#growth as well as decay

[un-pearable]

sorry star wars is my new archie sonic

[homostacis]

itsuno really went

[toytulini]

simultaneously like pretty pretty please please if i give you fertilizer will you grow a new leaf? and not drop any more? and also like

god i cant believe you need fucking fertilizer. youre getting whatever is in this liquid cactus fertilizer and youre gonna be happy with it.

[zofet]

Tw//body gore¿

"The playful fair-weather Cumulus and the angry Cumulonimbus are in a constant dance of growth and decay"

The heart is a muscle

Heheh uploading somestuff!! A coincidence that it lines up that well!!

[the-fluffy-folio]

Bog-Born – Tiny undead, any alignment

Surprisingly keen and quite charismatic – for an undead. Made from mould and mud, the bog-born thrives where growth meets decay and murky waters drown the lands. Unknown spirits push this peculiar undead into its mockery of life and bless it with consciousness, resourcefulness and sturdiness alike. The bog-borns form loose groups to spend their time in make-shift settlements. From dawn till dusk, they skilfully build their huts out of rotting debris and fallen trees. When the sun settles, they dance – in a myriad of flickering lights they break the night’s darkness, with screeching sounds and tiny splashes its silence. And just as the bog-borns do, the swampy forest dances with them.

🔮 If you like my work, kindly consider to support me on Patreon to gain access to monster pages, tokens & artwork of over 300 quirky creatures as well as dozens of potion & item cards based on their lore.

[writingfromasgard]

Waldeinsamkeit pt 2[König]

[Masterlist] || Requests || More Konig || Part 1

gif source

Synopsis: König and his forest decide to keep you.

König shudders as the trees of his forest swayed, telling him the sweet one with the tree babies had returned. He found you in another clearing that had been decimated by mankind, attempting to unearth a decaying stump with your meager strength and a metal shovel. He watches you struggle before making his presence known, snapping a dead twig between his fingers.

It's cute how it startles you, he thinks.

He approaches you, touching the stump which rapidly decays into fresh soil - roots and all. Your eyes look up at him with wonder. He crouches beside you, digging his claws into the soil to make way for the sapling you've grown for his forest.

"Thank you." You speak politely, planting a sickly looking sapling in the soil. "This one isn't doing well and I read that rotting wood can help plants thrive."

His claws carefully lift the leaves of the sapling, studying it for a moment. He yanks his hand back unexpectantly and growls, anger flooding him. Your body leans away from him, eyes wide with fear again.

"Poison." He hisses, ripping it out of the gown and tossing it aside.

"Poison?" Your lips curve into a frown. "I'm not trying to poison the forest."

His claws reach for your chin, dragging you to look at him. His eyes are boring into yours, trying to choose the correct words - he didn't make contact nearly enough to fully speak your language.

He settles on, "Not my tree."

"Not your tree.." Your brows furrow, gears turning behind your eyes as you try to understand. "It doesn't belong here."

König lets go of your chin, patting the top of your head like he'd seen other humans do. "Good."

You shift your basket, full of saplings in various states of growth. "Can you tell me which ones I shouldn't plant?"

He takes little time, tearing the invasive ones in half and tossing them over his shoulder. Your basket is still halfway full, pleasing him. He stops with the last one, holding up a tree from his forest beside it.

He shoves them in your face, hoping you see the difference in their leaves and color. You gently take one then the other, looking at both of them.

"Bad." He tapped the grotesque one - lighter color leaves, lighter stem.

König prowls the ground around you, keeping an eye on which saplings you're planting to ensure none of the poison tries to take root in his forest. Sunlight grows sparse between the canopy as you finish planting the last sapling.

He watches you brush the dirt off your hands, leaving dark smudges on your clothing. Your contented smile tells him you're done for the day as you pick up your basket. Your smaller limbs creak and pop as you stretch, ready for the walk back home. He wants you to stay.

His forest groans and shifts when you go to leave. It calls out to you, roots and branches alike trying to grasp at you. Your feet stumble over a root. His hands are quick to reach out, catching you before you can fall.

With his hands curled around your waist, purring with satisfaction when you're pressed tightly against him. "You can't leave."

"Why can't I? I've left before." You question, relaxing in his grip.

"Forest wants to keep you. I want to keep you." He nudges your cheek with his, making that same purring sound. "Our - K̵̼̍̓̀͝į̶̲̟̒͠n̴͒̒͊̚͜d̵͎̺̟̄ͅè̶̱͇̠̌ř̷̢̞̠̐̀͜͝ need you."

Confusion is evident in your features. Rather than wait for you to ask more questions, König lifts you, carefully placing you on his shoulder to easily carry you to his home deeper in the forest.

The path twists and turns so frequently that he doubts you will escape the forest before he finds you again. The trees along the path rustle with approval. He stops at a large tree with carvings in the wood before he sets you down.

"Home." He simply says, shoving open the door.

The air is filled with the scent of earth and moss inside. Your nervous glances settle soon into wonderment. He lets you walk around, exploring the small inside. You approach his bed and a familiar ache builds in him.

"This is your home?" You ask, sitting down on the soft moss bedding.

"Our home." He corrects.

He reaches out tentatively, lifting your chin with one of his claws like he's done so many times before to get your attention. He leans down, making gentle contact with your lips. He was only attempting to understand more of your language when your hands came up, pulling him in deeper.

König sinks into it, his magic dancing across your lips and then your tongue when you gasp. His instincts force him to step forward, making you fall backward onto the mossy bed.

He hovers over you, humming with a need that is quickly becoming an ache. His claws graze down your sides, making you arch into his chest. His tongue lolls out, licking his own lips. He leans down, blue eyes staring at you. He can smell something sweet coming from you that he wants to consume.

With a few movements, you're removing the protective layers you wear against the elements, baring yourself to his gaze. That sweet smell grows without your clothing, making his mouth water with hunger.

His head dips between your legs where the smell is the strongest and his tongue laps between your thighs, purring yet again. The tangy taste that coats his tongue is delightful. Your hips move against his tongue so his hands hold them down while he drinks his fill.

Your breath hitches as König's tongue slithers deeper, finding a better source for the taste inside you. The heat around his tongue makes his chest rumble, his cock begins to harden. He watches as your hands claw at the moss beneath you, his magic slowly filling the space he's invading. You loudly cry out then he feels muscles tightly clenching around his tongue.

Your body trembles under him as he climbs over you. His hands fumble to grab hold of himself, memories of humans that would press tightly against each other. Their bottoms moving up and down..

König settles between your legs, poking the tip between your legs. He grumbles, unsure how this feels good to anyone when his cock is hardly making contact. Your hands reach down, grasping him.

"Let me help." You say, voice breathless.

He allows it, body tensing at the feel of your hands touching him there. His eyes watch your squirm to the edge, biting your bottom lip. Heat engulfs him and his hips buck forward, the need for more filling him.

His hands plant beside your hips, grunts leaving him. Your hands leave his length the more he works into you. Your groaning beneath him, clutching his arms.

The pleasure is intoxicating - filling his head with how hot, tight you are around his throbbing cock. Your legs hook on his waist, enabling him to bury all the way.

He lowers his head, licking at your neck. Your body shifts each time his pull-push motions happen. You mewl and arch up against him. His tongue flicks across a nipple on your chest, enjoying the sounds coming from your lips.

Sweat is forming on your skin as he continues on, digging his fingers deeper into the moss bedding. You're as beautiful as the forest around you - sweaty, pleasure stricken, and crying out.

König purs as he feels you clench around him. The sounds you're making turn to screams, your legs locking him in deep. He haunches over your body, drool dripping on your chest. His cock swells before flooding you with his seed.

He keeps thrusting deeper into you, butting against your cervix to make it welcome his cum. It feels too good to stop. His hips keep moving, dragging along your already sensitive nerves. You're crying out, hands shoving at his broad chest.

"Again." König grunts out.

[ossifer]

Liminal Physics 101 - What's wrong with the River?

I want to preface this theory/analysis by giving credit to the excellent, thought-provoking response left on my theory on the mechanism behind lyctoral thanergy generation by @greyhairedgeekgirl, because it inspired me to finally finish typing up this post.

There is a lot of conjecture contained within this theory but I've attempted to firmly root it in the terminology used by the characters in relation to the River, as well as how the River itself is described. My avenue of thought is closely related to that of @greyhairedgeekgirl, but I think my conclusion likely differs due to how I have chosen to interpret the definition of the River as a liminal space.

Anyway, onto the question I'm seeking to answer here: I feel that the answer to it lies in Harrow the Ninth, during the explanation we get in response to a question asked by John Gaius himself, and the veritably horrific implications of it.

“Harrowhark, what happens when somebody dies?”

“Thalergetic decay causes cellular death,” you said carefully, pressing the nail in harder, “which emits thanergy. The massive cell death that follows apopneumatism causes a thanergetic cascade, though the first bloom fades and the thanergy stabilises within thirty to sixty seconds.” “What happens to the soul?” “In the case of gradual death—senescence, illness … certain other forms—transition is automatic and straightforward. The soul is pulled into the River by liminal osmosis. In cases of apopneumatic shock, where death is sudden and violent, the energy burst can be sufficient to countermand osmotic pressure and leave the soul temporarily isolated. Whence we gain the ghost, and the revenant.”

Note how this explanation is structured in a sequential way that is likely deliberate:

We establish that thanergy is emitted by thalergetic decay: thalergy is characterised as life energy, produced by cell growth and reproduction. Thanergy is also said to be produced by cell death in the glossary of GtN, which to me indicates that the thalergy produced by a cell is in some way tied to it, beginning to decay into thanergy when the cell dies.

Massive cell death follows apopneumatism: the soul leaving the body results in mass cell death, resulting in the body's thalergy 'flipping' and rapidly decaying into thanergy.

Gradual death results in the soul being pulled into the River by liminal osmosis. Sudden and violent death results in a thanergetic energy burst sufficient to countermand (lit. revoke or cancel an order) osmotic pressure, leaving the soul temporarily isolated outside the River.

The soul leaves the body, the cellular thalergy begins to decay into thanergy in the absence of the soul, and the amount of thanergy produced results in the soul either being pulled into the River or being temporarily stranded.

River Terminology

liminal - occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold; relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process. This word is used in reference to the River a lot.

apopneumatism - apo meaning 'from, away from' and pneumatism referring to the pneuma, or soul; this is the process of the soul coming away from the body. put simply, this is death.

liminal osmosis - osmosis is 'the spontaneous net movement or diffusion of solvent molecules through a selectively-permeable membrane from a region of high water potential (region of lower solute concentration) to a region of low water potential (region of higher solute concentration)'; a solution is a solute dissolved in a solvent, meaning that osmosis is the process whereby a solution resolves the discrepancy in solute : solvent ratio between itself and another solution that are divided by a selectively-permeable membrane. imagine you have two bodies of water, of unequal volume, one with more solute in it than the other: osmosis will result in the body with more solute gaining water from the body with less solute until the ratio of water : solute is equivalent in each body. it equalises their concentration of solute.

osmotic pressure - 'the minimum pressure which needs to be applied to a solution to prevent the inward flow of its pure solvent across a semipermeable membrane', but it is also defined as 'the measure of the tendency of a solution to take in its pure solvent by osmosis'. this is to say that osmotic pressure can serve as the current that pulls a soul into the river, if you assume that the river is a solution and the soul is a solvent. Alternatively, one could also consider the River as the selectively-permeable membrane dividing two solutions.

What does this mean?

Assume the following:

The world is a solution, solute dissolved in a solvent, and the soul is the solvent in that solution.

The River is a selectively-permeable membrane.

The River beyond that Abigail Pent speaks of is another solution.

The soul (solvent) is pulled through the River (selectively-permeable membrane) by osmotic pressure into the solution with less solvent in (the River beyond), except it can't, because that semi-permeable membrane has been rendered impermeable: why?

Solute concentration.

What is the solute?

You collected bits of dried wood—dried wood?—and empty-coloured stones—stones?—from the banks of the River beyond death, and you collected armfuls of the sharply unkind osiers and tall, feathery plants, the ones with long fibrous stems as tall as you were and thin, tangled leaves. Filthy salt wind whipped your faces as you formed wards from the flotsam that grew, apparently, on the bank.

She stood before the coffin of the Sleeper, and gathered those white, soft, solid rips in her hands, and she popped the bubble, and the River came rushing in. It came down around her in shreds, as light and insubstantial as drifts of spiderweb. The water sprayed through white holes, rushing in with a pounding roar: that brackish, bloodied water that only existed within the River. She was buoyed up by a spray of ice water and filth.

The River is described as brackish, it is associated with salt wind. Brackish means water with higher than average salinity, saltwater concentration, so let's assume our solute is salt.

What did John do when he became God? He introduced a copious amount of thanergy into the system, because murders generate more thanergy, enough to make souls unable to pass into the river, and used it to fuel himself.

He murdered Alecto. The salt-water creature: the first thalergetic planet he flipped. The water is the solvent, the solvent is the soul, salt is our solute, salt-water is our solution.

I was so close to cracking this third thing, the soul. I’d realised there was the energy you produced from being alive and the energy you produced when you died, but the fact that energy was produced when you died meant there was another phase. I could get a corpse’s heart beating and get all the neurons firing in the brain, but it wasn’t producing the alive stuff anymore. It wasn’t an on-off switch.

“The body needs thalergy and a soul to keep the lights on. Anastasia’s tripod principle. Body plus thalergy, but no soul, is basically a very weird vegetable … after a while it gives up and shuts down.”

Nona the Ninth shows exactly what the soul is: the third thing, the on-off switch, the leg of the tripod. A body full of thalergy without a soul shuts down after a while because the thalergy isn't stable in the absence of a soul, and decays in its absence. Thalergy decay emits thanergy.

Thalergy is salt, water is the solvent, water is the soul, salt-water is the solution of a living creature: thalergy stabilised by a soul.

How does salt affect water?

A river is freshwater: it doesn't have high salinity. It is not salt-water.

What does salt do to water? It adds to its mass, makes it more buoyant. Buoyancy, or upthrust, is an upward force exerted by a fluid that opposes the weight of a partially or fully immersed object.

The Riverbed is studded with mouths that open at proximity of Resurrection Beasts, and no ghosts venture deeper than the bathyrhoic layer. Anyone who has entered a stoma has never returned. It is a portal to the place I cannot touch—somewhere I don’t fully comprehend, where my power and my authority are utterly meaningless. You’ll find very few ghosts sink as far as the barathron.

Ghosts don't venture near the Riverbed. The Riverbed is studded with stoma. The stoma are mouths that open when Resurrection Beasts near them, and the Resurrection Beasts are the souls of murdered planets, the only souls that can sink that low; the stoma lead to a place John can't touch.

[...]“And that was a titanic effort on the part of Cassiopeia the First, who was brilliant and sensible and careful—she thought she could bait physical portions of the Resurrection Beast into the current. She was right. It followed her.”

They were writhing together, wild and excited—the current swirled in an agitated pandemonium—there was a massive sickening jolt, and the Mithraeum started to slide again, forward … tilting … sliding. “We’re in the current now,” said Pyrrha calmly. “We’ll be pulled in, if the mouth doesn’t close.”

The current of the River leads to the stoma. The River is a semi-permeable membrane that leads to the River beyond, and the stoma are mouths in the Riverbed that lead to a place beyond the power of John. Osmosis pulls solvent, souls, through the membrane into the neighbouring solution.

Conclusion

You went en masse into the River, leaving your bodies behind to slump into C-curves—or at least, yours did, the rest of them stood—and crunched the silvery sand of the bank beneath your feet as the three saints led you both to assemble wards. No blood or flesh or bone here: the first two might be scavenged, the last swept away by the capricious tide. You collected bits of dried wood—dried wood?—and empty-coloured stones—stones?—from the banks of the River beyond death, and you collected armfuls of the sharply unkind osiers and tall, feathery plants, the ones with long fibrous stems as tall as you were and thin, tangled leaves.

The River holds no blood, flesh, or bone. But its waters are made brackish by a kind of salt: the thanergy of murdered billions. How can one make a ward from something unthanergetic, from dried wood and stones? It's impossible, unless they are suffused with thanergy, made pliable to a lyctoral touch.

When John murdered the planets and humanity in one fell stroke, he flooded with the River with enough thanergy that its buoyancy countermanded the osmotic process that draws souls into the River beyond. The River is full of ghosts gone mad: souls that should have moved beyond, but can't, because the current cannot carry them through the stoma, the thanergy working against its pull.

“A powerful necromancer at the peak of their game could last ten seconds in the River,” said God, pushing himself up to stand. “Soul magic is the great leveller. In the first few seconds their thanergy would all be stripped away … then their thalergy, and then their soul.”

The River strips away thanergy and thalergy, but it can only do so much: when its waters are already so permeated with thanergy, souls float, fail to sink to the depths and pass through it, carried by its current. They cannot reach the stoma because their souls are too light compared to that of the Resurrection Beasts, the thanergetic buoyancy pushing them back up.

What lies beyond the stoma isn't Hell, or rather, it is Hell: it is a place where John Gaius can't touch. It is where souls are meant to go. It is the River Beyond.

[notquitecanon]

Tell 'em bout the Twinkie // Dr. Egon Spengler x extroverted!Reader

Summary: Egon takes care of you after a long night on the town with the other Ghostbusters. While somethings are always the same, you surprise him yet again.

I found this hand written in a notebook from two years ago while I was cleaning so I figured id type it up and post it since there wasn't much new stuff in the tag. Dinner is served.

Warnings: alcohol use, drunk reader, sober Egon (obvi), descriptions of scraped knees and cut hands, blood mention, and first aid. Lots and lots and lots of fluff. Possible cringe. shameless use of Twinkie as an emotional allegory

Dr. Egon Spengler was enjoying a rare night of quiet in the firehouse. Janine had scheduled the whole week around the entire group being free tonight. Peter had insisted a little R&R was due in spades. And for Egon that meant spending a quiet night in, lackadaisically charting his mold and fungus, and catching up on relevant literature at his leisure. 

But for the rest of the Ghostbusters staff, it meant going out to a nearby bar for drinks and music. That included you, the Ghostbusters resident research analyst (as you were listed on their payroll). 

You had been hesitant to leave Egon alone, especially on one of the few nights you wren’t working to the wee hours of the morning or having dinner interrupted by what Winston had dubbed the "bust alarm". Still, the scientist encouraged you to join the others, knowing deep down you wanted to go. 

One of the many reasons he admired you was your easy and outgoing nature, your desire to be out in the world. Due to his introverted and nose in his book habits (even worse when he was in college), your extroverted demeanor was probably the only reason you had managed to befriend him. And because he admired it and profoundly enjoyed your company, he never Egon ever wanted to be the reason you didn’t do the things you wanted to. 

However, that didn’t mean he had the slightest inclination to join you in a Friday night crowded bar: packed with sweaty people he didn’t want to touch, drinks he didn’t want to drink, loud music he didn’t want to hear, smoky air he didn’t want to breath, and sticky countertops he didn’t want to sit at. And that’s just the reasons he got out before Peter gave up trying to convince him. 

So, he was content to gently push you towards the door with the assured promise he’d be happily waiting with for your return with leftover takeout- both of your favorite ways to end a late night since meeting each other as Grad Students. Nothing better than cold noodles after coming home little drunker than you meant to- and well, Egon didn’t drink but did enjoy an excuse for a late night snack (and an excuse to be close to you).

And with the firehouse still and quiet, Egon was enthused, seeing how ectoplasm interacted and affected the growth of his molds, making mental notes to show you. 

Aspergillums wouldn’t grow at all, actively decaying at ectoplasmic contact. Cladosporium both grew and decayed erratically with Ecto contact, creating a cascading starburst affect. Alternaria first grew at unprecedented rates but wouldn’t produce spores. Penicillin frew at normal rates but produced an odd smell. Fusarium grew rapidly and abundantly at first but died off just as rapidly. 

"Spengie!" A recklessly loud shout, Peter no doubt, echoed from the main entrance, "You gotta marry this girl!” 

And thus his quiet night was suddenly over- con. But it meant you were home- pro! Venkman's shout was accompanied by the sound of quick footwork stomping and scuffing above him, and Egon could imagine him doing a little spin around the fire pole. It was Winston’s voice that following in scolding. 

"Peter if you don’t shut the hell up, I will leave you at the bottom of the stairs for the night. We both know you won’t make it up by yourself.” His voice was a warning, but Venkman’s voice was cheeky. 

"After all we’ve been through, Zeddemore?” 

"Especially after all we’ve been through.” 

Egon smirked at his friend’s antics, shaking his head as he removed the Trichoderma slide from the microscope, encapsulated it, labeled it, and sorted it into his hobby file base. A well practiced move as a set of footsteps clunked down the stairs to him. His eyebrows twitched. 

Those weren’t your footsteps. 

And while he loved his friends dearly, they had gotten your company and attention all night. Despite his insistence on your outing, he was feeling uncharacteristically territorial about his night time traditions with you. 

"I’d knock but I don’t have a hand." Ray’s voice called out, sounding three quarters of the way down, chipper tone underplayed by a touch of strain. His steps were unaccompanied and you hadn’t called out to him yet- not even a good night. Had you decided to skip takeout all together in favore of crashing on the upstairs couch? If anything, the couch he had in the basement would be better for your REM cycle. Not to mention Egon was also in the basement.

Nonetheless, Egon answered, inviting him into the lab as he rose from his work stool. Finally, Ray turned the corner, silently answering all the scientist’s questions. Because there you were, wrapped around Ray’s back like a proton pack, your own jacket hanging behind the both of you like a cape, your purse on Ray’s shoulder, and shamefully useless shoes in his hand. Rays arms looped under your lax knees, and your arms were loosely around his neck like the worlds drunkest scarf. Meanwhile, your face had tucked into Ray’s neck, between your arm and his collar, now smudged with your lipstick. 

There was a momentary flash of jealousy until it was squashed by Egon’s sudden attention to your knees. He tensed, seeing a patch of blood on both knees, staining ripped tights and dripping to your ankles. There was a more subtle smudge of injury on both of your palms. 

"What happened?" Egon’s voice was clipped, zeroing in on your wounds as he crossed the lab, suddenly much more worried that you hadn’t even twitched. You were breathing deeply, but hand’t made a sound…

Ray had been expecting this reaction and kept a calm face, "Just took a little tumble, Spengler, see?” 

With that, he shook one of the arms holding your legs, jostling you enough to rouse you a little. Without looking up, one of your bloody hands weakly formed a thumbs up before going limp again. Egon looked between your hand and Ray’s face in a mix of disbelief, worry, and irritation. Stantz swallowed thickly, shifting from foot to foot under his friend’s discerning gaze. 

"That didn’t answer my question, Raymond.”

It only took one more cold look for Ray to start rambling the truth.

"Awww, don’t Raymond me, Spengs, it was all Peter’s fault, honest! It was like graduation weekend all over again. Venkman wanted a rematch, and, you know, (Y/N) had just enough to drink that she was feeling competitive. They agreed to the same stakes as last time and since you weren’t there (Y/N) placed a bet on your behalf." Ray explained quickly, not managing to hide his happy smile as he moved to gingerly deposit you on the couch. Egon was following like a shadow, taking great care to keep your head from falling back uncomfortably. Graduation Weekend had been the last time you had been carried home like this, only Egon had done the carrying that weekend, after going shot-for-shot with Venkman. After that and the subsequent hangover, you had vowed to 'grow up' and never get too drunk to walk for yourself. Until tonight apparently, Egon mused, brushing some hair out of the dried sweat on your forehead and noting your breathing, heavy but shallow. Not unusual after alcohol consumption. As Ray unlatched your knee from his hip, he perked up, "On the bright side, Peter’s cleaning the soot out of the Proton packs’ exhaust vents for a month! Lost on a technicality.”

"Hmmm." Egon hummed, adjusting you into a more comfortable sitting position as you slowly started to wake up, "Get the first aid kit for me?” 

"Sure thing." 

Egon watched your slow, scrunched blinks and how you slowly lifted your head to look at him, squinting before deadpanning until the blurry shape came into focus. It was hard to be irritated with you when your flushed face broke out into an unabated, silly grin, half lidded eyes brightening as you called in sleepy excitement, "Egon!" 

Spengler took the opportunity to analyze the dilation of your pupils-  glassy and dilated, but responsive. Good. He offered you a dry smile to appease you as Ray put the first aid kit beside you. In his other hand were three bottle- another college tradition. A non-FDA approved electrolyte and mineral enriched drink, formulated by Egon when he lived with Peter who was insufferable when hungover. Venkman called it "Liquid Rewind" and begged Egon to patent and copy right it, only after convincing him to add flavoring to mask the terribly bitter taste. 

Spengler nodded a thank you as he plucked the red one from Ray’s hand, giving it to you. Ray watched you pressed the chilled bottle against your warm cheek. This left the already opened grape to Ray who sported a purple ring around his mouth and orange for Peter. 

"Egon, red is Pete’s favorite." Ray pointed out as Egon started unpacking the first aid kit.

"I know." 

"He hates orange." Ray reminded him. 

"I know." 

Ray nodded slowly, he knew how petty Egon could be when he was irritated, and he didn’t plan to attract the scientist’s wrath. Instead, he cheerfully patted Egon’s shoulder and moved towards the staircase, "Alrighty then, she’s all yours now. G’nite, Spengs." 

"Goodnight, Ray. Thanks for getting her home.”

"Well, she sure didn’t make it easy. For a research analyst, she’s pretty slippery." Ray laughed, mostly to himself as he shuffled up the stairs most likely to the bunk room while Spengler pulled on a pair of medical rubber gloves. Egon also knew this from experience- Graduation Weekend he had also done the chasing when you pulled honestly impressive feats of escapism. Now, alone in the lab, Egon was kneeling in front of you in record time. 

He took the first aid scissor and made quick work of ripping off your already shredding tights with such an efficiency that if you were in your right mind you probably would have been too flustered to think straight. 

Egon ignored your little noise of protest, attractive scientist or not, those had been your good tights. The scientists offered you a cocked eyebrow as he rolled the tights down your legs. You simply sighed as he started gentle strokes to clean the blood off you now bare skin.

"Did you have to give Ray such a hard time?” 

The scolding was playful even though delivered with his usual level of directness, still, even drunk you knew him well enough that it made you smile. 

"Well, I was actually giving Peter a rough time, Ray just happened to be collateral damage." Sleep was starting to wear off, leaving your words only a little slurred, as if you were taking great efforts to make sure they were clear. 

"And what did Peter do to deserve your ire this time?" Egon dousing some gauze with antiseptic. He didn’t flinch at the acrid scent, and usually you wouldn’t either, but this time your nose scrunched as Egon moved in even closer. However, you didn’t flinch in the slightest when he started dabbing at the shredding parts of your knees. Instead, you took the chance to appreciate the view of the good doctor kneeling in front of you, overhead lights casting a halo on his dark curls. It would be the perfect distance to lazily run gentle fingers through those curls. You seriously contemplated, but decided not to. You didn’t want to get blood in his pretty, soft hair. Wait- you were supposed to be answering his question… 

"Made an uncouth comment." You sniffed as Egon moved to the next knee to clean the scrape. He hummed again noticing your non answer but not commenting- one problem at a time.  

"Most of his comments are uncouth." He pointed out, pausing to smirk up at you, sighing in relief when you giggled. The was a comfortable pause as Egon focussed in on the deepest gash, but not for long.

"How is the ectoplasm variant going?" You asked after going quiet long enough that Egon wondered if you had fallen back asleep. 

"I’ll have to show you tomorrow. I want your thoughts." Egon informed, a slight smile and point of pride that you had inquired after his work even in your current state as he dabbed antibiotic cream on your knees, "The Cladosporium is behaving particularly erratic." 

"Ugh, my bet was on the Asparagus." You sighed, prodding at the edge of one of the deeper cuts at the top of your knee. Egon gently, but sternly, nudged your hand away, giving you a warning eyebrow before taping large bandage on over one knee. 

"Aspergillus." He correct, almost sounding amused as he moved to the next knee, applying the bandage with just as much care, "Hands." 

"Yes, doctor." You teased, offering both your palms. Egon gently took your left in his larger hand, using his other to repeat the same process. These scrapes were much less deep, mainly superficial, a product of catching yourself before your head hit the pavement, your knees had taken the brunt of it, but Egon was nothing if not thorough. It was quick work to clean and bandage both palms. 

"There, that should prevent an infection." Spengler informed you, holding both of your treated hands in his after disposing of his gloves, he gave them a quick, tender squeeze before pressing the bottle of red ~liquid rewind~ into your grasp, quickly cracking the lid off for you, "Drink that." 

"You know I’m not even that drunk." You scoffed, giving him a playful glare but obeying anyway, taking a long pull of the bottle, only stopping to swallow and breathe before going back in. This time both of his brows were raised as he stood, taking the trash from his impromptu clinic to the nearest bin. 

"How much have you had to drink, exactly?" 

You thought to yourself for a second, raising your eyes to the ceiling and mouthing numbers before tallying them on your fingers while you mentally replayed the night. Egon waited expectantly as he removed his lab coat, getting increasingly more concerned the longer the tally went on. 

"Lets see…. approximately pi cubed divided in half times 1.5, minus six." 

Egon didn’t even have to think about the calculation, instead being bewildered by the sheer amount of liquor you had managed to imbibe. His voice raised just a bit, mostly in disbelief and concern, "17 drinks?! (Y/N)." 

His disbelief sounded more like frustration to you, and your lip wobbled a bit as you lurched forward, regretting the sudden move but powering through as your eyebrows knitted up, looking up to the scientist pleading, voice a whine, "Don’t be mad." 

Egon shook his head with a deep sigh, catching your hand as you reached for him.

"I’m not mad. Surprised you’re coherent? Yes. Impressed at your current equational prowess? Definitely."  He listed as you weakly pulled him back towards you. Egon nudged the forgotten red stained bottle, "C’mon, a little more." 

After a long swallow, you nodded, "Well, after I slipped the boys, I made it pretty far uptown before they found me-" 

You had started almost sheepishly, this time expecting Egon’s crinkled eyebrows and interruption. 

"They lost you?" He repeated lowly, but you just shrugged, squeezing his hand as you continued your tale. 

"Only for an hour, but it was a long walk back home. Well, it was for Ray at least. So I had plenty of time to workshop my math, Ray doublechecked it for me. And I still had time for a nap." You seemed pretty proud of yourself. Egon opened his mouth, eyebrows raising then falling as his mouth closed. 

"I see. Is there a particular reason you needed to escape?" 

"Noooo…."You dragged out, using his hand to pull yourself out of you slouched sitting, using him to keep yourself steady. Egon didn’t budge, allowing the contact. His head cocked ever so slightly to the side, looking at you over the rim of his glasses. You crumbled instantly, "Yes." 

With an innocent smile, you fished into your jacket pockets, patting yourself down with increasing franticness, "I kept going until I could find a 24 hour bodega." 

"You ran off inebriated by yourself in the middle of the night to a late night convenience store in New York City? This neighborhood is basically a demilitarized zone. We’re definitely going to have to discuss that." He muttered, checking you over for any injuries he or Ray might have missed. You were undeterred by his scolding because you had found whatever you had been searching for.  

"Well, where else was I gonna find these at this hour?" You asked earnestly, revealing two only slightly squished Twinkie's. It was your turn to quirk an eyebrow, "What? Did you think I would forget about our late night snack?”

You were interrupted by a overpowering yawn, eyes suddenly drooping, "Gonna be honest though, don’t think cold Thai food is a great move for me at the moment. 

Egon took the slightly squished confection out of your hand, giving it an appraising gaze, before breaking into that signature sideways smile as you leaned into his chest. With all the secrets of the night in the open, you didn’t have much else fighting to keep you awake. Egon his arms around your back, using one hand to rub soothing circles on your back. The good doctor allowed you to stay like that, his cheek pressed against the top of your head. As your breathing slowed, more and more of your weight slumped against him. 

Egon didn’t mind, finally getting that close contact he’d been waiting all night for. Instead, he stared down at the twinkie in his hand. The cream was squeezing out of the sponge cake and smearing onto the crinkled plastic wrapper, but you had ventured countless blocks out of your way, escaping three of New York’s ghostbusters, just to pick up something you knew he’d like.  Even with 17 drinks actively shrinking your neurons, you were always so thoughtful. 

Egon was well aware of how much his friends loved him, and he would always be grateful for finding each of them. But there was always just something different about your love. If Egon possessed a more artistic disposition, he might describe it as a warm ocean wave washing over a beach. Gentle, yet unstoppable. All encompassing. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done to deserve someone like you to love him like you did, but whatever it was he’d do it a thousand times over- even if it meant cleaning you up after a long night out on the town. 

"Did you have a good time tonight?" He asked quietly, feeling you nod into his chest . His sweater was soft against your cheek and he smelled as wonderful as always: earthy yet clean and the slightest hint of something smoky like a full trap or lab experiment gone wrong. After a deep inhale you nodded again through another yawn. 

"Mmmhm. ‘missed you though." Your voice had slowed back down to its sleepy, slow tone that Egon would never admit to loving as much as he did, the warmth of him and quiet lulling you. You were fighting to stay afloat, but Egon’s thumbs working slow circles into your back were winning as he answered. 

"I missed your company as well." 

-

And it was later, when you had fallen into a deep unbothered sleep on the lab’s couch after stealing one of Egon’s t-shirts- the ones he would wear under his jumpsuit-, and using his lab coat as a blanket, that Egon thought about all this, taking a slow bite of his slightly squished gift.

Peter was right. One day, he needed to marry you.

-----

so I tried two somethings new. 1.) tried writing this more from his perspective, which isn't something I really do with any character. 2.) Paired him with a more extroverted out going reader, because I feel like we usually see him paired with more introverted types

anyways I typed this up at 3 am after crying for five hours so please excuse any typos.

[transastronautistic]

I can't handle how cute this is. i want a slime pet too

Link to the Tweets. And here's a link to the study. ID in alt text and below the readmore.

Image 1:

tweet by e. @MelytraMithra reading "oh my goddddd

researchers built a smartwatch heart beat monitor that uses a slime mold for its operation. the slime mold has to be fed and cared for, so the users in the trial… developed an emotional attachment to it [two sobbing emojis]"

The Tweet includes a screenshot from the paper, described in next image.

Image 2:

The tweet's screenshot, which reads:

Developing a connection.

All participants expressed various feelings of connection with our device. P1, P2, P4, and P5 all described it as a little friend and/or pet. P2 expressed, “it’s always good to be accompanied by some living creature, I really like different, animals or plants. (. . .) carrying this little friend also made me feel happy and peaceful”. P4 noted that she would be reminded by the slime mold’s presence by its smell, even stating that it felt endearing, “my cat’s kind of have a smell, dogs have a smell, the physarum, I recognize the smell and it smells kind of, organic, it’s kind of yeasty but not like decaying, it smells alive”. In recalling an experience where she had to take a long drive, P4 explained, “oh, I gotta bring my little pet mold friend, during the drive, I was also thinking about how I used to be really into Tamagotchis (. . .) with the physarum, (. . .) it has this smell to it which your Tamagotchis don’t have, it has a sense of physicality, (. . .) they’re definitely different”. P1 stated that their personal care routine ended up linked to the device’s care routine “I think every time I fed myself is when I would remember to at least check it, I think that was actually quite linked”. While she was sick, P5’s partner helped take care of her as well as helped to take care of her device. P5 recounts, “I was taking care of the slime and feeding it oats and stuff, my partner was also feeding me oatmeal because I was sick and so she was like you’re my little slime and I was like yeah, I am (. . .) then she started calling me her slime because I mean me and the slime, like, we were eating the same stuff, (. . .) we were both being fed and watered”. P2 & P4 also stated that the visual appearance of their device affected their mood. P2 explained that growth made them feel refreshed. P4 associated the bright yellow of the physarum with happy feelings, noting this affective quality several times in her diary entries and in her interview.

Image 3: A reply tweet from the original tweeter reading "well nourished. in my lane. lively. growing." There's a photoset from the study described as "a slime mold oscillating between living and dormant stages." There are four images of the slime mold, which is a yellow color. The first shows it "dried / dormant / not growing." Second shows it "water added / resuscitated / growing." Third shows the slime "well nourished / lively / growing." The fourth shows it once again "dried / dormant / not growing."

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Blackhearted

(Sirius Black x Reader)

Cw: Noncon, Angst, Smut, Afab Reader, Dark!Sirius, PnV Sex, Somnophilia, Unprotected Sex, Fingering, Crying, Forced Orgasm, Tender But Nasty™️, References to Alcohol Abuse, Reader has head + pubic hair, this got kinda bleak and depressing

READ WITH CAUTION

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: 12 Grimmauld Place is a miserable home.

But for now, it is yours. A lost and vulnerable soul, you find refuge in the owner of the house; a man as troubled as yourself. Unbeknownst to you, he’s sunken his teeth in far deeper; clutching onto you like a lifeline, and the dark, harrowing isolation of winter may drive him to commit acts unforgivable…

Ao3 || Masterlist || Dividers by @/saradika

In mid-February, it’s so cold, so desolate, it reminds him of sharp, icy fingers, clamping down on— His childhood home, decrepit with neglect and age, is the last place Sirius ever hoped to return to. It’s lost, crumbling into undignified ruins, deteriorating into filth. With his pest of a house elf still clinging to the old family values, it’s properly gone to the dogs, and he’d gladly let them pick off the carcass. 

But now you’re hiding alongside him - not by choice - you’ve taken it upon yourself to try and ‘fix it up.’ Sirius almost scoffs at the mere thought of it— At you, whose nose wrinkles distastefully at the grime and mould that gracefully adorns his kitchen. You don’t understand that the disease has progressed far beyond the point of recovery. It’s everywhere; it’s in the air you breathe, in the walls, in the carpet. It’s lurking inside the very infrastructure, festering like cancerous growth. The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, haunted by its rotting opulence: the decaying decor, the cursed, priceless artefacts, the tattered, hateful portraits, courtesy of mum. 

Sirius, who has long since forgotten the luxury of owning his own clothes, wraps himself in the same mothball ridden finery his father died in. Sometimes he feels— He’s eaten alive by the fabric. By vestiges of the past. It still stinks of stale drink, and on nights like these, Orion’s son glares down at the bottom of an empty wine bottle, and thinks that he might be following in his footsteps after all.

On a night like this, the aged floorboards squeak under his heels as he prowls the dilapidated halls. Sirius’ stalking route leads to you, as it usually does, far past midnight. Your bedroom door is sealed tightly shut - probably to keep the heat in - but you never lock it. As if he isn’t dangerous. 

Gripping the weathered knob, he twists it, and lets himself in. The dim, yellowy glow of the gaslamp bolted to the corridor wall is his only light, flickering as it pours into the musty guest room he’s lent you. Sirius lingers on the precipice, his fingers still curled around the handle, sobering up rapidly. 

Blinking slowly, he looks down at you. 

You’re lying on your side, both arms grasping the pillow, dressed in that novelty pyjama set (‘to ward off the draught,’ was the unspoken function of it) Tonks had gifted you for Christmas; a sort of consolation prize. Greatest sympathies, to prepare you for the sordid husk you’ll now inhabit— With him, no less, a man you thought at first to be a killer.

And you, well… You’ve been left skittish from whatever you’re on the run from. He reckons that’s why you’ve latched onto him so powerfully, hoping this unredeemed convict will see fit to protect you from the isolation and the horrors. To help fill the long stretches of time when it’s just been the both of you to keep each other company. Sirius can’t deny his own strong attachment towards you. 

Your presence is comforting, and he’s fallen deeply. Too deeply. It’s why he so often finds himself standing here, watching over you. Sirius envies you, the peaceful sleeper. But he also covets you; if only you’d stay and lay beside him, to heal wounds never spoken of… But he doesn’t know how to ask. 

Silently, he crosses the boundary. 

Rising over your unconscious form, he lifts the quilt, a heavy, lumpy thing, and tentatively rests his knee on the mattress. You sleep peacefully on, even as the rusty old bed-springs squeak underneath him. Sirius slides his exhausted body in behind you, and the dark mass of his own scraggly black hair spills over the cushion. For a moment, he lies there, unmoving and quiet. Even at this safe, chaste distance, your body heat, radiating off you in gradual waves, is enough to soothe the permanent chill that’s seeped into his bones… Sirius can’t resist. He shifts, before placing his forefinger over your throat. 

Sirius can feel your pulse, throbbing with blood; you’re a real, flesh and blood human, warm and alive. Merlin, he’s been deprived for so long, a strong vein feels like it’s a lifeline. This is all he’s ached for, but— No... No. He’s already overstepped a line, one he shouldn’t have ever— He needs to stop, he needs to leave, now, before this all goes too far and he ruins it; ruins you, as he knows he inevitably will. 

But he doesn’t. Sirius’ breath catches in his throat as he tilts his chin ever-so-slightly, and he presses his cold mouth against your exposed nape. You twitch, but do not stir. Sirius licks his dry lips and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, as he nudges down the fleeced collar of your pyjama shirt with his thumb. The slope of your neck is covered in fine, delicate hairs, and he can’t help but smile affectionately down at you. Your defenceless state is sweetly endearing. To be so close to you like this, almost holding you, tender as lovers. 

Sirius hesitates, then, squeezing his eyes shut as he endures the lurch of churning revulsion in his gut (he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t—), he leans forward and plants a string of wet kisses over your bare flesh. So human, so vulnerable… You twitch again, shivering as the ticklish brush of his whiskers rubs lightly over your naked skin. Shame burns like acid in his stomach; but his need for you burns brighter, hotter than fire now, all-consuming… He heaves a jagged sigh, and, unable to stop himself, drags the starving flat of his tongue over your neck, lapping up hungry stripes of perspiration. Sirius tightens his grip on you and shudders with relief— He’s finally quenched his thirst, if only a little. Your intoxicating scent, your taste… 

He’s stolen things, too, before this; he’s not proud of it, but he’s done it. It’s convenient enough to blame it on Kreacher, who hoards all sorts of objects in the first place… What is the difference, really, between the Black family heirlooms and soiled knickers from the wicker basket? No, It hasn’t been so hard to convince you it was Kreacher; to lie and to fib— his old, senile house elf is simply a raging kleptomaniac… You trust him so much… And now Sirius has gone and betrayed that trust entirely. 

Merlin, he needs to stop, he needs to… This should be enough… No, it’s not enough… It’s never enough, he’s barely touched you… Sirius groans feebly into the nape of your neck, slipping the palm of his hand under your nightshirt, desperate for your sacred, lifesaving heat, just a little bit— And then he’ll stop, immediately— just a tiny bit more… You shiver once more, twitching repeatedly as the pads of his fingertips skim over your stomach, still asleep… Sirius brushes his lips over your throat again, as he locks you in wiry arms, inching up your shirt, exposing you to the dark and cold. He traces the slats of your ribs, searching further, until he comes to knead coyly at your breast, teasing your nipple. He dips, finding the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, thumping robustly… Proof of life. 

And you’re definitely real, aren’t you? Not a hallucination, not some illusion… He’s sleepless for the nightmares, but the dreams are always worse, because they remind Sirius of everything he can’t have, not ever again… But he can have you. This stray thought, forceful and insidious, leaks into the dark recesses of his brain. Yes, He can have you— It’s his house, his rules, isn’t it? 

Fuck, he’s disgusting. The realisation of what he’d just conceived of, even momentarily, assaults him with a new stab of remorse. Sirius flinches away, pulling his offending hand out of your pyjamas; but the damage has already been done. By now, he’s pressed flush against you, leeching off your comforting warmth, and his dick is straining tightly against his trousers. Merlin… He’s perverse. 

He throws his forearm over his eyes, blinding himself. Sirius intended for this to be a wholesome encounter, to be sweet and innocent. And now… Have all those years of degradation truly rotted him to the core? Is this what he’s become now? A lustful wretch? This has gone too far, too far— He should leave— 

But now, Sirius has known your touch, and it’s embedded itself parasitically into his mind. He’s swiftly hurtling into addiction; he can’t settle for mere table scraps— To retreat with his tail between his legs, only to find a cold and lonely bed, would be unbearable... Sirius rattles a breath, grasping onto that frayed rope of inherited entitlement he’d meant to cut off a decade ago— He deserves this one thing, surely, after a life of torment… Right? 

You twitch again, mumbling incoherently. Sirius grimaces. He needs to be careful… You might be a heavy sleeper, but he’s already disturbed you too much. If you wake up screaming… He wouldn’t like to think of what he might do. But he’ll stop— He’ll stop after this, he swears it to himself, licking his lips, feeling harder and hungrier than ever. 

Sirius’ forearm props up your leg for him to gain enough access, spreading your thighs open. It’s awkward, but he manages. He tugs down the waistband of your pyjama bottoms, just a bit, so he can touch you, feel you so close to him… Sirius’ hand brushes over a soft tuft of your pubic hair, and he twitches a faint smile… So endearingly vulnerable, before dipping his fingers into your pussy. 

You’re not aroused, but the heat of your core is enough to satisfy him, if only temporarily. Sirius hasn’t done anything like this for a long time; it feels unfamiliar, like all human contact does. He nudges away the curls, tracing your labia, before recalling the shape and form of it, and gently rubbing your clitoris. Fondness, mixed in with his sickening shame, rushes into him, and he presses his lips to your nape again, pleading and soothing like an apology. 

Then, Sirius bites his tongue, justifies himself with the excuse of repaying you with sweet dreams, and pushes his index finger deeper inside your pussy. He hums quietly, indulging in your little twitches, the way your walls flutter around him. It’s not particularly romantic to pleasure you without receiving consent, but lying back-to-chest in the darkness, planting scorching kisses down your neck, he can use his mind to fill in the gaps. Easing out his intruding hand, Sirius tastes the heady flavour of your slick— Merlin. He licks his fingers greedily, drenching them in spit, before plunging them back into your warm cunt, spreading wetness over your folds. 

You let out a sleepy whimper at his touch, and he pauses, going completely stiff with alarm. But— But you haven’t woken up… And now he’s uncontrollable, beyond all morality, relishing in your soft, breathless gasps as he toys with your clit, his damp fingers sliding easily in and out of your pussy. You moan faintly, and the noise vibrates straight to his cock. He’s throbbing, now... Groaning, he forces down his guilt and remorse, discarding them as trite, worthless things. You’re enjoying it, aren’t you? Though you’re still fast asleep— Yes, maybe you’ve hoped for this all along… Secretly. Secretly. Of course, you’ve just been too embarrassed to admit it, but that’s fine… Right now, you’re all his. 

But that’s still not enough. 

Sirius knows what he truly needs; to bury himself inside of you, to merge with you entirely, to steal your warmth for himself— This aching desire, it’s wrong, so revoltingly wrong, but so is he; the entire expanse of flesh covering his body feels like prison, mired in filth, and he’ll never be clean again… He only wishes you could alleviate his pain— Oh, but you can, Sirius will find solace in your heat even if he has to take it from you. He grinds his palm against his temple as he decides. He fights it, but his selfishness wins… Yes, he needs it, needs you— Fuck, he’s about to do something unforgivable, commit a genuine offence; but he’ll make it up to you, of course he will— 

Sirius carefully shuffles down your pyjama bottoms until they’re bunched up around your ankles, followed by your moist panties. He shifts, now painfully hard and weeping in his trousers, and allows your thigh to fall momentarily to unbutton them and release his erection. Rigid and leaking precum, his dick falls over your ass. He readjusts his position on the bed and strokes himself roughly, before hooking his forearm around your leg and lifting it. You jerk unceremoniously and mumble, stirring, but he ignores you— He’s too close, he’s gone too far now… Gritting his teeth, Sirius guides his cock into you, finding you elusive and slippery in the dark, but— The slick of your folds sliding along his length feels heavenly. Sirius licks his lips, smearing precum over your inner thighs, and finally enters you. 

He stifles a raspy moan into your neck. The hug of your tight, wet heat is almost overwhelming— Shuddering, he wholly eases himself inside you. Merlin, you feel so perfect around him… Sirius, gasping rapturously, begins to move, savouring every long, torturous drag against your gummy walls. You’re rousing, now, slurring confused murmurs— “What, what’s going on, hm…”

Sirius doesn’t miss the flutter of lashes, a sharp intake of breath— But he continues, regardless, thrusting in slow, tender arcs. Flinching, you let out a strangled, high-pitched noise, and that’s how Sirius knows you’re truly awake— But he’ll make it up to you, he will— he spreads your thighs wide, to penetrate further, sucking affectionate bites into your neck as he ravishes your quivering body. You tremble and shriek, and your panicked struggling fills him with guilty regret. But he needs this now, he needs you now, he’s been alone for too long— And he’s not going to stop until he’s finished taking you… Feverish, Sirius’ other forearm digs underneath the pillow you’re clutching onto, white-knuckled. He tightens his grip on you before he sinks in deeper, spearing into your intimate core

You whimper, spasming involuntarily. Sirius rumbles with approval, his lips still latched onto your throat. He grabs your thigh firmly, bracing himself against the old headboard. He growls and snaps his hips upward, hitting that delicious spot over and over, trying to elicit more of those sweet noises from you. Even if you’re being frustratingly reticent - too shy, he pretends - you’re still unable to muffle your cries, twitching and writhing in his relentless grasp.

The bed creaks noisily as he hastens his pace, showering wet kisses on your rapidly bruising flesh. His movements are heated and urgent now, growing increasingly desperate— Now he’s inside you, he must fill you utterly— He longs to feel alive with you, slipping a hand down towards where you join together and connect, feeling the way his cock effortlessly slides in and out of your pussy. He dips further to rub harshly at your clit, and you whine, arching. Sirius strokes you mercilessly, his wrist cramping from the awkward positioning— 

But it doesn’t matter, you’re spurring him on with your ecstatic moans, croaky with tears. He doesn’t let up, teasing in sloppy, frantic circles as he bucks into you, revelling in the stickiness of your skin against his; the lewd, wet sound of flesh-on-flesh is obscene. Sirius groans hoarsely, his hips jerking and stuttering as your cunt squeezes around his dick with his every forceful thrust— You are enjoying this…    

Fuck, he is too— Hot pleasure jolts up his spine like the tightening of a knot; and you, crying out with loud whimpers as your spongy insides clench and squeeze around him— Sirius can’t take it anymore. He forgoes gentleness, pounding into your cunt with beastly intensity. You choke out a sob, lurching away from him, but he overpowers and holds you down, still abusing your sensitive clit— He’s going to fuck you until you cum, whether you want it or not— And his hungry mouth returns to sink livid, red marks into your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Something in the wooden bed frame cracks ominously— 

But he ignores it, his breathing growing laboured and husky as he slams his hips into you, again and again, forcing you to whine until your voice breaks. You’re shaking violently in his grip— He can sense it, and you’re close, so close— He’s getting sloppier; rapidly approaching orgasm, and your reactions are boiling his blood, whipping up a primal frenzy in his brain— Sirius pinches your clit, and you climax. 

Your euphoric moan chokes into a loud sob. Sirius growls at the way you clench around him, and pins you down with his body weight. His hand slips and pushes your leg up high, fucking you harder still through your orgasmic tremors— He’s following right behind you, on the cusp— You’re impossibly tight—

Merlin, you’re so damn tight— Sirius barely remembers to— He pulls himself out with a heavy groan, and his seed spills messily over the inside of your thigh. Hazy static pours over him, smothering the guilt, the emptiness… As it gradually tapers out, he feels the absence of your heat, of your closeness, and it pangs like the pain of starvation. It takes a moment for him to recover, lying beside you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. Then, he pushes himself up onto his elbow. 

Panting, Sirius’ damp hair clings to his forehead, stinging his eyes. He wipes it, and fog clears, revealing only desecration.

As if murdered, you lie very still— Or try to, but your breathing is ragged and uneven. You’re glistening with orgasmic sweat, chest heaving as he rests your trembling leg back onto the mattress. You jolt, as if hiccuping, still wracked with sobs. Sirius’ heart aches for you— Merlin, no, what has he done?— He wants to take this moment back, but it’s too late now. The only fix he can think of is practical, like ridding a crime scene of evidence… 

Sirius pulls out his wand, flicking shakily, evaporating his cum, but the scent of your lovemaking still lingers, thick in the air. With as much dignity as he’s able to grant you, he tugs your pyjamas and knickers up your hips. He tucks himself in and buttons his trousers, swimming in post-climax numbness. For a few minutes, he resumes his vigil behind you, as if he’d never done it at all. But you’re colder and distant; farther away than he’s ever felt you. Sighing, he gently strokes your hair. You don’t flinch or shiver away from his touch, but lie still, perfectly still… Your tear-stained cheek is still stuck to the damp patch on your pillow. Sirius passes over it deliberately. You’ve been asleep this entire time, blissfully unaware… That’s a lie he’ll peddle for both of your sakes, until this all melts safely into a nightmare.

It’s agony to tear himself away from your warmth, but Sirius knows he’s ruined everything by violating you, and lingering will only hurt you more. He presses one final, adoring kiss to your neck, yearning to embrace you, then slips wordlessly out of bed.

To forbid himself, he uses magic to bolt the lock.

Morning brings clarity. 

He walks into the kitchen, and the stone tiles clack under his boots, echoing, echoing… You’re there, also, preparing a slow, tedious breakfast.

The silence is heavy. Sirius wants to break it, but the quiet feels impenetrable; a chasm of his own design. For a moment, he frowns, looming uneasily over the dining table, aggravated by the clinking of the jar as you spread jam on your toast, eyes downcast.

Then, he pulls out a rickety chair and sits down. 

You don’t smile at him today. You don’t return his probing gaze. You knife up more slimy jam— Too much, now, and the bread has gone soggy. 

If you’d only burst into tears, he’d gladly take you in his arms to hold you now. Sirius could be your solitary comfort, as you have been his… Only, your new, withdrawn, gloomy state unnerves him. His face darkens… Your bond has truly been broken.

But there’s something else, too. 

Remorse gnawed his flesh until daybreak, and was scarred over by something cruel and hard, burrowing gruesomely inside him like an infection.

He could think of it this way: returning to his old childhood home has done very, very strange things to him. Yes… That’s it. Sirius has never had anything so warm and lovely in this place... And indeed, he’s spent much of his life out of control and powerless… But he does have power over you. It occurs to him abruptly. He does have power over you.  

Sirius leans back in his chair with a squeak. His guilt, hot and shameful, broils fiercely in his gut, but it intertwines with a kind of grim satisfaction. 

It’s his house, his rules… 

So why shouldn’t he have you?

[soilem]

i feel like there should be a version of “ancients” or “masters of time” for the trio, like, they fit so well??

like, for Tucker it would be the past, like how he is basically a reincarnation of a pharaoh and egypt is known for its ancient pyramids which also are memorials for the dead and past and i choose to believe that even in a modern setting he would still have a pda, and other old tech, incorporating it with the present and not letting it decay and be forgotten

and for Sam it would be future, because her whole thing is about her progressive views and how she brought forward movement to the stagnant kingdom and it could even work for Undergrowth Sam (although i do not like this Sam), because life and growth are tied to the passage of time, so if Tucker kept the past from being lost, she made sure that the future arrives

and for Danny it would be the present, for one, because it is the in-between, the connection between the past and the future, but also because astronomy emerged not just as a pathfinding tool, but a time keeping one as well. the zodiacs signified the months , and the moon told you approximately the time of the month, the locations of specific stars told you the time of the night, and the location of the sun told you the time of day, so it would also fit him personally

they could have been clockwork’s apprentices and became the new masters of time when they were ready, like, i like the idea because the problem clockwork could have faced with the observants is that he was the only master of time, but if it was the trio, it would be much harder for them to take control. like, you cannot separate past present and future, that would topple everything, so taking over just one of them would not work, but also, taking over all of them must be way way harder than taking over one of him?

i just think it is neat that this fits and can work

[the-hermit-at-midnight]

The Mystical Significance of the Crow in Witchcraft and Magick

In the vast tapestry of symbols and beings that populate the world of witchcraft and magick, few hold as much intrigue and mystique as the crow. Revered by many cultures throughout history, the crow has come to symbolize wisdom, magic, and transformation in the realm of the occult. Let's explore the significance of this enigmatic bird and its role in witchcraft and magick.

1. **Messenger of the Otherworld:**

In various mythologies and belief systems, crows are often seen as messengers between the earthly realm and the realm of spirits. Their black plumage and keen intelligence evoke an air of mystery, making them natural conduits for communication with the unseen realms. In witchcraft and magick, practitioners may invoke the presence of crows to seek guidance, protection, or insight from the spirit world.

2. **Bearer of Wisdom:**

Crows are highly intelligent birds known for their problem-solving abilities and complex social behaviors. In many cultures, they are revered as symbols of wisdom and knowledge. In witchcraft, the crow is often associated with the archetype of the wise old crone, a figure steeped in ancient wisdom and magickal prowess. Through their association with crows, witches seek to tap into the deep well of knowledge that these birds are said to possess.

3. **Guardian of the Sacred:**

In some traditions, crows are believed to be guardians of sacred spaces and magickal practitioners. They are said to watch over witches and protect them from harm, serving as loyal allies and guides on their spiritual journey. In rituals and spells, practitioners may call upon the energy of the crow to provide a shield of protection or to keep unwanted influences at bay.

4. **Agent of Transformation:**

Crows are creatures of the liminal spaces – the thresholds between light and darkness, life and death, the mundane and the magickal. As scavengers, they feed on the remains of the old, transforming death into new life. In witchcraft, crows are often associated with the process of transformation and renewal. They remind practitioners that change is a natural and necessary part of life, and that through death and decay comes the opportunity for rebirth and growth.

5. **Symbol of Magickal Power:**

Throughout history, crows have been associated with magickal power and the ability to shape-shift or transform. In folklore and mythology, witches are often depicted as being able to take on the form of crows or to summon them to do their bidding. In modern witchcraft, crows are revered as symbols of personal empowerment and mastery over one's own destiny.

The crow holds a special place in the pantheon of symbols used in witchcraft and magick. As a messenger, guardian, and symbol of wisdom and transformation, it serves as a powerful ally for practitioners seeking to deepen their connection to the mysteries of the universe. Whether invoked in rituals, spells, or meditation, the crow embodies the essence of magickal power and spiritual insight, guiding witches on their path to enlightenment and empowerment.

[tsaomengde]

The Ones Who Found The City

Ursula K. LeGuin's "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" is a classic short story, and obviously I knew of it, but I'd never actually read it until recently. Well, I finally got around to it, and as many timeless classics do, it got stuck in my brain. This story is my - response? homage? sequel? pale imitation? - to it. I suggest you go and read "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" if you haven't. Not because it's actually required reading for this story - I think it stands on its own more or less okay - but because it is a classic for a reason.

---

Initially, no one is quite certain of what they’ve found when the Animus breaches the next manifold layer.  This is in and of itself expected, of course.  Exploring psychspace is by its very nature an unpredictable venture.  Each of the various infinite layers is unique and bizarre in its own way, reflecting the archetypal underpinnings of an entire species present, past, or future across an infinitude of possible realities.  The crew of the Animus, therefore, has seen things so utterly alien and inexplicable that only the rigors of their training and the care put into their psychic warding saved them from insanity.

It is somewhat disappointing, then, to find that this sub-domain is just a city.  Definitely not Terranic, certainly not, but still following the Terranic modality, with no more than a seven-degree quantum drift.

“Towers,” Thromby says into the recorder as they sit at their post at the nose of the Animus’s command center.  “Following the standard skyscrape pattern.  Unclear if they’re domiciles or business centers or both.  Coastal city, bay appears to be oceanic rather than lake.  Pleasing blend of urbanization with natural setting.”  They glance at Vigil.  “Anything on the lifescope?”

Vigil shakes his head.  “Nothing.  It’s empty.  Totally empty.”

“That’s odd,” Katrina speaks up from the helm.  “The city doesn’t show signs of decay or reclamation by nature.”

“Entropy may not work in the usual way in this sub-domain,” Teasha reminds her.  “The city itself could be the natural growth, reclaiming the artificial countryside.  We’ve seen things like that before.”

Thromby feels Katrina’s unconscious bristling at the subtle reminder that she is the newest member of the crew and thus less experienced in the vagaries of psychspace than everyone else.  Next to Vigil, who is only nineteen, she is also the youngest.  “I would expect,” Katrina says, her voice cool, “that in a sub-domain so obviously based on human archetypes, entropy and nature-versus-civilization tropes would function more or less as usual.”

“I’m certain you would,” Teasha replies, her voice equally cool.  “When you’ve been at this as long as me and Thromby, you’ll learn better.”

“Enough of that,” Thromby says before Katrina can reply.  They love Teasha, but she tends to be too harsh on new crewmembers.  A defense mechanism, they know, to insulate her from the all-too-common pain of losing them.  But Katrina has too much to prove.  The clash is natural and to be expected, and even useful at times, but now is not one of them.  “Vigil, get me readings on atmosphere, microbiome, and psychic radiation, if any.  Katrina, pick a spot on the coast and bring us down there.  I want to see if the ocean is actually an ocean or a liminality representation.  Teasha, get the Animus tuning to this sub-domain’s resonance frequency.  I don’t want any dissociation issues.”

The orders are mostly unnecessary, since everyone already knows what they’re about, but they serve their intended purpose, which is to re-focus everyone on the task at hand and redirect their nervous energies, particularly Katrina’s.  Thromby still isn’t sure she’s going to make the cut after this expedition is over, but there’s potential there.  They would be foolish to ignore someone with Katrina’s strength of identity grounding. 

There are plenty of sub-domains out there where it’s useful to be entirely certain of who you are, and not everyone can be.

---

The first day’s worth of exploration yields more questions than answers, which is normal and expected.  Thromby is indeed certain that Katrina’s initial assumption that this is a human-archetypal sub-domain is correct.  Human atmosphere, human shadow- and ontological concepts, Terranic fish in the very-real ocean.  But the iconography is sparse and mostly nonsensical.  It’s clear that the city was able to actually function as a city, but it feels purposeful, designed, in a way that actual cities outside psychspace rarely do.

“It’s a metaphor,” Vigil says as they sit around a campfire on the beach after the first day.

“Well, obviously,” Katrina agrees, and Vigil lights up – both visibly and psychically – at her concordance.  Thromby knows Vigil has been nursing burgeoning feelings for Katrina since she joined them, and has so far seen no need to make anything of it.  “But a metaphor for what?”

“We don’t have enough data,” Vigil replies.  “But I’m certain of it.  We just need to keep exploring.”

Thromby takes a bite of the fish they’ve been roasting over the fire.  It’s a pleasant change of pace to be able to eat something real, instead of the platonic nourishment suggestions dispensed by the Animus.  “Agreed.  I’m curious to see what the point of this place was.  We have five more days before we have to resurface and the expedition has been quite successful already.  I think we can spare the time.  Teasha?”

Taking a bite of her own fish, Teasha purses her lips as she chews.  “I concur, but I’m uneasy.”

Teasha is their psychometry specialist, so this makes all of them sit up a little straighter.  “Are we in danger?” Katrina asks.

“Of course we’re in danger, we’re in psychspace.  But in this particular sub-domain?  Metaphorical danger, as Vigil says.  Ideological or memetic patterning rather than physical.”

Thromby nods.  “I suspected that might be the axis of it, here.  We will need to split up to cover the necessary ground in the time we have left, so everyone stays in contact while exploring.  Mechanical and psychic.  No exceptions.”

None of them are particularly happy with this pronouncement, but they see the wisdom of it.  It’s distracting and somewhat draining to keep a four-way psychic connection going, especially over distance, but their implanted transceivers sometimes don’t function properly, depending on the sub-domain.  Electromagnetism and causality both seem to be standard here, but such things have been known to change in an instant depending on whether the sub-domain is actively malicious or not.

Thromby doesn’t feel any such malice here, though.  That doesn’t mean it isn’t present; such things are often quite good at hiding themselves.  But they’ve been exploring psychspace for seventy-eight years subjective.  They’ve learned to trust their instincts.

---

Two more days of exploration are frustratingly unrevealing.  The city is the size of a proper metropolis, and they know it will be impossible to actually explore any significant percentage of it in only a few days, but Thromby is still irritated by their lack of progress.  They find evidence of cultural signifiers, rituals, and traditions, but again, the iconography is vague and appears opaque to standard Jungian-Jingweian analysis.

Teasha spends the two days on a different investigative track than the rest of them.  “Psychometrically speaking the city is remarkably healthy,” she said on the morning of their second day.  “Most locations, metaphorical or otherwise, bear the echoes of trauma or strife, but this place seems to have been almost entirely peaceful.  Totally voluntary anarcho-communism or ordnung-socialism, perhaps, without the usual markers of systemic violence inherent to capitalistic or fascistic systems.  But there’s a thread somewhere that I keep detecting the edges of.”

“A thread of what?” Thromby asked.

“Pain, of course.”

It is on the evening of their third day in the city that Teasha calls them to her.  She uses their transceiver link rather than a psychic summons.  “To avoid contamination,” she explains.  “I’ve found the source of the thread.  Double your usual wardings and enter seclusive patterning before you come inside.”

Thromby does so, of course, though they dislike cutting themselves off from their extrasensory perception.  It feels like trying to see with only one eye.  When they arrive at Teasha’s location, however, they immediately understand why she insisted on it.  The possibility of psychic contamination here is very high.

“What is this?” Katrina asks, holding her nose in disgust.

“The point of the metaphor, of course,” Teasha replies.  She indicates the filthy cellar in which they’ve found themselves, the only part of the city so far that has seemed actively decrepit.  “I guarantee you that even if we spent the rest of our lives exploring this city we would find only this one place showing any signs of entropy.”

The cellar stinks of excrement, a combination of ammonia and fetid shit, despite the physical processes creating such smells having terminated long ago.  The floor is dirt.  There are no windows.  In one corner there are two mops, their heads stiff with drying waste, and a bucket, the metal bands around its circumference orange with rust.

“They concentrated all of the city’s entropy into a single space?” Vigil asks.

“Not entropy,” Teasha tells him.  “Cruelty.”

Katrina gapes, her hand falling away from her nose for a moment.  “Come again?”

“Something lived here,” Teasha explains to her.  “Or, more precisely, was forced to live here.  It functioned as a psychic magnet, of sorts.  The functioning of the city relied entirely upon its imprisonment and use as a scapegoat.”

“What was it?” Vigil asks.

“One of the innocence-sacrifice archetypes.  An animal or a child.  I suspect a child; an animal can feel pain and misery, certainly, but it doesn’t conceive of injustice in the same way a child does.”

Thromby feels their stomach turn a little.  “Ah.  I see.”

“See what?” Katrina demands.

“The point of the metaphor indeed,” Thromby replies.  “This entire city and all its inhabitants, predicated on the suffering on a child.  It’s a morality construct, and a good one, too.”

“A good one?” Vigil asks.  “It’s grotesque.”

“Your deontological leanings are showing,” Katrina tells him.  “From a utilitarian perspective it’s perfect.  Nothing exists without imposing an energy burden on the system in which it exists.  Even the nourishment suggestions the Animus feeds us in liminal space between manifolds is distilled from universal krill.  But this?  The concentration of all of a society’s utility burden onto a single individual.  The ultimate maximization principle.”

“And your teleological leanings are showing,” Teasha sniffs.  “You’re missing the point of the metaphor entirely, Katrina.  It isn’t about utility.  It’s about cruelty.  The cruelty is the point.”

Katrina’s nostrils flare and Thromby cuts in before she can start really arguing.  “Enough,” they say.  “A conflict here in this space could be dangerous.  We’re at the focus of the sub-domain and things have a way of rippling.  We’ve discovered the point of the metaphor, so we can go back to the Animus and leave in the morning.”

Both Katrina and Teasha look ready to argue the point with them, but then they master themselves and both nod.

“Do we have to wait until morning?” Vigil asks, looking around the cellar in transparent disgust.  “I would prefer to leave sooner rather than later.”

“You know the rules,” Thromby replies.  “We don’t transit without everyone being rested.  A tired mind is a vulnerable mind.”

Reluctantly, Vigil nods, too.  The four of them walk away from the cellar, their thoughts opaque to one another.

---

Thromby is jolted out of sleep by Teasha screaming.

They sit bolt upright and look down at Teasha in the bed next to them.  She is clutching at her head, shaking, writhing beneath the sheets.  “Teasha!” Thromby snaps.  “Focus!  Center yourself!”  They grab her by the wrists and pry her hands from her face; her nails are leaving bloody marks in her skin.

“Too much, it’s too much!” she shrieks.  “I’m lost!”

Thromby forces their way into her mind.  She previously gave them her consent for this, knowing that it might be necessary in a moment like this one.  What they see there –

“Aquinas,” they say aloud.  The implants in Teasha’s cochlear nerves pick up on the trigger word and activate, sending the kill-signal to other implants deeper within her brain.  She stops screaming and slumps, unconscious, temporarily brain-dead.  When Thromby says the word again she will be switched back on, but for the moment she is safe from the psychic contamination that was attacking her along her psychometric vector.

Which, of course, means that Thromby has to deal with this issue alone.

They dress quickly and exit the Animus into a beautiful summer day.  Pennants and banners wave atop the rigging of ships in the harbor, bells sound from the city, and people, so many people, cavort and revel on the beach, in the waves, in the streets.  There is laughter, merriment, the intoxicating psychic swell of happiness and excitement.  Thromby threads their way through the crowds in the streets – mothers carrying their infants, children running through the streets in elaborate games of some variation of Terran tag, huge parades of horse-drawn carts with animalistic balloon totems floating in the air above them.  Vendors call out to Thromby, offering delicious food, intricately made jewelry, amazing clockwork-mechanical toys, sensory-enhancing drugs, and a thousand other variegated temptations.  Street musicians play upon cunningly crafted instruments – strings, pipes, percussion, keys – and revelers cavort to the tunes.

Thromby can feel the bright sparks of all of these people in their mind.  These are real, thinking, feeling beings.  They belong to the metaphor, certainly, but Thromby could speak to them, touch them, verify their self-consciousness and interiority, even invite them to come and join them onboard the Animus and explore psychspace.  They could bring them up into the real, return home with them, have a life with them.  That is how it has to be, of course.  Thromby knows they themself may belong to a different metaphor of a different order, after all.  The real is only real because enough people agree it is.

But they do none of these things.  They just walk, stolidly, back to where they know they have to go.

Katrina is waiting for them outside the cellar, barring the way in.  Thromby has their wards up at triple strength and has been in seclusive patterning since before leaving the Animus, but they don’t need to be psychic to read her mind.  Everything she is feeling and thinking is there in plain sight – the proud and defiant way her chin is thrust out, the blaze in her eyes, the way she has her arms crossed and feet at shoulder width.  She is ready to fight.

“Let me through,” Thromby says without preamble.

“No.”

Well, that’s their respective positions, Thromby thinks, articulated clearly and easily enough.  “Why not?” they ask.

“Vigil consented.”

“Vigil is in love with you and you know as well as I do that consent is a matter of framing,” Thromby snaps.  “Move.”

“No.  I explained everything to him and he consented.  It has nothing to do with whatever feelings he might have for me.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it, but fine.  For the sake of argument, tell me how you explained it.”

Katrina hesitates, and Thromby can tell she wasn’t expecting them to actually offer her a chance to proselytize.  “The point of the metaphor is that no matter how great and beautiful the society, if it’s predicated on cruelty, it’s unjust,” she says.  “Deontological thinking, obviously, but cruelty is by definition nonconsensual.  I explained to Vigil that if he allowed it, we could collaboratively put blocks in his mind, purposefully regress him to a childlike mental state, and put him in the cellar to suffer for a specific length of time.  Then we can pull him back out, remove the blocks, and even erase the memories of the trauma.  The child-Vigil won’t, can’t, consent, but it also won’t exist for more than a day, and pragmatically speaking never will have.”

Thromby massages their temples.  “Congratulations.  Once again, you have missed the point of the metaphor.”

“Damnit, Thromby, I’m not a child!  I have the same training and grounding in theory that you and Teasha do.  Everything I’m doing is teleologically sound, and Vigil agreed that with the steps we’re taking –”

“You’re trying to outsmart it,” Thromby cuts her off.  “That’s how I know you’ve missed the point.  You can’t outsmart this, Katrina.  There is no perfect set of circumstances you can construct to get around the simple fact that this city functions, exists, because of deliberate and terrible cruelty.  That’s the entire point of it, just like Teasha said.  Teasha, who, by the way, is currently in a coma.  I had to put her into it to keep Vigil’s misery from damaging her.”

“It’s a thought experiment,” she argues, obviously not addressing the point about Teasha because she knows she won’t win that argument.  “There’s always a correct answer for them.  The trolley, the Gettier, the –”

“It’s about fucking sin,” Thromby sighs.

“Are you joking right now?  You’re going back to the religious well?”

“Yes, because that’s what’s happening right now.  The city is a sin, Katrina.  The excesses of its beauty, its wonder, its perfection, are obscene precisely because of how and why they function.  It’s rooted in the ideology of disgust and taint.  Utility, teleology, all of these justifications and rationalizations exist and have their use, but at the end of the day, answer me one question: will you trade places with Vigil?”

Katrina hesitates.

It’s only a bare moment, less than a second, even, but it’s there.  And Thromby sees it, and Katrina sees it.

“Yes,” she says, finally.

“I knew that would be your answer.  But you know that the answer doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Katrina lowers her head.  “No.”

“You know why you hesitated.”

“Yes.”  She looks back up at them.  “But – there’s no such thing as absolute morality, any more than there’s a single objective reality.”

“Of course there isn’t.  And yet, you hesitated.”

They just lock eyes for a few seconds.  Then she lowers her gaze again.  “And yet, I did.”

Thromby steps past her and opens the cellar.

[the-fluffy-folio]

Leek Lich – Tiny plant, chaotic evil

Even the pumpkin hags are afraid of creating the crude abomination that calls itself the leek lich – a grotesque blend of rot and growth held together by vile magic beyond understanding. This bizarre undead bends to no one, much less to the evil caster that accidentally pushed it into its cursed unlife. As soon as the leek lich’s pale eyes see the light of day, they try to hide away from it. In silent darkness it ponders to forge its own plans of decay and its sinister schemes to corrupt all living.

🔮 If you like my work, kindly consider to support me on Patreon to gain access to monster pages, tokens & artwork of over 220 quirky creatures as well as dozens of potion & item cards based on their lore.

[scourgeblooms]

wanted to do a physical timeline for my commander and highlight how he’s changed through the years. this is mostly for my own entertainment BUT I do enjoy seeing the same thing from other folks so I’m posting it here in the hopes that other people share my sentiment. 

(I was ALSO totally inspired by @/manasurge’s hair timeline. it kicks ass. go look at it.) 

elaboration/rambling below the cut!

Personal Story, LW1-2: Popped out of the pod blunt, solicitous, and already maybe a little too paranoid for someone who was born yesterday, but all those traits made him uniquely qualified for a position in military leadership.  Healthy and floral, soft aspen-bark-like skin, delicate petals. black anthers produce pollen. undergoes more fashion changes than physical transformations during this time. gets a little banged up here and there (and maybe has some lasting respiratory effects from the toxic alliance era) but overall feelin a-okay. 

Heart of Thorns: it’s all gone to shit. took a spectacular headdive in both a physical and mental sense with breakneck speed. never “officially” answered mordremoth’s call, but anyone who spent time around him would notice a distinct lack of self control and logical thinking. took on a more sickly pallor, stress caused leaves to shrivel, rot, and decay. lost his lil flower top notch and ability to produce pollen. pupils narrowed to take on a more animalistic look, and enamel growth resulted in sharper, larger teeth. fingers also elongated into claws. never fully physically and mentally recovered from the hell jungle. 

LW3: chopped off most of his leaves to encourage fresh growth. lots of physical healing during this time, though it takes quite a while for his complexion to fully recover. takes on the role of aurene’s champion with gusto. relatively unaffected by bloodstone, but feels the effects of mordremoth’s loose/uncontrolled magic deeply. continues to hear mordremoth’s “voice” and is diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. 

Path of Fire: still healing from HoT. continues to grow out his leaves. glow returns, as well as some of his eye color. likes the crystal desert, but finds the harsh, dry climate to be particularly challenging; he’s definitely more of a ‘temperate’ sylvari. does not handle dying well. death only adds to his paranoia and psychosis. has an increasingly hard time picking apart what is real and what is…. not. 

LW4: let’s get ready to kill an undead lich!!!! absorbs even more magic after the death of joko and kralkatorrik, and it starts to show in a there-and-gone shimmery aura that takes on a similar appearance to ley lines. starts to suffer from migraine auras. flower top notch grows back, but stays closed and dormant. picks up a few nifty necromancy tricks from the elonians, and the tips of his fingers start to show signs of necrotic decay; all that death magic can’t be good for the complexion, can it? 

Icebrood Saga: having another dragon in his head does not help his mental health in the slightest. braided leaves (courtesy of braham <3) to protect against frostbite. his ley “aura” gets more intense, hard to miss, and is a near constant. flower topnotch remains closed due to the cold weather conditions. after being shot by bangar, his wound is covered/healed by aurene’s brand. migraines increase in frequency, makes it difficult for him to focus. a bone deep exhaustion starts to set in, and more often than not, he catches himself thinking that a nice long nap underneath a blanket of snow doesn’t sound so terrible….

End of Dragons: back in a more agreeable climate, his topnotch finally blooms, but does not grow anthers or produce pollen. easily physically corrupted by void magic, and he feels soo-won’s pain and struggle deeply. the void corruption eventually shows up in the form of darkening leaves, and seeping out of his eyes/tearducts (it’s fine. don’t worry about it.). starts to incorporate chaos magic into his own necromancy practices. has a fucking terrible time in gyala delve. has a fucking terrible time saying goodbye to aurene. 

Secrets of the Obscure: nothing feels entirely real to him anymore. still willing to help, to fight, but it’s done on autopilot at this point. this magical, floating palace in the sky looks and feels like a dream, with the kryptis acting as the encroaching, inevitable turn to a real, living nightmare. still uses a bit of leftover void in his magical practices, but most of the corruption has left his system. that respiratory illness he picked up back in kessex hills comes back to bite him in nayos. finally grows back his anthers, but instead of producing pollen, it's an outlet for void/magic energy.

[powdermelonkeg]

Something websites (*cough* Tumblr *cough*) need to learn is that what retains an audience isn't an abundance of new bells and whistles to play with, it's a coherent experience overall.

When someone joins a website, you don't need to grab their attention and hold it. They're already testing the waters. They've agreed to sign up. You've won on that front, and they're there for something specific you already have that they're hoping works well.

What drives them away is frustration.

Frustration, frustration, frustration.

Learning curves are going to be a part of any new website experience; they're something the user comes to terms with, in their own time. But broken or bad features are going to make them jump sites.

On top of that, constantly adding new features makes them feel like all the hard work they've put in to learning what you have isn't worth it; your website looks unstable and your staff looks incompetent, because it gives the impression that you don't know what you're doing.

You are floundering. It makes your new users nervous. It makes your old users hesitate to bring anyone else on board. And why should they? Why should they put effort into it if you're going to throw that effort away next Tuesday? Why get used to a UI that you're not going to bother to keep? Why customize anything if you're going to whittle that customization away?

Between that and the broken, unattended features of this site—the tag organization failing, the inability to look up posts word-for-word, the video player either refusing to play or yanking you to the top of the dashboard, images taking forever to load, advertisements blaring at full volume when you scroll past, you have your problem.

You have the reason why your numbers are failing.

It's not that you're not interesting enough.

It's not that you're too difficult to understand.

It's that you aren't improving what you have, yet you keep adding more half-broken things and unwanted copycat features to the pile.

It's that you're losing your identity in pursuit of a hypothetical perfect customer.

It's that you are actively telling your user base that you prefer those hypothetical customers over them. And your user base, your real people who make you happen, are smart enough to know where your priorities lie.

The bulk of this post talks about Tumblr, but other sites have gone the same way. Twitter is dead and its corpse is decaying in the street. Reddit has sabotaged any trust its users had in its management. If you'd like a really old example—I used to use Fanfiction Net. It's not the most intuitive website in the world, but it was the first one I called home.

I used it to host my works. The adware now on it makes it a hassle to navigate. The bots make comment sections and private messages a dread rather than a joy. So I moved on.

I also used to use it to collaborate on stories with my now-roommate. The message limit was 300 a day. When you're writing dialogue between characters, that's nothing.

So I moved on. We started messaging on Facebook. It was better, it didn't have a limit. But then I learned Discord existed, and I could edit messages, make dedicated channels, etc. So I moved on from Facebook to Discord. And Discord had a steep learning curve, especially if you're trying to make your own server rather than contribute to one. But, most importantly, the payoff was worth it.

If Discord changed its layout every other month while I was learning it, and broke how its reactions worked, and kept shifting what it meant to create a channel? If it opted me into servers I didn't sign up for, in hopes of engagement? If its text never formatted correctly, or its search function only went back a day or two?

I would have gone right back to Facebook. Even if it's a more basic experience, basic is always preferable to unstable.

Figure out what you want, websites.

Slow growth, or a gamble?

You're paying for your magic slot machine in users.