#science comics plagues

[nevinslibrary]

Comic Book Saturday

Look, I was raised on Osmosis Jones, so, these comic books are just… awesomely amazing? I mean, when you take an ibuprofen/Advil or cold and flu tablet, don’t they go fight for your immune system alongside your white blood cells? No? Huh… Guess it’s just me.

In all seriousness, this graphic novel is such a great one, especially these days when explaining the immune system and very serious diseases may not be the easiest to do with younger kids. This is an awesome place to start.

You may like this book If you Liked: A Shot in the Arm! by Don Brown, Germs Make Me Sick! by Melvin Berger, or Tiny Invaders! by Joyce L. Markovics

Science Comics: Plagues: The Microscopic Battlefield by Falynn Koch

[victusinveritas]

[motleybirdbones]

Current mood

Update: isa mine Borfday

[inbarfink]

No, you see, one of the funniest things about Zim is that he’s not, like, 100% fully incompetent. Throughout the entire IZ Canon, Zim has occasionally demonstrated some moments of surprising competency in combat - 

Infiltration -

Mechanical engineering and science -

Spaceship flying -

And Diabolical schemes -

Of course, all of these moments are contrasted with major scenes where he is very comically bad at all of those same things. But a lot of this can be attributed to his actual core flaws which are - his ego and his absolute inability to accurately assess threats.

(and obviously these two traits are extremely related. Zim falls into either underestimating genuine threats to his safety and goals due to his own overconfidence - or overestimating ‘threats’ and turning minor problems into anxiety spirals as a way to justify why he keeps failing). 

And you can see how all of Zim’s other screw-ups kinda all stern from that one core Flaw. Zim is probably decent enough at hand-to-hand combat for a tiny little alien, but he’s totally unable to assess whether or not he’s punching above his weight. And so he ends up losing in horrible and embarrassing ways to guys much bigger and tougher than he is.

He’s a pretty impressive scientist and inventor - but his inability to see his own limitations and flaws means he can’t notice when his project is too ambitious for his abilities or even just when he makes some error that he could’ve probably fixed before test-running but.. well… he doesn't and he didn’t, so…

And all of his plans overlook serious problems, while focusing far too much on minor threats. Even when his inventions work well and he comes up with something legitimately cunning, they are wasted on Literal Petty Schoolyard Drama. 

Threat assessment is the one thing Zim is Legitimately Bad at. Pretty much the only times he identifies danger correctly are explicitly a ‘even broken clock is right twice a day’ situations (see: ‘Plague of Babies’). 

And that is so funny.

Because while it seems like the Irken Empire sees an Invader actually conquering the plant on their own as, like, a Good Bonus Assignment to do on the side and Zim, ever the overachiever, has basically decided that it’s his duty.

The actual main role of an Invader - as stated in the first episode is - quite simply

The job of an Invader is to assess threats.

Zim is not quite as incompetent as people see him, but he is an utter failure at the one thing he’s supposed to be doing.

[orange-coloredsky]

The two most popular reads of the synth plight in Fallout 4 are that of the race allegory and the Red Scare/McCarthyist allegory. In the former example, synths get racialized in a similar way to Black Americans in the late 19th and early 20th century, but just barely. The Underground Railroad is quite literally remade, synths are subjected to slavery at the hands of their human creators and punished harshly for escape attempts. Others have likened synths to fears of immigrants or asylum-seekers from nonwhite majority populations. Synths in these imaginings of Fallout 4 are painted as needing to be saved at the same time as they are vilified and dehumanized – sometimes by the same character over the course of the story. This duality could be a great opportunity for a dive into how white saviorism tends to play out, but in reality it ends up being a messy, deeply uncritical exploration of the impact of race and racism in society. The factions doing the racialization and/or saviorism’s motives are never questioned, and there is a very clear depiction of “good vs. evil” being the end-all-be-all of anti-racism work (again, with no critical thought as to how the “good” side is made almost completely of non-racialized people making decisions on behalf of a marginalized group). Worse yet, it’s contrived. The android-racism analogy has been a thorn in the side of the science fiction genre ever since Isaac Asimov wrote the 3 Laws of Robotics. There’s very few iterations on the idea that have come from popular (white, Eurocentric) media that aren’t riddled with the same aftertaste of white guilt and fundamental misunderstandings of how racism plays out in day-to-day life.

The less common, slightly more agreeable interpretation is that of the Red Scare – which, given Fallout’s inspirations and the setting’s original critique of reliving America’s “good old days”, makes perfect sense. In this example, synths take the role of the Soviet spy: watching over everything Americans are doing and reporting back to a secret base that is plotting to overthrow the world as we know it. Psychological screenings as well as inhumane tortures are utilized to pick synth “spies” out from the good, red-blooded residents of the Commonwealth. A neighborhood is founded entirely around the protection of the “old ways of life”, complete with a white picket fence comically decorated with automatic machine gun turrets. While this is a more charitable analogy that’s grounded in a slightly-deeper-than-surface-level exploration of American history, the Red Scare interpretation is victim to the same pitfalls that plague the racism interpretation. Midway through the game, the player discovers that there actually is a secret base of evil villains hiding underneath our feet, plotting to annihilate our beautiful Commonwealth lives. People do get taken and replaced by synths, they are in our governments, there is an actual reason for synths to be feared. Sure, some synths are perfectly fine people with no wish to be made tools of the Institute’s tyranny, but that is greatly overshadowed by the fact that the Institute’s stated goal is to use synths to gain control over the Commonwealth. There is no real critique of McCarthyism, there is no ideology to be challenged, because the Communists are here and killing your loved ones in their sleep.

[radioisntdead]

inevitable

Vox x Sex repulsed! Ace Reader

Warnings:

This is short, OOC, Valentino is mentioned here unfortunately, I deleted the majority of my projecting but it's there if you squint, not my best work, I don't know what I wrote this was supposed to be something else and then it pinwheeled, reader is very much a "delay it until it bites you in the butt" person.

Song

You're growing tired of me

You loved Vox, you truly did.

You love me so hard and I still can't sleep

You loved his weird TV shaped head, the way he'd try to be all threatening but in all reality was a cowardly dork.

You're growing tired of me

Maybe it was because of the era you lived in, sexuality wasn't talked or discussed much so you didn't know exactly what you were.

You didn't look at people the same way your friends did, sure you found them beautiful, each person was unique in their own way, like how that one lady you passed by had the most beautiful eyes or how that guy's freckles reminded you of the starry night sky?

But you didn't want to undress them.

And all the things I don't talk about

You always avoided the topic of intercourse or anything beyond the more holy acts of affection like snuggling or handholding with Vox, If he brought it up you were quick to change the subject in a semi-awkward way.

Sorry, I don't want your touch

You'd move away from his hand if it traveled below your waist, you'd get up and speed walk away if needed.

It's not that I don't want you

Vox was confused because you returned his feelings, you'd engage in other acts of affection so why wouldn't you sleep with him? Was he that repulsive? Was it the TV head? The weird charger hole nipples?

Sorry, I can't take your touch

You avoided anything with erotica like the plague, Investing in a comically large can of bug spray so Valentino wouldn't come near you.

In the words of Carmilla Carmine it wasn't rocket science to figure out that you weren't into the whole sex thing.

However Vox just didn't clock that for some reason.

It's just that I fell in love with a war

You wanted to talk about it with Vox, that while you enjoyed spending time and doing things almost every other couple does, you didn't want to do certain activities.

Nobody told me it ended

But you just couldn't, everytime you wanted to bring it up you had a feeling of pure dread fill you.

And it left a pearl in my head

What if Vox didn't understand? What if everything crumbled away? What if something worse happened? There were too many liabilities.

And I roll it around every night

You knew that the longer you delayed the conversation, the worse the confrontation would be but that was a problem for future you.

You didn't like to think about it.

Just to watch it glow

For now you'd prolong it for as long as you could.

Every night, baby, that's where I go

You would watch as many trashy movies, eat at however many restaurants, and spend as much time with Vox until the inevitable happened.

Sorry, I don't want your touch

And the inevitable did happen.

It's not that I don't want you

It was after a date night, the two of you went to some new restaurant, drank wine and chatted,

Then you went home, you were ready to change into your coziest pajamas and snuggle with Vox.

However he had much different plans.

Sorry, I can't take your touch

And now you were here with Vox, with him exasperated.

"Why? Is it me? Do you not like the way I look?"

"No! I think you're very aesthetically pleasing!"

"The fuck is that supposed to mean??" He took a deep breath "Fuck, okay I don't understand, I thought that you loved me?"

"I do! Vox I do, I just don't want to do-" you made a certain motion with your hands "That."

"Okay so you don't want to-"

"Have intercourse? No I don't,"

"Why?"

"I don't know, I'm just like this, I can't change it, sometimes I'd like to just be normal for once, but I can't, I'm sorry?"

There's a hole that you fill

The silence was suffocating, the room was freezing cold.

You fill, you fill

you kept your eyes on the ground, not daring to look Vox in the eyes.

But it's just that I fell in love with a war

You heard him shuffle around before finally saying something.

And nobody told me it ended

It was inevitable, the two of you, while in other aspects were great! This was a deal breaker, and that wasn't either of your faults.

The two of you were just incompatible.

And it left a pearl in my head

Well, it was nice while it lasted.

And I roll it around every night

You sighed as you walked out of the Vee's tower, belongings in hand.

Just to watch it glow

Vox watched you leave through one of the many cameras he had around the place.

Every night, baby, that's where I go

It was time for you to move on and hopefully find someone who's on the same or similar page as you.

Just to watch it glow

Maybe a certain deer.

Good evening folks! I posted Wednesday angst on Wednesday for once! This was supposed to be posted an hour ago but a certain someone who shall not be named [Barnaby] kept smacking my face with his paw, knocking my glasses off and leaving me blind. I'm tired.

Anyways thank you for tuning in!

[starryhutcherson]

do you do male requests? If u do I have an idea 😄 maybe a one shot where the reader is pinning desperately over clapton, but doesn’t think he’d like someone like him since he’s a bit nerdy. But in reality clapton is also the biggest dork ever and likes him just as much:3

━━ OPPOSITES ATTRACT

author's note: i try to keep all my fanfiction gender neutral, except for smut which i write with a female reader, just because i don't really know how to write good male smut, so seeing as this is just a fluffy fic i made it gender neutral as usual thank you for your request! also i stayed up until the ungodly hours of the morning to finish this so pls dont judge if its shit i did my best

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: clapton davis x nerdy!reader warnings: swearing word count: 2500+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

After you’d reached Junior year at Grizzly Lake High, you’d accepted the plaguing reality in which you were a nerd. With your plethora of knowledge regarding random facts, active participation in the school newspaper editorial committee, and expertise in your pre-calculus class, it’s reasonable to say that you were not a typical, soulless high-school student like the rest of the Grizzly population, and it was something that you’d grown to accept.

Being sort of geeky wasn’t all that bad – you had a close knit circle of friends who shared similar interests, and you were excelling in all your classes, so there wasn’t really a reason for you to have contempt towards your social status, right?

Wrong.

You had one very strong reason, a reason adorned in obnoxiously colored clothes and a reason that you were recently paired up with for a science project. 

Clapton Davis. 

You’d had the privilege of sitting near him for nearly a year now, thanks to Ms. Hudson’s seating plan which had situated you just a few desks away from him. To state that you stared at him for the duration of most (all) lessons would be a little creepy, but it was hard not to, when the afternoon hit its peak and you were able to watch the syrupy sunlight crease right over his figure like fine silk — how are eyes that warm possible? Is that shade of brown even real?

You’re in far too deep for someone who you’ve hardly spoken a word to, sure, but could anyone blame you? You couldn’t help it– the lingering glances sent from the overcast shadows of your desk, tucked into a corner of the classroom, pining hopelessly, bouncing your knee with repeated, tense motions and scattering love-heart encircled initials all over your paper. 

Fuck. 

The real kick in the teeth was the fact that Clapton was somebody, at least at this school. He was propped up by popularity and people, effortlessly perched at the head of the social pyramid of Grizzly High, and you certainly were not. Superficial bullshit like this never bothered you in the past, but the fact that Clapton was so comically out of reach felt like a deliberate joke aimed squarely at you, and for lack of better words, it sucked. 

It was taxing labor to try and tolerate your complete lack of a chance with him at the best of times, when you were nestled in the back of classrooms, hopelessly admiring his figure, or passing him in the halls and basking in the fleeting smiles you exchanged – but seeing him up close, being a mere breath away from him, hands making contact for abiding moments that spark against your skin… you deem it the cruelest torture of all. 

The project you’d been paired up for was relatively simple – creating some predictable poster on mitochondrial DNA, but considering the prospect of working alongside Clapton, it became of far greater interest than it should be, science became a highlight of your timetable, a rarity even for you. 

And it’s where you are currently, tense against the stool you’re seated at, knuckles pulsing with a dull ache from cracking them right against the maple wood of the desk — Clapton’s complaining about the point of this whole thing and you attempt to explain the delicate concept of nucleotide composition, while trying not to sound like a complete and utter loser. You’re failing substantially. 

“No, so– the phosphate group is part of the main components which are what form the DNA, but deoxyribose–”

“De–what?”

You huff, wiping sodden palms against the plane of your denim-bound thigh. 

“It’s not—”

“I can’t focus here anyway. It’s too loud,” he grunts, opting to etch his initials onto the side of the desk with deliberate, harsh carvings of his pencil. 

Your gaze swallows up his convex figure. Boredom. Ouch. 

“I can just do it all, if you, uh, want.” 

His head cocks upwards – it’s a tempting offer. But he’s not a douchebag. No matter what people might insinuate. A gradual smirk tugs downwards at the curvature of his lips, hands stilling their previous motions as he turns up to you. 

“No, you don’t gotta do that. Just come over to my place after school or something, you can explain it there, right?”

Your throat clots as though you’ve swallowed mud— your words feel heavy on your tongue and you don’t dare glance upwards from the paper in front of you, in fear of him finding the elation that’s erupting across your guise. 

His house? His house? It feels like an elaborate prank – how how how were you supposed to resist him if he was openly inviting you over? Your nails bite into the exposed flesh of your palm, leaving raw crescent marks in their wake. You couldn’t turn down the opportunity, even if every second would be agony, having him dangled in front of you, so close yet so far. 

You croak out a weak, “Oh, sure, that sounds good—” it sounds better than good. 

But it also sounds worse than it as well. You develop a looming sense of nervousness, forcing your fingers deeper into your skin, choking back a scream of intolerance. What would you even talk about? Sports? Shoes? Or just this stupid project?

He seems to sense your displeasure, because he answers it with a chuckle. “Chill. I don’t bite. Y’know, unless you want me to.”

Cocky prick. 

✩‧₊˚

The walk to Clapton’s house went smoother than you anticipated, casual conversation playing on loop as you wind through the bends of each mundane neighborhood that Grizzly Lake has to offer – his house is the same as a thousand others, but you wear a smile and offer lousy compliments anyway, to which he rolls his eyes a little and tells you that it’s nice or whatever. 

Maybe he’s picked up on your inherent adoration, maybe he’s just toying around with you. You’re not sure– but his damn hypnotic eyes are distracting you from your purpose– mitochondrial composition. Super interesting. 

The pair of you are slumped against his bed, surrounded by sunwashed memorabilia as the afternoon begins to bleed into the evening. Your progress is limited, but you don’t care. Your proximity is the only thing settling in your mind, like dust upon your shoulders and in your throat– you can taste his breathing as it fans across your neck. 

Cedarwood seeps into every crevice of your skin – he’s too damn close. You’re not sure you can take this. 

“It’s sort of like lego.”

Your voice cuts through the incessant tide of your wandering thoughts. 

“Lego?” “Yeah. Y’know— like, okay, the phosphate is the base, and then the sugar molecule connects to that, and then the nitrogenous base is like, your unique pieces, y’know, color, size, whatever, it gives the DNA it’s unique features.”

“Sort of… following?” You grin at the achievement. 

“That’s good!” 

“I never usually get this stuff, so uh, thanks.”

Your heartstrings tangle into one unfathomably tight knot, and your nerves pulse in sharp bouts beneath the surface of your skin. He’s thanking you. And he’s smiling too, pearly whites seeming near opalescent, but maybe that’s your mind, warped with ecstasy. You wished you had more to talk about though. More to offer. But what were you supposed to bring up, your comic book collection? He’d probably laugh in your face. 

“It’s all good. I’m glad I could help you.” His grin widens fractionally. 

“I’m glad too.”

A moment’s silence flutters by. 

“So uh–”

"Should we-"

You chuckle, a smidge awkward, as your sentences overlap. 

“You first,” he tells you, and you shift timidly on his bed, accompanied by the dull squeak of his mattress.  

“Just uh… wondering if I should go.”

He appears to tense, just for a moment, as if your words had implications that you weren’t aware of, but it dissolves as quickly as it came and you can’t analyze his feelings in time. 

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”

Whatever you want. You’re sure he doesn’t want the true answer to that. What you want, what you absolutely want, is mere inches away from you, looking preternatural in the first whispers of a mid-autumn sunset, splayed across his bed with a boyish grin, whatever you want is right there, waiting and daring you to try and take it. You don’t. You can’t. 

“Okay. Uh, see you tomorrow then.”

Shit.

✩‧₊˚

The aforementioned tomorrow is so inconsequentially boring that you debate coming home early. You’ve got nothing planned, no important subjects, and every time you pass Clapton in the hallways, greeted with an elusive raise of the eyebrows or a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it grin, it gets harder and harder to ignore the fiery feelings in your body. 

You can barely take the spiderwebs of angst growing across your stomach, tangled into your thoughts– Clapton. That’s all you can seem to find threaded into every fissure in your psyche. It feels like every stray thought is the gnawing reminder that Clapton isn’t yours. How are you supposed to focus on physics when those honey-sweet eyes are eternally burnt into the forefront of your mind? You’re seconds away from tearing out your own fucking hair, it’s so unlike you to get worked up by something like this. 

Yet here you are. 

Here you are, staring emptily down at your worksheet, filling in the answers with ease, wondering how much easier it would be to attract attention if you had more appealing interests. If you knew how to skateboard instead of the elements of the periodic table, if you spent your money on clothes instead of comics. Shit. Shit, you really liked him and he really probably didn’t like you. It stings like a childhood wound, like hydrogen peroxide festering amongst skinned knees. 

Fuck this.

✩‧₊˚

The day is achingly slow, boredom clinging to the air and swallowing you whole. Each class just feels like going through the motions, your thoughts are stuck on one thing and one thing only, and you hyperfixate on every previous interaction with him, sourly regretting every word you’ve ever spoken, praying he didn’t think they were as weird as you did. 

You want to scream! The schoolbell released you after what seemed like decades, and now you’re shuffling down the streets back to your house, where you can hopefully catch a break from your constant stream of deprecating thoughts, but no. 

The roll of a skateboard pounding against the graveled roads becomes audible as it slows behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the silence. 

“Going home?”

It's him.

You turn around, plastering a weak smile across your face. 

“Uh, yeah. Why?” He inches a little closer, picking up his board and tucking it under his arm. “Can I come over?”

Your stomach snags on itself, an airy sensation spreading across every tense limb. It’s a bold move, but it’s a welcome one. 

“For the project?” He shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Also just to hang out.”

You perk a smile at this, for a brief moment, before it melts directly from your face. Clapton in your house? Clapton in your room? You visualize each poster, each stupid certificate your mom made you hang up on your wall— he can’t go in there. You’d die of shame. 

“Oh, uh, I’m kinda— busy.” He frowns. “Seriously? C’mon, just for, like, an hour.”

“Clapton—”

“Please?”

It should flatter you, how desperate he comes across, but you’re too worried that after he sees you, like, the real you, presented through your room and your stuff and your interests, that he’ll be weirded out, and scamper away to some cheerleader or something. Still, those pleading eyes work wonders on you, and it becomes impossible to refuse them. 

“Okay, fine. An hour,” you mumble, and set off back on your journey home with him following close behind. 

You make it to your house, hesitantly guiding him into your bedroom– he doesn’t seem to have much of a reaction. You were definitely overthinking it. 

He makes himself welcome, collapsing on your bed with a sigh, laying sprawled on his back with his eyes trained on your ceiling, eye to eye with your collector’s edition Return of the Jedi poster, limited edition, signed. 

You tentatively join him.

“You like Star Wars?”

He asks, gesturing to the poster, no teasing present in his tone. 

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

“Seriously? What’s this one about?”

You can’t help yourself– he seems properly interested, and even if the question was merely to start conversation you attack it, spluttering eager sentences about the plot and the characters and oh fuck, you’re really going on about it. His eyes have left the poster and he’s rolled onto his side, vision stuck straight on you, he’s probably judging you. 

You cut your own sentence midway, feeling the apples of your cheeks redden with embarrassment as you shrink back down to your previously timid self. 

“Sorry. My bad,” you mumble, picking a loose thread on your duvet. He notices, faltering a little. 

“What? No, come on. I’m invested now.”

You sigh, your eyes drilling holes into your shoes, where they stay staring. “Why? Why do you keep, like, talking to me and stuff?” He sits up so he can join you, shoulder resting beside yours. “What’d you mean?”

Your body feels uncomfortably taut with the suspense of this tangible moment, and you decide that you might as well get this swollen feeling off your chest before it bursts inside of you. 

A moment’s silence. A bated breath. You harness whatever confidence you can find in yourself (though it’s pretty barren), and go for it before your thoughts can catch up to you. 

“I just– I’m not, like… I’m not like your other friends. And I… I dunno, I… look, I like you. Like, I really like you, and I know it’s stupid, but I feel like you keep on giving me, like, mixed signals– but I don’t wanna—”

“Wait, you like me?”

You let out a begrudging exhale. “I know, it’s stupid–”

“What? You’re kidding right? You’re, like, perfect.”

Your head jolts to him so quickly you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re super pretty, but like– you’re smart, and you’re nice, and you’re funny… you seriously like me?”

You’re barely processing. It feels like you’ve swallowed rose thorns, like every grain of sand has settled in the pit of your stomach, filling you up from the inside out, drying out the cavity of your throat. 

“Y–yeah?”

He chuckles, a noise you want sewn into your memory forever. “I like you too. I totally have for ages.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Are you serious?”

Again, he flaunts that grin that you’ve marveled at for far too long. And it takes you a moment to realize he’s not replying– not with words. But his face is closer than before, and suddenly you could count every freckle, you could name every color in the ring of his iris, and he’s closer still, and only your eyes are doing the talking, and then his soft lips hit yours and everything stone inside you cracks. 

He moves gently, as if you’re made of frozen sugar; his hands find your waist, he paws at it slowly, too much, not enough— and then he pulls away. 

“That serious enough for you?”

You stammer out a butchered sentence, before roping yourself together, somewhat. “You can’t do that!” You choke, though there’s no malice in your tone, because he can hear your smile, even before he can see it. 

“Just did, baby.”

“You’re unreal. This— this isn’t real,” you chuckle in awe. 

“Mmm… I’d say it’s pretty real,” he smirks, reaching for your hand and squeezing it for emphasis. 

“Why’d you like me?” If you hunt for it, you can still taste the vestige of him on your trembling lips. 

“I just said, remember? You’re really generous, and you’re, like, patient with me, when nobody else is. And you’re painfully hot.”

You snort at this. “You’re the hot one.”

“Hey, we can both be hot.”

You giggle, squeezing his hand back, you fall into a pattern. You fade into him. 

“Oh my god, I actually can’t believe this.”

He presses a chaste peck to the canvas of your cheek, spreading a ruby flush that’s all for him. 

“Believe it.”

And you start to.

masterlist

✩‧₊˚

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation

Cw: blood, self flagellation, masturbation

Words: 1.7k

[A/N: extremely blasphemous, but again, you saw the tags. Please read at your own risk! (also, let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby

Playlist made by my baby Soln <3 @ihopeinevergetsoberr

Next

I.

Extra ecclesiam nulla salus. 

 There is a certain comfort in fear. When you see what awaits you at the gaping, harrowing mouth of hell, knowledge of the place you must avoid, ultimately, is power. There was a time when Viktor pitied those who did not know—those who lived despondent lives, unaware and unafraid of damnation. Recently, he had found himself wishing he knew less. 

 A ravening beast with a thousand bloody teeth, inside its mouth a cauldron, and in it the souls of the accursed with sin, boiling over scorching flames as legions of fiendish demons dragged in multitudes more. This image plagued Viktor’s mind without rest, be it vividly in his dreams, in the colossal fresco at the entrance of his local cathedral, or in the comical props onstage at the theater plays. 

 The parish clergy that had taken him in as a kid had made the mistake of noticing his outstanding intelligence and awarding him time to dedicate to studying philosophy, a privilege that many of the choir monks and lay brothers did not receive. In university, philosophy had turned into physics, and soon that turned into astronomy, which he had to keep a secret on account of the recent prohibitions put in place by Paul V’s Inquisition over the study of Copernican theories. 

 After he was ordained and returned to his home cathedral, this once silent yet innocent interest had turned into complete secrecy, and the fear of God that had once given him solace now tormented him. At times he considered giving up on his work; the mechanical objections of Copernican theory should not be of this much significance to him after all; there had to be something of value in what Thomas Aquinas had to say, and perhaps Agustine of Hippo had some good points. Nevertheless, it was the night sky that called to him, and even this far from it, he could not escape. 

 But outside the church there is no salvation , and Viktor knew that even if he was never to be condemned as a heretic in life, what awaited him in death was a flaming tomb at Epicure's side. Quod extra ecclesiam nulla salus. 

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

His parish was a pious one, but Viktor would refuse to receive lithe from the members of his church. The first time he tried this, the bishop was immediately alerted, and he was secluded to live in the small room inside the chapel as a ‘punishment’ for his impertinence. Viktor did not mind; the lands he had been previously allotted were too much to care for on his own, with cleaning being especially hard once his leg would start tiring out, and the presence of the personnel of lay brothers that would follow him around made his studies impossible; thus, the contained space of the church was comfortable to live in on his own.

 It had been a particularly cold morning. The week before, he had received word of the imminent visit of his diocesan bishop, and the impending possibility of his stay at any moment in the near future had tied his eyebrows into a permanent knot and his shoulders into a tense bundle of nerves since that morning. 

 To his dismay, the state of his works had made no decent progress, his journal being nothing more than a few numbers and three words on a painfully empty piece of parchment. He understood Latin; he had studied it at length in university, but when he took a break to read the Bible, the words on it floated around aimlessly, in a messy concoction of nothing. 

 “Per fidem enim ambulamus et non per speciem,” he repeated to himself in a whisper, and then closed the pages lethargically. 

 He read the cover of a white volume that had been lying on his desk for over a month now. He was sure he would have possibly agreed with what Foscarini had to say, so the feeling of dread he felt every time he laid eyes upon the title was mystifying to him. Though it made sense after some reflection, he was afraid. 

 When he read Copernicus, it felt distant, a world he was only a visitor in, but the Foscarini was a carmelite father, one of his own that was now nothing short of a persona non-grata in the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church. Viktor was afraid that what he had to say might make sense and that he might be so correct in his observations that this knowledge would drag him into the same status. 

 In retrospect, he should not have read it. 

 In fact, opening the cover was a big mistake on its own. Not even 3 pages in, the door of his room unceremoniously barged open, revealing the full figure of Father Isodore. Viktor and him never really got along; his time in the monastery as a kid was full of rule-breaking and inappropriate questions, and to Father Isidore’s dismay, insatiable curiosity remained Viktor’s fatal flaw well into his adulthood. 

 Not a single word was uttered as he carried his sunny disposition and rubicund complexion over to Viktor’s desk. There was no use in trying to hide what he was holding; Viktor carried the same guilty look on his face every time he did something he was not supposed to. Once a cute kid trying to hide some innocent misdeeds, his expression had grown into one of unadulterated shame and indignity in the wake of sin, and the bishop knew this all too well. The book was snatched off his hands aggressively.

“‘Epistle concerning the mobility of the earth’,” he read, “would be an interesting read if only as a piece of fiction, and perhaps in a different climate.”

“Your excellence, I eh—”

“Save it. Don’t worsen your sin by bearing false witness.”

Viktor looked down and sighed in resignation, a disappointed sadness creeping up in his throat.

“You are very much aware those texts have been forbidden, but since words seem to slide off you, I hope physical penance can remind you of your depravity,” Father Isidore said coldly as he handed Viktor the whip that usually served as no more than a piece of decoration adorning his wall. “Ten of them, and be intentional. One pater noster after each.”

“Yes, father.”

“It’s a shame; I have come to congratulate you on your work for the community. Repent. ” The emphasis on the last word punctuated his departure.

A cold feeling arose in Viktor’s stomach as he looked down at the whip, something akin to fear but also awfully comparable to excitement.

Three deep breaths are what he allowed himself; it would be better to get it over with as quickly as possible. He removed his vestments unhurriedly, only his bottoms remaining as he sluggishly kneeled by the bed, and the chilled air on his back was, in hindsight, not as bad as he thought at the moment. His hand trembled slightly when his grip on the whip tightened, and his jaw locked into a gritted grin as he sucked air in through his teeth.

The first flick of his arm was swift, like ripping away a bandage to make the pain go away as fast as your wrist could tug at it. It did not help; the feeling of the small metal beads digging into his skin was instantaneous, and it disappeared soon, but the burning that replaced it lingered.

“ Pater noster, qui es in cælis:sanctificetur nomen tuum; adveniat regnum tuum; fiat voluntas tua, sicut in cælo et in terra .”

A swarm of ants biting at the exposed skin on his back was a scorching fire.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie,et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris; et ne nos inducas in tentationem; sed libera nos a malo.”

Then it subsided, and the slight chills on his arms were due to something else. He took his time with the second hit, languidly whipping both hands back this time to maintain the same level of strength. The aching this time was different; the burning of his skin was quenched by the few droplets of blood and sweat trickling down his spine. And there was something else—a burning feeling that was misplaced not on his back or wrists but in his lower stomach.

“Pater noster, qui es in cælis:sanctificetur nomen...” He started once again, both hands holding one another around the handle of the whip, closed in prayer as he shut his eyes tightly for concentration. This proved to be fruitless when an uncomfortable tightness in the fabric around his crotch distracted his attention away from the words he was reciting. He tried to continue with his prayer, but an ill-calculated movement tugged at the tender skin of his back, and the brief sting made the already confining feeling worsen, morphing into an odd mixture of ache and delight.

He figured out what this meant soon enough. The conflicting feeling did not originate from any sort of confusion about what he was experiencing; it came with the quandary of his two options: either keep going to conclude his penalty and follow orders, or go against those orders to avoid tainting this sacred act with his depravity.

He unlaced his trousers before going for the third whip. The aching feeling on his back was almost completely gone, replaced by a numb tingling along the wounded skin and an unbearable heat in his groin. The fourth hit was one-handed. Right hand wrapping tightly along the handle and left hand mirroring the grip around his cock as he pumped himself mechanically. When the metal hit the skin, a jolt of what felt like electricity traveled all the way down to his stomach, the member on his hand twitching in anticipation.

There was no fifth hit or anything beyond that. A final tug with a firm hand and gritted teeth culminated in his climax, hot viscosity percolating through his fingers as he rested his forehead on the edge of the bed. His chest heaved up and down as he whispered a string of prayers. Shame washed over him.

“Castigo corpus meum.” He repeated incessantly until he had enough strength in his legs to stand.

[dc-polls]

"That Really Happened?!" DC Comics Tournament Entry #40

Bob Haney Doesn't Know Who Wonder Girl Was Supposed to Be

[ID: Comic image where Jonni DC sits down several incarnations of Donna Troy to straighten out her continuity once and for all. One of the Donnas tries to leave and Jonni says, "Yeah, you! Sit your butt down! No one leaves until we straighten out this continuity once and for all! You get me?! And that goes for all of you!" /END ID]

What Happened?

Imagine it's 1965 and you're writer Bob Haney and you're putting together a team of all of the teen sidesicks of the Justice Leaguers. You've got Robin, Aqualad, Kid Flash, and Speedy. You can't use Superboy because at this time, he's just young Clark Kent and is already time-traveling to have teen adventures with the Legion of Super-Heroes. But wait, Wonder Woman is having team-ups with someone called Wonder Girl. Perfect! We'll add her in to the Teen Titans.

Unfortunately, it turns out that the Wonder Girl in those stories is actually also the young version of Wonder Woman, which didn't jive with how the character was written in the 60s Teen Titans stories. So if she isn't a young version of Diana Prince, Wonder Woman - who is Wonder Girl?

As it turns out, that question will plague DC Comics for the next 6 decades. She will eventually get the name Donna Troy and will become subjected to the sort of retcons, unretcons, deretcons, and reretcons normally reserved for characters like Cable or Hawkman. She's been a human orphan raised by Amazons, a catspaw for the Titans of Myth, a magical duplicate of Diana created to be her childhood friend, the combination of all of the pre-Crisis multiversal Donnas, a magical duplicate of Diana created as part of a scheme to usurp her, an embodiment of Fate, and a weapon created out of clay to destroy Diana. Some times she has innate powers, sometimes she gets them from Amazon training and science.

All because Bob Haney didn't bother to look up who this character actually was.

--

Tournament polls will be posted after all entries are up. As always you can find all posts related to the tournament using #dc-polls-trh

[marlynnofmany]

“Oh, you write books?”

Yup! And I love it.

Here’s the published list so far, with relevant tags for all the extra content and ramblings that inevitably end up here.

“If you set Dirty Jobs in outer space, mixed in some Mythbusters, and gave Buster the crash-test dummy the ability to sass back like a cross between Bender and Murderbot… you’d get something like this book.”

“Spectacular Silver Earthling” is available wherever books are sold!

Relevant tags: Hubcap the robot Hubcap the Egomaniacal Sassmaster (there’s some crossover there) Spectacular Silver Earthling

“When space poachers release Earth animals on an alien world, threatening a fragile new alliance, they anger the wrong people. A veterinarian, an accountant, and a furious sign-language-fluent gorilla are coming for them.”

“A Swift Kick to the Thorax” is also available everywhere!

This is the one I’ve been posting backstory snippets for weekly, from when the main character was traveling the galaxy working on a courier ship.

There are also comic strips, which take place between the stories and the book. I should really draw more of those. They’re fun.

Relevant tags: A Swift Kick to the Thorax The Token Human (series name; originally just the comics) Robin Bennett (the main character)

Do you long to write fascinating fiction, but struggle to find a concept that feels worthy?

Do you have piles of unfinished stories, and eagerly await the next shiny new idea?

Do you have writer friends to inflict assistance/benevolent torment on?

Good news! I have precisely one bazillion ideas for stories that someone ought to write, and I’ve selected 100 of them to collect in this book. You may recognize some from my old posts here, but not all.

"Story Seeds for Fantastical Trees" promises to grow you a forest of compelling ideas, ranging from wizards both wise and foolish, to aliens seeking dinosaurs, to a robot that lets a vampire into the house (possibly on purpose).

Relevant tag: writing prompts (buckle in; this one is A Lot)

“In science fiction, humans are usually boring compared to other races: small, weak, no claws or tentacles, and no special abilities to speak of. What if instead, we were talked about by the other aliens? 28 authors have contributed to make sure you never think of humans as boring again!”

“We’re the Weird Aliens” is the “humans are weird / humans are space orcs” collection that had everyone excited in 2020.

Relevant tags: humans are weird humans are space orcs (and a bunch of others, but mostly that first one) (and you'll find the Token Human stuff tagged here too)

“An old street sweeper takes on the shadowy invaders responsible for a plague of amnesia, while saddled with a dodgy memory, a mysterious past, and a reflection that talks back and makes fun of him.”

My first published book! I still love it. Magic, memory problems, and walloping ruffians with a broom. What’s not to love?

Relevant tags: Sweeping Changes

And that’s everything so far, as of August 2023!

Not counting the anthologies that other people put together, which I have stories in. (I’ll point you to my website for those.)

I am definitely working on more books. So many more. I write as a way of going on adventures, and I will happily take you with me.

[3rdvoice]

Maybe I start mirroring the Letter Column here??

Hi Evan, I have been reading your work for years–I came in right at the end of Rice Boy and read Order of Tales and Vattu every MWF from beginning to end. And then I got a new phone and didn’t reinstall my feed reader and was dismayed/delighted to find I’d gone for nine dang months and didn’t even know 3rd Voice existed! I’m just now catching up, really enjoying the comic, and appreciating the space you’re creating around it. To my question/pondering: the way the information gets parceled out to readers is both one of the most compelling and frustrating things to me about narrative. I see with 3rd Voice you are leaning heavily on show-don’t-tell, rather than the ponderous info dumps that plague a lot of science fiction and fantasy. The trade-off for making a better story and more believable characters is that there’s a lot we don’t know as readers. Some of what we don’t know is known by the characters (such as what "new person" means in their social context), some is not known by them (such as the existential knowledge that Navichet is seeking), and some is a mix (like Spondule and Navichet’s backgrounds that they don’t disclose to one another—or us). For you as a storyteller, how important is the revelation of knowledge in the creation of the story? Do you see 3rd Voice relying a lot on the revelation of knowledge as a way of wrapping up the story arc(s), or is there just a lot of stuff that the reader is never going to know and you’re OK with that? I don’t have strong feelings either way; just seeing you work with this in a bit of a different way and I’m curious about your thoughts. Thank you, Emily * October 2, 2023

Firstly thank you for the comment on the “space I’m creating around” 3V; I am not exactly sure what you mean but maybe I do and maybe would like to know exactly what you mean.

This parceling-of-information has become an absolutely central part of how I look at invented-world fiction; I started nailing down certain principles (all extending basically from show-don’t-tell) years ago and am trying to still work with them as smart as possible. Vattu is built with the same approach in mind! A solution in that comic to the problem of avoiding Explaining is to keep things fairly simple, iconic, self-explanatory. 3V can foreground these questions of “what the world is” a little more comfortably I think because of Spondule & Navichet’s relationship to it, and because of it being a kind of Broken place with bigger questions therefore automatically implied.

I guess mostly I want to emphasize that the details of the setting and how everything fits together isn’t necessarily what the Story is About, and the disorientation built into this sort of storytelling is something that I’m aware of and that I think is Fun. So I mean a lot of the bigger stuff has been Figured Out / is being Figured Out on my end, BUuuuut there is a reason that I am telling the story from the point of view of two marginal idiots. This I guess connects to what I was saying in a previous lettercol about “Spondule writing” and “Navichet writing” in my process for this thing…

To your specific questions, “revelation of knowledge” is as important as the knowledge itself-- this is a central principle to me at this point. Storytelling to me is entirely a structure of knowledge-revealing. And there will be unanswered questions forever but I’m not sure how many exactly and that’s life I guess lol. thank u so much for thoughtful thoughts!! I can’t believe you have been reading this stuff since rice boy days!!!

[princess-peregrine]

10 Most Read Authors

Thanks for tagging me @godzilla-reads

"what are your ten most most read authors? and how many books have you read by them? also tag someone who you would like to do this!

instructions: scroll to the bottom of your goodreads shelves and most read authors is listed underneath."

I don't use goodreads but here's what ibknow from my personal collection

1. Seanan McGuire (21 books) Seanan McGuire is an amazing writer and one of the hardest things to do is put down one of her books once you start, it's always a captivating adventure to read one of her books

2. Kay Hooper (16 books) I'm not done with her Bishop/Special Crimes Unit books but oh my gosh, she writes good. If i had to give a short and sweet summary of what she writes, it would come off as a trashy genre. But she writes possibly my favorite romances I have ever read. Once a Thief and Always a Thief are my favorite romace books of all time, and the reason I read them was because of a ML fanfic called Once a thief Always a Thief by, I believe, Saijispellhart, I think that's right, if you read that fic and liked it then you will love Kay Hooper

3. CJ Cherryh (12) this is possibly my favorite writer of science fiction full stop and i can't even get into it here because i would talk for ages, the message here is to read CJ Cherryh's books, for the love of Goddess read them

4. Jimmy Gownley (8 books) Amelia Rules is my favorite comic of all time with a close secomd being the planet Sakaar arc in the hulk comics

5. Diana Rowland (7 books) people just love her white trash zombie books, and foe good reason, but personally i loved her Mark/Blood of the Demon books a whole lot more

6. Victoria Laurie (7 books) i loved the first book in her ghost hunter mystery books, then 2 and 3 were a slog, and then the rest were good again, not sure what happened to the second and third book

7. Marrion Zimmer Bradley (7 books) ew ew ew ew ew ew ew ew ew ew what the fuck is up with her ew ew ew ew ew ew this is what passed for feminist writing back then?! I've read incel rants with more respect for women than some of the stuff she writes!

Anyway she's an ok science fiction writer with a way of writing really engaging stories with a strong narrative voice, don't read her books, they really are not kind to women

8. Michelle Tea (5 books) go read mermaid in chelsea creek, go do it, right now, this is a demand, read mermaid in chelsea creek, cry about it and then come back to me and tell me what you thought about it, do it now

My favorite book from her is Valencia btw, an excellent memoir

9. Kim Harrison (4 books) don't ask me anything about her books, i could not tell you, i know what happened because i read them but the memories are jumbled up with details from the October Day novels

10. Stephen king (4 books) Stephen King is, ehhhh, i read him more for the status that he was a prolific writer and had a lot of popular books, the first one i read, which is still my favorite by the way, is The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon

Honorable mentions that i just recommend you go read because i love their books

Eileen Myles shouldn't need and introduction and if she does then you are living a worse life for it

Rob Reger who wrote the Emily The Strange books

Clive Barker who i have read quite a bit but excluded him for the same of smaller names (but you included stephen king) shut up

Wendy Holden, she didn't write many books but the ones she wrote were good

Dana Fredsti, her plague books are like brownies

Jeanien Frost, imagine if Kim Harrison was more memorable

Now i'll tag @scham-wcan @vivaciousarcanist @zerm2v0hg @far-side-skies @grimm-the-6th @overlordneon @transgressivepistoleer @mx-kit

[jen-with-a-pen]

If You Go, I Go

summary: It's Bucky's last night before deployment. The evening does not go the way Steve, nor Bucky, thought it would.

pairings: complicated and closeted stucky

warnings: angst, loneliness, feeling the need to sacrifice yourself for preserum!steve, pining, closeted stucky, bisexual stucky, sad steve, messing with canon and adding some of comic canon in whoops

word count: 3.1k

a/n: literally this entire thing was written directly after seeing the gif above. My brain kicked into angsty overdrive and this was born. enjoy my first fic of the new year!

Please consider reblogging my work! Reblogging helps others to be able to enjoy mine and other writers' works! Help me help you help others and reblog <3

read here on AO3! | My Masterlist

gif by @daniel-bruehl | dividers by @firefly-graphics | beta read by the lovely Jane @lunarbuck

The Expo was loud. Louder than what Steve was used to.

Everything was more than what he was used to. So much going on in so many different directions– lights, sounds, voices, smells. Overstimulated was an understatement.

He wanted to be anywhere but there, standing in front of the open-air Science Expo. His  clammy hands were stuffed into his wool pockets while he tried not to heave, fending off yet another anxiety attack. He only wanted Bucky. 

But, for the pièce de résistance, Bucky invited Bonnie and Connie to join them, two doe-eyed gals in pretty skirts and zero interest in anything else. How Steve saw them, though, were two strangers hanging off of Bucky’s arms, vying for a kiss from the Sergeant. 

The thought of it made Steve’s stomach churn like the butter his Ma used to make.

He had to admit, though, the girls weren’t complete strangers. Steve knew them from grade school. They lived around the street corner from the doctor’s office he unwillingly frequented. They’d say hi to him and were nice and polite, but that was it. They were only nice and polite. They, and all the other pretty girls Steve’s age, made it abundantly clear: no self-respecting girl wanted to court the cripple. Hell, for all he knew, if it wasn't for the constant reassurances from his Ma, Bucky could have been getting paid to be his friend– too fed up that even war sounded like a better reprieve than being around Steve.

It wasn’t that Steve didn’t want the girls there. Nor was it that he secretly wished it was only him and Bucky. In fact, it definitely wasn’t because it was his last night with Bucky before he shipped off to camp McCoy a thousand and one miles away.

Well, maybe it was. 

"Stevie, you okay?" 

The grounding timbre of Bucky’s voice derailed Steve’s spiraling train of thought. He hadn't realized he'd zoned out until Bucky clapped a strong hand on his shoulder. 

Bucky's brow knitted with concern, baby blues searching Steve's with earnest worry. He reached his hand out and delicately wiped his cheek, his thumb resting on Steve’s cheek for a second longer as his hand cupped his face. Steve looked down at his two-sizes-too-big coat. Small dark spots had stained his woolen lapel sourced from the dampness on his cheek. He swallowed thickly, embarrassment and shame creeping up into his throat alongside the heat in his cheeks. 

Steve hadn't realized he’d started to cry.

He pathetically raised a bulky sleeve to his face and rubbed at his cheeks hard enough that the wool felt like barbed wire scratching at his china-like skin. He cursed, blinking towards the night sky to rid his eyes of any more tears. They didn’t seem to stop until he bit his lip hard, holding back the bile rising in his throat. He wished he were anywhere but there. 

He wished he could go with Bucky.

"'M fine, Buck," he mumbled, finally looking at his friend and forcing a pained smile onto his lips. "Gonna miss you, is all."

Bucky looked at him for a second more, eyes darting for a moment to Steve’s lips. Worry still plagued his features as he pulled Steve into the familiar embrace they both knew all too well. Pulling away, Bucky slung his arm around Steve’s shoulders and sighed.

“Well, punk, don’t worry ‘bout me. I’ll come back in one piece,” he looked down again at Steve and winked. “I’ll come back to you.”

Steve blushed, smiling at the ground. He could almost see himself in Bucky’s newly shined shoes, the black leather reflecting the festival lights from above as they made their way to meet the girls. Bucky paused, sliding his arm back and raising his hand to wave at the girls. The weight lifted off of Steve’s shoulders, and he shuddered, the cool air sneaking its way back into his body. 

“Wait here, I’ll go get ‘em,” Bucky said, breaking away from Steve’s side and jogging to the gigantic statue the girls were huddled under. He watched Bucky as the same sinking feeling climbed back into his stomach, blinking back any more tears threatening to leave his eyes again. 

Pansy. That’s what he was. Not a man, not even enough to be anybody. Nothing but a –

“Steve?” Bucky called, breaking through his clouded thoughts once more. “These are our lovely dates for this evening.” 

Steve forced himself to meet Bucky’s eyes, only to be distracted by the two girls dangling off the Sergeant’s arms. Each of them smiled at their arm candy, doe eyes scanning his chiseled features and competing for who could grin the toothiest. 

Steve stifled a laugh when he saw the lipstick between their teeth. 

Bucky gestured his locked arms to Steve. He forced a smile, sticking out a hand for the girls to shake. The girls briefly broke their focus to acknowledge him, looking down at his extended hand. Their arms only gripped tighter to Bucky, a poor attempt to save face and keep their smiles from faltering. Steve sighed, knowing this would be the beginning of the end. He retracted his hand and returned it to his coat pocket, instead nodding to both girls and giving Bucky a defeated look. 

Bucky chewed his lip, his brow knitting together at the pained look in Steve’s eyes. Turning to Bonnie, the blonde with neatly pinned curls and a pretty red dress, he wiggled free from her grasp and nodded to Steve. 

“Bonnie, this is my best guy, Steve. Steve, you ‘member Bonnie?” 

Bonnie’s strained smile didn’t reach as far as she intended it to. Her eyes stared blankly at Steve as if processing and accepting him as the fate she’d succumbed to by agreeing to be his date. Her eyes flicked over to Connie, imaginary daggers shooting straight into her friend’s chest.

This oughta be fun.

“Oh, Steve Rogers! I remember you!” She greeted in feigned excitement as she instinctively stuck out her hand to him. He gulped as he shot a quick, pleading look to Bucky, who mouthed, ‘kiss it.’ He reached his clammy hand out to hers, chapped lips meeting her delicately smooth skin. His nostrils flared, stomach churning as he inhaled her sickeningly sweet perfume. Choking back a gag, he glanced up at her as her smile turned into a subtle cringe. He looked at Bucky, whose hand around Connie’s shoulder seemed to tighten as he gnawed on his lip, the slightest bit of envy filling his gaze as it flicked from Steve to Bonnie. 

“Nice t’ meet you, doll,” Steve sighed as he dropped Bonnie’s hand, his own snaking right back into his pocket. 

“Well, now that we all know each other, how about gettin’ to Stark’s Show?” Bucky suggested. “I heard he’s gone all out this year!” 

“Yeah, it should be starting soon!” Connie added.

Bucky smiled, Steve’s heart fluttering as he gave Connie his arm and began leading the group into the middle of the Expo. Bonnie trotted along next to him, wiggling her way onto his other arm as Bucky continued to tell them about Stark, his groundbreaking inventions, and his theories on how the man alone could alter the war as they knew it. 

Steve trailed behind the trio, chuckling to himself as he listened to Bucky’s ramblings. The girls seemed to give less of a damn, bored out of their minds but hiding it better than Steve thought they would. He smirked to himself, Bucky’s excited voice taking him back to nights shared in their tiny Brooklyn apartment. The long nights they would both lie in bed, Steve forcing himself to stay awake to savor Bucky’s voice as he talked about science, books, and his theories on his favorite radio program, Avenger.

Steve would give anything for one more night like that.

As they approached the main stage, Steve's stomach rumbled. He cursed, realizing he forgot to eat again. How disappointed Bucky would be if he knew. He looked ahead to Bucky, who had turned over his shoulder with a concerned, furrowed brow. 

‘You okay?’ he mouthed. 

‘Snack,’ Steve responded as he pointed a bony thumb at the vendor next to him. Bucky nodded, his eyes lingering on Steve a second longer before returning to the girls.

Digging around for pocket change, Steve approached the vendor. The sugary scent of candied almonds and caramel corn wafted into his nose, his mouth watering as he pulled the coins out from the depths of his pockets. The girl at the booth smiled at him, all freckles and gap teeth. He ordered a small bag of almonds, his face flushing as his hand grazed hers offering the money. He swore he felt like he turned as red as her hair. 

Get it together, Rogers.

He thanked her and dove back into the ocean of people, popping a few almonds into his mouth as he wove through the bodies finding Bucky. He spotted a waving hand clad in Army green poking out of the sea of people, and he beelined for it. 

“Glad ya made it back, Stevie- er, Rogers,” Bucky fumbled, quickly glancing at both girls to see if they caught the name. 

Steve’s heart, butterflies and all, died a little bit more when Bucky corrected himself. The familiar lump in his throat and the burn in his eyes threatened to return as he tried to ignore the nickname he knew all too well. 

As Steve opened his mouth, music erupted from the loudspeakers surrounding the stage, announcing Howard Stark’s arrival as he forced one of the showgirls against his lips. His voice boomed over the music as the crowd applauded. The girls stared at the millionaire mogul in awe– Bucky included– as he introduced his latest feat of the flying car. 

Steve popped more candies into his mouth, chewing as he listened absently at the selling points of the flying car. Bonnie looked back over her shoulder, her brow twitching upon laying eyes on Steve standing behind her as if remembering he still existed. She gave him a once over before turning back to the stage, her smile and awe returning to her face as quickly as it had disappeared. He paused mid-chew, looking down at his snack. Out of the sheer good manners his mother taught him, he extended his arm over her shoulder, the bag crinkling as he offered some to his so-called ‘date.’ 

In an instant, her demeanor dropped again, she snapped her head back to him. She eyed the bag of candied almonds as her nose scrunched, recoiling as if he’d offered her a handful of garbage. He looked at her in confusion, only to be met with the same daggers she’d shot Connie earlier being fired directly at him. 

He slowly retracted his arm and looked at the candies. They were the same sugar-coated almonds he’d been eating the entire time, not some moldy science experiment. He blinked as he felt the sting return to his eyes, tears blurring his vision. The lump appeared suddenly back in his throat, thicker and heavier. He couldn’t swallow, couldn’t see, couldn’t speak.

He’d lost his appetite. 

He didn’t care about the Expo, about Stark, about the stupid flying car that didn’t seem to fly at all. He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be with the girls, with the people, not even with Bucky. 

He wanted to be alone. 

He bit his quivering lip, turning on his heel as the crowd erupted again, his eyes searching for any escape route he could find. He stood up on his toes to scan over another couple behind him when he froze at the illuminated Uncle Sam poster at the back of the crowd. 

‘I WANT YOU!’

A sign. Literally and figuratively. 

If Bucky had to go, he would too. 

The candy-striped bag crumpled in his hands as he shouldered his way through the crowd, the Uncle Sam poster a beacon of light as he made his way toward the recruitment station. The closer he got, the faster his legs seemed to work, carrying him to the entryway of the station. He’d barely crossed the threshold before a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Steve, hey, you’re kinda missin’ the point of a double date,” Bucky chided, turning Steve to face him. Hurt plagued his features as his brow knitted further, eyes searching Steve’s for an answer. 

“And I think Connie’s missin’ a mirror with all that lipstick in her teeth,” Steve shot back. 

“What the hell, Steve,” he grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the entryway to the side of the station, shaking him slightly, “What’s gotten into you t’night, huh?” 

Anger flooded into Steve’s veins as he grabbed Bucky’s hand and threw it off of him. He huffed, throwing the crumpled bag of wasted candies onto the ground and stomping on them.

“You don’t understand, Buck!” Steve’s voice shook, “You’ll never understand!” 

“Understand what, Steve?” Bucky gritted. 

“That if you go, I go!” 

His chest heaved as tears spilled down his cheeks. His hands shook as much as his voice as they turned into fists at his side.

“If you go to war, I go to war. If you leave, then–” he choked out a sob, “then I have nothing left! I am nothing! Without you, I’m nothing!” He sputtered, choking down air as he grabbed Bucky by the arms. “I didn’t wanna spend tonight with the girls, I wanted to spend it with you!”

He sobbed again, pulling Bucky to him. The dark green coat had dampened with the blond’s tears. Bucky stood still, arms at his side, speechless.

“It’s ‘cause I love you.” 

His confession, muffled and final, brought Bucky back to reality. He continued to cry, gasping lightly as he felt Bucky’s heavy arms slowly wrapping around him, squeezing tightly around his friend. Bucky bent his head to Steve’s, soft blond hair gracing his lips as he pressed a kiss to Steve’s head. Steve shook again and paused, slowly looking up to find Bucky’s eyes welling with tears of his own. He swallowed thickly, placing another shaky kiss on Steve’s forehead.

“I love you too, punk.” 

Bucky wrapped his arms further around Steve’s waist, hoisting him up past the tips of his toes as he brought the blond to his lips. All of the air left Steve’s lungs, his eyes gaping widely as Bucky pushed into him. Bucky’s arms held onto Steve tightly, keeping him stable as his head spun wildly. Steve pushed into the kiss, locking his arms around Bucky’s neck. His fingers carded into the Sergeant’s hair, nearly knocking his hat off. Steve couldn’t help but grin at the soft moan he elicited from Bucky’s chest, savoring every second before Bucky broke from him. 

Bucky placed Steve gently back on the ground. Steve sniffled, shaking his head as his mouth floundered to find anything to say. Bucky struggled too, reaching for Steve’s hand before he suddenly froze.

“Bucky? Bucky! Are we still going dancing?” Connie called. Bucky snapped to attention, turning on his heel and putting on his best ‘I didn't just kiss my best friend’ face. 

“Y-yes! Of course, ladies!” He responded, his facade dissipating the instant he turned back to Steve. Concern dotted his features, making Steve’s heart pound harder. 

“Look, Stevie, make me one promise,” He pleaded, gathering Steve’s hands into his own, “Wait for me, will ya?” 

Steve’s face fell. Confusing, hurt, all boiling in his blood, spilling over into the mess of emotions he felt swirling in his head. This is all Bucky could say after that? 

“What do y’mean, Bucky? I’m going in there to enlist. I’m going to fight. If you go, I go!”

Bucky faltered, grip loosening on Steve’s hands. He licked his lips, weight shifting as he glanced over his shoulders. Nobody paid them any mind, not even the girls. He turned back to Steve and set his jaw. 

“Steve, this is war. This isn’t some back alley fight where I’m gonna come save your sorry ass again. There’re jobs here! You can stay at the apartment or work for the pharmacy. You can–”

“I can, what, work in the factories? Collect scrap metal until God says when?” He yanked his hands away from Bucky’s hold. 

“Why not? It’s safe! It means you’ll be here! It means I won’t have to worry about you–”

“Bucky!” Steve’s voice boomed, snapping Bucky’s attention back to him. He silently fumed, biting his lip to speak any further. He felt like he drew blood when Steve reached for his hands this time. His small palms paled in comparison to Bucky’s, but he managed to hold them as well as Bucky held his. He tugged at Bucky’s fingers, commanding the Sergeant to look at him. 

“There are men laying down their lives ‘nd I got no right to do anything less than them, less than you. This isn’t about me, or you, or anyone, or anything. This is about doing what’s right,” he said. His thumbs ran over Bucky’s knuckles, gracing the veins in his

hands he’d studied so many times before when he drew in his sketchbook.

Bucky scoffed. “And you got nothing to prove, huh?”

“Sarge!” Bonnie’s voice rang. “We goin’ dancing or what?”

Bucky gritted a sigh through his teeth, plastering another fake smile once more. 

“Yes, we are!” 

Steve blanched, letting go of Bucky’s hands and crossing them over his chest.

Bucky turned back to Steve, who stood with a shoulder to him, side-eyeing the Sergeant with hurt in his eyes. Bucky could tell Steve’s lip was quivering no matter how hard he bit down on it.

Bucky dropped his head, knowing it would be the last time he’d see Steve. He shook his head, looking for the right words to part with in light of their newly confessed love.

“Promise me one thing then,” he requested, pulling Steve into a hug. His arm slung around his shoulders, patting him as Steve mimicked his motions almost half-heartedly. 

“What?” His voice muffled into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back.”

Bucky released him from the hug, turning to leave for the girls when, Steve stopped him, grabbing him by the tie. His bony, nimble fingers reached up, straightening the silk fabric, smoothing down his lapel, and fixing the gold buttons donning it. He smiled weakly, looking up at the Bucky one last time. 

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with ya.”

[karnaca78]

I'm looking forward to see your exploration of the Dishonored scientific lore! Roseburrow's an intriguing soul, considering he had his best intentions, had difficult time and lived in poverty and then... he's famous innovator with guilt conscience. I see your Esmond on the edge of the discovery - not yet enough resources and support, but he feels he might soon bring great changes in the society. Any natural philosopher is remarkable, the developers really made the game's lore worth of interest, Sokolov from the first Dishonored is my absolute favorite. Renaissance man with many talents and complex character. Perhaps, Dr. Galvani is another interesting scientist. He's as well passionate about his work; marks the day he had a conversation with Sokolov as the greatest day in his entire lifetime; once was Granny Rags' doctor; studied the rat plague, kept a bunch of rats in his house for that case (there was an incident which resulted with a severed arm that can be found near the rat pantry); he can be robbed by the protagonist at least thrice after which he becomes understandably paranoid (I also loved his notes, he seems like an ardent man, maybe choleric). I even find some similarities with Piero. I'm curious what people imagine him look like. Oh, and you can think of the parallels with scientists from the real world! I'm certain there's a lot. P.s. I have no idea if I made any spelling mistakes, but I hope my rant is somehow coherent. I wish you luck :)

Hello! First and foremost, I thank you kindly for your interest and your support, it's very much appreciated!! :)

Your message is very interesting, and there's a lot to say about all of these scientists.

Starting with Roseburrow, I think that's an unjustly forgotten character. Probably because we barely hear of him at all in the games, and not everyone has seen the beautiful Tales of Dunwall shorts. But without his breakthrough, who knows what the Empire would have looked like at the time of Corvo and Emily's story? He's a truly pivotal figure and I think it right to pay him tribute somehow. So yes, I wanted to depict him as he was in his younger years; idealistic, full of good intentions and gifted with a true belief in science despite the hardships thrown his way.

Sokolov, too, is a man of many faces! By 1837 and the Rat Plague outbreak, he has completely eclipsed Roseburrow (whose death is still recent!) with his deadly contributions to natural philosophy. On the other hand, he is the Royal Physician and an accomplished artist. Although his methods aren't always the most commendable, he's also a fascinating character.

As for Galvani! That's a good idea. I don't envision him as a genius, and not really as a pivotal scientist in the grand scheme of things, but I agree that his works and his character in general are very interesting too. He's a bit of a shape-shifter as far as I'm concerned: almost menacing in Dishonored, because his apartment anx experiments are honestly very creepy; less so in Dishonored 2, where robbing him is played more as comic relief and there isn't a mission that features him extensively like in the previous game. Representing him would be an interesting challenge, so thank you for the idea!

Researching real scientists and their artistic representations is also a great inspiration, of course! It's pretty clear that Sokolov is heavily inspired by Da Vinci, whereas Jindosh is something of an "evil" rendition of Nikola Tesla. Hypatia, too, is named after a very real Greek philosopher! I'm not sure about the others, but perhaps someone else can provide insight on them.

Forgive me for rambling! I'm very happy to share my thoughts on Dishonored lore and your contribution is very thought-provoking.

Thank you again for your message and have a great day! :)

[auroraeternal]

What’s you’re favorite pieces of media? Games? Shows? Movies? Music?

Hi Cris! I actually have before in my pinned post list with my fav media, but I removed it bcs I think this post is too big. Sorry for late reply again :/ For music (bcs its my most favorite of all media so its easiest to answer): I created two Spotify playlists - one with my fav songs of all genres and other dedicated purely to black metal and related to it other genres (because I have some ick when its mixes with other music, idk why :/). second playlist may be too hard, I understand this. For games: The Sims 3 and Medieval, VTMB (ofc), Stardew Valley, Silent Hill 2&3, Alice: Madness Returns, Skyrim, GTA SA, Danganronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc (I know that visual novels is a slightly different thing, but it was the only one that I don't think its boring for me XD). Also, I used to love Civilization VI, Minecraft, Detroit: Become human (but I watched it on yt because I don't have PS4 at the moment it came out), Plague Inc, Mortal Combat and old school mobile and Flash games (now I have Flashpoint installed). I'm interested in these games, but I haven't played them yet, I've only watched videos and/or read articles about them: F.E.A.R, Hitman (newer games size are insanely huge, maybe I try Blood Money instead), Fatal Frame, Postal 1&2, Painkiller (its OST is the GOAT), Cry of fear, videogame version of I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream (also original book is really good!).

For movies/tv shows: I have a longer list of what I WANT to watch than a list of what I like :D but my favorite genres are horror/thriller, science fiction, detectives (true crime too!, but not in romanticizing way), dramas (including historical) and documentaries. Also I love some "serious" or darker comics adaptations like The Dark Knight or The Crow. For more specific names, then: American Mary, Perfect Blue (I actually not really into anime/manga but love this one), The Act (TV show about Gypsy-Rose Blanchard), Devil Wears Prada, Marie-Antoinette (2006), Until the Light Takes Us (black metal documentary) and some more, I'm not good at remembering movies. I want to watch: Saw movies, Thirteen, Ginger Snaps, Jennifer's Body, Pearl, Fleabag, From Dusk Till Dawn, Pulp Fiction, The Godfather, American Horror Story, Rocky Horror Picture Show, Junji Ito Collection, and many more. Also I want to rewatch The Handmaid's Tale (and/or read the book). For books: again, I have the same problem like with the movies, but here situation is slightly better, bcs I downloaded a bunch of books that I want to read in my phone :D I mostly google recommendations or classics of genres/themes that I interested in, and my favorite genres are the same as the movies. The last books I read were Writer and suicide (not sure if this one exist in English, use translator. It was recommended to me by my friend) and Little Mushroom (BL post-apocalyptic novel, recommended to me by other friend xd).

Thank u for good asks, luv u 💗

[sciencestyled]

The Accidental Astronomer: How Odysseus Stumbled into the Science of Wormholes

The tale of how I, Odysseus, a man of war and wits, found myself ensnared in the cosmic conundrum of wormholes is as unexpected as it is uproarious. Let me regale you with the story of my unwitting tumble from the sturdy deck of my ship into the vast ocean of astrophysical inquiry, a tale that begins, as all good stories do, with a rather peculiar goat.

It was a day like any other on the rocky shores of Ithaca when a goat, possessed by a spirit of curiosity—or perhaps just exceptionally poor judgment—decided to sample the fermented fruits stored in my cellar. The beast became so inebriated that it stumbled into my study, sending scrolls and artifacts tumbling in a display of chaos worthy of Dionysus's wildest revelries. Among the debris was a particularly resilient scroll that caught my eye, not by virtue of its resilience, but for the curious patterns and figures sketched upon it.

This scroll, it turned out, was left by a traveling scholar from the future, a man who spoke in riddles of time, space, and something he called "general relativity." The scholar, in his haste to depart—chased, as he was, by creditors as persistent as the suitors plaguing my palace—had left behind his notes on a concept so bewildering, it could only be the work of the gods: wormholes.

Intrigued and slightly amused, I found myself pondering this modern mythology. Imagine, a tunnel through the stars, allowing one to bypass the vast, inscrutable distances as if stepping through the door of a neighbor's house! The concept was as intoxicating as the wine that had felled the unfortunate goat.

Motivated by a mixture of whimsy and a dash of hubris—qualities that have, admittedly, led me into trouble more often than not—I set out to decipher these notes. With a crew assembled from the most scholarly of my subjects (including a particularly remorseful goat), I embarked upon a quest not across the seas, but into the stars, propelled by theories and equations instead of sails and oars.

Our efforts were as comical as they were earnest. Picture, if you will, a band of ancient Greeks, armed with nothing but their wits and a few celestial instruments, attempting to pierce the veil of the cosmos. We consulted oracles and interpreted the flights of birds, seeking signs of these cosmic tunnels. At night, we gazed upward, mapping the stars with a precision that would make even Heraclitus envious, all in the hopes of spotting a wormhole with the naked eye—a task as likely as catching a glimpse of Zeus in his true form.

Yet, through this series of misadventures and misguided scholarly pursuits, a passion was kindled within me. The more I learned of these cosmic phenomena, the more I became convinced of their reality—and of our profound connection to the universe. My resolve hardened, as did my desire to share these revelations with others. Who better to spread the word of these celestial wonders than I, Odysseus, a man who has always existed in the space between myth and reality?

And so, dear reader, we arrive at the crux of my tale. My article on traversable wormholes, born from a mishap involving a drunken goat and a forgotten scroll, represents not just a foray into the unknown, but a declaration of humanity's unending quest for knowledge. It is a narrative forged from the comedy of errors that is life, a testament to the fact that sometimes, the greatest discoveries arise from the most serendipitous of circumstances.

Let this story stand as a beacon to all who seek understanding in the stars, a reminder that science, like the sea, is vast, mysterious, and occasionally, a source of great amusement. And so, with a heart lightened by laughter and a mind ablaze with curiosity, I invite you to explore with me the enigmatic wonders of wormholes, those cosmic shortcuts that may one day unite the farthest reaches of the universe, as tightly as the bonds of our shared human adventure.