#single crystalline iron

[mindblowingscience]

A team of physicists and geologists at CEA DAM-DIF and Universit´e Paris-Saclay, working with a colleague from ESRF, BP220, F-38043 Grenoble Cedex and another from the European Synchrotron Radiation Facility, has succeeded in synthesizing a single-crystalline iron in a form that iron has in the Earth's core. In their paper published in the journal Physical Review Letters, the group describes how they used an experimental approach to synthesize pure single-crystalline ε-iron and possible uses for the material In trying to understand Earth's internal composition, scientists have had to rely mostly on seismological data. Such studies have led scientists to believe that the core is solid and that it is surrounded by liquid. But questions have remained. For example, back in the 1980s, studies revealed that seismic waves travel faster through the Earth when traveling pole to pole versed equator to equator, and no one could explain why. Most theories have suggested it is likely because of the way the iron in the core is structured. Most in the field agree that if the type of iron that exists in the core could be made and tested at the surface, such questions could be answered with a reasonable degree of certainty. But doing so has proven to be challenging due to fracturing during synthesis. In this new effort, the research team has found a way around such problems and in so doing have found a way to synthesize a type of iron that can be used for testing the properties of iron in Earth's core.

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[cranberrymoons]

a love to last past saturday night

here's the first 3,500-ish words of the coffee shop au i've been working on!

—

There’s a little cafe at the end of Steve’s block that he’s only ever been in once. 

It’s called Corroded Coffee and it’s dark in there and maybe a little pretentious, but not pretentious as in… people reading classic novels or having discussions about French Cinema. Pretentious in the sense that there’s an intimidating collection of vinyl records taking up half an entire wall and they use single origin arabica beans and the scary baristas look at you sideways if you order regular milk in your latte. 

He knows this last part because the one time he did stop in, shortly after he moved to the neighborhood, he asked for an iced vanilla cold brew with cream, and the redheaded girl behind the counter looked him up and down as she punched his order into an iPad. 

“Okay,” she said slowly, disdainful and bored like she was barely concealing an eye roll. “I guess that’s eleven dollars, if you’re sure that’s all you want.”

Steve was sure. He was also sure that he’d never forgive himself for spending so much on a single cup of coffee that he could probably make at home for about fifty cents, but… support local businesses? Use his company card? Also, he was too embarrassed to tell her to cancel the order. 

So. 

Anyway, it’s about three months later when he goes in there for the second time. This time, it’s because his coffee pot broke (a shitty off-brand Keurig that he bought on Amazon for about twenty bucks, which for the record is less than the cost of two iced coffees from this place), and he really has to get to work, and the coffee at the office is – fine, actually, but – whatever. 

Whatever.

The coffee in the office is fine, but he’s walking toward the train feeling like his hair and his tie are somehow both on sideways, and a customer pushes out of the café and into the street, bringing with them a wave of caffeinated air, and before Steve has the chance to make a conscious decision one way or another, he’s standing inside the shop, eyes adjusting to the sudden shift to dim lighting.

When he comes to his senses, there’s a brief moment where he considers just turning around and walking right back out, but before he has a chance, the guy behind the counter leans an elbow against the shoulder-height glass pastry case and says –

“Hey man, what can I get you?”

Too late. 

Steve blinks and focuses on him. He’s tallish with long hair that’s been pulled back into a puffy knot on top of his head, dish towel slung over his shoulder, indecipherable band tee, nails painted black, a flock of bats and a long line of perfect crescent moon phases running up his forearm, and – yeah. Steve, in his crisp Brooks Brothers button-up and ironed slacks, is definitely not the right kind of cool to be coming in here.

“You do want coffee, right?” the barista prompts. He raises his eyebrows in question. “I just watched you Pepe Le Pew your way in here, so.”

In spite of himself, Steve laughs. Call it the exhaustion. He takes a step closer to the counter. 

“You saw that?”

The man grins. “You’re hardly the first exhausted corporate zombie to stumble his way through my door.” He reaches for a paper cup, pen in hand. “What’ll it be?”

“Just – coffee?” Steve suggests, then he flushes. “That was dumb. Sorry. I uh – I don’t really know much about coffee. Just a normal one with milk?” Then, remembering last time, he says, “Oat milk. I guess.”

“One drip with oat milk, coming up. You want a muffin or anything with it?” He taps the glass case with the end of his pen. “These just came out of the oven. The cranberry orange.”

“Oh, I –” Steve eyes the muffins in the case, crystalline sugar on top, shiny and perfect-looking. He does kind of want one, but he pictures himself juggling it and the coffee and his phone and – “No, that’s fine. Just the coffee, thanks.”

The man shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He punches a few things into the iPad then flips it around for Steve to pay. “Three seventy five.”

Steve narrows his eyes. That… can’t possibly be correct based on his last experience with the place, but he taps his card and punches in a tip, then nods to the barista as he shuffles off to the end of the counter to wait for his drink. He sends another look toward the muffins, and his stomach grumbles; maybe there’ll be leftover bagels in the office from the morning’s sales meeting?

By the time his coffee is ready, he’s lost in a very detailed fantasy about veggie cream cheese, and the barista has to wave to get his attention to pass him the cup. When Steve takes it, the man produces a little brown paper box and wiggles it in his direction. Steve frowns, confused.

“Oh, that’s not mine. I didn’t –”

The man raises his eyebrows and holds it further toward Steve. “On the house," he says. "Take it.”

Steve sets down his coffee on top of the case and accepts the box, flipping it open to reveal a cranberry orange muffin wrapped in crinkly parchment paper. He closes the lid and gives the barista a smile. 

“You didn’t have to.”

“Obviously I didn’t have to,” the guy says. He rolls his eyes, but it’s not – it doesn’t make Steve feel stupid the way the other girl had. “You looked like you wanted one, so you got one. Now be a good boy and say thank you."

Steve feels his face heat. “Thank you.”

The barista nods in approval then gives him the ghost of a wink before turning to help another customer, and Steve reclaims his coffee, retreating to the door and back out into the cold.

—

He doesn’t really mean to go back the next day, but – well. The coffee had been good, okay, and the muffin had been really good. And it’s Friday, and he’s allowed a treat, and he obviously hasn’t had a chance to replace his own broken machine yet, so.

He doesn’t really have a choice. He’s here by necessity. That’s it.

“You’re back,” the barista says, eyeing him up and down when he gets to the front of the line. “Was my muffin that good, that you had to come crawling back for more the very next day?”

Steve, more alert this morning than he’d been yesterday, manages to smile like a normal human being. 

“Your muffin?”

“Our muffin,” the barista says. He spreads out his hands in front of himself. “New York’s muffin. The world’s muffin.”

“No, I meant –” Steve laughs. “You made them? It was good.”

“I know it was.” He shrugs, then taps the stack of cups on the counter next to him. “Coffee?”

Steve glances at the menu on the wall. He has a suburban Starbucks level of knowledge when it comes to this stuff, which basically means he knows the difference between like… a cappuccino and a latte, sort of but – not really?

“Just the same again, plain with oat milk,” he says. “That was fine yesterday.”

The barista narrows his eyes. “Fine?”

“Good,” Steve corrects. “It was good. Like I said, I don’t know a ton about –” He waves a hand through the air vaguely. “Whatever.” He fidgets under the barista’s continued scrutiny, then adds, “Maybe sweetened this time though? I added sugar when I got to my office yesterday.” Then belatedly, “Sorry.”

“Tell you what,” the man says at last, apparently taking pity on him. He picks up a cup. “I’ll make you something that I think you’ll like, and I won’t even charge you for it. That way if you hate it, you can just – dump it down the drain or something. No hard feelings.”

“I can pay,” Steve says, frowning. “I don’t want you to get in trouble for giving me a bunch of free stuff.”

“Oh, I won’t. The owner likes me,” the man says easily, already busy behind the espresso machine. A burst of steam comes shooting out in a cloud, and he offers Steve a smile. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Steve,” he says. He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder where it’s slipping down. “Sorry, you probably needed that for the… the cup, or whatever.”

The barista’s smile widens, and he gives Steve another up-and-down look as he waits for the espresso to finish bubbling into the cup. “Nope. Just wanted to know.”

“Oh,” Steve says, feeling himself flush. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets to keep himself from fidgeting even more than he already is. “Okay, what’s yours then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Kind of why I asked.”

The man places the cup on the counter and presses a lid into place, sliding it toward Steve along with another little paper box that, when Steve peeks inside, contains a single croissant. He takes a sip of the coffee, and it’s… delicious, unfortunately, vanilla and caramel and maybe chocolate too? And he’s pretty sure that’s real milk, thank god.

“Come back tomorrow and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“We’ll see,” Steve says mildly, taking another sip. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He gets a teasing little wave in return. 

“Have a good day at work, Steve.”

—

Robin is aghast when he tells her at drinks later that night.

“You’re saying he’s been there this whole time, and you’ve just been – what, walking past and not noticing?!” she asks, leaning forward in her seat. She takes a distressed sip of rosé and widens her eyes at him. “This whole time?”

“Maybe not,” he says defensively. “Maybe he’s new. Maybe – I don’t know.”

“You don’t just give out free coffee on your second day, Steve,” she says, exasperated. She picks up a fry and jabs it into the little pat of mayo on the edge of the plate, gesturing wildly with it before stuffing it in her mouth. “Free coffee and free pastries! He’s totally been there this whole time, and you were just too chicken shit to go in there and see him for yourself.”

“I literally met him by going in and seeing him.”

“Still.” She groans in frustration. “Ugh, I can’t believe you’re getting seduced via baked good. Literally if I could find one single solitary woman in this city who would give me free baked goods as a mating ritual, I’d let her step on my throat.” She places a hand on his forearm and gives him a very serious look. “My throat, Steve.”

He laughs and shakes her off. “You don’t know he’s trying to seduce me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right,” she says. She finishes her wine and sets the empty glass on the bar with force. “The hot tattooed barista who keeps winking at you and giving you free shit for no reason is totally just trying to drum up a loyal customer base for his coffee shop.”

“I didn’t say he was hot.”

She gives him a contemptuous look. “Is he hot?”

He pokes at the lime wedge that’s floating in his gin and tonic and doesn’t meet her eye. “Maybe.”

“You’re blushing. He’s obviously hot. I hate you so much.”

“Okay, don’t – we live in the Village. It can’t possibly be that hard for you to find a lesbian who likes to bake.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t stereotype. Just because we’re ladies and we have breasts.”

“I’m not stereotyping. I’m just saying: go to any plant store, pick a girl with a choppy haircut and a canvas tote bag.” He finishes his own drink and signals to the bartender for another round. “Odds are seventy thirty she’s a lesbian with a chocolate chip cookie recipe.”

“Literally every word out of your mouth just now was a stereotype. I’m breaking up with you.”

She turns her barstool away from him abruptly, and the guy seated on the other side of her blinks in alarm, looking at Steve over her shoulder with wide eyes. Steve gives him an apologetic look and places a hand on Robin’s arm, tugging her back around to face him. 

“Alright, come on, you’re scaring the public.”

She huffs, then gives the stranger a tight smile, then turns back to Steve. “You’re going back tomorrow, right? I’ll forgive you right now if you promise me you will.”

He sighs. “Why do you even care?”

“Because he’s hot,” she says, widening her eyes, “and he has tattoos, and he obviously wants to take you back to his place and do filthy, filthy things to you, Steve, and he knows how to make really good muffins.” She shakes him again. “Steve!”

“Yes!” he laughs, wrenching his arm free of her hold. “Fine, okay. Yes, I’ll go back tomorrow. I don’t even know his name yet. He said he’ll tell me if I do, so – I will.”

“Oh my god.” She buries her face in her hands. “I swear to god, if you fuck this up.”

—

Steve has always been a relatively confident guy. It’s not that. He’s not normally awkward or even shy. 

If anything, he’s better than average at blending in, even managing to convince his parents that he’s still the same person he was when he was a sports star back in high school: he finished his MBA without flaming out like half his class, he got a good-paying job in the city, he even goes back home to Indiana once or twice a year for Thanksgiving or Christmas. 

He’s normal. He’s… acceptable.

Just – he also knows when he doesn’t know something, and that’s when he gets flustered.

Like now, Saturday morning. He’s been standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom and staring at himself for a long time – probably too long – fiddling with the cuffs of his jeans and the swoop of his hair and the weird little… thing his sweater is doing where it bunches up around his waist. 

Maybe he should change. Or just… not go? Robin would forgive him, right?

Robin absolutely would not forgive you, says a horrible little voice in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like the woman herself. She absolutely would not, and then she’d come directly over to your apartment and let herself in and drag you there herself.

Fine. Just go. 

He takes a deep breath and releases it in a sharp huff. He can do this. He can totally, obviously, absolutely do this. It’s literally just leaving his building, walking three hundred feet down the street to the corner, and entering a coffee shop. That’s all he has to do. That’s all.

He does it.

When he walks in, he casts a curious glance around the space since, for the first time in here, he’s not in a hurry. It seems like no one else is either: it’s busy in a different way than it’s been for the past few mornings, fewer people calling out orders and pushing back and forth through doors, more occupied armchairs and tables with laptops. There’s a record playing in the background, something scratchy and smooth, interrupted by the sound of occasional jets of steam issuing from behind the counter.

And behind the counter is – Steve feels disappointment curdle in his stomach. 

Oh. 

The scary redhead. She’s sitting on a barstool with a knee drawn up to her chest, studying her nails and pretending like she hasn’t seen him. He steps closer to the counter, too close to ignore, and she sighs, looking up at him like his very presence is an affront to her. In spite of himself, he feels a little bubble of nervous laughter crawl up the back of his throat, and he swallows it down.

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Just, uh – a coffee?”

“It’s all coffee,” she tells him in a bored voice. “Are you asking for a drip coffee?”

“Yeah, just that, with oat milk,” he says, then adds, “Thanks.”

She jabs at her iPad then flips it around for him. “Eight dollars. Oat milk’s at the end of the bar, you can add it yourself.”

He gives her an awkward smile as he pays, and she just stares back at him impassively. He’s slipping his card back into his wallet and preparing to run away with his tail between his legs when the door behind the counter pushes open, and Steve’s barista – the nice one who gives him real milk and doesn’t glare at him – backs through it, balancing a tray of cinnamon buns in his arms.

He turns, then spots Steve, and his face breaks into a smile. He sets down his tray.

“Knew you’d be back,” he says, tilting his head with a teasing smile on his face. “Max, this is Steve. We like Steve.”

“This is Steve?” She gives him a once-over, then turns to make a face at the other man. “Seriously?”

Now that’s – “Okay,” Steve says. “I’m literally standing right here.”

“Yes. This is Steve, and today Steve would like a white mocha with two pumps of cinnamon.”

“That’s disgusting.” She makes a face. “Anyway, he paid for a plain drip coffee.”

“I didn’t ask what he paid for. I told you what he’s going to get. Can you make it for him, please?”

She glares at Steve’s barista then slips off her stool with a groan and the deepest eye roll Steve has ever seen in his life. 

“Whatever. It’s your shop.”

“Ignore her,” he tells Steve in a voice loud enough for her to hear. “Max likes to think she’s funny, but she’s actually just judgmental.”

She sticks her tongue out at him then sets about ignoring them, disappearing into a cloud of steam. He lifts up onto his toes to lean forward over the top of the pastry case and get a look at Steve.

“You’re very comfy casual today,” he says, dropping back to his own side. He raises an eyebrow. “Cute sweater.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, feeling himself flush. He tugs at the hem of it as he casts another look around the room. “This is your shop? I didn’t realize when you said the owner liked you, you meant…”

“Yep, all mine,” he says. “I can shamelessly flirt with as many customers as I want. No boss to tell me to get back to work.”

Steve widens his eyes. “Flirting with me, and he won’t even tell me his name.”

The man grins at him, resting his face in one hand. “I guess you’ve earned it.” Steve feels his stomach do a flip. “I’m Eddie.”

“Eddie,” he says, trying it out. It suits him, Steve thinks. “Nice to meet you. Officially.”

“Likewise,” Eddie says as Max passes him the coffee and returns to her stool with a huff. Eddie slides it to Steve across the counter. “Your very disgusting sugary coffee, handcrafted with love by our sweetest barista.”

“Thanks,” Steve laughs, accepting the drink. He pries the lid off to peer inside. “Is this the same as yesterday?”

“Nah, I’m still figuring out what you like,” Eddie says. He waits for Steve to take a sip – another winner, maybe even better than yesterday – then says, “Are you busy tonight?”

Steve looks up from his coffee. Eddie is watching him with an amused tilt to his smile. Steve swallows.

“Am I busy tonight?”

“That’s what I asked. Are you?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Steve clears his throat. “No.”

“Okay,” Eddie says as he folds a cinnamon roll into a box and nudges it in Steve’s direction. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

Steve accepts the box, and before he can second guess himself he says, “Yeah, okay.”

Eddie’s smile is slow and easy. “Good. I wrote my number on the inside of the lid. Text me your address? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

—

When he gets home, he calls Robin, freaking out.

“I didn’t fuck it up,” he says by way of greeting when she answers on the third ring.

“What?”

“Hot tattooed… barista guy,” Steve says, pacing frantic circles around his living room and ripping a hand through his hair. “I didn’t fuck it up. His name’s Eddie, and he gave me a cinnamon roll, and it was really good, and – okay, so it turns out he owns the shop, he doesn’t just work there and –” He stops, staring out the window at the building across the street, unseeing. “And we’re having dinner tonight.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the phone, then a shout, then more silence, and then she says, “Holy shit. What are you going to wear?”

—

After much debate and two facetime calls and eventually Robin just physically marching the three blocks over to help him decide in person, and then him forbidding her from sticking around to interrogate Eddie – when the buzzer goes at seven sharp, 

When the buzzer goes at seven sharp, no games played, he stares at the box on the wall in alarm, half expecting it to come to life and bite his face off. When it doesn’t, he recovers (barely) and jabs at the button to let Eddie inside. 

[wmarximoff]

𝐤𝐧𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐭 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: to get what she wants Wanda will do anything - including hurting you.

warnings (18+): smut, strap-on sex (r receiving), non-con, a bit of dacryphilia, breeding kink, loss of virginity, forced pregnancy, toxic relationship, manipulation, heavy angst. MINORS DNI.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 3k

masterlist|

(please, don't flag the work)

༺ᱬ༻

At dawn, gray and foggy, the bitter winter temperature would arduously exceed the limitations of common sense degrees demarcated by popular thermometers.

The vehement peak of the serene dawn, as placid and peaceful as it ever was to be, had been swallowed up by a broad blanket of white, chaste snow; blizzard which had interspersed, crossing from north to south along the entire longitudinal extent of the ten thousand hectares located near the tiny town of Westview, New Jersey. You weren't born in there and, in fact, you barely knew that place at all.

The whiteness of sprays of snow in flakes of polished ice continued to crumble through the openings of the dense clouds, and a pale veil of frost took more and more possession of the tiles above the roofs and the tops of the enormities of the hills around the town, inferring a white and crystalline color.

You retained your own private assumptions about the phenomenon, however, and attributed it to increasingly distressing global warming (come on now Tony Stark, you could very well reverse global warming if you really wanted to!). But maybe you still held such a mundane concern at your core just to keep a sober dose of normality within you, and not give in to the long chants of long lonely days, as maddening as they could be.

The days that had passed gradually slipped one over the other, consubstantiating, consolidating into a single amalgam, and you no longer knew what to do to ward off the acute boredom that was consuming your nerves little by little like an autoimmune disease – there was no book to read or movie to watch that would wriggle your soul out of the lonely corners of a world you'd been segregated into, walls slowly closing in around you one by one. You were alone. Utterly alone.

Through the dim glass of the wide window of your solitary room, you gazed, with your gaze watered by the apathy that is intrinsically sprinkled in your irises and sluggish limbs and heavy in your joints like lead, the occluded sky of dawn – the few gloomy trees raised in the neighborhood surroundings like fortresses of dark, thick foliage, swaying on their own axes as the constant wind dictated outside their painted plaster walls.

With a sliver of fresh skin on your right temple pressed against the cloudy glass, so cold to the touch, your dead eyes followed the willow tree of snow outside as if it were natural, as if it was common to snow at that time of year and as if she wasn't using the situation to her whim, wherever she was at that moment, as much as she was everywhere at the same time.

Right, screw global warming. You were living like a little snowman cloistered inside your own particular snow globe – free from your point of view, but trapped inside the dome.

The truth was that Westview was a huge board full of pieces all situated in their proper squares, the vast majority composed of pawns as maneuverable and disposable as they could be, endlessly, always ready to be used and discarded and then replaced – and you were the queen of them, the most important piece to be cherished, but like everyone else, at your core, you would be just another component part of the grand scheme that Wanda Maximoff ruled with an iron fist. One wrong step and you were out, checkmate.

In a time that then sounded remote, an echo of a dream derived from a memory already forgotten, perhaps seven or eight months ago (you only calculated the passage of time by the gradual expansion of your belly, which then encompassed a larger roundness than a basketball), you were free. You were young and you were free and the world was a little less terrible than it could be.

But Wanda had kidnapped so much of you, in fact, disfigured you into a bizarre parody, a grim reflection of who you once were – but of your own free will you gladdened to the end in an elan worthy of praise, in the greatest pose of a soldier who is willing to kill and die for the glory of your people, despite the notion that you were fighting a vain, lost battle.

At the end of the day you were still her possession to be used and abused however Wanda saw fit. She saw everything, and everything she controlled.

You were nothing but a poor college student, still so full of spirit, and your captor was an esoteric entity versed in superhuman capabilities, the wielder of celestial powers who, according to herself, was also a multidimensional traveler – whatever meaning it held, or at least what she meant by such an eccentric statement as that.

All you knew was the things she could do and undo with a simple, banal hand movement, and how it affected you.

The fact was that you were alone, isolated, confined to an unknown town where escape was infeasible and outside contact was nothing short of scarce, subject to the pleasures, daydreams, paranoia and whims of a woman deeply troubled by her own inner demons, that you supposedly hated, but couldn't get away from even if you wanted to. Not when she was growing on you like a parasite, literally and figuratively speaking.

It was clear as the snow outside – conceiving Wanda's offspring in your womb (albeit at odds with your own individual desires at first, but attempts to shed such a burden proved, at first, flatly flawed and highly unnerving to Wanda's exhausted mind, who wasn't used to being a very reasonable person), whom she held so dear, there would be no way to nurture a flame of hatred for that woman that would not be extinguished quickly; no matter how little you knew about her for as long as your pregnancy lasted, Wanda's humanity, so disparate from the morbid cruelty at the bottom of those abyssal green irises, resided in the bosom of motherhood for which she cherished so much.

In the intimate caresses exchanged between her gentle blackened fingertips and your swollen belly, there was a kind of love so subtle and genuine that it almost erased from your memory the fact that you didn't want to be there in the first place. Her contact with that embryo was covered by a lapse of vulnerability, and that's why that witch once proved to have been as human as you were.

At a certain point, goodness was already given for those intentions, when there was not a shadow in her very existence. Deep down you just knew she was good. But it was no use if kindness was eclipsed by a haze of cruelty.

The faint gleam of her smile was enchanting, and the jadish irises were drowned in waves of tears that pooled behind long, thick dark lashes, right at the waterline of the one who so affectionately gazed at your belly by her rotten right fingers. At some point, you knew, you just knew that Wanda had given as much love to the world as she had to the unwanted child in your womb. You wondered what it was that had stolen Wanda's innocence so voraciously that, in the end, she ended up stealing yours too.

“Twins,” in one night she came, and Wanda had smiled at the utterance of her own words, never breaking her gaze from the skin stretched just below your navel, “My boys.”

Her touch felt cold, plastered like a corpse's hand. Everything about Wanda was somewhat cadaverous, reminiscent of the dead – although a veil of purity always overshadowed her dying features (for that witch was indeed beautiful), the dark, sharp circles under her eyes and the deep fleshed cheeks made her a spectral creature, unreal, with the waxy pale skin that so accentuated those emerald eyes that squandered a nuance of intense feeling.

You were never quite sure how to pinpoint what was going on inside her mind, although she always expressed that there was something there to look for.

“How,” you muttered with your eyes focused on anything but her, your shirt pulled up to expose your swollen stomach, not a smile found on your lips' commission to reflect that woman's.

The situation in which everything of the last few months had culminated in your stomach was in knots – the idea that it was done, and now you had nowhere to run from her.

“How can you be so sure, Wanda? Twin boys... that's a pretty... specific guess, I think. It could just be a boy, it could be a girl,” in the room lit by the orange flames of a fireplace that turned Wanda's hair as red as blood, you blinked, “It could be anything.”

“I just know,” lisped the woman who owned the long auburn locks that fell below her breasts, sketching a ghost of a vaguely nostalgic smile on her well-shaped lips, like someone wistfully remembering something that is gone and will never come back.

“I… just know it's them. My… our boys.”

There was a brief pause interspersed by the crackling fire in the dry wood, a breath held within bristling lungs.

“Thank you, Y/n.”

Your eyes finally turned to Wanda, who was crouched in front of you. She looked at you in gleaming green like she did the first time she made you bleed, when she emptied herself inside you, condemning you to that sick moment of intimacy with her.

“I know you don't understand this right now, not this version of you at least, but,” her jaw moved slightly, speaking at length in her speech, as if she were speaking like a child, seeking to express clarity. As if she had to plan her words carefully.

“I love you, детка . Everything I've done so far is because I love you, Y/n. You and our boys, our family. Everything I did was for you. I hope one day you can understand that and forgive me for what I did.”

Your eyes stung and sickly bile rose to the surface of your tongue at that controversial statement of hers. She knew it was wrong, she was fully aware of it. You could never imagine that whatever resulted from that one-sided relationship between the two of you could fall under the nominations commonly associated with the definition of “a family” .

You already had a family to call your own and belong to, a father and mother and siblings too, and from them you were usurped by her. That couldn't be a family, not that relationship structure, not you and her. Not when you weren't even twenty and barely even aware of what, say, Wanda's last name would be.

That night you cried yourself to sleep. And, like every night before that, Wanda listened until you fell into the softness of your own sleep clouded by layers of thick, salty tears.

But the warm, abstruse sweetness behind Wanda's hideous facade made her as seductive as the apple would have been to Eve, and the fragility that rarely saw the light of day made her seem so small compared to the times you feared for your life as she chained her hands behind your back and sternly brought her hips to meet yours over and over again.

You've also heard her cry before going to sleep. It just so happens that she was the one making you suffer, while you just had to put up with her external suffering.

Wanda was a complex puzzle to understand, so fluctuating, fascinating and unpleasant at the same time, like a new flavor to try, bad at first, but then becoming dangerously charming to the palate. And you didn't know whether you wanted to put those pieces together into one uniform image, or throw them in the trash and close the lid.

In fact, if traced back to the beginnings of your gloomy model of relationship (at least in the most primitive sense of the word, summarized only to the exchange of physical touches between two controversial animals, to, moreover, the imposition of physical contact from one part to the other), it was as if Wanda saw what she solemnly did to you as an artifice, a mechanism, a forced method to an end you never chose to have. It was as if she was just performing a necessary sacrifice that justified the means she chose to use.

She apologized again and again because that inside of you stung and hurt when she ripped something inside you, and she worked hard to make you like it too, even though you barely knew her at the time, and in fact just waking up from the stillness of your sleep to the uncomfortable feeling of a foreign body on top of you, with your legs spread wide and streams of fresh crimson blood dishonoring the sheets down your thighs, ripping you in half like no one before her had ever done.

“Shh, it's okay Y/n, it's okay. It's okay, you’re okay детка.”

She lisped that night with the palm of her right hand screwed to your lips, stuffing your protests behind your teeth (scorched-tipped fingers sweeping strands of your hair behind the shell of your ear, Wanda in a red tiara looking like would cry as much as you already did). The first time you saw her, that strange woman invading your room and also you, she seemed as uncomfortable with what she was doing as you felt with her tucked inside your innocence.

“I know it hurts, baby, I know, I…” Green eyes then pulled away from your face contorted in sharp pain, as if, for half a second, she couldn't even look at you in that state. As if, in your room, she would burst into tears with you.

“I'm very sorry. I'm really, really sorry детка , but I have to do this. It’ll pass, alright? Will pass. It’ll fit, we'll make it fit, okay? Just take a deep breath. This will be quick, I promise. I,” Wanda choked on her own words, “I'm so sorry, Y/n.”

And it went on for quite a few sluggish minutes – the headboard hitting the wall rhythmically, hard and slow behind your head, your white cotton underwear crumpled and discarded at the foot of your bed, your eyes focused on how much the sharp points of that scarlet tiara that seemed to protrude from the top of her skull resembled two demonic horns as they rose and fell in the dark of your room, above you.

When your conscience woke up, the very next morning and in a room you were not at all familiar with, the wet pain between your legs was the final sentence given that you were already her property. And you tried to run away, wander the streets of Westview, cry out for help from your new assigned neighbors, but they were smiling like machines, nothing was wrong. Nothing was ever wrong.

And the visits continued, scheduled for sunset; the fall of the veil of night was the apogee of your fate – in that house with dismal walls, dark shadows lightened by the tongues of fire that burned in the hearth, Wanda came in the form of that crimson specter to do what she had to do. And time had washed the regrets from her soul, when did the pleasures of the flesh begin to burn hotter on her skin.

“Dерьмо,” Wanda anathematized one night in a sigh under her breath, moaning in a thick accent in the roof of her mouth as she stood behind you, blackened fingers digging deep into the skin of your hips as hers pierced into yours.

“Dетка, you feel so good, s-so good, Y/n...” she gasped, your white-knuckled fingers screwed to the sheets moving beneath you both, “Fuck, I missed you so bad...”

“I-it hurts,” you squealed beneath her, your right cheek rubbing against your pillowcase, your teeth clenched, your jaw set, “W-Wanda, Wanda wait– go slow, you're– you're hurting me, Wanda, please slow down–”

“I'm going to come,” she suddenly announced, indifferent to your protests, “Fuck, I'm going to come inside you, Y/n.”

The cognition of such a sentence haunted the nerves of your spine. At that point, you already had basic knowledge accumulated about her – she was called Wanda Maximoff, she was from another universe and, as a factor of greater relevance to emphasize, she was capable of performing and handling magic, something that for you, until that moment at the time, was nothing more than a fictitious topic. And, if she was qualified to run an entire city on her own, she might well be able to turn something as frivolous as coming inside you with a fake phallus into a permanent action and one fraught with the most undesirable consequences.

“No-!” you immediately chafed then, trying to crawl your body away from hers on the bed sheets, “Wanda, don't– don't do that– Wanda–!”

But with a pull and a jerk she held you steady, your hips up, ribbons of scarlet energy restraining your wrists bound to the bed, just to the side of both your temples. And the notion that you couldn't even move caused warm tears to pool in the waterline of your eyes, clouding your view of the raised wall to the left of the double bed located in the heart of that partially lit room by the dull bulb of a bedside lamp.

“Hold still, детка, I-I'm almost,” she growled, her hips hammering against yours in essentially violent movements, “Almost there–!”

“No, pull out,” you whimpered, “Wanda, pull out, don't do that, don't do that, Wanda– Wanda, please–!”

“I need to do this Y/n, I fucking need to–!”

“Wanda, please–!”

She didn't pull out. She never pulled out – the point was not to pull out, it was that she emptied herself inside you, painted your insides with that magical secretion that only a few weeks later proved to be appropriate for the purpose Wanda had in mind. And she didn't touch you anymore, not that way, when her goal was achieved – with the plan completed, all she had to do was wait for your organism to do what it had to do. And so the months passed, snow fell on that simulated dome. Her visits weren't as frequent anymore.

“Why me?” you asked her once, as she stroked your belly through your thick crimson wool sweater.

Crouched down in front of the couch, Wanda raised her eyes to you like she always did when she was trying to communicate with the child she had shoved inside you.

“Because I love you,” was her answer, of course. A wave of ominous disgust twisted your insides at that oblivious response, as if Wanda were genuinely alienated from the reality of where she was your captor and aggressor.

“You barely know me, Wanda,” you spat, “And I barely know you. This isn't love, you're using me like a fucking incubator. You’re sick and you fucking know it.”

She lowered her head in front of your prickly speech, a lock of reddish hair piercing an emerald iris of hers, while Wanda's left fingers, dark as pitch, kept stroking your belly through a layer of clothing. She compressed her lips into a long line, and you held your breath. From your point of view, Wanda, stripped of that crimson armor she always wore and then tucked into casual clothes, sweatpants and a sweater as thick as your own, looked small and confused like a child, a little girl.

“You used to know me,” she muttered quietly, “Where I come from, you used to know me. We were married. We had our boys. You... for as long as it took in Westview after I had you back again, you were my world after I lost everything.”

You blinked once.

“Westview?”

She looked at you again.

“Yes, Y/n. Westview. They took you from me, more than once. But the second time they took our boys too. So I,” there was a pause in her speech, “I had to look for you in another reality. In a reality where nothing could ever get out of my control again.”

And for half a second you looked back at her.

“Wanda,” the palm of your right hand slowly snuggled against her left cheek, which approached your touch in an almost pathetic neediness, when was it that you looked into her eyes, “You’ll never have control over me, no matter how hard you try.”

She closed her eyes as a tear trickled down her cheek.

“I know.”

When the twins were born, you didn't want to hold them. And, begrudgingly, Wanda understood. She understood that she could never have you, not after what she had done to you, but to her consolation at least there were those boys left for her.

And she had been benevolent in letting you go, as if she had released a bird from its caged captivity, erasing from your memory any and all discernment of what your relationship had been like for ten months or so, abstracting from the confines of your mind the idea of how much she had harmed you by excluding herself from your memory. You went back to your old life, and she started a new one.

Time has come and gone. You had no sense of the past, and no one in your social circle even seemed to notice your absence for nearly a full year – it was like a dream, a memory, a lie. A kind of collective amnesia. You moved out of your parents' home after graduation and obtained a steady job in your field of work. And, after a while, you decided that it might be good to share your life with a second person – soon enough, a relationship blossomed between you and a dark-haired woman you met during a snowy winter day in a coffee shop.

Your girlfriend was a few years older than you and a single mom, but it turns out you got along great with her kids, and she was the best partner anyone could ask for. And when, on a warm summer day in the city park, Wanda offered you a strawberry ice cream cone right after presenting Billy and Tommy with their respective favorite flavors each, you genuinely smiled at her.

“Thanks, baby,” and then, you kissed her on the cheek. Billy asked Tommy to play tag, and the older twin accepted.

Wanda smiled at you. She smiled at you as if she didn't know how much she had already hurt you. “You’re welcome, детка.”

[webanglikethat]

an aftermath of episode 8, a life for a life. (a Devi and Ram oneshot)

also available to read here: ao3 published: 2024-06-06 words: 5,123 btw if you read this and don’t leave a comment a fairy will lose her wings

Devi held herself high, walking towards the garden, almost as if hiding behind dirt and leaves could alleviate her anxiety. she couldn't wrap her head around what had just happened, but she couldn’t let anyone know, she couldn’t let the truth slip … how ironic, how could she demand the truth, if she herself was a vessel overflowing with falsity? and yet she ran, for she knew how to do that the best after all. she had come out of the meeting with Mr Vaish, a meeting whose ending she could not have fathomed, not even in the wildest vision of her most ardent migranes. a meeting in which she had discovered a truth that had been eluding her for five years, a truth hiding right in front of her, a mindgame one might say.

Deviya Sharma was meant to die,and it was a fate she could not escape, for it had been demanded and forged by the Goddess herself.

Devi was going to die when she married Ian.

Devi was going to die, and it was going to be soon.

the prophecy had been clear and crystalline. the stars aligned to seal her destiny, perhaps even long before she drew her first breath, a victim of an inevitability that had haunted her before knowing it. this cruel revelation hung in the air like a haunting melody, echoing through the chambers of her mind, a symphony that could never cease to play from now on. tick tock, tick tock, so the clock laughed in her face, as time went on but she felt frozen in it, trapped in a glacier of her doing. the world seemed to shift beneath her feet, as if the dirth beneath the garden was stairs, and each step was an interminable reminder of the weight of the knowledge she now carried, opening and daring her to fall into the pit of her new reality. the truth, elusive and spectral, had finally unveiled itself. for half a decade, she had wandered through a labyrinth of uncertainty, her heart traveling alongside unanswered questions. but now she knew — and life would never be the same. so what was worse, she wondered, the not knowing or the knowing? which was more haunting, knowing she had been laughing and kissing her lover with an expiration date on her body, or now knowing the expiration date of not only herself, but their relationship too? how could she have not known? even a pig to slaughter would notice. the knowing was a double-edged sword. sure, it provided clarity, putting an end to the endless speculation and anxiety that had lingered in the back of her mind. but on the other hand, it brought a firm finality. the path ahead was now clear, but it was a path she had no desire to walk.

in those five years, she had seen it all; she had experienced deaths, some closer than she could process. she was lacerated with disappointment and she combatted grief, a companion that had accompanied her throughout it all, a constant reminder of that fateful night — the night her brother was taken from her and the flames of arson devoured their joint world, leaving behind an existence bereft of him and all the love she had ever known. her throat closed up as the memories surged back with a visceral force, just another force to add to the list of which she couldn't control nor possess. it was as if she were back in that burning mansion, on that damned mountain, that summer night. she could perceive it all again; from the heat searing her skin to the acrid smoke clawing at her lungs like a tiger approaching his victim. she could hear the crackling of the fire, feel the oppressive heat pushing her towards the brink of suffocation as panic gripped her chest and her heart pounded in her ears as the flames danced in her vision, a relentless specter from her past, an interminable hologram that repeated the same movie every. single. time. so welcome to the manuscript of grief, she said quietly to herself.

act one began, the lights dimmed and the flames rose. Devi could almost hear his voice, her beloved brother, beckoning her to Kamal, demanding of her to run, to just run and not look back, to hide in a safe place because it would be okay. but it wasn't okay, it surely hadn't been okay. Devi could almost smell the charred remains of their life, taste the bitterness of the loss that had settled in her mouth that night. the overwhelming dread, the frantic desperation, the helplessness, the screams, the pair of arms holding her back, scratches of nails as she fought, the clang of jewelry as she shook her face, rain mixing with tears —it was as if she were reliving the nightmare all over again.

but this time it was her life that was meant to flatline, and not his heart. (what a cruel twist, it seems the Sharma family is forever meant to star in a tragedy.)

losing her brother had felt like losing herself, as if a fragment of her soul had been cut away, shattered like their dream of a future in which they could live together in happy bliss. the taste of loss was more than a metaphor; it was a physical presence, a bitter, metallic tang that coated her mouth and refused to leave like a distant relative trying to claim what was hers. sometimes, in the middle of the night, she could swear she would sense it again — that smell of rotting flesh, the blaring and deafening gun, denying her brother of one last wish, an honorable death. and instead of running to him, she ran away, like she had promised him to, but that, my dearest goddess, didn't mean she was able to outrun the guilt. she knew it had been the right thing, the only route to ensuring her family legacy and her own safety, but it gnawed at her like a child tugging at his mother's skirt. she should've been with him that night. she should've protected him, she should've gotten him outside before anyone else, and she shouldn't have let Ram lead her away. this was her brother, half of her soul, the vessel of her blood, the echo of her existence, and she left him. and perhaps, she could have saved him, but the lasting fact is she will never know. and once again, she doesn't know what's worse: the not knowing, the guilt, or the what if, or the knowdlege that his presence had been forgotten, as she escaped the mansion with Ram. he hand't even been a thought in the back of her mind. and what is a sibling, if not the first to love you boundlessly, and the first to leave you shamelessly?

as she reached the end of the garden, hidden away from any gaze that would drown her with snotty remarks, Devi’s thoughts swirled like leaves caught in a tempest, and honestly, she thought to herself, comparing her life to a tempest was an understatement. it was a litote where each one was a fragment of the revelation of her path in life, or more accurately perhaps, the path to her death. the reality she had known, the life she had lived, now seemed like a mere fragile illusion, a puppet show designed for the immortals’ joys. how could she reconcile the world she knew with the truth that had just been unmasked? she couldn't hide it, not to herself at least. tomorrow she would wake up, raise her head proudly, wear her Sharma ring, adorn her body with jewelry others could only dream of wearing in the afterlife, participate in the Dozen's meeting, smirk and hold her foot down as she quickly remarked every word or action from the others, and she would smile as if nothing had happened, as if her life hadn't turned out to be a slaughtering transaction. she couldn't let them know and she wouldn't let them know — because any sign of weakness would be seized upon, a chink in her armor that could quickly unravel the balance of respect and authority she had fought so hard to attain along with the place she had so forcefully carved for herself in society. her presence was no longer personal, it was political. and she would do everything to not lose it, even if it meant losing herself first.

but that is the funny thing about attaching your existence to a role so strongly. the very armor you wear can become your prison. and sure, it gave Devi power and respect along with strength, but it subsequently isolated her from her own humanity. and yet, despite it all, she couldn't fraud herself into forgetting or into pretending this truth wasn't a ghost now living in her room and her mind, occupying every land and surface of her existence, as the British had done with her homeland.

and … how different truly, were the British from her destiny, she wondered. she knew it was a foolish comparison, one that could have her even imprisoned and exiled from the Dozen, because how could one compare the brutality of the invaders to the path forged by the merciful goddess herself? the British, with their seemingly insatiable hunger for power and domination, had carved a path of destruction through her land, leaving blood and hope behind every one of their footsteps. they had plundered and pillaged, leaving nothing but devastation in their wake. and the goddess — she was her creator. Devi was her child, but mothers often give birth to victims and not lovers, and Devi felt like a pawn in a game she hadn’t agreed to. so how different truly was the act of the British demolishing her country to the act of the Maharani demolishing her existence as she had known it? how difference is brutality truly, for isn’t it the same, regardless of names, status and history? the essence of brutality lies in its capacity to dehumanize and dominate, to destroy and relish in the chaos, to lead astray and drown the blindly faithful. power, whether human or divine, can be equally merciless. names and faces might change, but even a blind woman would agree that the suffering remains the same.

Devi had always been a fighter as her spirit was unbroken even by the worst trials she had faced. she hadn’t always been like this, but the death of her brother and the crowd of people beneath her, who urged her to give up her place in the Dozen, had turned her into a calculating woman. she had been a gentle and laughing child before, but she had to ice her heart because in a war between compassion and intellect, the winner was clear. “so this was no different”, she told herself. she could swim against the current, forging a new way forward. surely she could undo the reins of destiny, unstitch the tapestry of fate, and redo the prophecy. she has done this before, hadn’t she? she had showed everyone who told her a woman couldn’t possibly lead a family’s legacy that she in fact could. she could manage the finances, she could close a deal with the British Lord, she could gain the respect of Vaish, she could take part in meetings on her own without a guardian. she was Devi Sharma, head of her family, the last one remaining, a legacy standing longer than her grief so she would face whatever challenges came her way with the same stubborn determination that had carried her family through centuries. only time would tell whenever the manuscript of premeditated divine revelation would crumble first, or if it would be her stubborn heart.

as immersed as she was in her thoughts, she didn’t hear his footsteps, but she felt his presence and knew immediately who it was. she could’ve recognized him blindly, deafly even perhaps, though she wasn’t sure how that would work. after all, you do need ears to hear footsteps. she smiled to herself at her own joke. he hadn’t even approached her yet, and she was already joking around, if that wasn’t the premise of their relationship, then she didn’t know what it was. a lighthearted back and forth of teasing, of kissing between droplets of wine, of hiding behind curtains and dancing in front of thousands, of chase and run, of passion and a joy she wouldn’t have ever imagine.

Ram stood a few paces away, his expression a mix of concern and quiet determination, a mix she hadn’t seen before. his face used to be a shrine of teasing, of smirks and small smiles, which never truly left his face when she was around, but this time it was different. «Deviya», he said softly, his voice breaking through her reverie. he rarely called her by her full name, it had always been either Devi or Rakhasi — so called man-eaters monsters, his stupid yet loving nickname for her. but what better setting to use her name? so she turned to face him, her smile fading as the weight of the prophecy settled back on her shoulders. his fingers grazed her cheeks, as he often adored to do. that was the thing with Ram — he would always find an excuse to touch Devi; whether it was holding her hand to lead her somewhere, brushing his fingers over her cheek, cupping her face, putting a hand on her waist to surprise her, “trapping” her against the wall to kiss her, putting his finger on her lips, tracing words in her hair. it had always been a game of push and pull, of hide and seek. but it seemed now, they had been found and couldn’t hide, not from destiny, not from Ram’s duties as the goddess’s will’s interpreter, not from Devi’s imminent death. just uttering those words aloud asphyxiated the teasing out of Ram.

«Ram», she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. but Ram could see the turmoil in her eyes, the fear and uncertainty that had taken root — for it was a twin to the one in his own eyes. for how much she could try and hide it, Ram wasn't called a seer for nothing. he put his hand around her waist, bringing their bodies closer, as if the warmth of his body could ease the coldness of this reality, their new reality. «we can change this», he reassured her, but his eyelashes betrayed his calmness as they were shaking.

Devi let out a shaky breath, her eyes searching his, analyzing the face she had gone from finding annoying to being her only anchor in her slowly unraveling madness. «change this?» she echoed, a hint of her usual defiance creeping into her voice, the one he had learned to poke and to adore. "and how exactly do you plan to defy destiny, Ram? by charming the goddess with your smile? because that’s too egoistical even by your standards” she arched an eyebrow, looking directly at him with that signature smirk he had learned to trace even with his eyes closed at night, when he missed her the most.

Ram chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her, a sound she wishes she could trap into a bottle, perhaps a box, so wherever she went, she could have him with her. «if only it were that simple, my dearest demon. it might have worked with you, but I don’t think it will with her» he murmured, his hand sliding up her back to cradle her head. «but I’m serious. together, we are stronger than any prophecy. we will find a way. there is no way we were connected by Mahakali, if not because there is a way, an escape. nothing she does is ever a mistake, our connection is inescapable» his fingers grazed her lips and she leaned into his touch, her fingers gripping his shirt as if holding on to him could anchor her in this storm. «always the optimist„ she teased him, «you know, despite all the fun you make of my rule breaking streak and finding trouble even with eyes closed .. if this were a game, you'd be the one breaking all the rules». «and you'd be right there beside me», he countered, his lips brushing against her forehead, letting out a barely audible sigh. «my partner in crime, my rakhasi.» Devi's smile widened, her heart lifting slightly at his words. «well, someone has to keep you in check», she quipped. «we can’t have you, Mr Doobay, running off and getting us into more trouble than we are already in.» he laughed again, a rich, warm sound that made her momentarily forget the prophecy, as she wanted to just drown in it. Devi knew how to play many instruments, knew many dances, but she had never came across a tune she liked so much that she wanted to replay it and replay it until she went deaf from it. «I wouldn't have it any other way, miss Sharma», he said, his eyes locking onto hers with a determination that sent a shiver down her spine. «we will face this together, Devi. no matter what comes. I will be by your side, even if it means abandoning everyone else’s.» 

Devi shook her head slightly, as if he just told her a joke, «how can you be by my side, when we are akin to spies in the shadows? we can’t shine in the daylight. you can’t be seen with me, I can’t be seen with you .. well not like this. we are both heirs to different legacies, so how can you promise me this?» she said, her voice shaking on the word promise. what were promises, if not meant to be broken? her brother had promised her it would be alright, but it hadn’t been. it hadn’t been, not since, not ever again. so how could she trust another promise, from another man, once again? but what she didn’t say was how she deeply dreamed to shine in the light, to raise her head proudly, him beside her, and shape her own destiny so whatever they had wouldn’t be a secret but kept akin to a prayer. for what distinction exists between the tender caress of a beloved upon her visage and the heavenly benediction bestowed upon the devout? what semblance does religion bear if not the tender embrace of her lover in the nocturnal hours? and what is prayer is not if not the fervent plea of "remain with me" uttered in the hushed dawn's embrace? what is love, if not the first religion you put your faith in?

«what are promises worth, Ram?». she continued, her tone filled with a bitter edge, shaking away her thoughts. «my brother promised to protect me, to keep our family safe, and look where that got us. promises are just words, easily broken and forgotten when the weight of the world comes crashing down. why should I believe that your promise is any different?», she asked him, almost immediately regretting the vulnerability she had let slip, like a secret she couldn’t contain. but it was alright, for she knew he would keep this moment their secret, as they already did with their relationship. it seemed they were both amazing liars and thieves of truths, just how ironic.

Ram didn’t hesitate for a single moment and pulled her closer, his embrace a fortress against the world, as if the weight of his body against her could calm her turmoil, as if that nearness could be healing. (to him it was). his gaze softened, as it often did when his thoughts traced back to her. «I can’t promise that it will be easy, or that we won’t face more challenges. we both are too smart to believe that. we could die trying, our names could be dragged into the mud if this was ever revealed, but I can promise that I will stand by you, fight for us, and never let you face anything alone. I know that together we have the power to redefine what our legacies mean and rewrite the story. lion and falcon, remember? we can take both the earth and the sky.»

Ram couldn’t believe his own words, since when had he become so sentimental? since when did he began thinking of offering himself to bear her weight? when had his mindless teasing turned into emotions he couldn’t put a label on? all his life Ram had known one thing; relationships weren’t meant to amuse or to revere. they were to carry their surname, carry the weight of their household, carry their legacy. relationships weren’t personal, they were political. an alliance, a partnership, a confederation of sorts, an union for a greater good — a good that was never considerate of his own. 

but with Devi, everything was different. her laughter, her fiery spirit, her unwavering determination, her endless teasing, that raised eyebrows accompanied with her smirk, her eyes when she felt passionate about something, her quick remarks around him — she had so quickly become more than just a fleeting companion in his hidden world. he always joked that she was caught in his trap, but he now realized that if she was flame, he was the moth. the more he tried to distance himself, the more irresistibly he was drawn to her light. that was why he always searched for her in a herd of people, that was why he searched for her condescending smile during the Dozen’s meetings. Ram had always prided himself on his control and his ability to navigate the dance of duty and expectation with precision. but with Devi, all of that seemed to fall away. her presence ignited something within him, a longing he had never known, a longing he couldn’t put a name on. or maybe he could, but he wouldn’t admit it to himself. Ram had always believed that his life was predetermined, a series of obligations and roles he had to fulfill. it wasn’t a matter or if or when. it was a clear road ahead, made of stones he couldn’t turn around and demolish. he had to carry their name, get married, have an heir, and watch the story repeat, unfold in front of his eyes for decades to come. yet here he was, offering promises he never thought he’d make, driven by an impulse he couldn’t ignore, standing in front of a woman he shouldn’t pursue. now he knew; being trapped by her was more freedom than he had ever known.

Devi looked up at him, taking in the scent of lavender and sandalwood, a scent that already felt like her own when he pulled her towards him, «those in charge bend the rules to their will. you are my equal, and .. don’t you dare laugh», she interrupted her sentence, thinking Ram would make fun of her, of little miss Sharma comparing herself to a Doobay, but he didn’t tease her so she continued «we have enough power to change rule to suit ourselves.» Ram's eyes softened as he listened. there she was, the Devi he knew, the one who was able to find escapes in the darkness, solutions to problems no one else could. that was his girl, but for how much longer he wondered. «Devi, I've never doubted your strength or intelligence. you’re not just my equal; you're my partner in every sense.» Devi smirked, raising an eyebrow. «in every sense, huh? so does that mean you'll finally start taking my advice instead of just pretending to listen?» Ram chuckled, a teasing glint in his eye, «only if you promise to stop 'accidentally' forgetting our religious rituals.» and what he didn’t tell her was how often he found himself thinking of her during those, how his eyes searched for hers, just to catch a glimpse of her walking past him. in those moments of chanting and solemn tradition, Ram’s mind often wandered to her, more often than he’d probably admit to anyone, himself at the top of the list. while others were lost in prayer, he found himself lost in thoughts of Devi. (and what is love, if not a prayer? what is a prayer, if not thinking of the one you love?). he would remember the way her eyes sparkled with defiance and mischief, how her laughter could light up even the darkest of days. he would remember how she awkwardly flirted with him when she lost the bet with the Basu twins and how he enjoyed teasing her and seeing the pink in her cheeks, a shade of roseate he could wear everyday. he remembered hearing the wildest stories about her; of her running away riding a horse and getting injured, of closing a deal along with the British Lord, of creating trouble when she couldn’t find any. so he sough her out, lingered between doors to catch a glimpse of her, pretending forgetfulness had put roots in his mind just so he could turn back and linger in her presence again. catching her had become quite a challenge, one he was willingly participating in. in his almost thirty years of life Ram had never known a sentiment even coming close to this. he had always deprived himself of feelings, for he knew he was but a pawn in a game out of his reach, and he had accepted it. as a Seer, he was expected to support Mahakali’s will, under any circumstances or situation, but here he was, defying this one simple rule for a girl he knew he couldn’t have. but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t die trying. after all, Doobays are known for being stubborn. (so in a way, he is carrying the legacy by being stubborn, isn’t he?)

Devi chuckled and nodded, «I suppose I’ll attend, as long as you’re there too» and what she omitted was how grateful she was for him. she knew he was a mere mortal like her, but sometimes it felt like he possessed a healing power in addition to his Seer skills. a power that she could feel flow in her vein whenever he reassured her, a power as intoxicating as his words were, and she was but a drunk girl, hanging onto every word, the way a spider hangs onto its web.

Devi flashed a mischievous grin, and added «you know, Ram, for someone who's supposed to be the great interpreter of the goddess's will, you're looking a bit too serious today. did you forget to consult the stars this morning, or did they just refuse to cooperate with your grand plans?» she chuckled softly, her teasing tone a welcome relief amidst the weight of their conversation. «or perhaps I’ve been spending too much time daydreaming instead of focusing on my duties», he countered, a playful glint in his eyes, leaning in closer to her. «who needs duty when I can have the thrill of chasing after you instead?» he replied, watching the pink glow on her cheeks reappear and gods, he swore he’d love to die in a sea of that same shade. Devi arched an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. «well, in that case, you better keep up, Mr. Doobay. because this rakhasi isn't one to be caught so easily», she declared, her voice lowering, as she challenged him.

and so he took the challenge, as he finally kissed her, her lips on his, her arms around his neck, anchoring themselves to each other like doomed lovers drowning. their lips met with an urgency born of desperation, of “stay with me” hidden on their eyelashes, of “I will” on their noses grazing axis. Ram’s lips, soft and inviting, were a sanctuary that Devi sought refuge in, her own lips a testament to the depth of his longing. how could they kiss like this, if their relationship was a mere fleeting teasing object of foolish affection? they held onto each other as if they were dissipating colors and it was okay, as long as their shadows were inked together, imprinted on an immortal book of their story. each movement was a silent plea for their love to defy the cruel hand of fate. and as she felt his smile against her lips, his fingers tightening their grip on her waist as he could transcribe his fear of losing her in that simple act, Devi knew that whatever happened, it would be alright. if her past was engulfed in flames, he was the soothing stream, quenching the fires of uncertainty. if all she had ever known was a lie, the shadows of them in this moment were the only truth she believed in. «it will be alright», she told herself, and she didn’t realize she had said it aloud until she heard Ram whisper «it will be» back.

and so, at her soon to-be-grave they stood. they knew better than to beg or fall on their knees, pleading to the sky, to their creator. but that wouldn’t stop them from trying to redo the prophecy. destiny after all is just a tapestry made of stitches, and even the greatest pieces can be undone. and if not, if the threads refused to be shattered, at least they would live with the certainty that they, in this exact moment, had existed. Deviya Sharma and Ram Doobay had existed on this day, on the day where life and death had swirled into one. they had existed on this day, and they had tried, for love is trying, trying and trying, until your last dying breath. even as the threads of their existence began to unravel like cards, they knew they would have had each other on this day. and though the threads may never break, and their love may fade into a non existence, lingering between expiration and life, in this moment of certainty, they knew they'd never be bereft of love, even if they refused to utter those four letters — those two vowels and two consonants they weren’t ready to concede and confess. all came in pair of twos — vowels, consonants, mouths, eyes, hands, promises; Deviya and Ram.

falcon and lion, sky and earth, wings and roar — Deviya and Ram. the game has just began for in death one learns life, in drowning you learn the shore, in a trap you learn resilience. their fight had just started. but for now, they would hold onto each other, for their embrace was a temple of their crafting, a religion they wouldn’t let crumble. if their destinies were anything but not each other, the pen was in their hand and they’d craft another.

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳

taglist: @liykaii

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 13: CPR (Twilight & Wild)

Ao3

CW for drowning, blood and injury, vomiting, and referenced animal death (temporary and non-graphic)

——————————-

Twilight surfaces with a gasp. Water droplets cascade off of him, sparkling like opals as they roll down his sea-blue armor. Any other time they would be beautiful. But not now. Definitely, not now.

He hefts Wild more firmly in his grip, kicking madly to keep the hero’s head out of the water. Blood drains down from the gash across his forehead. It pools in the crystalline liquid surrounding them, turning wispy in its unforgiving current.

Twilight sweeps it away as he begins paddling one-handedly toward the shore.

“Hold on, cub,” he rasps, water burning in his throat. “We’re almost there.”

Only the lapping of tiny waves serves as his reply. The iron ball of worry situated in Twilight’s gut solidifies further. He can hardly comprehend it past the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but it is there nonetheless. It sets his heart pounding harder, makes his breathing more erratic.

The shore is in sight, however, and he battles toward it with a strength he does not feel.

Wild’s long hair flows beside him, drifting loose and free like strands of molten gold. One of his arms breaks free from the rancher’s hold and floats crookedly. The skin of his fingers is as pale as death.

Ordona only knows how much water is currently clogging his lungs. Twilight knows better than anyone how painful a fall from the Great Bridge is. And the hit he had taken beforehand had practically sealed his doom.

More than likely, he had been unconscious long before he collided with the dark waters of Lake Hylia.

It had taken Twilight at least five minutes to find him and five more to free him from the debris that he had become tangled in. Every single second had felt like a dagger to his heart.

When the heroes had landed in his Hyrule a week earlier, he had been overjoyed. To be able to show them the land he had fought for and the home he loved was more than he could have ever asked for. Especially, where Time and Wild were concerned. So, when Wild begged to go for a ride with him across the rolling plains, how could he refuse? Why would he?

He should have, Twilight thinks bitterly, spitting a mouthful of water. Or at least, he should’ve asked another hero to come along with them. Time, perhaps.

But it had been so long since he had gotten to spend some time with his best friend. It had truly been wonderful, just the two of them, laughing as they flew across Hyrule.

Until the black-blooded monsters had attacked.

His feet connect with murky mud. Gasping, Twilight drags himself up onto the bank, releasing his hold on Wild. The hero’s body lands in the mud with a sickening squelch. He lies where he has fallen, eyes closed, lips and skin the same shade as his tunic.

“Come on, Wild.”

Twilight pulls himself up onto his knees, forcing leaden limbs into cooperation. Trembling fingers find Wild’s icy cheek, then travel down, searching his neck for a pulse point.

“Come on. I know you’re tougher than this.”

His voice cracks, desperation cleaving through all else. No steady throb responds to his touch. No breath issues from the nostrils he hovers a hand over.

(No mischievous grin quirks the champion’s lips, lighting his eyes with an infuriating energy. No teasing remark lifts Twilight’s spirits…and ignites his ire. No hand settles upon his shoulder, warm and rough, scarred and steady. Comforting.)

Inhaling a ragged, gasping attempt at a breath, Twilight places his hands over Wild’s chest and pushes down hard.

There was a kitten, when he was young, that had somehow ended up in the river. He had fished it out with careful hands. Then, as tears streamed down his cheeks, he had brought it to the one person he knew could fix anything.

And sure enough, she had. With warm hands and steady breaths, Uli had coaxed it back to life. After that, she taught him how to do the same. So that he could always try to save those dear to him, whether animal or human.

Now, as he places his mouth over Wild’s and breathes for him, he is more grateful than ever that she did so. If he didn’t have this, he doesn’t know what he would do. He doesn’t necessarily want to contemplate it.

…and if this doesn’t work…well, he can’t think about that either.

The moments begin to blend together as he continues.

Push, count, breathe. Push, count, breathe.

Twilight does it again and again, every movement fierce and desperate. His arms are shaking now from the force of it all. His muscles scream their protests. His breaths come too fast for him to garner the air he needs. Tears snake down his cheeks, fire against the frigid water that clings to him.

But he can’t stop. He won’t.

“I’m not losing you, cub,” he grits out, even as Wild remains limp. Even as he grows colder with every passing second. Every as his wounds ooze blood and his skin becomes a darker shade of blue.

The sun shines its mocking rays down upon them, turning the champion’s hair into a halo. Overhead, a bird sings a joyful song.

A sob tears its way out of Twilight’s throat.

“Damn it, Wild…breathe!”

Once more, he bends and blows breath in Wild’s still lungs. Once more, he rises and presses down on his chest. Again and again and again. An endless, relentless rhythm that tears him apart.

He’s choking on his tears now and shaking more violently than ever. His world has narrowed to just this merciless thread of moments, just the two of them, one hero trying and failing to save the other.

“I won’t…let you…leave me!”

Wild bucks beneath his hands. Sky blue eyes fly open, hazy and wild. Just as quickly they squeeze shut again as the champion pitches sideways.

Twilight holds him steady as he coughs up murky water. But it’s difficult to do so when his own body is begging to collapse. That doesn’t matter though. Not anymore.

Sweet relief covers him like a blanket.

We made it. We’re okay. Wild’s okay. My cub is alive.

Wild finishes and collapses against him, breathing hard.

Thank Ordona he’s breathing now.

Twilight wraps an arm around him, carding trembling fingers through his tangled hair. Sluggishly, those eyes search him out. A grin tugs at Wild’s lips. They’re returning to their usual pink, now, and his skin is regaining some of its color as well.

“H-hey, Twi.”

Twilight smiles. It is shaky and wet, but it’s there nonetheless, proof that this new terror hasn’t managed to break his spirit.

“Hey there cub. You alright?”

“Um-hm,” Wild hums, curling deeper into his embrace. He shivers and closes his eyes again. “I h-hate big lakes. Always t-tire me out.”

Twilight chokes out a chuckle. “Well, next time you decide to take a dip in one, clue me in first, alright? You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Wild’s hand finds his and squeezes, weakly.

“Y-yeah,” he murmurs, just a touch of cheekiness in his tone, “I’ll make sure and do…do that. Now, can we…can we go home?”

Twilight blows out a sigh.

Home. Home sounds wonderful.

“Yeah, cub,” he says, already grasping a nearby blade of grass to call Epona with. “Let’s go home.”

[sunsolii]

Napoleon's Marshals and their Birthstones Part 1

This is a three-part series where I'll be listing the birthstones of all 26 marshals. Part one will cover months January-April, the next post will cover March-August and the last post will cover the remaining 4 months. I'll mainly be focusing on the gemstone's physical and chemical properties as well as writing "short" facts about each gemstone. Before starting the list, I'll provide the definitions of some terms that will be used through the post.

_________________________________________________

Mineral: A naturally occurring solid which contains a crystalline structure that is made up of a single native element or multiple chemical compounds.

Mohs Scale: A scale system used to measure the scratch resistance of a mineral ranging from 1 (softest) to 10 (hardest). This is done by scratching a mineral with another mineral or with another object like a penny or nail.

Cleavage: The way in which a mineral breaks along the softest plane. Classification of a cleavage ranges from perfect, good, poor, indistinct, to none. A mineral can have a basal, prismatic, cubic, rhomboherdal, octahedral, or dodecahedral cleavage.

Fracture: The texture or shape of a mineral's surface. Some types of fractures are described as conchoidal (ripples), earthy (resembles broken soil), hackly (jagged fractures), uneven, and splintery (resembles splinters).

Luster: The way which light reflects off of a mineral. Minerals can have vitreous (glassy), dull (earthy), adamantine (shiny), greasy, silky, metallic, non-metallic, pearly, resinous, or waxy lusters.

Streak: The color of the powder left behind by a mineral when it is scratched on a piece of unglazed porcelain. The color of the powder is usually different from the mineral's color.

Now, onto the list!!

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Garnet (January)

Marshals-Ney and Bernadotte

Type: Mineral

Group: Silicate (SiO₄)₃

Color: red, orange, pink, green, yellow blue (rare)

Cleavage: Indistict

Fracture: Conchoidal to uneven

Mohs Scale: 6.5-7.5

Luster: Vitreous

Streak: White

Fun Fact: Garnet is its own family that contains six main species divided into two groups: pyrope, almandine, and spessartine species, which are part of the aluminum group (aluminum is present in its structure). Colors in the Aluminum group range from red to pink; these are the garnet species people think of when looking for jewelry. When pyrope is mixed with almandine, it creates rhodolite, and when mixed with spessartine, it creates malaya. Grossular, uvarovite, and andradite species are part of the calcium group (Calcium is present in structure) and are composed of green to yellow garnet. Uvarovite is the rarest of the calcium group because it grows in small chunks, making it hard to work with when making it into a gemstone.

Amethyst (February)

Marshals- Mortier

Type: Mineral

Group: Silicate (SiO₂)

Color: Purple to Violet

Cleavage: Indistict to none

Fracture: Conchoidal

Mohs Scale: 7

Luster: Vitreous

Streak: White

Fun Fact: Amethyst is part of the quartz family and it used to be part of the cardinal or most valuable gemstones, along with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, because it was available in small amounts. Its value dropped after large deposits were discovered in Brazil during the 18th century, making it one of the more affordable gemstones.

Aquamarine (March)

Marshals- Brune, Murat, Soult, Suchet

Type: Mineral

Group: Beryl (Be₃Al₂Si₆O₁₈)

Color: Pale blue, light green, bluish-green, sometimes yellow

Cleavage: Indisticnt to none

Fracture: Conchoidal to uneven

Mohs Scale: 7.5-8

Luster: Vitreous

Streak: White

Fun Fact: Aquamarine got its name because its color resembles the sea. It contains small traces of iron, which (depending on the oxidation state) can change its bluish color to green or yellow. These oxidation states are ferrous iron, which gives Aquamarine its blue color, and ferric iron, which gives it a greenish/yellowish color. Heating the mineral removes the greenish color to restore its blue color[1]. Aquamarine also has weak to moderate flourescent properties under UV light [2].

Diamond (April)

Marshals- Jourdan, Lannes, Oudinot, and Saint-Cyr

Type: Mineral

Group: Native mineral (Carbon (C))

Color: Yellow, brown, gray, white, colorless,

Cleavage: Octahedral, Perfect on all sides

Fracture: Uneven

Mohs Scale: 10

Luster: Adamantine

Steak: Colorless

Fun Facts: Diamonds are formed within the Earth's mantle when carbon-rich materials or carbon dioxide are subjected to extreme temperatures and pressure. It reaches the surface via volcanic eruption and gets trapped inside igneous rocks after the magma cools off. The formation of diamonds takes thousands of years, contributing to their high value [3]. Diamonds seen as potential gemstones have little to no impurities or foreign objects within their structure. In contrast, diamonds with high impurities, irregular shapes, and defects are used in commercial industries due to their durability and hardness. Diamonds are the hardest minerals, and are very difficult to scratch or break, but it's not impossible to do so. They also has a high dispersion of white light that creates a rainbow-like effects, also known as 'fire.[4]'

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

Sources

Garnet: King, H. M. (n.d.). Garnet. geology. https://geology.com/minerals/garnet.shtml

Amethyst: Geary, T.F.; Whalen, D. (2008). The Illustrated Bead Bible: Terms, Tips & Techniques. Sterling Pub. p. 69.

Aquamarine: [1]King, H. M. (n.d.). Aquamarine. geology. https://geology.com/gemstones/aquamarine/

[2]MAT, M. (2023, June 3). Aquamarine: Properties, formation, occurrence " Gemstone. Geology Science. https://geologyscience.com/gemstone/aquamarine/?amp

Diamond: [4]King, H. M. (n.d.). Diamond. geology. https://geology.com/minerals/diamond.shtml

[3]MAT, M. (2023, September 25). Diamond: Properties, formation, occurrence, deposits. Geology Science. https://geologyscience.com/minerals/diamond/

[june-fallout]

My Beautiful Morning No. 1,452

Writing/backstory snippet for June Fallout

1.4k words

Fallout New Vegas

Be wary of: misogyny, delusions, mild horror.

June woke up in her bed. Plush, soft—the kind of bedding you loved running your arms over, to feel as if you were touching clouds. She arose, yawning and stretching out her arms in perfect harmony as she rolled out of her bed. Pajamas? Of course not. June always woke up in pressed and ironed dresses. Her blonde hair was perfectly curled in victory rolls about her head, never disturbed by laying down. Her face wasn't painted. Her lips were just naturally red, lashes naturally wet and dark, cheeks always symmetrically flushed and without a single blemish.

She looked across the room at the bed of her husband. Because why would a married couple sleep in the same bed? What purpose would that serve?

But a few times...

Oh, the bed was empty again! June put her hands on her hips and sighed. Off to work so early.

She reached to the side of her bed and tied both the apron and the band of pearls around her neck. Sunshine was pouring in through the window, but it was 5:30 AM. June never slept in, but she never awoke in the dark. The high heels she had slept in clack clack clacked around the floor as she made up her bed. It only took seconds. The soft floral scent of the one blanket she had mussed wafted through the air as she tossed it and let it settle back down. It landed perfectly on all four corners.

The clacking went with her into the kitchen. The kitchen. Her sanctuary. A lonely one, but June didn't mind.

June Gar Cleaver opened a fridge to see a veritable cornucopia of food. Eggs, fruits, juices, meats—all she needed to feed her family today. And this fridge would always be full. Never would she have to go hungry. That wasn’t for her to worry about. This was her domain, and she took care of it while the man who took care of her kept it stocked. Crack, psh, fwump, pssss…

All these sounds brought a smile to her face (not one that wrinkled it, of course).

What was it that she would make today? Batter whipped into a fine cream, a low blue light burned into a fire, puddles of cream and clouds turned to bread. They piled, unblemished, on a plate. A great bother of sloshing and glugging filled up crystalline glasses with juice. A knife too sharp to fail fruit and too dull to draw blood arranged little slices into a perfect, flower-like rings on top of the pancakes. Every cracked egg landed with its yolk perfectly centered. Every twist and wriggle of the spatula brought the eggs free, leaving behind not a single drop of their fried white. Bacon simmered in a pan without a single drop of grease escaping.

Another beautiful morning, like every morning that had come before, and every morning that would come after.

Surrounded by the sweet symphony of sizzling, smells, and satisfaction, June surveyed her work with a happy face. It was perfect—almost perfect. She just needed one more thing. “Everyone! It’s time to wake up!” June sang, walking through the non-Euclidean halls of her home that shifted every time she looked at them. Sometimes the doors were closer. Sometimes further apart. Sometimes they were all on one side of the hall, and other times, they alternated. June didn’t mind.

She knocked on one door with a neat, red-nailed fist. “Come on, dear. It’s time to wake up!” No response came from the door, but only the laughter answered. It echoed from every single direction. June didn't mind.

June knocked on the next door. "Theodore!" And the next. Until she had knocked on every, having no response. “Oh come now- breakfast is going to get cold!”

Tentatively, June opened one of the doors. Past the threshold, there was nothing. Just blackness. If she stepped forward, she might fall. The laughs started again, echoing from the blackness. June slammed the door. …No one was home right now. That was fine. She would just put the food away for another day, when everyone came back… Surely she wouldn't have to be alone for much longer, would she? June clicked down the stairs in her high heels, not at all hindered by their height. Why would she be? She even slept in them…

June opened the fridge door, ready to put some of the ham in.

She jolted backwards, finding meat already inside. Not deli meat. June was staring at the mangled remains of some girl, shattered and fragmented and mixed together like puzzle pieces in a box that had been shaken. It was terrible to look at, because… That girl was so ugly.

Whoever had put this girl in there was bad at storage. Why would you put all of a person in there…? Not all of that was edible… Not all of it… There was a head with hair attached, brown hair she didn’t recognize, and open eyes. June slammed the fridge door, feeling sick. She stared at her own reflection horrified to find-

That was not her. That was NOT June looking at her. That was some other girl. Some other girl with mangy brown hair like curtains and dark eyes, and hideous little lines drawn on her skin. Some other girl like the one in the fridge.

The laughter came from the air itself, untraceable in its origin, ever-present, all-knowing.

June Jane Hepburn June Cleaver Jane Garrett She fled. Ahh, it was so typical, wasn't it? A hysterical woman, fleeing from a silly sight. The laughter intensified at her stupid, silly, feminine ways.

The hallways swirled and twisted around her. Doorknobs escaped her grip. Stairs folded out into infinite, kaleidoscopic fractals, opening up with rails like teethy maws ready to consume her. One place was safe. She knew this! This, this is where she was put when everything was wrong--her, the house, anything. Where June had to go when things went wrong, locked inside for however long He saw fit. June didn't mind.

She threw herself towards a corrugated metal door set into the wall of her suburban home marked 09-L.

Jane stumbled into the basement--and finally, things were normal again. She sighed softly, panting, raising her head as her brown shoulder-length waves fell around her freckled face.

And she saw such curious things!

A row of upright glass coffins, each with something resembling a girl inside. An ugly girl too. So pale, and with hair just a bit darker than Jane's. Their faces all resembled hers--at least the ones with intact faces--but Jane couldn't possibly imagine being one of those girls. One was pinned to the sides of the glass, face sloughing off of her boneless body hanging like a wet coat, poorly formed fingers and toes hardly anything more than blobs filled with an even mixture of a human's insides. Two sacks of skin full of uniform plasma hung down, her legs. One girl was normal enough, but had flattened legs. Another reminded Jane of Swiss cheese on ham and rye, with tunnels carved out of her that rats chewed through.

Jane did not feel worried for these doppelgängers. They all deserved it! That was, until she stepped closer...

And saw a reflection, peeking at her. A girl with mangy brown hair, big brown eyes, pale skin, and pink marks stretching across her skin in fern patterns. Jane recoiled. There was a second reflection behind that reflection, the body inside, just like the girl in the reflection, just like the girl in the fridge-

Just like... June.

Every identity she assumed to soothe herself was torn off of her like skin, flapping wetly against the ground as they were tossed aside, leaving her flesh to burn against the air.

June dug her hands into her blonde copper brown hair and her pink tan sunless white skin. She needed to pull this identity off too.

She screamed, because it stayed, and it left her in a room surrounded by her own body staring at her, a room underneath a Vault, a Vault in a desert, a Vault once inhabited by a man who she had not seen in 1,452 days.

But that was alright. June didn't mind.

[picaroroboto]

Wizard #1: Emet-Selch, immortal sorcerer of eld, secretly your ex from a few thousand past lives ago. He aims to either convince you to join his cause, or failing that, ensure you transform into a monster capable of destroying the world. He introduces himself as an Ascian from the get-go, and plays the part of a villain perfectly, down to the theatrical mannerisms, yet follows you around being oddly helpful if a bit obnoxious, even explaining major lore to you if you ask, which ironically makes him in some ways more honest than our Wizard #2 -

Wizard #2: The Crystal Exarch, crystalline master of a crystalline tower, secretly a minor character from an old sidequest who has time-traveled from the bad timeline just to save your life. All-around great guy who is beloved by his people for almost single-handedly keeping life and civilization in the First alive in preparation for your arrival. He'd help you in just about any way you need - any way except giving any hint about his true name, face, or intentions, or the truth that you're not as immune to the Light corruption as he said you were.

Anyways that's what I meant when I said Shadowbringers was all about being lied to by wizards.

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Physicists synthesize single-crystalline iron in the form likely found in Earth's core

A team of physicists and geologists at CEA DAM-DIF and Universit´e Paris-Saclay, working with a colleague from ESRF, BP220, F-38043 Grenoble Cedex and another from the European Synchrotron Radiation Facility, has succeeded in synthesizing a single-crystalline iron in a form that iron has in the Earth's core. In their paper published in the journal Physical Review Letters, the group describes how they used an experimental approach to synthesize pure single-crystalline ε-iron and possible uses for the material In trying to understand Earth's internal composition, scientists have had to rely mostly on seismological data. Such studies have led scientists to believe that the core is solid and that it is surrounded by liquid. But questions have remained. For example, back in the 1980s, studies revealed that seismic waves travel faster through the Earth when traveling pole to pole versed equator to equator, and no one could explain why.

Read more.

[kisnin]

"Simple" does not mean "crappy".

Just cause you have a sword and I a club, does not mean I'm not capable of beating the living SHIT out of you.

This kinda a callout to people who write about improvised weapons/simple weapons in a negative light.

Good example: Pitchfork. It's a farm tool and it has some SHARP AS FUCK points to it. In steady hands, it can be an excellent weapon. You can use it as a spear/short pike. You can whack people with it cause it's got good weight. You can even give someone the catclaw treatment XXL with the tines by slashing. You can catch weapons in it and spin them out of an opponents hands.

Another example: javelin. They're simple to make but are devastating. You will rarely survive a clean hit from any sort of throwing spear.

Examples continued: sticks and rocks. Never underestimate the effectiveness of beating someone over the head with a stick or slamming a rock into their chest. Even good armor will have issues against shear concussion force. Or, employ the rock via sling. Or just drop it on them from high up.

Another thing to mention is bronze weapons. Bronze is in many ways an excellent material. While it doesn't have the hardness of iron or steel, it's still capable of fucking someone up. Bronze can also, despite popular opinion, be hardened. This is done by working the material with a hammer, causing the crystalline structure to compress, short explanation. While this still doesn't have the same hardness of hardened iron or steel, it dramatically increases the durability of the piece.

Whatsmore, many writers, historians, and such have a very "civilocentric" (which is a word I pulled out of my ass, but I will define as... uh. I need a language expert @mommalosthermind, I apologize for name dropping but you seem to have a grasp of this based on your blog) view of history, and often weapons.

IE: a sword (or other object) has to be metal.

It don't. There are WORLDS of cultures (not just non-western ones, though they are really easy to use. I'd draw your attention to the celts and Germans but that would mean I'd have to get out my notes from HS and extended education so well skip that.) WHERE SWORDS ARE NOT METAL. Take a trip down to the Kiwiville Before the Tommies (New Zealand, and brevities sake Polynesia) and you'll find any manner of examples in many different materials ranging from the possibly impractical (shark tooth) to the downright terrifying (sharpened fucking WOOD) that sit in the category of a sword.

Or we could take a trip across the pacific (or just far south for me) to Mexico, where the Aztecs and other cultures used obsidian blades glued to wooden paddles to achieve an effect something between a sawblade, cleaver, and club. Said weapons were VERY effective, and in some cases may have even destroyed European swords in action.

In similar style there's also evidence that atleast one person naped some flint into a blade shape, and the glued it to some backing. They then probably became the single most stabby motherfucker on the block (flint wounds are fucking terrifying, cause they often come with a serrations status effect).

To conclude this rant.

There is an entire wide world of THINGS to use. ANYTHING is a narrativly possible and reasonable weapon.

[rock-swag-tournament]

Mineral Swag Round 1: Corundum

More information and images under the cut!

Like aquamarine and emerald, ruby and sapphire are the same mineral!

Edited from the preliminary polls: The color variation between corundum samples is due to single atoms in the crystalline structure being replaced by others. Different colored minerals of the same species have very very few atoms replaced in the grand scheme of things. Considering how many single atoms make up a mineral so big that you can see it, this is a very small change that causes a totally different color!

Ruby is red because of the presence of chromium, and blue sapphires are blue because of iron and titanium.

Corundum is also one of the reference minerals for the Mohs Hardness Scale. This is a universal method to determine how hard a mineral is based on a 1-10 scale, where each number is associated with a mineral of that hardness. Most people know that diamond is the hardest material (a 10 on the scale); corundum is a 9 on the scale.

And! Even though corundum is the next step down, its absolute hardness is less than three times the absolute hardness of diamond!

Finally, as promised, some more pictures.

Also, I’m always been surprised by how pink ruby is. I guess growing up I thought it was more of an orange-red than a purple-red. Anyone else?

[talenlee]

4e: The Cultures Of Gender

I’ve spoken about the approach of roleplaying games, which tend to be garbage and I hold them up in contrast to what feels like the one good roleplaying game at actually doing this, which is Dungeons & Dragons. And you know what the best Dungeons And Dragons was? That’s right, 4th edition. Admittedly, it did struggle a little with its Approach because character classes are like whole chunks that break things up but anyway, in 4th edition, the approach includes a thing about what names each culture has and there, there, in that spot, we see the dread spector that is gender.

Yes! If you pick a Halfling it’ll show you how a Halfling does things but it’ll mention at the end how there are Male Halflings and Female Halflings. And that means you can check out all the cultures one by one and see which of them don’t have this structure. That’s right! You can find which of your player options in the D&D rulebook don’t have genders by looking for the ones that don’t have gendered names.

As it happens, there were more than I thought yet fewer than I could imagine.In the presented-by-Wizards rules for 4e D&D there are four significant cultures that have non standard relationships to genders. And here they are!

Glossary Note: Conventionally, the term used in D&D for this mechanical package is race. This is the typical term, and in most conversations about this game system, the term you’re going to wind up using is race. For backwards compatibility and searchability, I am including this passage here. The term I use for this player option is heritage.

Top of the list for weird gender heritages in Dungeons & Dragons 4th edition is the Shardmind. They’re one of only two cultures specifically called out as being genderless. Shardminds are floating crystals, ancient entities created during a historical event and in all those years, they’ve never felt any reason to develop ‘gender’ as a social construct. Which makes sense! They’re a whirling mass of hard crystalline metal that occasionally takes a form like a heavy metal album cover, and that is cool. Ironically, one of the most interesting things about the Shardmind is that they don’t have a gender because when you only get a single page of text about a heritage in the rulebook, the skipping of gendered names and the addition of ‘hey, they don’t have a gender’ represents a significant contribution to a cultural framework.

Weird to know that any given Shardmind can be a century old and level 1 but you know some of us took a long time to finish our education, yeah?

Thri-Kreen don’t have male or female names. They’re just, you know, bugs. If you’re not familiar with a Thri-Kreen, they’re a culture of seven foot tall jumping stick bugs that have weird behaviours and every single piece of 2nd edition lore persisting through Dark Sun. They eat horses. They’re afraid of fireworks. They worship dragons. They have breathing holes on the sides of their necks and can jump through the air so far that it takes them multiple rounds to land. Some of those things I just made up but they all work. One of my favourite details about Thri-Kreen and their gender ambiguous names is the way that the book description does nothing to explain the Thri-Kreen as a culture, which means that the Thri-Kreen player options let you play a character who is a Thri-Kreen, with a cultural grounding from a resource that doesn’t really know anything about them.

“Sure, you can be a Thri Kreen. They’re big bugs.”

“Sure, what does that mean for me?”

“Euughhh well they’re very mysterious.”

Then meanwhile on the clanking and banking side of things, there’s Warforged. They do not have access to gender, because it was not deemed as necessary for this ordinance that was, again, designed to be delivered to fight in a war, by a military-industrial complex. Note that this doesn’t stop them from building all Warforged with masculine-coded bodies, because, it’s like when someone in a patriarchal society tries to represent physical power they uh, yeah they do that. Anyway, okay, so they are a genderless culture made by a gendered society and then left after the whole war affair to come up with ‘gender’ on their own.

Some did, I’m sure. You know how it is with our society, we put gender on everything, even when we don’t know what it is.

Changelings, who are the best, are the heritage that explicitly mentions that they change genders. Specifically, they talk about how they take on different identities and genders, and that implies both that identities and genders aren’t linked (of course, I’m this character you met last week, but now a different gender!) but it also is written with the energy of people trying on clothes at a thrift store. Changelings are a culture that does not have native gender, but because they are social creatures who interface with cultures that do, they have learned to take on and impersonate genders. Like with everything, it’s a performance and they know that and they play with that. What I’m saying is that Changelings rule and are the best and even though ostensibly they’re not part of the official open source material I can work with, y’know, who cares, they’re great, love them to pieces.

Finally, there’s the inexplicable example of the Wilden. The Wilden are a culture of fey creatures, made out of branches and twigs and bark, who are alive in a conventional way but also not a comprehensible way. They’re not pumps and goo and blood and humours and whatnot, they’re fey lifeforms and they’re connected to nature and they’re these things that don’t even have a proper boundary for understanding themselves as individual with a tendency to not say ‘I’ and instead use the personal pronoun ‘we.’

And for some reason these people who struggle with individuality still have an idea of gender and ways to express gender identity with names and third person pronouns.

How bloody dumb is that?

Alright, okay, conclusion. Centralising thesis statement. Look: Nothing we make is neutral. Everything you make is a product of who you are in the world and the things you see as being normal. Even when you’re trying to present something alien it will only ever be alien in response to the things you already conceive of as non-alien. There’s nothing wrong with using your own world as a framework to start with — I mean what else can you do! — but when you look critically at your own work, you’ll start to see things you assume about the world.

Like that bugs and plants probably don’t relate to gender the same way you do!

Or maybe they do and your gender is ‘pillbugs on skateboards!’

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[god-in-the-basement]

Are you almost ready?

-@the-almighty-lucifer

*A world like ours. A fat, orange sun squats on the horizon like a toad. Its sickly rays curdle the sky. Everything it touches -- the gray, splintered trees, the crumbling brick factories surrounded by plywood and barbed wire, the overgrown yellow grass that pokes through the cracks in the streets, the ashy faces of the huddled people -- is tinted an eerie neon tangerine.*

*Every so often, a spark appears in the sky and falls to Earth, sometimes two or three at a time. They're iron-winged angels wreathed in fire and full of Wrath. Twelve feet tall in business suits, angry eyes from every angle, mouths full of Holy Holy Holy and hands full of swords.*

*The air is hot and dry and dead. It smells like baked bread. But a cool wet breeze wends its way in, bringing the scent of grass, of running water. Of green trees somewhere at the top of a mountain.*

*Every metallic or crystalline object on Earth, in Heaven, and in Hell -- including sand -- tunes itself, quietly, to a certain channel. Which then begins to play this song.*

It's only a paper moon

Sailing over a cardboard sea

But it wouldn't be make-believe

If you believed in me...

*The voice of Ella Fitzgerald continues to talk over the backing orchestra.*

Hello there, all My little angels in Heaven, all of My little demons trapped down there in Hell, and all my sweet little humans in the middle.

I know that you all are having a tough old time down there, and I'm real sorry about that...

It sure was not My intention

To leave you in the lurch

My anti-crime prevention

Was for all who 'tended church

But Lucifer, He made his claim

That I was ruling bad

And so I went and left you with

A devil for a Dad. Well!

God's away on business now

And Mommy's having fun

She's not answerin' prayers no more

For you or anyone

God's away on holiday

Gone on an extended stay

So raise your chin and order in

Cause Mommy's off to play!

I meant this world I made for you

To be a paradise

But anyone can see, my babes,

That none of you play nice

I made a Hell to ease your pain

A Heaven to lend aid

And now you're gonna have to live

With all the mess you've made. 'Cause!

God's away on business now

And Hell is open wide

The demons there can all escape

Their prison sentence theirs to break

Yes Hell is open wide now, and the dead they can go freeEE!

And Heaven's reign has ended

For the ones who have ascended

To the very heights of moral and spir-it-ual degree

No longer act with any ounce of My Authority...

*tinkling piano*

So every single one of you can be

Exactly as free as you can ever be!

Well!

*grand orchestra, massed voices*

God's away on business now

And She ain't coming back

So kiss your faith a fond good-bye

Prepare to miss Her watchful eye

God's away on holiday

And here is what She has to say:

*solo*

I'm sorry that the world I made

Is painted such an ugly shade

I'm sorry that I made you small

Your bodies should be ten feet tall

I'm sorry that you can't see pleene

I'm sorrier about the spleen

I sure messed up a thing or two...

It's been a pleasure knowing you.

*Chorus*

She's sorrier about the spleen

She sure messed up a thing or two

She made it so you can't see pleene

And now She will be leaving you.

*Transmission abruptly ends*

*in Her normal voice*

... alright. That should be good. Can we get back? I want a big hot chocolate and a muffin from the cute woman with the coffeeshop.

[jomindraws]

Now it has come time to map all the minerals of Jom'Gol !!! (At least a significant amount of them, 105+ total minerals to map!!) (MINERAL MAPS MAY BE HARD TO SEE, ITS BETTER IF YOU FULLSCREEN THE MAP TO LOOK AT THE POINTS) First mineral group: Elements! This mineral group is composed of minerals who's chemical structure is entirely one element in a crystalline structure, with no compounds present. METALS Gold - Au - (Gold color) Silver - Ag - (Blue-white) Copper - Cu - (Orange) Platinum - Pt - (White) Iron - Fe - (Crimson Red) Mercury - Hg - (Brown) SEMIMETALS Arsenic - As - (Dull Green-Yellow) Tellerium - Te - (Dark Cyan) NON-METALS Diamond - C - (Light Blue) Graphite - C - (Aquamarine) Sulfur - S - (Lime Green) Now, this first group is fairly recognizable and easy to see, but unfortunately the other 90+ minerals will be a little more obscure. I tried to list the proper name and Chemical composition so you can look the mineral up online to get a visual reference. Unfortunately details on where each of these are found and what they look like are far too detailed for a single tumblr post, so I intend to properly explain them in a video or something down the road. Stay tuned! Many, many, MANY more mineral maps coming up!

[blueiscoool]

Sikhote-Alin meteorite with crystalline cleavage Iron, coarsest octahedrite – IIAB ; Maritime Territory, Siberia, Russia (46°9’ N, 134°39’ E)

Last year was the 75th Anniversary of one of the largest meteorite showers of the last several thousand years. This is a meteorite from that event. Upon slamming into Earth’s atmosphere the asteroid from which this came began to break apart, creating a fireball brighter than the Sun as it sailed over the Sikhote-Alin Mountains in Siberia. A 33-kilometer-long smoke trail persisted in the sky for several hours, and many of the resulting meteorites produced impact craters as large as 26 meters — with nearly 200 craters having been catalogued. With an explosive yield estimated to rival that of an atomic bomb, had this event occurred over a populated area, the result would have been devastating.

This meteorite is blanketed with vibrant peaks, folds and scores of regmaglypts (the thumbprint-like indentations produced during the meteorite’s fiery plunge through the upper atmosphere). The flat facing seen indicates where this meteorite ripped apart from another mass along crystalline planes. A single deep socket almost penetrates the entire mass. This is the quintessence of what a fresh iron meteorite looks like. With a charcoal-to-gunmetal patina, this is an engaging example of an extraordinary event: one of the biggest meteorite showers in modern times.

[remesrobotics]

Hymn

GSN.001 - 讃美歌 (さんびか) / ヒッム “Φοβήθητε τὸν Θεὸν, καὶ δότε αὐτῷ δόξαν”

Good Point - Multidimensional Bad Point - Personality Like - Tea and sweets Dislike - Small talk

Highly Variable size (max 35’ (1066.8cm) ring diameter)

An Ophanim-based ‘robot’ consisting of a core with a single eye and six wings, two additional floating wings, two floating hands (with eyes in their palms), two large wheel/rings spotted with crystalline eyes, and a number of small, decorative halos.

It’s main set of abilities revolve (haha) around spatial distortion and portals, ironically acting a lot like a Devil system robot (dividing itself into pieces to utilize abilities) despite clearly being angelic. Each part functions independently, and can shrink or grow at will. Like most Devil systems, only the central eye can take damage, though while it is nestled within its wheels, it is protected by a strong, invisible field.

In conjunction with spatial manipulation, Hymn has a number of general beam and blast attacks, shot from the many, many eyes across its rings, palms, and wings. Its central eye can also lock onto other robots with a paralyzing ‘beam’.

It can condense itself into very small forms, usually disguised as a ring or bracelet. These can be worn by anyone - usually the other GSNs - to allow them to shift sizes, or even shapes, as well as allowing them to communicate with one another across effectively infinite distances.