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daechwitatamic · 1 year ago

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Of Ruin: Chapter 3 || KTH

(banner by @/itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @/sailoryooons for betaing!!! 💕

Section Warnings: language, tense situations with dangerous vampires

wc: 5.1k

“We’ll be fine,” you tell Namjoon quietly. “Shake off the nerves. Let’s go be professionals.”

He looks at you like you’re a little crazy. Maybe you are. “No one’s ever done this,” he says a bit hollowly. “You know that, right?”

“Which part?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow.

He laughs under his breath and starts to move forward through the decorated doorway and into the empty, echoing throne room. You hurry to catch up, keeping pace with him.

“Any of it,” he mutters, and then lets his face fall into something blank enough to pass as professional.

The throne room is magnificent, the ceilings impossibly high and painted with beautiful scenes of forestry and rivers. The royal family seem to favor a jewel-tone blue, as you find it in the draperies, the lush carpet that leads to the steps, and the cushioning on the thrones at the top of those steps.

The King and Queen sit straight-backed, eyeing you as you step cautiously forward, but you’re watching the prince, seated just slightly behind the Queen, flanking her left. He sits slightly sideways in his seat, mouth turned down on each side. He eyes the ceiling, not you humans. He gives off an air of cold boredom.

He does not seem like he is in distress, in particular need of saving.

His dark hair falls near his eyes in delicate waves, and his body seems to be nearly all leg. He’s beautiful - the most gorgeous man you think you’ve ever seen, no wonder he isn’t human - and you try not to gawk, or worse, blush. Unlike his parents, his eyes look human today - whites present and surrounding deep, beautiful brown irises.

You imagine he’d look quite haunting if he let them go into the swirling, all-black that is natural for his kind.

You are so caught up in your mental cataloging of the prince of Infracticus that you miss the sharp look that his parents share as you draw close.

As you reach the foot of the stairs, you and Namjoon bow in tandem. You realize you should have prepped him for this - the manners, the social expectations - and you’re relieved that he seems to be able to hold his own.

“Thank you for the warm invitation,” you say upon rising, casting your words towards the King. “We’re at your service for as long as you need us.”

The King nods once, looking you over.

“So you’re the curse-breaker,” he says. “Welcome to Infracticus. We’re thankful for your presence.”

“It’s our honor to serve you,” Namjoon says.

“We were told you’re good at what you do,” the Queen says, her voice cool and even, putting the image of still water in your mind. “As long as you are here for your task, we promise your protection and offer our hospitality. Whatever you need, simply ask.”

“That’s very generous of you,” you say, eyes on the ground. “I promise I’ll - we’ll - work hard.”

“Your utmost discretion is paramount,” the King says, sitting forward to look at you more closely. “I must reiterate that the prince’s state must be kept absolutely secret. While it will be close to impossible to keep your presence here a complete secret, I ask that you stay in your quarters unless your staff are escorting you.”

Your stomach twists. You weren’t planning to go gallivanting around the palace anyway - for your own safety. But being told to stay in, even if your rooms are spacious and beautiful, feels a bit like being held prisoner.

“If, somehow, you are asked about your purpose here,” the Queen cuts in, “the official response is that you were invited here as ambassadors from the human world, and that our work is confidential.”

You sneak a glance at the prince again as you listen. He’s watching you and Namjoon a little more carefully, no longer slouched in his seat. Instead, he regards you both steadily.

“We understand,” Namjoon says, and you nod automatically, bringing your gaze back to the Queen.

“Is there anything you need to begin your work?” The Queen asks, directing the question to you.

You shake your head, considering. “Not yet,” you say. “I’ll have a better idea what we’re up against after I spend some time speaking with the prince.” You incline your head towards him when you refer to him, so that it will feel less like he’s being talked about instead of talked to.

“Very well,” the King says, waving a hand as if you’re dismissed. “Prince Taehyung will accompany you to your rooms, and you can begin your work.”

You turn to the prince, whose cold expression remains unreadable, and wait for him to move.

The prince rises obediently, and you watch him carefully as he unfolds himself from his throne and takes the steps at a clip. He moves fluidly and gracefully, brushing past you and pausing near the doorway, turning to see if you’re following.

You shoot Namjoon a quick glance to check that he’s with you, and you both give the King and Queen a respectful goodbye. Prince Taehyung waits at the door, expression cool and impassive. Servants scuttle out of his way as he finally leads you away, down a corridor back towards your assigned chambers, flanked by Dansoo and Satuel.

At first he leads you in silence, his heeled boots striking the stone floors a few paces ahead of you and Namjoon. Eventually, though, he looks at you both over his shoulder and says, “Thank you for coming, and for your discretion.”

His voice is low, calling to mind water - as his mother’s did. But his doesn’t remind you of cool springs amid misty mountains. His calls to mind the ocean, roiling and unknowable, deep and icy cold.

“It’s our honor,” you repeat. Then, a bit more genuinely, you add, “I hope I can help you.”

Prince Taehyung continues in tight silence for another moment, and then says, “So do I.”

When the group reaches your quarters, the two guards take their place on either side of the doors. Prince Taehyung puts his hand on the door’s handle and pauses, looking back as if to ask for permission. You almost laugh. It’s his home.

At your quick nod, he pulls the doors open and leads you into the main room with the fireplace. He stands near the couches, casting his gaze around as if he’s impressed with the guest rooms.

“Very well,” he says briskly. “Should I introduce myself more properly? I suppose I should.” He gives you each a sharp bow and then sticks out his hand to shake. “I am Taehyung of Rune, Prince of Infracticus.”

You hesitate, your right hand still bandaged messily with a strip of an old band’s t-shirt. He follows your gaze.

“Ah,” he says, realizing why you’ve frozen. “May I?”

Uncertain, you lift your bandaged hand. He reaches forward and unties the sloppy knot, letting the fabric fall to the ground. He holds out one hand expectantly, palm up.

You eye the gash and place your hand in Taehyung’s outstretched one. His skin is cool to the touch - not cold, but lacking any warmth.

He rubs his thumb over the cut, and it tingles so intensely that you’re tempted to wipe your hands on your pants, to try to rub away the sensation. But when he pulls his hands away you can see that the skin has stitched itself back together, your palm as markless as it had been when you awoke that morning.

“Yours too, I assume?” Taehyung asks, and you realize he’s offering to heal Namjoon as well.

“I thought - only Cleaves could heal?” you stutter, your eyes on your healed palm. The tingling fades, leaving no proof that the cut ever existed.

Taehyung sends you a twisted almost-smile from where he stands with Namjoon’s beefy hand in his own slender ones. “When you have a bloodline as long as mine,” he explains, “you always end up a bit of a mix.”

When he’s done, Namjoon staring in quiet awe at his healed palm, the prince looks at you again. “Well?” he says, and it takes you a moment to remember that he’s here so you can work on unraveling his curse. “Should we get started?”

“Right,” you say, rubbing your hands together awkwardly. “I have some questions to ask you about the curse. Would you be more comfortable here, or in the study?”

“I believe we could begin here,” he muses, gesturing at the couches. Namjoon slowly settles in a chair the color of deep-forest foliage, somewhere between green and black. The prince heads to a wingback chair, crossing one ankle over his knee and leaning back, peering at you through tight eyes.

Guarded, you think. That’s how he looks. Wary, at best. Maybe even afraid - which strikes you as almost funny, since he’s not the bottom of the food chain in this room.

Shaking yourself free of this thought, you duck into the little office they’ve fashioned for you and grab a pen and a pad of paper, knowing you’ll want to take notes as you talk.

“Okay,” you say, finally getting seated on the couch opposite the prince and taking a steadying breath. You cast a look at both men, who stare at you expectantly. “Let’s start with this - pretend I know nothing about the situation - really, it’s practically true. Tell me everything that happened. No detail is too insignificant, I can’t stress that enough. Start at the beginning.”

The prince twists his mouth to the side, considering this.

“Everything that happened,” he repeats thoughtfully. His deep voice and the hint of accent cast the words as a little musical. “I woke up in a strange part of the palace with no memory of the night before, and then I was informed that I’d left Infracticus and murdered two innocent people. Is that what you need to know?”

He speaks evenly, but you sense fire simmering behind his words.

“What happened the night before?” you ask, fighting to stay calm, despite the very real danger of being tucked away with an angry Infracti.

He rotely recounts an uneventful night - dinner with his family, some time spent with his closest friend, a walk through the palace’s arboretum, a long bath in his own quarters.

“How did you feel when you woke up?” you ask next, your eyes on your notepad.

“How did I feel?” he echoes, a bit of a bite to it. His tone gets your attention and you look up at him. His brows are furrowed, his dark eyes - the whites showing, as they have been the whole time you’ve been here - swimming with fury. Across the room, Namjoon has leaned forward, alarmed. “How do you think I felt, hearing -”

You will yourself to stay steady. “Physically,” you clarify. “When you woke up - did you experience pain? Confusion?”

He’s experiencing confusion now - looking at you blankly, as if he doesn’t even understand the question. But at least the anger has melted away, replaced with bafflement.

“When someone places a curse,” you explain slowly, putting your pen down and looking at him carefully, “what they are doing is weaving many threads of intention. If you experienced pain, that is one thread. If you were confused, that’s another. Your lack of memory is certainly one. Your loss of control, loss of sense of self - those would be individually added with intention as well. Every piece of it matters. To completely, successfully undo it, I need to identify every thread and properly counter it. These details - the things I’m asking you - they may inform me of a thread, a piece of intention from the original curse.”

Making sure he’s looking at you, you say it very seriously, urging him to understand. “If I miss even one thread, or counter one thread incorrectly, the counter-curse will not work.”

You wait, letting this sink in.

Finally, he inclines his head. “I understand. I apologize - this has been… difficult for me.”

“I can only imagine,” you say gently. “Try to remember that I’m here to fix it. Or… at least to try.”

He presses his lips together, eyes on the floor. You exchange another uneasy look with Namjoon, who shifts his weight slightly but doesn’t speak. The prince wets his lips quickly and pulls in a bracing breath and then begins to speak.

“My night before was very normal,” he repeats. “I felt normal. The things I did were within my normal routine. When I… woke up? Came back to myself? I was confused, yes, but I think that was because I couldn’t remember how I got there. My thinking was not confused, or muddled.”

You nod, feeling a rush of relief at his understanding, at his willingness to cooperate. You write this down, then wait for him to continue.

“I did have pain,” he recalls thoughtfully. “I am not sure if you are aware, but Infracti don’t feel pain easily, or often. My muscles ached - my back, my arms. My legs felt very heavy. I had never experienced any of those sensations before.”

There’s a bit of pout to his voice - if he weren’t so intimidating, it might be cute.

“And my head,” he continues with a frown. “I had pain inside my head. Across the front.” He rubs a hand across his brow to show you the spot.

Cute.

You write it down, scolding yourself for your lack of professionalism.

“What about the rest of that day?” you ask, when you’re done writing. “How long did the pain last? How did you feel throughout the day?”

“Better and better as time went on,” he allows. “Though I was… very upset. So I did feel… unlike myself, a bit… like my emotions were a storm.”

You nod, drawing a little sideways arrow and jotting it down. “When would you say the pain completely faded?”

“By early afternoon?” the prince guesses, gaze floating to the ceiling as he tries to remember. “After I’d had a midday meal in my room. My father had asked me to stay in my wing until… until we’d found out an answer.”

“That was probably wise,” Namjoon says quietly.

“We didn’t know if it would happen again,” the prince explains, a bit sadly. “I asked for extra security outside my chambers that night.”

“And what happened?”

Prince Taehyung doesn’t answer. He presses his lips together again, flexes his fingers against his thigh. He radiates shame, so thickly it’s like molasses in the air.

“Maiesti,” you prod. He raises his eyes from the floor to meet yours at your use of his own language, and you hold his gaze steadily. “I am not here to judge you or your actions,” you assure him. “Only to try and make you well again.”

He nods, lowering his gaze again, no less shamed despite your reassurance. “I watched the clock so I would know exactly what time it was when I lost myself,” he says, voice suddenly tiny. You lean closer to hear better, and in your periphery you see Namjoon do the same. “It was midnight. I came back to myself sometime before six o’clock the next morning, in my room, which was… destroyed.”

You’re writing fast, trying to catch every detail. “Destroyed?” you echo.

“Tables overturned, bedding shredded,” he lists robotically, ticking the list on his fingers. “Scratches in the wood of the door.” Pain laces his voice as he adds, “It was like I turned into an animal for the night. I attacked the men stationed at my door. They reported to my father that it took six of them to get me back inside, and then they barred the door. I must have spent the whole time trying to get through.”

He glances down at his hands and you follow his gaze. His nails are wrecked, fingertips still sporting scrapes and cuts, though they’ve clearly been cleaned.

It occurs to you that he could heal himself if he wanted to.

“How did you feel - physically - when you woke up?” You do your best to stay clinical despite the quickening of your pulse.

“The same as the day before - the same pains. The Elders came and told me that… they believed this is the work of a curse. I think you were contacted immediately.”

You ask about the night before this, the final night before you’d arrived, and he describes the same series of events - he’d asked to go to a more unused set of rooms shortly before midnight so that he wouldn’t ruin his own things. He’d woken at dawn sore, exhausted, frustrated - but safely contained.

You lapse into silence, reading back some of what you’d written down, eyes roving for clues and patterns, a place to start.

“I think I need to see you while the curse is controlling you,” you muse, not necessarily meaning to say it aloud.

“Absolutely not,” Prince Taehyung snaps, sitting upright. The gloom and shame vanish from him like a dropped blanket, replaced by intensity and natural authority. “Under no circumstances are either of you to come anywhere near me during the hours that I’ve lost - that I’m not myself. I forbid it.”

You glance away, catching Namjoon’s stricken gaze, and settle on watching your feet scuff gently at the stone floor.

“I’m not trying to make a spectacle of you,” you defend yourself. “I’d like to take notes on your appearance and actions when the curse is active. There may be valuable -”

“I don’t think you understand,” the prince says, rising fluidly and narrowing his eyes at you. “It took six Infracti to contain me. Do you have the strength of six Infracti?” He cocks his head at this rhetorical question. “If you are near me between midnight and dawn, you will die. There is no other possible outcome. I forbid it.”

You stare at each other, at an impasse. Finally, you look down at your notepad, mind whirring as you try to think of a way around this rule. Prince Taehyung huffs in frustration and then eyes the exit.

“I have duties to attend to,” he says flatly. “Please remember that if asked, your reason for being in Infracticus is simply that the King invited you, as academics in the magical field.”

You feel a jolt of queasiness. You hope no one asks - you hope no one speaks to you at all, that no one even notices you there.

“Understood,” Namjoon says, speaking for you both.

Prince Taehyung nods, eyeing the door, then speaks without looking at you. “Please determine our next steps regarding the curse and communicate them to your staff. They’ll inform me.” With this, he slips into the corridor, leaving you in silence.

You turn to Namjoon plaintively. “Was this a mistake?” you ask, open and vulnerable, feeling a little wild with trepidation. “Should we not have come? Can we do this?”

He shakes his head. “A little late for that now.”

You sink back against the couch, closing your eyes, feeling drained despite it still being late morning. You feel like you’ve lived three days in just several hours.

“I know,” you concede.

“Let’s just try to do the job as quickly as possible,” he says evenly, lifting his hand like he wants to place it reassuringly on you, then hesitates and returns it to his own lap. “Do you have any thoughts based on this first interview?”

You nod, scanning your notepad again. “It’s interesting,” you murmur, the academic in you coming alive. “It seems to be a curse of lacking, of deprivation. He is not instilled with monstrous behavior - rather, his control and humanity are stripped away or suppressed until only the monster remains.”

“That could be four or five segments of the curse on their own,” Namjoon agrees thoughtfully, his fist pressed against his jaw as he thinks. “To remove one’s sense of self, to remove the Id entirely and leave him only Ego, to remove the facets of control, of mercy, of compassion - each of those exists alone.”

You sigh. “Someone knew what they were doing,” you grumble. “No ordinary person - or Infracti - could just come up with this on the fly.”

“It does seem to solidify their theory that this was an attack,” Namjoon agrees. “Though there are methods out there to simplify the process, if you know what you’re doing. Someone with less skill could complete the curse, if they’d done their research first.”

You look at him, hyper-focused. “Explain,” you say simply.

“We’re looking at each thread of intention that we see here and identifying each one individually,” he says. “And we’re seeing so many specific threads that it seems to us that the caster must have great skill to weave so many and do it correctly.”

“Right…” you say slowly, following so far.

“Some curses are cast with the use of supplemental magic,” he explains. Of course you knew this, but it’s a different school of thought than your normal work. “The supplemental magic does the weaving for you - if your wide-scale intention is clear, the supplemental magic sort of… collects the threads you need and brings them to you ready to go.”

You feel yourself frowning, thinking hard. “Like elemental magic? That kind of supplemental magic?”

“Sure,” he says, nodding. “But other forces as well - life magic and death magic, for example.”

This hits you heavily, and you let out a puff of breath. “Death magic?” you repeat, since this is the piece that lodged itself in your skull. “What would that even mean for this case?”

Namjoon shrugs. “I’m not sure yet,” he admits. “But I think it’s something we should continue to consider.”

–

Lunch is served to you not much later in that same room, and after eating you and Namjoon begin pouring through the few magical tomes you’d brought from the university, making note of any relevant details you find.

It’s late afternoon when Namjoon finally leans back from the table, slapping one large palm across the papers where he’d been listing possible threads of intention and mapping ways to counter them.

You’d both been sitting on the floor on opposite sides of the low table, which is now littered with open books and scattered papers.

“I need a break,” he announces, pushing himself up and heading for the couch. He flops down, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I just wrote the same thing three times. My eyes are crossing.”

You set down your pen and stretch. A break sounds nice, actually. You rise and pace the room a bit, just to walk and get blood flowing in your legs again. You pass by the fireplace, feeling the heat lick at the side of your face until you’re past it, then stopping at the wall that serves as a water feature. You watch it peacefully for a second.

“You know,” you say thoughtfully. “I could go for some tea. You want some?”

Namjoon answers you with a light snore. You stare at him in disbelief for a minute - how do people just fall asleep like that?! You absolutely cannot relate.

You pace the room twice more, but you’re feeling more antsy and caged in by the minute. After one more lap, you pause by the doors. You’ve been told multiple times today that you can ask for anything you need, but you feel nervous actually doing so.

Still… might as well try it on a small request first, right?

Sighing, you tug the door open. Satuel turns fluidly to face you, expectant.

“Could…” you venture. “Could we get some tea, maybe?”

She nods curtly, black hair swishing with the motion. “I’ll send for it right away,” she tells you. “Please wait inside.”

“Oh,” you say, rocking back on your heels. “I was actually… I was wondering if I could go with you to get it? I feel the need to walk a little.”

She exchanges a tight look with Dansoo, a frown forming on each of their faces.

“We can’t allow that,” he answers for her gruffly. “Our orders are to get you what you need. Your orders are to stay out of sight.”

I don’t live here, you think, scowling. I don’t take orders from the royal family.

But you are here as a hired professional, and they’re your client, in a way. And the ones offering you room and board, food, and protection.

You sigh. “Okay,” you say. “I understand.”

Back in your rooms, you flop onto the couch that isn’t occupied by Namjoon’s sleeping form. His arm is still over his eyes, and he snores steadily, more loudly now.

Nobody to even talk to, you think crankily. You lean back against the couch, fingers tapping impatiently against the arm of the couch.

You’re in Infracticus, in the palace, and you’re trapped in your room. It strikes you as deeply unfair, though you understand the logic, the reasons. Still. You’d give anything to explore a little, to find a little nook to hide in and just watch for a while. The anthropologist in you is dying to observe - there’s nothing you want more than to wander the palace and take it all in. It’s like being told there’s really life on Mars, getting transported there, and then being told you don’t get to see any of it because you have to stay in the spaceship.

You’re suddenly so antsy you think you might crawl out of your skin.

You flop your head to the side in irritation, eyeing the guarded doors. Of course they don’t want to let you wander around the palace - it’s too dangerous. You’re too delicate, too human.

You sit up straight, eyes still on the door.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you’re thinking too much like a human.

You barely use magic in your everyday life; in the human world, it just isn’t necessary. But you’re able, perfectly capable of borrowing.

You look over at Namjoon, who simply snorts in his sleep and rolls to face the back of the couch. He certainly won’t be stopping you.

When the knock comes, you’ve made up your mind. You open the door with a grateful smile, following the member of kitchen staff as he wheels in a little cart carrying a tea tray. As he busies himself moving the tray from the cart to the small table meant for your meals, you begin the process of borrowing.

You breathe deeply, focusing on what your senses tell you about the space around you - the sounds of the crackling fire, the wall of moving water, the clink of china as the staff member moves the teapot; the smell of the tea, the perfume you’d dabbed on after showing, the room’s natural smells - earthy and sharp.

Your fingertips start to tingle just slightly, a pleasant sensation almost like sunlight moving across a table to finally fall across your skin. You breathe deeper, inviting it in, pulling the magic that exists wild in the universe and reining it in for just a moment, taming it for the few minutes that it can be tamed.

You have two threads of intention for the magic, and you weave them together a bit sloppily. You’re more practiced at pulling threads apart, but you can manage this with some concentration.

One thread: don’t see me. The second: what’s that, over there?

When the kitchen staff wheels the tea cart back into the hallway, you follow tight on his heels. The borrowed magic does as you ask and convinces the staff pushing the cart that there is no one behind him. It convinces Dansoo and Satuel that they see nothing unusual near the cart, but that they might see a suspicious shadow down the other side of the hallway.

As you get farther and farther away, sticking close to the tea cart, you watch as they peer - narrow-eyed and alert - in the opposite direction.

As soon as you turn a corner, you slow your pace, letting the Infracti pushing the empty tea cart get further and further away. Once he’s out of sight, you exhale, loosening and then releasing the reins on the magic you’d taken. You breathe freely, no longer having to focus on gripping those reins.

You follow the corridor, trying to always stick to the right, so that you can find your way back later.

You don’t really have a goal, anything specific you want to see. Nor do you really have a plan, besides poke around, quell your curiosity, stretch your legs, and don’t get killed. But the palace is huge and the royal family is small; you figure you can manage to wander undetected as long as you turn back if you see anyone up ahead.

You’re not sure how long you wander down empty corridors, passing underneath paintings and maps, some of which you stop and examine. After some time, you stop passing closed doors and start passing open rooms, most of which seem outfitted for taking visitors: couches and tables, bookshelves laden with both books and decorative trinkets.

Something in one room catches your eye and you pause in the doorway, peeking in. A piano sits in the corner, shiny and still. You wonder if anyone who lives here actually uses it, or if musicians are hired when entertainment is needed.

It isn’t much further down the same corridor as the piano room that you come to the top of a wide, stone staircase. You pause, listening. The sound of voices and laughter floats up to you, and you hurry to tuck yourself behind a statue of an amarisca, the magical creature that had pulled your carriage the night before.

From your spot, pressed tightly against the carved stone, you can just barely see the room below. You can see the hems of skirts and shiny dress shoes passing by - all heading into the palace. They must be important families, invited to take supper with the royal family. Perhaps they are even members of the Ruins themselves - the King and Queen’s siblings, perhaps, or even their cousins. Maybe they’re invited here to shmooze before making decisions regarding business or state. Maybe the royal family simply have friends, people whose company they like to keep.

You’re mulling this over when a voice startles you so badly that you leap, whirling around, grateful for the heavy statue - without it, you very well may have toppled down the stairs.

“What have we here?” the low voice asks, “A human?”

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thank you so much for reading!!!! finally - events are happening!!! lol

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platonicreaderinsertfanfic · 9 months ago

Text

Etho: Vampire Hunter AU (Reader-Insert)

Female reader.

Word count: 932

“You’re up late.” A low voice broke the silence of the night.

You looked up from your work maintaining the chapel’s pews. “Etho!” He looked tired, green and black clothes splattered with dark stains, cloak hanging off his body in ripped shreds, and reddish brown smeared all over his bare hand and forearm.

Adjusting the mask covering the lower half of his face, he smiled with his eyes. “Sister.” Like all your friends, he called you by your title rather than your name—just as you preferred. As far as you were concerned, Sister was your name, not the pretentious mouthful assigned to you by the Church when you came here years ago. Hiding your identity was tiresome, although preferable to being claimed by the powerful vampire queen who had marked you as a child.

“I take from the bloodstains all over your clothes, your hunt was successful?” Tossing your screwdriver onto the wooden pew beside where you were crouched, you leaned back to get a better look at your friend; it seemed none of the blood was his this time. Good.

He laughed, almost sounding embarrassed. “It doesn’t feel successful.”

“Rough kill?” You threw your long hair back over your shoulder, keeping it out of the way as you returned to work.

Running a blood smeared hand through his white hair, Etho’s mood darkened. “Even when I know my target has lived for over sixty years, and killed seventeen innocents, it’s not easy to drive a stake through the heart of a creature who looks like a ten year old girl…”

“The abbess always says you’re too kind for this work.” Picking up the screwdriver, you gave it a little flip in the air, catching it neatly. Gently running your left hand over the pile of screws, you grouped them as you counted in your head.

Etho walked towards you. “Uh huhh. It’s hard to tell when she sends me out every week to kill monsters.” Sighing, he squeezed past your kneeling body to tiredly sink down onto the pew. “I shouldn’t have specialized in vampires.”

“Etho, don’t sit—!”

Splintering wood and the crash of ancient planks smacking beautiful tilework flooring interrupted your warning, as the pew gave way beneath him. “Ohhhhh.” He sounded pathetic as he lay on his back on the floor, gazing up at the decorative ceiling and gripping the pocket watch hanging from his belt. While you knew Etho must be a fierce and capable warrior, you found such an image hard to combine with the slightly hapless, and very nice guy, you had befriended over the years.

You groaned. “I had removed most of the screws attaching the seat to the end of the pew, so I could replace them with slightly wider screws, ‘cause the whole thing’s been getting loose, and had already been jury rigged before I ever came here…”

“Sorey.” His accent always came through when he apologized. “I’ll explain to the abbess it was my fault.”

“Thanks.” Leaning back against the chapel wall, you mulled over how long it would take you to fix the pew, assuming you had the skill to properly fix something so old, delicate, and ornate—which you doubted.

“And speaking of the abbess, I got permission to take you with me on my next assignment.”

“Really?” At his words, all exasperation fled your body. Usually you were forbidden from leaving the abbey, on account of the mark on the back of your left hand. “Why?”

“You’re good at clerical work, right, Sister?”

You nodded eagerly as he continued.

“My target tonight had quite a library, and chests of saved correspondence. I needed someone to help me catalog all of it tomorrow, and since they made the mistake of letting me choose my own assistant…I chose you.” Propping himself up on his elbows, his eyes crinkled in a smile. “You do want to see more of the world, right? I don’t know why the abbess always keeps you cooped up in the church compound, but I figure I ought to show my friend a bit of the outside world if I can.”

Without thinking, you gripped the back of your left hand, imagining the green symbol hidden by your half finger glove. “I’d love that.”

Rising from the rather destroyed pew, which now littered the floor, Etho stretched. “I need to wash up. Wouldn’t want to talk to the abbess looking like this.” He pointed at you. “Now go get some sleep, we have a long day tomorrow.”

“You’re going to talk to the abbess now?”

“Some of us aren’t night owls by choice, Sister.” Etho chuckled. “If I have to work this late, she can wake up to talk to me in the middle of the night from time to time.”

Grateful for his friendship, and this opportunity to leave the abbey, you wanted to hug the lanky man before you, but decorum held you back. The last thing you had ever wanted was rumors of being romantically involved with anyone, and years of practicing such thinking left little room for nebulous gestures like hugs—no matter how platonically you intended them. “Hm, you’ve always had fun being a bit of a pain.”

“Just doing my job.” His smile shone through in his voice as you packed up your toolbox.

“See you tomorrow, Etho.”

With a jaunty little wave, he strode off, leaving you to wonder what the next day held.

#Ethoslab #My content #Platonic reader insert #Ethoslab x Reader #Hermitcraft x Reader #Vampire Hunter AU #Reader insert

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mariacallous · 10 days ago

Text

Mel Brooks, who mocked Adolf Hitler in his 1967 black comedy “The Producers,” has always made the case for satire as a weapon against tyranny.

“You have to bring him down with ridicule,” he told “60 Minutes” in 2001. “It’s been one of my lifelong jobs — to make the world laugh at Adolf Hitler.”

Of course, Hitler was long dead and there were 6 million fewer Jews on the planet when “The Producers” came out. Before and during World War II, satire proved a futile weapon against the Fuhrer: Charlie Chaplin made “The Great Dictator” in 1940, similarly reducing Hitler to a buffoon. But by the time the movie premiered that October, nearly 3 million German troops had smashed into France, Belgium, Luxembourg and the Netherlands.

The futility of satire was on my mind when, on the Thursday after Election Day, I toured a new exhibit at the Jewish Museum on the Upper East Side in Manhattan. “Draw Them In, Paint Them Out: Trenton Doyle Hancock Confronts Philip Guston” features two artists, one Jewish, one African-American, whose work wrestles with racism, white supremacy and antisemitism.

Philip Guston, born Phillip Goldstein in Montreal in 1913, was inspired by the ferment of the 1960s to create a series of cartoonish paintings featuring hooded members of the Ku Klux Klan. In these almost cheerful paintings, the frightening avatars of white supremacy look like costumed children out of a Charlie Brown comic (or, more accurately, from “Krazy Kat,” a popular comic strip in Guston’s youth).

“These buffoonish Klansmen still today are a real rebuke, I think, to bigotry in all its forms,” curator Rebecca Shaykin, who organized the exhibit, said at the press opening. “They’re still just so incredibly powerful.”

About a third of the gallery is given over to Guston’s Klan paintings, as well as some of his earlier work. The rest features riotous paintings, cartoons and a film by Hancock, a Texas-born artist who was a child when Guston died in 1980 in upstate Woodstock, New York. Many of Hancock’s paintings directly quote Guston’s Klansmen: They are in painting after painting featuring “Torpedoboy,” a sort of Black superhero who Hancock considers his alter ego. The Klansmen try to lynch Torpedoboy; he fights back with what looks like a watermelon. In one painting, Torpedoboy appears to drive a spike through a Klansman’s head.

In the exhibition catalog, Hancock describes what attracted him to Guston’s Klan paintings. “I fell in love with the forms, and how he used comedy to take the wind out of the sails of the KKK,” says Hancock. “He helped me understand where I could take” my own characters.”

Whether audiences appreciate the comedy depends on their sensibility; remember, it was decades before “The Producers” lost its “notorious” label and became a beloved institution, at least in its adaptation as a Broadway musical. For some, the Klan paintings by both artists could be triggering. In 2020, at the height of the Black Lives Matter movement, four major museums certainly thought so, and postponed a comprehensive survey of Guston’s work. They explained that “the powerful message of social and racial justice that is at the center of Philip Guston’s work can be more clearly interpreted.”

When the exhibition did open at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston in 2022, the museum offered a pamphlet from a trauma specialist and a detour allowing visitors to skip the Klan-themed works.

The Jewish Museum seems unfazed by that controversy. When I asked Shaykin about it she said the Guston-Hancock show had already been percolating when she learned of the postponement controversy. “It just made it more imperative, I think, that we bring Guston into the present moment and pair him with a contemporary artist,” she said. The only suggestion that images might be controversial is a sign outside the gallery, warning that the exhibit contains “explicit language” and “depictions of violence and lynchings.”

James Snyder, director of the Jewish Museum, also said the exhibit is right for the political moment.

“We don’t do politics,” he said at the press preview, “but if you think about what happened the other day in the election, and where we actually really need to go, this show could not be more timely.”

What happened, of course, was the election of Donald Trump to a second, non-consecutive term. And if ever there was a rebuke to the power of satire, it is Trump. Trump was a nightly target of nearly all the late-night talk shows, where he was mocked as a racist, a would-be authoritarian, a grifter and a vulgarian. With just a week to go before the election, Jimmy Kimmel made a direct appeal to Republicans to reject Trump, calling him “the exact meeting point between QAnon and QVC.” For years Stephen Colbert wouldn’t even say his name.

Deserved or not, the jokes about Trump didn’t make a dent in his popularity — and perhaps they only added to it. In a recent episode of his podcast, “Revisionist History,” Malcolm Gladwell talks about the “satire paradox”: the idea that satire, by making the targets entertaining, actually makes them more sympathetic. He quotes Jonathan Coe, a British writer who argued in a 2023 essay that “laughter is not just ineffectual as a form of protest, but that it actually replaces protest.”

“Laughter, in a way, is a kind of last resort,” Coe tells Gladwell. “If you’re up against a problem which is completely intractable, if you’re up against a situation for which there is no human solution and never will be, then OK, let’s laugh about it.”

Not that Guston and Hancock are not deadly serious in their aims. The art is provocative and appropriately disturbing. The exhibit suggests that Guston, who changed his name from the identifiably Jewish “Goldstein” in 1935, later felt guilty about abdicating his identity — and as a result felt complicit with the Klansmen who sought to erase both Jews and Black people. “They are self-portraits,” Guston once said of the Klan paintings. “I perceive myself as being behind the hood.”

Hancock’s seemingly humorous works are also working through extremely grim themes. The Klan was active in his hometown of Paris, Texas, and in 2021 a KKK chapter planned a “White Unity Conference” there before it was blocked by the city council. Born in the mid-1970s, Hancock acknowledges in the catalog that he had benefited from the “heavy lifting” done by his elders in the Civil Rights Movement. But as a Black man and Black artist, he couldn’t ignore the legacy of racism. “It wasn’t until I was much older that I started to peel away those layers, or have them peeled away for me,” he says.

That’s why the most effective works in the exhibit aren’t satirical. At all. They include early work by Guston, who already as a teenager was depicting the Klan and lynchings in the social realist style of the day. Nothing about these dark, frightening images is cartoonish or ambiguous.

And perhaps the most arresting work in the show is a video installation by Hancock, showing scenes from the fairgrounds of Paris, Texas, juxtaposed with photographs of the lynching of a Black teenager, Henry Smith, which took place on the same site in 1893. Hundreds gather around the makeshift gallows to watch the execution. They seem to be having a very good time.

“Draw Them In, Paint Them Out: Trenton Doyle Hancock Confronts Philip Guston” is on view at The Jewish Museum, 1109 Fifth Ave., through March 30, 2025.

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fatehbaz · 1 year ago

Text

At the inauguration of the First Brazilian Congress of Eugenics in July of 1929, the physician and anthropologist Edgar Roquette-Pinto [...] exalted “eugenia” as the new science that, together with medicine and hygiene, would guarantee the efficiency and perfection of the race. [...] [This] agenda [...] brought architecture to the very core of the eugenics [...] movement [...]. [M]edical scientific discourses, first articulated in France, crossed the ocean [...]. [G]lobal movements, hygienics and eugenics, [...] became the dual vehicles for bringing architecture into active dialogue [...].

In Brazil, the nation was seen as a sick organism [...]. In the center of Rio de Janeiro, this mission brought together a diverse cast of characters: from the physicians and architects of the Parisian Musée Social, the early French think-tank [...], to the physicians and architects of Rio de Janeiro who formulated [...] Brazilian modernism, to Le Corbusier, who began consolidating a eugenicist ideology precisely during the months he spent in Brazil in the mid-1930s.

---

In the early 1920s, [...] a dramatic event occurred in Rio. [...] [A] sanitary and urban reform [movement] [...] reached its climax with the demolition of an entire populated mountain, the Morro do Castelo, in the center of the Brazilian capital. This mountain was no ordinary mountain; it was the original site where the colonial city [...] had been established in 1567. [...] As far back as 1798, a medical report had argued for the mountain’s demolition [...]. [T]he mountain came to be seen as the very negation of modernity itself; a reservoir of vice and disease with a motley “marginal” population, including poor Blacks and formerly enslaved people who, according to the elites, invaded the center of the city [...].

The extensive territory that resulted from this demolition was immediately occupied by the 1922 International Exhibition. [...] Promoting itself as a tabula rasa, the exhibition represented a literal “triumph” over the territory - a territory now cleansed of its history and unwanted inhabitants. It’s more than 500-page catalog is striking in its complete elimination of all traces of the African and indigenous components of Brazilian culture. [...] Its images demonstrate a new alliance between beauty, health, tropicality, and modernization that Brazilian elites adopted [...].

Shortly after the exhibition, in 1922, and lasting until 1938, neo-colonial architecture was declared by the government to be the national style, mandatory for every building that would represent Brazil abroad. [...] It was not a coincidence that all this - the demolition of the mountain, the elimination of Rio de Janeiro’s original urban nucleus, the displacement of its poor residents, and the construction of the exhibition pavilions - was executed almost simultaneously with new policies and mandates such as the “white only” decree of 1921, which prohibited the immigration of Blacks to Brazil. [...] No one illustrates this connection between race and architecture better than Lucio Costa [the architect of Brasilia, the new modernist national capital city] - who, in 1928, made this racist link in a newspaper article: [...]

All architecture is a question of race. [...] Everything is a function of race. If the breed is good, and the government is good, the architecture will be good. Talk, discuss, gesticulate: our basic problem is selective immigration; the rest is secondary [...].

---

When Le Corbusier traveled for the second time to Brazil in 1936, his discourses were centered on nature, death, and the racial and sexual “other.” [...] In 1936, while preparing his series of talks in Rio de Janeiro, Le Corbusier made a sketch on a piece of cardboard that distilled and concretized [...] rationales of modernity: change the environment, change the man. Written at the top is the word “Castello,” followed by the name “Lucio Costa,” the phrases “pedro aller police” and “Castello coûts clichés,” the name of architect “Carlos Porto,” and the phrase “Acheter livre Carrel.” The latter was a reminder for him to buy the new bestseller by the French Nobel prize-winning physician Alexis Carrel, Man The Unknown, an unmistakable call for the implementation of eugenics and manifesto for white supremacy. What made Le Corbusier think of Carrel while thinking of Rio de Janeiro?

It is not a mere coincidence that Castelo, one of the most significant eugenic laboratories in Latin America, is the first word that appears on the cardboard.

But Castelo was not only the name of the pulverized mountain from which thousands of “undesirable” inhabitants had been displaced, or the stage for the 1922 international exhibition with its neocolonial pavilions and its image of white Brazil, or the epicenter of the master urban plan that Agache had designed for Rio. Castello was also where Lucio Costa was designing the new building for the Ministry of Health and Education, the institution charged with developing and enforcing Brazil’s eugenic policies under Getulio Vargas’ new authoritarian regime, for which Le Corbusier had been invited to be a design consultant. This sketch links the dramatic transformation of the urban territory of Rio de Janeiro to Lucio Costa’s project and to Carrel’s vision for remaking society. [...]

In his Oeuvre complète 1934-1938, Le Corbusier included a sketch of the Brazilian Ministry of Health and Education building. This new ministry [...] later became the symbol of Brazilian modernism [...]. Gustavo Capanema, the first Minister of Health and Education, had commissioned both the building, which he called the Ministry of Man and was destined to “prepare, compose, and perfect the Brazilian man,” [...]. Capanema pondered, “How will the body of the Brazilian man be, of the future Brazilian man, not the vulgar man or the inferior man but the best exemplar of the race? How will his head be? His color? The shape of his face? His physiognomy?” [...] When Le Corbusier came back [from Brazil] to France and began collaborating with Alexis Carrell under the [Nazi] Vichy regime, his vision of a clinically inspired habitat where all human needs can be met reached a new level of specificity. [...] He was convinced that the human body, the anatomo-politics of its productivity, and the built environment should be managed by the State. In a 1941 broadcast he affirmed that "[...] The degeneration of the house, the degeneration of the family, are one."

---

All text above by: Fabiola López-Durán. "Fantasies of Whiteness". e-flux Architecture. Sick Architecture series. April 2022. At: e-flux dot com slash architecture/sick-architecture/461057/fantasies-of-whiteness/ [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for criticism, teaching, commentary purposes.]

#tidalectics #ecologies #abolition #geographic imaginaries #modernism and hygiene and eugencies #multispecies

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totowlff · 1 year ago

Text

the encounter

➝ a painting, an agent and a crime. sounds good, no?

➝ word count: 3,9k

➝ warnings: descriptions of crimes, reader being clumsy

➝ author’s note: i finally felt safe enough to post this story. it's a more or less alternative universe, since it has some real things (i'd love to know your bets). hope you like it.

It was an ugly, gloomy day in Vienna, and you found yourself sitting in the cafe you tended to frequent these days. As far as anybody knew, and as far as you told anybody, it was a nice place to come and work during the day, so almost every day for the past few weeks, you sat in your usual seat by the window and sipped coffee as you ostensibly worked on something important on your laptop. As far as anybody asked, the cafe was comfortable enough and it was fairly close to your apartment, and you simply weren’t quite as productive when you were working at home. That’s what you told people, along with the fact that you worked in finance.

You weren’t working on anything at the moment, because your mind was elsewhere, and your eyes were fixed on something across the street from the cafe. You were staring at an old antique shop, with a dark green facade and gold lettering across its front window. You were watching the people inside, talking animatedly, trying to imagine what they were speaking about.

— Maria — you heard someone say. The name was familiar, after all, that was the name that was listed in the identity documents that your boss handed to you in a manila envelope a few weeks earlier, along with an investigation report. Hearing the name brought you back to when he was briefing you on the operation, which had been named “Królowa”, a reference to the object of the investigation. You had been assigned to search for information on a triptych painted by the Polish master painter, Jan Matejko, that depicted a procession accompanying the Virgin Mary and the Baby Jesus to a cathedral in Kraków.

The triptych was considered a lost Polish national treasure, stolen from its most recent owner during the Nazi occupation. Previous investigations into its whereabouts dragged on for years, buried in the files of the Europol, based in The Hague, in the Netherlands. When you started working there, almost a decade earlier, the case was stuck on a cold lead about the piece's last owner, Count Hieronim Tarnowski, a Polish aristocrat.

The last documented whereabouts of the triptych was within Montelupi Palace in Kraków, which was owned by the Tarnowski family. However, the palace and all of its contents were expropriated by Nazi command in 1942, before the interior of the Palace was consumed by fire. From then on, there was nothing further documented about the of the painting. It and some other cultural treasures seized by the Nazis were long considered lost by the Polish government and Europol. That is, until one day, you found something that made you dig deeper into the case.

You were doing some research for another art theft case when you found an open thread about Matejko on an art forum. While you were reading praise for the painter's work, you came across a photo posted by a user called Piter1974 that caught your attention.

It was a photo of the triptych, clearly taken with a modern camera given the quality and colors of the image. They contrasted sharply with the images attached to the investigation that you had as reference, which had been taken from pre-war catalogs. The only existing photos of the work were all in black-and-white, taken with early 20th century cameras. You did some cursory checking on the authenticity of the image, and didn't hesitate to print it out. You placed it on your boss’ desk with an air of confidence.

— What is that? — your boss, a burly, perpetually grumpy Frenchman named Romeo, asked.

— It’s Matejko’s triptych.

He looked unconvinced as he cocked an eyebrow.

— Came to show me your Photoshop skills? The colors look nice, but…

— I didn't color this photo.

Romeo blinked.

— Do you mean…

— It's a recent image — you said, proudly — The EXIF data shows that it was taken on October 6, 2022.

— Where did you find this?

— On an internet forum. A user posted this in a discussion thread about Jan Matejko's works.

— You…

— It’s not AI or Photoshop. I checked, Romeo — you replied, smiling — The triptych still exists!

Your discovery led to the case being reopened, with the image being examined pixel-by-pixel for any inconsistencies, and your findings being verified. The EXIF data buried in the picture not only showed the date, but it showed what kind of camera the image had been taken by, which was a high-end professional model popular with archivists and museum curators for taking high-quality images suitable for cataloging.

You felt frustration wash over you. The trail seemed to have gone cold again, after all, how many art galleries were there in the world? It was like you were looking for a needle in a haystack.

But again, fortune smiled on you. While analyzing an old catalog of Jan Matejko's works written by a Polish author, you came across new information about the triptych's whereabouts. According to the catalog’s author, after being confiscated by the Nazis, the triptych briefly reappeared in the 1960s, in the inventory of a well-known antiques shop in central Vienna. Your relief was short-lived when you saw the name of the shop’s owner.

“Of course Bednarczyk is involved in this”, you thought to yourself, letting out a long sigh.

Czesław Bednarczyk was an old acquaintance of the Polish justice system. He had been a notorious smuggler, taking vast amounts of Poland’s cultural treasures and gold abroad, most of it to be sold in his antique shop in central Vienna, on the Dorotheergasse.

Despite the mountain of evidence against him, the antiquarian never faced justice for his crimes, nor did his reputation within the art world suffer. When he died in the late 90s, the funeral was attended by great figures from the industry, all paying their respects to the patriarch's family, who worked to preserve his legacy to this very day.

Bednarczyk's antique shop was taken over by his eldest daughter, Elisabeth. She was known for being one of the leading experts on Viennese porcelain, which kept her from being a major suspect. However, you thought, that didn't mean the place couldn't be involved in some way, as other Matejko pieces had been sold by the Bednarczyks over the years. And so, you went to Vienna with a false identity and a single objective: find the triptych.

After arriving in the city and settling into the apartment that would be your base, you tried to investigate the surroundings of Dorotheergasse, the narrow lane where the antique shop was located. In short order, you found the perfect place to monitor movements in and out of the shop without raising any suspicion — a cafe next to the Jewish Museum across the street. — Maria — the voice repeated, making you wake up from your thoughts. You glanced over your shoulder, finding the friendly smile of Kristina, the cafe's barista — Is everything okay?

— Yes, everything’s fine — you replied quickly, fumbling to hide the fact that you had forgotten that was the name you’d given to the waitress — Why?

— Oh, you… Called me over to place your order, but when I asked you what you wanted, you didn't say anything...

You felt your own cheeks heat up.

— Sorry, Kristina, I was distracted…

— By the antique shop?

You were apparently being too obvious. You wished the ground would swallow you whole.

— Well, no… Not exactly…

— Oh, I’m not surprised. — Kristina laughed — When you said you had just moved to an apartment nearby, I sort of figured you had an eye for art and antiques.

— But, how?

The barista chuckled.

— I mean, you’ve seen the kind of people that come in here. It’s only old people or people that are crazy about art, and you’re obviously not old.

You smiled, trying to hide your discomfort at feeling so transparent.

— I do like art — you lied — My parents had a lot of pieces at home, like sculptures, porcelain...

— Oh, that shop has a ton of those things.

You raised your eyebrow.

— Have you ever been inside?

— Yes. I got curious about it and went after work one day.

— Did you talk to anyone there?

Kristina was clearly taken aback by your interest.

— Oh, yes, I talked to a man, he…

— Alexander? — you asked, taking a few seconds to realize that, in your eagerness to find out more about the Bednarczyks, you were close to showing your hand.

— No, his name was something else — she replied, with suspicion on her face — Who’s Alexander?

In truth, you knew that Elisabeth had a son named Alexander. According to the case’s dossier, he was a specialist in contemporary art and responsible for numerous sales of works to foreign galleries and museums. If the triptych had left the antique shop heading abroad, it likely would have passed through Alexander's hands.

— Well, like I said, my parents like art and I remembered they bought a few pieces from a shop in Vienna run by a man named Alexander — you said, trying to cover your tracks — I thought it could be him, but I think it's unlikely, come to think of it. After all, how many art and antique shops are in a city this size, right?

After staring at you for a few seconds, Kristina smiled.

— Unlikely, maybe, but not impossible. I imagine the art world isn’t a very big one, after all.

You went back to focusing on the antique shop. You had noticed some movement near the door and you were trying to pay attention to whoever was leaving, when Kristina cleared her throat.

— Yeah? — you muttered.

— Do you still want something?

Looking at the table, you noticed that your espresso cup was empty, as was the plate full of crumbs from the chocolate cake you had devoured after lunch.

— I think another espresso — you replied. With a nod Kristina walked away from your table, while you looked again at the door of the antique shop as two blonde women came out of the shop’s door. Both of them were talking animatedly and had boxes in their hands.

Just then, you’d decided you’d spent enough time over the past few weeks watching and waiting — you had to see what was inside.

The next day, the plan was already drawn up in your head. You would go into another antique shop in a different part of Vienna and buy something made of porcelain, something that seemed to be antique. And then, you would go into the Bednarczyk’s shop to try and have it appraised. It belonged to your mother, you would tell them, and you wanted to find out what they could tell you about it and see if it could be restored. Anything to buy more time.

You’d let the staff at the shop talk to you, you knew what questions to ask to not seem like you knew nothing about the pieces, but what to avoid asking to not show that you knew too much. While you were talking to them, whoever they were, you would try to work in a way to ask about any Matejko pieces they knew of.

Your plan was hastily arranged, but it seemed like it should be perfect.

You found another antique shop in Ottakring, across the city, and bought the first porcelain piece you spotted that you knew was old enough to seem like a treasured family heirloom. You thought it would be a good idea to stop by the cafe first and have an espresso to settle your nerves before heading into Bednarczyk’s.

You walked down the street to the direction of the antique store with the box containing the little sculpture in your hands, confident this would be a big step forward in the investigation of the tryptich’s whereabouts.

As you were glancing toward the shop’s entryway, you let your attention slip for a moment, crashing into the back of the man who was walking ahead of you. The box in your hand slipped and fell toward the ground, the muffled tinkling of shattering porcelain coming from inside the box. You immediately sank to the ground and lifted the flaps on the top of the box.

— No, no, no, fuck — you said, seeing the ballerina you bought reduced to a pile of shards.

— Shit — the man said from above you. When you looked up, you realized that you had stumbled into a man with dark hair and brown eyes, who were fixed on what was once a small porcelain statue — I'm sorry, I didn't see you coming in behind me…

— No, it's okay — you murmured, trying to hide your displeasure at having broken the piece. You had chosen the porcelain ballerina precisely because you knew that it was old enough to be of interest to Elisabeth. However, you couldn’t exactly get her to appraise a pile of dust — Isn’t a big deal...

— From your reaction, it seemed like something important — the man said, as you closed the box quickly and stood up — I’m so sorry. I hope it wasn’t a family heirloom.

You looked up at him, pressing your lips together as you realized how tall he was. “Focus… Maria”, you thought to yourself, feeling your face heat up. You couldn't let your cover identity slip.

— Yeah, it was. I had brought it to see if there was somewhere that could appraise it, maybe restore it, but… I don’t think there’s much to be done about it now.

Looking at the box, the man seemed to think for a few seconds, before looking up at you again.

— Well, if you want, I can find something else to give you instead. I’ll pay for it.

— I don’t…

— That won't replace the sentimental value, no, but it's the least I can do, considering your little ballerina is broken because of me.

You hesitated for a few seconds. You didn’t want to involve another person in your investigation, especially an innocent bystander that made you feel a strange heat in your chest and a strange flush in your cheeks. However, before you realized it, you were following him down the street, the box with the porcelain shards in your hands, into the front door of the Bednarczyks' antique shop.

He opened the door and motioned politely for you to walk in first, which you did, unable to hide the shy smile on your face. The man closed the door behind him as you approached one of the shelves. It was stocked with a huge assortment of miscellaneous knicknacks - silver candelabras, ceramic vases, sets of different glasses and jars, all polished and carefully arranged. Your eyes landed on a velvet box on one of the middle shelves, and you couldn’t resist the compulsion to step forward and carefully tilt open the lid, trying to see what was inside.

— It's a set of silver flatware — a female voice said behind you. You turned around with a start to see a short, blonde woman with kind brown eyes staring at you. She smiled — Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Mr. Wolff asked me to come assist you.

— Mr. Wolff? — you asked, confused.

— The gentleman who came in with you.

You were still confused, wondering how she knew the other customer’s name.

— By any chance — you started, stopping when you felt someone touch you shoulder.

— Ah, you found Petra, excellent — the man, apparently Mr. Wolff, said — Petra, could you show us the porcelain?

The woman nodded and directed you to another set of shelves, chatting about , the woman guided you between the shelves, chatting about the store's new arrivals. However, your mind was occupied with trying to remember if you’d ever seen the name Wolff anywhere in the case files. The man seemed to be too familiar with the staff to be just another customer. You remembered reading about Elisabeth, her son, Alexander, and Alexander’s wife, Amy. However, you didn't remember any man with the surname Wolff.

— Here is our selection of porcelain. I'll leave you to choose what you would like — Petra said, with a smile.

— Thank you very much, Petra. As soon as we choose, we will call you.

With a nod, Petra walked away, leaving the two of you alone in front of the shelves filled with figurines, cups, teapots and porcelain vases. After a few seconds of silence, you finally looked at the man next to you.

— Mr. Wolff, is it? — you asked, the tone of your voice causing a smile to appear on his lips.

— Well, yes. Torger Wolff. But you can call me Toto.

Something about what he said made you smile.

— Toto, like the dog in The Wizard of Oz?

— I would say like Toto Rina, the Italian mafioso, but most people think of the dog first — Toto said, without taking his eyes off you — And you, what's your name?

You hesitated for a few seconds.

— Maria.

— Just Maria?

— Maria Bauer.

Toto chuckled.

— Ah, a fairly common name, no? — he asked. “It had to be something from the idiots in the operations department”, you thought to yourself, giving a wry smile.

— My parents weren’t the most creative…

— In my case, they were too creative — he said, looking at the shelf again — I suppose you’re not not from Vienna?

His question made you swallow hard.

— No, I'm not. I moved here not long ago. How did you know?

— Your accent — Toto replied — I'd say you're from the south, maybe. Graz?

— Klagenfurt — you said. That’s what was in your identity document. You hoped he wasn't familiar with the accent there, since you were sure that the Dutch and English you were used to speaking on a daily basis with your co-workers was present in the way you slurred some syllables.

— But you've lived abroad, haven't you?

— Why do you ask?

— Your accent doesn’t sound like a Southern accent. I have an acquaintance from near there, but his accent is a bit different.

— My mother is Dutch — you lied, almost in an attempt to stop that interrogation — So, I grew up listening to her accent and ended up picking it up.

— Ah, yes, I understand — he said, giving a gentle smile.

Turning your attention to the shelf, you tried to focus on the china in front of you, trying to decide which piece would be the most similar to the one he had broken. Not that it mattered much, but one did catch your eye. It was a figure of two people - a man and a woman, sitting next to a column, with the woman holding a rose and the man holding a basket of flowers on his lap. It was romantic, and oddly endearing.— Did you like this one? — Toto asked.

— Yeah — you replied, your fingers brushing the top of the porcelain column, where there was a small hole to hold a few flowers — It's very beautiful.

— I agree.

— With such a renowned expert curating the collection, it's not surprising — you said, taking the porcelain figure in your hands.

— Oh, do you know of Elisabeth? — he asked. You glanced over to Toto to find that he had a curious expression, like something you said made an impression.

Maybe you’d already said too much.

You’d betrayed the fact that you were not from Vienna and had recently moved to the city, leaving you no acceptable excuse to explain how you knew who owned the shop you were in. It wasn’t as if she was well-known outside of very specific Viennese society and academic circles — No, I don't know her — you said, giggling nervously.

— So how do you know she curates the porcelains here?

— Well, like I said, I recently moved and I'm still cleaning up my apartment, so I'm working from the cafe across the street — you lied, trying to sound as calm as possible — And, one day, I noticed the antique shop across the street and looked up some information about it online. My parents collect art - mostly these porcelain figures, so I thought I’d bring in one of their older pieces to have it appraised and restored, since she seemed like the best person to do it.

— Of course, the internet — he said, laughing — What's not on the internet nowadays, right?

— Right? You can find anything — you smiled, feeling your heart pounding. He seemed to buy it, but you couldn’t guarantee that you’d be so lucky next time.

After asking if you liked the piece you were holding and calling Petra to confirm your choice, Toto asked you to stay there, before heading towards the counter at the back of the shop together with Petra.

Watching him talk to Petra, you started feeling guilty. You had only just met Toto and you already felt terrible about lying to him, which made you feel even worse, as feeling such strong emotions about telling lies was an occupational liability for you. But still, he had nothing to do with the investigation beyond knowing who Elisabeth was, and ostensibly frequenting her family’s antique shop. He certainly wasn’t a person of interest, so you could only conclude that he was one of her wealthy patrons. “He must be rich”, you thought, watching him scribble something on a piece of paper and hand it to Petra.

Perhaps, in other circumstances, you could get to know each other better. It was crazy, you thought, to be imagining a future with a man you knew nothing about and had just met mere moments ago, but you couldn’t help it as you looked at the way he smiled at you. It was a sweet, warm smile, and you’d never met anyone else you felt a connection with so immediately. It was the same smile he gave you once more as he handed you an elegant box that Petra had given him. “What a handsome son of a bitch”, you thought, giving him a small smile.

— Here — Toto said, handing you the box — I know it's not a one-for-one replacement, but it's my way of apologizing for the accident earlier.

— It’s no problem, really. You could very well have ignored what happened and kept walking, so…

— No, I don’t think that would have been — he murmured, eyes fixed on yours. That intensity of his gaze on you made your own cheeks feel hot.

— What do you mean by that? — you asked, giggling nervously.

— It would be impossible to ignore you — Toto said, seeming to realize the effect of his own words on you — I could never just walk past you.

The room filled with silence that stretched out long enough for you to think of a million scenarios in which you would end up with your lips pressed against his.

— Well, I'm going to take this home — you finally said, taking a brief look at the box — Thank you for your kindness, Toto.

— It was the least I could do, Maria — he replied with a smile, putting a peculiar emphasis on your name.

Giving one last wave, you turned around and left the antique shop feeling like you were floating. However, nothing compared to the feeling that came over you when you opened the box and found a note on the bubble wrap that surrounded the delicate piece of porcelain.

— I'd love to see how it looks on your shelf — you read quietly, realizing that Toto had written his phone number below his message while Petra was wrapping the figurine.

You dug into your purse and pulled out your phone, but started feeling guilty again. You were in Vienna for work, not to flirt with strangers. You were dealing with dangerous people and getting involved with more people meant additional risk, not only for them, but for you and your career.

“Well… one photo of my bookshelf probably won’t hurt anyone”, you thought, before saving the number on your cell phone.

#toto wolff #wlffog #formula 1 fic #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #toto wolff x reader #f1 x reader #formula 1 x you #toto wolff fanfic #toto wolff fluff #formula one fanfic #formula one fic #ocwlff

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luthsthings · 1 year ago

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A Sims 4 Horse Ranch* review, by a Simmer who's not all that into horses

* Software not final. Sponsored by EA.

First, many thanks to EA/Maxis for the early access! This was a treat for me, to get access to an early build to try out for a while, as I'm not exactly a high-profile streamer. Or a streamer at all. Or even a creator (though I'll upload a household I came to love to the Gallery when I get a chance!). But I do love this game! And I love that I can help more of you play it the way you want to. Anyway, the review…

What I liked!

The great range of build/buy! I'll get LOTS of use out of this. It complements some other packs well too.

There are lots of helpful rooms in build mode for fast stables and nectar-related spaces! As a non-builder who sometimes tries to build, I was really happy to have a premade horse stall for my lot.

[image: a pre-built stable room in Build mode]

There's lots of Teen–Elder clothing and hair, and I love the dirty clothes swatches. I'll get LOTS of use out of this pack's CAS! And it will go well with styles from some other packs, too.

The new Afro-textured hairs are a welcome recognition that the cowboy culture of the Old West was not a White culture — there were lots of Black, Hispanic, and Indigenous cowboys and entrepreneurial women in the Old West!

I deeply appreciate the Indigenous content in build/buy, recipes, and CAS — I could see lots there in CAS, for example, that the Navajo people I saw and met in Utah and northern New Mexico (which is a part of the world I really want to go back to) wore IRL.

Lots range from fairly small (15 x 20) to quite large. I appreciate the range as someone who isn't a fan of building on large lots when I do build. There are horse practice areas in the land around some small lots, so you can still keep a horse there.

For Strangerville owners who love that landscape (which I do!), there's now somewhere for that valley, with its smaller population, to be "near". I can imagine that you'd drive up into a range from the new world and drop down into hidden Strangerville. Driving the other direction might take you to Oasis Springs.

The horse-riding and other horse animations are really detailed and fluid. They interact a lot with each other, too. I felt like parent and child horses recognized their relationship even.

[image: a mare lovingly nuzzling her foal]

The sheep and goats are endlessly adorable. Plus profitable! :D And they can sleep in your house!

The rabbithole adventure location out in the countryside has a very different gameplay than previous ones! And it has great sound effects -- play it with the volume up! It's hard to find, though. But it was nice to not need other tricks to get access. (I still have not done the secret places in Oasis Springs or the Outdoor Retreat pack!)

What I didn't like:

No new fridge, stove, bathtub, or toilet (I do like getting more of those!)

Very little boys' children's clothes. And no chaps for Children, even though they can ride and even though Toddlers got some

I would have liked a higher-tech/automated version of a nectar maker. However, this isn't a feature I care about much anyway.

You can't breed the mini goats and sheep, and there aren't even smaller baby ones. I'd have liked to have a full-on sheep farm. I like sheep. (I can practically see my husband glaring about how much I like sheep, even though he's waaaaay far away at the office right now.)

[image: a smiling, leaping mini-sheep, with a spotted goat behind it]

I definitely would never have found the countryside rabbithole without help, but maybe you will? If I could figure out how to do spoilers here, I would...

The horse-toy balls are a little… glowy? for my taste. They also weren't where I looked for them in the catalog, so you'll want to use search for them.

Cross-pack things?

I'd have liked to check out these before now, but with the pre-patch builds, that's not an option, and I'm always kind of busy when patches come out! For example ...

How do cats and dogs interact with horses, sheep, and goats?

Can horses be familiars for spellcasters?

Are there new Milestones?

Are there new Lifestyles?

Are there new Club rules, and are there enough of those?

This Simmer needs to know! (And eventually will.)

Neat things to know!

There's a rabbithole building in town where you can change or plan outfits like a dresser! And just off the main road in town there's a rabbithole building where you can buy goats, sheep, and groceries and other useful things, like horse age-up treats. I liked having an alternative way to buy these things and a whole new way to plan outfits. I'd be happy for more of that. If I can't go into a building, I might as well at least be able to pretend I can. As long as they don't end up being worlds stuffed with rabbitholes in place of gameplay (actually watching horse competition would have been nice!).

You can use a Community Board in town (or from B/B if you want one on your lot) to take local one-off jobs for money. Most need you to own a Horse or some sheep or goats. There are lots of ways to make money as a rancher without needing someone in the household to have a job. My relatives who are farmers will be seriously jealous.

Get to know that Crinkletop guy! He's very useful.

Bugs? Bugs!

Things to watch out for that were issues for me in the early-access build, which is NOT the release build, so hopefully it's a bit better:

Ranch dancing is EXTREMELY popular. You might want to not keep a radio at home until the new dancing has a mod to … moderate it. Or is tuned down by the devs. But I do like it when I'm in control!

[image: five Sims ranch dancing (line dancing) as a group, including two Don Lothario and Eliza Pancakes]

The beautiful stone fireplace was also very, very popular, and of course potentially deadly. Watch out for that.

Ranch hands are NOT reliable. They might stay really, really late. They might stop showing up after a couple days. They might forget the things you instructed them NOT to do the day before. They might be super into kicking the garbage bin over. Keep an eye on your ranch hand. At least until the day, someday, when they get fixed. I'm hoping this is also moddable for those of us on PC.

At one point I had a weird bug where my Sim decided she would NOT eat. The rest of the household could eat. Guests could eat. They could eat HER food. It was fixed by going to the world map and back into the household, so I didn't find out if she was going to just starve to death.

I couldn't find some of the new CAS at first because some men's outfits were under "jumpsuit" for no apparent reason. So, if you're looking for some cool outerwear, try "jumpsuits." Hopefully it was recategorized for the release build!

And that's it! I'm happy to answer questions!

#sims 4 horse ranch #the sims 4 horse ranch #ts4 horse ranch #sponsored by EA #the sims 4 #ts4 #sims 4 #simblr

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talzane · 2 years ago

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Threading his way through the halls of Casper High seemed to get harder every week. Ghost fight after ghost fight, the school accumulated damage like Vlad should have been collecting cats, and after a year and a half of fighting, the damage had blown past the school's ability to repair it.

Danny kept his head low--mostly in an attempt to hide last night's bruises behind last month's haircut--as he carefully maneuvered to his new first period class, where Sam and Tucker waited to hear his fight card from the night before. His shaggy black hair managed to obscure most of his face, but his icy blue eyes still peaked through to carefully catalog any undue attention. His slumped posture, baggy, white t-shirt, over-sized blue jeans and ratty, red Converse' all worked to project an image of ignominy, which was perfect for slipping beneath the radar of most of the school given the rigid caste system enforced by the A-List.

Unfortunately, he was so busy watching for unwarranted glances that he failed to see the posters. When Danny finally arrived at Mr. Lancer's new homeroom--still empty half an hour before school--and worked his way through the army of desks to his friends, he was utterly baffled to find them watching his face expectantly.

"What?"

"Dude," Tucker began, evidently expecting a reaction, "didn't you see the posters?"

"No?"

"Danny," Sam cackled, "are you going to enter to win the PhantomSweeps?"

Danny's head snapped to level, "The...what?"

"You don't want to win a day with Phantom?"

"...A *day*?"

"C'mon, man," Tucker laughed, "a *whole day* with Phantom! You can ask questions, learn about ghosts...go on a date."

"No! I never agreed to that!"

"Did you, maybe, tell people you saved from Technus that, 'I only answer questions booked two weeks in advance?'"

"No! I...maybe, but they were being nosey! I just wanted them to leave me alone!"

"Well, Paulina decided to make it a fundraiser to get the school fixed."

"Oh no."

"You'll never guess who's entered to win," Tucker gasped for breath.

"Oh no!"

"Your parents," Tucker laughed.

"Vlad," Sam cackled.

"Your sister."

"I'm *not* going to THERAPY!"

"Lance Thunder."

"Why?"

"Interview," Sam answered, "and Paulina *Phantom*, Dash Baxter, Mr. Lancer, and Agents O and K."

"Don't forget The Box Ghost!" Tucker helpfully chimed in.

"How did he find out!?"

"He was in the box of posters."

"Oh crap." Danny collapsed into his seat and buried his head in his arms, "Why me?"

#danny phantom #phantomsweep #danny fenton #dp au #dp #writing prompts #sam manson #tucker foley

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th3-0bjectivist · 5 months ago

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youtube

Dear listener, I understand that having a white dude on Tumblr recommending excellent black music makes about as much initial sense as me suggesting that you upgrade your home to cutting-edge VCR and landline phone technologies. Given the current racial tensions in the US right now, all I ask is that you give this white boy’s recommendation the old community college try. This week the focus will be on Santigold, a cross-genre artist that deserves way more attention than is afforded to her. I’ve been listening to Santigold’s music for nearly a decade, and I’ve said it before, but you guys can keep your Cardi B’s and your Nikki Minaj’s because when I’m hungry for excellent music, I come to the table for something rare, experimental, smart and versatile. Santigold delivers all of that, and more. Smash play on Look At These Hoes from her 2012 album Master of My Make-Believe, and if it pleases you, join me for rolling fields of gold below.

A genuine music industry trailblazer, Santi White started off her career as a mere A&R (her job was to find promising new artists and bring them in to sign contracts) for Epic Records. This Philadelphia-born multitalented maven started collaborating with musicians, and then in 2001 became the lead singer in a ska band called Stiffed. The best part of this group’s music was the vocals and lyrics, and after disbanding in 2005 or so, Ms White embarked upon her solo career. A solo career that has lasted nearly two decades to this year. There’s an island vibe to her music, and I’m not just talking about the style. Her music feels different than anything mainstream in terms of raw brain-power, exceptional flow and overall depth of meaning. She makes music that thinks as much as it works to go against the mainstream grain. She deserves respect and legitimate accolades for sticking to her guns and staying genuine through her career, rather than selling out and producing the equivalent of another WAP just for the sake of raking in millions from people with questionable taste in music. Along with having a sultry mezzo-soprano voice (my personal favorite lady voice type) her style is a mishmash of hip-hop, new wave, punk and electro. If you listen to her jams and don’t find your head and body bobbing to her beats, I believe I can officially pronounce that you have no actual soul in your body! If you spend any time at all studying the deeper meaning behind her jams, you will find complex themes of resilience, perception of reality and an overall complexity of character which few, if any ‘similar’ artists can even approach without immediately appearing to be outside of their mental depth. Just below you’ll find the music video for L.E.S. Artistes from her 2008 album Santogold. Enjoy!

youtube

As the first song on this post strongly suggests, Santi White ain’t no booty hoe. She’s highly educated, she’s a mother, and in terms of eloquence of execution… she’s an absolute industry badass. You owe it to yourself to take a deep dive into Santigold’s catalog and I implore you to revere artists like her as the mega-talents they truly are. Image source: https://tomtommag.com/2012/05/brooklyns-golden-child-santigold/

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imaginethebeautifulworld · 2 years ago

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prussia x reader: childish games

Hello Lovelies~ Was ridiculously bored at work, and this silliness was birthed. Please enjoy!

Over the years, you had compiled a list of all the things you most loved about your husband, and somehow, only slightly surprising, his zest for life and the itch to have fun easily slotted its way into your top ten.

For someone nearing 1000 (a fact you loved teasing him with), you would have thought that he would have grown more reserved by now, bored and listless with the world. But the truth was that he was restless, and rarely allowed for a single dull moment.

And while you had grown yourself- maturity and social obligations demanding a certain image, he had a knack for making you forget all of it, embracing that whimsy and playful energy that you refused to completely abandon in your childhood.

Which was what often led to moments like these.

Gil was sitting across from you at a table in some cafe in Constanța, eyebrows furrowed in an almost comical way as he glared down at the series of incomplete triangles on your napkin.

A little riddle or trick- you couldn't really decide which- you had briefly remembered from your childhood, one you knew would annoy your husband to no end.

As much as you loved him, he did have a habit of over-complicating things.

So far, his guesses had all followed a pattern you had expected: an ECG, a triangular sound wave, and then he rambled off something nearly incoherent involving quantum theory which had you giving him a Look. Seeing your expression at that last one had him offering you an embarrassed half-smile, before he went back to staring at the napkin with annoyance. "I'm going to hate myself when you tell me, right?"

It wasn't really a question, but you hummed in acknowledgement, fighting and failing to hide your grin. "Probably."

To his credit, he had more guesses, a couple theories, even asked if it had something to do with your own work, eyes slanting towards you in curious consideration. When you shot that down as well, he huffed melodramatically in defeat, flopping back into his chair and gesturing magnanimously towards the offending piece of recycled paper and its 18 unassuming little lines.

"Alright; you win. Hit me with it."

You were enjoying this way too much, but you couldn't help it; he brought out the best and worst in you. "Sure you don't want another guess?"

"Can't you just put me out of my misery instead?"

You leveled him with another look, fond and irritated all at once, catching too easily on the smile hidden in his words. "No martyrdom before supper."

"Wow. Rude."

Ignoring his comment, you spoke with perhaps a little too much presumption. "Gilbert Wilhelm? Prepare for me to blow your little mind."

"You already do that every day." You bit your lip at his fond murmur, digging in your pocket for a different colored pen. Carrying an assortment had become a bit of a habit as of late; Gil was constantly losing his, and sometimes you just needed a change from the monotony of black-and-white.

Finally, you pulled out a purple, a good offset to the black. Pulling the napkin back into drawing range, you motioned for him to watch.

You took it slow, intentionally choosing the option that would take the longest for him to guess. He loved puzzles and thought experiments, and you wanted to savor this for as long as possible.

Starting with the furthest edge, you connected every third triangle with an inverse arc, the temporary image almost reminding you of the base of cartoon campfires. Gil was hovering over your shoulder now, having swapped chairs sometime in the past few moments.

You paused, intentionally drew your pen away long enough for him to analyze the new data, catalog the latest information. Some part of you had a feeling he would be trying the same trick on Vlad at the conference tomorrow, and you couldn't fight your smile. "Want me to keep going, or do you want another minute?"

He hummed after a moment- a quiet acquiescence.

For a moment, you stared at your work in progress, contemplating your next move. With a small quirk to your lips, you scribbled what looked like three clouds, one for the top of each of the tallest triangles.

"Was zum Teufel," Gil demanded eloquently.

That was enough to finally make you giggle, turning to him with a smirk and a feigned attempt at innocence. He leveled you with a look of his own, before indicating with a pointed glance that you needed to continue.

You waggled your eyebrows in playful amusement, now turning to add two dots to each of the three connected shapes, followed by another cloud-like doodle at the based of each of the three tallest triangles.

As it stood, you could argue for some funky mountains or some kind of sailboat, but you were only half finished.

"One more guess?" you asked in an effort to be nice, to at least sound like you weren't secretly enjoying his suffering. Instead of a proper answer, your ruse easily seen through, you received a poke at your waist, the lightest threat to continue.

Biting your lip, trying not to flinch away, you added six arrows- two per shape, each facing the center of its respective shape from the left and the right.

"Wait..." Gil's voice was scarcely a whisper at this point, teasing your neck. "Are those..?"

With a small triangle and two quick flourishes each, you announced the final results with pride, no longer holding back your giddy grin. "Behold: Three Cats in Party Hats!"

It was worth it just to see him bringing his palm to his forehead, hiding his face in his hand. You could see him fighting a smile though, and knew the last few minutes had done more than enough to help him out of his prior languor.

"I hate you sometimes; you know that?"

It was too affectionate to be true.

"Love you, too."

Inspired by my remembering learning this about 20-ish years ago from some random guy while I was helping out at a market stall. He also taught me how to draw a cat by stacking C-A-T atop each other. Anyway, have some kitties~

#prussia x reader #aph prussia #aph gilbert beilschmidt #gilbert beilschmidt #gilbert beilschmidt x reader #readerfic #hello lovelies!#my art #this is pure silliness but i'm not apologizing #eh formatting later

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