Sweet Seals For You, Always
$LAYYYTER
todays bird
Sade Olutola
Kaledo Art
roma★
tannertan36
No title available
Stranger Things
oozey mess
noise dept.
Misplaced Lens Cap
Love Begins
Cosmic Funnies
One Nice Bug Per Day
Peter Solarz
Origami Around
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
No title available
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
seen from Vietnam
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Maldives
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
@supergiantsecretsanta
Goodbye (?)
Hello! Mod Random here So with all the mods ended up unable to continue this event anymore, I think it’s safe to say that I don’t think we’ll hold another event anymore in foreseeable future. Thank you for all your support and kindness these years and please forgive us (the mods) if we ever did any mistake during our job as the mods. I will leave this blog up for archival purpose. Until we meet again! Goodbye for now :D
is this running again this year?
Hi! Mod Random here, I'm afraid we're not running this event this 2021 due to IRL reasons. Thank you for your interest
My gift for @ragsy for the @supergiantsecretsanta! Happy New Year!!
Here’s Red peacefully humming c: ♪♫♬
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
This is my thing for the Supergiant Secret Santa this year! It’s been quite a long time since I’ve written anything, but it was fun:)
I hope I’m doing this right! @gaybirdwrites , @ supergiantsecretsanta
“What are you waiting for? What are you waiting for I’m… here, already. Right…?”
This is my gift for @nay-nai as a part of the Supergiant Secret Santa (@supergiantsecretsanta) event! A request after my own heart… this was incredibly lovely to make and I hope you enjoy it as well 😊
Have a great holiday season!
Happy Holidays @underwater-ukulele! I am your @supergiantsecretsanta!
The beauty of Cloudbank rested in those moments of redemptive splendor when the fog of the Goldwalk District burned away to allow the city to bask in piercing, almost perversely brilliant sunlight. Yon-Dale’s fluid and fluctuating sky would practically shatter, revealing a crystalline brightness that pinged across the skyline like light on a network hop.
It was not, at present, one of those bright, glittering moments.
Rain splashed from the gutterings above. The evening traffic on the nearby overpass rode the evening air in waves, the arcsine of a siren, the tangent of a sigh, an axis from which the City projected itself, like the wind sending snow spindrift and refracting sunshine into its pale and separate colors.
He could not help but use the chrome and glass around him to gauge whether there was anyone on his tail. Old habits.
People, he had observed, had rituals for working through their sense of vague and itinerant discontent, rituals that depended more on the idiosyncrasies of the individual than on the influence of Cloudbank’s culture of communality. Some looked over their shoulders. Some visited gravesites. Some talked about the Country. Some went to spots favored by familiar faces, or mouthed silent prayers, or petitioned for a new park so that the trees might remember what the people would invariably forget. Others, still, voted for rain.
The common denominator, of course, was a sense beyond explanation that the world operated by some isomorphic logic, gray and gloom being the ultimate expressions of sadness and fear, just as sunshine was the ultimate expression of joy and optimism…
There was a time when he didn’t reflect on such things, but when one lived like a lingering revenant pressed up against one-way glass, still and silent observation was near about the only thing he could do. He had grown so used to looking with forlorn and futile eyes at the ordinary life he’d denied himself that he’d lost any natural immunity to becoming invested in other people’s lives.
Perhaps that was why he so adored Red: in her songs, she had told him once, she sought to capture the City’s sense of wise, accepting sadness. There was a quote from a writer Red admired… music moved the listener to lament misfortunes they never suffered and wrongs they did not commit. He admired her for the depths of character such a description indicated… and for how familiarly it registered.
His destination was a nondescript block off the main complex of Goldwalk. It looked insignificant in the way that only something that was supposed to remain unremarked can –– Junction Jan’s was a small lighted building in the center of the intersection. A few other patrons milled about, some hovering at the order terminal across the plaza, the OVC hemmed in by high-tension wires that clung to the structure’s façade like rotting vegetation. The café windows were yellow stains that in the fog and rain seemed to darken and flicker. Instead of going in, he made a beeline for a silhouetted figure stooped under her umbrella, lingering in the cool antiseptic air, her shock of hair a diffuse red halo beneath the atrium lights, her face half-lit with all the flattery that dusk was capable of bestowing on a lover’s body. She started at the sound of his footsteps splashing across the promenade, and god help him, she turned to look him full in the face with large, liquid green‐blue eyes, bright with rekindling life and lavish, bountiful warmth.
Cloudbank was so vast, and could be so cruelly impersonal, that the succor provided by Red’s intelligence, wit and compassion was sweeter than near about any other thing he’d ever known
So gorgeous, so utterly distracting, was her joy at seeing him that it took him a mite longer than it would have done otherwise to notice Red’s company. The stranger had at some point sidled closer to the building, leaning under Red’s umbrella as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
The man was all dark angles and lean corners in both face and body, almost cadaverous, his appearance striking rather than handsome: his nose crooked, his cheekbones a little too pronounced, his skin marked with acne scars, oily hair landing in choppy, uneven curls nearly level with his chin. His eyebrows, straight and interrogative, sat above abnormally bright, almost bulging green eyes. There was a cigarette slouched on his lips.
An obscure sense of familiarity glimmered around the edges of his mind in implicit warning.
“En!” Red beckoned him over.
He shook his head as he ran, casting rainwater in every direction.
“I’m, uh…” he scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to think clearly, a task rendered frustratingly difficult in Red’s company; he knew his behavior was wont to strike a fair number of Cloudbank’s citizenry as impolite, if not precisely odd: “I’m sorry… I hope I’m not interrupting anything…”
“On the contrary,” said Red, beaming, “I think you’ve rescued Mr. Bracket here from any more frightfully dull conversation with a girl who hardly knows how to talk to people when she isn’t singing…”
The name gave him immediate pause. Bracket. Royce Bracket. He knew the name though not the man. Some years ago he had been tapped by one of the career administrators to spearhead an experimental architecture firm headquartered at Traverson Hall, evidently determined to capture a share of the resources Cloudbank’s Central Admin was preparing to redirect towards the City’s mathematical infrastructure. Within a decade he had moved the firm from Traverson to the newly-christened Bracket Towers, instituting a lucrative cooperative program that provided a camino real for local interest groups to award selected citizens strategic appointments in engineering. Bracket had overseen major investments in the most promising areas of research: semiconductors, electronics, aeronautics, architecture, abstract mathematics.
Man was as bright as they came… if a bit of an odd duck. Quiet. Unsociable. Standoffish.
Birds of a feather, he supposed, but what he lacked in the engineer’s intelligence, Bracket more than made up for in an almost monomaniacal devotion to his work.
“I hardly think that is the case,” murmured Bracket with an odd little stopping and starting of air, as though he’d run up a flight of steps. “You have been… most accommodating of my inquiries.”
He must have worn his bemusement on his sleeve, because Red provided, by means of explanation: “Mr. Bracket and I share a mutual friend; evidently Sybil mentioned my newest composition at the bal de la Rose several weeks ago.”
One of those perennial cotillion events, no doubt. Some yacht-club charity fundraiser thing to which Cloudbank’s upper-crusters seemed determined to drag Red every other weekend. What was perhaps worse, Reisz was far more than a spokesperson; perhaps her most important role was as a power broker, both among Cloudbank’s elite and in the fashion, technology, and artistic industries writ large.
He wasn’t entirely sure if Bracket’s ties to Reisz were as auspicious as Red made them out to be…
For his part, he couldn’t pin down exactly what it was about Bracket that disturbed him. Perhaps something in the way he moved. His body language was too smooth, lacking the stiff, jerky movements most people affected in social situations. He was too easily distracted –– his eyes never focused even in the middle of a conversation. There were little things but nothing tangible that he could use to draw a conclusion about the man.
“Mr. Bracket is a mathematician,” Red went on, eyes alight.
Bracket nodded a noncommittal agreement. “We were talking about irrational numbers… the ratios of equal temperament scales, more precisely.”
“For your new song?” he asked, glancing at Red, eyes narrowed, nurturing a healthy suspicion.
Bracket cleared his throat a token couple of times. “Miss Reisz happened to mention the young lady’s… unorthodox treatment of the prime seven integer. My interest was, shall we say, piqued.”
It was not so much Bracket’s manner of speaking, he realized, but the seconds before the actual start of it that set him on edge: the brief and interminable moments of feeling suspended. A stuttering, faltering precariousness of a parcel of time about to plummet from its apex.
“It is poorly approximated by the tempered chromatic scale… the closest interval on the keyboard over-estimates the seven’s interval. There’s a reason it is considered one of the most… dissonant intervals.”
“The approximation is 34 semitones,” countered Red, “which equals two octaves plus a minor seventh. Besides, the major seventh has a soft, sweet sound… Partita in E major is lovely.”
The man nodded, but stared to the side of her, as if distracted by his own thoughts. “If I were one given to exegetical exercise, I would venture… a guess that you are making a commentary about… triads, Miss Red.”
“Cloudbank enjoys its triangles, Mr. Bracket,” said Red, evidently impressed by Bracket’s insight and entertained by his theories. Meanwhile, he got the distinct impression that a part of Bracket was reveling in the flattering though far from uncritical attention, even if his strange, drifting attention and off manner of speaking affected the impression of distraction. “Rotation matrices and quaternions rely on trigonometry, unless I’m mistaken.”
“I suspect you know you are not. If the City demands dissonance… then the City shall have it, no?”
“The only laws of matter are those which our minds must fabricate, and the only laws of mind are fabricated for it by matter.”
Bracket, for the first time, fixed Red with a look of interest too fierce to be simple, inconsequent curiosity.
For a moment he swore he felt a cord knotting in his stomach.
“Well-quoted,” muttered Bracket.
The amaretto stench of the cigarette made his nose crinkle.
“Closet music aficionado, Mr. Bracket?” he asked, crossing his arms. “You didn’t strike me as the type. I work the beat around the Set, and I don’t see you out at concerts much.”
“I am… naturally curious,” said Bracket around his cigarette; the smoke formed curls in the gloom, the haze illuminated only by the age-speckled café lights and the unnatural luminescence of Cloudbank. Bracket’s concession was less altruistic than it appeared.
He thought, then, of a little learned wisdom an old card shark in Redhat had imparted: if you look around the table and can’t spot the mark, then the mark is you.
“If you’re a mathematician,” he sensed his own barbed smile, its edges snagging on his cheekbones, “curiosity sounds like an occupational hazard.”
“En,” whispered Red under her breath, the tiny appeal to cordiality the only indication that she sensed his combativeness, and found it deeply irritating.
Bracket’s response, when it came, was less polite, though hardly less charged: “Many would have it said that numbers are about quantity and control, not quality and contemplation. Mathematics attempts to understand conceptual and logical truth and appreciates the intrinsic beauty of such. Music evokes… mood and emotion by the audio medium of tones and rhythms without appealing to circumstantial means of eliciting such innate human reactions. Therefore… it is not altogether surprising that we might locate symbiosis of the two disciplines in this… young lady’s work.”
“You’re very kind to say so, Mr. Bracket, thank you,” said Red, smiling, but her enquiring spirit was on the prowl, and she fixed Bracket with a look curious and cautious, anxious to enquire further but wary of disclosing too much too quickly. After the altercation at the Set seven weeks ago, Red was careful to take certain precautions where her work was concerned, receding from the spotlight to compose new material in relative privacy.
Which was really what made the vested interest of someone like Royce Bracket so strange.
He tried to extinguish the feeling in his gut and said nothing.
“You are most welcome. I shall be watching your career with…” Bracket paused, picking over his words like fruit in a market stall, testing and discarding twice as many as he chose: “great interest.”
The engineer’s face was flat but his eyes were alive and bright, almost manic, his pupils sky-dark, reflecting little save the rain.
It was only after Bracket turned up his collar and slunk away into the Goldwalk crowds that Red murmured out of the corner of her mouth:
“How terribly undiplomatic of you.”
He looked askance at Red to find her eyebrows dancing questioningly.
“You reckon I scared him off?”
“That’s one word for it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t like him very much.” Clearly she was not so annoyed that she didn’t feel up to trying some cool sarcasm.
“Not at all; I’m absolutely thrilled to catch some slimy bloke sidling up to my best friend and asking probing questions about her work. Really takes the biscuit.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” wondered Red, quietly amused, “tall, dark, devastatingly bright, with all the social tact of my sea-monster flat bread. I think we might be finished, En… you know I can’t resist a paramour who smells like an ashtray.”
He pulled back to see her eyes, looking utterly perplexed as her gaze sparkled with mischief. His mouth opened wordlessly.
For the space of six heartbeats they stared at one another and then Red simply said, “Let’s go home.” She held her hand out to him.
He gazed at it for a moment.
“Come with me,” she said softly.
Slowly he slipped his hand into hers; her palm was warm and callused from her instruments.
As they walked alongside a chlorine-infused, somnolent canal whose water was not putting in half as much effort as they were in actually going anywhere, he glanced over the deliquesced landscape of metastasizing gondola lines and riots of cold cathode tubes, of lights honeycombing the prefabricated apartment windows and aerials poking into the sky. The mist-wreathed regiments of Cloudbank hovered over the promenade like a fluorescent wave.
Everything seemed transformed, everything scattered and fragmented: the rumble of wheels, Highrise piercing the mist, the wan gray dusk fused together, not into a memory or a picture but into the blind, fierce ache of sadness itself, as though the very City were weeping.
Red tightened her coat against the rain and began to hum an accompaniment to the song in her head.
“Red,” he murmured; “what do you think Bracket wanted?”
“I think,” she sighed slowly, giving his hand a squeeze, “if Sybil doesn’t receive or make at least one introduction a week, she’ll go stir crazy. It’s just her networking, En. You know how she is.”
“But Royce Bracket? What could either one of you possibly gain from bringing Cloudbank’s resident wallflower into the fold?”
“He’s a powerful man, En, a man who has long enjoyed the favor of Central Admin. And far be it from you to cast suspicion on the meeting, he was right, you know. About music and mathematics. It was an interesting conversation, if nothing else.”
The rain drummed a constant beat against the plate glass windows, and his lover’s hand remained wedged in his cold, numbing fingers. Nothing broke his train of thought.
“So… professional curiosity?”
“Why not?” Red went on after a moment’s consideration: “He’s awkward and a little intense, but he’s brilliant. Perhaps we oughtn’t be so quick to judge.”
“You’re right… of course you are. I… I only worry. About you,” he finished lamely, cursing the proverbial foot in his mouth. “After all that’s happened––”
“I know, En. It’s okay. I’m okay. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Her gentle tone of voice turned his heart over. Red tiled her head back slightly and looking up at him in the rain-limned twilight, a curl of auburn hair falling to tap against her cheek. When he bent his head and pecked her cheek, she gave a little sigh, her lips parting slightly in surprise and expectation.
“Yeah,” he agreed. "… Yeah.“
"We’re gonna be okay.”
Hades Modern AU celebrating christmas. This is my gift for @circeancity as a part for @supergiantsecretsanta~! I am terribly for being late as well><. I hope you like it and may you have a wonderful holiday~^^
This year I took part in the supergiant games secret santa! I drew this for @whywouldineedaname, who wanted Hades/Persephone/Nyx! I hope you like it, and have a great rest of the year!! Thank you to @supergiantsecretsanta for hosting this event!
“Days are slow, going from one land to another in this New World. This little group of ours… a family, exploring new places beyond the ones we knew and singing even newer songs in them.”
Here’s my @supergiantsecretsanta gift for @bastionbabble with the crew exploring new lands post-evac and spending some good family time this season. :] Sorry for the delay, but I hope you like it! Happy holidays!
(click for higher resolution)
hello! happy holidays to @sylphee!! i’m your secret santa for the @supergiantsecretsanta! i hope that you like it!
This is my secret santa gift for @pedx-ing for the supergiant secret santa exchange! Merry christmas if you celebrate it and have a lovely day either way!
(Content warning for mildly graphic injuries)
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Zagreus kicked the door open, “Nyx?” His voice was startlingly loud in the small, dingy apartment. The only answer he got was the sound of rain pattering against the windows. He cursed, shuffling inside with Thanatos leaning heavily against him.
“Still with me, Than?” he asked, locking the door behind them.
Thanatos groaned, nodding weakly.
“‘Kay. Just stay awake, ok?” The boards creaked under their feet as they went to the living room. Gently, Zagreus laid Thanatos down on the couch. “Keep pressure on the wound, I’m going to find a first aid kit.”
“Mmhm.” his brows furrowed, whether in pain or annoyance Zag wasn’t sure, but he was still conscious which was a good sign.
Another thing that made him hopeful was how quick he was able to find the first aid kit. Of course Nyx would keep this place stocked for him though. She must have been planning this almost as long as he had. Shame he had to ruin all of her hard work by getting caught. He was supposed to arrive— alone— over an hour ago.
Here’s my @supergiantsecretsanta gift for @enipnion!! Some Than and Zag holding hands at the table and chairs you can give Thanatos.
Hope you have a very Happy Holidays! :D
Mushroom and Jinna Soup (The Kid, Zulf, 1816 words, worksafe)
The Kid squeezed Zulf’s shoulder and returned to his peeling. Zulf wished for sleep like every star there ever was, but it wouldn’t come. There was the fever, yes, but a question shifted beneath the surface and begged to be let out.
“Kid, tell me… how does a Cael man know how to make mushroom and jinna soup? I don’t think I’ve met a Cael who knew what jinna even was.”
Zulf is sick, and the Kid helps; they have a conversation.
(my @supergiantsecretsanta gift for @tealeafraven hope you enjoy!)
(ao3 link)
Keep reading
Swappergianting right back atcha @kamil-a! 💖Jodiceles all day every day 💖
it’s tiiiiiiiiiiiime for Supergiant Games Secret Santa! this is for you, @that-hoopy-frood ! you have excellent taste in video game antagonists and a FANTASTIC tumblr URL. enjoy!!!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
My gift for Goldie (@goldenclawsandplatinumsouls) for the Supergiant Secret Santa exchange (@supergiantsecretsanta). It’s a fluffy little fic set in the Country, in which a simple, intimate picnic not only helps Red rekindle her creativity, but also reaffirms her relationship with the Boxer.
I hope you like it!
Happy Holidays! :D
Imgur album for preserved quality, as well as a version with a flat color background
A Secret Santa for frostedmacha! She requested something with a Christmas theme and said Zagreus was her #1 sooooo… Santa!Zagreus!!!
