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sprnklersplashes · 2 months

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time won't fly (8/?) ao3

wondering if I dodged a bullet or just lost the love of my life

It all goes grey.

Vaguely, she’s aware of the fact that she’s screaming, but she doesn’t feel it in her throat, and the sound is just a distant buzz in the background. While her body screams, Veronica just looks over at JD, the words she would say sticking in the back of her throat. Slowly, she rises, or thinks she does, and moves over to him, her steps stiff, careful. As if treading across a minefield. He doesn’t move for her, just waits on the edge of the table, black coat falling over the edge. Typical, she thinks. He just sits there, chin tilted proudly, like he owns the world.

She comes beside him, close enough to touch. He grins at her, all sharp and crooked lines, and her hand twitches.

“You don’t look happy to see me,” he says.

‘I’m not’ she goes to say, but the words never come. He hears her though-of fucking course he does-and he swings around so that one knee is propped up on the table. When he tilts his head forward, she can see the dimples indenting his cheeks.

“I get it,” he says. “You’re mad.”

She almost laughs, she would if she could feel her vocal chords. She wishes it were as simple as being mad. At least mad is a word, with a meaning. If she wanted to name this, she’d have to untangle every messed-up thread that led her here, and that alone doesn’t bear thinking about.

Rather than wait for an answer, JD hops off the table, his stride effortlessly confident as he comes toward her, like this is exactly where he knew she’d end up. Maybe he did, Machiavellian bastard that he is.

She doesn’t look up until he’s right beside her and his shadow eclipses the overhead light. Carefully, he lifts his hand, as if to take her chin, but seeing the look on her face, he drops it.

She would say he thought better of it, but he never thinks better of anything. Isn’t that his whole thing? He can’t think of a better world unless he burns down the one that’s here.

“You’re upset,” he tells her. “Freaking out, probably. And fine. I wouldn’t expect anything less.” His hand is on her shoulder then. If she could feel her body, she would recoil at his touch. She would. No matter how endless his eyes are; she won’t get lost in them again. She won’t. “But you have bigger problems than me right now.”

JD shoves her, and the world goes white.

“Veronica!”

All at once she jerks back into her body, and she feels everything. Her heart is pounding in her chest, her ears ring, her throat burns, her head collides harshly with the wall behind her. Dull ache blooms at the back of her skull; the pain slots her mind back into place and finally, her vision clears.

The doctor is squatting beside her, her eyes blown wide in concern. Glove-clad fingers rest on her knee, her other hand sits on the back of Veronica’s head and she’s softly asking her if she can hear her. Veronica nods once, then twice, and then she lets Dr Mason lift her to her feet and guide her to the chair, press a cup of water in her hand. It’s crisp and cold against her scarred throat.

With the doctor momentarily distracted, she glances around the room. She can’t see him, but she won’t believe that he’s gone. His presence is everywhere; she feels him in the goosebumps on her neck, hears him the tick of the clock.

“Veronica,” the doctor begins. “I see this is a rather distressing idea for you. Should we call your mother in?”

“No,” she says quickly. “I-I’d prefer to tell my parents myself.” Mason blinks slowly, her eyes flicker up and down Veronica’s figure, but she doesn’t press it. She only nods and notes something down on a chat.

She has a chart now, Veronica realises. A pit opens up in her stomach, dark and deep, sucking the air from her lungs.

“Well, we will need to get some things in order,” Dr Mason says. “Your medical history, for one. And that of the father.” It doesn’t escape her how she hesitates on the word ‘father’, how it’s said with caution that Veronica can’t fault. “And we will need to book you in for an ultrasound, hopefully this week.”

“This week,” she repeats dumbly. Veronica looks around the room, trying to see where Heather has gone off to-there’s a strange kind of unease that creeps in without her quips. And as she does, her hand travels to her abdomen and without wanting to, she lets out a small, strangled squeak, forced through her tight throat.

There’s a baby in there. A god damn baby.

“Veronica?” She lifts her head, the weight almost unbearable on her shoulders. Mason is handing her some brochures that look far too glossy for the environment they’re in. Warily, Veronica takes them, turns them over in her hand. One has your pregnancy journey written across the top and boasts a picture of a serene-looking lady, lovingly rubbing her bump with her broad-shouldered, smiling man beside her. She gags and folds it over to see the other one.

Beneath it is… Veronica stiffens. There’s not much on it; all it shows is a small, red-brick building, an address and phone number printed squarely beneath it and the name above. It’s an abortion clinic, she realises, and a cold wash descends over her. She tightens her hold and the pages crinkle.

“They do take walk-ins,” is all Dr Mason says.

“Thank you,” she croaks weakly, then Mason lets her go.

If the car journey there was awkward, the journey back is death by slow suffocation. Ever since she emerged from the doctor’s office, her mom has been asking non-stop what happened, and Veronica’s mumbled excuses of “I’ll tell you at home” didn’t do much to deter her, even if it is for her mom’s benefit as much as it is Veronica’s. If Veronica told her now, they’d end up back in a hospital because her mom crashed the car.

Eventually, her mom relents, reasoning out loud that “I suppose if it were really important it wouldn’t wait, would it?”. Veronica had to turn her head and bite her tongue to suppress the laugh building in her throat. She did manage a quick nod, and a “mm-hm” too, and her mom took that as a sign to tell her about the ‘dreadful screaming’ she had heard while waiting.

“Someone must have gotten some awful news,” she sighs wistfully. Veronica looks out the window. The pavement passes in a grey blur.

The hair on her neck rises, her pack prickles.

As her mom slows for a red light, Veronica looks over her shoulder at the backseat, and is startled by the emptiness she finds there. There’s nothing there, only stained black seat covers and Heather is gone. Kurt and Ram are gone. And as for JD… He’s not gone. She still feels him, his presence burrowed beneath her skin. But he’s not making himself known. He’s sulking somewhere she can’t see, dark eyes sparkling as he watches the mess he made. Veronica’s hand flexes at her side, moving ahead of her mind so that when she realises what she’s searching for, her skin crawls with it.

She’s searching for his hand, the warmth of his fingers between hers and the steadfastness of his palm against hers. He’d held her that way during Heather’s memorial, when the school thought called her a slut, in quiet moments between classes. Because even though she did the worst things she’d ever done, even though she took her soul and twisted it inside out, she was doing it with him. Her world had been chaos, and terror, and fire, but he was there beside her, brushing ash out of her hair.

This time, he’s left her on her own.

The thought pierces her heart. Veronica clenches her fist and nestles it in her lap, presses her fingers tighter until the skin cracks and her nails are stained red.

The street feels quiet when they pull into the drive. Of course it is; it’s a Saturday morning so the kids are off at soccer practise, the teenagers are sleeping til 12 and the parents are grabbing onto a few hours of quiet before they’re reminded they have kids. Not everyone is out there getting life-altering news they have to break to their parents before the time hits double digits.

Still, it feels too quiet, even with that explanation behind it. When Veronica steps out of the car, she can’t help feeling judged; like the whole town is collectively holding its breath, waiting to see what turn her life takes now.

How is it possible that a person feels so alone and at the same time so inescapably watched?

Her mom beats her to the door. Beneath her expectant gaze, Veronica wanders into the house, taking shaky steps on the worn carpet. The house has shrunk since the last time she was here; the walls press against her skin, the skirting board scratches her heels. Each heartbeat knocks against furniture and family photos, threatening to shake them out of their frames. By the time they walk into the kitchen, Veronica can feel the doorframe wrap itself around her neck. If she’s lucky, it will choke her to death before she has to say anything.

“So. How was the doctor’s?” her dad asks. He’s sitting at the table, newspaper open but most likely unread in front of him. If she touched the coffee mug beside it, she’d probably find it stone cold.

“Well, Veronica waited until we got home to tell us.” Her mom crosses to the table, puts her bag down beside her. For the first time, Veronica notices the tightness in her expression; her pinched lips and knotted brows. How long has she been like this? “Go on, sweetie. What did they say?”

This is it. Standing in the middle of her kitchen, the same kitchen she had birthday parties and did algebra homework in. Looking around, she finds the last scraps of normalcy are in this room. JD never set foot in here, neither did Heather Chandler. This room might be the one place in Sherwood she didn’t fuck up, and now she’s here to break that.

Classic Veronica.

She straightens her back, looks around, breathes in. With no Martha to break her fall, no Heather to push her buttons and no JD to hold her hand, she says it, flat, automatic, barely audible over her roaring heart.

“I’m pregnant.”

Hands clasped together, Veronica watches as her parents’ take in the news; how their expressions change in complete harmony. First, they both blink, then again, heads nodding as the words register. Then, their mouths fall open just slightly as their hands reach blindly across the table. Even their skin works in tandem, losing colour at the exact same second. Veronica can’t guess what’s going on in their heads, if this was their biggest nightmare or something they never could have imagined.

As for her, the words linger on her tongue. They taste like ash.

Finally, it’s her dad who speaks up.

“How…. how are you pregnant?” he asks. Veronica snorts, the sound so unlike her that she thought Heather had made a reappearance.

“I think…. I think we know how she got pregnant,” her mom says, delicate at first, but then her voice builds. “What I want to know is who? And when? And how the hell did you let this happen, Veronica?” By the end, her mom is almost hysterical. Veronica flinches, her name in that tone feels like a knife against her skin. When her mom rises, the chair almost hits the floor. “Who the hell is the father?”

“Exactly,” her dad agrees. He’s glad to have something to hold onto, and it seems this will be the guiding light for the conversation. “Who the hell is this boy who went and got you pregnant?”

“He’s no-one,” she hears herself say. The most untrue thing she could have said, and she can feel JD’s offence at it. She raises her eyebrows at him, dares him to come out and say it to her face. “He’s not important.”

“Not important?” Her dad storms round the table and comes close to her, pale face now turning red. “Veronica, of course it’s important! You act like a ghost for weeks, then you come in here and tell us you’re pregnant and you won’t even tell us who the father is?”

“He doesn’t matter,” she says again louder this time. Shame burns in her cheeks, her stomach, beneath her skin.

“He matters!” her dad shouts. Veronica flinches, a gasp builds and sticks in her throat. Beneath her ribs, her heart beats, and beats, punches against her chest. It must show on her face, because her dad sinks back, confusion and guilt mar his face. “If he doesn’t want to be a father, fine, but the least he can do is pay some child support.”

“He’s not going to pay child support,” she mumbles. And she will never know why this, after everything, is what made everything real. She saw his last moments, watched the bomb blow him apart, she stood by the pool of blood and flesh that used to be him. Yet this is the moment JD becomes dead. Her chest is hollow. “He’s not paying child support.”

“Well to hell with that,” her dad declares, puffing out his chest like a righteous hero. “Who is this boy, Veronica? I’ll go down to his house and have a word with his parents-”

“Mike-” her mom whispers. Her eyes on Veronica, she reaches out and softly grasps her dad’s arm. Realisation dawns, slowly. “Mike-”

“No! If this boy was prepared to be as reckless as he was, he can damn well face the consequences. I don’t care how old he is, Veronica is seventeen and-”

“He’s not paying child support because he’s dead!”

As soon as she’s said it, her hand flies to her mouth, and hot, ugly sobs are wrecking through her. It leaks through her fingers, drips like blood onto the floor.

“He’s fucking dead! Go and yell at his dad all you want but it won’t fucking do anything because he’s dead!”

Her parents are silent, eyes wide, mouths hanging open. Veronica gasps, the sound is wrenched from somewhere deep inside of her. Then, she stumbles backwards, her ice cold hands press against the counter. The floor sinks beneath her. When she breathes, the air is tinged with ash.

“He’s dead,” she says again and before her parents say anything, she is running upstairs.

JD is waiting for her, lounging against her bedroom window with one leg propped against the wall. Veronica doesn’t greet him, just lets the door fall closed behind her, bit by bit, the creaking wood filling the silence between them. It’s a rare thing when she can’t hear her parents knocking around downstairs, and the house feels lifeless without it. She took the last spark and squashed it.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit, Ronnie,” he tells her. “I like to think I helped out a little.”

“Shut up.” Under JD’s gaze, Veronica sinks onto her bed, her limbs limp at her side. Sharp, prickling pain clusters at her temples and she feels herself tilting forwards. She could fall right to the floor, land in a heap or just keep going. The idea doesn’t scare her, not nearly as much as her reality does.

“So. What’s the plan now?” JD asks. Despite the ache in her head, she snaps up, her jaw clamped tightly shut. JD shrugs, twirls his necklace around his fingers. “I assume you have a plan. You normally do.”

“That was you,” she replies, slightly surprised at her finding her voice in front of him. “You made the plans, JD. I just…” Her voice trails off. JD looks at her, amused, and the question in his eyes is the same as the one in her head; ‘what did you do, Veronica?’. She lost track of the times she’s asked herself that.

It doesn’t matter, she decides with a shake of her head. She knows what she’s going to do; she’s known since the doctor handed her that flyer. It sits in her pocket now, she takes it out and smooths it on her lap. Jagged white cracks run across it, right through the red brick building. She swallows. The air turns cold.

“The plan is I get rid of it,” she says. It’s her voice, but it’s devoid of any life that would make it human. She doesn’t even feel the vibration in her throat. When she looks up, JD has frozen, lips slightly parted. It would be a gasp, if he could still breathe.

“Wow,” he mumbles

“If I get rid of it, I get rid of you,” she says. “That’s how it works, right? If I get rid of it you go away.”

“It might be,” he replies. There’s a coy smile on his lips, but just underneath it, Veronica can see the control slip out of his grip. He’s got no idea what he’s doing here. She wonders if he even cares. “But is that what you want, Sawyer? To get rid of me?”

“Absolutely,” she says through gritted teeth. JD clicks his tongue, a glimmer in his dark eyes. Her muscles seize when he rises, poised to fight as he makes the leisurely walk from the window to her bed. As he sits down beside her, the sheets are undisturbed.

“Are you sure about that, Ronnie?” he asks, the nickname sweet as honey on his tongue. “Because you sounded pretty damn upset when you told your parents I’m dead.” She sees his arm move and though she can’t feel it, she knows that his fingers are grazing hers. “You could keep me around for as long as you want.”

There’s barely an inch of space between them and damn. There’s no other word for it. Her heart is blazing in her chest, it’s a wildfire, it’s a hurricane. As shameful as it is to admit, this moment makes so much of the last few months make sense, because what was she going to do? She met someone who made her feel more alive than she knew how to be and she was ever going to walk away from it?

(Yes, she should have-but where else was she going to find this kind of heat? It doesn’t exist now that he’s gone)

“Veronica,” he whispers teasingly. The words tilt, a grin stretches across his face. His curls fall across his forehead. His smile is crooked, deceptively soft. Laugh lines crease his face, a slight gap in his front teeth. She could trace the freckles on his cheeks and nose, scattered there like dandelion seeds. “Do you want to get rid of me?”

Her hand twitches. She grabs it and forces herself to be still. She looks him in the eye, makes her face a mask.

“Yes,” she says. And in spite of all the lies she’s told so far, it’s this one that feels the heaviest.

Worst of all, JD grins. Because he sees right through her; he always could and he always will.

fanfic fundraiser for palestine

#heathers the musical #heathers fanfic #veronica sawyer #jason dean #fic: time won't fly #jdronica fanfic

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acourtofthought · 2 years

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Elain and Lucien's Book Set up through Quotes

(in my opinion)

First............

“You will need Tamlin as an ally before the dust has settled. Tread carefully.”

“I can delay my father from allying with Briallyn and starting this war for a little while. But not forever. A few months, perhaps

Tamlin is already hanging by a thread. You and Lucien have made it clear that he’s barely improved. Learning of Feyre’s pregnancy might make him crumble again. With a new war possible and Briallyn up to her bullshit with Koschei, we need a strong ally. We need the Spring Court’s forces.”

And though he roams these lands, he does not see or care for the neglect he passes, the lawlessness, the vulnerability. Even his manor has fallen into disrepair, half-eaten by thorns, though rumors fly that he himself destroyed it.”

“Are these still your lands?” Nesta asked coolly, stepping out from behind Cassian. “Last I heard, you don’t bother to rule them anymore.”

"we need to summon Lucien,” Azriel said, just a shade tightly, as if he didn’t like it one bit. “We need to tell him the news, and permanently station him at the Spring Court

"But Elain … The Spring Court had been made for someone like her." "Nesta would have told Elain to visit this place."

"She plucked another figurine from the mantel: a rose" “He made this one for Elain". "the carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel," "beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess—

Spring bloomed fully around Velaris,

“They’re setting up bonfires - for Calanmai. It’s in two days.” “For what?” “Fire Night?”“It’s just a spring ceremony. We light bonfires, and … the magic that we create helps regenerate the land for the year ahead.” “There’s a ritual. But it’s … very faerie.”

I shook my head, trying not to imagine Elain subject to that … fire.

“Autumn Court males have fire in their blood"

Then...............

He should have asked someone before coming here how much time remained before Vassa would be forced to return to the continent—to the sorcerer-lord at a remote lake who held her leash

Koschei said, “Tell my Vassa I’m waiting.”

“but they call him Koschei the Deathless, for he has no death awaiting him. He is truly immortal

There is an onyx box that he possesses, more vital than anything (not a quote but a little info - in folklore, a common feature of tales involving Koschei is a spell which prevents him from being killed. He hides his soul inside nested objects to protect it. So the onyx box may be what is needed to truly kill him)

"Elain had always wanted to visit the continent to study the tulips and other famed flowers, but her imagination had stretched no further. But that was all the western edge of it. Beyond that, the continent was vast. And to the south, another continent sprawled. Would she have gone?

“They sold her—to … to some darkness,

“Including Elain, who is more than capable of defending herself against the darkness of the Trove, if she chooses to. Don’t underestimate her.”

Lucien stared out the window—as if he could see the lake across a sea and a continent. As if he were setting his target.

His fire wouldn’t have withstood Koschei’s lake, I don’t think.”

Yes, it was Beron’s gift. The gift of the father who the world believed had sired him. But not the gift of Helion. His true father.

To summarize, Tamlin is no shape to get Spring up and running but Prythian needs Springs forces to be in fighting condition.

Lucien is now permanently stationed in Spring and there are hints that Elain will end up there too. Elain was also blessed by the Mother herself and a carving that is representative of Elain is placed next to a Goddess figure. To me, that is suggestive of Elain having the ability to restore Spring back to its former state.

I also think she and Lucien will partake in Calanmai to bring necessary magic back to the land (as it's currently in a state of disrepair).

It appears Vassa's freedom is drawing to a close and there seems to be hints that both Elain and Lucien will end up heading to the continent where Koschei is. Both to free Vassa from the curse and to locate the box which might be the key to defeating him. In Silver Flames, it's made known that the gift of fire might not stand up to Koschei's lake which could be when Lucien discovers he has another High Lords powers.

#elucien #elain archeron #elain x lucien #pro elucien #acotar #acotar theory #lucien and elain #lucien x elain #sarah j maas

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chattingwiththelightkeeper · 5 months

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A Departure into Verse

Hey friends!

I DID A THING!

Inspired by the poetic charm of my all-time favorite movie, Dr. Zhivago, I am stepping into uncharted territory and trying my hand at verse. Today, I am thrilled to share with you a little piece I have woven called In the Tapestry of Trust.

No long preamble, just a warm invitation to join me in this poetic adventure. Dive into these lines with me as we explore the dance of emotions, the delicate threads of trust, and the beauty of human connections.

I am genuinely eager to hear your thoughts, your feedback means the world to me!

Cheers,

Edward

In the Tapestry of Trust

In the heart's ballet, a trust profound,

Dominance and submission, intimately bound.

Whispers of vows, unspoken yet heard,

In passion's tongue, deeply stirred.

A gentle hand, a firm command,

Submission proffered, a sacred land.

Within trust's dwelling, a delicate art,

Bound by love, never to depart.

The dominant's care, a fortress strong,

A refuge where the submissive belongs.

Words unsaid, a silent pact,

In trust's dance, we closely act.

Through shadows and light, our shared journey,

A symphony of trust, beyond all decree.

In every gaze, in every touch,

The foundation solidifies, a bond as such.

For trust is the thread that weaves us near,

In love's tapestry, crystal clear.

In the dance of dominance and submission,

Trust blooms eternal, a sweet disposition.

©TLK2023

#d/s relationship #bd/sm community #dom/sub #d/s community #my writing #bd/sm blog #bd/sm daddy #bd/sm kink #bd/sm lifestyle #bd/sm relationship #d/s #my poem

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downydig · 1 year

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sorry if this is kind of random but i dont know who to ask- do you have any links or sources anywhere for any of the new content added in the bloom update? all ive seen is the secret letter from kamal to dr. habit, and id really love to see the rest of the content, but i suck at easter egg hunting :-(. and i really wanna know the origin of the borzoi thing ... thankyou in advance :)

There’s a twitter thread here with all the new stuff and changes! The borzois specifically are everywhere! Lots of new wall art out in the open of borzois… I assume he’s a dog lover (maybe grew up with them since they’re Russian/Belarusian) ->

View on Twitter

Hope this helps! Lots of fun new things : - )

#thanks for the ask!#that thread has everything new/changed #I think!#all the new things I noticed were here #smile for me game

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floatingaroundinmymind · 4 months

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Prologue for a fantasy story; feedback appreciated!

The world's savior was found on a Tuesday.

On a single patch of green grass amid frost tipped weeds and crystalline ants lay a single man-sized egg in the village square. The children found it first and then the fishermen and farmer's wives. The elders spoke in hushed whispers, spun silvery tales of prophets and heralds to man, saviors in times of need. And so a gilded shrine was built to honor the Prince of Men, a nest with the good down, adorned with the finest silks and purest gold.

And into the walls men carved such intricate patterns, eyes of the village to watch and protect the young prince--the grandest being an ornate carving of the imagined prince among his people. The women produced their fineries, dresses and robes, stockings and cloaks with which their skilled fingers distilled every ounce of hope. There was deliberation, talk of how to mold the new angelic host, of how he should come to know man and the world of men in the days since prosperity.

Oh, but it was folly.

Seed of discontent, sown by human or heavenly hands? Flower of malevolence in full bloom on crimson earth, beneath smoky skies; new ashen snow in frozen summer. And the egg, in a golden cage.

No one was there when the egg hatched. The scant sunlight filtered in through the rocks above, seeping into cracks between yellowed blades of grass and craggy holes in weak, sputtering spurts of life. And as it hit the large, pale slabs of raw stone and shone on the streams of water which trickled off their crumbling steps, Aurea found they were alone.

They crawled out of the egg, amniotic fluid spilling onto the previously untainted floor. The bare ground was cold and stark against the warmth of the egg and Aurea felt its solid, stony weight beneath her feet.

The gilded cage sat upon a raised pedestal and through the golden slats, Aurea caught glimpses of greenery, the trickling of water dropping off into some dark abyss beyond the reach of both the sun's rays and their eyes. Aurea shrugged off the cracked bits of shell that clung to her body, the sticky residue from the egg clinging to each piece.

Against the bars closest to the stairs were a wooden bowl, cloths of some sort, thick boots, and a folded set of garments upon which a crown of branches sat waiting, watching as if it too awaited their arrival. The bowl was large and filled with water for washing, the fabric beside it needlessly ornate for what amounted to washcloths.

Instinctively, she cupped the water in her hands and rinsed her face, felt the sticky fluid run off it and reached for a washcloth, wiping the rest off. Aurea's face reflected back at them in the ripples—blonde hair curling around the edges of their face and ice blue eyes searching for some sense of self in the not quite child nor adult face that stared back. Tearing her eyes away from the false self, the process was repeated with the rest of their body until the water remaining in the bowl had turned a dingy yellow, the remnants of birth clinging to the bottom.

Cleansed as they were, the slight chill in the air had now grown to a freezing magnitude, aided by the dampness of Aurea's hair and the absence of the egg's warmth. It was then that she turned her attention to the garments beside the now dirtied washcloths. Stacked neatly there were four pieces in the set, accented by golden threads and vibrant purple hues with an off-white serving as the base, earthen browns meant to balance the more striking elements.

She held the garments in her hand, noted on one there were holes for arms, a head and more confusing ones on another piece. Aurea stared at the large carving on the wall furthest from them, a winged herald among ground people. The regal figure was clothed in strange robes, trousers and fine boots—the very same set neatly folded before her.

Aurea turned away from the carving feeling the stone figures' eyes lingering long beyond their rocky casing and attempted to dress herself.

As she slipped on the clothing still she felt eyes watching. It was a low hum in the background that made its presence known louder with each passing minute. Half-dressed, Aurea turned back to glance at the stony faces on the wall and noticed on the opposite wall a pattern.

Eyes.

There were eyes carved into every wall surrounding the great gilded cage.

They didn't roam—there was no life behind them. They simply stared at her half-naked asking questions that only the ancient hands of men knew, answers that the wind pretended not to know as it blew through the cavern. Their silent, ever-present gaze never once left Aurea and she could feel each pupil on her body, covering her whole being like a million unwanted hands touching, poking, and prodding at her like she was an animal in a cage.

There was nowhere to hide.

She turned, suffocated by the prying eyes, feet slipping on the water from before and reached for the gilded bars as she fell. The bars gave way and Aurea hit the ground—the cage door was open.

The large golden door now lay wide open, the mysteries of the world outside the cage waiting. Its hinges were old and worn but still functional—the same could not be said for the lock whose chain was rusted brittle and broken, the result of many years left unattended.

Still feeling the burning gaze of the carvings, Aurea finished dressing, threw on the boots and wrapped herself in the massive cloak provided, the fur-lined hood tickling her cheeks. They stepped carefully over the cage threshold and took in the cavern with caution and awe.

From atop the pedestal holding the cage there were a set of stairs which led down to level ground. On either side of the steps were countless stalagmites guarding a large lake which seemed to circle around the base of the steps, back into some far corner beyond sight. Far above even the cage, there were cracks in the cave ceiling through which small rays of light penetrated and water from some unknown source seemed to endlessly trickle in, dripping off the stalactites and down onto the stalagmites and into the subterranean lake.

As Aurea descended the stairs, small pillars of white came into view. Dozens of old candles were littered at the base of the steps and led outward into a narrow corridor, ancient wax drips dried on their bulky stalks.

Alongside the candles were dried bundles of herbs, some ashen and all bound with thin string, the likes of which Aurea could faintly smell mingling with the earthen scent of the cave.

They followed the trail of candles in darkness through a winding path. The only constants discernible were the drip of water, the occasional streak of light and the sense of a gradual ascent. When the path opened up once more, there was a great out pour of light and with it a scant few steps which led to somewhere outside the cave.

The outer world was immobile. Beyond the threshold was a vast expanse of white blanketing the ground as far as the eye could see and hazy in the distance, a faint plume of smoke against the slowly darkening blue sky. Aurea stepped forward as if on impulse, one foot in front of the other as she stared at the source of the smoke and felt snowflakes float onto her nose and ears, dampening both with their presence.

The wind's chill penetrated even the thick coat and trousers that Aurea wore and they had grown hungry, an ache seating itself deep in the pit of their stomach. The smoke in the distance was far, but close enough to reach, Aurea thought. And off she went towards the source.

"Wren, come tend the fire."

Grandma sat curled by the fireplace on a much loved rocking chair. The wrinkled face still held the woman's countenance well, playful nature coming through in her twinkling ancient eyes and calm voice. Oh, but she was always like this, lightly complaining about the ache winter brought to her brittle old bones—Wren never minded.

"Just a moment."

Wren moved slow down the stairs, the outline of her lithe form barely visible in the faint firelight and short brown hair swaying with each step.

There was something comforting about the way Grandma called her each winter night, the loose routine they had settled into as Wren talked about the stars and Grandma taught her about the past, the olden days most had forgotten. Grandma had always said winter was the season for dreams and so Wren thought it seemed fitting that each passing winter felt a little like a dream itself—lazy and uncertain but with a hopeful tone. The slow meandering pace of the nights overshadowed the brief periods of sunlight called day as the long arm of time stretched itself thin again. It would be a matter of time before spring came and brought with it all the beauty of nature.

Until then on tonight, like most nights, Wren was relegated to retrieving firewood from the storehouse and preventing the small flame that gave life to all inhabitants from going out.

"Be careful, the wolves have been restless lately—strange men in the area. Be on your guard."

"I know, Grandma. I learned from the best after all." Wren winked, patted her hunting knife in its sheathe and lit the lantern like always, the wick seized up in dancing flame.

Shrugging on a thick coat and slipping into equally warm boots, she turned the front door knob and stepped out into the cold, started down the steps and towards the direction of the storehouse.

It was a short walk from the main house to the storehouse indicated by loosely staked poles with symbols carved on them so one could navigate nearly blind if they had to. The lantern lit up the path as Wren walked, snowflakes dappling the black wool coat she wore. Undoing the latch and pushing the door open, she grabbed a few hefty pieces of wood and made her way back out, nightly routine nearly over.

The pale moonlight was at its peak now, an imperfect crescent that cast a lonely gaze over a stark white land covered in coniferous trees of varying shades and exposed rock.

And there face down in the snow, far from Wren but just close enough, was a girl with blonde hair.

#writblr #writing feedback #my writing #prologue #fantasy #ice age fantasy #kind of #its complicated

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cjweejay · 1 year

Text

The Phoenix in the Clouds

Pairing Recom!Quaritch X Male!Oc

Summary: When a reborn Quaritch returns to Pandora, he meets a scientist who changes his world. Can love bloom on a beautiful world hostile to humans?

Content Warning: alcoholism, Mild violence

Chapter one: The landing (pt 2)

Read part one here

Quaritch sat in his bunk, listening to the yammering of his fellow recoms. It was a familiar feeling to see marines joking around, pumped up with energy and ready to go. He could see himself in any of the fights he'd been in if his guys were human instead of tall blue aliens. There had been a slew of them. So many wars, nonsense, and betrayals. Even though he had never met any of them, the losses were nevertheless painful. He knew Paz was no longer alive. Junior was probably on his way back to Earth. He smiled and laughed. The child would be well cared for. Not many men got to immediately reap the benefits of their life insurance money. At least His would ensure the kid had a bright future.

The doctor sighed as he got a notification about the Clothes in the Fabrication lab, Although it felt fast these machines were quite adept at making clothes. As he stood up and proceeded to the onsite lab to check on the clothing.

Dr. Wihongi sipped his coffee while adjusting the stitch and sitting down to ensure that nothing went wrong. He loaded the freshly made clothing into a hamper on a cart and began wheeling them down to the Recom Barracks, coffee in hand. He peeked in as the door swung open. "Colonel, I got all of the clothes Fabricated!" he yelled as he dragged the hamper further into the barracks.

Quaritch raised an eyebrow. "That quickly?" he questioned. His unit and he tried on their new fatigues. They were inflexible and one-size-fits-all, as was typical of military fatigues. They were cut resistant, though, as they discovered when they began slicing at each other with their combat knives. In the Pandoran jungle, a little more protection is always welcome.

"I wonder if we could get a tailor," he wondered, feeling the range of motions the fatigues allowed him. One thing he hadn't realized was how much more flexible the material seemed at his scale. Cut resistant threads were thick, and not particularly flexible. Movement was always a bit of a chore. These, though, felt a bit more like normal fatigues, right down to the starchy stiffness.

Dr.Wihongi sipped his coffee and observed. "Does it work for you?" he said. "Or do you want me to alter them?" he inquired, his gaze fixed on Quaritch.

"A foldable collar would be ideal. Having the option to keep it down or cover the neck and throat. Beyond that, just a bit of tailoring to the individual and we'd be set and protected from a good chunk of Pandora's dangers." He smirked. "You do excellent work, doc."

He nodded, "I'll have to get measurements then," he said as he sipped his coffee. "I do what I can," he added as he leaned against the cart, mentally noting the collar and the need to take measurements of the recom team.

"Beyond that..." Quaritch handed the doc the list of items he'd noticed they could use that weren't found in the armory. Of note were concussive and flash bang grenades.

The Doc read over the list and nodded,"I'll get supply the armory with the weapons and send over the other things, I'll be back for some measurements"he said as he pocketed the list,"see you in a little bit"he said as he grabbed the rolling cart and walked out of the barracks, the coffee cup never leaving his hand.

"Well boys and girls, what do y'all think of our resident Q?" The responses from his unit were positive, excited to actually get outfitted with the best equipment possible. When it came to equipment, Marines in general got the bottom of the barrel. RDA outfitted them well, but now they were really getting priority.

Dr. Wihongi sighed as he put the cart aside, entered the orders, then grabbed a tablet and some measuring tape. In the hopes that this was the last request for the day, he made his way back to the barracks.

The recom unit wound down for the day. They were given time to familiarize themselves with their new bodies, and to acclimate once more to Pandora's environment. But after a few training runs through simulators and obstacle courses, Quaritch planned to have his men on a Kestrel penetrating deep into enemy territory.

Dr.Wihongi entered the barracks and began measuring the recoms for the revised uniforms, with Quaritch last. Wihongi took down the measurements as he approached the colonel.

"Getting real familiar with us, eh doc?" Quaritch teased as he approached.

"I suppose you could say that, Sir," he remarked as he peered up at the other. "Spread your legs a little," he said before beginning to measure the other without asking.

Quaritch, like the rest of his squad, laughed. "Do you want me to bend over for you as well? At the very least, you should take me out to dinner beforehand."

"Colonel, I'm right near your privates, and if you want to keep them, you should keep quiet," he replied, looking up at the other.

The recom unit laughed at that. "I like you, doc. Certainly better than the last batch of eggheads I had to deal with."

Dr. Wihongi chuckled, "Well, I am here to please," he remarked as he finished measuring the others' inseams, "Can you get on your knees?" he asked as he scribbled the inseams down.

Quaritch laughed. "I don't recall you needing anyone else to do that."

"Trust me, everyone did, and it doesn't help that you're taller than them," he grumbled, "I don't provide special treatment," he murmured as he measured the others' waist.

"Alright. Keep in mind, I'ma marine and a vindictive one at that when it comes to any funny business."

"strictly professional," he added as he measured the other's chest. Being so near to Dr. Wihongi, the alcohol could be smelled on his breath, his eyes were sleepy, and his hair was a tad unkempt.

He held the other's arm and measured the sleeve length. Dr. Wihongi took the measurements and nodded, "there you go, all of your new uniforms will be ready by tomorrow, given that most people don't work at night," he added as he took a step back. "I'll be next door if you need anything," he said before remembering something,"you will all need a health checkup tomorrow to see how your bodies are acclimating to Pandora," he shouted loudly for the entire team to hear as he walked and typed.

"Alright, doc. See you tomorrow." Quaritch watched him leave. "Well, rather forwards, wasn't he?" he quipped to his unit. The unit Chuckled and talked to each other.

Dr. Wihongi returned to his office after closing the door behind him and sending the measurements to the fabricator. As he sat down, he grumbled and tossed the tablet and measuring tape down. He slumped back and closed his eyes, fatigued by the effort of dealing with the Recoms.

Quaritch went to his bunk as the rest of the recoms relaxed, getting up to the usual antics of bored soldiers. He knew the egghead wasn't enthused about being his unit's personal quartermaster and R&D team. If he had a hunch, the doc was pretty beat up about not getting to play with his own pet science project, whatever the hell that was. Still, he did good work, which he could appreciate. And if it kept his men alive, then all the better. Maybe he could see if the doc's science project was worth restarting, if he ended up working well with his men. He took care of his people.

Dr. Wihongi grumbled as he finished his spiked coffee and stood up; since he had been relocated here, he didn't have a place to stay. He hauled a cot from one of the closets to his office; he missed his lab, which he almost called home. It had everything he needed and the perfect amount of privacy. He sighed dreamily as he set up the cot, grunting as he finished and tossed a flat pillow and probably Bridgehead's most irritating blanket. Wihongi sat down, discarded his lab coat, and turned out the lights.

Soon enough, it was lights out. His soldiers grumbled as they went to bed, acting like the children they claimed they weren't. As he laid in his bunk, feeling the fairly familiar feeling of a regulation mattress and blanket on Pandoran gravity, he imagined what might be ahead. He thought about finally getting his revenge on Sully, a man he'd taken in as a protégé only to be betrayed. He thought about taking this world that the traitor seemed to love and taming it, civilizing it. Humanity was here. It was our home now. The natives just didn't know it yet.

Dr.Wihongi hissed at the texture of the blanket as he laid down. After about an hour, he kicked the blanket off and replaced it with his lab coat. He snuggled up a little and, surprisingly, fell asleep quickly.

Quaritch fell asleep, thoughts of violence and industrialization soothing his burning need for revenge.

#quaritch x oc #Quaritch #miles quaritch #Oc #shirironk #fanfic #atwow #avatar2

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miyazaki-division · 1 year

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The day was finally coming to an end in Miyazaki. Himari Asami was in her home spending her birthday relaxing. That's why it came as a surprise when she heard the front door ring. Walking over she opened the door to reveal a sharply dressed man with several scars across their face.

“Ms. Asami.” the man answers holding out and giving Himari several packages before nodding his head and leaving. Back inside, Himari walked over to the kitchen cursing at how heavy one of the packages was before placing the item on the counter.

Wondering who could have sent her all these gifts Himiari grabbed the heaviest present first and began to open it.

Inside was a brand-new white and blue sewing machine. There were also several bolts of expensive fabrics and a spool of gold-colored thread. Pulling everything out, she found a letter attached to the machine.

“Dear Asami,

When I hear it was my favorite seamstress's birthday I knew I had to get you something. Alongside the brand-new machine, I got you several bolts of some of the harder to obtain fabrics like silk and a spool with thread made out of genuine 24k gold. I hope you are able to put them to good use with your clients.

From,

Reika Aichi”

Giving a smile at the socialite’s gift Himari turned to the closest package and began opening it.

Opening the gift reveals a bottle of expensive cherry blossom flavored sake. Hanging from the bottle was a note plucking it Himari began to read it.

“Dear Asami,

Happy Birthday. I hope you enjoy the sake it was made in one of my personal breweries. The Kito produce and sell (legally mind you) sake all throughout Japan as one of our more legal ways to make a profit. This sake is a limited edition and is only sold during the Hanami season while watching the cherry blossoms bloom. Hope both you and your teammates can enjoy it.

Signed,

Sakura Kito

Head of the Kito-gumi”

Placing the bottle down Himari picked up the last gift and began to open it.

Opening the final gift reveals a chocolate cake. Chocolate swirls decorated the cake alongside the words Happy Birthday written on it. It smelled wonderful and seeing a note on top Himari picked it up beginning to read.

“Asami,

Happy Birthday. While I am personally not a fan of such frivolous celebrations. I suppose I must congratulate you on another year in this unstoppable marching of time that is slowly guiding us all toward an inevitable death. Take this cake as my appreciation for the many times you have repaired my lab coat.

Signed,

Dr. Kanon Hojo”

“Dr. Hojo can bake?”

Those were the first words that came out of her mouth upon looking at the box Kanon had sent her.

Don’t get her wrong- she loved the gifts! It just shocked her that Kanon could bake!

With gentle hands she picked up the thread from the box Reika had sent her. Spending money on this was probably chump change to someone like her- still it warmed her heart to see that one of her favorite clients would send her this. As for the machine- it was perfect timing considering Kyoko somehow managed to absolutely wreck her old one this afternoon after some…rather aggressive attempts at stitching her kimono back up after one of her boy toys got…aggressive.

Seeing the Sake she couldn’t help but smile.

“Kyoko! Rinko!” She shouts.

“What’s up Mari”

Himari holds up the bottle of alcohol

“How about some celebration- our friends from Shizuoka sent some presents for my birthday”

#happy birthday asami #hypnosis mic oc #hypmic ocs #hypmic #hypmic oc #beautiful nightmare #miyazaki division #hypnosis microphone #kyoko maruyama #himari asami #rinko yamate

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carnivalgore · 10 months

Text

Where the demons await me - 13.10.2022 (original ~2014)

You are dust.

We all came from dust. However that doesn't impact our existence in pure theory, it's quite funny how easily wind blows us around. Our souls like sand, poured over from one nook to another. And those ashes materialised, ashes real and holding a physical confirmation, are the destruction of humanity. Scraps of high values and virtues glorified by society that when absent leave behind the old chaos dubbed the new order. A primal shriek desperately gasping for thinning air above the surface of an ocean of wine and opium. Wretchedness glimmering as a few blinded memories in the diascope of obscurity. The destruction of being, destruction of the boundary between life and death, common sense and straightforward perception, the destruction of the limits of mind.

A human suffering emotional maladies favours shallow illusions of joy that let a speck of relief in for just one breath. Not long after it starts to decay once more, wither away, dry out. Festering sores of mind soon turn into overwhelming, black patches of necrosis, the glow in its eyes dissipates, the heart never to glint again. And yet, its life still flows down the cursed aqueducts of protruding veins on the self-convicted body's road towards doom.

Impure thoughts! barks the devilish preacher. Oh, if only life was so simple. Impurity sounds in our heads since our youngest days, lurks behind a bare, pale collarbone and licks our greedy ears with its sultry whispers. It tears from mortal throats in moments of highest pleasure. And all that goes back to the most persistent base of our instinct, torn between the flaming wings of Eros and Thanatos shrouded in fogs of war, forever straining its muscles subtly like Michelangelo's David. There is one thing allying both poles of the realm of human impulses, that being irresistible thirst. Thirst of suffering and delight alike, nestled together as one, unable to survive without one another under the dome of the great universe we call our own.

This way indeed did I choke a thousandfold and one more time. Inside my burgundy veins floated remnants of a previous substance I had injected, having yet to make room for the next. There was one more concoction, however, pumping through their tunnels. A poetic background to this entire theatre of woe. A substance unknown to the medical body, and that substance was sorrow.

It's not particularly difficult to become addicted to sorrow. After a while one's unable to function without it, as it becomes the only sensation strong enough to break through the layers and layers of flesh rotting alive. Without it, there is only emptiness – the most dreadful plague of mankind.

It would seem that in this state the only form of sustenance left to consume is pure blood. Blood either of strangers, or of one's own.

I do not know if it was a matter of contingency, or of conscious intervention, yet I had been granted the honourable opportunity of entering the gates of hell without the need to give up my soul. The marbled alabaster flooring in the residence of the Dark Lord made for a pleasant view. The velvety carpet dark as duck blood reflected its wondrous shades of maroon onto the artfully polished pearly shoes I was wearing. The shoes stood upon a delicate heel, ornamented with threads braided of deadman's hair. Gold was cascading down the walls so high they would rupture the foundations of the heavens. Windows, which as those in a gothic cathedral would have possessed the ability to at once flood the interiors with blinding luminosity, were all shrouded in impenetrable darkness. And only the smoke, that of colour darker than the deepest resentments of a thousand most dastardly beings, bloomed over the steps carved entirely from a slab of stone, steps leading toward the throne of His Majesty.

Despite the darkness, I was able to clearly make out the far away scene. There were hundreds of silhouettes barely reminiscent of the human figure dragging along the horizon line. As my deepest suspicions have prompted, the hellbound convicts were without a shadow of a doubt all dead. Both suited up lawyers and rugged beggars. The modern bourgeoisie of pompous billionaires hand in hand with their own servants. Truth be told, in the end slaves and masters die as one. And all of them shaved smooth, all wrinkly and shriveled up in a hunched crawl of the eternal procession before a backdrop of the bloody night sky.

Lucifer grinned with the side of his mouth, from his sultry lips came the words: "Just wait. You'll have the chance of joining in."

Were they once just as confounded as myself inside the meanders of their own inside conflicts leading straight into a suicidal death?

"This is what I call a second chance. From time to time, life allows for little swindle." He winked.

I glanced once again at the horizon. All those lucky bastards believing they had deserved death.

What's almost poetic, not one of them smiled even for a second after reaching that desired lethal outcome. They shriveled up even more in their bottomless thoughts, and in consciousness of how meaningless death is compared to the colours of life.

I felt the ground crashing below me, as if the ample carpet had suddenly lost its body and the shoes of mine lost contact with the marble. I seemed to have no use of my limbs and I fell until I was completely swallowed by nothingness.

...and to dust you shall return.

I woke up drenched in sweat, bloody, tucked into a corner.

"I found ya! Now run..." whispered a voice from underneath a cloak of moist, trembling air.

"Where...?" I managed to utter.

"Where the demons await me."

Photo by note thanun on Unsplash

author: carnivalgore @ Tumblr

mozguanihilacja @ WordPress Mouldy Oranges

original language: Polish

#creepy #horror #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #writing #short story #carnivalgore

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godblooded · 2 months

Note

" well, did i disappoint you? " / babyverse

“no.”

your brow pinches together tight. that premise is insane, you think — no, you know. spencer could never, would never, has never disappointed you. not in action, not in speech, not in doubt or word or deed. if anything spencer has been unabashedly, absolutely themselves, and there’s no fault in your heart to find for that. you shake your head to emphasize the fact.

“no, spencer, you never disappointed me. you never disappoint me. you’re just a fucking person.”

and you won’t condemn such a thing. humanity is humanity — and you’re young, but you know the weight and difference in pounds of flesh. and you know spencer owes you, owes no one anything. so there’s no one who should be disappointed.

“i’m not disappointed in you. c’mon. you know me better than that.”

#ic. dr. bloom.#threads. dr. bloom.#opposite. spencer hastings. misereternal.#misereternal #v: dr. bloom: fell in love with the girl at the rock show. (misereternal)

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tempest-toss · 1 year

Text

Little Mister mini bio batch #1

Mr. Winter Bearing frosty skin is the one and only Mr. Winter. He is the first Little Mister to be packaged with another Little Mister, that being his twin sister Ms. Spring. Despite being a part of this major achievement, you won’t catch him gloating about this, as his cold demeanor keeps him from thinking highly of himself. Thankfully his winter clothing can help warm him up! There’s a rumor that says that he was a normal guy that was frozen to death and brought back to life by Dr. Wondertainment. This has yet to be verified, but it makes his ice powers more plausible, right?

Ms. Spring In contrast to her gloomy and cold brother, Ms. Spring is like a breath of fresh air. Wearing a flowery blouse and with tropical flowers in her hair, she is the queen of the fresh bloom. Her sunny personality quite literally brightens the room she enters, and with petals appearing with a snap, she’s a fun time to be around, unless you have allergies. She’s one of the few Little Misters to successfully escape an attempt to harm her.

Little Mr. Halloween Despite being a legendary toymaker and fun-inspirer, Dr. Wondertainment rarely made seasonal creations. To remedy this, and so Three could celebrate the day of candy, Little Mr. Halloween was created. One of the Little Misters that can change form, Little Mr. Halloween can change into any costume, although he prefers a pumpkin costume. He’s the deadliest of the Little Little Misters, as he allegedly transformed into a monster to devour a would-be kidnapper of Three.

Mr. Cowboy Originally planned to be known as Mr. Guard, Dr. Wondertainment was not feeling like it would bring joy, and so, opted to make a cowboy instead. Wearing the typical attire and talking in a similar matter, he is surprisingly the most normal of all of the Little Misters, being that his anomaly is tied directly to his revolver and not really himself. That being said, he has single handedly saved the most people and siblings from danger.

Ms. Blue Created while the first generation was still active, she was made as a defense for Mr. Red. Contrary to popular belief, Dr. Wondertainment knew of Red’s destructiveness, and had Ms. Blue made to combat him. After he was decommissioned, she remained as an emotional support, due to her ability to draw out sadness from people. She used to have blue skin, but recently she now wears blue clothing instead.

Mr. Candy Gumdrop buttons, peppermint eyes, licorice thread on chocolate suits, it’s none other than Mr. Candy. He can make candy, he can regenerate, and he can be eaten, he’s a party’s delight. However, this proved to be a problem as a bachelorette party did not listen to his pleas to stop, and he was almost devoured to death. After being remade by Dr. Wondertainment he came back with a deep hatred for women, excluding his sisters. His attacks are often brutal and themed around candy, and he is never seen far from his candycane cane sword. He suffers from self-esteem, as he views himself as just a replacement for Ms. Sweetie.

Mr. Glitch Wearing a nice black suit, and having nice brown hair, from the back he’d look like just an ordinary man. Then when you look at him head-on and find that his face except for his left eye and eyebrow is obscured with pixels and static, you’d think twice. Mr. Glitch is one of the more beloved siblings of the Little Misters, as he is patient, a good listener, and the honorary teleporter. His main ability comes from tearing open holes in space time, although he can passively disrupt electronics as well. Due to what afflicts him, he’s is constantly having twitches and seeming lag when he walks.

Little Ms. Party Who’s wearing pink and wears a smile? It’s Little Ms. Party! With her pink tutu and rainbow highlights she wishes to spread cheer and joy through creating the most bomb parties known to existence! However, she’s not available to have anymore after a traumatic episode involving hair pulling that caused her to pop the head of a teen into confetti. She never could really recover from what she did, nor what the parents tried to do afterwards.

Ms. Lava Don’t touch her unless you want to be singed! Ms. Lava has a fiery dress and a temper that is equal to it. With a skin temperature of 127 degrees Fahrenheit, she has burnt friends and foes alike with a single touch, although usually it is an accident. She frequently clashes with Mr. Winter, as he usually rains, or more accurately snows on her parades. Bickering is constant with them, and usually leads to ruined furniture.

Mr. Enigma Not to be confused for a certain Batman villain, Mr. Enigma is very much like his name entails. Wearing an non-uniform black and white pattern suit, he is the most inconsistent Little Mister to encounter. One day he condones violence and the other he preaches the opposite. He’d gladly help you vandalize a building only to try to deter you in a few hours. It seems that only Dr. Wondertainment knows what is going on inside of his head.

#Another Muse #Little Misters #Tw: mention of death #(had to break it up further due to character limit)#Mr. Winter #Ms. Spring #Little Mr. halloween #Mr. Cowboy #Ms. Blue #Mr. Candy #Mr. Glitch #Little Ms. Party #Ms. Lava #Mr. Enigma

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apoorsoul · 2 months

Note

Nurse Riggs leans over Katai's shoulder and threads his fingers through Katai's hair.

"I. Said. Answer." He pulls Katai's head up, and Rex flinches back. "The doctor's question."

Katai screams. He seems to be trying to struggle, too.

"Charlie…He's incoherent. Put him down. Carefully."

The nurse lowers Katai's head back into its spot. Neither the doctor nor the nurse speak for a moment. Then Dr. Cooper stands up.

"Let's take a walk." She leads him out of the room. The other two humans stand around a little awkwardly.

Rex lets out a breath.

"I. Said. Answer." Charlie pulls Katai's head up. "The doctor's question."

The movement of his head being wrenched upwards makes Katai shriek as fresh pain blooms in his back. His struggle is useless. He's strapped down too tight. He barely hears the doctors words, sobbing hard as his head is lowered once again and having difficulty catching his breath.

"Let's take a walk," Dr. Cooper says and Katai thinks he can hear footsteps leaving. Are there still people in the room? Is it just him and Rex? He's not sure. At least there's no one poking at him in that moment, though.

#whump roleplay #roleplay #katai #rp #whumplr reader #whump rp #lab whump #whumpee #whumper #whump

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mixotrophics · 1 year

Text

Dr Thomas Townley Macan’s 1960s “Freshwater Ecology” is kinda fun. The book begins by chewing out ecologists who tunnel vision on a small specialism because ecology is So Complex and you can’t really divide things into microcosms because they interact so often and in so many ways (some unknown). I agree in this sense but also like you can’t have a super deep knowledge of Everything so there are limits here. continuing the eff-you, the book starts with a table of contents that promises a distinct lack of tunnel-vision-on-a-specialism, covering as much as possible about limnology (study of inland water bodies, so mostly like rivers and lakes and stuff).

kind of a fighting spirit for someone whose nickname was, apparently, “Kitten”...

The bulk of the book is text with some really tidy diagrams and goes over some cool concepts that are pretty core in limnology. That being the effect of water which can be highly varied in its qualities. Of course this book was written in 1963 so it is Not Up To Date but a decent amount holds water... freshwater, you might say.

Anyways... Here’s a whirlwind tour of Fun Limnology things.

The speed of water flow (river, versus lake, versus rapids, versus pond...) dramatically affects life within. Faster water can move heavier substrate, so faster water leads to a deficit of fine sediment. Also, fewer things live free-swimming in fast water because of how energetically demanding it would be to swim against the current to stay in one spot. you see a lot of bugs and stuff which anchor themselves to rocks in these spots.

here we have a moraine/fluvial deposit which only exists in the area without a steep slope, as the fast-flowing water over the steep bits washes smaller particles away.

the current speed and resulting substrate differences lead to some species, such as those which can cling to rocks using an assortment of mechanisms, which can include hook like legs, or byssal threads (shown below, though note that the image is of an intertidal species, though the function is the same)

Fast currents can be beneficial though, as the flow mixes oxygen into the water and can carry food along with it. e.g. the spiny-gilled mayfly traps food in its leg bristles as the water flows past.

Another thing which impacts freshwater systems is, of course, water temperature, which is something that people think about a lot due to climate change. Water temperature is interesting as shade cover is tied into this, and that’s a complicated subject. Of course rivers have been extensively deforested but also there are rivers and lakes wide enough that no matter how forested the banks are, there will be a sunnier bit in the middle. temperature rises from deforestation are because of increased sunniness, which also allows for phytoplankton to bloom. This makes the water more turbid (”cloudy”) and can result in species that prefer to eat algae to overtake species that prefer to eat leaves and stuff that fall into the river.

(side note, “allochthonous” organic matter (OM) refers to OM that originates outside of the river and falls in, like leaves and sticks and dead bugs. Conversely “autochthonous” OM means algae and stuff that originates from inside the river).

There is a (somewhat debated) idea of the “river continuum theory” where rivers follow a trend of starting narrow, fast, cold, and shaded, and slowly becoming slower, wider, and sunnier. So what we see with deforestation, maybe, is the stuff that likes narrow and cold rivers getting pushed out by those that like slower and wider rivers.

back to temperature, temperature impacts oxygen availability to aquatic things, with hotter water holding less oxygen. You can guess why that is not a good thing.

This is compounded by animals’ oxygen consumption going Up in hotter water. Not 100% of the time but in general.

Water temperature (actually, just temperature in general) can also affect maturation rates for a whole range of invertebrates. Hotter =/= faster as every species has its “ideal” temperature and there is a point where they’ll just be getting cooked, but the figure below in Macan’s book shows how dramatically invertebrate maturation can change with temperature. Basically look from time=0 to the final curved line, and that’s the total hours it took to get to adulthood.

the last thing limnology-y is salinity. This part always gets me because (as Macan was critiquing) people like to specialise in “freshwater bio” or “marine bio” which leaves estuaries in a funky limbo. There are definitely people really invested in estuaries but historically a lot of scientists were like, Eh, too salty to be freshwater, too fresh to be marine, so neither freshwater nor marine biologists can study this ig. apparently. im an estuary lover boy so I wouldn’t know.

Anyways as freshwater approaches flowing into the ocean, salinity changes a Lot. and this can cause big issues for animals, for example in saltwater they need to make sure they don’t dehydrate via their gills. It can be really really tough to move between salinities. So you can get things like this:

where certain things live in certain salinities along an estuary and not in others. But there Are things that move between salinities and have to cope with that using various dramatic techniques. I kind of hate the comparative anatomy of kidneys though so I will save this for another time.

You can also get things that can survive a range of salinities but have preferences (e.g., preferring lower salinity) structuring their territories around salinity, such as crocodiles. That paper is on American crocodiles in Costa Rica, and I found a blog called “Los peces mas hermosos del mundo” (the most beautiful fish in the world); this is an amazing blog title so I had to include it, and also it had this Costa Rican American crocodile picture.

Look at them, they Are one of the most beautiful fish in the world!

anyways that was limnology power hour, please send freshwater/inland water bodies some love, theyre so underrated :[

#biology #zoology #ecology #marine biology #limnology #freshwater biology #estuary #fish #invertebrates #crocodile #science #sciblr #old books #books #bivalves #inverts #miaow #osedax bookblog

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ronmanmob · 4 years

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@blindorbrave

“I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.” It was perhaps the only major downfall of psychiatry -- she could provide as much advice as possible, but if the person wasn’t open to the idea of improving, of getting better? Her words would fall on deaf ears. “I realize you were sent her, maybe against your will, but I do want to help you, Mr. Kray.” The aroma of annoyance, bitter in nature, was almost palpable in the room -- she didn’t need Hannibal Lecter’s nose for that one, and it was beginning to make her skin crawl. There was something about the man pacing the floor in front of her that screamed dangerous, and the foul mood etched onto his features made the worry no less.

“Let’s start with something simple, then. Tell me about your day, from the time you woke up until the moment you walked into this office. Not just the bad, but the good, too, and maybe we can start to figure out why you’re upset.”

If it was possible for a human being’s hackles to visibly rise, Ron’s did at the cultured woman’s proposition. He turned an acidic scowl on her, not pausing his march back and forth, back and forth as he volleyed back- ‘Figure aht?’ She didn’t deserve the bite in his words, but deserving and earned meant shit all as concepts to Ron just this moment. ‘I know wha’s fucked us off. I’s th’intrusion’a th’fuckin’ pigs in a man’s business; th’suggestion ov a brief tha’ I might be fuckin’ SECTIONED f’cloutin’ some cunt feef ‘oo f’ort ‘ee could make off wiv th’till aht me pub! SECTIONED! Compulsorily detained f’protectin’ me proper’y ‘n me patrons from some bollockless cunt ‘oo f’ort ‘ee was clevah goin’ t’th p’lice!’

Seething as a concept didn’t touch Ron in that moment.

He paced still, all snarling and gestures and tension that radiated off him.

‘--Danger t’meself or ovvahs’ he went on, skipping tracks in his mind; speaking what came. ‘Tha’s wha’ sectionin’s for. T’put us away if m’a danger t’meself or ovvahs on account’a me skizafrenia- I’ll tell y’what Miss-’ He’d burned so hot coming in the door that he’d not caught the lady-doctor’s name on it. Miss would do for now. ‘I know fifty men jus’ like me, men ‘oo ain’t skizafrenik ‘n ‘oo’d ‘av done five times th’damage I did t’tha fuckin’ slag cunt feef. FIVE TIMES ‘n they’d not be in ‘ere.’

There was a note of conspiratorial disdain in his voice; a knowing almost; a thought to being discriminated against because of this condition he’d lived with for over a decade now. His brother ate thieves just like Ron did. So did their bodyguard Pat and all of their other associates. They’d never ended up on the duff end of the Mental Health Act. And they never would either. Because they weren’t like him.

‘Me day then-’ Ron clipped, a sneer in his voice as much as it was on his face. ‘Woke up in a cell in th’local nick. Got bailed inta me bruvvah’s custody pendin’ psychological assessment-’ A point towards her. She was to be his assessor; the key, in a way, with her influence and expert knowledge, to whether he’d end up spending time in a secure hospital, a regular nick or, potentially, end up with one of those community order whatsits that got handed out like skittles to folks who weren’t like him. And- And he was really starting to feel the end of the med cycle he was on taking hold; making him ratty and wanting of solitude and dogs.

Forcing himself to relax his expression - for he could tell he’d give or take bared his teeth at this poor woman; give or take scowled a hole into her brow for nothing at all - Ron puffed out a slow breath and looked away from her. There was a bookcase in his field of vision now, and he fixed on it; distracted himself from the boiling, disjointed rage that was bubbling below the surface.

‘--So’ he mustered, his voice flat but tight at once; belying massive stress. ‘Yer gonna wanna get on wiv tha’.’

#blindorbrave #modern!verse #<- with Dr Bloom #//I hope you don't mind me making this into a lil thread lovely friend! :3 #tw: mental illness #cw: mental illness #tw: cursing #//lots and lots of cursing xD

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