#Contraste des Formes

[sylvainperrierfotografi]

Défi 2 - À la Découverte des Formes dans l'Objectif

[falseficus]

if i may play the devil's advocate for a moment -- it doesn't really bother me that most of the fan posting around disco elysium on this site is more focused on the emotional aspects of the game than the political ones. i mean, firstly, it's well-acknowledged that fanworks tend to fill the gaps of unexplored potential in the original work -- ie, envisioning darkness in lighthearted works, re-imagining dark works as lighthearted. a lot of the emotional or relational aspects of disco elysium are left ambiguous, abstract, or at the very least dependent upon player choice and interpretation. this renders them fertile ground for speculative art. by contrast, the game's political statements are, if you have the context to analyze them well, complete. there simply isn't much more to say.

beyond that, those political aspects are also leagues ahead of many other pieces of media in terms of their complexity, nuance, and real-world analysis. that's part of what makes the game so great, and i do think may fans understand that. but, to be honest, being capable of engaging with those aspects of the game (just glance at reddit, and you'll see that many fans don't even reach that level) does not mean that fans are capable of generating that level of work themselves. like, it's simply more mental work to come up with a piece of creative art/writing that expands upon the superb worldbuilding and commentary of DE than it is to write about harry and kim getting goopy nasty. people know how to do the latter because it is a commonly exercised muscle of fandom. the former is almost academic.

that doesn't mean people *shouldn't* engage with the political aspects of the game generatively/creatively. but also... like... maybe it's better this way. seriously, look at reddit, guys. the DE subreddit is full of people *attempting* to engage with the game politically, and the analysis they're putting out is hot steaming dookie. i lose brain cells every time im forced to read another take that earnestly assumes the game positions moralism as the Right and Good Choice for Revachol. on tumblr, analysis is generative, practiced through art/fanfiction... and if i had to see the type of shit i see on reddit on tumblr in the form of fanart, id kill us all.

so anyway, i dont think the fanwork hyperfocus on relationships/emotion indicates that people aren't properly understanding the political points of the game, but simply that those points are much harder for fans to process in a generative way. their underrepresentation in fanwork doesnt particularly indicate anything about the way people are actually receiving and understanding the themes of the game.

except for the people inexplicably clogging the tag with jean viquemare. they do not understand the game and will not see the light of heaven

[phantomrose96]

The Silt Verses delivering the season-recap episodes in the form of the voice actors recounting an abridged version of the season is very good, and very funny, but is also absolutely elevated by the contrasts between Méabh de Brún and Jimmie Yamaguchi.

Like whenever Méabh speaks you can unequivocally tell she loves Carpenter and loves playing Carpenter. Everything she says is like "And here Carpenter proved what an absolute badass she is." "In this part Carpenter lives up to being a legend of the Parish." "Here Carpenter was basically Batman."

And then Jimmie comes in like, "Hayward - a known idiot - screws everything up."

[dearlyya]

TIL’ WE MEET AGAIN | Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

Chapter One-Persistence; When a coward turns hero.

Warnings; Angst, pre-canon, hurt/comfort, Zaunites, Piltians, revolution, violence, blood, gore, drinking, smoking, gambling, swearing, sex, brothels, drugs, slow burn, the reader is a coward at first, original character (Wynn), strangers to lovers, bittersweet, Old Silco being weirdly sentimental, Jinx being noisy, and major character death.

A/N; I don’t do taglists, sorry. I also want to thank my friend for supporting my writing, proofreading, and character creation of Wynn. Love you, bro.

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Undercity is considered an industrial stain nestled beneath the grand city of Piltover.

With air that hangs heavy, and its people feral. Towering smokestacks belch black smoke into the already smog sky, casting long shadows over the cramped alleyways and buildings. The streets are strewn with discarded scrap metal, chemical waste, and other debris of the relentless production that drives the Undercity's economy. 

The warm green glow of the gas lamps casts an eerie, shimmering light over the buzzing market stalls and their wares. Cautious eyes dart about, gripping the crate tightly, as your knuckles white with tension. You trudge through the damp, uneven cobblestone path. Your heavy boots thud, but the market muffles the sound. Wynn strides ahead of you, his boysenberry hair reflecting the green making his hair almost black.

Both of you carry large, sloshing crates of alcohol that clink and bounce with each jostle from the crowded lane. Your tattered cloak draped your form, the hood pulled low to fight against the season's coldness and obscure your face from the lingering enforcers.

You instinctively glance at the enforcers standing near a stall, their voices raised in angry conversation with the stall’s owner, who appears equally irritated. They are likely issuing citations for illegal imports or contraband. Detailed by the other armored man holding up a list and pointing at the merchandise. However, when the vendor suddenly shoves one of them, you quickly avert your gaze, choosing to ignore the escalating commotion and focus on navigating the crowded marketplace.

Fighting wasn’t something you could do against the enforcers unless you’d want a hefty prison sentence or killed. So, you allow them to conduct their inspections and searches, gritting your teeth if their hands linger on your body for far too long.

You did dream of something better, a fictional land where all is peace and harmony, but that's wishful thinking. Life gave the Undercity people the short end of the stick, so now all you want is to keep your life, provide some aid to wanders, and of course keep the tavern: The Last Drop. Afloat.

Some vendors attempt to grab your attention, but you politely shake your head. Keep your eyes trained on Wynn who glides through the people with ease. You stumble and slip between people straining to keep up with your friend. Cursing under your breath at the fact that you could’ve gotten your supply runner to fetch the cargo, but no. Coins have been getting slimmer and slimmer at the drop. One of the many reasons why your resentment, once directed at the enforcers, began to shift towards the rebels who fought against them. While their cause was just, their tactics often made life even harder for the ordinary citizens of the Undercity. Strikes, protests, and their thievery disrupted supply lines which left families and businesses like yours struggling to make ends meet. Of course, this is only rooted in fear. 

Fear of losing more.

The mines that delve deep into Runeterra. Extracting precious minerals to fuel the insatiable demand. Workers in harsh conditions, their health and safety were often sacrificed for the sake of profit. Stark contrasts the cutting-edge innovation of Piltover ‘coexisting’ with the rampant corruption and exploitation they cause the city below them.

Down in the fissures, where deep cracks in the earth have split open, a treacherous underground network of tunnels and caverns caused by the relentless mining and drilling operations. Was bustling with the activity of workers, faces smeared with grime.

You and your father worked in those mines, and many families did. Your life narrowed down to one moment. A vivid horrible memory. You knew you should’ve put up a fight, and struggled against the enforcers alongside the others. When the tears finally spilled over, streaming down your face in hot, bitter rivulets. You couldn’t help but cower. You remember his body and the way the world seemed to tilt and spin around you.

When you pushed yourself up, letting go of a rusty pickaxe. A strong arm shoved you roughly back to the ground. It sent shockwaves through your malnourished body. Your coal-covered glove scraped against the unforgiving, rocky ground as you trembled uncontrollably, shaking like a frightened animal.

A cacophony of screams and desperate cries pierced everyone's ears like shards of glass. Through ‘The Gray’ smog you saw people–workers–were fighting against the enforcers with a fury born of desperation, their voices raw as they tried to reach your father, who was knelt on the ground, clutching the back of his head. Blood, vivid red against the rocks, drips steadily from his fingers, staining the earth beneath him. A macabre work of art. The sight of it sears itself into your mind, something you still see to this day.

Your wide eyes locked onto your father, drinking in every detail of his face, committing it to memory, as the screams and shouts faded into a distant, muffled hum.

He met your gaze, his expression was steady and calm despite the chaos that raged around you. He's trying so hard not to look frightened, putting on a brave face for your sake. He gulped, and in that tiny gesture, you saw the truth of his fear reflected in his eyes. But there's something else there too, a silent message of love and reassurance that told you that everything will be okay, that he'll protect you no matter what happens to him. 

But the man behind him, the one through the smog, the one who raises his gun high above his shoulder–tells a different story. The gun glints harshly reflecting off the gold on the enforcer. Quick to get to your knees, a firm kick sends you forward along with a harsh boot on your back keeps you in place. You cried out at the pressure, as you squirmed to get closer to your father. 

It's a swift blow, brutally efficient in its execution. The butt of the gun connected with the back of his head with a nauseating crack, and he crumpled to the ground. He fell face-first onto the unforgiving rocks. His body would twitch, but the last sliver of life drained away in an instant. You barely heard the final, choked-off words that he never got to finish. His last confession of "I love you" was stolen away by the cruel hand of fate.

Your breathing gets heavy when you remember, each intact a painful reminder of the life that still flows through your veins, even as everything else feels cold and numb. You shakily grip the case. It takes a special kind of strength, and true courage to stand up despite others bringing you down, to crush your hopes and dreams beneath the weight of their fears and insecurities.

You're not sure what you believe in anymore. That day the foundations of your world were shaken when the very ground beneath your feet shifted and crumbled, leaving you feeling lost and adrift in a sea of uncertainty before you were taken by the hand and brought up to a raft. You’ll always be grateful to Wynn. Though, all you know is that life is rather unfair, especially in the Undercity, and all you want to do is survive. Is that selfish? 

Perhaps you are one of those pushovers.

You were too lost in thought when you got pushed to the side, sending you to your left, and letting go of the crate to catch your fall, gritting your teeth you look up but notice it’s those same enforcers now carrying off that vendor's supplies. The one that shoulder checks you, gives you a look, and even with its helmet on you can tell that they’re testing your reaction. You look down at your crate. It’s open and bottles–thankfully not broken–have rolled out.

Maybe you've always been that way, content to let others make the decisions, to follow the path of least resistance rather than forging your way forward. But with the aftermath of your father's lifeless body that laid before you and the weight of powerlessness bearing down on your shoulders, you can't help but wonder if there isn't more to you than that.

Maybe, deep down, buried beneath the layers of fear and self-doubt, there is a spark of courage waiting to be ignited, a flicker of determination that just needs the right circumstances to flare into life.

You carefully lift each bottle to the crate, ensuring they are securely packed. Reaching for a bottle of scotch, your hand accidentally brushes against its neighbor, sending the bottle rolling away. It clicks and clanks across the cobblestone path before disappearing into the shadows of a nearby alley.

You pause, considering whether to retrieve the wayward bottle, but the risk of Wynn ringing your neck for wasting good money has you sighing. A broke bitch during inflation is someone you don’t want to mess with. You continue to pack the remaining bottles and get back to your feet, crate in arms.

No one notices you entering the alley, with your head hanging low. 

The ground is littered with discarded metal scraps, used needles, and unidentifiable substances. Peering from beneath your hood, you scan the area for any sign of the missing bottle, but your search becomes useless. Instead, you hear labored breathing and pained grunts from further down the narrow way. 

Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the scene before you. The glint of gold and blue uniforms mingles with the tattered red of the man's clothing. The sight is all too familiar. The enforcers’ figures huff up and down, laughing at each other in cruel satisfaction as they rain down blows on the man. Their boots connected with sickening thuds against his bloodied body. You can’t tear your eyes away from them. 

The right circumstance is all someone needs.

“Look at you, pathetic like the rest of those revolutionaries. You’re nothing but a filthy rat scurrying in the gutters and trash of refined people.” One of them coo, tilting their head at the body, you step closer.

You should move on, and let them take this man’s life if need be, so you can slip by unnoticed. It would be far more understandable than helping someone out of the kindness of your heart, but you have never felt such a surge of emotion before. The impending doom that bloomed in your gut yelling in your ear with a booming voice telling you that if you didn’t help this man you’d truly be the vermin that topside thinks you are. You can’t explain it to yourself, all your bitter-laced words and morals clashed when you heard them throwing those humiliating remarks. 

The right circumstance is all she needed.

The enforcers continue to beat him. You don’t think very much, the few thoughts that pass your mind are typically about personal survival, so thinking about beating these men into a pulp like they are with your fellow scum has you dropping the crate and racing towards them. Your heart is in your ears, bile backing up in your throat, as your coat flies off you. The knife you grip sinks into the nearest Piltie. Into their exposed armor between the helmet and chest plate. An honest, lucky blow to the neck.

He yelps, stopping his assault to cradle the wound that spurts blood between his gloved fingers. He staggers away as the other enforcer finally grasps the situation. With your dagger in the side of the other guy's neck, you quickly skimmed around the alley looking for a possible weapon, you spotted the bottle but you weren’t quick enough. The intact enforcer rushed at you and slammed you against the brick wall of a building. Your head hits it roughly dazing you. Your windpipe closes up when the enforcer pushes your throat with his forearm. His metal suit cuffs dig into your skin. You're frantic now. 

Shit–you didn’t think this through. Death was now a concrete possibility, and dying next to the man you tried so hard to save felt like the greatest irony. The pain shooting through your neck grew unbearable, causing tears to well up and cascade down your cheeks, despite the insults being thrown your way.

On this final night alive, you admit to yourself that you might have cared about the revolution after all. Your body was lifted off the ground, dangling up near this blue and gold-clad man. Both of your hands grip his gloves, trying to cause any damage by digging your nails into him. More tears roll. You weren’t crying because your own life was flashing before your eyes, but because you couldn’t save a symbol. A figure of hope.

The enforcer that you stabbed lays slumped against a gross dumpster, his hand weakly clawing at the stab wound in his neck. Crimson blood seeped through his armor, staining it a dark, glistening red. He twitched and spasmed as blood continued to spurt from the exposed injury. Despite everything a pang of guilt flickered in your chest. You had never taken a life before. Your gaze drifted to his neck, and realization dawned on you–your dagger was missing. As you slipped in and out of consciousness, the grip on your neck loosened.

The enforcer collapsed on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight as he sank to the ground his body took you with it. You coughed and gasped, and with a wave of nausea rising in your throat and bobbing pain around it you pushed the body off you. Looking up, you met the gaze of the man you had ‘saved’. He was huffing heavily, his eyes wide and wild mixed with shock on his pale face. 

Drenched in blood, sweat, and sporting bruises all over. His long hair clings to his face, some falling out of the low ponytail. His dark red tunic under a dirty gray cut-off vest. His body quivering on the brink of exhaustion. His gaze was glossy, only fueled by the last dose of adrenaline. With a final stumble, he crumpled to the ground. The knife in hand slipped away as he fell. You stare. Watching him lay defenseless, a newfound courage stirred within you, and for once in your life you know your stance. Now not cowering and licking the boots of those higher than you. You own up to the consequences, yet you still tremble. Your chest rose and fell with the rhythm of your heightened adrenaline as the footsteps of additional enforcers echoed.

You crawl to him, lowering yourself to his chest, and pray you still hear a heartbeat, and you do, it’s faint. Now kneeling, you carefully hoist his right arm over your shoulder, providing support for him to lean on. He was heavy, but his weight wasn’t overwhelming, allowing you to walk slowly with him. It was clear that he needed medical attention, and so did you. You can feel the cold blood dripping down the back of your head and the tight, painful bruise forming around your neck. You aren’t some hero, a normal citizen in a position of life and death—you’ll never become a foundation of hope in your city like in your childhood. 

And she never does. 

Your experience as a kid had given you an edge, as you used to steal from stalls and run away as they tried to chase you. Now, at the age of twenty, you thank your young self for your knowledge of the best shortcuts. It comes in handy when you hide with the unconscious man by your side, evading the enforcers who finally notice their dead brothers. From around the corner, you watch a group of them trek down the main street. You make your dash to the other side, going unnoticed.

“I got you, we’re almost there” Your voice croaks, not sure if you are trying to reassure the blacked-out man or yourself, probably the latter. There's a sign, not from Janna, but from The Last Drop. Dipping into the alley next to the tavern you head around back. Your arm that is wrapped around his slim torso is drying with his blood. More blood pools on your shoulder from his broken nose. You have to prop him up on the wall to open the cellar doors, and you both descend. 

Storage racks and unopened boxes flitter the basement. However, in the corner is a cot and stool. It’s the small medical area that you would use to aid people, usually, it was for small wounds like someone with a busted lip because they got into a fight in the bar.

So, with an injured rebel who hangs on your shoulder, you are well below practice. You manage to push the battered man off you and onto the cot. He slumps halfway off the bed, so you gently roll him back, carefully lifting his legs one by one to fully position him on the cot. Your hands tremble slightly as you work, the adrenaline running thin. 

You run a hand over your hair, feeling the back of your skull. As you bring your hand back to your eyes, you’re met with deep red staining your fingers. Your wound hits you, and you finally grasp the pounding headache you have. You slowly sit on the stool beside the cot.

“Shit” You mutter, your voice barely above a whisper, despite your possible concussion your priority is the very wanted rebel to your left. Take a deep breath to steady yourself and assess him.

His chest heaves in sparse, and uneven breaths through his busted nose. He’s still grasping onto the little energy his body has left to give. You rub up the bridge of your nose. The gravity of harboring a wanted revolutionary is not lost on you. Though at this moment, all that matters is saving his life, and not falling over while doing it. 

You lean onto your elbows while sitting, glancing at the empty bucket and washcloth, getting ready to work.

[psychotrenny]

While there is a great deal of similarity between Israel and Apartheid South Africa (down to the very close ties these countries shared), their strategies to delay inevitable collapse have turned out very different especially in terms of foreign policy. Like the South African government spent its last decade or so under Apartheid pursuing what Botha called his "Total Strategy", using every possible lever of influence to force the Frontline States into subservience; keeping them economically dependent on South Africa and politically acquiescent to Apartheid.

Military force was used for sure, but the only large scale deployments were the occupations of Namibia and southern Angola. Otherwise direct military action was restricted to commando raids, focused mainly on destroying infrastructure and carrying out political assassinations. South Africa instead preferred to act through local proxies, supporting (and often creating) various reactionary terrorist movements (i.e. UNITA in Angola, RENAMO in Mozambique, LLA in Lesotho) so that the destabilising effect of constant warfare would inhibit economic development, prevent unfriendly governments from taking any real action against apartheid and allow the offer of reduced terrorist support to be a bargaining chip in negotiations.

Economically South Africa used its control over transport infrastructure and large job market as both carrot and stick, rewarding compliant governments with better access to goods and increased migrant labour quotas (for many countries a vital source of income) while punishing disobedient nations with transport disruptions and reduced access to South African jobs. The specific mix of Military and Economic strategies would be tailored to suit the particular country at a particular time; for example South Africa's pressure on Angola was almost entirely military due to the lack of economic links between the two, while Swaziland's complete dependency made economics the primary South African approach. These different forms of pressure were also applied so as to compliment each other i.e. commandos and terrorist proxies would attack alternate railways and ports to ensure goods had to be transported through South Africa.

This was mainly done to extract political concessions. By 1980 the complete overthrow of unfriendly regimes was mostly off the table, so instead efforts were focused on changing the behaviour of the groups already in power. South Africa's main obsession was with the ANC boogeyman, constantly asking their neighbours to kick out ANC training camps and diplomatic ataches and forbid movement of ANC guerillas through their territory. However all manner of other demands were also made; economic integration, military access, opposition or at least neutrality towards UN sanctions etc. These were all attempts to drag the Frontline States back into South African dependency and under De Facto white Imperial rule; effectively undoing independence

In any case, as brutal as this "Total Strategy" was, it's a far cry from Israel's current approach which more resembles a genocidal temper tantrum. This is even in contrast to earlier Israeli strategies of coming to terms with neighbouring states and collaborationist movements; using Lebanon as an example they've gone from employing Christians Reactionaries as proxies to clumsily provoking the whole nation. There are structural reasons for this of course. South Africa needed it's black majority, both "at home" and in the neighboring states, as a reserve of cheap labour to extract cheap natural resources and buy globally uncompetitive manufactured goods. Indeed, the false independence of the "Bantustan" project was an attempt to remove South African citizenship from their entire black population and legally turn them all into migrant labourers. South Africa also has a much longer history as an independent Settler project, and while they recieved significant amounts of support from The West (especially the USA and doubly so under the more reactionary Presidents i.e. Ronald Reagan) this very much had its limitations; South Africa obviously couldn't wage a regional war of extermination even if wanted to. Meanwhile Israel's policy towards indigenous people is increasingly exterministic and there is no interest in maintaining their population; they even import migrant labourers from as far as Thailand to deny local Arabs. The country has also spent it's an entire existence as more or less a glorified NATO military base; they have more reason to favour a policy of genocidal war while hoping the US saves them from the consequences.

The point is that there are limits to how far you can take comparisons between South Africa and Israel. For all their similarities as Apartheid Settler States, were still different countries that occupied different contexts and so there are considerable socio-political differences between them that shouldn't just be ignored. You can't blandly use South African history to predict the course of Israel, or worse project current events in Israel onto a distorted version of South Africa's past. You won't develop a useful understanding of the world if you stick to broad assumptions and truisms; you need to actually investigate

[ailoda]

ᯓ ✈︎ favourite writers

@sometimesanalice

@honkytonk-hangman

@tip-top-cloud-surfer

@roosterbruiser

@tropes-and-tales

@dearsnow

ᯓ ✈︎ favourite fics

Leave A Light On - @sometimesanalice

When Bradley had given you a key to his place, what he probably didn’t expect was to find you there at 2 am sitting at the piano you’d helped him find.

I read this relatively recently and it's become one of my favourite fics ever. Choosing only one from @sometimesanalice is difficult, but I just cannot not include this. Disregarding the fact that the plot in and of itself is a warm hug in written form, the build-up is so subtle but so well-crafted; it takes you on a journey that doesn't feel out of place or takes away from the main storyline. I find fluff to be a bit more straightforward to write and read as it's typically relatively easy to instil fluffy, lovey feelings, but the feelings @sometimesanalice instilled through this is unmatched—it goes beyond fluffy feelings in a way that is so difficult to describe and is just so beautifully written that it's difficult to put into words. Ever read something and been so close to crying because it's written in a way that makes you feel how loved the main characters are and you want to experience that yourself but you don't think that that level of love and devotion exists? Tada! I would have to say that this is definitely a top fic overall across all the fandoms I read. The literature community best be pleased that this writer is not a published author, because they'd be taking ALL the money.

Truly, Madly, Deeply - @tongue-like-a-razor

Bradley Bradshaw is madly in love with a married woman.

This was one of the first fics I thought of when compiling my Top Gun favourites, and definitely is amongst my top 5 fics throughout all fandoms. It's so wonderfully written in that the plot gives absolutely nothing away until the end. Bradley's characterisation, and how it bounces off the reader's, is done so well and makes him so endearing; he's charming and flirty without coming across too forced or rehearsed—which is difficult to write. Similarly, Lena has a knack that's perfectly illustrated here of being able to build romantic tension through subtle moments. The banter between them both feels so natural and engaging, and contributes to the sense of intimacy that pushes the plot forward. It's such as fun and fluffy read that I fell in love immediately, and I continue to re-read just to nail the point home that I'm incredibly lonely :)

It's That Simple - @tropes-and-tales

Praise Kink.

Where to start with this gem. This fic overall manages to brilliantly balance emotional depth with humour, with the lighthearted tone and comedic moments helping to keep the fic feeling fun without undermining the serious feelings involved—a testament to the excellent writing and curated narrative flow. Another thing that is done so well is portraying the complexities of relationships, capturing both the mundane and extraordinary aspects of intimacy. I also really enjoyed the portrayal of male insecurity when it comes to intimacy too—something I rarely come across. Everything about this fic, from the humour to the complexities of insecurity and how it feeds into intimacy, is done so tastefully and portrayed in such a heartwarming way that I remember reading this for the first time and feeling empty after finishing, wishing there was more.

12:29AM - @dearsnow

Your normally sober husband comes home drunk out of his mind after a party, and you can’t say that he’s any less sweet.

I'm pretty sure this was my first foray into Bob Floyd fics, and I can't say I regret it. This is the perfect blend of fluff and humour that just leaves you feeling all warm and giggly and fuzzy. One key bit I love is Bob's characterisation; the perfect balance of fluff, love, and humour that perfectly captures his character so well. The contrast between the Bob we see - composed, responsible—and his drunken, unfiltered self is hilariously endearing. A definite favourite Bob Floyd fic and one I always come back to when I want a fic that will just wrap me in a warm hug and tell me it's all okay.

When Jake Met Polly - @honkytonk-hangman

 Jake likes to flirt with his Air Traffic Controller.

When compiling this list, I knew that @honkytonk-hangman needed to be included, but boy was it difficult to choose only ONE fic. I think I'm happy with my decision. I absolutely adore the seamless back-and-forth between the reader and Jake, and really adds to the chemistry. But while the overall plot is light-hearted and comedic, you can definitely feel a subtle emotional undercurrent where the romance develops slowly but steadily. The slow build of playfulness that then leads into genuine moments of connection makes the romantic moments feel earned, and it doesn't feel rushed or forced. Their ability to write in a way that builds undeniable chemistry while interweaving moments of vulnerability is just *chef's kiss*.

My Darlin’ - @mydarlingrose

When the daggers are spontaneously relocated in Texas in for a mission and have no where to stay, Jake lets them stay at his place and discover Jake has been keeping a secret from them for a very long time.

This is the fic that started my secret-wife and jake-is-a-girl-dad shtick that has prevailed to this day. It's a great blend of heart-melting fluff and humour. I love how you can still see the bits of Hangman that we see in the movie, and the banter between the Daggers, while also tapping into a different side. They both don't feel mutually exclusive and instead compliment one another. Definitely one to starve off my lack of affection :)

[anonymous-existences]

DCXDP prompt : 4? 5? Whatever.

Yk how we all collectively at some point in our minds Killed Amity Park and made Danny get Adopted by the Wayne's? You can't deny. Anyways this is not that— the only thing here is the Danny gets adopted by the Wayne's part with little additions.

Danny Fenton's Parents Jack and Maddie Fenton going to Jail for Obvious Child Neglect & Attempted Murder + Child Abuse(Vivisecting Danny). Danny and Jasmine are far too young for this. Dan and Dani are de-aged and are acting like Danny's Twin(Dan) and little sister ofcourse. It depends if Dan is there, cuz in most of my AUs he's redeemed but that's not the same for everyone.

Ages:

Dani : 7-8

Danny : 15

Dan : 15

Jazz : 17

Anyways Imma just...

Imma start this with a chapter like prompt because I don't know much on how to actually make a descriptive prompt and more of a go with the flow type of— yeah imma just write:

Danny held onto Jazz's arm as if it was his last line of Sanity, he hasn't been able to sleep due to nightmares of Jack and Maddie's Cruelty, Understandably enough Jazz had Danny in her lap clutched to her chest in her arms. Her Gaze hard and serious, ready to defend and talk without mercy to whoever talks to her that she didn't trust. Apparently Jack had a distant cousin, Bruce Wayne assigned as a God Father as well.

Jazz held onto Danny's hands sharing her warmth that contrasted to the cold temperate of Danny's body. He buried himself further into her chest yearning for more of her warmth shutting out the noises he's hearing as they sat in the courtroom. The judge soon in between the two billionaires, Vlad Masters and Bruce Wayne, the Judge asks softly, with their gentle voice to Jazz.

Jazz looks up her hardened gaze that seemed frantic and anxious immediately softening upon looking up at the trusted adult, "Tell me Jasmine, I will give you the option to choose." The judge finally says, "But—" Vlad tried to protest but was immediately shut down. Dan shifted uncomfortably and holding onto Danny and Jazz's arm desperately, also anxious. He does not want to be with Vlad. Dani was in his lap also trembling. The siblings are all anxious and Jazz is the only one they could trust to make the decision.

Dan looked up at Jazz, her eyes tainted with darkened eye-bags due to nightmares as well but she's staying strong for her baby siblings. ".... I choose the safest option..." Jazz started with a sigh, looking down for a moment at Danny who looked exhausted and reliant to Jazz's warmth. "I choose Bruce Wayne." She looked up with a determined gaze at Bruce and the Judge. "JASMINE—". Vlad started to protest and whipping his head to Jazz's seat.

Jazz felt, Dan and Dani flinch, Jazz grit her teeth, "Shut up Vladimir Masters. You are not gonna be me and my sibling's guardian. Never in my life will I let that happen." She breathes out, despite her form trembling a trusted adult placed their hand on Jazz's shoulder allowing jazz to relax knowing she and her siblings are protected. "Very Well." The judge merely says hitting the Gavel made of hardwood on the sound-block placed on the judge's table hence announcing the final decision.

It all went too fast, well too fast for the Fenton's to now new adopted Wayne Siblings, Danny and Dan stuck close to each other, Danny was exhausted and they could all tell by his constant groaning and almost accidentally scratching his not yet healed stitches especially the Scar of his attempted Vivisection. "Shhh...." Jazz just kisses Danny's hair and made them all lean on her body, Dan's Head on Jazz's Lap, Dani in Danny's Lap and Danny's head resting on Jazz's shoulder on the backseat of the car.

Jasmine Jade Fenton, now Jasmine Jade Wayne sighed in relief, feeling her body relax. She eyes the rearview mirror and saw Bruce who was driving them personally, His eyes was soft, a gaze that could only mean care and worry. Jazz stiffened for a moment and analyzed Bruce's Current body language, She could tell he was relieved. She guesses that being able to understand his emotions quite literally is being part of her liminality, being somewhat of an empath helps her understand other's emotions quickly.

"Hey... You guys comfortable back there...?" Bruce softly asked and Jazz nodded and smiled. "Yes... Thank you... Uhm... Sir Wayne." She responds, the hardness of her tone now long relieved as she's successfully kept her family away from Vlad. "Just call me Bruce.." Bruce smiled back and Jazz nodded with appreciation.

Jazz looked down over to her siblings, all fast asleep as they could finally relax their bodies. 'I won't let anyone hurt any of you...' she thinks to herself, tears welling softly down her cheeks. Quickly she wipes them off before Bruce could notice, she took a deep breathe and quivered slightly at the thought of the future.

[End of Prompt(?)]

Edit/Additional:Sam and Tucker are alive, AMITY is alive and ghosts are now in JL tracker but they've become much more peaceful and cooperative and refusing to state who their king is due to his request of "Animosity" (Danny? Or Dan— or Clockwork as a Ghost King Proxy)

I'm someone who adds Dash/Danny ship but here idgf— Sam helps Danny and the others adjust to Gotham(I'm thinking of my HC where she's actually a Gothamite) and Tucker being Tucker, the Tech Geek, emotional support and absolutely loves his PDA

That's all I could think of! This is probably an angsty type of healing, Identity Reveals, Found Family. Hurt/Comfort, angst with a happy ending(?), Familial Love/Platonic Love. :33 have fun with this prompt!

Please tag me if anyone finds a fic like this or someone writes a fic of this! >:33

[midnighvtm4ss]

A scenario I often imagine is Arthur drawing you while you show him your favorite music. Him simply worshiping your body, making you his muse and capturing it in his journal forever ♡⁠˖

thank you so much for your request !

You’re my first request im super super excited !! I hope you like it and that I met your expectations even though it’s a quick read <3

highhonor!arthur morgan x f!reader

warnings: maybe a bit suggestive but mostly fluff, wrote this on my notes app so grammar errors for sure sorry :(

wc: 1.2k

“Wanna put some music on f’me sweetheart ?”

The deep rumble of Arthur’s voice muffled in the crook of your neck broke the silent shared bubble of intimacy that surrounded both your naked bodies.

His hands holding you close to him, tracing abstract shapes on your back as you both came down from your highs, a very well-deserved peace after the events of the past month.

The mood around your fellow camp members was slowly starting to get better after escaping the cold claws of Colter’s harsh climate, which trapped the gang in an endless white desert of snow for several weeks with little to no food and an abundance of regret regarding the failed robbery and the miraculous escape from Blackwater.

Although the evening air was still a bit chilly in Horseshoe Overlook camp, being only the early start of spring, one could sense hope warming all your hearts, melting away some of the sorrow and disappointment that the failed robbery and the loss of young Jenny and the Callander brothers left you.

Dutch, more than anyone else, clinging to this glimmer of hope, trying to keep everyone’s faith in the gang.

The wind whistling through the flaps of your and Arthur’s shared tent made a shiver run up your naked body as you made your way from your shared cot where you two were laying, to Dutch’s gramophone, which was opposite the bed, kindly lent to Arthur for a few days.

A small thin cloud of dust and dirt rose up from where your hands flipped through Dutch’s records, eyes scanning meticulously trying to find some of your favourite ones.

Behind you, you could hear the shifting sound of the thick cotton sheets as Arthur moved into a sitting position, his eyes automatically glued to your seductive form like a moth to a flame.

“A ha ! Here it is” you softly exclaimed as you finally found the record you were looking for, the one that never failed to put your mind at ease whenever Dutch would play it around camp.

Sliding it out of the wooden box, careful not to scratch it, you put it on.

As the soft melody of ‘The Flower Duet’ filled the rather small space of your tent you started to sway to the rhythm of the song.

“Sous le dôme épais, où le blanc jasmin à la rose s'assemble”

Turning back to look at Arthur, you found him already looking at you, his aqua irises mixing with yours for a second before quickly looking down his lap and scribbling in his worn leather journal, his face relaxed and a small hint of a smile making its way into his chapped lips.

“What you writing in there ?” you asked softly, body still swaying to the sweet rhythm of your favorite song, a shy smile creeping up your face.

“Nothin’, just some quick…” he took a moment to finish his sentence as he looked back at you, eyes flying to catch every single inch and detail of you.

How the light from the small lamp on the night table made your skin glow and your curves even more defined with the contrast from the darkness of the night sky outside, your french braids, all untidy from the intimacy shared before, shifting with every move you made.

In this moment in his eyes, you were the definition of a goddess, his poor mortal heart struggling to keep an even pace near you.

“…thoughts.” he exhaled the last word, licking his chapped lips before flipping through some pages of his journal seemingly filled with various sketches.

“Ah! Glissons en suivant doucement glissons, de son flot charmant”

As a comfortable silence fell between the two of you with only the soft melodic sound floating in the air and the scraping of Arthur’s pencil on paper you continue to sway, your mind floating away carried by the suave voice of the singer, unaware that the man sitting on your bed is engraving this peaceful and intimate moment forever on paper for his eyes and his heart only to see.

“Dans l'onde frémissante, d’une main nonchalante, gagnons le bord”

His eyes were bright and focused on how to draw your mesmerizing face, afraid of not portraying your unworldly beauty right on paper, so focused that he was slightly surprised when your soft arms wrapped around his torso as you climbed back to your cot, planting a small kiss on his bearded cheek making his heart skip a few beats.

As you rested your head on his shoulder you looked down on his lap expecting to find a doodle or a quick thought scribbled away in his perfect cursive handwriting, but instead, your eyes were met with a full sketched page of you dancing near the gramophone.

With cheeks of a deep red and wide eyes, you looked at Arthur, trying to say something but failing as your heart filled with even more adoration for the not so cold hearted outlaw beside you.

“Sous le dôme épais où le blanc jasmin, ah !Descendons, ensemble!”

Your relationship with Arthur was relatively new, barely six months, and in those six months of relationship you would often catch Arthur sitting somewhere quiet and isolated with his journal, sometimes writing stuff down or sometimes moving his pencil in quick strokes which you guessed were doodles of stuff he would see every day, but you would have never guessed how talented he was in his art.

“Well it ain’t much of a picture” he murmured, a faint, almost imperceptible blush covering the apple of his cheeks, feeling self conscious of his skills under your attentive gaze.

“Oh you silly man, it’s beautiful, Arthur” you quickly reprimanded him with an awestruck tone, your index finger gently caressing the drawing careful not to put much pressure and smudge the graphite version of you.

“Can I see more of your drawings ?” you asked him, meeting his unsure gaze which was already on you, with your hopeful lovesick one. After a quick internal struggle, he fully put his journal in your hands, giving you full permission to explore this new side of him.

As you flipped through the pages you started to see fewer drawings of plants, animals and views and more drawings of you, from portraits to full body.

He carefully captured in each drawing every single detail of you, your beauty stuck graphite to paper, making you look like a lady every painter would fight for the opportunity to draw.

With each passing page, you also noticed how some drawings featured you in more intimate moments, some when you were asleep or braiding your hair, but one in particular made you stop your flipping, heart racing as a deep blush rushed to your whole face.

On a rather empty page, on the left bottom corner there was a drawing of you naked, splayed on the bed, your expression one of pleasure with your hands seemingly caressing your body.

You stared at the drawing for a full five seconds before Arthur noticed what you were looking at and snatched closed his journal in embarrassment his eyes avoiding yours.

“Well, that’s for another time sweetheart.”

[bu-blegh-ost]

Something just occured to me. Circling through each beautiful moment in the campaign, I noticed a pattern. Gillion never initiates hugs. Every time, no matter if he is the one consoling or the one being consoled, he never is the first person to offer an embrace. And I think it says something.

When Jay wants to hug Gill, she always asks first. She opens her arms as an invitation and always gives him a clear sign that she wants to be close to him. And any time she offers, anytime Gillion gets permission, any time he feels like he is allowed one, he clings to her desperately and fully, starved for it, finding himself unable to let go too quickly, savoring it like he isn't sure when he is going to be allowed to have another.

Chip's hugs are unprompted and usually done with just as much desperation. They are completely controlled by emotion, and are a form of a language that Chip uses when love and appreciation cannot be expressed by words anymore. Chip never asks for hugs, he takes them. He needs them, so he is scared to ask like Jay does, cause asking means risking to be denied. It is safer to steal it. In contrast Jay is still asking cause she is still afraid of taking love for granted.

But they both, in the end, ask for hugs and comfort in their own ways. Gillion doesn't. He wants it, he needs it so often, but he never dares to ask for it. Cause he still treats love as a reward that he needs to earn, that he is not allowed to ask for, that can't be had, unless he does something that makes him worthy of being loved. Affection and love is a currency and Gill was taught that he needs to fight for it. That it's something he should never dare to request on his own.

How many times on their journey did he need to feel someone else's body close to his, but his lips were sealed, suffering in silence, thinking he Has not done well enough to be given the privalage of being comforted? How many aches and worries did he swallow down and burried deep inside? How many old wounds is he trying to fill with every single hug he receives, when someone else offers it to him? When he dares to take it, when he grips their clothes in an iron grip, trying to make the best out of it before it's gone? Cause who knows when someone allows him to have that again?

The only person Gill ever hugged first was Edyn, the first time in Allport. It was done with the same ferocity of a hurt child, of a little boy who Has been going through hell and his sister is his only remedy. The only person that always lets him have love for free. The only one he knows he can hug for sure. One who for so many years has been the only source of comfort.

The rest of the world is uncertain and even with Chip and Jay, Gill still strives to fulfill the unsaid cryteria of when he is worthy of their affection.

But I know that with enough reassurance and care, he will be able to ask for love himself and start treating his crew as people he can fall back on. And just so you know, the moment in which Gillion is the first one to hug Chip or Jay is going to make me cry like a little baby.

_______

Edit: more thoughts occured

Did you notice that Jay always seems to match Gill and Chip when it comes to hugging? She never asks Chip for hugs and takes them the same way Chip does, no matter if she is the one seeking or offering comfort. And the same goes with Gill. Regardless of whether she is the one in the need of comfort or she is the one comforting, she always verbally communicates a desire to hug first. Like she kinda feels that this is what Gillion needs from her to accept it.

So maybe Jay is actually always trying to search for the most effective way to get a hug, to increase her chances. She believes she has to, cause she cannot take love for granted anymore, not after Ava's death. She took her for granted and now she is gone. So now Jay struggles to freely express her own desires and instead clings to all the ways that she thinks guarantee her the affection she needs, an act of desperation in its own right. A silent plea for acceptance.

Each Captain on this ship treats each embrace as a treasure to savor and protect. It's a result of their past and their fears, but also a proof of unyielding love they have for each other. It's beautiful and one day the same love that they still dread to take, will heal them.

[daddykinkkinard]

! crossposting from my twitter !

bucktommy costume analysis 👔

hi ! i'm a fashion student and am really interested in costume design so i wanted to do a (long) post on tommy's style and how i think buck might be influenced by it in s8 as seen in "buck's britches." :))

[about tommy]

tommy's wardrobe is entirely functional and indicative of his dedication to his work. it's practical, useful, and speaks of his can-do attitude.

all his signature clothes (henleys, shackets, canvas jackets) have historical traces to being used as workwear.

(1) henleys - this one, ironically in the philippines it has its own term in our local language. it's called a camisa de chino and is used by laborers. although i live in a different country, i'm sure its use case is still the same for other countries as it's historically deemed the workman's undergarment.

also: yes. tommy is technically right. there were henleys in the 80s. even in the 1880s. so what we're learning here now folks, is that he's a smartass little shit.

(2) shackets - historically, also an item used by the working class. they were mostly worn to prevent any possible stains on inner clothes from their work (i.e. dirt, grease, grime, etc.)

(3) canvas jacket - although this was only seen in 7x04, it's more likely that he still owns a lot more. (waxed) canvas jackets are traditional workwear often used as weatherproof outerwear or heavy duty rainwear.

as a form of fun speculation, i'd like to think some of these items are also in his closet:

contrast collar canvas jacket

an authentic flight jacket

overalls, but only for when he fixes up the car

denim trucker jacket

if anything, who better to listen to when talking about tommy's clothes than tommy himself !

here's lou's cameo for me describing tommy's closet as rugged, practical and useful :))

[about "buck's britches"]

now to the "buck's britches" post. two notable items of clothing:

the famous flight jacket

baker pants.

now here's the thing about buck:

buck doesn't wear utilitarian clothing. in fact, he doesn't wear woven clothing all that much. he wears knit. knit polos. sweaters. hoodies. he is not a workwear person. in fact: he's a comfort person.

that's his primary reason for style that's a testament to his own character. buck is widely recognized as the more radiant and funny character. he has charisma and is very inviting, which is accompanied by his choice in clothing.

soft, warm, comfortable.

which goes back to the photo ostark posted on his instagram story.

(1) flight jacket - here's where i have to go and burst everyone's bubble for a bit. this is only a flight jacket because it's labelled as such. but categorically, it isn't. flight jackets are the classic term for bomber jackets.

bomber jackets (and flight jackets) were workwear used by the military, characterized by garterized cuffs and hems and short bodices. for pilots, they were interchangeable. but modernly, they have some more definable features.

characteristically, flight (or aviator) jackets are leather with shearling or sherpa collars. bomber jackets are the modernized version taking the silhouette and cuff designs and making them more accessible through material choice (linen—like buck—nylon, silk)

(2) baker pants - as the name suggests, it's a piece of kitchen workwear often in twill (which i'd assume is what oliver is wearing), denim, cotton or linen. it's characterized by the topstitching to outline the pockets and diagonal pocket openings (vs. the usual curve).

so very evidently: buck has been influenced by tommy's style. he's wearing woven material versus knit for one. if i were hopeful, i'd say they're exploring one another's style because they're sharing a closet.

[character analysis]

woven fabric as a material is sturdy. it's more structured and does not stretch. think: cotton, linen, rayon, wool, denim. what this means for buck is that, by virtue of being tommy's boyfriend he is introduced to structure, groundedness and maturity.

tommy's closet is filled with utilitarian clothing and workwear. he, as a character, is known to be emotionally grounded and mature and it translates to his clothing.

buck adapting the defining features of his wardrobe shows how much tommy has helped him get off his hamster wheel.

in fact, even the inverse can be noted. when buck asks for a second chance and practices communication towards tommy. he's wearing a woven buttondown. and in emphasizing tommy's desire to make buck comfortable, he's in a hoodie. neither of which are common for one another.

buck and tommy, even through subtle clothing choices are becoming part of one another's world and that makes me so soft as someone whose love language is fashion.

[wishful thinking]

perhaps maybe we could see tommy in a fully casual sweat set? i know that they might be protecting lfjr but man. if i see a hoodie on him. (nqueso, if you can sneak me a photo of him in knitwear ill love you forever i just want to prove my theory right i wont even post it)

if they are putting buck in this sort of attire, my guess (or hope) is that they have tommy ease up too.

it would be nice to show buck's effect on tommy as much as tommy's effect on buck because tommy's an established character and has a backstory that the writers could explore.

so if the 9-1-1 costume designers ever see this:

please put tommy in a sweat set. or a hoodie. (not a zip-up one, im talking real hoodie). i'm willing to compromise with overalls. i see what you're doing with buck's wardrobe, and love it. maybe tommy's could soften up too :))

thanks for reading ! 🫶

[sylvainperrierfotografi]

5 Techniques pour la Photo Noir et Blanc

L’Art de la Photographie Noir et Blanc : 5 Techniques Essentielles 5 Techniques pour la Photo Noir et Blanc La photographie en noir et blanc transcende la simple absence de couleur pour capturer des contrastes, des textures et des formes d’une manière qui interpelle l’émotion et l’imagination. C’est une expression artistique qui exige une compréhension fine des nuances de gris, du jeu entre…

[komsomolka]

Since the early days of the Soviet Union, the Bolsheviks and later communist parties everywhere placed a great emphasis on culture and on the contribution cultural workers could make to the building of socialism. One of the first things the Soviet Army of occupation did at the end of the war, was attempt to resuscitate cultural activity in a war-ravaged and demoralised Germany. The one thing the Russians could never get their head around was how a country with such a high level of culture, a nation that had produced a Bach and a Beethoven, a Goethe and a Schiller could have carried out such barbaric crimes in other countries. The Soviet army had cultural officers attached to each battalion and the war had hardly ended before they began seeking out cultural workers and encouraging them to take up their batons, musical instruments, pens and paintbrushes again. Temporary cinemas were established, orchestras formed, theatres opened and publishing houses set up.

In contrast to West Germany, in the Soviet Zone and later in the GDR, there was also an early emphasis on making films about the Nazi period as a means of educating and informing a nation ignorant of or in denial about what had happened. [...]

The GDR had more theatres per capita than any other country in the world and in no other country were there more orchestras in relation to population size or territory. With 90 professional orchestras, GDR citizens had three times more opportunity of accessing live music, than those in the FRG, 7.5 times more than in the USA and 30 times more than in the UK. It also had one of the world’s highest book publishing figures. This small country with its very limited economic resources, even in the fifties was spending double the amount on cultural activities as the FRG.

Every town of 30,000 or more inhabitants in the GDR had its theatre and cinema as well as other cultural venues. [...] Subsidised tickets to the theatre and concerts were always priced so that everyone could afford to go. Many factories and institutions had regular block-bookings for their workers which were avidly taken up. School pupils from the age of 14 were also encouraged to go to the theatre once a month and schools were able to obtain subsidised tickets. [...]

All towns and even many villages had their own ‘Houses of Culture’, owned by the local communities and open for all to use. These were places that offered performance venues, workshop space and facilities for celebratory gatherings, discos, drama groups etc. There was a lively culture of local music and folk-song groups, as well as classical musical performance.

Stasi State or Socialist Paradise? The German Democratic Republic and What Became of It by Bruni de la Motte & John Green with Seumas Milne (Contributor), 2015.

[ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral]

Hello everyone! I'm back with another Merlin au! This one is a horror-themed au for spooky season! Enjoy!

This au is Inspired by the story of King Pedro I of Portugal and Ines de Castro (which is a heartbreaking story that deserves to have more people talking about it), and it's set in a world where Merlin and Arthur are already together in season 3. After a magic reveal gone wrong, Merlin's magic was revealed while Uther was still alive, leading to Uther ordering Merlin's execution while Arthur was away on a hunting trip. When Arthur returns, he's met with the news of Merin's death, but he refuses to believe such horrible news until he rushes into Gaius's chambers, screaming for Merlin, only to find Gaius and Gwen sobbing over Merlin's body.

Arthur is overcome by grief and, after a few hours sitting in Gaius's chambers staring at Merlin's unnaturally still form with tears streaming down his face, Arthur marches off to face his father, to make him pay for his crimes. Uther is, of course, furious over Arthur getting so worked up over a treacherous sorcerer, but Arthur fights him like a madman, fueled by grief and rage.

In the end, Arthur wins the duel, and while the shocked lords and knights watching the whole ordeal were expecting Arthur to run his father through with is blade, Arthur does something that no one expects. He uses his blade to carve open Uther's chest, cutting out his heart, saying that Uther had been so heartless as to take Arthur's love from him, this ought to be his fate.

While the lords and knights were all shocked and horrified at the display, there was little they could do besides acknowledge the prince as their new ruler. Within a couple days, Uther's funeral and Arthur's coronation were organized, but Arthur still felt numb, even as the crown was placed on his head. He could almost feel the empty consort's throne next to him, where Merlin was always supposed to be, mocking him viciously.

But then, an idea formed in Arthur's not-quite-sane-anymore mind. Merlin had always deserved to sit at his side, to be honored as any consort to a king should be. Arthur had to see this through, to ensure that Merlin received the honors that he was denied during life.

Arthur ordered the servants to, under Gaius's supervision, collect Merlin's body, dress him in royal robes, and have him carried to the throne room. There was no way to make any of this right again, no way to make Arthur feel whole once more, but there was a way to make sure that Merlin's memory and all that he meant to Arthur lived on.

When the doors to the throne room finally opened, shocked and horrified gasps rose up from the assembled court at the sight that awaited them. There, being carried in on a stone slab, lay Merlin's pale, prone body, dressed in royal finery from Arthur's own wardrobe. His colorless pallor against the rich red robes created a striking and distinctly disturbing contrast, which was only heightened by the colorful jewelry that accompanied the outfit.

Arthur imagined what a magnificent sight Merlin would have made if he were alive and yearned for such a vision with all of his heart. But the reality of the situation was as grim as the expressions of the knights carrying Merlin's body. Merlin was gone, taking Arthur heart and all of his joy with him, and all that was left for Arthur to feel was somber determination to make at least one thing right: Merlin would be honored and remembered as a king.

The crowd's shocked whispering didn't cease as the procession passed them and made its way towards the thrones, reverently placing the slab in front of the steps to the throne, but they were shocked into silence as Arthur picked up Merlin's body and cradled him gently before carrying him over to the consort's throne and placing him on it with the greatest care.

The court was silenced at the disturbing sight of a limp body sitting in the queen's throne, but horrified gasps shot up from the crowd as the king suddenly turned around to face them, his eyes bloodshot and glaring at them all.

"You, all of you, stood by and let my father do this! And now, you will show your respect to the man you had forsaken. Merlin was everything to me, and I never had any intention to rule without him by my side. Living or dead, if I am king, then so is he."

Arthur slowly made his way back to his own throne and sat down, a picture of royal power. His eyes darted over to Merlin for a second, before shifting back over the crowd. Still, was it just Arthur's desperate imagination, or was there now a slight flush in Merlin's skin that wasn't there earlier?

"Just as you all knelt before me and took an oath of fealty, you will do the same for him. You will give him all of the honor he deserved in life."

At first, the lords in attendance just looked at him in utter disbelief, but the fierce glare Arthur sent them confirmed that the king was being entirely serious. Slowly, each of the lords knelt before the consort's throne, not daring to look up at the disturbing sight before them, and recited their oaths of fealty, feeling the king's burning gaze on them all the while.

Finally, after all of the lords had taken their oaths, a pale Geoffrey presented Arthur with the consort's crown, a treasure that had not been seen by anyone since Ygraine's passing. Arthur gingerly lifted the crown and made his way over to Merlin.

As he stepped closer, Arthur wanted to weep. Perhaps it was some cruel trick his mind was playing on him, put it looked like Merlin's color had returned to him, making him appear like he was only sleeping, like he would wake up and everything would be fine again.

Taking a steadying breath to hold his tears at bay, Arthur finally stepped right in front of Merlin, holding the crown over his motionless head. It wasn't fair, Arthur decided. It wasn't fair that Arthur had finally become king, was finally in a place where he could openly profess his love for Merlin, but Merlin wasn't here by his side to see it!

Still, he could let everyone else see his love for Merlin. Slowly, he lowered the crown onto Merlin's head, letting rest on his limp head. Arthur took a shaking step back, trembling with rage and grief as he looked at Merlin, bedecked in royal robes and wearing the crown that Arthur had always longest to give him. Arthur's own mind still mocked him, making Merlin look almost alive again, like he was only sleeping, when Arthur when that Merlin was gone, and all that was left of him was this pale, empty shell and a terrible hollowness in Arthur's chest where his heart was supposed to be.

Arthur tenderly gasped Merlin's chin, tilting his head up to face him. This was goodbye, Arthur knew it. After this, Merlin would be laid to rest with all the honors of a king, and Arthur would be left ruling over his kingdom alone and heartbroken for the rest of his days. With tears flowing freely down his face, Arthur leaned down and pressed a kiss onto Merlin's lips. Once again, Arthur's mind took pity on him, as he could swear that Merlin's lips were warm with life under his own.

Arthur drew back, gazing at his love's face for what might be the last time, attempting to commit every minute detail to memory, such that Merlin's likeness would never fade from his mind even as the years went by. As Arthur eyes scanned over Merlin's face, however, there was one thing that struck him as odd before his mind caught up to what he was seeing and his heart, which had felt cold and frozen fir days, started beating at a frantic rhythm.

Because Merlin's eyes were open.

(Yes, Merlin was immortal the whole time, but his magic was just taking a while to heal him lol!)

And that's all for now! I hope you all enjoyed this au! Let me know if you'd like to see a continuation!

And, as always, thank you for reading through my ramblings! :D

[pmamtraveller]

GABRIEL DE COOL - THE MUSE, 1895

The artwork typically symbolizes the classic representation of a muse, the source of inspiration and creativity, commonly portrayed as a perfect female form. This is consistent with the wider artistic tradition in which muses represent artistic inspiration in general rather than a particular person.

The soft pastel colours in the palette give off a dream-like ambience. The backdrop has muted colours that amplify the subjects without diverting attention. The utilization of light and shadow emphasizes the outline of the figures and adds a tranquil feeling. In general, the painting represents an idealized view of femininity, capturing the essence of inspiration and artistic muse through its harmonious composition and delicate rendering.

In contrast to Cool's contemporaries like Gustave Courbet, who emphasized realism in their depictions of social issues without any embellishments, de Cool's art tends to lean towards the ethereal. On the other hand, artists like Eugène Delacroix favoured emotional expression and dramatic themes, but de Cool preferred a tranquil and classical elegant depiction, reflecting the ideals of beauty of the Royal Academy in the late 19th century.

Even though Cool was a well-known artist in the late 1800s, there is limited biographical information available about him, causing speculation about his influences and personal life. The absence of documentation creates a mysterious atmosphere around his identity, making it challenging to entirely grasp his artistic motivations and the environment in which he operated.

[jollmaster]

trivia: Charlie in full-human form

• time of birth: first half of the 18th ct.

• in human form looks like a lovely blonde (like father lol)

• wears purple as the color of reign; doesn't wear shoes because she's used to be barefoot in the shape of goat

• contrasting makeup tends lo local fashion among women

• the youngest of Lucifer and Lilith's children (at the turn of the millennium they got tired of making offspring)

• for many years Charlie didn't feel pity for sinners, lived in luxury and generally didn't consider this part of the underworld worthy of attention, until one day she went on governor Glasya-Labolas' hunt in Wood of the Self-Murderers

• Charlie has a purpose (to run the shelter)

• never married, but divorced

• has given birth to two goats and occasionally yells because of this, but she loves them and treats exactly as any mother would treat children

• Charlie doesn't always have the right ideas about mortals and humanity, but she tries hard

main gang, actual designs: Vaggie, Charlie, Angel Dust, Niffty, sir Pentious, Cherri Bomb, Husk, Alastor

as mortals: Vaggie [María de la Vega], Angel Dust [Antonio Costa], Niffty [Nadia], Cherri Bomb [Saoirse], sir Pentious [Spencer], Husk, Alastor

[beachf4gz]

I recently was able to restart my adhd meds after a few months of them being out of stock so I have been reading wayyy more DE fanfic again, and something I find kind of interesting is how prominant certain in-game choices are in regards to Harry's fanon characterisation. I understand why the communist route and sorry-cop copotype are by far the most common ways ppl write Harry- I think most people playing the game end up identifying with those dialogue options and therefor end up following those routes (and its a fairly big time commitment to replay with the intention of seeing all the different route you could take)- but I do sometimes really wish there was more writing for the different copotypes and political orientations because the ways Harry's internal processes and position in the world are affected are REALLY interesting to me. I completely understand being uncomfortable (or just uninterested) by the idea of exploring an ultraliberal, moralist or facist character- I think fanfiction as a medium is compelling in part because you are conveying your own relationship to a piece of work, including your own moral reactions and beliefs applied upon the work's characters- but I think DE includes the option to *play as* a character occupying these roles (rather than just presenting them through npcs) in order to invite players to experience and examine the act of being these things both internally and within social contexts.

I think Harry can be fascinating and heartbreaking as a character study in any of these routes, and the gameplay can feel radically different between them even following the same plot. For example, I found the moralist route deeply evocative. It has an uneasy, desperate feeling to it as someone struggles to occupy the in-group, to live in normalcy and civility in the face of their own world ending. It creates an odd position for Harry as accutely disabled and vulnerable- contrasting percieved social acceptance and safety with the tearing of reality "as it should be" at the failure of the social mechanisms he believes in to meet their promise of happiness or safety. The gameover at the statue left me genuinely stunned when I first got it, its sort of horrifying in it's bluntness, and I found it really upsetting in this specific raw way. Its an excellent way of demonstrating, emotionally, the failure and cruelty of liberalism upon those who believe in it- but also its devastating for Harry's character as he is presented through the moralist dialogue. I also found it rlly compelling how the honor cop dialogue options explore Harry as a person seeking dignity in the face of their social ostracisation, and how apocalypse-cop explores the social modes of someone who has fallen out of the "normal reality space", how impaired his ability to live is in response to a full awareness of overwhelming, total threat. I'm not good at writing essays and stuff, idk if I'm explaining this well, but all of the routes are written with such an intimate and personal examination of how it *feels* to occupy different modes of being- of the way the world will treat you if you interact with it in certains ways, or the person you will be and the emotional shape your life will form depending on your framework. I think its kind of abstract and difficult to write properly, but I think its something you can reaaaallly sink yourself into if you find Harry a compelling character- I personally do (lmao) and its something I love seeing whenever I get the chance. I get the appeal of Harry as an exccentric mentally ill communist whose political beliefs are, in social contexts, extentions of his rejection of social norms and position as othered under liberal belief- I do also just enjoy the fact that this version of Harry is only one mode of being he could occupy, and the varying ways in which he is socially, emotionally or cognitively enabled/disabled by other modes of being, and the position the game takes in exploring them all as choices or as routes and reactions by the same person- as someone afloat and disempowered in the world attempting to find "how to live".