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neonoddeye · 2 years ago

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Heart-Stealer | Law x Gn! Reader

A/N: I will be utilizing my all-time favorite trope for this: the “there’s only one bed” trope! Yes, it’s cheesy. No, I do not care. As a side note, I wrote this for an OC I made, but I’m rewriting it bc I know no one would read it if I left it as is.

CONTENT INCLUDES: …sharing a bed (it’s sfw, just cuddling)

“Are you sure this is okay, Law?” You ask with a crack in your voice. “I can always bug the staff for a new room…”

“It’s fine, y/n-ya”, Law replies, “I’d rather us stick together here.”

“Fair enough,” you sigh, moving your gaze up nervously towards the top of the elevator. Maybe if you hadn’t decided to accompany your captain on a trip at the last possible second, the single-bed hotel room issue would’ve been solved. Alas, the two pirates have a long night ahead of them.

I hope Law doesn’t hear my heart pounding against my chest right now…

It was a very nice hotel room; whether Law actually legally rented it or threatened a few lives for it, you didn’t know. It doesn’t matter, either, as you admire the luxury that lies before you. Nice going, captain, you remarks to yourself. Life has been new and exciting since you joined the heart pirates recently; you’d even go as far as to say it’s the best decision you’ve made in life so far. The only downside is that you’ve properly fallen for the sadistic captain, the surgeon of death, the literal heart stealer. It feels like an unspoken rule to not fall for your pirate captain, especially if he’s notorious and stands above most typical pirates. It’s not like you were trying to catch feelings for Law; he’s an anomaly in the way he makes you stop dead in your tracks, unable to move under his gaze as if he’d bound you with sea prism stone. You didn’t realize you had been lost in thought for a little too long until the man of interest interrupts your thoughts.

“You should take a shower first, y/n-ya,” he offers, placing himself on a smooth, leather swivel chair with a book already in hand.

You perk up upon hearing his voice cut the painful silence, sweet honey in your ears. “‘Kay”, you give Law a small smile before collecting your things.

The shower was, to no surprise, heavenly after having to shower in a metal box underwater for some weeks. After taking off your clothing and jewelry, you allow the deliciously hot water and its steam to envelop you and wash the day’s worries away. After stepping out, you change into a black tank top and plaid sleep shorts and gather your toiletries to finish your nightly routine. Placing yourself at a vanity, you turn to Law behind you.

“Shower’s all yours,” you smile, trying not to linger your gaze too long as Law swings his lengthy figure off the desk and carefully places his book down. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you try not to imagine the intimacy of having such a gorgeous man sleep next to you, even if not in a sexual context. To have him close, feel his presence intoxicate you and lull you to sleep like a drug: it’s something you’ve wished upon a star for.

Moments pass as you dry your hair until the bathroom door slides open. revealing Law in just a pair of sweatpants, his signature hat nowhere to be seen, replaced by a wet mop of jet-black hair. For a fleeting moment, you admire the mosaic of tattoos adorning his tanned skin before whipping your head back to focus on your nightly routine, finally placing the hair dryer down beside yourself. You blink a few times, noticing a rosy shade of pink dusting your pale cheeks and eyes wide enough to hold mini hearts. Soon after, you see Law approach you from behind in the mirror, his chest almost grazing your head as he reaches over to unplug the hair dryer, gingerly gathering it to use himself. The faint scent of hotel soap, mild tangerine and white tea float above you and dizzy your already jumbled senses as he walks back to the bathroom. You sit there in mild shock at the tiny gesture, thinking that Law seemed to linger there for a moment longer than needed. No matter what he did, Law was your own personal siren; your one true opponent in a world you once thought you conquered.

After some internal pep talk, you walk over to the bed, propping yourself up on two pillows as you nestle under thin, white blankets with a book in hand. You immediately feel the bed sink, signaling that Law has done the same, presumably with a book covering medicine.

“Uh… what are you reading?” Law cuts into the tension.

“It’s a book on the geography of the new world,” you respond, your nose still in said book (though you’re not entirely paying attention to it, as talking to Law is much more enthralling). “A pirate on the Oro Jackson wrote it. Not an easy find.”

“I can imagine it wasn’t easy. You’re into geography?” Law pries his gaze off his book.

“Not particularly. I just thought the book seemed interesting. Besides, the knowledge could help us.”

“Thanks for the research, but I think we’re good. I trust Bepo as a navigator.” Law gives a ghost of a smile at the last remark, either at the thought of his best friend or the sentiment of you helping him.

“What about you? Another doctor book?” you inquire, scanning the cover of the book in Law’s hands.

“Yeah. This one’s about medicinal herbs, I’m thinking about finding some on the islands we’ll come across.”

“You’re very dedicated to your work,” you compliment your crush with a glimmer in your eyes. Law’s commitment is truly admirable; you adore how intelligent he is.

“I guess,” Law shrugs. He yawns, placing the book on the nightstand beside him. “Mind if I turn the light off? We need to wake up early.”

“I don’t mind,” you say quietly, the beating of your heart becoming a little too loud for your liking as the reality of your situation sets in.

Does he feel even a bit the same way that I do right now?

Law reaches over to turn off the lamp next to him, leaving the light of the full moon to creep through sheer curtains, beautifully illuminating his sharp features. Law lies on his back, decorated arms crossed at his stomach, and you mirror him, even if it’s not the way you typically lie down to sleep. Silence passes, both parties secretly not sleeping a wink.

“Does it ever bother you?” You start, letting your words reverberate into the unfamiliar pitch black room. “It seems like the entire world is watching you. You were already a monster rookie to begin with, and now you’re a damn warlord.”

There’s silence for a few seconds, then you hear Law stir a bit. “You could say the same about yourself. You joined my crew, after all.”

You smirk, turning your head to the side. Though you can’t see him too well, your heart swells at the thought of your face being so close to his. You silently thank the gods that you’re able to see such a handsome man this close, even with his heavy eyes and messy hair.

“I don’t think about it much. I guess it’s because I’ve been scrutinized all my life that it doesn’t bother me. I did this to myself, after all.”

“I assume you have your own reasons for being a warlord, but I won’t pry,” you respond softly.

“You’ll find out eventually. We have to face it all pretty soon,” Law sighs. “It’ll be a lot to handle.” Whatever baggage he has, you can tell it claws at him, even now.

“We’re pirates, Law, we handle tough situations all the time. I’m… happy to go through it for your sake. I mean, for the sake of the crew.” Way to cover that up at the end.

Law smiles, genuinely, at your last remark, though the darkness covers it and he turns his head to the side so you won’t see. He conceals his feelings most of the time, but when he’s truly thankful, it shows. And for you, he is eternally grateful for.

The moonlight of the night before is long forgotten as the morning sun engulfs the hotel room, filling your senses just enough to pull you out of slumber. To your surprise, you’re no longer at one edge of the bed, but in the middle, wrapped in Law’s arms as if you never woke up from your dream. Your eyes widen completely, breath hitching in your throat as you feel Law stir awake and see the same shock in his eyes as soon as they open. You both scramble away from each other, mumbled apologies escaping raspy morning voices as you gather yourselves.

“I uh,” you start, “did not intend on that. I swear.” Shit, he definitely felt my heartbeat.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Law shakes his head awake, trying to understand why it felt so wrong to pry himself away from your warmth. He looks over to see you slightly shivering, clearly at a loss from warmth as well.

He hesitates before his next proposal. “Come here, you’re cold,” he says, extending his arm out. You pause as well, not believing your ears, before slowly bringing yourself back into Law’s chest, his arms gingerly wrapping back around you. You’re both stiff for a few moments, the rhythms of two hearts like taiko drums in the otherwise silent room.

“Is this okay, y/n-ya?” Law whispers into your hair, still stiff against you.

You smile weakly into his skin. “Yeah, it is. Don’t do this for me, though.”

“I’m not.”

Your heart leaps at the confession of Law actually wanting to be this close to you, and your shoulders finally relax into his touch as you allow yourself to relish in his warmth. He follows suit, pulling you a little closer and closing his eyes in serenity. Silence follows again as you both become overwhelmed in the feeling of touch, limbs entangled and gentle grazes of hands on skin sending you both to heaven. It doesn’t take long until you both accidentally succumb to sleep once again, and miss the free breakfast Law had intended to wake up on time for. The extra time together more than makes up for it, though.

#one piece #one piece x reader #law one piece #one piece x y/n #law x you #law x y/n #law x reader #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law #law fluff #Addi write something other than slowburn romance challenge failed #loopdelta #anime fanfic #anime

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saunteringvaguelydownwards · 2 years ago

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I'm intrigued by the difference in Erika Ishii's guest spot in Critical Role and Aabria Iyengar's guest spot in Critical Role, especially with regards to getting the main characters to consider their goals and relationships.

I feel like Erika came in like a hammer, just smashing through communication barriers and pretenses. Inviting Fearne back to the Feywild, asking Imogen if she and Laudna are romantically entangled, hitting on Orym, pitting the Hells against the Calloways. As much as Dusk's actions were a methodical destabilizing of the group to sow chaos and create opportunity, I feel like Erika came in, went 'hey what does this do?', and gleefully started mashing buttons like a kid in an elevator just to see what would happen.

But if Erika was a hammer I feel like Aabria is a needle. Deanna showed up when the group was fractured and desperate, with a backstory that put her in a position of trust. She's sweet, and useful, and relatable. She makes quiet observations about her own life that get Team Wildemount to think about their positions and goals: Do you believe in fate and destiny? What do you regret? What would you do with a second chance? She's a mirror, she's a prism, she is the Inception team planting questions inside the subconscious. Dusk may have been a literal shapeshifting covert operative, but Deanna snuck behind enemy lines and assimilated into the group seamlessly. Aabria is gently pressing a single button, noting the effect, and smirking while considering which button to press next.

Erika took a hammer to the group dynamics and made a mosaic with the pieces. Aabria took a needle to the group and wove herself into their tapestry. Very different styles and approaches, but art either way.

#critical role #erika ishii #yu saffiad #aabria iyengar #deanna leimert

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chaosheadspace · 7 months ago

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In case no one's asked, I'd like to know more about Child of the Depth

Hey! Thank you for asking about it. I didn't think anyone would, bc it's an original story and this is, well, a fandom blog. I just included it because it's an active WIP and I thought the list looked a little sad with just three entries. Child of the depth is a working title for now for lack of one that fits better. Have a look:

(I will not be italicising this one for tumblr bc it's a lot. Apologies.)

The sound of drums rang through the halls of the mountain, deep and echoing. The wind had changed. Idil busied himself with the levers, closing and opening the vents, ensuring that the city inside the mountain could breathe.

The excursion the president had sent out a month ago still wasn't back. Three of the dwarven folk had been chosen to go into the depths, following a path of natural tunnels and caverns, looking for new ore deposits, most importantly wiremetal. It should have taken them three weeks at most.

It was not the dwarven nature to be anxious about such things, or so they behaved, and life milled through the city like normal. Idil watched it from the perch of his workplace, nestled into a stone shelf high above even the tallest buildings.

Up here, the bustle of the streets and forges was quieter; quiet enough to hear the hum and moan of the air piping through the many tunnels drilled into the crown of the mountain. They ran high, some of them as small in diameter as Idil’s little finger, some of them as wide as an orehorn’s torso. They carried air and light and meltwater, engineered and perfected over centuries upon centuries; filled with turbinating spirals and prisms and small grooves to better aid their purpose.

The pipes catching the water gurgled happily as Idil pulled the last lever to open the final tunnel towards the southeast where the rhythm of the drums had told him the wind was coming from. Only then he closed the southern ones. It was vital that the air was never cut off completely. Eight hundred years ago the control shelf had collapsed, leaving open only two minor airways, killing half of the city before the gates to the outside could be pulled apart.

The story of the collapse was carved into the stairs leading up to the shelf; the collapse itself a grand mosaic at the bottom of the steps, the bannister lined with the tight coil of the spiral rune for “Dwarven soul”, repeated three thousand and eighty one times for every death. The balustrade of the control shelf itself featured the group of eleven people who had fought to open the great gates to let in air again. The great gates themselves were painted on the wall where the levers were installed, reminding every dwarf who worked on the shelf that their duty was to the stone lungs that kept their entire people alive.

The world sang under Idli’s hands, wood and wire, stone and metal, sparking, alive, breathing. He completed the shut off and sat down on the floor again, waiting for the next signal. Closing his eyes, he listened to the drums as they cycled through reporting the weather, inside and outside; as they announced break time for the welders and the shift change for the second mine shaft; as they announced today’s yield of wiremetal ore. Then they beat out the first verse of a children’s lullabye, announcing bedtime, and Idil realised that Basaa must be on shift. Her daughters were just old enough to go to bed by themselves, to fall asleep soothed by their mother’s drumming; the heartbeat of the city. Sometimes it was easy to know who was operating the big woolen mallets simply by the messages they choose to send between the important ones. Just like in a three-chambered dwarven heart, the pulse of the drums was ever present.

And then the drums stopped, and Idil’s eyes flew open.

His breath stalled until their sound picked up again, frantic, sharp, hammering out the words that everyone had been waiting to hear for a whole week. *Excursion team back—three dwarves and child entering hall from the west downward tunnel—alive—on foot and carried—fourteen beats before sundown—excursion team back—three dwarves…*

The city exhaled with relief.

Half an hour later, the drums message deviated from schedule again. The elders were called into the main hall, which included Idil as the eldest of the Guards of the shelf. He stood and leaned on the balustrade, waiting for his replacement. The shelf was never to be empty. Despite the calm and stoicism that were most valued character traits, he felt a spark of impatience and restlessness at his core, fingers tapping away at the carved stone.

*There*. He could see someone weaving through the city towards the bottom of the steps, quick, determined, faster than its beat. As they were crossing the mosaic he could see that it was Udain, apprentice in the sixth year.

By the time Udain was halfway up the steps, Idil stood at the top of them, left hand on the rail, right hand at the leather rope attached to his belt. It had a peculiar hook at the end, fashioned after his precise instructions, and he was the only one carrying a tool of this fashion. The others did not dare.

“Please don't,” Udain wheezed as she approached the top. “One of these days, you'll kill yourself.”

Idil shook his head and unhooked the metal hook, uncoiled the short leather strap. “This is an emergency. You heard them.”

Udain reached the top, and as soon as her foot touched the shelf, Idil clamped the hook onto the handrail of the steps, which it was made to fit.

“Don't pretend you don't like it!” She scolded.

Idil jumped over the rail.

The metal welting at the bottom of his left shoe hit the stone beneath the rail, and the speed blew Idol's hair away from his face and the collar of his shirt back. Udain was right, he loved this. *Klack-klack*. The others were too afraid, afraid of the height, afraid of the flimsy leather, afraid of the jumps the hook did frequently. *Klack-klack*.

Only Idil knew what they meant, what they were for, and he counted each one carefully as the metal of his shoes rained sparks down into the dark. *Klack-klack*. At every sixtieth soul mark carved into the rail there were two notches, making the hook rattle and jump.

*Klack-klack.* Twenty-one. Idil braced himself and at the next rattle he jumped, away from the stairs, turned to account for the turn in the stairs, and set his foot down again with a screech. That's another thing the others were afraid of, the turn of the stairs, the agility needed for the jump, the fall if they got it wrong. *Klack-klack*. Thirty-two.

Idil had failed to make the jump often, in the beginning. There was no fall, only a face full of stone rail, which is the reason for his crooked nose and his gold-rimmed front teeth. Cowards, the lot of them. *Klack-klack*. Forty-five.

Idil readied himself, put his second hand onto the strap, pulling the knee of his other leg up. *Klack-klack*. Forty-six.

He put his second foot against the stone and braced himself, his shoes screeching and shaving over the marks left by him and, he had no doubt, others before him. They were what gave him the idea in the first place. *Klack-klack-klack*. Forty-nine.

Idil snapped the hook off the rail and jumped, landing heavily at the edge of the mosaic with a clang, breaking the energy of his descent with a few hasty steps. Pressing his right thumb to the deep indent that once must have been the fiftieth notch at the bottom of the stairs for good luck, he turned towards the city. Countless fingers had worn a small bend into the rail.

With the small gesture taken care of, Idil took the path Udain had come from and ran. He was expected, and he could not wait to hear the news. To see for himself.

#Chaosheadspace's writing

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dryococelas01 · 1 month ago

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Tumblr Power Poll Q11

Current results

Q1: How many power categories? 2

Q2: What categories? Breaker/Stranger

Q3: How powerful? Mid tier, rating 4-6. As this poll was done under a reblog, it may be neccesary to redo.

Q4: What type of Breaker? Fate Breaker. Benefits after you transform, consequences when you transform back. A focus on action and consequences.

Q5: What type of stranger? Tie between Warp and Nox. Runoff vote in another post

Q5.1 stranger vote runoff. The power is a warp stranger. (strangers who can avoid attacks, danger, or slip through defenses by way of bent rules, distortions, otherworldly details or disruptions in the standard rules. )

Q6: is the user mentally modified by their power? Yes, the power has imposed a delusion on its user.

Q7. Is the user physically modified by their power? Tie between no and minor mutation

Q7.1 runoff vote. Results - no mutation

Q8. What is the power?

Breaker state transforms the user into a 4d object. In this state it can interact unusually with light and sound, ‘fold’ itself to sneak through objects, hide objects/people within itself and other such weird 4d shenanigans. It can avoid attacks by ‘bending’ in usual ways, for example. Also can be very disorienting to look at. May have other capabilities to be voted on in the future.

There are 3 votes today

Today's votes:

Q9. What is the benefit of transforming?

Q10. What are the consequences of transforming back?

Q11. What is the aesthetic of the Breaker form?

What is the aesthetic of the Breaker form?

This question initially would have asked about the shape of the Breaker form, but that's already inherent to it.

So instead this asks what the aesthetic is. What do the pieces of the object other people can comprehend appear to be made of.

I've tried to give a variety of options, some normal, some weird, just to allow for some freedom. However, I could only add so much to the poll.

Some of these options need explaining, some don't.

Options:

Crystalline

Hardlight

Metallic

Waterish

The object looks like the surface of a lake or ocean

Shattered glass

Object looks like pieces of glass suspended

Mosaic

Object looks like a glass or ceramic mosaic, a thousand coloured pieces stuck

Psuedo wooden

Object sortof looks like it's made of wood, though the wood looks otherworldly

Otherworldly flesh

Pulsating flesh, an off colour, the object looks almost alive, bare psuedo muscle and bone.

Hair

Object looks like it's made out of a mass of human hair.

Flat and textureless

Object looks clear, flat and textureless, like a blank word doc.

Rainbow prism

Object looks like a glass prism, with rainbow light trapped inside.

Static

Objects texture resembles TV static.

#wormblr #worm parahumans #worm #parahumans #power building

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artificialqueens · 5 years ago

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gold coloured prisms of light, chapter one (branjie) - holtzmanns

His older sisters talk about soulmates with hearts in their eyes, about the boys at school whose arms they keep checking for matching Sharpie marks. Because, they say to him, it runs in families. Not everyone finds their soulmate, not everyone can write and have it show up on their soulmate’s skin.

(read on ao3) | (tumblr: plastiquetiaras) | word count: 5059

AN: This fic wouldn’t let me go until I wrote it. Hope you enjoy! Only thing to note is that their age difference is two years, rather than five, but other than that nothing is different. Aside from the soulmates part, that is. Writ is the best beta and cheerleader and I love them <3

Brock learns about soulmates when he’s four.

His mother shows him a scribble on her arm, matching the one that his father has just drawn on his own forearm with a marker.

Brock doesn’t understand how it works, how drawing on his own arm doesn’t make anything appear on anyone else’s. He doesn’t get the idea of a soulmate - two people that are made for each other.

Brock supposes his parents must be soulmates, from the way that they often turn towards each other, having conversations without words with just a glance, just a slight touch.

He wonders what it would be like.

But some people have some extra help in finding theirs.

There’s the librarian in his school, Mrs. Chen, who always wears long sleeves whenever Brock goes at lunchtime to read there to be away from the other kids because they’re too loud, noisy. She always grabs the books from the top shelves for him, hands them to him with kind eyes as if she knows a lot of things about the world and wants to share them. But even when he sees the ink peeking out from her sleeve by her wrist, the ever so changing marks, he never has the courage to ask.

Maybe Brock doesn’t even have one. It’s okay, because he likes being by himself. He can’t imagine having someone else to spend time with forever, like his parents.

Brock is five and lying on his bed when scribbles appear on his arms.

They’re haphazard, no recognizable letters or numbers, or even pictures. They’re drawn with an unsteady hand, ink bleeding along the surface of his skin in a multitude of colours that grow and grow and grow.

He pulls on a sweater because he doesn’t know what else to do.

His sister tugs on his sleeve when he comes down for lunch and is about to eat a bite of Mac and cheese. “What are those?”

“What?” Brock is defensive as he scarfs down another bite, because he himself doesn’t know what is happening and how is he going to wash it off and-

“Did you draw those?” His sister doesn’t give him a chance to answer, pulling him up from his seat and rubbing her fingers on his ink stained skin and looking to see if the colour transfers. She lets out a gasp when she sees that it doesn’t.

“Mom! Dad!”

Brock shrinks from their gaze when they come bounding down the stairs, along with his other sister. He crosses his arms, tucking his hands underneath so that they can’t see but then his mother points at his neck.

“There, look.”

Brock runs to the bathroom, and gasps when the scribbles have seemed to grow even more.

“Must be a toddler, or another kid, from these scribbles.” Brock’s mother’s voice is soft as she comes up behind him with his dad, looking at Brock in the mirror.

“I don’t want a baby.” Brock is five. He’s not a little kid anymore.

“She’s not going to stay a baby forever. Nor will she always have free range with a bunch of markers to draw on herself like this.” Brock’s mother flips his hand over, looks at the purple webs drawn on there. “She’s quite the little artist.”

“Why does it have to be a girl?” Brock grumbles. The girls in his school are weird, and one told him that he was too tall.

“That’s the way things are.”

Brock doesn’t get it, but he supposes it’ll make sense later.

The marks start to fade while he’s getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth. They disappear fast, as if someone is scrubbing at them, before his skin is completely ink free as he climbs into bed.

He wonders if his soulmate’s mother was angry about all of the scribbles.

Brock is seven before another drawing appears on his arm.

It makes him gasp, pull down the sleeve of his sweater. Part of him had started to believe that the scribbles had been a dream, made up by his subconscious after hearing so many stories about his parents and the tales woven by his sisters.

He had started wearing t shirts again, no longer fearing that a wayward scribble would appear on his skin, not after it had been two years since his arms and neck and chest had lit up in rainbows. He’d supposed that his soulmate’s parents had stopped letting them near any markers.

Until now, because he’s pulled up his sleeve and now there’s a smiley face on his wrist and a messy star beside it, and it doesn’t hurt, but he feels like he’s electrified, his heart beating faster and faster while his teacher, Mrs. Paul, is trying to teach them about what photosynthesis is.

He still doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter, because the drawings have stopped, and now he’s staring at them under his desk and seeing how his soulmate’s drawings have changed. They’re no longer scribbles - now, the small doodles are drawn with an unsteady hand like one would expect from a kid like him, or maybe younger. Brock wonders how old they are now.

He rifles through his desk, a wave of disappointment washing over him when he realizes that he’d leant his markers to his friend Sean at lunchtime, who still has them in his desk. He pulls out a gel pen that his sister had given him earlier in the year, wonders if it’ll work.

It’s worth a shot.

He draws a smiley face next to the one already on his arm.

Waits.

Another one appears, right beneath his elbow.

Then one by his palm.

Then Brock’s teacher calls on him and he stutters because he didn’t hear the question, then his classmates are laughing at him and he’s turning red and sinking in his seat, wishing to disappear.

But when he looks down, he sees a flower. One by his wrist.

It makes Brock feel better, somehow.

It’s another six months before there’s more than just drawings that show up on Brock’s arms.

He’s doing his homework at the kitchen table with his sisters, ignoring the way that his parents are arguing in the den (the door is closed, but he can still hear them, and he’s sure that his sisters can too). He pulls up his sleeves like he’s become used to doing in the past few months, looking for more art upon his skin.

This time, there’s a star, and four letters. Four haphazardly drawn letters that Brock can make out if he squints.

J o s e

They’re messily written, with shaky hands. Brock’s not quite sure if it says ‘Tose’ instead, but ‘Jose’ sounds like a name and he’s sure that there’s someone named Jose in the class above him, so it must be a name.

The words show up again on his skin, underneath the original letters. Then again, until his wrist is covered and all Brock can see is the name Jose Jose Jose.

Is that his soulmates name? Brock wonders if he’s practicing writing it.

He interrupts the writing, grabbing the Sharpie from the cup of pens on the table and writes down Brock.

The writing stops.

Then, in shaky letters-

B r o c k

- and a smiley face.

He wonders what his soulmate thinks of his name.

Brock’s arms become a mosaic of letters from A to Z, interspersed with the stars and smiley faces and flowers that are ever changing. There’s words sometimes, words like cat and sat and mat and hat, but most importantly, Jose and Brock.

The writing becomes more self assured over time, neater, less shaky. Then, eventually, he sees-

Brock nearly scrambles off of his bed to grab the Sharpie that’s taken up permanent residence on his desk to write a response back.

Brock has barely dropped his Sharpie onto his bed when more words start to appear.

My nam is Jose

I know

My name is Brock

I know

Jose. His soulmate’s name, his actual name, is Jose.

At least, Brock thinks that Jose is a boy. He’s never met a girl named Jose before.

His mother is wrong, maybe he does have a boy soulmate.

It makes him feel better than it should.

Brock becomes great at deciphering Jose’s handwriting. The letters that would look like scribbles to anyone else trying to read them are like a lifeline to him.

Brock’s lying in bed, having just woken up and he needs to get ready for school, by the way his father has already slammed the door, already left for work, and the way his mom is yelling up the stairs to his sisters to get out of the bathroom.

He pulls on a sweater, ready to cover up the marks like he does at school, after a classmate of his had pointed at them and asked what they were in second grade. He doesn’t want anyone else to see them, because they’re just his and Jose’s, just theirs.

Playing soccar todai :)

He wonders where Jose lives. Right now, as he looks out the window, it’s December and it’s snowing and he knows he’s going to have to wear his winter boots and his snowpants and his giant jacket if he doesn’t want to freeze.

That sounds fun

Ya I’m relli good

I want to play soccer too

It’s not true, not exactly. He doesn’t really like gym class, or when soccer balls or basketballs come his way, because he’d rather duck instead of having them hit him. He doesn’t want to get hurt, even if it makes his gym teacher yell at him every single time.

But maybe it would be fun with Jose.

Wat are you doing todai?

School then dance

He’d begged and begged and begged his mom to let him take dance classes the way his sisters do, and his mom had relented, letting him take some jazz classes. Except he still wants to take ballet, like his sisters do in their pink leotards and the buns in their hair.

Brock is nervous about mentioning dance to Jose, because the boys in his class had teased him for it, even though some of the girls from his class are at the studio, too. Would Jose make fun of him, too?

I like dance too

Brock gasps, his heart filling with something akin to hope, lightness.

You take dance classes too?? What kind? I do jazz

I dunno I just dance

Brock lets out a little laugh. He wonders what it would be like to meet Jose in person, if everything he said would delight Brock the way his words always do.

Brock’s mother sees the words on his arms one night when he’s nine, as he rolls his sleeves up to wash his hands before dinner.

“Is she finally writing to you now?”

Brock yelps, pulling down his sleeves because what if she sees Jose’s name and their conversations? He catches his breath once his arms are covered, safe.

“Yeah.”

It bothers Brock, the way his mom says ‘she’. The way she can’t possibly fathom that he could have a soulmate who is also a boy. What’s wrong with it?

He doesn’t know, because they don’t mention soulmates at church. Nor does he know why his mom muttered under her breath when they passed two guys on the street holding hands, even though Brock had thought it looked quite nice to do. He had wondered whether Jose would hold his hand like that.

“Can I see?” His mother reaches out for his arm and Brock dodges her grasp, crossing his arms.

“No.” His voice comes out more panicked than he wants it to, but he doesn’t want her to see and be mad at him for it.

He’s afraid that she would be.

Brock pulls his sleeves up past his palms as they eat dinner, and it’s good, really, that his mom and dad are arguing again because now it means that his mom won’t want to look at the writing on his arms anymore. Even though the yelling is loud, and his sisters are both texting underneath the table, tuning it out. Brock doesn’t have a phone, so he can’t do that, but he does have-

Jose.

Brock draws a smiley face on his arm. His and Jose’s way of alerting each other when they want to talk.

It’s two, three minutes before Jose draws one back, with its tongue sticking out.

Brock smiles, despite the way his dad slams his fist on the table, making his fork clatter against his plate. It startles him, just for a second, because Jose starts to write.

I’m eating pizza 4 dinner

Wat about you

Casserole

Ew what’s that it sounds gross

Brock has to stifle a laugh as he writes back.

It IS gross

Yuck

How are you doing????

I’m ok

Brock doesn’t want to talk about how his dad has stormed off to his study, how his mom is eating in silence, how his sisters are too. How this has become the norm, more often than not.

Brock had previously thought that soulmates never fight. Now, he guesses that it’s not true.

He wonders what would happen if his father drew on his arm again, if anything would actually show up on his mother’s skin the way that it used to.

Brock

Brock’s eye catches on his wrist when he sees the words appear, tossing the pencil he was using to do homework to the side in favour of his Sharpie.

He’s twelve and middle school is a place that he does not want to be, because the other kids in his class are mean, teasing him about stupid things and he wishes that he didn’t have to go.

He wishes that Jose went to his school, because at least he would have a friend there.

Yeah?

My abuela

She’s in the hospital

We’re in a waiting room

My mom is crying

Brock can feel his stomach turn. Jose talks about his abuela all the time, about how she always whispers in Jose’s ear that he’s her favourite grandson, that he’s going to be a star when he grows up. About how her hugs feel the softest.

Oh no

I’m sorry Jose

He wishes he could teleport to wherever Jose is now, hug him in real life, because he feels useless right now, so far away and unable to do anything or make anything better.

I dunno what to do

How can I help

Can you tell me a story

And so Brock does. He weaves a story about two friends who live far away but are penpals, talking all the time and it’s soft and familiar, covers him like a warm blanket. Jose draws smiley faces and hearts around the words that Brock writes, and it feels like he’s holding his hand.

Brock does the same thing a week later during Jose’s abuela’s funeral.

Brock is fifteen and has gotten into the National Ballet School, something he knows will surprise his mother and his father and his sisters when he tells them, but most of all, it surprises himself. It makes him giddy, makes him feel like maybe he’s good at something.

He writes to Jose in the bathroom after the audition, after his name has been called and he’s gotten a place at the school for the upcoming fall, because he wants to tell Jose first. He shuts himself in a stall, drawing a smiley face and then a star until Jose draws them back to him.

Hi hi hi

I DID IT

AHHH

YOU GOT IN

I TOLD YOU

YOU DID

YOU WERE SCARED

But you’re the BEST at dancing

You’ve never even seen me dance

Don’t need to

Brock smiles to himself, tracing over Jose’s words with his finger. He pauses, realizing something.

I’m going to have to wear short sleeves when I start ballet school

Because of the uniform for dance

Brock pauses, because he doesn’t want Jose to think that this means that he wants them to stop talking, and he’s about to write more when-

Look at your chest

Brock wrinkles his nose before writing back.

What?

Just do it

So he does, pulling his shirt up because he’s still in the stall and he gasps, because Jose’s starting to write along his ribs all delicate and he can see goosebumps rising up on his skin beside them.

This better? More sneaky

Brock’s not sure that he’s imagining the shiver that runs down his spine as the words appear, because this feels different from the writing on his arm. He feels more exposed even though he knows that Jose can’t see him, that Jose’s just looking down at his own chest and writing on himself.

He wonders, for a second, what Jose looks like right now, before pushing the thought from his head, away to the corner of his brain where he pushes most thoughts like that these days.

Yeah. Better. For school.

The Sharpie tickles on his ribs as he writes and it feels so novel, so new, as if they haven’t been doing this for years and years and years already.

Jose always manages to surprise him somehow.

Brock doesn’t start at ballet school for a few more months, but Jose keeps writing to him on his chest, along his ribs, above his hip bone, and it makes him shiver every time. Like it’s his secret, his secret that he shares with Jose and no one else, and he wonders if first kisses feel like this, enough to make his head want to spin.

He doesn’t even know what Jose looks like, where Jose lives. He knows that Jose is two years younger than him and also likes science and dance like him but really likes soccer, which Brock doesn’t. He knows that Jose loves his mom more than anyone in the world, and that his brother is older than him and that he doesn’t have sisters like Brock, but he wishes he that he did.

He wants to know more. He wants to see how Jose laughs in person, if he’s as loud like Brock expects him to be, from the way he loves to write in big capital letters when he’s excited.

Jose writes to him one evening, their customary smiley face scribbled on his hand, and Brock shovels his dinner so that he can go write back.

I kissed someone today

The words are etched onto Brock’s shoulder in black ink, bleeding into his skin and Brock draws in a breath, not quite sure why his heart feels like it’s going to fall out of his chest.

Because it doesn’t matter, right? Just because they’re soulmates doesn’t have to mean-

It was a girl

It was weird

Brock’s never mentioned that he likes boys because he hasn’t wanted to ask Jose himself, but he’d thought that if his soulmate was another boy that it would mean-

But it doesn’t matter. Soulmates don’t always get together, in the end.

It’s not like Brock has been thinking about it, letting himself hope that one day, one day, he’ll find Jose in real life and they don’t have to write to each other anymore and that things will suddenly be perfect.

But that’s not how things work.

So it’s okay, really, because Jose can kiss girls if he wants to.

Brock realizes that he hasn’t written back and so he pulls his Sharpie out from his bedside table, scrawls with shaky hands.

Okay

What else can he say, really?

For the first time he wants to scrub Jose’s words off of his body, wishing that he didn’t have to see them anymore because Jose kissed someone else and why is it making him feel upset for no reason?

He pulls on a sweater on top of his t-shirt so that he doesn’t have to look at his shoulder anymore, doesn’t have to see what Jose responds with.

Brock is getting out of the shower the week when he sees Jose’s writing on his side in the mirror.

He’s been trying not to look, trying to give himself some space because thinking about Jose is making his heart flip in his chest and he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel even more out of control than he already is.

But the words that show up now make him pause.

Brock

I think I like boys

Brock looks down, trying to crane his neck to see if it really says what he thinks it’s says and it draws all the air out of his lungs when he realizes that it does.

His Sharpie is on his desk, as always, the ink blurring slightly on his wet skin.

You do?

I don’t like kissing girls that much

I don’t wanna kiss them

So why did you?

It was spin the bottle, everyone did

And then that girl tried to kiss me again later and I was like ew

Brock cracks up, despite himself. He doesn’t even know what Jose looks like but he can picture a look of disgust that mirrors his words easily.

How do you know you like boys?

Brock’s heart is beating faster and faster, and he’s not sure how long it can go on for before it gives out, trying to pump oxygen when he feels so out of breath.

Because I wanna kiss boys

The next words that appear on Brock’s skin make him gasp.

I wanna kiss you

He’s frozen, his towel around his waist and his skin is starting to dry off from the shower and Jose wants to kiss him.

Brock?

Sorry I shouldn’t have said that

Brock scrambles to write back because Jose needs to know-

I want to kiss you too

It’s true, when Brock thinks about it, so true because he’s never even met Jose in real life but he feels like he knows him better than anyone else in the world, because Jose is his best friend and he really really is-

His soulmate.

Jose draws a heart below his ribs and Brock wonders what it’s like to fall in love.

Brock is eating breakfast at the kitchen table when he’s seventeen and his mother turns to him. He can see they way she’s peeking down at his arms, even while trying to be discreet.

Jose only writes to him on his shoulders and chest when he’s at home now, just in case. Brock didn’t have to explain himself, because Jose got it without him having to.

“Brock.”

He doesn’t want to look up, because he can’t tell anything from his mother’s tone of voice. He’s not sure if he really wants to know.

“Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

So he does, reluctantly looking up from his cereal and his mother looks tired, worn down.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Words bubble up in his chest but he can’t say them, he can’t make things worse and he knows that his mom probably knows and wants him to say it too, but he can’t-

“No, there isn’t.”

“Brock, your soulmate-”

He escapes from the table and goes up to his room (‘gotta go, I have homework’) as his mom sighs, and he realizes as he climbs the stairs and passes their old family pictures on the walk that his dad hasn’t been home in awhile.

He doodles a small smiley face on his wrist, enough for Jose to notice, then continues above his hip bone.

Does your mom know?

Know what?

You know

He doesn’t want to say it, because he hasn’t even said the words to himself, and if he does then it means that it’s all real and that his mom will hate him and-

She knew since I was a kid and kept stealing her dresses and makeup

Brock laughs a little, trying to picture a five year old strutting around in his mother’s heels.

Me too, I did that too

And she doesn’t know??

I think she does

She asked me if I had anything to tell her

Today

Yikes

You think she’ll be mad?

Yeah

I don’t want to tell her

No one says you have to

If you don’t wanna right now

Okay

If you end up doing so, I’ll be here to cheer you on

Jose draws a stick figure that’s grinning above his belly button and Brock can’t help but feel just a little bit lighter.

Brock is eighteen and drunk at a party and kisses his friend Kyle and all he can think about is Jose.

He doodles on his thigh when he gets back to his room, after his friends drop him off and he flops onto his bed and thinks about what Jose’s lips would taste like.

It’s like 3 am

I’m trying to sleep

Brock squints as he fumbles with the Sharpie, trying to write clearly.

I wanna kiss you

I missssss you

He draws little stars all over his leg while he waits for Jose to write back.

You’ve never met me

But I wannaaaaaa

Why do you live in Alska

Alaksa

Alaska

Brock tilts his head. He can never tell if things are quite spelled right when he’s drunk.

That’s a weird way to spell Florida

So you don’t live with polar bears :(

Definitely not

We have gators, though

No that’s scary

How drunk are you

Soooooooooooooooo drnk

I want a polar bear

You should sleep

Wanna cuddle with you

Jose doesn’t respond and Brock’s drunk brain pauses for a second, wondering if he’s said too much but what does it even matter, when Jose’s his soulmate and he love love loves him, even if he doesn’t have a polar bear?

Maybe we can do that. In the future

YES

Drunk you is bananas

You better not wash these off I want you to see this when you’re sober

Sober Brock can eat it

Let’s see what you say about that tomorrow

A thought comes to Brock’s mind, one that sober him has been pushing down, down, down, because it’s felt too much to ask, too personal, but fuck it, he’s gonna do it because why the heck not?

I wanna see you

Your face

I wanna see

It’s kept him up at night, distracted him during dance class. Wondering what Jose is like, what he looks like, and Brock isn’t shallow, per se, he’s just curious. Curious as to what his other half looks like.

Bold

Pleaseeeeee

There’s a pause, and then-

Write down your phone number

Brock does so, breathlessly, waiting for his cellphone to buzz as he flips it over in his hands, when a picture pops up from an unknown number.

Jose is the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen. He has a backwards cap on and he’s raising his eyebrows at the camera with a facial expression that’s saying really?

Brock grabs his pen to reply but keeps his phone in his hand, open on the picture because wow Jose is perfect and he can’t stop staring.

Wow

You never told me you were HOT

Omg

Sure, sober Brock is going to hate him but Brock can’t help it, who cares about inhibitions or self control when his soulmate is absolutely perfect? His dimples and his jawline and his eyebrows and Brock gets how easy it is to fawn over someone, because he’s head over heels for Jose.

Now send me a picture of you

Let’s make it even

Brock fumbles with his phone and grins into the camera and it’s probably blurry and he’s a bit stubbly because he didn’t shave today and he’s still in his clothes from the party and looks like a mess, but he sends it anyway.

A minute ticks by, then another, and Brock’s wondering if he’s made a grave mistake, maybe Jose’s changed his mind-

You never told me you were hot, either

Dork

Brock wakes up with a massive headache and a dry mouth. His thighs are covered in his own scribbles and he groans, because it’s almost 11 a.m. but he feels like he’s been hit by a truck.

He grabs his phone, opens his texts and freezes when he sees an unknown number, a picture of himself and then-

Jose.

It all comes rushing back to him, flooding his memories and oh god he had texted Jose.

He writes on his stomach because it feels like the most right thing to do.

Oh god I’m sorry I’m sorry

I shouldn’t have done that

Shouldn’t have made you send a pic

I’m sorry

Please don’t hate me

Brock feels like he’s going to cry, because shit shit shit, he’s probably gone and ruined everything between them and he’s never, ever going to drink again.

It’s okay

Wanted to see your face for awhile anyway

You did?

Tell me you weren’t curious too

I clearly was

My drunk self took over and did that

I’m glad it did because I was too scared to

Me too

Brock lets out a breath. Maybe Jose isn’t mad at him, and things aren’t falling apart just yet, and they’ll be okay.

Now I can imagine your cute ass face when we write

Brock lights up, because Jose actually thinks he’s cute. Jose’s seen a picture of him, and instead of being uninterested, Jose thinks he’s cute.

You’re cute

Real cute

He wishes he could say more without sounding too pushy, too forward, too expectant. He wants to tell Jose that his eyes are brighter than the stars and the photo he sent is still making him smile, even now. He only as of last night knows what Jose looks like, but he feels like he’s known his entire life.

Brock’s phone buzzes again and it’s another picture, and this time Jose’s blowing a kiss to the camera and Brock finally knows what all the movies mean when they talk about love at first sight.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #canon compliant #soulmate au #holtzmanns #gold coloured prisms of light

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kindledspiritsbooks · 5 years ago

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My Month in Books: November 2019

Ninth House - Leigh Bardugo

Galaxy “Alex” Stern is the most unlikely member of Yale’s freshman class. Raised in the Los Angeles hinterlands by a hippie mom, Alex dropped out of school early and into a world of shady drug dealer boyfriends, dead-end jobs, and much, much worse. By age twenty, in fact, she is the sole survivor of a horrific, unsolved multiple homicide. Some might say she’s thrown her life away. But at her hospital bed, Alex is offered a second chance: to attend one of the world’s most elite universities on a full ride. What’s the catch, and why her? Still searching for answers to this herself, Alex arrives in New Haven tasked by her mysterious benefactors with monitoring the activities of Yale’s secret societies. These eight windowless “tombs” are well-known to be haunts of the future rich and powerful, from high-ranking politicos to Wall Street and Hollywood’s biggest players. But their occult activities are revealed to be more sinister and more extraordinary than any paranoid imagination might conceive.

The White Album - Joan Didion

First published in 1979, "The White Album "is a journalistic mosaic" "of American life in the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s. It includes, among other bizarre artifacts and personalities, reportage on the dark journeys and impulses of the Manson family, a visit to a Black Panther Party press conference, the story of John Paul Getty's museum, a meditation on the romance of water in an arid landscape, and reflections on the swirl and confusion that marked this era. With commanding sureness of mood and language, Didion exposes the realities and dreams of an age of self-discovery whose spiritual center was California.

An Echo in the Bone - Diana Gabaldon

Jamie Fraser, erstwhile Jacobite and reluctant rebel, knows three things about the American rebellion: the Americans will win, unlikely as that seems in 1778; being on the winning side is no guarantee of survival; and he’d rather die than face his illegitimate son — a young lieutenant in the British Army — across the barrel of a gun. Fraser’s time-travelling wife, Claire, also knows a couple of things: that the Americans will win, but that the ultimate price of victory is a mystery. What she does believe is that the price won’t include Jamie’s life or happiness — not if she has anything to say.

Claire’s grown daughter Brianna, and her husband, Roger, watch the unfolding of Brianna’s parents’ history — a past that may be sneaking up behind their own family.

Trick Mirror: Reflections on Self-Delusion - Jia Tolentino

Trick Mirror is an enlightening, unforgettable trip through the river of self-delusion that surges just beneath the surface of our lives. This is a book about the incentives that shape us, and about how hard it is to see ourselves clearly in a culture that revolves around the self. In each essay, Jia writes about the cultural prisms that have shaped her: the rise of the nightmare social internet; the American scammer as millennial hero; the literary heroine’s journey from brave to blank to bitter; the mandate that everything, including our bodies, should always be getting more efficient and beautiful until we die.

Three Women - Lisa Taddeo

It thrills us and torments us. It controls our thoughts and destroys our lives. It’s all we live for. Yet we almost never speak of it. And as a buried force in our lives, desire remains largely unexplored—until now. Over the past eight years, journalist Lisa Taddeo has driven across the country six times to embed herself with ordinary women from different regions and backgrounds. The result, Three Women, is the deepest nonfiction portrait of desire ever written. We begin in suburban Indiana with Lina, a homemaker and mother of two whose marriage, after a decade, has lost its passion. She passes her days cooking and cleaning for a man who refuses to kiss her on the mouth, protesting that “the sensation offends” him. To Lina’s horror, even her marriage counselor says her husband’s position is valid. Starved for affection, Lina battles daily panic attacks. When she reconnects with an old flame through social media, she embarks on an affair that quickly becomes all-consuming. In North Dakota we meet Maggie, a seventeen-year-old high school student who finds a confidant in her handsome, married English teacher. By Maggie’s account, supportive nightly texts and phone calls evolve into a clandestine physical relationship, with plans to skip school on her eighteenth birthday and make love all day; instead, he breaks up with her on the morning he turns thirty. A few years later, Maggie has no degree, no career, and no dreams to live for. When she learns that this man has been named North Dakota’s Teacher of the Year, she steps forward with her story—and is met with disbelief by former schoolmates and the jury that hears her case. The trial will turn their quiet community upside down. Finally, in an exclusive enclave of the Northeast, we meet Sloane—a gorgeous, successful, and refined restaurant owner—who is happily married to a man who likes to watch her have sex with other men and women. He picks out partners for her alone or for a threesome, and she ensures that everyone’s needs are satisfied. For years, Sloane has been asking herself where her husband’s desire ends and hers begins. One day, they invite a new man into their bed—but he brings a secret with him that will finally force Sloane to confront the uneven power dynamics that fuel their lifestyle. Based on years of immersive reporting, and told with astonishing frankness and immediacy, Three Women is a groundbreaking portrait of erotic longing in today’s America, exposing the fragility, complexity, and inequality of female desire with unprecedented depth and emotional power. It is both a feat of journalism and a triumph of storytelling, brimming with nuance and empathy, that introduces us to three unforgettable women—and one remarkable writer—whose experiences remind us that we are not alone

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merlyozknocker · 5 years ago

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My Month in Books: November 2019

Ninth House - Leigh Bardugo

The White Album - Joan Didion

First published in 1979, “The White Album "is a journalistic mosaic” “of American life in the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s. It includes, among other bizarre artifacts and personalities, reportage on the dark journeys and impulses of the Manson family, a visit to a Black Panther Party press conference, the story of John Paul Getty’s museum, a meditation on the romance of water in an arid landscape, and reflections on the swirl and confusion that marked this era. With commanding sureness of mood and language, Didion exposes the realities and dreams of an age of self-discovery whose spiritual center was California.

An Echo in the Bone - Diana Gabaldon

Claire’s grown daughter Brianna, and her husband, Roger, watch the unfolding of Brianna’s parents’ history — a past that may be sneaking up behind their own family.

Trick Mirror: Reflections on Self-Delusion - Jia Tolentino

Three Women - Lisa Taddeo

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thedancingpetalxiv · 6 years ago

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Duty Bound, Honor Payed in Full

a dumb drabble I had thought of after I saw an answer to an ask from the lovely @nx00

“Twelve damned voidsent...” Ferathel raised her shield once more, feeling the claws rake against the polished surface before she reeled back and shoved forward, pushing her assailant back and giving her a moment to breathe before the next assault. She grimaced, feeling the exhaustion slowly taking hold of her body, sweat dripping down her neck as she gripped her sword handle tighter, pulling back for another swing at her opponents and hoping to dissuade them from pressing onto them further. It was all in vain, however, and she was painfully aware of this. These creatures had no fear, had no apprehension, just beings of pure corruption and death, and they would not break formation at the sight of a few flashy maneuvers. Ferathel blinked a few times, trying to clear her vision from the blood running down from a small gash on her forehead. As she did so, she glanced over to her comrades in arms as they stood their ground against the coming onslaught. However drained Ferathel felt, she knew that her fellow warrior was feeling countless times worse. Nyx Astra no longer looked the calm and collected Free Company leader only a few days ago, but instead bared her teeth in a furious scowl, armor torn and bloody, as she hefted her axe once more and slamming it down with no mercy upon the neck of another voidsent victim, adding to the pile of corpses smoldering at her feet. The energy roiling around her was like the torrential tides of the sea swirling like an abyss and crashing against the rocks each time she swung the weighted blade, letting out a monstrous roar every time. Despite all the vigor with each stroke, even Ferathel knew that the furnace would burn out to cinders sooner rather then later, especially with how much punishment Astra had taken during the ordeal. Just as Ferathel was about to call out and come to her friend’s aid, she froze. The voidsent horde was...retreating? Or at least not advancing any further, just staring at their group of battered and bruised adventurers, shrieking and howling from a seemingly invisible barrier, clearly agitated but refraining from attacking them further. “What in Hydaelyn’s name are they waiting for...?”

She glanced up and let out a swear under her breath, Nyx hearing this turned back and quickly turned her eyes to the same spot as well and also let out an expletive that would make the deckhands of Limsa Lominsa uncomfortable. Looming above them all, a hulking figure exuding raw corrupted aether hung in the air, wings flapping effortlessly as it glared down in contempt. “Bugger me with a pike...”

Already the party had been put to their limits, and they hadn’t even considered they would come face to face with an archdemon in the end. Spent and exhausted, it wouldn’t be long for them to be wiped out, long before any reinforcements could arrive. They all saw the creature raise an arm, pointing down at them and a single point of crackling light began to grow from the tip of its claw, the air humming with demonic energy and filling them all with dread. Ferathel turned to the others standing behind, calling out to hold the line, to hold fast until the rest of the Grand Companies could muster to their aid. Anything to help rally them further just a bit longer, but they were only looking past her, fear and uncertainty in their eyes. She turned around, only to see Nyx already stepping forward, great axe in hand, limping slightly but fighting against her own body as she brought her fearsome weapon up in a defensive stance. Despite the strong showing, they all knew that even for someone like her, Astra was already at her limits, they all were. Ferathel’s grip tightened painfully around the haft of her sword, leather creaking as she bit her lip. This bold young adventurer stepping forward to protect her fellow adventurers, her company, her family. So soon she became leader and to see that light extinguished so soon. No, she would not let it happen, not now, not again. Just as the demon raised its hand to pierce its victim on a bolt of burning hellfire, so too did the paladin. A shimmering prism of holy magics bathed the warrior, creating a diamond of phantasmal mirrors and protections around her being. Nyx grit her teeth and swiveled on her heels shouting something at Ferathel, but she could hardly hear it over the fizzling lightning overhead. There was a look of anger and confusion on Astra’s face, and amongst it was something else, fear? Betrayal even? It didn’t matter anymore to the paladin as she quietly made her way forward, walking past Nyx without looking back.

“It isn’t your time, Astra. You still have much to do for your Company. For the world. For yourself. Those many moons I was spared, seems the Twelve had other plans for me after all.” Ferathel smiled weakly, a single tear already rolling down her grimy cheek.

“Thank you...for giving me a better purpose in this forsaken life of mine. This sure as hell beats bleeding out in some nameless back alley-” Just as she was finishing, she staggered backwards, coughing up a glob of blood as she felt something searing rip through her chest. Nyx cried out in rage and shock. The archdemon, having grown tired, had hurled the bolt of energy and it had lanced forward at the warrior, but the spell that had been cast redirected the blow to the paladin instead, the beam disappearing from Nyx’s chest and exiting from Ferathel’s instead. The Keeper of the Moon lurched backwards before catching herself, her chest heaving as blood began to pool under her armor and at her feet. Taking a moment to steady herself, she began to take another step forward. The voidsent, surprised and mildly annoyed that the blase had not finished either of them off, prepared another salvo.

With a grunt of exertion, Ferathel took a backwards grip on her sword and plunged it down into the earth, using it as an anchor for her back foot as she leaned forward, raising her shield one last time. Gathering the last reserves of her strength, she let the magics flow through her once more, feeling the glow of holy light grow from within. Behind her, the party watched as two ethereal wings of light unfurled, bathed in a mosaic of bright soothing colors. The archdemon hissed in fury at the display of holy magic and released another bolt, one after the other, hoping to destroy the wretched symbol of hope. Each blast rained down upon the paladin, crashing into the earth around her or against the wings, but ultimately many found their mark, slamming hard into Ferathel, causing her to waver and sway with each impact, but she held fast, even as her lifeblood began to drain faster and faster with each passing second. She glared up at the demon, letting out a roar of determination. She had to last just a bit longer, to give them all just enough time until more help arrived. Her eye glowed a brilliant blue as she channeled what reserve energy she had left to fuel her shield against the barrage. Just...

a bit...

longer... Another lance of pure corrupted aether rang out and struck true, Ferathel’s voice dying in her throat as she felt the flaming spear shatter her breastplate and slam into the ground behind her, finding nearly no resistance in its path. Bit by bit, the crystal panes of of the wings surrounding her began to shatter and fall, dissolving into sparkling dust in the wind. The light in her eye began to flicker and fade, giving way to a dull darkness, glassy and gone. She could feel herself falling, the ground rushing up to meet her broken form, but the impact never came, instead feeling an odd warmth starting to wrap around her. Everything was muffled and fuzzy, the air filled with the cries of what sounded like an army thundering past her. She felt someone shaking her, shouting, crying? It didn’t matter much anymore. The help had come, she had bought enough time, and that’s all that mattered. She could feel the shield slip from her grasp, and as it clattered against the ground, she let out one last sigh.

#oh look at this paladin ferathel au #now with MORE ANGST #jesus this went for way too long i'm sorry for being so rusty with this stuff aaaaaaaaa

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giftofthepromisering · 6 years ago

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Gift of the Promise Ring: The Dwellings and Homes in Amatus

Author’s Note: For World Building June, I felt it might be best to go through the prompts as though one of the characters were actually telling me about things. So for the month of June, I’ll be answering the prompts through one of the main characters that will have a prominent role in the adventure, a Shepherd who goes by the name Amaryllis. It will be told from their perspective in first person.

Scene: As you’re walking through the nearby forests, you notice the trees in this particular area are made of glass. You ask Amaryllis how anyone can live in a place like this, and they begin to tell you a little of where people live.

What’s the matter? You seem troubled. The trees? Oh no, you’re not mistaken. Those are indeed made of glass. This is Mu’s homeland, the Everglass Forest. You know, we might end up running into him as we’re walking. Maybe we can convince him to join us.

What? Of course people live here! Does it really seem impossible? Looks like I might need to give you a bit of a lesson in dwellings here. Not everyone can sleep in a lean-to or under the stars like I can. Other people prefer their own ways of building house. First, let’s sit. It’s easier to explain when I can use the dirt to draw it out. Now, pay attention.

Now, let’s start with the Moors, Mounts, Slithers, and Mers. the Moors are primarily a kind of people who prefer close knit communities, and because of their attributes that allow them to live in valleys, they also like to burrow. So the build cabins that are partially underground. These underground communities are strong and very easy to navigate, allowing the people to go from house to house without having to brave any unpleasant weather. The Mounts are essentially the same, though they stick primarily to more rocky, hilly terrain. If they’re in the mountains, they’ll make use of caves. Both prefer to stay in one place, but are ready to move if the situation calls for it. You can find these kind of villages crossing all over the continent.

Mers and Slithers are a little different though. They prefer to live in the waters, and their bodies allow them to go between moist and dry land. Slithers have huts made of strong branches residing in the surrounding trees when they’re above the marshes, though as far as residing below, no one’s ever been that wasn’t a Slither. Mers have shacks along the beaches and on the edges of sea caves, for when they wish to explore the land. But primarily, they have underwater homes among the coral and sand. Those homes are more permanent, and it’s where they keep most of their belongings that can survive the ocean floor. And they don’t ever leave their home unless it can’t be avoided. They’ve been known to live through the harshest of stormy weather and make it out unscathed. These kinds of homes are only possible along the shores and in the marshes.

Barons live in grand ice and stone walled villages. They rely heavily on the surrounding snow and frost in the Frostfire Mountains to live safely. They do have underground paths that lead out to the caves and deeply hidden caverns of the mountain wall itself. They’re probably the most simplistic in their architecture. The focus more on strength of defence than anything else.

Brethren on the other hand, their homes and villages vary incredibly widely. You have the more nomadic groups, who refer to themselves as Altair Brethren, that put up elegantly decorated tents and structures for the night, or for several depending on how long they intend to stay. Others create homes in high trees and bushes if there’s plenty for them, like the Vega Brethren and other people who live in more heavily forested areas of Amatus. My favorite are those of the Deneb Brethren, who construct grand stone homes, with buildings that reach several floors high. They enjoy the various shapes that their homes can take, and bask in the coolness of their homes in the summertime. All these people make sure to have plenty of color among their homes, and one can often see them from far away. It’d be as though you saw the Aurora travelling along the ground.

Many Seren and Shifters prefer to build houses that double as inns, stores, medic stations and the like, and they often keep towards other people. Makes it easier to blend in, you see. Though Shifters tend to keep to their own groups when away from other people, like Mu’s village. All of them Shifters who live in specially crafted mirrored homes that allow them to blend into the Everglass-Oof! Ow. Oh goodness, looks like we bumped into one of those hou- Oh Great Mosaic it’s Mu’s house. He’s gonna rip us a new one when he sees this crack in the wall.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, there’s one last place I got to explain. I’ve told you about all the other homes, but then there’s the castles.

The four castles. Sapphire, Garnet, Topaz, and Amethyst. On the outside, they may resemble nothing more than gigantic Prism Clusters. But I can assure you, those are indeed castles. They have hidden entrances, and all of them are incredibly hard to navigate the inside of. Anyone who lives near them live in small cabins created with crystal and wood, so as to blend into the surrounding area of the castles. The people who live there are incredibly closed off. No one even knows who they are or what kind of heritage they have. Well, no one but yours truly, but that’s a story for another day.

For the love of Laurie, here comes Mu. Quick, hold this. What? He won’t get mad at an Otherworlder for breaking his house! Come on, take my crook before-

RYLLIS! DID YOU BREAK MY HOUSE AGAIN?!

Oh Great Mosaic help us.

#Gift of the Promise Ring #worldbuildingjune #wbj #worldbuildingjune2018 #wbj2018

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mosaicprism · 2 months ago

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Haloo Haloo!

(This blog is run by @iwontusethis255)

Welcome to the world of Mosaic Prism!

A world of many things.

This is a blog to ask me or the characters questions about the world, and this post in particular is your cheatsheet for all the characters and locations currently revealed!

CHARACTERS

This is our main cast!

Vestal Eduardo Whitmore (he/him), a simple chef who has a magic flame tied to his figurative heart

Drew Ross (he/him), a former superhero with the ability to have anything he draws become real

Judy Foreman (she/her), strong woman and former member of the Texas Cowboy Mafia

Ursula Beverly (she/her), former superhero with the ability to transform into animals, now a dj

Cameron Leo (they/he), alien fugative who took refuge on earth, the space equivalent of a cat alleyway

Hubert Mann (any pronouns), definitely a real human and definitely not an ancient slime whos been watching and waiting

Model: Amber (they/she), broke out of the robotic hivemind of robotic butlers made by Cam, now trained in guns

Tiny Warrior (they/them), very small, protects the house they all live in from threats the others dont even see

LOCATIONS

The Mosaic Prism Manor is a house built by the gang in a nice spot in A City (yes that's the name of the city), it was named that because of the very nice stained glass used in the building!

#Mosaic Prism #Vestal Eduardo Whitmore #Drew Ross #Judy Foreman #Ursula Beverly #Cameron Leo #Model: Amber #Tiny Warrior

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deviantordivine · 7 years ago

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part 5

Leila

The house was...a mansion. All Leila could do was stare.

If this is the kind of housing New Olympus gives to its residents…

Gold and glass and glittering-- it shone like the sun. Every light must’ve been on to greet the two. Leila had to look away from it; it was so bright.

“Welcome home!” Camille beamed. They both got out of the car and she grabbed Leila’s hand and led her up the long driveway. Camille’s grip was stronger than she let on and Leila was starting to think that Camille was a force in heels.

The inside of the house was simple; white arches and white marble with white furniture and gold accents. Large glass vases housed stalks of wheat that Leila suspected were made out of real gold. Camille fit in perfectly.

She led her on a brief house tour-- nodding at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a pool, her master suite, then Leila’s own bedroom-- that ended in the kitchen. Like the rest of the place, the floor plan was spacious and modern. Leila couldn’t help but wonder if anyone actually cooked in it. The marble was too white to have ever been stained with food.

Leila noticed something as Camille walked through the house, her carefully arranged centerpieces-- curving, crystal horns overflowing with gold fruit and flowers-- to her framed pictures of faraway farmland, how her face shone with pride. And something else, an eagerness.

Leila felt her heart swell at Camille’s waiting face as she realized she wanted Leila to love her home just as much as she did.

She regarded Camille’s manicured hands, folded neatly. Her untroubled, perfect brow. Her eyes, just slightly creased. Leila’s only indication at the undercurrent of emotion, the stress and worry. She remembered how Camille’s eyes hadn’t left Leila all through the ceremony and after, hovering close if Leila ever faltered.

She felt her throat close at the thought that someone was here to look out for her, in this new world. This new life.

Maybe I’m starting to succumb to exhaustion.

Leila carefully rested her hands on the cool marble countertop. She curled her fingers as she spotted the crescents of dirt under her nails.

She coughed. “Your house is beautiful,” she said.

Camille clapped her hands together.

“Thanks, darling. I have food on the way from my favorite restaurant. I hope you like pasta.” Leila gave noncommittal shrug-- she’d find out soon enough.

Camille hesitated, a coy smile on her lips. “While we wait, I thought I could show you my greenhouse.”

A click of her heels and a spin and Camille was off again. Leila’s curiosity peaked and she trailed after her, following the sound of Camille’s heels on the hardwood floor.

How am I going to live here when I have no idea how to get around? Leila wondered as she lost track of her way back to the kitchen.

As they rounded a corner, Leila could feel it. Warmth.

The warmth radiating from a set of crystal French doors at the end of the hall. Light cut through the glass, splashing prisms across the white walls. The warmth of heat, yes but also the warmth of magic, nurturing and sweet. Calling to her own. Her magic was the only thing that felt familiar to her, though Leila could not imagine that magic could be anything near familiar.

They approached and Camille threw a smile over her shoulder, matching the beautiful warmth and lacking any of the hesitation from before.

She grabbed the doorknobs with both hands and pushed.

A wave of heat gently blew back Leila’s hair and caressed her face. The smell of earth and plants wafted out, floral and wet.

Camille strode in, a torch among the green. Leila followed, her steps more careful.

All she could see at first was blooming shades of green. There were trees and flowers and bushes and fruits and life. This place was alive, thrumming with a sweet heartbeat that beckoned Leila to step farther into the greenhouse.

Her steps grew confident over the mosaic walkway, her curiosity outshining any last reserves of hesitancy.

The white iron and glass structure swirled up above her, the windows fogged from the heat. Spiral staircases jutted up to balconies where even more plants were housed. She spotted rows of vegetables and herbs, making her think that maybe there was some cooking being done in this house after all.

The latin names tumbled around her head.

Nymphaea thermarum, Pseudanthodendron, Leptosporangium

Cyatheaceae, Solanum lycopersicum, Mangifera indica,

She didn’t realize she had grabbed onto a plant, an icy green bush, her fingers brushing over the soft leaves.

“Stachys byzantina,” she murmured.

“Interesting. See, I had to learn all of the scientific names,” Camille said behind her, startling Leila. “Sorry, I know this can be little overwhelming, come this way.”

Camille beckoned Leila to the center of the greenhouse, where the mosaic stone path led to a circular opening. A ring of young trees lined the perimeter and benches were scattered around. Camille stood in the middle beside a large clay pot filled with earth.

She could hear a fountain gurgling softly nearby.

Camille took a big breath, placing her hands on the lip of the vase as if to steady herself.

“I’ve grown every plant, tree, shrub, and flower in here. I want you to add yours, I have seeds you can choose from…” She trailed off as she gestured to a stone bench at the edge of the circle where an open briefcase lay open, full of corked vials of seeds.

Leila broke into a grin as she practically ran to the briefcase. She gingerly started to pick up each vial, her hands shaking with excitement. They were unmarked but Leila found that she didn’t really need a label to get a feeling for what the seeds could be. Glimpses of petals and branches, fruits, and seasons filled her mind with the touch of each vial.

Her heart fluttered.

Potential.

That’s what she was holding.

Ever since she felt the first flurry of power spring from her hands she had been wanting to try her powers out again, in private. Without the spectacle of ceremony.

A couple of minutes passed while Leila picked her way through the trove of seeds. No doubt Camille had many more stored somewhere in her large mansion. She finally plucked a corked vial filled with dark red seeds. She frowned, looking around at the conservatory, the uniform arrangement.

It’s neatness.

This won’t fit in one bit.

Clutching the vial, she turned and walked back to the vase where Camille stood at the clay gardening pot. She pulled the cork and shook out some of the seeds onto her open palm. Holding the seeds gave her a surge of energy, heat traveled through her body. She figured she could probably bloom the flowers in her palm but she tried to remain calm. Her hands shook in anticipation.

She looked back up to Camille and she nodded to her encouragingly.

With her other hand she scooped a small hole and placed the seeds inside, then covered them back up with the soil. She felt the soil, cool and moist, as she placed her palm on it.

Leila took a breath and fluttered her eyes closed. She allowed the heat that had built in her limbs, her cheeks, her heart, to flow down through her left hand and drain into the seeds.

For a few moments, all she could hear was sound of her heartbeat, the sounds of the greenhouse falling away.

Then her power flared and she opened her eyes and gasped.

Six green stalks sprouted from the soil around her hand. She raised her hand slowly, coaxing the plants to grow. She wasn’t sure how but she could feel each step like a recipe she was remembering. She stems grew taller and leaves shot out and reached outward. When hey had grown about a foot, buds appeared at the crest of the plant.

Blackest violet petals unfurled, shining velvet in the bright light of the greenhouse. Six obsidian iris germanica in full bloom, like six black holes in contrast to the harmonious colors of the rest of the plants. The magic left her a little lightheaded and trembling but the residual curls of magic in her veins yearned for more.

Leila couldn’t help herself, she laughed. A bubbling giggle as she touched the soft flowers, her doing. This realization rooted her in her place.

The crown of white flowers, the tree at the Induction, now the flowers here.

Mine. From my magic.

She had power, real power. As natural as the sun and as inevitable as rain. This was all hers, her duty and her blessing.

She sniffed.

“I--” She started before her voice caught and two tears escaped down her cheeks.

Camille’s own eyes were rimmed with tears.

“I cried, too,” she said before enveloping Leila in a crushing hug.

* * *

Leila scarfed down the pasta, fettucine alfredo, within seconds. Cami-- Leila’d been reminded that she could call her that-- ate her pasta with a little more care, using both her fork and her knife with a pause between each bite to take a sip of her white wine.

They talked about the Induction and laughed over Cami’s descriptions of the other Vessels. Leila felt relieved at the normalcy of the meal, after the greenhouse.

Cami swallowed the last of her second glass. “Yes, yes, the redhead’s my best, best friend. You two’re going to get along so well.”

Leila snickered into her own water glass. Cami was much more bubbly when tipsy-- if that was even possible. Her accent started to sound less refined.

“I hope so,” Leila said. She vaguely remembered seeing the red-haired beauty, and she didn’t look to happy to be at the Induction. Though, she did dress for a party.

“Hmm, who else?” Cami asked. “You’ll meet the rest of the Junior Council in a couple of days, so I’ll skip them...You already met Martin…”

She got up from the kitchen island where they sat and went to the fridge to get another bottle of wine. Leila played with the last pasta noodles on her plate, the only survivors of her massacre.

She tried to remember the faces of the of crowd at the temple, the other Vessels, but it was hard. There was so much going on, and every Vessel paled in the presence of an actual god. Leila had focused on the soft murmurings of Persephone, the unseen hand that had given her gift and completed the ritual at her Induction.

She remembered the hypnotic floral scent, the charged air, heavy and metallic. She remembered the molten orange glow of the setting sun slicing through the columns and the dark silhouette of the figure retreating--

“Cami, do you know the Vessel, um,” Leila paused to try and remember more. “I think I saw a Vessel but I don’t think I saw his face.” She didn’t actually know for sure if the figure was a he but she remembered the broad shoulders filling out a blazer and the arms stuffed into suit pockets as they walked away. And the sun rays cast him in a weird light, Leila swore to herself she saw a black glow around his head.

Like a dark crown. She shook her head. Wow, I’m really tired.

“But he had a nice body?” Cami waggled her eyebrows as she poured herself another glass.

Leila burst into surprised laughter and raised her hands in defense. “I can’t say. I only noticed him when he left the temple in the middle of the Induction, so maybe? Do you know who that is?”

Cami froze, mid pour. Leila noticed her frown into her wine glass like she was debating what she was going to say.

Cami immediately brightened. “Who knows? You know, I don’t even know every Vessel, there’s so many of us. So! Should I call Alicia to schedule dinner later this week?”

The uncomfortable silence had dragged only for only a moment but Leila bristled.

Cami is lying, she realized. This settled heavily in her stomach.

She opened her mouth to ask Cami why she lied when a trilling bell sounded from somewhere else in the house. A doorbell.

Leila looked at Cami in surprise and found the same look mirrored back at her.

If we aren’t expected anyone, who’s at the door?

#Persephone #demeter #deviantordivine #nature #fanfic

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connorrenwick · 7 years ago

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Design Milk Travels To… Milan

Unlike its sisters Rome, Florence, or Venice, Milan isn’t swathed nor defined by its past. As the capital of Lombardy and the second-most populous city in Italy after Rome, Milan unapologetically defines itself as a city of today: modern and lively, occasionally unsightly in its urbanity, it’s a commercial metropolis more interested in the prospects and possibilities of the future rather than perpetuating the glories of its past. Yes, you’ll find remnants of its Roman past and numerous historical buildings to haunt, but as a visitor it’s more likely you’ll remember Milan for its modern offerings, all painted colorfully by the industries of fashion and design. Milan Fashion Week, MIDO Eyewear Show, and Milano Design Week all unfold here, which makes the possibility a visit will coincide with a global convergence of the design community highly likely, making it one of the few cities that can truly claim design as part of its cultural and civic DNA.

WHERE TO STAY

Photo: Hotel Viu Milan

Hotel Viu Milan Decorated in greys, beige, and browns, the Hotel Viu embodies many of the same shades of color associated with the generally overcast weather that looms over Milan throughout the year – but stylishly so. Each of the hotel’s 124 rooms are are furnished with a calm elegance in the spirit of Armani Casa: neutral earth tones partnered with the forms of subdued modernity. This hotel isn’t central to the the heart of the city, but it earns extra points for being in walking distance of my favorite Milanese pastry shop, Pavé, located in the adjacent trendy area of Porta Venezia.

The Salone Grande at Fifty House showcases the works of Torino artist, Bisha.

Picasso’s Guernica as reinterpreted by contemporary Italian artist, Bisha.

Fifty House Milan There are indeed 50 rooms available at the Fifty House, a boarding house turned boutique hotel festooned with details of brash humor delivered by way of artist, Bisha, whose work plays prominent within both the hotel’s public and private spaces. A classically rendered Leonardo da Vinci Dama con l’ermellino sitting above the hotel mantel isn’t what it initially seems; polka dotted armchairs befitting of Yayoi Kusama offer a comfortable spot for two to find respite, while some of the rooms’ furnishings will undoubtedly tempt a guilty touch. The overall vibe here is Hollywood Regency interpreted through the colorful prism of contemporary Italian art and design. Subtle, it is not, but that’s all part of Fifty House’s charm.

Lobby photo: Sina the Gray

Sina the Gray If you’re in Milan to soak in il teatro della moda, this hotel’s centrality to the city’s most famous streets and landmarks (“just 100 meters from the Duomo”), alongside its proximity to the Quadrilatero d’Oro – aka the Golden Rectangle – makes Sina the Gray a strategic accommodation pick for those operating under a fashionable itinerary. The hotel’s decor exemplifies Milan’s identifiable design hotel motif: a neutral canvas of travertine enlivened by bright splashes of color, lights, and contrasting patterns of wenge wood. Some rooms even have their own private gym or Turkish bath.

Palazzo Matteotti Milano

Decorated unmistakably by an Italian eye, the 154 rooms and suites of this hotel wears its local bona fides represented by its mosaics of Bisazza, lighting provided by Artemide, the Driade furnishings, and seats by Meritalia. Be sure to ask for one of the rooms with the astounding view of the nearby Duomo’s Gothic vaults.

Photo: Babil Hostel

Babil Hostel Staying in Milan can be an expensive affair, but this affordably tiered hostel offers guests the opportunity to stay within contemporary-decorated rooms inhabiting a beautifully restored Neo-Gothic building (you can bunk together in shared rooms or book one of three private rooms upstairs).

Notable mentions: The Yard Milano \\\ Glam Hotel \\\ Hotel nhow Milano

WHERE TO PLAY

Film director Wes Anderson’s eye for design gives the Bar Luce within Fondazione Prada a timeless atmosphere. Photo: Fondazione Prada/Attilio Maranzano

Bar Luce: It was back in 2013 when Wes Anderson directed Castello Cavalcanti, an eight-minute short produced for Prada styled with neon and formica of the 1950s and 60s in full display in the auteur’s signature fashion. Anderson superimpose many of the same stylistic touches onto this architectural recreation of a “typical Milanese cafè” located just outside the doors of the fashion house’s museum. It’s one of my favorite places in Milan to grab a snack and people watch.

Photo: Fondazione Achille Castiglioni

Fondazione Achille Castiglioni: There are few names in the history of modern design as renowned as Achille Castiglioni. Even those who don’t recognize the name likely recognizes his work. The architect and furniture designer’s name remains nearly synonymous with modern Italian design, and the native’s shadow still looms across the city today, with design lovers flocking to this four room studio/apartment turned into a museum. The archive of his life’s work is on display, but only to those reserving a spot ahead of time for one of the guided tours, so plan accordingly.

It was during my second visit to Milan when I walked in pouring rain for an hour to be greeted by the glowing 24-carat gold leaf haunted house visible from the street for the first time; once inside I became quickly became enamored by the entirety of the compound, complete with a seated talking android. Every subsequent visit has been nearly as memorable and rewarded, with the recently opened tower building promising more to explore during the next visit. Photo: Gregory Han

Fondazione Prada: One thing admirable about Milan is the city’s propensity to reuse and reinterpret their city’s older buildings. The Fondazione Prada, situated in a slightly sketchy-industrial section of Milan was once a gin distillery dating from 1910 (note: excellent examples of graffiti line the walls along the streets leading up to the museum entrance); it’s now the stage for the fashion brand’s vision of contemporary art, design, and cinema.

The buildings of the Fondazione Prada retain their industrial past. Photo: Gregory Han

Housed within the former distillery warehouses, laboratories and brewing silos as re-envisioned by Rem Koolhas, Fondazione Prada offers an austere architectural tableau in service of the artwork inside each of the buildings, one that unconsciously motivates exploration (I attribute it to the mix of heights and widths of each building which feel abandoned even with the crowds).

Photo: Gregory Han

La Triennale Di Milano Design Musem: Even before stepping inside architect Giovanni Muzio’s exemplar of rationalist architecture, I knew the Palazzo dell’Arte was going to be a favorite inside and out. My last visit offered a ridiculous abundance of interests: exhibitions dedicated to the furniture and photography of Ettore Sottsass, the body of work of visionary Rick Owens, and the playful childhood memories of Italian design all under one roof. There’s also a very fine gift shop with design objects and book selection worthy of a visit after finishing your tour. Just arrive here before opening if possible, as lines form early. Also, the adjoining park makes for a highly recommended secondary stroll ‘n sit destination afterward.

Pavilion outside La Triennale di Milano. Photo: Gregory Han

Notable mentions: Corso Como 10 \\\ Walking around the Brera District \\\ Museo Nazionale Scienza e Tecnologia Leonardo da Vinci

WHERE TO SHOP

Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. Photo by Liza Daly (CC BY 2.0)

Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II Nicknamed “Il Salotto di Milano”, or Milan’s Living Room, it can feel like the entirety of Milan has gathered under the arched ornamental glass and metal of the city’s storied artery. It’s undeniably a tourist destination, but a prerequisite for any first time visitor, a glamorous thoroughfare bolstered by the presence of many of most storied and recognizable names of haute couture – Versace, Prada, Gucci, Armani, and Louis Vuitton. I make it an imperative to cut across this section of Milan every visit, never disappointed by the grandiosity.

RAW: The Brera design district is where you’ll want to wander for at least one afternoon, and in doing so you’ll likely be tempted to drift inside the modernist interpretation of a cabinet of curiosities on display inside Raw. If you’re partial to the John Derian and Fornasetti aesthetic, this is your shop.

De Padova: Located in the fashionable neighborhood of Corso Venezia, this Milan showroom has already attained legendary status for its curated selection of contemporary furnishings immediately recognizable by the design cognoscenti. Graced with the namesake of its founders Maddalena and Fernando DePadov, the store arguably houses the most prestigious selection of top tier global designs under one roof in Milan. Aspirational and inspirational, even if you can’t afford to purchase anything within, one exits the doors of De Padova feeling a little bit more knowledgeable about design.

Nilufar Depot: It seems appropriate that the Teatro alla Scala is cited by architect Massimiliano Locatelli as the inspiration for this enormous three-story retail space dedicated to the theater of home furnishings. The multi-level vignettes of decorative scenes set the stage for an experience in a fashion very few furniture shops could even dream of offering customers…with astronomical price tags to match.

FINAL WORDS

Milan at night can be magical. Photo: Gregory Han

The charm of some cities are immediately evident and obvious. Milan isn’t one of these destinations. Meaningful gratification here arrives in stages, rewarding those compelled to investigate its smaller streets and outlying neighborhoods, speak to its people, with its best only offered to those patience enough to walk the proverbial extra mile (occasionally literally). The city’s diverse and progressive populace is perhaps its greatest asset, reflected by a Milanese pride for the traditional, yet an openness to reinterpret them in perpetually novel fashion. Milan may be celebrated most for its remarkable sense of style, but it also deserves attention for its accessibility and willingness to envision itself something anew every year, just like the culture of design and fashion it plays home to.

If you’ve traveled to Milan and have any travel recommendations, let us know below so we can check it out for the next trip!

via http://design-milk.com/

from WordPress https://connorrenwickblog.wordpress.com/2018/04/24/design-milk-travels-to-milan/

#Uncategorized

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fillthevoid-with-space · 7 years ago

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I’ve been dropping the word ‘spectroscopy’ with only minimal explanation for quite a few episodes now and it’s high time I expanded on this topic. Join me for the double-digit episode of this podcast to learn about the history of spectroscopes and spectroscopy, how it taught us about the Sun and stars, and what advancements were made to take spectroscopes into the 20th century.

Below the cut are sources, music credits, a vocabulary list, a timeline of all the astronomers and chemist and physicists I mention, and the transcript of this episode. Let me know what you think I should research next by messaging me here, tweeting at me at @HDandtheVoid, or asking me to my face if you know me in real life. And please check out the podcast on iTunes, rate it or review it if you’d like, subscribe, and maybe tell your friends about it if you think they’d like to listen!

(My thoughts on the next episode were probes through the ages or the transit of Venus. I could also talk about more modern spectroscopy, and I’m planning to interview a friend after the eclipse next week about her graduate-level research into the history of the universe. Let me know by the 17th and I’ll have the next podcast up on August 28th, barring any new-job-related delays.)

Glossary

absorption lines - dark spectral lines that appear in a spectroscope when a gaseous or burned-up element has light shone through it.

angstrom - a unit of length—one hundred-millionth of a centimeter—that is usually used to express wavelengths and the distances in atoms.

emission lines - bright spectral lines that appear in a spectroscope when you burn an element up.

Fraunhofer lines - a standard set of spectral absorption lines observed by Joseph von Fraunhofer. He mapped 574 lines and designated them alphabetically from red to violet in the spectrum with the letters A through K, with weaker lines assigned other, lowercase letters.

incandescent - luminous or glowing due to intense heat.

spectroscopy - the study of light from an incandescent source (or, more recently, electromagnetic radiation and other radiative energy) that has its wavelength dispersed by a prism or other spectroscopic device that can disperse an object’s wavelength. The spectra of distant astronomical objects like the Sun, stars, or nebulae are patterns of absorption lines that correspond to elements that these objects are made up of. This area of study is the major source of the study of astrophysics as well as advancements in chemistry, astronomy, and quantum mechanics.

Script/Transcript

Sources

Prisms vs. diffraction gratings via CSIRO

Definition of ‘angstrom’ via Encyclopedia Brittanica

Definition of ‘incandescent’ via Merriam-Webster

Current uses of spectroscopy in astronomy

Some past and current satellites with spectroscopic capabilities via a John Hopkin’s professor’s old webpage

Spectral classification of stars via University of Nebraska-Lincoln

Common, A. A. “Astronomy.” In Popular Astronomy 8 (1900), 417-24. Located on Google Books preview.

Hirshfeld, Alan. Starlight Detectives. Bellevue Library Press: NY, 2014.

“the Fraunhofer lines, as they were soon to be called, originate in the sun itself, and are neither optical artifacts of the spectroscope nor the result of selective absorption of sunlight within earth’s atmosphere” (168-9).

“the flame’s radiance did not ‘fill in’ the dark D [sodium] lines , as [Kirchhoff] had expected, but reinforced the absorption of these wavelengths of light” (178).

Kirchhoff: “the dark lines of the solar spectrum … exist in the consequence of the presence, in the incandescent atmosphere of the sun, of those substances which in the spectrum of a flame produce bright lines in the same plane” (178).

“a body with a propensity to emit light at a given wavelength must have an equal propensity to absorb light at that wavelength” (178).

“expresses the wavelength of a spectral line, depending on its derivation angle and the density of grooves in the grating” (187).

“mosaic of the solar spectrum assembled from prints of twenty-eight negatives” (187).

“visual confirmation of the chemical unity of the Sun and stars” (203).

Doppler “claimed in 1842 that the perceived frequency of a wave is altered by one’s state of motion” (209).

“In Doppler’s schema, waves from a steadily approaching source are compressed: as their frequency is increased, their wavelength is shortened. Waves from a steadily receding source are stretched: as their frequency is reduced, their wavelength is elongated” (210).

“Yet history has shown that credit for an evolving theory or field, such as stellar spectrum photography, often goes not to individuals who are first to publish, but to those who most convincingly establish the validity and worth of their results” (223).

“Vogel confirmed that the Sun does not rotate as a solid body; Its rotation rate varies with solar latitude, fastest at the equator, progressively slower towards the poles” (231).

“The deviation of the star’s G line from its solar position revealed the star’s Doppler shift and, via a mathematical formula, its line-of-sight motion” (232).

“What Pickering had accomplished for stellar spectral classification with the Henry Draper project, Campbell had accomplished for stellar radial velocities with the Lick catalog” (233).

Johnson, George. Miss Leavitt’s Stars. Atlas Books: NY, 2005.

“When Kirchhoff and Bunsen made the discovery, the existence of atoms was still controversial. Once they were discovered, the effect could be simply understood: when an atom is energized, its electrons jump into higher orbits. When they fall back down they emit various frequencies of light. Every kind of atom is built a little differently, its electrons arrayed in a specific way, resulting in a characteristic pattern. For similar reasons, if you shine a light through a gaseous substance, like hydrogen or helium, certain colors will be filtered out. The result in this case is a characteristic pattern of black ‘absorption’ lines interrupting the spectrum—another unique chemical fingerprint. (The same colors marked by the absorption lines would appear as bright emission lines if the element was burned.)” (102-103).

Rhodes, Richard. The Making of the Atomic Bomb. 2nd ed. Simon & Schuster: NY, 2012.

Timeline

William Herschel, German/English (1738-1822)

Thomas Melvill, American (1751-1832)

William Hyde Wollaston, English (1766-1828)

David Brewster, Scottish (1781-1868)

Françoise Arago, French (1786-1853)

Joseph von Fraunhofer, Bavarian (1787-1826)

William Henry Fox Talbot, English (1800–1877)

George Airy, English (1801-1892)

Christian Doppler, Austrian (1803-1853)

Robert Wilhelm Bunsen, German (1811-1899)

Anders Ångström, Swedish (1814-1874)

Lewis Morris Rutherfurd, American (1816-1892)

William Allen Miller, English (1817-1870)

Pietro Angelo Secchi, Italian (1818-1878)

Armand-Hippolyte-Louis Fizeau, French (1819-1896)

William Huggins, English (1824-1910)

Gustav Kirchhoff, German (1824-1887)

Giovanni Battista Donati, Italian (1826-1873)

James Clerk Maxwell, Scottish (1831-1879)

Henry Draper, American (1837–1882)

Mary Anna Palmer Draper, American (1839–1914)

Hermann Carl Vogel, German (1841-1907)

Edward Charles Pickering, American (1846–1919)

Margaret Lindsay Huggins, Irish/English (1848-1915)

Henry Augustus Rowland, American (1848-1901)

Williamina “Mina” Fleming, Scottish (1857–1911)

William Wallace Campbell, American (1862-1938)

Annie Jump Cannon, American (1863-1941)

Antonia Maury, American (1866-1952)

Vesto Melvin Slipher, American (1875-1969)

Edwin Hubble, American (1889-1953)

Intro Music: ‘Better Times Will Come’ by No Luck Club off their album Prosperity

Outro Music: ‘Fields of Russia’ by Mutefish off their album On Draught

#podcast #space #outer space #spectroscopy #science #history

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