganda during the Cold War. Some of this propaganda would end up being a comic strip version of Orwell's Animal Farm. There is a significant throughline in both Animal Farm and 1984 that clearly betrays Orwell's political views. In both works, the proletariat are depicted as nothing more than idiots and sheep who follow the orders of anyone willing to give them work and are easily duped by intellectuals. In 1984, he phrases it as the proletariat being more "free" simply because they're so insignificant as to warrant no government surveillance.

In 1984, the fictional society of "Oceania" is a far cry from a dictatorship of the proletariat. The proletariat have no political power, they all live in slums and are mollified by bread and circuses. How is the building of the slums organized? Where does the money go when one buys their bread? We are not told anything about this except that the process is slow and inefficient. The story isn't interested in material concerns. The "proles" do their work, we are told, but we are never shown much more than informal labor. We don't know who is telling them to work or how they are getting paid. The "Outer Party" is supposedly the white collar "middle" class of Oceanic society, but despite the amount of focus the story has on this class, we are never shown a single Party member managing a workplace or poring over receipts. We are to believe that the proletariat are simultaneously left to their own devices and unmolested by the state, while also completely under the control of the state through invisible mechanisms that are never elaborated upon. While Winston will complain endlessly about his own quality of life, not once does a single prole gripe about their job. The cost and quality of goods come up sporadically and only to illustrate the deterioration of English society under Party rule, never to illustrate any material basis of said rule.

Even more at the periphery are the colonized peoples (although never described as such) within the war-torn areas never under the permanent control of any world power. All three of the global superpowers are said to be in a constant struggle over the control and enslavement of these super-exploited workers and the resources of their nations, which are said to make up a significant proportion of the material resources of each superpower, however at the same time they are not considered to be part of the proletariat and are dismissed as entirely disposable and unnecessary for the maintenance of any of these superpowers. To Orwell, it seems, colonialism is simply a thing the colonizers do out of habit and not a phenomenon with an actual material basis or actual material effects. In turn, the colonized are not actual people who might take umbrage with the constant conflict imposed upon them, but rather chattel that is perfectly content to be traded back and forth among the colonizers.

The importance of the middle class in society is a recurring theme in 1984. For example, the Trotsky-esque political treatise Winston reads within the story, "The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism", begins with a twist on Marxist historical materialism - while it recognizes the role of class conflict in human history, it asserts a transhistorical narrative of the eternal existence of three separate classes within society since "Neolithic times": the upper, middle, and lower classes. It is then asserted that it is the middle and only the middle class that is ever revolutionary, and that when it appeals to the lower classes it does so only to use them as a cudgel against the upper classes and never out of a genuine concern for their wellbeing. The treatise, idealistic as it is, provides little definition of these classes. The lower classes are described as "crushed by drudgery" and in a constant state of servitude that places them incapable of achieving political consciousness, something reserved solely for the upper and middle classes. The upper class is defined simply as the "directing" class, and the middle as the "executive" class. The identity of the middle class within Oceania is made clear: they are the "Outer Party", the white collar intelligentsia and managerial class which Winston and Julia belong to. One must assume Orwell viewed himself as a member of the middle class as well. If this section of the book is at all reflective of Orwell's own views (and to be clear no part of the book refutes this outlook,) then Orwell's rejection of Marxism-Leninism is rooted in his view of the vanguard party as simply a mechanism for the intelligentsia and bureaucrats to trick the stupid proles into overthrowing the bourgeoisie, rather than as a genuine means of proletarian liberation.

The politics of the Party are entirely idealistic in nature. "Big Brother" dominates through control of ideology and speech. The goal of Ingsoc, the ruling ideology of Oceania, is to make dissent impossible through the thorough alteration of language and the removal of words which could represent ideas that are not in line with Ingsoc, a process called "Newspeak". It is explicitly stated, however, that none of this ideological control is directed towards the proletariat, which is said to make up 85% of Oceania's population. The proles are not expected to learn Newspeak, they are not monitored by the telescreens, because as is stated quite frankly in the book, "the masses never revolt of their own accord, and they never revolt merely because they are oppressed." That this line is given by the villain of the story is unimportant, because the story never refutes it.

While Winston routinely repeats his belief that "hope lies in the proles", he is consistently met with scenes that challenge his faith whenever he winds up interacting with the proletariat. His conversations with proles reveal their total lack of concern with politics or history. He hears a crowd erupt into chaos and briefly hopes it's the proletarian uprising he is waiting for, only to find it's simply a riot over consumer goods. They are more than once compared to animals. While it is said in exposition that intelligent members of the proletariat who might end up fomenting dissent are eliminated, this is never actually depicted. We don't see Winston meeting with a single intelligent and politically conscious prole. The most intelligent prole he meets turns out to be a secret member of the "Thought Police". And so, the concept remains theoretical.

Winston is depicted as an ardent materialist, desperately defending the notion of external reality against deranged idealists who believe that through control of thought, control of reality becomes possible. But the world he lives in is not material. It is fictional, of course, but more than that, the fictional world described operates on idealistic principles even from Winston's own perspective. Winston's worldview is a faith based one, appealing not to any material basis for liberation but purely to emotion. It is love and the spirit of humanity that is the basis of freedom, and material freedom springs forth from it. Anyone who thinks otherwise is merely a trickster trying to control the masses.

Orwell rejected the material basis of history because he rejected the idea of a revolution on a material basis. To him, the revolution must be an ideological one, and the problem lie not in how society and the economy are organized but in the existence of hateful "authoritarian" ideologies governing the world. He believed the material basis was already here, that industry alone was the solution to material inequality, and so we must concern ourselves now only with the idea of equality and freedom, and from an abstract and universal viewpoint to boot. It is intolerable to him that a revolution be fought against an actual enemy in the real world. The problem is not that the capitalists are in control of the means of production, the problem is that the workers are too stupid to disobey them. A real revolutionary class would spontaneously throw off its own shackles through thought alone. It doesn't matter that Orwell was a lackey and a snitch, because in his mind he was freer and smarter than everyone else.

The bravery of Winston Smith was in recognizing the existence of a material reality that lies and propaganda could never destroy even while being tortured into believing such absurd notions as "two plus two equals five". But Orwell was never tortured into any of his incorrect beliefs. His incorrect beliefs stem purely from accepting the official narrative that he was fed and refusing to investigate its veracity for himself. Orwell's writing was used as propaganda against the designated enemy of the UK throughout the Cold War, adapted countless times in the forms of radio plays, TV shows, movies, and comic books. He never made an effort to actually travel to the Soviet Union to find out if what he was told about the country was true. All the other upper middle class "left-wing" intellectuals he hung out with seemed to be just as concerned as he was with the rising tide of "totalitarianism" and the supposed excesses of the Soviet Union, so why shouldn't he agree? He was in this regard no different than the Western "socialists" of the modern day who have no shortage of vitriol towards China or North Korea. Yes, he might performatively rail against chauvinism and nationalism, but only enough to ensure that he wouldn't be seen as a conservative. He still knew in his heart that his country was surely better than those barbarous communists in the East.

Yes Orwell was sexist and homophobic, and despite his best efforts he remained plagued by racist and antisemitic attitudes, but in addition to all that his books promulgated a view of the world entirely in line with British bourgeois values, which is why they were so eagerly used as propaganda by the British government. The Nazis were bad and the Soviets were bad because they were both authoritarian, and the differences between them were negligible and unworthy of mention. The references 1984 makes to the shifting alliances in Oceania, "we are at war with Eurasia" becoming "we are at war with Eastasia" and vice-versa, are most likely allegories for the shifting alliances of Britain at the time, how they viewed the Soviets as an enemy before the war, as an ally during the war, and as an enemy again once the war was over. Orwell viewed himself as above all of this simply because his view of the Soviets never changed at any point throughout this.

[frudoo]

Bells Ring (2)

Title: Bells Ring

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Warnings: Mentions of self-harm (scratching), blood. One slap. Ewan is a warning of his own lmao.

MDNI

You’ve never succumbed to torture, but you can only imagine it hurts about as much as watching Ewan devour his overcooked steak without a care in the world, as if you haven’t just discovered that he has done the worst thing a spouse could do to you, his wife. It is pure agony being the only one to know of his affair. You’re not even sure if he’s noticed your lack of appetite or the pain in your expression. You’re not sure any of them have.

The prongs of your fork scrape against the fine china plate with a piercing screech, and three sets of curious eyes fall upon your flinching figure. You feel about as small as a junebug and just as inferior. The small grin you had seen on your husband’s face while he ate disappears when he looks at you, replaced by an annoyed downturn of his lips.

“Ye wuid be wise tae mind yer manners,” Ewan hisses, cold eyes narrowing at you before returning to the meal in front of him.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” you whisper, biting your lip to hold back the tears that threaten to spill from your red-tinged eyes.

“Wha’s gotten intae ye anywey?” Your husband questions, and you stiffen, the room suddenly suffocating, making you gasp for precious breath as your silverware drops onto the table with a clang.

“A-apologies, may I… I should like to cool down in my chambers,” you ramble, quickly standing from your chair and nearly tripping yourself in the process.

Ewan’s booming, irritated voice follows behind you as you rush through the halls, but you ignore him, desiring nothing more than to curl up beneath your duvet and cry your shriveled little heart out. Unfortunately you were not quick enough. Your husband slams his hand down on your shoulder and spins you so that you’re facing him, his dark eyebrows pinched together and pupils so shrunken you’d think he was about to berate a naughty dog. Perhaps that is how he sees you and precisely what he plans to do.

“Ye listen t’me,” you can feel the hot puffs of air escaping his nose like an irate dragon breathing fire, and fleetingly you wonder if the princesses locked up in those towers far, far away were not quite so miserable.

Despite his crystal clear demands, your mind does not process a single word your husband is saying, even as he presses your back against the wall and traps you in—funny, that very gesture used to make giddy heat blossom in your lower belly, and now it just makes your head pound with irritation and despair. You see his stubbled mouth moving and distantly recognize them as words you’re familiar with, but it’s as if no sound makes it to your ears.

“I read your letter,” you blurt out, causing Ewan to stop in the middle of his lecture.

A kaleidoscope of emotions twist in his oceanic eyes before settling on a devastating display of fear and rapidly heightening anger. Your husband scoffs, stepping back to cross his arms like a petulant child told they cannot open their Christmas present early. He’s utterly speechless, and perhaps you shouldn’t say anything more, but slippery words spill from your mouth before you can gather the sense to stop them on your tongue.

“I know it was not my place-”

“Ye’re reit, it wasnae yers tae-”

“Your Highness, please, just allow me to explain,” your bottom lip puckers as you reach out to place your hands on his chest, but he jerks away from your touch with a grimace. “I know it was not my place to read something of yours, but the fragrance on it was one I did not recognize. At first, I believed it may have been a relative of yours I was not made aware of, but that is not true, is it?”

Ewan’s gaze falls to the floor beneath his feet, but no effort to speak is made. His silence tugs at your heartstrings, and for once, it is not grief you feel but anger. Betrayal.

“Who is Coralie?” You question, pushing your foot between his to startle him into meeting your eyes once again. “As your wife, you owe me that.”

Still, no sound makes itself known from his traitorous lips, and it is enough to prove your suspicions as though the evidence had not already revealed itself to you. When you turn on your heels to continue the journey to your chambers, he does not dare follow you. There is no need to glance over your shoulder to know that he is still stood in place with that same dreadful expression on his face.

Your hands are shaking when you sit at the edge of your bed. Your nerves feel like they have been set ablaze, sharp pinpricks dancing across your skin viciously. Your senses are overwhelmed, your head is pounding, and the tremors swimming through you are the breaking point. A raspy scream rises from your throat, ricocheting off of the walls and startling the maids as well as yourself. You try to claw the pain away, digging your nails into your skin and scraping as hard as you can until blood cakes beneath the keratin.

An infinite amount of hands come rushing toward you from all over the palace, holding you down or giving you something to drink so that you can relax. The taste of honey and tart cherries runs down your aching throat before your body finally exhausts itself and you cannot fight them off any longer. In your chambers remain the nurse and a couple of laundresses who could not bear to leave you in this state.

The elixir you’d been given must have finally worked its way into your body, as sleep comes easy for you while the nurse cleans your wounds and bandages you up. She ties off the last tourniquet expertly, patting your hand fondly before pulling away to look you over. You are at peace in your sleep, no thoughts of your husband’s adultery making their way into your dreams, no fits stirring you from your slumber. It is the best sleep you have had in months.

Ewan is not quite so lucky, nervously shifting on both feet in the presence of his father. King MacTavish looks ready to have his head served up on a silver platter, his knuckles white from how tightly they grip his chair. Before your husband gets the chance to speak, his father inhales deeply, gruff voice rumbling lowly.

“Ah’ve tolerated this… quarrel ‘tween ye and yer wife fer long enough, now, but the state she is in—the state ye put ‘er in—is shameful,” John frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wha’ were yer vows tae yer wife?”

“Da, ah dinnae understand-” John interrupts the baffled younger man, raising his large hand with a flick of his wrist.

“Mus’ ah repeat such a simple question? Answer me, no’ as yer father, bu’ as yer king.”

“Tae have an’ tae hold, fer better fer worse, fer richer fer poorer, in sickness an’ in health, tae love and tae cherish, till death do us part,” Ewan sighs, head lifted slightly to look at his father for approval.

“Continue,” John raises an eyebrow, displeased with the pathetic look on the prince’s face.

Ewan sucks in a deep breath through his nose, biting the side of his tongue to avoid raising his voice to the older man the way he so desperately desires to. Even upset, he knows better.

“Wit’ this ring ah thee wed, wit’ mah body ah thee worship, an’ wit’ all mah worldly goods ah thee endow, in the name of the Father, an’ of the Son, an’ of the Holy Ghost.”

“Ye made those vows ‘fore God, aye?” The king questions, fingertips tapping along the armrests of his seat.

“Aye, sir,” your husband nods, eyes darting all around the room nervously.

“Then why is yer wife bed-bound wit’ only the nurse tae keep ‘er company?” The king frowns. “Did she no’ make the same vows? Was she no’ there fer ye when ye fell ill some time ago?”

“Aye, she was, bu’... Father, we are no’...” Ewan hesitates, pulling at the hangnails adorning his fingertips.

“Speak, boy. Ah ken there is somethin’ ye’re keepin’ from me.”

“Ah’ve fallen fer another,” Ewan mutters, and the room falls silent—if someone were to drop a quill, the sound would resonate throughout the entire area.

“Pardon?” John speaks after an uncomfortable amount of quiet, his ordinarily blue eyes nearly black with emotion.

“When ah wen’ tae Paris, ah met a lass, an’... we fell in love.”

The king shuts his eyes and nods shortly, rising to his feet and slowly approaching his son. The prince flinches when John gets close, and rightfully so—he does not hesitate to slap the younger man’s cheek with the back of his hand, hard enough to leave red marks on both of them. Shocked, Ewan grabs his affected cheek and looks at his father with perched eyebrows and a hurt pout on his lips.

“Father-”

“Ye are nae son o’mine,” John spits, jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth grind, the dull ache overlooked in the midst of his rage. “Return tae yer chambers. Ah dinnae wish tae see ye a moment longer.”

Now playing the part of the kicked dog, Ewan follows orders and sits at the edge of his bed, seething.

[lynzishell]

The Past 🩵 Asher

I rush into my apartment, slamming the door behind me, and take a sharp left to get into my room before Lex can catch me. Once inside, I lock the door and remove my smelly clothes from last night as quickly as I can. I’m tempted to shower again after having to walk home in them, but I don’t have time. As it is, Iris is going to be calling in an hour to ask why I haven’t arrived yet, and I really don’t have it in me today to deal with her moods, which are even worse now that she’s very pregnant. Spencer is due to arrive in a couple weeks, and my sister ran out of patience a couple weeks ago.

“Ash?” Lex pounds on the door as I’m pulling clothes from my dresser.

“Give me two minutes, I’m just changing.” I really don’t have time to chat with her, I have to leave, but I also kinda need my best friend.

Once I’m fully clothed, I walk into the living room to find Lex standing there, waiting for me. She takes one look at my face and holds out her arms with a concerned pout, “Baaabe.” Years ago, I told her that I hate it when guys call me “babe”, that it was a total turn off. Her solution was to call me “babe” herself, that way no one else would be allowed to call me that ‘cause it’s hers; and it wouldn’t feel so icky because she’d be saying it ironically. But then it stuck and now it really is hers and there’s nothing ironic about it.

I fall into her arms and let her embrace me as only she can. Lex gives the best hugs. Sometimes she squeezes the life out of you, but on days like today, it feels like she’s holding all the broken bits of me together. If she hugs me long enough then it will heal me, but if she lets go too soon, I’ll fall to pieces, so I squeeze her back just as tight and bury my face in her shoulder.

“What happened?”

“I made a fool of myself, Lex.” As I say the words out loud, I feel a lump form in my throat and I’m grateful that my voice is muffled by the sleeve of her jacket so as not to give me away.

“What do you mean?”

“I just… I thought... I don’t know what I thought,” and then the dam breaks. My tears burst forth so quickly that I have no chance of stopping them, so I just let it happen. The sobs rack my body, making my chest hurt. I cling to her like she’s a lifebuoy in the middle of the ocean during a storm. And she stands there, solid and safe, holding me until the storm passes and I start breathing normally again. It’s over just as quickly as it started.

“I’m gonna kill him, y’know,” she says finally.

I sniffle and let out a pitiful laugh, “Please don’t.”

“Seriously? You come home in this state, and you expect me to let him live?”

I walk into the kitchen to splash my face with cold water and clean myself up. “Just because I’m sad doesn’t mean he deserves your wrath. Besides, I think I’m just extra sensitive coming down from whatever the hell you gave us last night.”

“So, this is my fault?”

“No. I’m just saying my breakdown is at least partially chemical. And maybe that explains Atlas’ mood today actually. Oh, I might’ve completely misread everything. Fuck.” I groan as I clench my stomach and lean against the counter, suddenly feeling sick with regret and embarrassment.

“Okay, hold on, what exactly happened?”

“I don’t have time to get into it. I have to run out to my parents’ house and help Iris with fucking baby furniture or something.”

“Well, let’s go then. I’ll come with you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I don’t have anything else to do today, and we’re not done talking. And I like your mom’s cooking.”

I throw my arm around her shoulders and kiss her cheek dramatically, “Thank you.” I’m grateful to have her to talk to during the two-hour drive. I would no doubt be stewing and obsessing the whole time if not. My family will be happy to see her as well. They’re always asking why she doesn’t come visit more. Of course, I know it’s because she feels like she has to go see her own family if she’s in town, and that’s the last thing she wants to do.

“Alright, calm down. Let’s go.”

Prev // Next

[the-real-list-of-ominous-threats]

Hey what type of classes did you take for oceanography? And how much time do you actually spend in the ocean? I wanna go into marine science and biology, but I also live in the middle of KANSAS so I have nobody to help me out other than Google lol

Classes are largely ecology, statistics, geology, zoology (technically this one is an elective, but I highly suggest it, mostly because I'm in a zoo class right now and I love it), and chemistry (both general and then higher-level marine-specific specialization classes), as well as a specific oceanography and marine systems class.

They're not hideously difficult, but it's still a science, so it's not super easy either.

I don't spend that much time in the ocean, but I'm there a fair bit, because I help out my marine ecology professor with his research, which is often on the water. I'll definitely spend more time on the water once I actually graduate and I'm in the job for real, because my professor who I work with is out on the water all the time working on various things (he does a lot of surveying that requires diving/snorkeling).

Feel free to dm me if you have any further questions; I love yapping about my degree. I'm currently an undergrad, so I can't tell you about PhD programs (yet), but I'll be taking the GREs next fall and will be applying for grad schools shortly after.

[la-spooky]

꧁ ༺ Beneath His Dark Waters ༻ ꧂

I am determined to prove that Rafayel is a more fucked up individual than Sylus. It's unnerving how well he hides it. A match made in hell.

༻ CH1: His Ocean, His Obsession ༻ Read the 18+ kinky smut chapters at my AO3 ༻ Fic Status: Ongoing ༻ Pairing: Sylus x Rafayel ༻Summary: "You know damn well you fucked me, Rafayel," Sylus growled, his voice low and dangerous. "We made a deal." Rafayel felt the room closing in around him as the words sank like lead into his chest. His mouth went dry, but he kept his gaze locked on Sylus, refusing to show the fear gnawing at him from within. For a brief moment, Rafayel saw something else in Sylus’s eyes, a flicker of something raw, almost pained, beneath the anger. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by the cold, unyielding mask of control. Sylus leaned forward, the broken glass cutting into his palm. He didn’t flinch. “It’s time to pay your debt.”

The following content is protected under copyright laws. Do not copy, modify, repost on other sites or claim as your own.

© 2024 la-spooky

Rafayel's nerves had been fraying for days. It started with small things. Feeling a prickling on the back of his neck as if someone was watching him, shadows that seemed to move just out of sight, and flashes of red that flickered in his peripheral vision. At first, he dismissed them as tricks of his mind or remnants of his time on the run. But as the days passed, the sense of being watched grew stronger, the flashes of red more frequent, and his sleep more restless.

He tried to ignore his paranoia by poring himself into his art. The studio, usually a place of calm and creation, now felt like a pressure cooker, the walls closing in on him. He was in the middle of a particularly aggressive stroke when his phone buzzed loudly on the table beside him. The sharp sound made him jump, his hand slipping and smearing the paint across the canvas. With a frustrated sigh, he wiped his hands on a rag and grabbed the phone, his heart still racing from the sudden noise.

The message was from an unknown number. His brow furrowed as he opened it, expecting some spam or wrong number. But as soon as the text opened, his phone screen flickered violently. The usual smooth interface became corrupted with glitching streaks of black and red. Before he could react, the first message appeared on the screen with a distorted nightmarish tone that made his skin crawl. 

¿D̸͖͘ḭ̶̽d̶̼̽ ̶͍͝y̵̡̽o̵̟̕u̴̓ really think y̷̤̌o̵u woü̴ld get͈ aw̵̘̕ȃ̵̭y ̶͑with it?

Rafayel's heart pounded in his chest as he read the message. His mind raced, trying to figure out who could have sent it and what they were talking about. He tried to reply, but the phone screen glitched again before he could even type a response. What in the- a loud crash came from outside the studio. He froze for a moment, listening intently for any other sounds. Footsteps crunched on the gravel pathway, unnervingly deliberate and purposeful until they stopped just outside the glass sliding door.

Rafayel's nerves were shot at this point and he couldn't take it anymore. Fuck this. I’m outta here. He grabbed his keys and bolted out of the studio through his front door. As soon as he stepped outside though, everything went black.

Rafayel awoke handcuffed to an ornate dining chair. The room around him was draped in opulence, with rich red and black accents that seemed to seep into every corner. The dining table in front of him was laden with an extravagant feast. Glossy, decadent dishes that seemed almost too beautiful to touch, flanked by champagne flutes that caught the dim light and reflected it back with an eerie glimmer.

Dizziness gripped him, making everything appear fragmented. A groan escaped Rafayel's lips as he struggled to clear the haze from his vision. “Ah, you’re awake,” came a seductive, gravelly voice. “I was beginning to worry you’d miss the fun.”

Rafayel's eyes widened in shock as he recognized the voice. His blood ran cold as his vision gradually cleared. Across the table sat the suffocating presence of his past. A towering white haired man, alluring and intimidating in equal measure, watched him with piercing red eyes that cut through the haze with unnerving clarity. It was Sylus, his former captor and tormentor. Memories of his time with Sylus flooded back into Rafayel's mind, causing him to shudder involuntarily. He struggled against the restraints holding him down but they were too tight. He looked around frantically for a way out but there seemed to be none.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face as he watched Rafayel's panic. "You see," Sylus began, picking up a glass of whiskey and swirling it thoughtfully before taking a sip. "I have my ways of finding what is mine." His eyes gleamed dangerously at the last word. "And now that you're back where you belong," he continued softly, setting down the glass and steepling his fingers under his chin "we can finally catch up on old times."

"You can't keep me here," Rafayel spat at Sylus, trying to sound brave despite feeling terrified inside. "I'm not your pet anymore."

Sylus's lips twitched into a smirk at Rafayel's defiance. He found it amusing how the younger man tried to stand up to him, even when he was so clearly trapped. "Oh really?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. "And what makes you think that you are even worthy of being my pet? After all, I could have any Lemurian I please." His eyes raked over Rafayel hungrily before settling back on his face. There was something almost playful about Sylus now; a dangerous game where only one could win and lose simultaneously.

Rafayel gritted his teeth at the condescending tone in Sylus's voice. He refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he had suffered during his captivity. "I don't know what you're talking about," Rafayel replied, trying to sound as confident as possible despite feeling like a trapped animal. "I've moved on from that part of my life."

Sylus chuckled softly at Rafayel's attempt to deny their past. He could see the fear in his eyes, even though he tried so hard to hide it. "Moved on?" he repeated incredulously, shaking his head slightly as if disappointed by such naivety. "You can run from me all you want but remember this; I always find what is mine." His gaze lingered on Rafayel for a moment before looking away dismissively.

Rafayel's stomach churned at the thought of being used by Sylus again. He had spent years trying to forget about their past together, but it seemed like he was doomed to relive it all over again. "I won't let you touch me," Rafayel said firmly, his voice shaking slightly with fear and anger. "I'd rather die than be your plaything again."

Sylus raised an eyebrow at Rafayel's defiance. He found it amusing how the younger man thought he could resist him. "Is that so?" he asked, with a smirk on his face. "And what makes you think that death is preferable to being mine?" His eyes gleamed dangerously as if daring Rafayel to try and escape once more. Rafayel knew damn well that death by his hands would be excruciatingly slow and sadistic.

Sylus leaned back in his chair and studied Rafayel with an unreadable expression, his piercing red eyes simmering beneath an icy veneer. The tension between them thickened, coiling in the air like a predator waiting to strike. "You know damn well you fucked me, Rafayel," Sylus growled, his voice low and dangerous. "We made a deal."

Rafayel felt the room closing in around him as the words sank like lead into his chest. His mouth went dry, but he kept his gaze locked on Sylus, refusing to show the fear gnawing at him from within.

Sylus's lips curled into a humorless smile as he continued. "You signed your rights away willingly, willingly," he repeated, as though tasting the bitterness of the betrayal on his tongue. “And still, you had the audacity to screw me over and everything we built together." The sound of glass cracking rang out as Sylus’s hand tightened around the delicate crystal in his grip. A hairline fracture splintered through the whiskey glass, but he paid it no mind, his focus solely on Rafayel.

For a brief moment, Rafayel saw something else in Sylus’s eyes, a flicker of something raw, almost pained, beneath the anger. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by the cold, unyielding mask of control. Sylus leaned forward, the broken glass cutting into his palm. He didn’t flinch. “It’s time to pay your debt.”

Rafayel's heart pounded in his chest. Debt. The word hung between them, charged with unspoken meaning. He knew exactly what Sylus meant, what he wanted. But Rafayel refused to bow to the weight of that word. Not again.

"You think this is about some deal we made?" Rafayel spat, the tremble in his voice betraying his rising fear. "You don't own me, Sylus. Whatever I signed, it was under duress. You manipulated me, cornered me until I had no choice!"

Sylus's expression darkened, his red eyes narrowing into slits. He stood slowly, the fractured glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor. “I gave you everything, Rafayel. Freedom, power, a life beyond the chains of Lemuria, the civilization that you single-handedly destroyed. I shielded you from the guilt and sorrow of the mess you made. I saved you. And in return, you betrayed me.”

Rafayel felt a surge of anger flood his veins. “Betrayed you? You imprisoned me, Sylus. You never gave me freedom. You twisted it to your liking, made me believe I owed you my life. But I was never free, not for a second. I was just your exotic pet!”

A cold, sharp laugh escaped Sylus, his towering form looming over the table now. “Oh, Rafayel...You still don’t understand, do you?” His voice, rich with malice and something darker, sent a shiver crawling down Rafayel’s spine. Rafayel's breath quickened as Sylus drew closer, his steps echoing ominously through the grand room.

As the handsome predator approached, Rafayel’s senses were overwhelmed. Sylus’s presence was intoxicating, his cologne thick with the unmistakable scent of Lemurian aphrodisiacs. It hit Rafayel like a wave, dulling his resistance as an involuntary heat coursed through him. His lips parted, and to his horror, he realized he was already salivating. He clenched his jaw, forcing his body to fight the effect. “S-stop…get away from me,” Rafayel choked out, his voice trembling, but the defiance was still there, buried beneath the fear and the unnatural pull he felt toward Sylus. His words felt weak, powerless, swallowed by the overwhelming presence of the man closing in on him.

Sylus smiled deliberately as if savoring Rafayel’s struggle. He leaned in, his eyes glowing with that same predatory hunger as he reached out, his fingers brushing against Rafayel’s cheek. The touch was feather-light but burned with an intensity that made Rafayel flinch. The blood that had been oozing from Sylus’s palm moments ago seemed to vanish, the gash knitting together in front of Rafayel’s wide eyes as if his very flesh bent to Sylus’s will.

“There’s no escaping what’s real, Rafayel,” Sylus whispered, his voice softening into something almost tender, a cruel contrast to the situation. “Your debt...it was never just about the deal.” He paused, letting the words settle like a weight on Rafayel’s chest. “It’s about us.”

Rafayel’s heart hammered as Sylus’s hand slid from his cheek to his jaw, tilting his face upward so their eyes locked. The red in Sylus’s gaze gleamed with a dangerous mix of desire and dominance. “What we had, Rafayel...you felt it. You know it was real.”

Rafayel gritted his teeth, fighting the haze clouding his thoughts, his body betraying him under the effects of the Lemurian drugs and the unnerving pull of Sylus’s power. “You twisted everything...it was never real,” he hissed, though even as he said the words, there was a crack in his voice. It had been real and he couldn't even deny it to himself. But what Sylus wanted, what he took, couldn’t have been love.

Sylus’s lips quirked into a smirk, his thumb brushing along Rafayel’s lower lip with unsettling intimacy. “You keep telling yourself that, but deep down, you know. What we shared, it was more than just control. You gave yourself to me because you wanted to. And I...gave you everything.” The warmth in Sylus’s voice was laced with venom, a seductive, dangerous edge that made Rafayel’s skin crawl.

Reality was more terrifying than the delusion Rafayel had spun for so long. He could not accept that maybe, just maybe, there had been something mutual in the twisted relationship. Sylus hadn’t always manipulated him, hadn’t always warped his mind until nothing felt certain except the suffocating weight of his power. Rafayel had willingly swam into the angler fish’s trap again and again and again.

[scribbleswithsaro]

"𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡" a collection of lines from the 2002 movie Lilo and Stitch.       ❛ i prefer to be called evil genius. ❜                ❛ does this look infected to you? ❜         ❛ what's going on down there? ❜         ❛ am i to assume you are the expert? ❜         ❛ it's sandwich day. ❜         ❛ you better not have rabies. ❜         ❛ hey! watch where you're going, stupidhead! ❜       ❛ leave me alone to die. ❜       ❛ you are so finished when i get in there. ❜       ❛ i thought we could sit out here and talk. ❜       ❛ you don't look like a social worker ❜       ❛ did you ever kill anyone? ❜       ❛ let me illuminate to you the precarious situation in which you have found yourself. ❜       ❛ i am the one they call when things go wrong. and things have indeed gone wrong. ❜       ❛ in case you're wondering, this did not go well. ❜       ❛ you have three days to change my mind. ❜       ❛ i shouldn't have yelled at you. ❜       ❛ your butt is crushing me. ❜       ❛ why do you act so weird? ❜       ❛ i have just discovered this situation to be far too hazardous! ❜       ❛ this is low even for you. ❜       ❛ that is the ugliest thing i have ever saw. ❜       ❛ oh, great, he's loose. ❜       ❛ you're loose in the house all the time, and i sleep just fine. ❜       ❛ it's nice to live on an island with no large cities. ❜       ❛ she likes your butt and fancy hair. ❜       ❛ your head looks... swollen. ❜       ❛ he's just cranky because it's his bedtime. ❜       ❛ don't pull on her head! she's recovering from surgery. ❜       ❛ you wreck everything you touch. ❜       ❛ no more caffeine for you. ❜       ❛ you're just jealous 'cause i'm pretty! ❜       ❛ i think it might be a koala. an evil koala. ❜       ❛ what must it be like to have nothing? not even memories to visit in the middle of the night... ❜       ❛ see? he's sad, because he's all alone and nobody wants him. ❜       ❛ thus far you have been adrift in the sheltered harbor of my patience. ❜       ❛ here. hold it like this and put your fingers here. ❜       ❛ this is the face of romance. ❜       ❛ she looks like she could use some lovin'. ❜       ❛ we've been having a bad day. ❜       ❛ this isn't what it looks like. ❜       ❛ do you dream about them? ❜       ❛ i hate the ocean! ❜       ❛ sometimes you try your hardest but things don't work out the way you want them to. sometimes things have to change. and maybe sometimes they're for the better. even if... ❜       ❛ oh, good. my dog found the chainsaw. ❜       ❛ this is not going to end well. ❜       ❛ you ruined everything. ❜       ❛ you're one of them? ❜       ❛ and here i thought you'd be difficult to catch. ❜       ❛ okay, talk. i know you had something to do with this. ❜       ❛ after all you put me through, you expect me to help you just like that? ❜       ❛ what exactly are we doing? ❜       ❛ oh, good. i was hoping to add theft, endangerment, and insanity to my list of things i did today. ❜       ❛ get off my ship! ❜       ❛ don't leave me, okay? ❜       ❛ you're vile! you're foul! you're flawed! ❜       ❛ nobody gets left behind. ❜       ❛ you came back. ❜       ❛ this is my family. i found it all on my own. ❜       ❛ i was afraid you were going to say that. ❜

[moonspirit]

Hello Moon,

Something you mentioned yesterday that I want to expand on: Dad Armin is a massive shutterbug; he gets his hand on a camera and becomes obsessed with capturing every moment in his family lives,

Some of the Armin and Annie's favorite photos are

Pictures where Annie is doing her exercise routine with the baby in a baby carrier slung to her chest (Mommy-Baby exercise time, he calls it)

Armin is sitting next to his child’s crib, reading a book about the ocean (taken by Annie)

The baby wearing a small cravat sitting in Granpa Levi’s lap, the baby with a big smile, and Levi with his usual stoneface (Armin swears he can see a slight smirk at the corner of his mouth)

Connie making funny faces while the baby laughs historically (Connie has a new face for them every week, and it always gets a laugh)

A disgusted Jean passes the baby off to Armin as stream of baby vomit runs down his new shirt (again, Annie took this one; she refuses to get rid of it, much to Jean’s chagrin)

A confused Reiner, holding a very grouchy-looking baby. The baby has their arms crossed and gives a face very similar to their mother's. (Annie had never been more proud of her child)

Pieck is wrapped in a massive blanket cocoon with the baby sleeping peacefully on top of her (Works every time she says)

Finally, a massive photo of the whole family clustered around the baby during the child’s first birthday, with the now one-year-old baby in the center(cake smeared on its adorable little face)

Of course, there would be entire volumes of photo albums, but these are particular favorites of Armin and Annie.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THESE ARE SOOOO SOOOOOOOO SOOOOOOOOOOOOO CUTE!!!!!

I love these shots so much oh GOD they're ADORABLE T///////T Allow me to add a few more:

A candid shot of Armin and Annie standing on the beach as the tides sweep in, his trousers and her skirt hitched up, holding their child as water sprays over them, windblown and laughing away.

A secret shot of Annie and the baby (slightly older) pilfering the pantry or refrigerator in the middle of the night.

An adorable shot of Armin in his suit grinning proudly with butterfly clips and tiny braids done all over his hair, courtesy of his daughter's brilliant hair-dressing talent.

A sweet and soft shot of Annie and the baby sleeping as the late afternoon sunlight washes over them, their pet kitty or doggy also curled up next to them.

The Ambassadors on an overseas trip ft. Aruani child! So many proud uncles vying to hold the little girl's hand and take her on a small jaunt around the new city T/////T

Pieck and the child in the middle of nefarious and illegal activities - a super candid secretive shot of the two absolutely up to no good :3

Falco and Gabi being the SUPER PROUD niece and nephew and giggling over no longer being the youngest in the bunch.

A candid shot of Levi watching Aruani baby sleep T^T

Aruani child's very first day at school - a crybaby in her uniform!

[impernaway]

5+6. the tentacle beast / the monster's hide

The walkways are with rain again, the drizzle reducing the limited visibility yet further as twilight slowly encroaches. Even before the sunset, the world out here had been hazy. Not that there'd really been anything to look at: There's nothing out here but the still ocean stretching out in every direction around the floating research platform.

Officially, the station Rhys is manning alone is Seapoint Piscium Delta. He likes to call her Fishfood Four instead. He's made it to week nine of a six month placement - by the end of week one, he'd already understood why they'd been reluctant to schedule him for even that much on his first posting. Sure, he gets to video call the team whenever he wants, but at the end of the night when they all go home? He's still out here in his flotel.

On the other hand, the pay is really good. If he can stick it out without losing his mind, he's looking at a hefty sum at the end. And he doesn't have to pay rent out here either. Plus he doesn't have to deal with the fallout of how things went with Jess. So like, that's a perk!

He checks the door for the lab is firmly shut, rattling the large door-locking circle on the bulkhead door to make sure it's fully in place. It's his last wind-down task before retreating back to his room again. The whole place is pretty much fully automated, but the doors aren't part of that. It's what he's there for. Somebody has to oversee everything just in case it goes wrong, you know? Plus doing the actual analysis on what the sensors feed back.

Last stop is the drone room. The repair and maintenance room takes up nearly as much space as the lab does, but it's also pulling double duty as the power room so it kind of makes sense. Not like the drones themselves need all this room. All they do is just slowly rise and sink through the ocean, sending regular little updates to tell them about the ocean. Things like how temperature it is, what the pH level and salinity is like, what's going on with the currents, the odd sample from the sea bed if the pre-programmed route takes them down that far - all the things that help them work out what's been going on out here lately. He pauses as he tests the door. It's not resisting as much as it should.

He pushes the hatch open anyway, stepping through into the dark room. The lights are off, which is how it should be, but he didn't - It's not like him to shut everything down but forget something like the door lock.

....Fuck it. It's not like anybody else will know if he doesn't say anything, right? And he caught it. No harm, no foul. That's what the double-check is for. He seals the hatch, twisting the ring around firmly and listening to the bolts all sliding home. He can investigate the door lock tomorrow when he's officially clocked in again.

Rhys carries on along his way, wiping the rain off his face before he shimmies up the ladder that takes him back to his living quarters. He makes a point of wiping his feet off at the welcome mat he asked for. There's enough ocean around here already without him bringing it in here with him as well. His nose wrinkles as he shucks the lab coat and drops it off on it's hook, hand reaching for the pull-cord for the light.

"God," he says, "It reeks in here. Did I leave a window open or something? Come on Rhys. Get it the fuck together, mate."

The delivery of fresh food isn't coming for another week, so it's another night of deciding between mash potato from a powder mix or tinned soup. He finally finds the pull-cord, blinking at the bright sudden light. Something is making the back of his neck prickle like he's being watched. The smell is, somehow, even worse now. His eye darts around the room to try and figure it out-

His eyes land on the table crammed into the kitchen, a can of diet pepsi knocked over on it from where he'd left it there that morning. The dark brown carbonation is still fizzing gently even as it drips down onto the linoleum flooring.

There's been no wind today. Barely any tides. Fishfood's been stable all day. Something primal in his brain screams at him, and it drives Rhys to slowly turn around. He's the only one here, but he's not. He's really, really not.

The wall moves.

He screams as he throws himself back, legs failing to catch or support him as his eyes move up and up and up. Up along the tentacle that is rapidly changing colour to stop mimicing the white of his walls, up along the torso of the thing clinging to the ceiling, up and into the large yellow eyes of something that is baring teeth at him. He scrambles across the floor before instinct kicks in and has him roll over to push himself up and back onto his feet and away away AWAY from the fucking octopus monster that is dropping down and coming after him.

Somehow, he makes it to the bedroom door first and slams it shut behind him, leaning against it as something on the other side roars. Fumbling hands shove the lock bolt into place as it begins hammering on the door.

"Oh my god," he chokes, legs going weak again. "Oh my god."

It - did it have claws? He doesn't think so. The hammering on the wood tapers off, and he wheezes in fear as his heart keeps up the rhythm. Wide eyes tear across the room as Rhys looks for something - anything, God, please - that isn't nailed to the floor or the wall to make sure it can't get capsised overnight. Nothing. Nothing to barracade with. Behind him, the doorknob rattles but the lock holds. He holds his breath until it stops again. The window is too small and can't open more than an inch, and this is the only door. There has to be something. Some way out. Surely there must be-

Something brushes his ankle and he jumps out of his skin as he pushes off from the door and falls a second time. He looks down at the tentacle slowly pushing its way through the gap at the bottom of the door. It - it's too small. It can't figure out the door, and now it must be trying to see if it can get under. It's too big though, surely. Surely.

Rhys watches, frozen in place as the tentacle pushes through further and further, the strange muscle twisting and unfurling as it works its way through the gap. It takes all his effort to scoot back further until his back is up against the side of the bed, legs tucked as close as they can be to his body. The tentacle continues to feel around blindly for him, and he watches. Maybe he can just - just wait it out. Wait for it to decide he isn't worth the effort.

He whimpers as the tentacle instead starts to slowly feel its way up the door.

"No," he says, his fingers going numb as he watches. "Fucking no, please, stop it."

Everything is silent. He cannot move. There is no escape. He can only watch. The tentacle keeps going, impossibly still coming. He watches as it reaches up. Slowly, almost tauntingly, it reaches the slide lock where it sits, just below the handle, and pulls it out of the way before dropping to the floor.

The door swings open, revealing the large hand pushing it and the larger yet figure behind it, a man down to the waist and then all octopus limbs below that, and Rhys once again finds his eyes dragged unstoppably upwards towards its face. The light in the living room backlights it, enough that he just about see it. It's smirking at him, mocking and cruel, and it slowly ducks its head as it pushes its way into the corner he's trapped himself in.

It's just Rhys, the ocean, and the monster pushing the door shut behind it again.

[emry-stars-art]

sorry to bother you, but….

if statled jelly!niel stings, does sleeping jelly!niel sting? Because it seems to be a conscious effort for niel to not sting? Or did I misunderstand this?

what are the scientific implications of sleepy jelly cuddles?

Great question! Thank you for letting me put on my more beach-appropriate baseball cap and do more mer research hehe

So I asked the shark and he told me to mind my business I think.

Unfortunately for him, the manta ray will spill just about anything in exchange for pretty human stuff and I am great at taking notes.

Basically? It seems to me like it’s expected touch vs unexpected, combined with the jelly’s maturing self-awareness. When it’s younger, a jelly mer will start getting control of its sting by ‘turning it off’ consciously. As they get older, it can become closer to “will not sting unless actively startled or for good reason” as the jelly chooses! Think of the sting response like a knee-jerk, throwing-elbows response. Anything less startling isn't worth the effort. Or in jellyneil's case, maybe more of a nervous person's flinch response.

So at this age when jellyneil is awake, it generally won’t sting unless really startled - unfortunately for most mers, the poor thing is a little jumpy and most unexpected touches are startling 🥲

When jellyneil is asleep, there’s more of a “base state” idea happening - however it goes to sleep is how it’ll peacefully stay. So if it falls sleep with someone else touching it, no stings! If it falls sleep in traditional jelly fashion (wedged between rocks or otherwise anchored down) the tentacles and stingers are instinctively in defense mode and I cannot advise getting too close.

If it gets startled awake though? I can only assume it would sting then as well but I can't tell you for sure because the whale and the one shark twin are usually very good about not letting that happen.

There’s some point to be made here about the fact that the stinging is only ‘turned off’ while cuddling/sleeping on other mers - clearly, brushing up against rocks doesn’t desensitize the stingers to other outside stimuli. In open water, the sleeping jelly knows to fend for itself. The presence of another mer seems to be instinctively calming.

But I am not here to wax poetic about it, that’s your job, I just provide the research 🤲

Find the mer au masterpost here 💕

[tuungaq]

ain’t it a kick in the teeth that the real buck cleven lost both marge and bucky by the time he was 43

[good-beanswrites]

Where is Milgram?

I'm working on a fic, and I know a few of the theories about Milgram's actual building/location that have been passed around, but could you reblog with/send me your ideas on how the prison is physically set up in relation to the world? I want to write something encompassing a range of possibilities, not just my own headcanons. Any kind of theory -- with or without evidence, with or without every little detail worked out, just whatever you've been picturing or would like to see when the project ends :3

(Even if my fic doesn't pan out, I'll post the collection of theories I get for anyone else's research purposes👍)

[hussyknee]

Whenever Brits are like "tea is our national drink, our culture, our personality, our mental health" I think of our hill country blanketed in a patchwork quilt of human suffering and ongoing violent colonialism and want to smash all their tea cups. Your genocidal leaf juice is nothing to be proud of. The present day tea pluckers are the descendants of the Indians you enslaved and they still live in unthinkable poverty in the line houses you built to house them like cattle. The families whose farmlands you robbed have been starving for generations. Every sip of your leaf juice is soaked in blood and you drink it like vampires.

Tea will never belong to you. It's our legacy of grief, and your shame.

Drink your tea and shut the fuck up.