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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

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This Isn’t Hypothetical for Chris

SPECIAL CONTENT WARNING: This piece contains a series of arguments regarding the Box Boy’s whole concept, and a survivor’s reactions to it, that may hit too close to home both for survivors of assault/abuse and also considering American history of institutional violence. Please do not read if you think you are not in the right headspace for this, and feel free to message me for a rundown/synopsis of this chapter if needed.

CW: References to pet whump, institutionalized slavery, Box Boy universe, vague referenced noncon/conditioning, self-loathing, victim-blaming, survivor’s guilt, ableism (both internal and external). Also includes some self-harm/negative stimming including head-banging during a meltdown.

Nicholas/Henry (referenced multiple times) belongs to @orchidscript

“Excuse me, can I ask a question?” The one who raises his hand is… Eshiram, maybe? He lives over in Dalton, Chris knows him, more or less. Sort of. The way you know people who live near you, even on a campus as big as this tone.

“Yeah, go ahead.” The grad student who teaches the discussion meetings for their Social and Political History class waves one hand in a quick, not quite dismissive gesture.

Behind him, there’s a projected photo of a young man sitting, testifying in court, wearing a suit and tie. Above his head, the words, The Human Pet Industry and Human Rights, 1952-20XX, are angled just so, framing the young man’s head like a halo.

Chris refuses to look at the image of the young man, caught mid-speech. They already had to watch the video recording of it, discuss the way the lawyers phrased their questions to make the young man look innocent or calculating, depending on what they wanted the jury to think, when Chris could have told everyone in here it wasn’t fucking possible for a pet to calculate like that.

Or maybe it was, and Chris just wasn’t any good at it, when it was him.

“So, we’ve spent all week sitting in lecture, and here, talking about how the pet industry is absolutely fucked up-”

“Excuse me?” A girl sitting three seats to Chris’s right and a little ahead of him turns around in her chair to give Eshiram a flat glare. “That is not-”

“Wait your turn, Callie,” The grad student says, looking weary. “Next time I have to tell you to let someone finish a sentence… Man, just, don’t make me do that. Go on, Eshiram.”

Okay, good, his name is Eshiram. Chris is getting better at names, but it’s still hard, and on days like today it’s harder than ever. It’s not that he isn’t paying attention, it’s just that the scar on the inside of his left wrist, that pale reminder of the life he lived before this one, itches and burns more and more as he stays silent, listening to them talk about a life he’s lived like it’s an abstract concept and not a nightmare Chris will never be able to completely wash off his skin.

“Thanks. So, we talk about the pet industry, but I just-... why doesn’t anyone fix it?”

“Fix it?”

“Go in and pass laws… the public push is there to outlaw it completely. So why doesn’t it happen?”

“Because money talks, man,” Another student pipes up, and Chris stares down at his notes, which have gone from neat, if angular, handwriting to a jumbled mix of letters that mean nothing to a series of increasingly anxiety-riddled pointless doodles of geometrics and horses that look like dogs and dogs that look like blobs and blue ink bleeding spots around them all.

On the inside of his wrist, he starts, slowly, to draw little triangles over the scars, filling them in with the deep blue ink. Their voices are all starting to have weight, pounding against his ears, and he should ask to leave, but he can’t remember how to form the words.

“It doesn’t matter how fucking miserable the pets are, if rich people want something, they just bribe the fuck out of everybody until they get it.”

“Yeah, but it shouldn’t be like that-”

“Pets aren’t miserable,” Callie pipes up, and this time the grad student doesn’t stop her, just looks… interested. This is just a class discussion to him. To Chris it’s a building pile of rocks slowly picked up and thrown in his direction. He has to sit still, to be good, to not give away why it hurts to hear it.

He has to be good.

He drops his head more, blue hair falling across his face to hide it, and digs the nib of the pen into his skin until it hurts.

“Who wouldn’t be?” The student who spoke up rolls his eyes. “Of course they’re miserable. What, you think somebody cleans your house for no money because they’re fucking passionate about Swiffer wipes? All the bullshit in the world can’t hide what this whole system really is.”

“First off, it’s not like that, and second, please do tell me... what is it, really?” Callie asks, poison in her voice.

“Okay, guys,” The grad student says, hands out. “Let’s calm things down a little.”

“You know damn fucking well what it is,” Another girl speaks, glaring a Callie, and Chris looks up from under his eyelashes, almost smiles. Someone speaking up. He pulls the pen away from his wrist, just a little. “Starts with S, rhymes with-”

“Guys. Calm it down.” Callie and the other three all glare at each other, but the whispering among the class slowly settles down. The grad student stands up picking up some papers he has in his hands, setting stapled packets down on every desk. “I’m glad you’re all really passionate about this, and I want you to carry that passion out of this classroom, but we need to focus on the testimonies we’ve been watching this week. Now, each of you has here a written transcript of four examples of testimony from the individuals we’ve heard this week. I want you to read over what Trenton Denver, Phillipa Venn, Yuki Tanaka, and the former Nicholas-”

“You know what’s bullshit, is that you’re all sitting here judging pet owners when I bet none of you has ever even met one,” Callie snaps, and Chris stares down at the rough, photocopied photo on the front of the packet, sees Nicky’s face there. A photo of him before, standing next to his owners during some kind of press conference, and a photo of him after, years later being Henry now, giving a speech standing alone.

Something in Chris twists with an awful, sick guilt. If he’d only stayed with S-... with Oliver, he could have been a friend to Nicky, whenever he could... and instead, the other boy had had to do everything, to go through it all, alone. It’s not a fair or rational thought, but it’s there, insidious and slithering. His heart wants tries to tighten, to stop beating entirely.

Does he even deserve to breathe, living a life like this one, where everyone rescues him and he never once saved himself?

“Do you need to fucking meet one to know it’s miserable to be kept like a fucking Golden Retriever? People. Aren’t. Pets.” Chris wants to look up, to see who spoke this time, but he just keeps staring at Nicky’s face, his slight smile blurred and pixelated by the copier. Fake, and unhappy, because they were both trapped in lives they didn’t want to live.

“Golden Retrievers are pretty happy dogs,” Someone says, and Chris feels himself choke on their words.

We’re not dogs. We’re people. We’re not dogs. We’re people. We’re not-

“Oh my God, way to miss the point by approximately fifteen thousand miles and also be so insulting to dogs in the process, dumbass. We’re talking about human beings!”

Chris takes in a breath, keeps his eyes down. Digs the pen nib into his skin, deeper and deeper, as hard as he can, trying to drown out the cacophony of noise that is starting to intrude. He can hear their breathing, all of them, huffing in and out. He can hear their words pressing on him, the buzz of the lights overhead is louder for him than anyone else in here, he thinks. He can hear people talking in the hall as another class has let out, he can hear people shouting dimly outside, running to the Student Center, playing frisbee or something on the green space, and he wants to be outside he wants to be outside he wants to move.

Can’t move. Have to be still.

Can’t let them know what he is. Can’t tell. It’ll put everyone at risk. He has to sit still and pretend he doesn’t have opinions on this so nobody looks too close. He has to sit still and stop tapping his fucking foot and stop stop stop moving, stop fucking moving, be still be still be still-

“All I’m saying, is that I have actually met pets before,” Callie announces. Chris wonders why the grad student hasn’t stopped her and sneaks a look up, only to see him sitting and looking bored. It doesn’t matter to him. It’s just something he talks about. He hasn’t had to live it, to see us crying, to know how it feels when they shock you or bring the cane down or make you be still for days and days and days. He’s never seen one of us wake up screaming even when it’s safe.

This isn’t hypothetical for Chris.

“Yeah, Cal, we get it, you’re rich,” Someone says, rolling her eyes, arms crossed over her chest. “We hear about it all the time. Let it go.”

“Eat the rich,” Someone else mumbles behind him. “French had the right fuckin’ idea with the fucking guillotines.”

Chris swallows. He wants to hum, to make some kind of noise to drown them all out, but he can’t. When he, when he needs things, when he needs to tap or rock or hum, it draws attention. Too much attention is dangerous. Have to keep it in until class is over. Just a few more minutes, a few more, just, just a little longer…

“Me being rich isn’t what we’re talking about. I’m just saying none of you knows a thing about the industry, and I do! I grew up with pets! And they were the happiest people I’ve ever met!”

“You don’t, don’t know that.” He doesn’t realize the voice is his own until the eyes feel as heavy as their voices did a moment before, and he notices everyone is looking at him.

He swallows again, his heart starting to pound with nervousness, pulling his sleeve carefully down to hide the drawing he made on his wrist. “You don’t know that,” He repeats, louder this time, willing his voice not to shake. “All you, you know is what, um, what… what what what, what, what they-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Somebody says, and Chris almost stops there.

He manages to finish, “-... what they thought it was safe to tell you, what, what they were trained to tell you.”

“You think I wouldn’t know if my own pets weren’t happy?” Callie looks… stunned, is the only word for it. “You really think that?”

“No, I don’t, don’t think you… would.” Chris hates everyone looking at him. He likes to be hidden, to stay behind the scenes, to blend in with shadows. But he feels like a police siren going off, unmistakable and too loud, with the classroom all looking at him all at once. “They-... they’re… trained. To make sure you, you, you-you-you wouldn’t ever f-find out if they weren’t... if they were scared, or, or miserable, or if your f-f-family was hurting them-”

“How fucking dare you?” Callie’s eyes widened, and Chris watched them fill with glittering tears. “Suggest that my family would abuse our pets? What is wrong with you?”

He almost - almost - apologizes.

Then she adds, “I’ve known them every single day of my life! I think I’d know if they weren’t happy, Chris.” Callie rolls her eyes, arms crossed in front of her.

“How?” His voice is louder, and he doesn’t mean it to be, but his mind is sparking with anger and fear. The warning bells inside his mind are being drowned out by the other thoughts, the way he has listened to too many people give arguments like this, and this week he’s listened to four different speeches by pets detailing abuse, and suffering, and starvation, and drugging, and he’s lived all of it and here she is just dismissing Chris’s life like it’s a fairytale the pet lib people made up to sell magazines and documentaries and not Chris’s actual fucking life. And Antoni’s. And Leila’s. And Krista’s. And Kauri’s and-

And Nicky’s.

Or… Henry, now.

“How what?” Callie sneers the words and Chris shoves himself to his feet. She’s up as well, and she’s taller than him, not that it matters. He’s not intimidated by her height, and he doesn’t even really see her, he sees-... he sees Oliver murmuring, the others will all hate you if they know what you are, darlin’, and mostly that hasn’t been true for him, but with Callie… it would be.

Or she’d call someone, turn him in.

She’s the kind who would make the call herself, and she’d say it was for his own good, that he was breaking the law, that he-

“How would you, you, you-you… you know? It’d never be safe to, to, to to to to-... to-to… to, fuck, to-” He groans, smacking himself in the head with his hand, and the sudden burst of sensation soothes the broken words inside his head, he can find them again. “It’d never be safe to tell you!”

“Oh shit,” Someone whispers. The same person who made the guillotine comment maybe. He doesn’t care. He’s too angry, now, and not even at her, he’s angry at everyone who looked the other way at Oliver’s parties, or when Owen put Kauri in that video on the internet, or when they watched Jake get arrested at protests or made fun of him when he got set free later and it took two fucking weeks for him to go back to class just because he put his body between Chris and a living hell.

He’s too angry, now, to stop.

“You’re, you’re s-s-soulless,” He hisses, and there’s an intake of breath. “Every single one, of, of, of you is soulless.”

“Chris, let’s calm down,” The grad student says carefully, moving forward. “Callie just has a different point of view-”

“Is it a, a, a different point of-... of view when it’s someone’s fucking life?” He doesn’t mean to be yelling. He doesn’t know how he started yelling. He’s terrified of his own voice and he can’t stop. The lights hurt, they sit on his skin and they hurt and the world is full of noise and he just wants it to be dark and quiet and better than this.

“Everyone who hurts-” Us “-them is soulless, is, is devoid, you don’t have one, and everyone who s-s-sits, who, who sits around, who-... who does nothing while they hurt us-”

“I’ve never hurt a pet a single day in my life!” Callie shouts back at him, and someone takes her arm, a friend of hers.

No one takes Chris’s arm. No one speaks. They just watch him from every corner of the room, and later someone’s going to write a fucking post about this somewhere, and he’ll be a laughingstock, and maybe someone will see the look in his eyes and guess - and know - and call the cops - and he’ll get Jake in trouble again-

“I’d bet every d-... dollar in my, my, my bank account that you have!”

“Christopher Stanton, you need to stop, right now, or I’m going to ask you to leave.” The grad student steps between them, and Chris’s eyes flicker to the older man’s. Suddenly he’s unsure, and he wants to sit down.

Sit still. Silence is better than stammering. Stillness is better than what I do. Sit down, be good, be good be good be good be a good boy be good a pet be good be good after all-

“I mean… they signed up for it, right?” A new voice, the girl holding Callie’s arm. “Pets? They get told what it’s all about before they sign up. Isn’t this kind of… babying them? I mean, they made the choice to be one.”

“Nothing happens to them that isn’t on their contract,” Callie says, smug with triumph, and the grad student doesn’t stop her. “Besides, they really loved me! It was like having a friend right from when I was born. They signed up for this!”

It hurts so much more when he hears it said outside his own skull.

“They didn’t like you.” Chris is spitting venom, suddenly, terrified of himself, of his own anger. He’s so good at not being angry, at not having feelings like this, at having good days and knowing how lucky he is to escape, but right now… “They, they, they didn’t like you, they were told to, to, to be nice to you! You, you just-...”

“I mean, they wipe their memories and shit,” Someone says. “That’s sci-fi horror movie shit, that is definitely fucked up. You can’t think you can wipe somebody’s memory and make them, like, memorize all those fucked up things pets say and then believe they just… like you, Callie.”

“They didn’t want those memories! They sign up on purpose, to give those memories up, because they don’t want them anymore! I mean, what do they lose, really?”

Chris hitches in a breath.

Everything.

I lost everything.

And I’ll never get all of it back.

“That’s why… why-why-why, why you’re not safe, why it wouldn’t be s-safe to, to, to to tell you if they weren’t h-happy,” Chris says, throwing the packet of papers with Henry’s face on the front into his backpack, alongside folders full of paperwork, his textbook, laptop, pens and pencils. “Because you’ll b-believe any, any, any any… any bullshit you’re told.”

Someone laughs, nervously.

“Or maybe one of us has actual experience with pets, and one of us wears the same five fucking t-shirts on rotation because he doesn’t own any others.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Callie.”

Chris stares at her, and it’s not fear that washes cold down his spine, but a blistering, awful, sick rage. “You, you, you-you-you don’t know shit about, about, about about… about m-me-”

Talking is harder, it’s like trying to push words through a wall with an opening the size of his thumb. The wall is built of all the noise and weight and rage and pain and sound all around him. He wants to rock, he wants to tap, he wants to get all the energy coiled inside of him out and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

Be good be still be a statue boy that’s my good boy trainee keep still for me sweet boy you wanted this you were made for this you signed up for this you knew what would happen to you you wanted this you wanted this you wanted this you wanted it you want it you’ll always want it-

“I know you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Callie snaps. “And that’s all I need to know, isn’t it? Have you ever even met a pet, Chris?”

He wants to start laughing, at the question, and he’s afraid if he starts he won’t stop until it’s tears instead, and he won’t cry in front of her.

He won’t.

“F-for, for, for, for… for y-your, infor-... fuck, for your, your, your-your-... your-”

No, no no no. He is stalling out, stammering, trains derailed and disappearing into the horrible white light that still lived inside his head, he is stuttering silence is better than stammering you have to stop you have to stop you have to stop-

Callie’s lip curls in a cruel sneer and Chris knows exactly what she’s going to do - how she will hurt him - before she opens her mouth.

“I think you should stop trying to talk until you can stop being such a fucking sp-”

“That’s enough.”

Chris had forgotten the grad student was even still here. He jumps, stumbling into his chair as the man pushes forward and blocks Callie from Chris’s view. Chris’s legs catch in the metal legs of the chair and he falls backwards, slamming on his ass into the carpeted floor, barely catching himself.

The carpet burns under his hands.

Only one person laughs.

It’s Callie.

Chris’s face burns bright red, shame and humiliation sweeping over his skin, and he lost nearly all the words, all at once, drowned in the screaming noise inside his head. All he can remember is how to spit, “I fucking hate everyone like, like, like you! You fucking bitch!”

“Leave the room, Chris.” The grad student’s voice is sharp. “That’s over the line. You’re done in this class for now. I’ll email you later and we’ll schedule a meeting to talk about whether or not you should come back.”

Chris’s lungs stop working. He can barely mouth what?

“Hey, wait a second.” Eshiram pushes to his feet, jabbing a finger in the air as he points. “Callie’s the one who worked this up into a fight, Chris didn’t-”

“Cut it, Eshiram, I’m not interested. Chris. Get out of the room, take a deep breath, and cool down. We’ll talk this out later, okay? I won’t mark you absent for class, or mark down participation, or anything. Just… take a walk.”

Chris can’t remember how to speak. All he can do is nod, good boy, take your discipline, discipline is a humane and necessary part of-

He has to get out of here before he calls someone Sir.

“If he goes, I’m walking out, too,” Eshiram says, strong. He was taller and bigger than the grad student, who looked at him, weary, as Eshiram steps over and offers Chris his hand. Chris takes it, skin crawling, and pulls himself back to his feet. “It’s not his fault and I’m not going to sit here like it is.”

“Yeah, me too,” Guillotine-Kid says, pushing to his feet and grabbing his backpack. “I’m out, too. I’m not going to fall for that propaganda bullshit.”

“Me, three,” Says the girl who had very nearly called the human pet industry exactly what it is. “This is bullshit, Darian’s right. She works him up and gets him all mad, and then you kick him out when he fights back? This is exactly the fucking problem we’ve been talking about!”

“Don’t be fucking dramatic, Tali,” Callie says, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t be such a fucking nightmare asshole, Caledonia,” Tali shoots back.

“Okay. Okay, okay. Just… class dismissed for today. Look over your packets and we’ll meet next time and talk it out. I can see this isn’t going to get back on track. Chris, we’ll talk about you coming back to class when we meet, but until then… just… just work on the assignments.” The grad student sighs.

Chris yanks his hand away from Eshiram, and Callie’s triumphant little snort hits him in the back like a blow as he stomps out of the classroom and into the hall, the rest of the class streaming out behind him.

Eshiram calls out his name, but Chris doesn’t stop.

He should, he should stop, Jake and Nat always say it’s important to reward people for their work towards changing hearts and minds, and to appreciate the little things like people helping you stand up when you can’t stand for yourself, but he… he can’t stop.

If he stops, they’ll know what he is.

If he stops, they’ll tell someone.

If he stops, he’ll cry in front of them, and Chris has cried too often in his life. He just runs down the hallway, as fast as he can, taking turns and twists and stairways until he’s on a different floor, a different side of the building, and he’s totally, utterly lost in it.

He curls up in a tiny bathroom the size of a closet, lights off, door locked, presses himself into the corner in a room that smells like air freshener and bleach, and starts to rock, violently, forcing his head to smack into the wall with each forward motion, and again when he rocks back.

Again, again, again.

It quiets the screaming inside his head, but it can’t make the last hour not have happened.

Silence is better than stammering, stillness is better than what I do, I signed up for this, I signed up for this, I wanted this I wanted it I was made for it I deserved it we’re happy we’re supposed to be happy I’m broken because I wasn’t happy like this I signed up for it I have to be good to be good I am a good boy be still be silent be still be be be-

His phone starts buzzing an hour or so later, when he misses his lunch date with Laken. Over and over and over again.

He doesn’t pick up.

He wouldn’t be able to speak if he did.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions, @pretty-face-breaker, @boxboysandotherwhump, @oops-its-whump @moose-teeth

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emilycollins00 · 4 years ago

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A3 actors! Art in bloom

Type: One shot

Pairing: Miyoshi Kazunari x Reader

Theme: Passion / Art / Clash

Contrary to what many people and even classmates of yours thought, being an art student was not something you should chose to do lightly.

Sure, it seemed enjoyable, cute even. But no one ever talked about how many hours you would spend with a single portrait, drafting about abstract concepts or trying to discern at two in the morning whether a sculpture should turn more sideways or look at the ground to create a deeper perspective.

Art was wild.

But you loved it and, why not admit it, you took it pretty seriously. Maybe a tiny bit more than most people.

That’s why you had always liked how Kazunari Miyoshi, although being the loud person he was, frequently went on and on with you discussing ideas when there was some debate in class. That brain of his was something else. His works and usual approach when mixing modern and traditional Japanese culture fascinated you. It really did.

But that had been changing lately, and it angered you.

Up until this year you hadn't really cared about it. Everyone had their right to live however they wanted after all.

However, without being able to tell when it began, you started casually observing him. You watched him talk to your other classmates as soon as the lecture, frowned as he concentrated on the draft they had one hour and a half to finish or taking selfies and live videos of the works you all were demanded to do. You even discovered yourself staring and how the sun caressed his profile first hour in the morning.

He had a nice profile.

By that point, something inside you was getting frustrated. He participated in class and attended to the lectures, but at the same time…? you felt he was starting prioritising social media over art, or looking for people for one of his popular mixers, like so many of your other classmates, who had most likely entered this major without much thought, did.

You would understand if he would have a part-time job, but the thought of him being able to do so much more and deciding to stop midway left you speechless.

You wished for him to take more things seriously.

“Miyoshi, were you able to clean all the supplies from last class?" you called him out between the break. Everyone in class traded places to carry the main boxes with brushes, paints and whatever main source they had to work with each week "Our teacher told me to take some clay from there. I'm planning to use them for my final project, but I can't seem to find the key in the secretary office”

The university student lifted his head from his mobile and tipped on his chin, trying to remember "Supplies from...? Oh man, THAT is why I had them in my working space!” He palped his jeans looking for it “My bad, I was totes in a hurry and just closed as soon as we were done!”

You contained an exasperated groan “Why would you get the key unless it was to clean the practice room?”

Kazunari laughed nervously under your intimidating glare “True, true! It's just that I was talking with some friends over the phone and they were in a hurry so…” he showed you the key taking it out of his pocket, maybe to show that at least he hadn’t lost it “Do you need them now? I could go clean for you”

The vein you had tried so hard to maintain calm popped altogether. Not wanting to keep talking, you rapidly grabbed the key from his hand and headed to take the supplies. God grief how you hated that carefree attitude.

……………………..…….

“No prob, dude! Next time just hit me up with a DM and I’ll come running to your uni here! In exchange, I’ll need your help to finish the flyers so…”

Recognizing the flashy voice, you slowly looked behind, witnessing the blond with another person. Was he meeting with people to play around here too?

You couldn’t believe it. You all had your final projects deadlines almost spitting in your faces! That’s why you had to come to this other university to ask for permission to use a kiln for your final, as you didn’t have lectures prepared today and your university didn’t have any. Didn’t look like it was Kazunari’s case.

“Uh? No way, Y/N-pyon!” he waved at you with both hands, confirming it was you indeed, as he got closer “Looking fleek today too! What are you doing here in Yosei?” the person walking next to him whispered something “They’re a friend from my major Tsuzuroon, I told you about them, dude!”

You mentally scoffed. Without returning his greet and turning on your heels, you headed for the teacher’s office.

“You said friend but…” Tsuzuru squinted his eyes, watching you leave “…It doesn't look like they like you very much”

“No worries! Nowadays they are always like that. But their works are so lit! Y/N-pyon is the ultimate remix of you, Ten-ten and Yukki!”

“That’s… not a good thing, Miyoshi-san”

…………………………………………

“Y/N-pyon, about-”

“Miyoshi, sorry. I am on my way to Yosei University to finish my work and unlike your usual approach of work to play, I actually don’t have time to waste”

“Uh? My works are…”

“Are what? I’ve been seeing you doing half-assed things all over the semester. This last week you didn’t even come at the afternoon lectures” you were pretty sure this was just you venting at this point “You’re amazing Miyoshi, I honestly think that, so why? If… If you only put more of yourself into it, your art would be even more unbelievable!”

He went quiet, a rare sight.

“Art it’s not something you just do for laughs; I thought you were one of the few people here that felt the same and-” the phone in your bag started ringing. Head teacher. Inhaling deeply, you answered it “Yes?”

“Y/N-san? I am so sorry. Could you come to Josey university?”

Losing the eye contact you had been maintaining with the blond boy, your heart sank as you heard the words ‘kiln’ and ‘malfunction’. “…Please tell me my final project is ok”

……………………………….

You stood in silence, looking at the mess when you heard a knock at the door.

“I know I shouldn’t have followed and am expecting you throw me out the door but…” you didn’t move an inch so Kazunari took that as a free pass.

Just as the teacher told you, the electricity in the small building had had an issue and there had been a combustion, meaning, the sculpture you had kept here while working for weeks was now cracked and in shreds. You sniffed, brushing away the tears that were trying to come out from your eyes. All your hard work. All the time spent, had been for nothing.

“The Kiln is burnt. I don’t have anything good to save” you felt emotionally exhausted “Damn, I should have used air dry clay since the beginning… or not tried to sculpt anything” your vision became blurry again “I don’t know why do I make everything more difficult that it is”

Kazunari contemplated the situation, studying the seemingly full cracked sculpture from afar.

“Teach probably told you she would wait for you to turn on the work, right?” He saw you vaguely nodding you head “You got this!” he put his hand on your shoulder, you barely glancing at him “Look, If you still wanna use this base I’ll go ask for some moisturize and clean water to mix. Then I will maintain the upper part as you work down there, not bad idea right?”

You stared at him, finally grasping that he had come all the way here and was now trying to help “Why are you here? I… was being a busybody telling you how to work in our major” you had realized you had crossed the line back then.

Kazunari laughed, shaking his head “You were not saying anything that was a lie though, I don't want to admit it, but it’s true I've been a mess for a while”

“I guess parties require a lot of work” you bite your tongue hard. He was being a decent person trying to help and you couldn’t stop for two seconds to pick on him? You wanted to punch yourself.

“Mmm? Ah, our theatre troupe is almost opening for performance and the next troupe is on practices so flyers and scripts are running at full gas”

You stopped looking at your sculpture. What did he just say about a theatre?

“…What?”

“You’ve never come, Y/N-pyon? Mankai company is the best theatre in Veludo way! You totes should come, I’ll even send you the tickets for our new performance!” before you knew it, he had already DM you what you imagined was all the background information.

The moment you unlocked it, you almost dropped the phone. The photos and drawings of the posters were amazing, and you just knew who it had done “You… never said you had a job”

Kazunari considered what you pointed out. Mankai had managed to recover from what they needed to pay but they still didn't have enough founds “I’ve never thought about our acts as a job thought”

Your mind was a mess. Being an actor and doing publicity didn’t count for him as he studied? No wonder he usually left early! Now you felt even worst. You had behaved like a… “Uh, are these original templates?” you browsed over the performances’ posters, each one more astonishing than the other “This is… wow and this one?”

He blinked, noticing how the tone of your voice was now more soothing. You had somewhat calm down. He would high-key enjoy hearing you talk to him like that more often “Hey, enough about me. We have work to do”

You agreed, putting away your phone “You’re right but again I… I am sorry, Miyoshi. And thanks, for staying”

“No prob, Y/N-pyon!”

“Would you tell me what I could do so you stopped calling me that?”

“Eeeeeeh why? I think it fits! It's super-duper cute, like you!”

Thump!

No. You told yourself.

Coming back to your senses you told yourself the warm you felt in your cheeks was due to summer starting earlier. It definitely wasn’t because of Kazunari smile directed at you, helped you or how the sun reflected on his perfect profile as you both started working on your work.

Art was wild… but it was also an evocative of feelings.

_________________________________________________________

This one has been a difficult one! I wanted Reader to kind of clash with his mindset

Hope you guys enjoy it. Have a wonderful day! 💕

#a3 #a3! act! addict! actors!#A3! Actor Training Game #a3!#a3! game #kazunari miyoshi #a3 kazunari #reader insert #reader #kazunari x reader #a3! kazunari #miyoshi kazunari x reader #kazunari miyoshi x reader #one shot #a3 tsuzuru

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radiorenjun · 5 years ago

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Lavender Antics

→ Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader

→ Summary: Shooting in a drama with him was your absolute nightmare. Working with your enemy and pretending that you were love interests has been the most frustrating experience of your life. Though, after saying your farewells, the scent of lavender never leaves.

→ Genre:enemies to lovers au, idol au, romance, angst, slowburn, comedy.

→ Chapters: 5, 6, 7

You came to the set with a bright smile on your face, walking in with a box of sushi in hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other. Greeting the staff members with a bow as you walk towards the makeup room.

Life was starting to look up again.

At least, that's what you thought.

"Alright, the awaited kiss scene is about to happen!" the director announced happily. Jisung choked on his caffeine as you dropped your chopsticks to the floor, frozen in place as you stared at your director with eyes wide with disbelief.

"What?" you and Jisung exclaimed in unison, glancing at the excited director to your managers who were giving you encouraging thumbs up. "Manager-nim, he can't be serious right?" Jisung laughed nervously.

"We haven't even done two episodes!" he continued. "This must be some late April Fools prank, right? I mean, you guys trick us with this too many times! It's not funny!" you gulped, shivering at the thought.

"What? You guys finally haulted your ridiculous arguments so we decided to add more chemistry with the first kissing scene!" the producer laughed as he adjusted his headphones. "Pd-nim!" you and Jisung whined.

"Just because he apologized doesn't mean he stopped being annoying!" you reasoned, pointing at the boy who nodded in agreement. You could hear Jeongin's sinister laughter in the distance, holding his stomach as you both tried to stall time.

"Come on, kids. It's just a kiss, what are you afraid of? Catching feelings?" the script writer laughed, coming over to give you instructions over what to do next. You and Jisung shook your heads aggressively, repeatedly denying.

"You gotta stop dreaming, Sunbae!" you laughed, waving it off nervously. "It's impossible! I would never like a girl who's ego is bigger than their mouth!" Jisung joked, receiving a hard hit on his shoulder by you.

"Ow!" he squeaked, rubbing the side spot as you gave him a death glare. "Then there's nothing to worry bout. It's only gonna last 30 seconds." the script writer huffed at your dramatization. "30 seconds?!" you and Jisung exclaimed in shock.

"Im guessing you two didn't read the stage directions?" your director chuckled. "You always tell us what to do, we stopped reading stage directions on the first day of the shoot back in Busan!" you stammered, your cheeks growing red at the thought of kissing the boy beside you.

"Oh suck it up and get into character. You two knew this was gonna happen sooner or later, don't you?" the stage director rolled her eyes, tapping her fingernail against the table filled with props and scripts impatiently.

You and Jisung nodded after giving out a defeated sigh, walking into the group of students who were giggling and giving the two of your smirks. "Okay, some of you also have to kiss each other okay! Don't go smirking on us!" Jisung exclaimed as he sat down next to Jeongin who was snickering away.

"Whatever, Han. You know you don't need to hide the fact that you actually want to do it." Youngheum smirked. "Yeah, you two are just being dramatic. We all know you're just dying to make out on camera!" Yeji laughed, pushing your flustered self to the girl beside you who laughed along.

"Oh fuck off, would you?" you spat from a distance, giving them a middle finger. "You know you love us, L/N!" Sayori laughed beside you before giving you a dark glare. "Be greatful you're not the one acting as if you swallowed a shot glass of vinegar." she mumbled, making you stiffle a laugh as you pat her back with sympathy.

You knew that the teasing would get even worse once the scene starts. And you don't think you're mentally ready for it. You gulped as the staff adjusting the mics above you and the camera moved their positions so that they would get a better shot.

"Hey what are y'all playing?" you smiled as you sat beside Chaeryong and Yeoreum. "OH, y/n! You're just in time!" Jinhyuck exclaimed with a bright smirk on his face. "We're playing truth or dare!" Chaeryong grinned, leaning an arm on your shoulder.

"Truth or dare? What are we? 13?" you laughed incredulously. "You're just saying that cause you're scared of getting a bad dare," Jisung taunted, his eyes never leaving yours. "Oh hush, you're also a wuss yourself, jackass." you stuck your tongue out teasingly.

"So, you in or not?" Jeongin asked as he layed a hand on his hyung before he could say another word. "Sure. It can't be that bad, right?" you shrugged, leaning back on your arms as you watch the bottle spin in the middle of your big group.

You watch as it went to your Japanese friend, who gulped as the boy who spun gave her a big smirk. He let out a loud "AHA!" before releasing a clap with his hands, rubbing them together sinisterly.

"Hey, don't be so loud, the teachers are gonna wake up at the sound of your obnoxious clapping." your friend snarled, making the boys roll his eyes before looking around as your japanese friend internally prayed to God for mercy.

"Go to the kitchen and gulp down a shot glass of vinegar." he grinned causing your friends to laugh and wave at the poor girl who gave him a look of disbelief. "Fine." she sighed, standing up in defeat to head to the kitchen. "She's gonna be there for a while, moving on!" Youngheum waved it off as we all watch her walk out of the room with her mumbling something along the lines of 'do they even have a shot glass here?'

"Nayeon, your turn!" you exclaimed, attracting your friend's attention from the door. She reluctantly spun the bottle and watched as it stopped on Jinhyuck, who gave out a muffle groan through his palms. "Have mercy." he laughed, putting his hands together to plead.

"Fine, go to Jinyoung sleeping over there and draw over his face with a marker." she smirked mischievously. "I don't have a marker though," Jinhyuck sighed in relief. "I do!" you exclaimed, fishing out a marker from your pocket which made Jinhyuck frown.

"I just finished my banner, thank me later." you smiled innocently as Jinhyuck snatched the marker from your palm with eyes boring into your skull. You and Nayeon shared a subtle high-five as your group snickered at the poor boy who tiptoed over to the sleeping class president who was snuggled up to his pillow.

A few minutes later he came back with a face filled with fear, "he's gonna kill me tomorrow." he shivered. "Don't worry, bro." Jisung giggled, patting the boy's back and rubbing it comfortingly. "I'll make sure we have cake there at your funeral." he laughed.

"I don't like cake and you know it!" he barked back. "Exactly." Jisung winked as we all shared a good laugh.

"Next up is.."

After a few turns, involving you having to drink some concoction consisting a mixture of hot sauce, mustard, tteokbokki sauce (?), wassabi and all mysterious ingredients that aren't suppose to be mixed with, your friends decided to spice up the game a little.

There's a new rule when you pick dare, you're required to choose a partner or have the person who spun the bottle choose the partner for you. Of course, whoever chose truth will be teased for being a pussy therefore everyone was choosing dare.

"Alright, my turn." Youngheum coughed after nonchalantly putting on Lee's boxers around his head like a swimming headcap, spinning the bottle eagerly. The bottle slowly coming to a stop on Jisung who gave a toothy grin.

"Bro, don't do anything harsh." Jisung raised his hands in defeat as Youngheum gave him the look that screams 'I'm gonna ruin this whole man's career'. Youngheum let out an abstract laugh, putting a hand on his chest dramatically.

"You think I'm not gonna use this opportunity to get back on you for ruining my chance with that exchange student?!" he snarled with an evil grin. "Okay, it wasn't my fault that you got in the way of me tripping over a banana peel that caused you to pour that protein shake on the new kid! You were in my way, it's your fault!" Jisung laughed nervously.

"Very funny, Sung." Youngheum rolled his eyes before looking around until his eyes laid on you. "Since I know you won't pick truth to prove that you're not a pussycat, I dare you-" he spoke before Yejin laughed at his choice of words. "Pussycat? What are you? A fucking toddler?!"

"I dare you," he rolled his eyes as he pointed to Jisung then to you. "to go kabedon with Y/n and make out for 30 seconds." Youngheum snickered. "Ooh"s went around the whole group as they smirked at the two of you who stared in disbelief at the boy who was staring with halflidded eyes.

"Youngheum." you spoke nervously, "I never did anything wrong to you right? We're friends aren't we?" you tried to reason as Youngheum gave you an innocent smile along with a peace sign. "Chop, chop you two!" Yejin clapped her hands eagerly.

"Finally something interesting is going down." Marcos sighed as he watched eagerly between the two of you. You stood up to punch the grinning evil demon across the room before you were suddenly pushed gently to the wall by your shoulder by the one and only Jisung.

His face was red as his eyes were on your collarbone as your back met with the wall. You heard squeals from your female friends and cheers from your male friends. "Get some, bro!" you heard Jeongin cheering from the group.

Jisung took a deep breath before leaning his face closer towards you as his forearms came to lean against the wall, trapping your head in between his arms. You could his minty breath coming in contact with your skin.

His face leaning to the side slightly as you felt his nose graze yours softly, his eyes staring into your lips. "You don't have to do this, you know?" Jisung whispered almost inaudibly, his voice going an octave lower as his breath fans against your skin with each word.

His words weren't in the script. But you were too entranced by his eyes staring into yours for permission as you felt an odd feeling in your gut as you tried to stay in character. He looked so serious it's hard to tell if he's actually acting or serious.

"It's alright." you manage to breathe out, you felt your heart increasing with each passing second as your eyes went to Jisung's lips, you could feel your face gradually getting redder as Jisung's half lidded eyes bore into your nervous ones.

"I-" you whispered before you felt something soft meeting your lips, Jisung's lips gently pressed against yours. You felt your heart rate increase in your chest as you pressed your lips back on to his gently.

You heard cheers behind you as your friends rooted for you two to continue, "get some, Sung!" someone said in the midst of the groups whistling and squealing. You were too entranced by the feeling of his body pressing up closer to yours as he leaned his head to the side slightly to get a better angle.

His lips breaking part with yours for half a second before pressing again. Your hands unconciously went up, one hand clutching his baggy shirt and the other going up to run your fingers over his messy locks.

The kiss stayed innocent, staying as small longing pecks but never deepening. Your hand that was in his hair moved to his cheek, slowly moving down the side of his neck. Just when you were about to deepen the kiss you felt Jisung being tugged away from you.

Jinhyuck laughing at the both of you, his hand clutching onto the shirt on Jisung's shoulder as he pulled away from you. "Stay pg 13 guys, 30 seconds are up. You can get back to sucking each others faces off later, we're still here!" he laughed.

You were panting for breath as Jisung didn't gave you a time to breathe during his kisses, you were sure your face was as red as his as he was staring into your flustered form as he tried to regain himself.

You watched as Jisung subtly licked his lips as you both have eachother a small smile, blush still adorning on your cheeks. "Alright love birds, you can fuck when we're not around. In a meantime, pick your next victim, Sung." Nayeon joked, eliciting a complain from you.

As you scolded Nayeon, you didn't notice Jisung running a hand through his hair which was now messy from you running your fingers through it as he licked his lips once again. His heart beating erratically against his chest as Jinhyuck walked over to the group.

He wasn't in the shot but he still couldn't help admit to himself that he wouldn't mind kissing you again for the next few shoots.

😳😳😳😳 HoPe YOu liKe iT bYe

#han jisung x reader #stray kids han jisung #stray kids jisung #han jisung imagines #han jisung #jisung #stray kids #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagine #skz jisung #skz scenarios #skz angst #skz

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rodpupo2 · 4 years ago

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Research: Storytelling project

JOCK

Mark Simpson, best known as Jock, is a Scottish comic book artist and illustrator. He began his career in 1999 working on the British comic book publisher 2000 AD (where most of the British artists and writers, began their career, before going to the major leagues like DC and Marvel), and started working with characters like the Judge Dredd.

The artist began his career in the USA with The Losers, at Vertigo (a subdivision of DC comics), and some issues of the Green Arrow.

He also have worked with conceptual arts for various films such as Iron man 3, X-men days of the future past, and Star Wars episode VIII.

I have known Jock for a while, I have seen many of his works in the comics, and he is known for working mainly with covers, where he does extremely surreal works, mixing various types of colors, and always uses a lot of shading, not worrying if the characters are in the correct proportion, because that is not his proposal.

But I know he did some works as a sequential artist, like The Losers, for example, where he makes extremely tight pictures, always focusing on the expressions of the characters, and especially on the hands that he most likes to do.

His storyboards or sketches are very different, because his drawings do not follow the traditional way of being centered on the pictures, many of his characters are jumping over the pictures, to show the size of the action scene that Jock wants to do.

It is worth remembering that he mixes his drawings made with pencil and nanquin, with digital, often taking pictures of different landscapes or scenarios, and drawing over them, and mixing with his drawn character to make an interesting composition.

Despite all this, he has a very peculiar style, which many people complain about the lack of movement and poses that his characters does. That his lines are also very dirty and dark. But Jock says, that this is his way of drawing, that he likes to have a not so commercial style, like many other artists. He likes to play with colors and likes to draw his characters, in a little more simple poses, and glorifying the background.

Saul Bass

Saul Bass was an American graphic designer and filmmaker, he’s known for designing movie posters and title sequences.

For 40th years, he worked with Hollywood greatest filmmakers, such as Stanley Kubrick, Alfred Hitchcock, Martin Scorsese and Billy Wilder.

Bass was born in New York in 1920, to a Jewish family, he was all ways drawing when he was a child.He graduated from James Monroe High school in the Bronx. He studied part time at art students league in Manhattan, and moved to Brooklyn College, where he had classes with György Kepes, a famous Hungarian painter and photographer.

He began in Hollywood in the 40’s, designing prints for films like champion (1949), death salesman (1951) and the moon is blue (1953).

He became widely known for creating the title sequence for Otto Preminger’s The man with the golden arm (1955), which’s about a jazz musician, addicted to heroin. Bass decided to create a poster which dialogues with the controversial subject, so he chosed the arm as the central object, as is a image which relates with heroin.

For Alfred Hitchcock, he provided memorable posters, like Vertigo(1958), North by Northwest(1959) and Psycho(1960).

For Martin Scorsese he had done the posters of The Goodfellas(1990), Cape Fear (1991), the Age of innocence (1993) and Casino (1995).

For Stanley Kubrick, he designed Spartacus (1960), and probably the best poster in his career, which is the poster from The Shining (1980).Kubrick, however, wasn’t amused. On the sketches themselves (which were later discovered in his personal affects) he wrote “Looks like science fiction.”Title looks small, looks like the ink didn’t take on the part that goes light,” and “Maze too abstract and too much emphasis on maze,” and, the most scathing of all, “Don’t like artwork.”

More discussions followed, and Bass agreed upon an illustrative approach of a large head peering through the title.As Kubrick instructed, the poster evokes both “terror” and the “supernatural.”

Bass once told,that his main goal for his titles sequences is “try to reach for a simple, visual phrase that tells you what the picture is all about and evokes the essence of the story".

James Cameron

James Cameron is a famous film director, which is for having two of the greatest box office films of all time, which are Avatar and Titanic. In addition, he is always revolutionizing in special effects, always bringing something new and revolutionary, but it all starts on his drawing desk, with his sketches and storyboards.

James Cameron has always been known for creating extremely interesting worlds, and completely out of the ordinary. Starting with the film Aliens, the sequel to Ridely Scott's film, where he expanded this world by creating an ecosystem for the aliens, in addition to showing futuristic equipment, for the space army that faces the aliens.

He also created concepts, for the Terminator films 1 and 2, where it was an idea never before seen of a robot that travels in time to kill a person. Its detailed perfectly drawn storyboards show one of the most interesting scenes in the film, where the terminator does a self surgery, revealing his true form.

And finally, once again creating a whole world, with a fauna and flora never seen before in the movie Avatar.

Cameron always wanted to create worlds, so he putted everything on a piece of paper when he was a child, where later, he took courses of drawings and did art colleges, to get a clearer idea of how his worlds and characters could be.

Before being a director, he wanted to be a writer and an artist, but he never thought his ideals could be just in a book, he wanted to expand these ideas in a way never seen before.

Perhaps what impresses me most about James Cameron, besides being a creative force, is all the care he takes with his works, he said in an interview, which he always preserves all his storyboards, even from those films that he never made or did not work, and said that almost every day, he sits at his drawing desk and tries to come up with possible scenes for any film he is making. And when he creates an interesting scene, he tries to invent a whole story, to get to that specific scene.

https://issuu.com/dteditore/docs/spidercameron-screen-eng/1?ff

Glen Keane

Glen Keane was born on April 23, 1954, in the city of Philadelphia, United States. Early on, he became interested in art while watching his cartoonist father Bill Keane draw. After finishing high school, he turned down a scholarship to play football and signed up for CalArts- California Institute of Arts.

Keane signed up for the painting program, he wanted to be a visual artist. However, his application was accidentally sent to the animation department, then Film Graphics. The college vetoed him to change course, so he stayed there.

Glen’s passion for painting helped him tremendously in animation, since the first skill an animator must have is knowing how to draw. Do not simply draw, but really know anatomy and how to give the illusion of weight.

His first work was Bernardo and Bianca in the kangaroo land. In the following years Keane worked on other features such as the Hound and the fox, Oliver and his gang , treasure planet, and the list goes on.

But it’s was at the time called the Disney Renaissance that Keane stood out. He animated Ariel the little mermaid, Beast from the beauty and the beast, Aladdin, Pocahontas, Tarzan, and most recently, was Rapunzel (Tangled).

At the time, Keane and the animators, had to use the traditional animation (by using paper), so him and his crew had to plan, all the scenes and poses, by doing storyboards, and later drawing on the paper frame by frame (the frequency to project a film in the cinema is twenty four frames per second, twenty four drawings in total were needed for each second of animation seen on screen).

There is no professional on the animation field, who does not know the name Glen Keane. He is the reference to all of them. What sets him apart, is his passion for his characters. During the production of the animations, Keane understands them and is thus able to perform better.

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legallyharrie · 4 years ago

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BERLERMO ALTERNATIVE UNIVERVE : ART GALLERY IN PARIS

Hello,

I’m sharing with you my first Berlermo AU in wich Andrés is the owner of a art gallery in Paris. He met Martín who came to buy some paintings for his new place.

Sorry for the mistakes, I was tired when I wrote it and english is not my native language !

***

Since his primary childhood, Andrés has always been in love with art. It is the only way he has found to express his feelings. Art helps him to feels love, joy, sadness. Painting and sculptures are the only things to which he let his true self exposed. Even if Andrés is now in is forties, he never said “I love you” to someone. Not even to his parents, or to his little brother, Sergio, or to one of the five women he married. The fact is that Andrés is also extremely ill at ease with shows of affection.

After running the world for fifteen years as a consultant in Renaissance art, Andrés decide to settle five year ago in Paris and open his own art gallery. He found a little gem in the heart of the Marais, a fancy neighborhood of the French capital. Andrés decided to name it “La Galerie Berlin” in reference to Berlin, a city full of artists and in which is sell his first drawing.

In a lovely spring afternoon, a green-eyed man opened the door and cried out in a broken French “ Bonjour !”. A big smile was now invading Andrés’ face. The man was slightly younger than him and seemed very dynamic. He also immediately recognized his Argentinian accent.

“ Buenas Tardes amigo !” Andrés said.

« I’m Martin Berrote. I am an Argentinian engineer sent to Paris for a one-year mission. I lost myself in the neighborhood and then I saw your store front. Could you help me to select some painting, I really need to garnish my apartment! “

Martin was a very talkative person. During his speech, he looked Andrés straight in the eyes with his two-sapphire iris. His accent was also very melodious, and you can hear Italian intonations.

It needed some seconds for Andrés to come back to his senses. He coughed in his fist before answering to Martin.

“Nice to meet you Martin. I’m Andrés De Fonollosa. I’m a Spanish art expert, established for five years in Paris…” without stopping talking, Andrés moved with a rare elegance between the multiples sculptures, glass boxes and showed to Martin every painting.

Even if to them it seemed like only ten minutes have passed, the two men talked about lives for two hours straight. Martin’s childhood in Buenos Aires, the violence of his father, Andrés’ travels, and his unperishable memory of Argentine, his history of art studies. They found a lot of common in each other.

After this long discussion, Martin choose three paintings all of them were abstract art. Vivid colors. Anarchic paintbrushes. It was a pretty realistic representation of his mindset and his thoughts. As nature gifted him with a great intelligence, it was also born with a brain fill with ideas and unable to rest for more than thirty seconds.

“Are you free tonight?” Martin asked.

“Hmm. I just divorced from my fifth wife some weeks ago and I have only a cat at home. So, I guess that I have nothing planned. Why?

“Would you do me the favor to take a drink? Some friends told me that The Marais was full of bars and places to go out.”

At this moment, Andrés was not able yet to put words on what he was feeling but he was mesmerized by this Argentinian guy. It was a magnetic force, something that no one could see. It was unusual, unique, for Andrés to be this confused.

“Of course. Just give five minutes to close the gallery. Let me store your paintings there and I will help you later to grab them to your place.”

A soft wind was now diving into the streets of Paris. The two men were giggling in their way to a little bar. It was crowdy and filled with pride flags and rainbow crosswalks. Even if it was a fancy neighborhood, Andrés preferred the chic of Saint-Germain-Des-Près. They both sat inside a little pub and ordered tapas with a pricy bottle of wine that Andrés recommended to Martin. If he had had the choice Martin would have only ordered a regular beer but he could not disappoint his new friend. They continued to talk about themselves, the highs and downs of each other lives. Martin confess to Andrés how disastrous and toxic was his last relationship with a Sicilian guy. Andrés reviewed his five weddings, all of them sold by a divorce. He admitted to Martin that he really loved women but in the end that he never understood them. He covered them with flowers, luxurious hotels, and jewelries but it seemed that it was not enough for them.

At several moments, they both stopped talking and stare each other in the eyes. But at no time, it became weird. They both needed calm. In these silences, both of them could red the other thoughts. It’s been less than half a day since they met but is seemed like they have known each other for years. Martin understood Andrés. Andrés understood Martin. They were born in different continents, shared a different culture but they shared the same point of view on most of subjects. For the first time in his life, Andrés opened up to someone, naturally. It was like a flood barrier had been broke.

Shortly after midnight Martin asked Andrés if he was not too tired to go back to his gallery and pick up home the paintings. Martin’s flat was 2 miles away from there. As the engineer he was, Martin had a secret plan in mind.

During the way back to the gallery and his place, Martin became quite touchy with Andrés. He touched his arm and then he started to put a hand on his back. Andrés didn’t objected and didn’t moved either. He thought that the feeling was pleasant and showed a knowing smile.

After climbing the four floors which separate the street from Martin’s place, the little Argentinian offered to Andrés a tour. Immediately, Andrés argued with Martin about which walls the paintings should be hang on. At the end, they decided that two of them would be perfect in the hall. The largest one will take its place upon Martin’s bed.

Martin was leaning to the framing of the bedroom’s door staring at Andrés four feet away. Now, they both had sleepy eyes. Today had been intense but none of them have the intention to end it now.

Even though Martin was not a shy person, his arms were full of goosebumps. On top of that, the little butterfly he started to feel sooner did not stopped to grow in his stomach. In fact, thousands of butterflies were now flying in his body. Before, Martin never believe in love at first sight. He was a bit misogynistic and, in his mind, it was for girls and for fairy tales. What he did not know yet is that the supposedly straight men, five times married to women, was also devoured with strange butterflies. And he that he was submerged by the same sensation even if he tries his best to burry it. In any way, Andrés thought that he was uncapable to have feeling for someone. To genuinely love someone.

Martin inhaled a big bowl of air and made a step. He looked Andrés straight in the eyes, smiling.

“Andrés. I wanted to thank you for this wonderful evening. Since I left my country, I felt very alone. But then, I met you and your crazy passion for art and beauty. I never get along so fast and so well with someone.”

“ I have to admit that it’s a first time for me too. Sorry if I bothered you with all my problems and everything. I never felt that connected with a total stranger. But I find in you someone who listens to me and who understand my point of view on life. “. Andrés said with glazed eyes. This, was a first time for him too. He never cried in front of someone. Maybe he even never cried since is childhood.

“ Cariño, you didn’t bothered me.”

Martin made a new step towards Andrés. Then, another one. The distance was now quite close between them. Martin gently wipe Andrés eyes with a comforting “shhh”. His hands were now wandering on Andrés’s cheeks and he brushed the back of his hair. For sure, since the moment he saw Andrés when he first entered in the gallery, Martin thought that Andrés was a very charming and seducing men. Now, he was staring at him and the distance between them was only of twenty centimeters. This close, with the moonlight transpiercing the curtains, Andrés was even more sexy and Martin craving to taste how soft was his lips.

In order to finally break the distance, Martin slowly approach his nose to Andrés’. Andrés raise a eyebrow at first, surprised by Martin boldness but then, they begun to rub each other nose. It was pure, it was soft, it was new. Time was frozen around them. Andrés closed his eyes; he was one hundred percent confident in Martin. He puts his hands on Martin’s hips and pull him closer to break the distance once and for all.

Shortly after, Martin gently kiss Andrés lips. As he imagined they were beautifully soft. Andrés responded to the kiss and their lips began to move synchronically and it became less and less innocent. No words were needed and like they both already learnt today, they didn’t had to speak to understand each other.

“There is no accidental meeting between soulmates”

#fluff #berlermo #la casa de papel #palermo la casa de papel #palermo #berlin #they are so cute 😥#AU #BERLIN #andres de fonollosa #martin berrote #what do you guys think about it ?

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faunusrights · 5 years ago

Text

OFFAL HUNT REMASTERED LIVEBLOG // CHAPTER 14

IN THIS EPISODE OF THE OFFAL HUNT LIVEBLOG:

On the other end of the line, Cinder let out a tight sigh. “Yeah. Okay, well—I’m in a difficult position right now. I’m balancing a lot. So, that wasn’t, you know, directed at you or whatever… I’m just trying to deliver you to Atlas. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” Glynda said. “This apology sucks.”

CINDER FALL TRIES TO HAVE MANNERS. AND FAILS. BUT SHE TRIES.

it’s been a WHILE but i’m STILL HERE!!!!!!!!! also i’m a little late to the draw and also unlike w/ prior chaps i did actually read this one when it came out so i’ve had my first run already. BUT that means i actually get 2 Focus so lets get this party started

so we’re now entering into the New Umbraroot Arc which Frightens me on a deep and intrinsic scale because now i have no padding to ready me for whatever the Hell is going to occur, but i do know it will be gay(er) than the current content was (is/shall be) and here’s the proof

It had only been a day, but the sound of Cinder’s voice was a relief to Glynda’s senses.

glynda that’s gay. hey. hey. glynda have u been told yr a lesbian. lesbeeb. besbion--

“Not at all.” Thank god. It was one thing to be traveling with Cinder Fall. It was entirely another to have her checking in on Glynda’s well-being.

cinder: my well-being is SHIT but thankfully there’s someone nearby doing WORSE than me, which makes me feel better at least,

“Oh.” Our sounded strange in her mouth.

my favourite thing abt any gay media and content is that it’s gay in ways that hettie(tm) nonsense can only dream of being. when a story is abt a guy and a gal all the romantic tension comes from like. looking at a tiddy or getting naked or w/e the shit. here? it’s literally found entirely in the use of the word our. such power. i love it.

I went from unknown to one of Atlas’ most wanted overnight, which is charming… And also annoying, because they refuse to stop pasting wanted posters on every street corner.

i feel like cinder is the type of bitch to send pics of them back to emerald like ‘is my face ACTUALLY that janky??? my hair is a state. you think they’ll use a selfie if i ask nicely???’

Cinder hummed, affirmative. “Which would be unnecessary, if you hadn’t reported me.”

Glynda returned, “I wouldn’t have reported you if you hadn’t been committing a crime.”

glynda you snitch. you narc. you bootlicker. does be gay do crime mean NOTHING to you,

We left a funny taste in her mouth, almost as strange as when Cinder had said our. She tried not to examine it too closely.

again. look at this shit. this is real slowburn hours. this is how u DO IT.

Her heart was beginning to feel like a pin cushion with all the needles pulled out, little holes left in their wake.

would i be showing my age if i glanced at this and wondered if it were a reference to the inciting og offal hunt inspiration fic or. it does doesnt it. okay moving on.

“Okay.” And then, in an effort to change the subject to something lighter: “I’ve never broken into a country before.”

glynda’s complete and continuous inability to actually like. do what she plans on doing is SO funny to me. she’s going to be stealthy, she says, throwing a man aside in obvious fashion. i’m going to be subtle, she says, being as conspicuous as possible. she’s a disaster and i live for it.

"The Faunus." Cinder's voice was cold. "Don't speak to her."

this part of this fic is subtitled ‘cinder’s rank opinions time’, apparently. not that u can tell. but it is. dsfhgjsdfghjghfjdk

In the silence that followed, Glynda thought of the stunted horns jutting above Cinder's hairline at the restaurant.

Glynda murmured, "That’s a horrible thing to say."

"Don’t start." There was no concession in her words. “I mean it.”

“...I just didn’t expect that from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

There was something in Cinder’s tone that told Glynda that nothing she said would be correct. She said nothing.

cinder’s! rank! opinions! time! honestly this section victimises me the MOST as i very famously cried over an earlier section in which cinder thought abt all the faunus she grew up with, so i know that kc and diesel were looking to hurt me directly. that said i DO find it funny that cinder, yet again, looks like a pile of shit. she can’t do anything right. naturally inclined to be the villain completely unintentionally. what a moron.

A harsh laugh. “What do you think we are, friends?”

“Well, no—um. Not really, but—”

YOU SEE. CINDER. PLEASE. £10 FOR U TO BEHAVE FOR FIFTEEN SECONDS.

“Then, just—just listen to me. I’m going to get us there. I p-promise.” There was a soft sound, like disgust or the prelude to a gag. “Urgh, your soul—give me more space.”

cinder: i’m inclined to being an asshole glynda: every time yr mean 2 me i’ll make u feel worse cinder: ah no. ah shit. i have to be nice??? ah fuck. what the shit is this.

Glynda thought of Ozpin. It wasn’t a comforting thought—more like the memory of a near-accident, like sliding on ice and feeling the world shift beneath you. It was a flinch-thought, and it would have made her miserable instead of just homesick had she not shut it out so quickly.

god the writing in this fic is so especially pristine. everything feels so real and visceral and you just know Exactly how that feels. it’s brilliantly punchy and i adore the way u get have the exact sensation click into place. it’s SO good.

She wondered if it was the same moon Bacia and Vivienne had looked upon. If they had felt the same beneath its pale light. The Great War had seen two shatterings of the moon, so perhaps it had appeared different, but… Glynda couldn’t help but wish that it was something they shared, even lifetimes apart.

👈😎👈

actually im a little nervous abt doing fingerguns because WHAT IF SMTHNG HAS CHANGED... but i think this bit is. safe. maybe. diesel. kc. am i safe,

Glynda closed her eyes and tried to feel out that instinctual power within her. Tried to know herself better. It resonated around her like a water in a tank, nearly palpable.

again this is just GREAT storytelling. i just LOVE how well kc and diesel turn abstract ideas into such physical manifestations it’s completely unreal. r y’all seein this shit???

upon checking his number, she’d discovered it had been blocked.

i love that glynda is abt as knowledgeable abt little jumps like this as the reader is. are we surprised as a reader? yes. is glynda also surprised? HELL YEAH SHE IS. SHE AIN’T GOT A FUCKIN CLUE MY DUDE.

Remembering the notes to herself not to trust Winter, Glynda opened the log hesitantly.

glynda no yr sending read receipts to yr future gf and thats a bad move on everybodys part

The indicator showed this wasn’t the first time Glynda had accessed the message. She couldn’t remember doing so.

OH NO BITCH U ALREADY DID

“Special Operative Schnee, things are…” Glynda paused, searching for something suitably vague to say. “Proceeding.

do you see what i mean abt glynda’s ineptitude. it’s slapstick levels of ridiculous and i’m living for it.

Do you suspect she’s attempting to cross the border?”

“Maybe.”

‘sure,’ glynda says. ‘you could word it like that if you wanted to.’

“Bold of her, if nothing else. She should know there will—” Glynda skimmed through the rest of the paragraph to reach the end, the corners of her mouth curling. “—can make arrangements. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

HGSDFGKHJSFDGHKJDF JESUS CHRIST

its like in fallout 4 when someone tells u important info and when u click past it the main character just goes ‘uh huh’ ‘yeah’ ‘okay’ ‘sure’ ‘mm-hm’ as the text boxes whizz by GLYNDA PLEASE

Bubbles appeared, showing that Cinder was typing. Glynda waited.

And waited.

The bubbles appeared and disappeared four times.

She flipped back to Cinder’s conversation and found that, after all that time, Cinder had finally settled on a reply.

It said:

“Good.”

i just had to pair these up for a second if only to say: dis me lol

okay let’s double back for a second just to cover this Juicy Lore:

If you’d like, I can arrange a bouquet of flowers to be left at your mothers’ memorial site. My thoughts are with you.”

For a long moment, Glynda simply stared at the screen. [...] In quick succession, she realized that it had been sixteen days since she’d met with Cinder in the restaurant and that it was soon to be the anniversary of her mothers’ deaths.

WHAT IS THIS LORE MA’AM AND MX??? **MA’X**??? firstly idk what the HELL the Black March tragedy is but im fascinated but also: did u have to do that. can ONE person in this fic not have [spoilers redacted cant say that yet no sir] problems??? no??? die. dsfhjgghjkfsddf

Glynda picked herself up from the armchair, neat and tidy, and disassembled into bed, pulling the covers up to her throat. With her Semblance, she turned off the lights. She closed her eyes.

It was quiet. Cold. The only thing she felt was the weight of her soul.

Her Scroll buzzed. Glynda answered it.

“Glynda.” It was Cinder. “I can feel that.”

okay following on from cinder’s text message, i just. love that cinder’s having such direct repercussions to her shitty shitty actions. like this is all tying together in some 👈😎👈 instances but having cinder be her usual callous self and having to literally turn around and start fucking Being Nice For Once is VERY gratifying. fuck you you lil round-faced one-braincelled baby. time to learn to have some Manners. jgdsfghsdfghfjd

She’d simply resigned to the loneliness of having no one to trust but Cinder, and then, not even having her.

... thats gay. hey lads is that gay? its gay. it feels gay.

“Yeah,” Glynda said. “This apology sucks.”

this feels like a reference to 👈👈👈😎👈👈👈 (IS IT. AM I RIGHT. IT IS ISNT IT) but also: LOOK AT CINDER GO. TRYING. BADLY. BUT TRYING. i love her she sucks so much shes such a dumbass. feel the consequences. feel them.

Glynda chided herself; Cinder Fall wasn’t capable of remorse, but she was more than capable of simple math. It seemed the worse she treated Glynda, the worse she herself would feel.

glynda: she’s doing this because it makes her feel better, not me cinder in like idk 20 chapters down the line:

(i guess thats another 👈😎👈 moment but for GOOD REASON)

There was a shift, like Cinder was rolling over, or maybe propping herself up. Was she in bed also? It triggered the remembrance of Glynda’s own physicality, and she turned over as well, searching in the dark for the nightstand and the lamp upon it. The light clicked on. The room brightened. Glynda settled in, ready.

OOOOOH THE PARALLELS. glynda turning the lights off and sinking into darkness and the void versus perking up and sitting up and turning the lights on when talking to cinder!!!!!!! POETIC CINEMA. OOF. OOF. HOW DOES FIFTEEN POINTS OF LOVE TASTE.

“Great! Lovely. Glad to hear it.” Fangs rounded out the words like scissors. A pleasant sense of satisfaction unfurled in Glynda’s chest. “So, once upon a fucking time—”

there were two gays and they were enemies to lovers but didnt know it yet. but they will be.

THATS CHAPTER 14 BABEY!!!!!!!! i LOVED this chap and i can rly feel kc and diesel gearing up for umbraroot. its great being able to like. feel the shift of focus goin on here and im SO ready to see this arc play out. once again offal hunt is the best fic ever made. this is a fact.

#rwby #liveblog #offal hunt #i almost typed 'offal hut' which is not the pizza hut experience i want

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sugar-petals · 6 years ago

Text

Cygnet (m)

⇁ pairing jimin x reader

⇁ word count 8k

⇁ genre royalty au | slow burn | smut, angst, action, drama

⇁ plot Under the sinister eyes of his hidden enemies, Crown Prince Jimin wants to prove his skill as your fencing disciple — and secret lover.

⇁ warnings foreplay, teasing, PDA, unhealthy relationships, violence, fights (physical/verbal), jealousy, assertive reader, sub!jm

⇁ a/n The time is right! I write about my home country. The story is less historical rather than a 19th-century convolute of German tradition influenced by “Swan King” Ludwig of Bavaria.

He slices the curtain in half. The noise is sharp, the cut is messy.

A jolt goes through the fevered crowd. King Albrecht rises from his seat in the central spectator’s box. With an exasperated strike from the side, you can barely ward off the Prince’s blade and create more distance between the two of you. Even the set of six clarions stops blaring at the end of the competition grounds. The colorful jesters, maidens, and buskers halt their endless chatter. Even the Princess, once preoccupied with eyeing up the musicians and floral swan decor all around the field, pays close attention.

The next, even taller metal frame shields you from the Prince’s following blow, long enough to switch the foil into your other hand.

But then—

No time for just one breath. He’s going for another lunge.

The consequent step almost causes you to slip. A hollow. The sand and earth are uneven. Oh, how you hate tournaments. Last weekend, the King celebrated his birthday with a grand mêlée. It must have been a rabid horse trampling across this section of the field at a more dashing speed than usual. But that is but a feeble excuse, isn’t it. At least, the hollow is not steep enough to twist an ankle.

You seek to find more stable ground behind the next frame. There are about fifteen of them set up on the field, all of them draped with silver curtains to create an obstruction, and only seven left if you keep moving away from him.

Crown Prince Jimin in his fencing armor, complete from helmet-head to pointed toe.

Spotting a blue piece of fabric trail left, then right, you see that he is indeed quick to follow. It is the bright neck scarf, attached to his belt.

“This is not a lance game, Y/N!” he intonates from behind the curtain. There’s rude pride in his voice.

You wait. Keep the foil in your right hand fixed. Once you see the Prince’s striking profile through the silver drape once more, which gladly, is not opaque enough to entirely conceal him, you step out to confront him with a feint from below. Going by the lax smile he flashes, he’s seen it coming. Your blade reaches the targeted spot on his shoulder delayed. The turmoil and caw of the audience peaks. He’s self-assured.

Again, you wait. Naturally, securely, the Prince bends sideward, preparing to counter. But then, he wavers. Casual, you retort his grin and angle your wrist enough to force him into a curve two times as stark than before through an angled flick. And so, it happens.

He steps into the hollow.

And falls over.

In the moment of abstraction, you make the blade spring from his gloved right hand with a swirl of your own weapon. High outside. Strike.

The Prince exhales when you depress the tip of your foil in his mesh jacket, then plant it into the ground next to this face where it parts the loose earth.

Inside the spectator’s box, seated next to the Princess, the three stoic judges raise their flags to signal the end and victory.

“This,” you say, “is not a lance game, my Prince. There’s more to it than hitting your opponent.”

Clarions resound, as do percussions. It takes a few seconds until your breath calms enough. Applause crashes down like a wave from the podiums where the audience rises from their seats, throwing hats in the air, waving thick banners with golden swans and lions.

“You got me there.”

The Prince, exasperated, unties the blue-white neckerchief at his belt and hands it to you. Chivalry. Above all bedlam, the bearded King’s jovial laughter and boisterous clapping accompanies the noise on the field.

An owl keeps on hooting outside in the arcade. You twist and turn in the sheets. It’s a relief that the maiden Anna knocks three times, then peeks inside the chamber in her blue nightgown. Equanimous, she informs you that the Queen will establish a banquet tomorrow evening.

“To celebrate the new swan pond in the royal garden.”

Big fountains, big dresses, big everything. You know how it goes. As usual. It’s what happens at Linderhof Palace all year long. At least you hate it less than tourneys.

Anna, discreet as always, puts out the oil lamp on your bedstand, leaving a fade of smoke in the room. She disappears in the corridor with fast steps, headed to the quarters of the servants in the west wing. Judging by the silence in the Palace, even the jesters are either too tired or drunk by now to fool around as always.

Once more, you try to recline in the pillows with a cool breeze coming from the open window. Although you don’t remember who left it open, you know very well how bleak the winds from the Alps can get at this time of the year. Getting up is easier than you thought, but you leave the duvet bottom-down to keep your warmth preserved instead of just kicking it to the side.

The second blanket below that, however, you draw out to wrap around yourself like a cape.

Headed to the window, you realize that it is open with good and familiar reason. There is a pair of gloved, trembling hands attached to the frame. It’s how he always does it. You tease, bend forward, voice louder to overrule the breeze.

“My Prince? So late?”

“Is it?”

Two hazel eyes flicker at the bottom of the opening, also making visible the not-so-typical ruffled hair he has been sporting since this very morning.

“You promised me this session. Last year, did you forget? It’s almost spring. We did the tournament.”

“You really want to practice now?”

“What do I look like?”

You peer through the frame gazing downwards. It’s not just icy cold. The wind bristles through the haggard pine trees all around. He’s developed more resilience as of recently.

“A silly guy hanging off his sword master’s window two stories high, wanting to hear about the golden lesson of fencing.”

He huffs out a cloud of breath. Now, a pearl of sweat runs off his forehead if you allow yourself to look particularly close, which you do delight in: Nothing better than a royal late-night exercise.

“Fair— enough.”

“So?”

“You said it yourself. We don’t practice for war. We practice for fun. Don’t we? Come, one lesson. Just theory. You made a promise for today.”

The Prince grits his teeth when the next chilly gust of wind comes along from the valley. You stroke your chin a few times.

“Can’t break that one, can I. Or are you just a sulking loser trying to get revenge after I’m done explaining my secrets?”

“Y/N. I’ve been hanging here for several minutes now.”

You tap your foot. So much for not complaining about endurance training.

“Prince, I see that.”

“My arms are so limp, I can hardly wield anything.”

Very well. Judging by how his fingers clamp at the window, quite rigid now, they are.

“The chambermaid took longer than usual, I know. Come on in to Rapunzel, you climbing ace.”

Relief in his features.

“Here we go!”

You offer a hand— the stronger one. He pulls himself upward.

“Thank you, Master.”

The Prince glides into the room with snowy laced up shoes and a large coat on, making your own makeshift blanket cape fall reasonably short in terms of flamboyance. At least he’s learned from the first time when he climbed up in his sheer nightgown with an outrageously plunging cleavage.

Now that he tries to stomp off the melting snow from his boots, you shush him fast.

“You fool! I’ve heard someone rummage in the kitchen.”

He closes the window with more care than he cleans his blades. Which means, hardly any. Some snow falls off the outside of the frame.

“Oh, really?

“You think a banquet prepares itself?”

The Prince frowns.

“Way past sunset?”

“Some people have to crook an extra finger unlike you sitting in the throne room eating apples. Sit down here, my Prince. At least you’ve come for theory.”

You eye the stack of books waiting at the fireplace. So does he.

“Sorry for the cold air.”

You pat the chair at the cast-iron oven for him to take a seat next to your wooden stool.

“If you come close enough, that will make up for it.”

The snow has melted off his shoes entirely, and the room temperature increases even more once you shove a scraggly block of wood into the oven. Although the kitchen does not seem to be bustling, here and there, a metal clank or wooden thud reaches the chamber, making either of you flinch. Keeping your voice low is a hard task given that theory lessons with the Crown Prince always cause a lively discussion.

“You’re more in the mood for learning when I defeat you, isn’t it so.”

He smiles. He shrugs. His oh-so famed eyebrows play whatever game. The fire tongues at the metal bars surrounding it, emitting a cozy heat around your feet.

All he can say— “The way of things.”

After tying your hair back with the help of the blue-white neckerchief, quite demonstratively so, you go through the pages of the old leather-bound book from the top of the stack.

“That’s quite lovely. You did try your best on the field today. You still can’t cut things in half properly. I’m still waiting for that day. But you improved with balance.”

The Prince rubs his poufy cheeks, then stretches out his arms as far as they permit, strained as his muscles have become.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “You pointed it out when we practiced in the forest. The shoulders. Upper body.”

“I like how you commit. Just be careful, my Prince.”

“Yes?”

You point at his torso.

“The more you focus on the flaw. The more you forget the things you’re good at. Which is?”

“Elegance.”

“Footwork.”

More surprise forms on his face.

“Footwork?”

“My Grand Prince. You know very well why I offered this lesson,” you pat the book with a flat palm, making dust escape from the pages. “With that attitude, you’ll have a hard time impressing the czarina. Or surpassing me.”

The Prince looks you dead in the eye now. His hands rest in his lap again.

“That is, if I want to.”

“Wasn’t it your motto when we started at Hohenzollern Castle?”

Your gaze shifts to the wooden sword holder at the far end of your chamber. The silver-colored sabre that you used at that time, named Cygnet after a witty suggestion of the Princess, remains the glistening centerpiece between all other blades. He sees it, too.

“I’ve changed my mind about what happened there, Y/N.”

“You’re probably right.”

Opening each metal button one by one, then shrugging his shoulders backwards, Jimin pulls off the big coat and rests it far away enough from the oven. His arms are almost completely slack. Outside, the pines still croak under the storm.

“I like being defeated,” he says, now before you in his purple princely jacket with the lion emblem.

Again, you strike a testing voice.

“Are you content with being second in line, in front of the King? The czardom?”

He nods.

“If the crowd enjoys the show, so will my father. That’s why we have the tournament.”

Even if letting your eyes trail off downwards his garment is tempting, your gaze remains hard on him.

“Albrecht cares more about the cakes and treats than the hierarchy, does he.”

“The Queen enjoyed the fights today.”

“If it wasn’t a banquet and for your arms, we could very well duel tomorrow.”

To put on a show, why not. To beat him again, why not.

“On even ground, yes.”

Marble, most likely. The garden with the adjacent arcade offers enough space.

“That’s why I like duels,” your voice turns low. And tantalizing. “They’re very intimate.”

“So do I.”

“Next week,” you lean forward, now in a whisper. “We might have a chance. Our generous Princess Marie is said to announce her departure to Saxony. We’d have enough time to ask the bard to organize a few minutes for us on the parquet.”

The Prince’s eyes light up.

“Oh, right! I almost forgot what he said! That ball! I was just thinking about the banquet.”

“Yes. Can you persuade her? The czar family will be present, too.”

Seraphims and chandeliers decorate the ceiling, among the ubiquitous swan motif that adorns just about every plate and painting. The musicians gather, hasty. Some of them you recognize from the King’s annual opera night. Even the jester wears his finest gown today, donning metres and metres of green fabric drapings. The Crown Prince, however, is nowhere to be seen on the parquet with his feathered walk, the voice, the laughter.

After the orchestra begins to fiddle, officially starting the ball, and the buffet opens, instead— you see her enter. A silhouette, clad in dark red.

It is the czarina.

Yekaterina Romanova, whose smile could melt the snow of the eternal Alps. Her diadem gleams more than any of your theatrical gowns or coronation attire could ever. Even her stride alone commands attention. It is firm.

The servants of the King are visibly in awe, nodding at her every move and word. Alongside her parents, after a minute or two, you see Yekaterina converse with Queen Therese. About Prussia, you assume. Or Austria. Most likely Austria.

There is no time for eavesdropping in the first place even if you are seated fairly close. And, quite regularly, yet another Saxon Duchess wants to beckon you into the mass of chatting aristocrats to talk about a private fencing lesson for her youngest. It seems that either your name has been making rounds or your plain brown clothing makes you stand out, ironically so. You decline but one request that comes as a question from behind you.

“Do I come to delight in your unfair methods today, master?”

There stands the Prince in his dove white robe, complete with an embellished frock. His voice is dripping with a type of flustered, cocky charm that you fail to sort into his usual moods.

“You sure do, disciple.”

You turn to seize him up further, leaving him no doubt that you do so. Hair set in more voluminous curls than normally. A golden edelweiss necklace cascading onto his chest. Heeled shoes making him inches taller. Smiling just enough not to violate the etiquette, you extend your hand toward him, feel his breath. He presses a kiss on its back. Far more chaste than the one on your lips last night before he climbed down the window again.

In the meantime, the bard, slender and clad in beige-golden fabrics, opens his scroll. The crowd stops to converse when he begins to read.

“A duel— The famed Parisian style! Only select observers will remember the infamous scene at Castle Hohenzollern. The King, his majesty, his utmost splendor, proclaims with joy his son, the Swan Prince, as a returnee after the tournament to reclaim the neckerchief!”

Wuthering applause. You raise the chequered piece of fabric in question for all to see, then wind it around the grip of Cygnet just below the guard, several times, then knot it tight. The musicians deliver a small, yet impactful melody. More witty remarks from the jester follow. The King, spotting the neckerchief, instantly reacts with more applause. While the mumbling bard announcer completes his list of titles and responsibilities of the royal family, then honors the imperial guests from Saint Petersburg, all you can do is mouth toward the Prince.

“Haven’t done a mock combat in two years.”

His eyebrows raise as a reply. Seeing just that, at least two of the servants appear to almost faint in the third row.

“Means you might have a chance with your supposed,” you add, “well, elegance.”

“I’ll try,” he stiffens his posture. Adjusts the saber. His frock. Flashes a polished, practiced smile.

“The czarina is in the first row. You’re lucky, my Prince. She sees your every move.”

Before he can answer, the bard finishes the litany of the scroll while the Princess steps forward, facing either of you for a brief moment in honesty.

“Thank you for assembling. I, Marie of Bavaria, now permit the commencement of the duel. May the bravest strike, but honor always win. Three, two, one!”

The handle sounds very different in the ceremonial white gloves, tightly fitting either of his hands. He barely trains in those, if ever.

You focus on the saber and keeping your knees bent at the proper angle not to fall for the distraction. Back foot first. An explosive jolt toward him. Low inside. His necklace sways left to right with the first exchange of lunges.

A twist. A stab. Your blade misses Jimin’s legs by a millimeter.

“Y/N!”

He backs away with a jerk of his knee. You raise your voice loud enough for all the audience to hear.

“What did you expect. Remember your footwork, my Prince.”

The crowd laughs.

“Just you wait. I get the neckerchief.”

He regains his stance, ready anew. You let your saber’s tip drop pointing to his crotch. The elaborate frock.

“I’ll be the one waiting. You’ll take forever with this thing on.”

Embarrassed, albeit amused reactions from the section where the overly decorated czar family sits, accompanied by the prime minister of the House Romanov.

The Russians do have humor, it seems.

The King, upbeat as ever, just guffaws right along.

Another high inside grazes Cygnet way down the Prince’s unstable weapon until both blades part again once he evades. The czarina gasps out loud. You lick your lips. It seems that the servants, on the other hand, have recovered from the Prince’s dangerous eyebrow play.

His taste on your tongue, however, has not even remotely faded. It still lingers. He could barely leave your chamber. The lesson could have been a lot longer. His hungry eyes still tell you that. You pick up more pace.

The entire ballroom bursts with tension since even the King has stopped commenting the scene. Another attack lets either of your sabers clatter five, six times in a row. Not just his endurance has improved. The balance and footwork, too. His arms are in perfect condition.

“It’s more than hitting your opponent,” he delivers a sharp cut from the right, then ducks and spins to riposte your following feint.

“I thought you gave up on surpassing me.”

Thanks to his lowered stance, you have an easy time bringing the tip right over his head. It audibly cuts through a piece of hair. The Prince’s curl dusts over the parquet in the direction of the czarina who promptly exclaims, horrified.

That’s how far the humor of the Russians goes.

He gathers himself. Another clash silences the room even more. Between the series of remises, one could hear a sewing needle drop on the ground. The Prince launches another compelling series of attacks, making you parry and take two steps back into the direction of the buffet. More ohs and ahs in the audience. He’s fast. A quick look at the bard makes you realize that the set slot for your combat is almost over. With a lunge, you make the prince retreat by two steps himself. Either of your blades remain entangled. A prise de fer is only one breath away. A final counter to settle the back and forth.

But the pompous announcement of the bard interrupts your next riposte already.

“It is a tie!”

A collective exhale. Particularly the Queen looks confounded. Either of the musicians don’t know what to play.

The King exclaims. “Yes, a tie!”

Mumbles from all corners. You draw back Cygnet and take up the beginning stance, as does the Prince. That gaze he shoots you. All too familiar. You have the same thought.

“If you pardon a suggestion,” you address the royal family. “We will settle the match with a simple cast.”

“A cast of what?” Marie blinks. The Prince nods at you and steps toward the buffet to pick out a red, plump fruit to present to the crowd. Confused faces all around. The Russian prime minister seems to be grumpy for a while now in particular. You decide that doing politics is better than talking about it.

“Princess Marie,” you continue to speak, “An apple.”

“Indeed?”

You nod toward the imperial Russian family.

“The czarina Romanova will cast it.”

Murmurs and rumbles among the aristocrats, even the orchestra. Jimin looks at you wide-eyed. The King, times as invigorated, discusses with the Queen Therese. You already toss the apple toward the House of Romanov. The czarina’s alert younger sister, nine-year-old Natasha, catches the apple.

“And you will compete who punctures it?” the Princess asks. Jimin nods.

“We will. Only the fighter who will pierce it wins the duel.”

Countless reactions all over the ballroom echo back and forth now.

“We will give the duelists three minutes to prepare in the adjacent room,” the bard announces.

Jimin tosses the apple onto the carpet.

“Y/N. I do not want the czarina’s favor!” he says, then strays off into a circle around the room.

“The King says it’s his plan for you. The entire Palace maintains that you like her, too.”

He violently shakes his head.

“I don’t care about his plan! The rumors are false. All they want is to appease the Romanovs. Haven’t I kissed you last night?”

“Then you have to prove your I don’t care. You mentioned how you liked being defeated.”

“If I don’t even try to pierce the apple, the House of Romanov will see it as a personal offense!”

“Tricky, isn’t it.”

You go to pick up the apple from the corner where the Prince has tossed it into. He’s adamant.

“Why did you suggest this?”

“The Queen wants you to propose to Yekaterina today, isn’t that the truth? We’ll have another ball like this in a month and you’re off to Saint Petersburg with a new noble title. Just like your sister goes to Saxony. I have more against that than the czarina herself.”

He tugs at his hair in desperation.

“Don’t you understand? How many more times do I have to climb up the wall for you to realize it? I want to stay here.”

“Then you have to be clever, my Swan Prince. If you don’t pierce, House Romanov will have bad blood with the Albrecht and Therese. Worse if they see it was a deliberate miss on your side. And, if you do pierce, you have bad blood with me. Just climbing doesn’t show the public who you really want. You have to make a statement, my Prince. I want to see your commitment. We’ve been putting this off for too long.”

Either of you push to raise your sabers the highest, dancing from foot to foot. The apple’s tangent is significantly skewed to the Prince’s direction. The czarina’s expression is a hopeful one when it does come down directly toward his blade. Not a single noise in the ballroom. Just held breaths. The Prince freezes once he realizes where it goes. The Queen exclaims. He closes his eyes.

Screams belt from each direction of the hall. All mouths agape in the first row. Three servants faint on the spot. You gaze across your shoulder.

The apple rests in the middle of the parquet.

Sliced in two perfect halves.

The cleanest cut you have yet to see.

Voices of bewilderment, the unknown, and explosive cheers alike mix in the surroundings. The bard looks clueless as of what to proclaim.

You sheathe Cygnet with a twinkle at the Prince.

“Neither of us wins,” you say. “Only piercing counts. However, as you have greatly impressed me tonight with your progress and hard work, my disciple—”

You tie off the neckerchief from the bell guard of your saber and hand it to the Prince, who promptly squeezes it tight at his chest.

Uproarious applause and whistling. Even the prime minister claps a bit. Both King and Queen fall into each other’s arms.

“Such chivalry!” Albrecht cries out. One of the bearers of the Bavarian coat of arms has to pass over his flag so the King can wipe his tears with it. Even the jester is speechless.

Uncaring of how her neatly laid-out violet dress creases, the Princess jumps up and down, then rushes to the parquet to inform the bard by whispering in his ear. The man in beige then comes toward you and the Prince, beaming.

“The Princess has determined the fighter of honor. Y/N wins the duel!”

While five buskers entertain the House of Romanov with pantomimes, the orchestra plays an upbeat melody. Couples row up to dance.

“The czarina has excused herself,” the bard, stopping to read the pairings from his scroll, intonates. “She doesn’t feel too well. It must have been the long journey. But she states that we should not worry.”

Albeit in festive mood, the Queen ends up looking rather concerned at the news.

“My son doesn’t have a dancing partner?”

Silence among the royal family. Until small Natasha runs to tug at the Queen’s giant gown from the side. She talks in broken German, pointing at you.

“Isn’t Swan Prince— Y/N boyfriend?”

Therese looks at Jimin. So do you. Natasha keeps on tugging, repeating the words.

“Boyfriend, boyfriend!”

“He has,” the Prince extends his hand toward you, “a dancing partner. May I?”

“Fiancé, fiancé!” Natasha exclaims.

While you walk off in sync to join the dynamic grid of dancers, the King shrugs, facing his wife.

“Kids. Isn’t it funny!”

“Oh, well,” Therese gazes after you and the Prince while Natasha runs back to the imperial family gathering on the dancefloor.

“That was quite a statement. So much fun. Marie had the time of her life. I love duels. We’ll grab a cake now with the Prime Minister, come, Therese.”

A few cobs bicker at the fringe of the pond, then glide off into the ripples to attend to their swanlings. You have to sit close together on the park bench to converse freely since the loud servants and music does drown out a lot of words. Natasha plays around the other side of the garden with the Princess, throwing snowballs and chasing a few willing musicians off duty through the arcade. Without the permission of just about anybody, but who doesn’t want to tease the violinists and clarion players with their ridiculous swan hats. Jimin, on top of his white frock, now carries an even larger and longer coat where only his delicate heeled shoes stick out of at the bottom.

“Don’t your feet hurt?” you wonder, pointing at them.

“Used to it. The curl hurt more.”

You pat his head with content eyes.

“Sorry for cutting it off.”

“Just admit that you wanted to shock the czarina. That was close. I thought you were about to provoke Russia’s armed forces.”

“It’s about fun, not war. I think the Russians enjoy chivalry just as much as your father.”

“If you say so.”

“And, as I said. I don’t have that much against her. She’s more charming than I thought. Yekaterina.”

You point toward the other side of the arcade where the Russian and Saxon nobles admire a lion statue, as presented by the King.

“But you knew. That, me losing would sway her not to propose. The House of Romanov values potent men.”

“That is true,” you pick out snowflakes from his coat and melt them in your gloves. “But I also knew that me losing would not please you, my Prince. I saw how you closed your eyes.”

“I was surprised that the apple didn’t stick on the blade.”

You laugh.

“It’s a saber, Jimin. Not the foil we practiced the cast game with in the forest. No apple can be pierced with a blade like that. Especially out of thin air. Neither of us could have possibly done it.”

His jaw drops.

“What! You knew that? It was just a test?”

“Of course. You were the one who wanted to hear about my secret lessons so bad, this was the golden one.”

“This was the lesson?”

“There is a reason I read old books and stay first in line. I also knew that the Prime Minister would enjoy you receiving the neck scarf.”

“Wha— What do you mean?”

“The bard said you fight to retrieve the neckerchief at the beginning. That translates to you winning the combat in the mind of the minister. Romanov mentality.”

“Yes?”

“Even if you did not win— once you retrieved the neckerchief, the minister was fond enough. It was never about impressing the czarina or puncturing the apple, my Prince. That’s not how politics work.”

“You mean, impressing the minister was more effective than trying to make good relations with a marriage?”

You nod.

“It seems that way. I doubt that the czar family will leave with you getting an invitation to Saint Petersburg. They’ve seen us dance. The czarina didn’t want to.”

“I think they should know where my commitment is now.”

“Precisely why you earned the neckerchief back.”

“So do you stop testing me now with your hidden lessons, master?”

“What do you think. You only offered your arm to dance because of Natasha’s help. That wasn’t all by yourself.”

“But it was the statement you wanted! Wasn’t it? I made a really clean cut through the apple, too! You said that I really advanced, Y/N. You’re so hard to satisfy.”

“You did crook more than one finger today, I’m rather pleased with it.”

“Rather? Is it that you want me to climb again?”

The Prince’s eyes dart to the tower at the west wing. All surrounding walls, stairs, and windows look particularly hostile after the recent snow.

“No, I have another idea. Later, my Prince. We have to accompany the Princess’ departure to Leipzig first. It starts in a few minutes.”

“Later? What are you planning?”

“Put on the garment that you wore when we first met at Hohenzollern. Tonight.”

An owl makes herself comfortable on the branch next to you. For raging weather tossing and turning around the palace like that, she looks rather friendly, almost unfazed. You do want to linger to observe for just a little longer, but the cold is hard to bear this evening. You turn to the masonry, knock. From behind the tracery of the frosted glass, you can hear light steps. No heavy boots on anymore. He’s already settled to sleep. A crimson blur acercates, then, the window creaks open. The Prince inside the now open frame exclaims in utter shock.

“Six stories! Y/N! Are you mad!”

Jimin scrambles to extend either of both gratuitous arms for you to seize by the wrists, pulling you inside the bedroom as fast as his stance in thin slippers allows. You greet him with a mischievous grin.

“I did assassin jobs for the Queen before you could even do as much as walk.”

You land, no, tip-toe onto the timber piling. The Prince, furied, builds himself up arms akimbo.

“We’re the same age!”

“I’m mostly kidding. I do own a collection of severed heads. They’re under my bed. If you go by the advice of the chef, the alcohol in the barrel will preserve them for years.”

“Did you hang out with the Russian prime minister after the departure or what? Did you chug too much beer?”

“No. This is late night sword master humor.”

Jimin is already on his way to the bed, sighing out.

“Figured,” he says and crawls back under the heavy, purple-colored duvet.

The pine branches rustle back and forth when you shut the window— not gentle enough, you note, to leave the owl undisturbed. It flatters off into the night, seeking another spot.

“Why are you angry? You do this thrice a week on the west wing.”

His arms are crossed.

“It’s four stories less and you know when I come. That was dangerous, Y/N.”

“It wasn’t, you know how high I climb when we practice in the forest. Should I just go and sleep alone?”

“You misunderstood,” he says. “I don’t want you hurt. That’s all.”

“Hm. That’s fair, Prince.”

“And I don’t want to fight.”

“Me neither. And I’m already here.” You point at the frock splayed out at the Prince’s elaborate birch-wood wardrobe now. “Is that thing why you showed up pretty late to the ball?”

“The way you didn’t like it makes me think that was in vain.”

“I didn’t like it because it messed with your fencing steps. How long did it take to put all of this on?”

Jimin shrugs.

“One and a half hours. Fitting included.”

“Royals. You astound me every day.”

“I tried my best to look good.”

“You did look good. And you danced well. Can the reckless sword master join in the sheets?”

He already loosens the all-around curtain of his bed from its posts where a thick decorative cord holds them in place, and lays down on his back.

“Put a block in the oven before you do.”

“Very well,” you pull off your shoes. And step towards the fireplace, where Jimin’s favored blade is propped up on a metal stand. Cinder. The one you first saw him fight with. The counterpart of Cygnet. It’s been three years. It shimmers as golden as it always did. With a painted-black guard and grip, and the neckerchief right next to it.

You select a particularly large chunk of wood and twist it into the half gleaming, half burning ashes. It’s gotta last long tonight.

Curtains closed. Gloves resting on the nightstand. You glide a hand across his cleavage. Goosebumps. Thumping heartbeat. Pulse between your legs. Scorching fire in the oven. It’s almost unbearable.

The Prince’s breath goes heavy. And blends into yours soon enough. The deep interplay of your tongues mimics more than just what happened on the tournament field. So slick, so fast, so hungry, and yearning. Never satisfied. But what could. You both waited for so long. Only gazes will only starve. No hand kiss is ever enough. You want to fuck him. So bad.

Depriving yourself of a scent as rich and a mouth as addictive was not a good idea. His hands are busy stroking downward your back while another surge of kisses spills down on him. Lips so runny with spit, you can slurp it off. There’s an overlay of wine and apple when you give yourself a second to taste. The servants were right. What don’t his eyebrows do to you. And what doesn’t it take you to remark it between kisses.

“Nice garment you’re wearing there, splendid Prince.”

He winds in the sheets.

“Thank you.”

Carefully, you retreat from the Prince’s face. His hands stay resting on your back.

“Love seeing it in this spot.”

He smiles.

“Why here, actually? I thought you would catch me in the bath later.”

“This bed is the reason,” you recline on the mattress next to him, arms spread out, one across his stomach. Looking at the vault of the room, you realize how many hours must have gone into crafting it from oak.

Jimin pats the bed frame.

“No barrel underneath that one, can guarantee you that.”

You roll closer to him again, tapping his chin with one finger. There’s still saliva.

“From what you say— Did you want to meet me in the bath?”

“I, uh.”

“You normally don’t go there after balls because it’s too busy. You went there on purpose and thought I would, too, didn’t you.”

Within the halo of the candle on the nightstand, shimmering through the bed curtain, Jimin’s face plunges into a deep red.

Marie has been making fun of you ever since for knowing his habits in every detail. Your excuse was always, well, the Prince’s personal bodyguard needs to know the nitty-gritty, doesn’t she, it’s not a useless feat.

“See,” you twirl one finger into his curls. “I have a few secret lessons. No need to be ashamed when you use one of yours. You have to work on effectiveness, however. Of course I show up here instead. I always play unfair.”

“The poor czarina realized that very early,” he sighs out. Your finger drops from his chin.

“I thought— you weren’t fond of her?”

Both his arms drop off your back. The Prince gesticulates. But he’s hesitant.

“Our bard. See... He informed me that she took the carriage to Moscow even before my sister departed to Saxony. Hours before, in fact.”

You fall silent for seconds. The spark of the fire is the only thing audible in the spacious room.

“I apologize for that,” you begin, equally hesitant. “My manners are not as impeccable as they should be.”

“The King,” he continues, “even volunteered to write a letter to smooth over the situation.”

You’re taken aback. He really did. Nothing of that reached you so far. It’s too much of a surprise. But the Prince looks far too earnest for it to be untrue.

“Was she really so aggrieved? No wonder you’re in such a bad mood as well.”

“Disappointed, I think. Yekaterina wanted to see me win. Can’t blame her.”

It makes you almost speechless.

“I understand that her hopes were high. But why do you care?”

“Well...”

“‘Can’t blame her’? What does that mean? When we prepared to duel, all you were about, oh, I don’t want her favor!”

He fumbles at the golden trimming on his sleeve.

“What I realized was, we could have been more polite with her. I mean, regardless of me not wanting the marriage. Just because I fancy you doesn’t mean I have to hate her.”

You cock your head, incredulous.

“A change of mind? So fast? And just when she went back to Moscow? Think you’re missing out there, all of a sudden.”

“A change of mind, maybe. After you made me a fool with the apple.”

“Take it as payback for your hubris during the tournament,” you poke your finger at his chest instead. The spot where you had planted the tip of your foil on the mesh shirt.

“I did nothing wrong. You’re mean to me, Y/N!”

“Sure. After I learn you talked to the King to win Yekaterina’s benevolence again. Just when we kiss. You contradict yourself, my innocent eyebrow Prince.”

“The marriage to House Romanov,” he sits up, “is off the list. Okay?”

“Oh, truly.”

“There will be no mention of me desiring a union in the letter. It’s just to avoid her resentment and being nice. That’s all. It’s not even me writing the letter. It’s just politics. You should know that the best.”

“I see,” you pat his arm. “You did go to the bath to anticipate me. And you put on the Hohenzollern gown.”

“Yes, I mean it. I am committed. I want to be your husband. In case you could not tell. And what do you bring to the equation? Falling off the east wing tower just to give me a heart attack in my slippers?”

Now, you sit up, too. The candlelight casts a long shadow of your silhouette, blurred through the fabric of the curtain, against the wall where the oven stands.

“You know very well that I have planned the entire duel. So I could win. So I could give you the neckerchief regardless. So I could dance with you. So we could stay here. So I could be your wife. All while still not pissing off the Russians. I wanted to have you. There was no other reason I climbed the tower. And suggested to duel at the ball in the first place.”

He takes a moment to reply. When he does, his voice is much more high-pitched.

“The Hohenzollern introduction as well? What the bard read out before we started?”

You exhale.

“Of course. I instructed him to pick up on where we began. There is nothing more persuading to ball crowds than a romantic story. With the swans around and all.”

He crosses his arms once more.

“Isn’t that— manipulation?”

“If manipulation means preventing you from sitting around in Lower Siberia for the next twenty-five years? It sure is. I know it had to be calculating. Because you didn’t do anything at all except keep your eyes closed.”

“Y/N, I could have easily persuaded mom on my own. Therese didn’t... force me to propose to the czarina.“

“The Consort would have followed the protocol rule by rule. You would be in the carriage with Yekaterina at this very moment. Probably sticking your cock in her because the House of Romanov needs an heir.”

Jimin’s eyes flare up, glistening like the fire.

“What! That’s what you think I’d do?”

“They probably don’t even have to compel you to drop your pants for a smile and diadem like that.”

“No?!”

“I’m not stupid. You know very well why you thought meeting me at the bath was a good idea. Less clothes. A perverted Prince is what you are.”

“Stop accusing me of these things! What does that have to do with Yekaterina? The bath is a relaxing place after a hard day. I thought you liked going there. What’s wrong with you? I’m here. With you, now! What do you want? A thank you for being so matronizing and possessive? Your jealousy sucks. Didn’t you say you found her charming a minute ago?”

“Look who’s talking. The guy who didn’t move the saber one inch when the apple was coming down on it. Commitment. Yeah, right.”

Gritting your teeth is not enough to subdue the resentment. The room, even if the heat has risen to the vault and now distributes in all corners, feels so much colder. Jimin is on the verge of tears.

“I’m sick and tired of these games. I thought you said I passed the test!”

“More because of the clean-cut than anything. Though that was not even deliberate, your eyes were shut. You would have allowed to apple to be pierced it if it had been a foil.”

“So what? You said it was dangerous to evade the apple not to provoke the minister! It was a lose-lose situation, and it happened so fast! What was I supposed to do? You didn’t tell me that piercing it was impossible anyways! ”

“You did absolutely nothing against preventing the marriage. If it is so easy to persuade the Queen, why haven’t you done it earlier? The whole Russian ruling class got invited for today!”

“That’s not true,” he cries, “I told you I didn’t want to go to Russia!”

“Of course you think I’m matronizing. You don’t really want me that much at all. You’re opportunistic. Aren’t you? No wonder you babble all of this, oh, I don’t want to quarrel, Y/N! You’ve got things to hide. That’s why the czarina gets a letter. Someone realized his chances to ‘climb’ are still better in Saint Petersburg than here. The fucking Romanovs. With their shiny clothes and attitude.”

And you, although it hurts to admit Jimin was very right, have climbed to heights not meant for you yourself.

“Why are you so distrusting, I don’t even know her! I come to the west wing three times a week, my promises were never empty!”

“Given how fast you change your mind, I doubt that as of recently. No kiss can prove that you take me seriously as a wife.”

“I didn’t change my mind!”

“Even then, why were the Palace rumors about you liking her so persistent since over half a year?”

“There is no grain of truth. The jesters started it to annoy me at the May festival. The Queen thought it was true and told everyone because she wanted me to marry Yekaterina so desperately. She was hell-bent. She believed everything without questioning it. I couldn’t do anything against the rumors.”

“Guess why I did all this shebang at the duel,” you roll your eyes. “I told you the Queen would have followed through and demanded the proposal with Yekaterina. You didn’t stand a chance. Indeed you should be grateful. I saved us from separating for literal decades. Instead, you peacock around before the Russians! What am I supposed to think?”

His sobbing voice raises even more.

“But you should respect I speak for myself! Looks like your first in line thing made you arrogant! Calling me a pervert, treating me like a liar, a cheater, what’s next?”

“All you would have spoken is precisely not canceling the betrothal with Russia. I did all of this in vain. I thought you wanted me back. I thought we could revive what happened at Hohenzollern. Don’t say I didn’t try hard to bring us together.”

You slip over the edge of the bed, tying your shoes back into place. Fast. The Prince’s tone, through all tears, becomes dark and glowering behind your back.

“God— I swear, Y/N. If you climb back down there...”

Not just empty promises, but empty threats, too. It makes the decision even more set. You fasten your belt, button up your coat, pull your gloves over either wrist.

“... then I will go right to the next best Dutchess and train her son in Württemberg or Hesse where I don’t have to see your face. I have plenty of offers and they are all more trustworthy than you. Received at least ten today. Don’t get jealous, Swan Prince.”

He shoves the duvet aside, follows you barefoot.

“Why do you do this to me! Why!”

You crank open the window regardless of how loud the frame joint squeaks, mount the frame, and already attach your fingers to the masonry.

“Fire’s the only thing keeping you warm tonight.”

“Y/N!”

“Two people playing unfair with each other is never a good sign. I taught you all I could. That’s all.”

Seemingly having found another snug place, the owl hoots in the afar valley. All wind swallows the yells from the tower. Jimin’s head, protruding from the window, gets smaller and smaller above you. And eventually, fades into the dark.

Anna already shifts to hurry back to the throne room again.

“Hermann Meier!” she suspires. “Don’t like this guy. He’s from the mill.”

The monger’s praise for his lackluster cart assortment is tremendously loud, resounding all over the courtyard. Several maidens gather their baskets and weaving looms and head inside at the constant repetitions.

“The most delicious crops of the Hercynian lands! Tread closer, tread closer! Plenty of offers! Crops of the Hercynian lands! Crops! Delicious fruit! Who wants to bargain? Exciting bargains! Only today.”

You observe, tracing your eyes across the man with the large yellow wayfarer hat, still— then raise your hand.

“Here!”

Anna is incredulous.

“Milady Y/N, where are you headed?”

“To the merchant.”

You sort two arrows into the quiver rested before you, then shoulder the cord across your back. Even now, it’s pretty lightweight. A custom piece.

You hand Anna the bow and march off the training ground past the five straw targets, leaving her expression even more flabbergasted. The merchant raises a pair of fruit from his barrow as soon as you steer into his direction.

“Archer, are you interested in a bargain for these pears and plums? Only five mark today!”

You stop short at his cart, seizing him up further.

“I will give you a hundred.”

Meier’s eyes, just as, if not more yellow than his hat, turn bulbous.

“What! A hundred mark!”

You point towards his hip.

It’s been two and a half years since you didn’t see it.

“For this blade you carry, merchant. A hundred and twenty when you tell me where it is from.”

The merchant guides it out of its sheath. The blade is golden, the grip ashen black. Your heart goes two times faster.

“I bought it in the guild’s shop on the market square, yesterday. From a hunky guy named Strengberg. No, Steinburg. That was the name.”

All you do is hum. Steinburg. Although you do look around the local market every Friday, it is an unfamiliar epithet to you. Maybe it’s because you didn’t touch a foil for five months unless it came to training, and avoided the smiths downtown for that matter.

“A hundred and thirty for that name.”

The merchant shakes his head.

“This is a good sword. Didn’t plan to sell it that fast after I found a gem like that.”

“With the 130 mark, you can easily go to Steinburg and get an even better one.”

Another negation. Meier ruffles at his frizzy hair.

“Let’s say Steinburg’s dealings are a bit more, well. Of the sleazy kind. He won’t be there next Friday. It was a one-time opportunity. I can’t say more.”

You tap from one foot to the other. Anna, in the corner of your eye, seems to recognize the sword that Meier holds as well. She looks back and forth from you, the barrow, Meier, and the other maidens. You stay grim.

“I want this sword. 150 mark. It’s an ideal bargain.”

Meier huffs out a belly laugh that makes his vest, filled with all kinds of vending paraphernalia, jingle.

“You’re a simple archer at Altfried Castle. Dressed in brown rags! Why would you want and deserve a blade as outstanding as this? I would sell it to your Duke for his birthday! But you?”

The crows at the training ground gather behind you, seemingly picking up on the nervous atmosphere in the courtyard.

“I have ten years of experience with swords. I have trained the Hohenzollern brigade, and the royal family of Bavaria. 200 mark.”

“Bavaria? The royal family? Ridiculous. And where does a person like you have all that money from, huh?”

“The 200 mark are not a problem. But if you only sell swords to those who deserve it, then, we will fight.”

Meier’s cheeks turn red from cackling. He looks up and down your body.

“With your hands? Your arrows? Those toothpicks! You don’t even carry a single knife either! So how could you wield a blade of this caliber! No honorable sword master walks around without their best piece!”

The memory would be too heavy on your belt. But seeing the golden blade, far from a place it should and would never leave without some things being very, very wrong—

“Anna!”

“Yes, Milady Y/N?”

“Retrieve Cygnet from my armory in the basement.”

“But, you said you’ll never use it again!”

Anna catches the key that you toss into her direction.

A dozen maidens clap and cheer from the windows of Altfried Castle. The wayfarer hat rolls toward the muddy pig through of the courtyard. It has a slash in its brim.

Pinned to the ground of the practice field under the tip of Cygnet, the merchant clamors.

“Who, who are you!”

“Y/N. First in line of all sword masters from East Prussia to the Rhine,” you sheath the blade. “And current teacher to the Duke.”

“The Duke Leopold!”

“The Duke himself. I advise him. He has good aim with pistols, Meier.”

“I can, I can imagine!”

You point towards the glistening object that the last high outside propelled toward the end of the training spot, thankfully, stuck in one of the straw men.

It is Cinder that you see.

The due cleaning already gives you a horror vision. Not because of the straws, but the man’s filthy fingers and lack of elegance that always was without the doubt the hardest to scrub off a weapon that was so eager to carry memory.

One day more and Meier would have soiled it with bends, alcohol stains, or stench, and who knows what.

“Do you believe I am worthy of the golden blade.”

You press down your saber on his jingling vest ever so lightly.

“Of course, of course you are, master!”

More cheers from the maidens at the weaving looms. The crows disperse, agile.

You turn toward Anna at the fringe of the training grounds, who’s in a patient mood, as always. Altfried Castle has turned the heavy bags under her eyes into a sweet nothingness.

“Anna! You can retrieve the sword from there. But use a cloth to touch it, please.”

“Yes, Milady. I think it is still in proper condition.”

The merchant tugs at the sleeve of your linen garment several times to regain your attention, voice even more pleading.

“Please, sword master, what else can I do for you, is there any fruit you want, anything else?”

A digit indicating toward his barrow, you speak with intent.

“One apple. And another piece of information, should you have it.”

“Yes! Pick any apple you like,” he proclaims, “And I am sure to remember what else you want to know!”

“Of course you do, Meier.”

After helping the monger onto his wobbling feet and picking out the most glossy among the dented and discolored array of fruit, you pull a bag of money out of the quiver’s side pocket.

210 mark land in the wayfarer hat when you pick it up and hand it to him. Out of the last bit of courtesy. The very last bit. But one question doesn’t want to leave your mind.

“I want to know where Steinburg is headed.”

“That’s nothing I can te—”

You point at his forehead, apple save in the other hand.

“Remember how good the Duke’s aim is. If I suggest you as a moving practice target, he won’t say no. You’ve been pestering the maidens for years and selling foul crops to the price of actual cattle. Whatever you’re doing at the mill and the market can’t be clean business. Not to mention you ridiculed the royal family.”

“Steinburg. He’s on his way to, to, uh.”

You stuff the apple into the quiver.

“Pray tell, Meier. I can’t wait forever.”

“The Black Forest. North. Somewhere around there. I saw him depart towards the creak’s end this morning with a band of three robbers.”

a/n: the second part is called Cinder (linked in mlist). | paintings by rubens.

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docfuture · 5 years ago

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Princess, part 5

[This story is a prequel, set several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16. Links to some of my other work are here. Updates now planned to be biweekly–next update is scheduled for November 30th.]

Previous: Part 4

Journeyman cooked and talked, with frequent pauses to mutter at the food, while Flicker sat at the kitchen table tapping at her handcomp. She'd changed out of her costume into shorts and a T-shirt with a yellow hazard sign triangle containing an exclamation point, and he had swapped his cuffed shirt for what looked like a faded band shirt showing a group of four blurry humanoid blobs. It appeared to be a reference to an old joke; if You've Probably Never Heard of Them by Really Obscure was an actual album, it wasn't in the Database. "The Box released their vid," she said. "They wanted it on the news so people would believe Hermes isn't on Earth anymore. And since they can't talk to me, lots of reporters want to talk to the magician instead, but he isn't answering calls. They're saying he's rumored to be a heavy drinker, which sounds like a smear attempt?" "Might be," said Journeyman, while stirring at the frying pan. "But it's very likely true. That's just how the Box operates." "What do you mean?" "The Box needs at least a few magicians with basic skill at wards for security. And they want ones who are competent, experienced, and can pass a background check, because skimping on any of that is just asking for trouble. But the Box is an incredibly depressing place to work if you're at all psychically sensitive, before you even consider their workplace culture and management history. So almost anyone qualified can make a far more palatable living somewhere else." He waved the spatula. "Unless they've got other problems. And the Box will tolerate high-functioning alcoholism. Usually they have other health issues, too, because the one thing the Box does have is really good health coverage--if they didn't, nobody would work there." "That's... discouraging." "Very little about the Box isn't. But you're supposed to be off-duty." "Yeah, yeah," said Flicker. "Doc says the probability manipulation anomaly seems to have died down, at least. And whatever you're fixing is starting to smell good. I guess I am hungry." "Thought so," said Journeyman. "Cooking wasn't something that fit with my mental model of you. You can port to get food anywhere." "Yes, and I often do." He grinned. "But porting is also very handy when I discover I'm missing a spice or ingredient. Want to know how I started?" "Of course I do." Journeyman had a talent for telling stories that helped Flicker unwind, and he liked to talk while he worked. "Well, a number of years ago--you'll note I'm being deliberately vague about how many--I was doing a lot of alchemy delivery work..."

Whatever Journeyman had done with the garlic and onions might not be magic, but it smelled good enough to be. "... despaired of ever being more than mediocre at potion-making," said Journeyman. "But the witch, and I want you to picture her like someone's nice grandmother--except with a little glint in her eye that told you she just might have been a resistance fighter during the war or something--asked if I wanted to know the secret to practicing alchemy. I said I did, and she leaned closer and whispered 'Learn to cook'. So I did." Flicker smiled. "Does it actually help?" Journeyman started scooping food onto plates. "They're different arts. But once you've learned alchemy, it does help, because they have a lot of skills and habits in common. And cooking ingredients are a lot easier to get. Safer, too. I'm still only average at alchemy, at best--it takes decades to get really skilled--but I've been getting better. And I like cooking better than alchemy." He brought the plates to the table. "Dinner is served." Silence for a time while they ate. Living at normal speed, in the present. Something Flicker hadn't done much of lately. "This is really good," she said. "Thank you." "No problem." She finished eating first and put her plate in the sink. Then she sped up and checked her handcomp while she waited for Journeyman. She ran through her Database self-check and reminders list. A lot there that she'd been putting off, waiting for a better time, or for Journeyman to finally be done with his interdimensional mess. She slowed back down and watched as he finished. "All right," he said after clearing the table, "You wanted to hear the rest of my reason. Back to the living room?" "Yeah." Flicker sat on the couch with her handcomp in her lap, facing him. His smile from dinner faded, and he looked tired and worried. He clasped his hands and stared at them. "There are a couple of things I noticed that add up in an unpleasant way. At least for me. That's why I said it was personal. This is based on my own judgement. We clear on that?" Flicker frowned. "I didn't expect anything different." "First, I saw something in your visor replay that bothered me. Still bothers me." "What?" "Right at the start." Journeyman looked up at her again. "I know you've had some serious arguments with Doc. But he knows you pretty well, and he's the smartest man in the world. He knew about summoning boomerangs. He knew there might be trouble at the Box--he was on the phone to them in what, 20 seconds?" Journeyman waved a hand. "But what did he do, in the first two seconds after the alert hit? What was the most vital priority for the smartest man in the world?" Flicker swallowed. "He reminded me that Hermes was a person." "Yeah." Journeyman took a breath. "And you said the Database AI intervened too? You didn't slow down for that part." "DASI. Yes." "And did either Doc or this DASI give you even a hint about potential boomerang trouble or problems at the Box until you were already well on the way? They had time; you stopped to let Hermes talk twice." "No, they didn't." "Doc knew you'd be able to stop Hermes. And was worried enough he'd get away to take steps to try to prevent it. But it looks to me like the top priority was keeping you from killing him. Because Doc wasn't sure you wouldn't." "It was the right thing to do," said Flicker. "I was really burned out when the alert hit. And disconnected--I was depersonalizing everything, including myself, to reduce the emotional load from my shift. To try to recover. And the word 'demon' is way too broad. This is not an abstract problem for me. Some aren't as smart as dogs. Some are as smart as most humans. And I've killed demons. I'm pretty sure they were just the stupid, evil kind--but I don't know. I have to make decisions with my high speed mind, which has another categorization problem related to them that I don't fully understand yet. And the extra strain of trying to work around it makes everything harder. So I do have a problem with prejudice, and I'm not sure how to fix it." "I understand," said Journeyman. "And you have a lot of company in that prejudice. Probably a majority of humans who have an opinion about demons at all. There are evil demons, good demons, smart ones, and stupid ones. Demons with free will, and ones with very little volition--often not by their choice. Ones that start out stupid and get smarter, and a few that go the other way. Demons that look human, demons that don't, ones that can shapeshift and mimic, ones that can't. I could keep going. But there's no line that anyone can draw and with any reasonable justification say 'every demon on this side of the line is a person; every one on the other side isn't', and believe me, people have been trying for centuries. This doesn't stop the line drawing. It just gets used as an excuse for more hostility." "I don't try to draw a line," said Flicker. "But the lack of one does makes my categorization problem worse." Journeyman nodded. "Yeah. And your problems weren't all clear to me when I agreed to become your partner, and asked for backup in case I was attacked by 'demons', while working on something I had no idea would turn into a mess lasting more than a year. I'm sorry about that, and I owe you. One of the things I owe you is not making things worse if I can help it. Speculating about the non-human part of your origin in a way that would make you angry even if I were right? And just might cause you to be inclined to go kill someone because you consider them a demon and think they're your mother? Yeah, not helpful. So I won't do it." Flicker stayed at normal speed; this was an emotional problem, not an intellectual one. Speeding up wouldn't help. The anger was trying to come back. She handled it. And her background fear that she'd do something destructive by accident or overreaction was still present. It never went away completely , and she never tried to dismiss it. She didn't dare. So if Journeyman had some of the same worries? It certainly wasn't a reason to be angry at him. "Okay," she said. "I can accept that. And you did answer my other questions. Which helps." "I'm willing to help in other ways. You want to learn more about non-human people and all the challenges they face that don't get into the high-quality data parts of the Database? And why they don't? I can tell you lots about that. You want to learn about some of the mind-bending and frustrating issues that come with dueling diviners and background probability manipulation, from the perspective of a magician? Sure thing. But there are some limits." "I understand. You're being... diplomatic? There are a lot of things that are mixed together that we haven't talked about. That we need to. Tonight probably isn't the best time, though." "No argument there." "You said you need to check on some things. Can you do that from here, or do you need to port around?" "I was planning on doing it from here. I'm wiped enough that I'd rather not do a bunch of porting. Why?" "Because I need to do some memory assimilation before I sleep if I don't want to lose details--it's been a long day--and I'm already at a warning level for social isolation, but I don't want to be around most people. You don't bother me. So I don't want to leave yet. Is that okay?" "Sure, but there might be some muttering and swearing under my breath. Will that be a problem?" "No. It will just be you." Journeyman stood and looked over at his computer and the group of phones connected to chargers beside it. "Well, I guess I've run out of excuses not to look at the dumpster fires in my message drops." Flicker put on her night visor and moved a pillow so she could stretch out comfortably on the couch. "Good luck." "Thanks. Hopefully a lot of them will just be 'Hey, do you know what your partner did?'" "Doc has a Database bot for handling messages complaining about me. I can help you set one up if you want." "Tomorrow, maybe," said Journeyman as he sat down at his computer. Flicker focused on her visor display, and started work on the exercises she used to help integrate her high speed memories with her normal speed ones in a way that retained as much as possible of what she considered important. Journeyman's typing and quiet, mildly incredulous muttering were a pleasant, familiar background. She finished her first pass, and started adding odds and ends. Little millisecond-long glimpses of Rome, tiny slices of a place that she could perhaps revisit someday... ***** Dreams, pleasant ones for once. Exploring, with Journeyman, free for a little while of the driving urgency to stop bad things from happening. ***** Flicker woke in darkness. She moved her arm; the bed was... not a bed. She was on a couch. Journeyman's couch. She rubbed her eyes, then turned on her night visor, which had shut down automatically. No alerts or emergencies, one message notice. Squishy brain was fuzzy, speed mind was not fully loaded--just emergency response and recovery defaults. She sorted out a few relevant memories of the previous day and sat up. A sticky note had been placed in a spot that drew her eye. It turned out to say the same thing as the message:

Flicker: Didn't want to wake you. Food and drinks are in the fridge. If you need to leave and aren't in a hurry, please wake me so I can reset the ward on the front door. I'm down the hall, just knock on the door. You can also wake me if you need anything else. --J

She didn't need to wake him; the light amplification from her night visor was sufficient to let her find the bathroom. After washing her hands, she washed her face and considered the tired-looking stranger in the mirror. Dissociation--but putting herself together after waking always took a little time and effort. Not worth it right now. She went back out into the hallway and stopped, frowning. The door to the bedroom was ajar. Why would he tell her to knock if it was open? She glided into the bedroom. Her mind was still fuzzy. Journeyman was sleeping on his side at one edge of the bed. Did he usually sleep with the door open? He'd emphasized the importance of closed doors to wards... He knew how she felt about doors. Was it open because of her? She remembered what he'd said when she'd asked if he was expecting an attack: 'Certainly not with you here.' Did he feel safer... without that barrier between them? She looked at the other side of the bed. There was plenty of room. He would never suggest it. She understood that much. She glided over to the far side of the bed and carefully got under the covers. But the slight movement of the mattress was still enough to wake him. "Mmph?" he said. "It's just me," she said. "It's safe." "Flicker?" "Yes." A pause. A sudden whuff of air, a shift of the mattress as weight lifted, and covers fluttering down. He'd ported out. Not safe.

Next: Part 6

#FallofDocFuture #FallMisc

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apineruetelei · 5 years ago

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SPAD FAB BLOG

WEEK 2

This week we were given a task to draw atmospheric images that either make us feel at place or displace. I found this A2 drawing a little challenging, I had no problem drawing but the complications occurred when I struggled to think up ideas of what to draw and how to communicate how these images made us feel through the images. Drawing feelings, sounds, mood and atmosphere isn’t easy to communicate through drawings as these are usually communicated by the use of words.

Here is my first drafts of my atmospheric images as you can see I had drawn words for the sounds as these are things that are complicated to communicate through images.

The next two images was my attempt at drawing what senses I feel within my room without using abstract images but solely depend on lines and how I could use lines to describe my senses within my room. The outcome was better in my opinion than using abstract images, it didn’t just tell the viewer what exactly I wanted them to know and feel but it left space for them to come up with their own interpretation of the space.

After I had finished my atmospheric images I moved onto my final A2 drawing and had a whole arsenal of images I could choose from as I had drafted and developed images I had drawn in my drafts. Here is what I had come up with.

Majority of these images are images of what makes me feel at place within a certain space, DNA representing family and friends the cultural designed love heart representing my love for my country and my drive way representing the start of my comfort zone and where I step out into an unfamiliar space. These images all helped me develop my thoughts and ideas of what I wanted my diorama to look like.

WEEK 3

In week 3 I started to brainstorm some ideas of what my Diorama would look like, I started off by brainstorming how my ‘place’ area of my diorama would look like as this was the easiest one to do out of the two. I tried to incorporate my heritage and its environment into my design and tried to tie it towards a more modern New Zealand building interior. I did do a rough sketch of what I wanted.

Here I roughly tried to sketch what environment I wanted to display in my diorama, first I brainstormed some words of what makes me feel at place within a certain space and tried to incorporate them into one drawing, my first initial idea was to create an environment that was similar to my home in Samoa, green grass with an area of sand littered with a few coconut trees. I wanted to incorporate an island vibe into my diorama and place my New Zealand house within the environment. The only problem with this idea is that it didn’t allow me to play with any interior spaces and place other things that I wanted too such as tables, certain items that are special to me and make me feel at place. So I had to scratch this idea.

My second idea allowed me to play with a lot of interior space and allowed me to incorporate an island environment without it being majority of the diorama. It still held the same principles to my first design but allowed me to place certain things in an interior space.

I made up quick models of the two and posted them to photo shop to get a rough image of how things would look.

Wednesday class we were asked to present our A2 drawings in small groups and discuss it with our peers. It was very interesting to see other peoples work and have a little insight into what made them feel at place in certain spaces and areas. The way that each student displayed and drew their senses also intrigued me as this was a complicated problem for me. An idea I saw was that one of my classmates had used colour to describe his feelings and how light and air flows through his room. Where there are hot or cold spots and how the sun travels across his room with different shades of red this idea had never occurred to me and its surprising to see how everyone had their own styles and ideas of communicating senses through drawings.

Now that I had a better idea of what I wanted to do I continued to brainstorm some materials that would help me design my diorama, not only allowing the diorama to be aesthetically pleasing but allow for strength/stability and meaning and purpose. The interior space I wanted in my Diorama was inspired by my room and so therefore I had to research some materials that looked similar to the materials of my room. For the floor I used pop sickle sticks and glued them onto a piece of paper allowing me to create a wooden floor, I had to darken the popsicle sticks to allow for a warm cosy feeling with in the interior space. White paper would allow me to create the white interior walls.

WEEK 4

This week I went and picked up a few materials required to build my diorama I had thought about using wood (Popsicle sticks) to build the exterior wall of my, place setting that will separate the exterior island vibe beach from the modern interior. I re-framed from doing so as I realised it wasn't aesthetically pleasing, I found this out by testing this before with the little materials I had at home.

This wasn't done to its full extent but from this test I already knew that it wasn't aesthetically pleasing as I wanted a modern interior with a beach exterior separated by a wall. This modern interior wasn't going to work well with this island vibe wall and so I proceeded to redesign the wall so that it matched the modern interior and came up with this.

I designed this inspired by my bedroom window as it was one of the main features of my room allowing air flow into my bedroom.

I had a rough idea of what I wanted to do for my diorama and how I wanted everything to look, I also realised that since my dioramas in a closed box I feared that due to the lack of lighting the diorama wouldn't be appreciated the way I had envisioned in my head. So I proceeded to add precise cut out holes on the exterior panels of my diorama to allow light to flow into my scenes. One of those cuts allowed a piece of paper to be fitted on the left side of my diorama. This allowed a blue fluorescent light into my place scene. I used a pattern that I designed myself to give the modern interior an island feel so it would connect the exterior and the interior together.

I experimented with the sand I had acquired from a sand pit and tried to make a quick mock-up of a sandy beach for my exterior.

Using one layer of glue and sprinkling sand over wasnt enough to fully cover the paper as some white patches were easily visible through the sand, so I had to wait for the first coat to dry before I could add more glue and sand to the white areas that were showing through. This process was a little time consuming but I like the way it had turned out.

I started to plan out my ‘displace’ part of my Diorama, I have brainstormed and have come up with a few ideas. I played on that idea of isolation and loneliness as the driving stone of my displace ideas. Due to my Diorama having ties to my cultural background, I also tried to come up with ideas based around the idea of suppression. From my drawings I tried to create an atmosphere that was gloomy, sad and dark to communicate my ideas of displacement. I believe that lighting will be the main driving factor within this part of my Diorama, with the right lighting I will be able to emphasize the dark shadows of this part of my diorama. I wanted to keep this side of my Diorama simple with a minimalistic style to communicate emptiness, with the shadows I wanted to create an atmosphere where monsters or unknown things would be lurking within those shadows.

I planned to use black A4 paper as the walls, floor and roof for my ‘displace’ diorama as this will help bring out the emphasize of the shadows. Of course, for there to be shadows there needs to be light, so therefore I have created a little circle cut on the roof of my Diorama which will allow a little bit of light into the space. This also helps create that notion that within this place darkness is superior.

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lyricalafrica2 · 5 years ago

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‘Emergence’ National Gallery of Zimbabwe, Bulawayo September 6th - 19th October 2019 A few pics that I’ve finally managed to upload and a summary of my processes and review of the show and how I felt it went. In my usual way, fairly personal in places. I wrote it immediately after the show and views are always going to change within time. It’s been a few weeks now and I’ve made the transition from Zimbabwe to Botswana, I’ve had time to recover and chill for a little while. Not much drawing going on, but a whole load of sweating as the the season heats up! I feel at this point to write a review of the creative processes of my show may be a little warped in light of the fatigue I’m feeling, however my intention is to do one again come the end of the month when the dust settles to see how my opinions change. Given the subject matter, I’m also curious as to the impact on my own sense of self, immediately after and going forward. I found it strange that immediately afterwards, my focus was drawn to myself, how I looked in publicity photos and not the actual way the show went. Vanity you may think, though that old devil of self-consciousness. This hit me within a couple of hours of the show ending. Going from the heights of adrenaline and excitement, swiftly to over tired and self-critical. I questioned why more artists didn’t attend, berated myself for looking fat, my habit of nervously over gesticulating and the over animation of my facial expressions. Being struck with all of this just after midnight after two hours sleep if that and venturing onto social media in an attempt to quell my restless mind. Before bed, I’d bounced around the cottage in a fir of sheer delight, like an excited child might, amazed and happy that I’d successfully made it to completion. This midnight hour saw me overanalysing everyone and everything, even down to a known artist who turned up, said nothing to me and shuffled off into a corner to eat popcorn and nuts on his own. Not a well done, nor a comment on the content, just nothing, perhaps a slight look of disdain though. Was I just imagining this? Was this silence comment enough on what lay before him? These thoughts are just as responsible for limiting behaviours and in voicing them honestly, I’m hoping they simply release into the ether and just disappear. So, the exhibition was divided into three rooms, for which I wanted to take people on a journey, from conception. Not to say I incorporated every bit of work that I produced. I tried to curate carefully, it was interspersed with pieces that were a bit more literal, leading to much more abstracted concepts. Wording and symbolism, not just because; but because they are a powerful means to switch on the brain and indeed the heart. Positive and powerful. If you think positive, positivity will perpetuate, and vice versa with negativity. You don’t make it anywhere telling yourself that you’re wrong and a terrible person. For this reason, I was pleased that there were a number of children attended. I think instilling in children how important it is to love and respect themselves properly, allowing those little flames of excitement to become brightly burning and sincere passions are important. Most realise only too late where they went wrong and how detrimental it can be in trying to adhere to societal norms. Be yourself, they’re the most important person you will ever encounter. I tried to covey through my mixed media approach, the fragility, but also the resilience of the human spirit. How it could be quashed when handled wrongly, we’ve all had our wings burnt so to speak, we’ve no doubt all had our wings clipped too. Been told to be too cautious, know our limits, not been supported properly at the mercy of someone else’s ego. It can be hard not to absorb these things as we make our way through life, we are constantly in awe of someone else, rather than looking within for the amazing facets we already have. I hold my hands up and confess I am absolutely guilty of this, but in also being a therapist, it becomes so clear how things invariably work. It can be heart breaking to watch someone go through life, never realising there potential, thinking they have to conform to x, y or z, just to be accepted, so they can consider themselves a worthy human being. Whatever happened to simply being a good person and just allowing yourself to shine? Doing your thing, being encouraged to discover all that you are? I have that philosophy of, if we all learnt how to truly accept and love ourselves, our lives would be far easier. We would be able to perpetuate that to our neighbour, to the animals that surround us, to our environment. Can you imagine if we all lived consciously taking a little more care like that? The recurring themes of fragility, fractured, bound and freedom were used throughout the exhibition, never asking people to see the point, but encouraging them to come to their own conclusions. Flashes of mirror, captured people in the moment and very much made them a part of the exhibition pieces. Veining, flight paths, patterning and themes which were very much more emotive were all explored in different ways. Liberal and freeform use of diluted oils on damp surfaces allowed mixed colours to merge and bleed, blown, feathered allowed to run and bloom. Free to behave how they needed to behave. Added texture and collage offered additional light, movement and the suggestion of dynamism to these much more abstract pieces. I’ve never used oils in this way before, but I enjoyed it and would explore it further in the future, potentially with more colour in the background. The mainly white backdrop was an attempt to maintain some form of purity, as in the essence of just being. Smaller pieces formed a panel, with suggestion of cuts and scarring that can be recovered from. It’s never too late to learn to use your wings and take flight! Again the use of the wording ”Public Notice”, I wanted these pieces to be vital in drawing people in, in for introspection, an invitation to look for their own potential. To untangle themselves from societal norms and controlling hierarchies, to find what they were really about and to love and accept that. I wanted people to walk away with a sense of wholeness, or at least an impetus to do some self-exploration. A deeper sense of knowing that they are about so much more than the façade they present to the world every day. The façade that they have built in in reaction to the rules and regulations laid down to keep us all in line. The final room was a room I set aside to be filled by my installation pieces. The recurring symbolism of the eyes, the distorted, obstructed retinas, the colours that represented the opportunity to discover potential. The gaze, from one eye to the other, connected by the knowing, the denial, one an authoritarian with the same infinite potential as the next. Likely undergoing their own demons and using that control to supress and satiate their own need. But what if they found themselves a little more, looked at themselves a little kinder, would there action on the rest of the world still have to be so outwardly commanding? Is all this required because we can’t validate ourselves, we seek to control others, because we can’t control or accept ourselves? Paper bark, shards of blunt glass, fishing wire and chicken wire were all used to create a somewhat ethereal, spiritual effect, because well this was a fairly spiritual topic, but not in the head in the clouds kind of way, more a put yourself up there with the best kind of way. Take accountability for your own height, don’t accept that ceiling just because. It’s usually glass and if someone has led you to reinforce it, it’s about time you smashed it down yourself! So why leave the comments on the butterfly till now? Aside from the very free nature of the butterfly and the way it emerges from the cocoon to reveal its true identity, I wanted that sense of liberation. Detachment from what had come to be expected of it. The Commodore butterfly really did bring it home and in that sense, never accept that you have to be second in command. Be the captain of your own ship. Know that you are precious and that you deserve to be the best version of you, which can only be granted by you and only ever you! The fractured painted mirror adorned with glimpses of butterfly and glass again, was there to suggest that we can all be a bit broken, but we’re still beautiful. Use you power to transform that power into something positive, let it make you strong, don’t let it drown you. Life is tough yes, but it’s also sweet and beautiful. And in that, my final piece invited people into a little box, through the abstracted eye, to see what they could see. I see you, what do you see? It seemed an appropriate if more abstracted carry on from my oil portraiture collection, “Who Am I?”. After having seen my exhibition for the first time alone since Friday need to summarise my feelings here. Am I happy? Yes, after feeling so out of sorts over the weekend. Could there be improvement made on the way that I broach the subject? Of course, but isn’t that the meaning of life? To live and keep learning and to try and improve oneself and approach daily? I really enjoyed the installation and sculptural work. It’s not something that I generally do due to constraints on space, tools and materials aren’t so hard to source back home, but I tend to simply get caught up in painting. It was good to be able to combine that and be able to produce such a multifaceted body of work. I’d very much like to continue exploring this. Feedback from the audience was positive and most people pointed out at least two favourite pieces. The large bright eye and butterfly, the fractured mirror piece and the other sculptural pieces went down well and were said to be a quite unexpected addition to the exhibition. In this sense I was pleased I managed to offer something that was different to the usual standards of exhibition. If I were to do it again, what would I do differently? I’d perhaps pay more attention to the interactive element, maybe think it through for longer, use ribbon instead of thread as it is fiddly and time consuming to tie onto the chicken wire backing. I’d also likely do more sculptural elements. That for me has to have been the highlight, besides the different and at times intoxicating use of the oil paints. Of course the invitations went out rather too late and the carefully selected soundtrack went virtually un noted, the aromatherapy oils that I had infused the room with evaporated and disappeared off into the ether through the open doors. All things that need tweaking, but as they say, not bad for a first attempt at a National Gallery.

#female artist #fine artist #art exhibition #a life less ordinary #contemporary art #africa #travel #artists adventures #art blogger #fine art #National Gallery #my amazing life #beautiful life #inspirations #artists on tumblr #life as an artist #visual arts

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kenjiro-s · 6 years ago

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Complementary Colours, Ch. 1 - A SuguYaku fanfiction

Based on the one lonely piece of fanart by narcissusbutterfly.tumblr.com - http://narcissusbutterfly.tumblr.com/post/160280804640/yaku-morisuke-snake-trainer-cause-he-knows - I saw it and it made so much sense someone had to write it.

Morisuke loved weddings, he really did, but sometimes…sometimes he wished people would take the easy way out and keep it as simple as possible. True, wedding supplied roughly half of his business, and yet in moments like this, he wondered if he couldn’t keep it afloat without them. The woman currently screaming at his face was an image he’d seen up close and personal way too many times, but the bad thing was that this one in particular didn’t have the excuse of being the bride. Said future bride, looking younger than Morisuke’s 25 years, was standing meekly to the side in silence and letting her mother walk all over her. He had to say something, but the shouting woman wasn’t giving him many openings.

- …and I just don’t get why you won’t even try to do it ! It’s my baby girl’s special day and you’re just trying to get your money without doing the minimum required work and I just can’t… - He tried not to sigh.

- Madam, I have been in this business for years and I can assure you, - She opened her mouth to keep going but Morisuke simply raised his voice. – ornamental garlic blooms do not come in red. Any shade of red. They come in purple, blue, yellow and white, but not in red.

- And you won’t even try to find some ? What kind of lazy business model are you running, huh ? Won’t even make an effort ! I will be taking my business elsewhere, thank you very much. I want my deposit back !

- Now, madam…

- No ! You’re ruining my baby’s special day ! Her flowers won’t match the theme colours ! It will look terrible ! Think of that ! Her wedding will be a complete failure, and it will be all your fault !

- Mom… - Apparently, the younger woman was getting just as tired from the situation as Morisuke.

- How do you live with yourself ? Huh ? How ? How do you sleep at night ?

- Mom…

- I assure you, madam...

- No ! Give me my deposit back ! We have no time but I will find someone who will do their job !

- Mom ! Stop it ! – The word bounced around the shop in the dead silence that followed. The only other customer who’d been pouring over the fertilizer shelf while acting out he wasn’t listening to the conversation, froze. Fukunaga, just glanced up, his usual calm exterior not betraying anything, and then went back to sorting through the carnations. – Just, stop ! Here, we’ll just go and talk it through, and then come back later today, okay ?

- Chiyuki, I am just trying to make your special day perfect. And it will be gorgeous…

- There’s no need to shout at people for it to be perfect. Let’s go. – The older woman didn’t move. – I said, let’s go, mom ! – And then she marched out of the shop like a queen. Huh. She had a spine, after all. Her mother, on the other hand, just glared back at Morisuke, huffed with her nose up in the air, and ran after her daughter without even a touch of the same grace.

- Man, you get scenes like this often ? – The other customer was standing at the counter with a handful of yellow roses.

- You’d be surprised. – The man’s pitying look was obviously exaggerated but it made him laugh. – Yellow roses ? An interesting choice. – The customer rubbed his neck, cheeks going lightly pink. Obviously embarrassed, he scratched at the buzzed off part of his undercut and sighed.

- Yeah, I messed up. I think. Not sure if, you know, he’ll be mad, but can’t go wrong with roses, right ? – The amount of desperate hope was adorable. And the man was obviously doing his best “puppy” impression, with large chocolate eyes shining from under his long blond fringe. There was only one small problem.

- You sure can’t. Let me ask you, though. If you don’t mind, who are they for ?

- Um, this guy I’ve been trying to score a date with ? We’ve been kind of missing each other a few times and it’s not his fault or anything, but I managed to screw up and want to apologise. It will be our first official date. Have to make a great impression and all, you know ? And he seems like the kind of guy who would like yellow roses. Not too forward or romantic, but still a gesture ? Sweet, but not too much ? Why ?

- Because yellow roses mean “friendship”. Or, “friendly appreciation”. – The customer’s face fell. It almost made Morisuke want to apologise for ruining his day. – And I don’t think that’s what you want.

- Oh. No, I guess I don’t. Can you recommend me something else, then ? I am pretty sure he doesn’t speak flower, but now that I know that, I won’t be able to focus on our date because I’ll be overthinking it. Or he could check it out and it will be over. – It was definitely cute how worried the customer was over it.

- Well, if you want to avoid the love declarations and marriage proposals on your first date, I’d say go with…Fukunaga ! – His friend blinked at him. – Do we have any of the yellow roses with the red in the back ? We have only three here. – Fukunaga just rose from the carnations display and disappeared behind the “Employees Only” door.

- He doesn’t talk much, does he ? Yellow with red ? Should I be worried about those ?

- They could also mean “friendship” but I’d say that if he checks, he will read “falling in love”. Better ?

- Much. Thanks, man. You’re saving my life here. First dates, right ? – The wide smile almost covered the shaky nervousness but still. The man was friendly enough. – Oh, can you put a ribbon ? But nothing too over-the-top. Don’t want him to feel pressured.

- Of course.

- He works in this extra fancy café, you know. And I know art and things that go together, and that place is like a designer’s wet dream. – An interesting way to say it, but Morisuke just hummed in agreement and kept pulling out ribbons to compare the colours. – The prices are all right, which is weird, but anyway. It’s super stylish so he’s used to being around pretty things and pretty desserts all day. I just want to make an impression. If you ever need a cupcake that could be on the cover of a magazine… - And then he slid a business card on the counter.

- Trying to win points with him by advertising the business ? – That got him to laugh.

- No need for that, their tea is more than enough. Oh, man, this is gorgeous !

He’d gone simple, with a ribbon in the exact same yellow as the roses, and made the least pretentious bow he could. It looked, in his opinion, pretty without being too much. And so did the customer, if his expression was a sign.

- You got tattoos ? – Where had that come from ? He just shook his head. – Cool. If you ever decide you want one, give me a call. I’ll give you a discount. – A second business card fell on the counter. – I love it ! Thanks again ! – And with a final wave, the customer left, comfortable silence filling up the shop after him.

Morisuke picked the two business cards. One was All black and silver, advertising “Terushima Yuuji, Tattoo Artist”, with chains and skills elements, and contact information. It somehow worked without being too much. The man apparently really had an eye for those things. The other was in deep royal purple, also with silver elements, but with much simpler decorations. Clean, abstract outline of a cupcake, looking like it’d been drawn with a silver pen, and the name of the place. Also pretty. He opened the box with business cards he kept on hand – dealing with different kinds of events sometimes called for desperate measures and he’d found out early enough than one could never have too many connections and no industry was too far from catering. It was simply smart to keep everything organised.

In the late afternoon a few hours later, Morisuke found himself scrolling through social media. The shop was in order, Fukunaga was drawing quietly behind the counter and it was the quietest part of the day. Going on impulse, he googled the studio first. One had to know what their connections were really worth.

The website listed tattoos and piercing, with, respectively, Terushima Yuuji as the artist and Bobata Kazuma as the piercing expert. Morisuke had never really wanted a tattoo but he had to admit the photos were beautiful. Completely different from the classic yakuza style, they were more Western in design and colours, and were simply beautiful. The piercings didn’t make much sense and he’d never thought people would want holes on those body parts, but, to each their own. Apparently, the business was booming since there were a few warnings about a waiting list and long waiting periods.

The café’s website was strangely similar. Purple and silver dominated the whole thing, but it was really ordered and, judging by the photos, they were legit and not stolen from wherever the baker had taken the recipes. And, okay, he had to admit his customer had been right. Those were gorgeous. Slowly going down the page, Morisuke couldn’t help but wonder how did the creator, because calling them simply “baker” seemed like an insult, could do things like that. They appeared to sell a mix of traditional Japanese dessers in both their natural look and with one or another trendy twist ( there was glitter, shine and tall chocolate structures ), and, unless he was mistaken, European pastries in vibrant colours. Also, there was a long list of fancy coffee drinks and almost as long one of teas. Impressive.

He didn’t usually go on impulse but the woman in the morning had taken all of his energy and he needed recharging.

- Fukunaga. – The questioning look he received was basically a long declaration coming from the other man. – I’ll go get some tea. Will you be okay by yourself ? I shouldn’t be long, it’s close. – All he got was a small nod. Good. He waved and checked the directions again on his phone.

It was surprising he hadn’t stumbled upon the café on his was to work at any point. It was just one alley away from his everyday path to the shop.

The customer hadn’t been lying. Judging from the exterior, someone had poured a lot of imagination in the place. Of course, it all depended on the food, but Morisuke was optimistic. A bell jingled when he opened the door and he was assaulted with cozy warm air that carried the scent of cinnamon and apples. Also, coffee. Closing the door as quickly as possible to keep the snow outside, he stepped in the almost empty café. Only one of the tables was occupied, a man in a huge sweater with two laptops and an assortment of small colourful…things on a pretty plate in front of him, seemingly deep in whatever was happening on the screens. Otherwise, it was empty, Morisuke blaming the same lull that happened around this time in his shop, too. It was between lunch break and the end of the day. Also, there was an actual fireplace. Huh.

Cozy place, he decided, looking around. Lots of bits and pieces scattered around but it looked closer to his flower shop than a mess – someone had taken great care to create such an artistic mess without making it stuffy and overcrowded. He approved.

The glass display by the counter was a different thing. Unlike the interior, there was nothing messy or disorganized about it. Rows upon rows of neatly placed…he wasn’t sure if calling them “desserts” was good enough, but that’s what they were supposed to be. In front of each row there was a card with the name in both Japanese and English ( or French, or something else he couldn’t recognise ), price…He leaned closer. Also, ingredients and nutrition information. Whoever had done it had covered all bases.

- Can I help you choose something ? – Morisuke didn’t jump only because in his line of work sudden movements usually meant broken flowers and nobody wanted that, especially not him. That didn’t mean he was happy. The guy on the other side of the display had gotten closer without making a sound and his small smile was just a touch annoying, though Morisuke couldn’t put his finger on why.

- Just looking, thank you.

- You sure ? I know we have a lot of things. I started recently and, trust me, the first few days all I did was fetch stuff to learn where it is. It could get overwhelming. – And then he slid the small smile back on his face, shrugging a little.

- You know what ? Sure. My friend likes something called London Fog, do you do that here ? And what would you recommend with it ? – The slow blink he got almost made him laugh. To be fair, the first time Fukunaga had asked him to order him one when he’d done the coffee run, he’d reacted the same way. And he wasn’t even trying to be mean, that was the only thing Fukunaga drank. It was one of the oddities he’s learnt to live with since his friend was a hardworking man who knew what he was about. Just because he didn’t talk much and drank the vile, in Morisuke’s opinion, concoction, that didn’t mean he had something going on. He simply had a terrible taste.

- Well…Let me…Yamaguchi ! – A second man had just appeared behind the counter. Glancing up, Morisuke saw his face was splattered with freckles. Cute. His colleague smiled again and he realised why it bothered him. It came to his face too fast. Looked a bit practiced. – What goes with London Fog ?

Straight to be point. Morisuke almost laughed at the waiting expression on the man’s face. He seemed to expect confusion and when he didn’t get even a moment of hesitation, said smile faded a little around the edges.

- Lemon cake or pastries. Why ? – The answer had come instantly and the man, Yamaguchi, looked between the two of them. – Is everything okay ?

- Um, yes. This gentleman was inquiring about it, that’s all. I wanted to make sure I was pairing the right things.

- Oh, of course. It’s got a pretty strong flavor so it makes sense. Would you like me to make it while you ring the order up ? It will be faster.

Morisuke would’ve missed the relief that crossed the man’s face if he’d blinked at the wrong moment, it had gone that fast.

- So, what will it be ? – And, the wide smile was back. Morisuke narrowed his eyes.

- The latte… - More confusion. – The London Fog ? And I’ll have a latte with cinnamon on top. Also…something lemon ? – The man at the espresso machine pointed at the soft yellow sponge cakes on the left. – Yeah, one of those. Thank you. – He got a nod and turned back to the other side of the glass. – Oh, can I have a slice of the…Matcha Mille Crepe Cake ? Thank you.

The slow, careful way the man was working the till contrasted sharply with the quick nimble gestures of his colleague. Started recently, huh ? But he’d been honest enough, and had called for help when put in an unfamiliar situation, and Morisuke could appreciate that. Though the polite smile was still annoying.

While he’d been spacing out, his order had been put in a pretty box with a ribbon and a logo sticker. Unless he was mistaken, the ribbon was the same kind he used for centerpieces for events. Impressive.

- …and here is your change. Enjoy ! – He looked up. This close, he noticed for the first time the man had forest green highlights that almost blended with his dark hair, that perfectly matched his eyes, and an eyebrow piercing. And was currently observing him as closely as he was being observed. Morisuke took his change and turned, zipping up his coat.

- Thank you. Have a nice day. – Now he just had to remember the way back. Just because it was close, didn’t mean…there it was. And it seemed Fukunaga was handling it perfectly, judging by the wide smile of the only customer and how fast she was chatting. Good.

Suguru Daisho didn’t like surprises. He didn’t like them one bit. And today, that one customer had managed to surprise him in the worst way possible. He hadn’t meant to look like he had no idea what he was doing, but what, the Hell, was London Fog ?

- Are you okay ? – He smiled lightly and turned to Yamaguchi. The concern in his voice was sweet but it felt too close to pity for Suguru’s comfort. Not only had the other man seen him deep in confusion but he’d also had to save the situation.

- Yeah, sure. I was just caught a bit unaware, that’s all. – The concerned expression faded to a soft smile. Good.

- Trust me, I know how you feel. I think the first time Kawanishi told me to fetch something for a customer I froze for a whole minute. He just told me to walk around the display and look at the tags. – Yamaguchi shrugged a little. – Not my proudest moment. I actually put cards on the back of the display, too. You know what ? I will go and put them back.

Great. He didn’t need someone to go so out of their way to make things easier for him just because he didn’t know the names of everything yet.

- Thank you, but…

- No, no, it’s okay. Futakuchi still runs around every time someone orders something. It will make it easier for everyone. Sorry I didn’t think about it earlier ! – Why was he apologising ?

- It’s okay. So, you got a list with all the secret drinks people order ?

- You mean, the ones people never order ? Actually, I do. Here, let me show you…

#haikyuu!!#rarepai #rare pair hell #daishou suguru #yaku morisuke #suguyaku #fanfiction #fanfic #coffee shop au #flower shop au #aged up characters #different first meeting

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mittensmorgul · 7 years ago

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I know there have been times in the series where people were in love with the idea of Cas giving up his grace for Dean or dying for him or making some other big sacrifice. And I just really really hate that idea? It reminds me too much of the unhealthy brodependency cycle. I don't want to see Cas become human like that, forced to under duress or making his ultimate life goal be about "bleeding for the Winchesters." We're getting past that. So I'm glad S10 didn't do the grace cure for example.

Hi there… I feel like I should make at least one disclaimer here before I even start to reply to this…

Disclaimer #1: I am not now, nor have I ever been in love with the idea of Cas giving up his grace FOR Dean, or dying FOR Dean. You used the words “forced” and “under duress.” You even referenced his line from 7.22 about “bleeding for the Winchesters.” Out of context that does sound really bad, and I’ll get to why below, but I really don’t get any of these objections to Cas giving up his grace, because they seem to ignore Cas’s own free will to make that choice for himself, you know? More on that in a second. First,

Disclaimer #2: Hi, I’m MittenWraith and you may remember me from such fanfic offerings as Revenge of the Subtext, which was essentially a rewrite of the end of s10 (that spared Charlie first off) and gave Cas the agency to CHOOSE to give up his grace, not because he was forced to, but because doing so (at the time in canon at the end of s10) also gave him everything he wanted– to be able to stay with Dean and NOT have to watch him murder the world, to finally free himself from the politics and feelings of duty to Heaven (which he’s since essentially declared his loyalty first to the Winchesters over and above Heaven… telling Kelvin to his face that he’s not doing any of this for any sort of redemption in Heaven, he doesn’t even care about that anymore, and referring to the Winchesters as his “family” and the other angels as his “men”). Cas has dissociated HIMSELF from Heaven of his own free will. To his way of thinking, using that grace to save Dean from an eternity of torment was merely a side benefit, you know?

I think we’re approaching this from two fundamentally different basic assumptions about Castiel. I’m not certain if there’s anything I can say that will help you see it from another angle here… but folks keep asking, so I’ll keep trying…

I started writing a thesis (I’m calling it that because it’s gonna be long, and structured like a doctoral dissertation. Hell, I might even write an abstract… it’s gonna be involved) on Castiel’s entire character arc as represented through his struggle for agency and free will against the blind obedience to Heaven that has been forcibly reprogrammed into angels who deviate from their orders. This is the lens through which all of Cas’s development has occurred. As for my thesis, it’s currently stalled out because writing deadlines for pinefest demand I work on that first, and I’ve only covered Cas’s first eight episodes out of 100 and already the paper is more than 1k, so clearly it’s gonna take an astounding amount of time that I just don’t have right now for me to actually research and write…

Point is, even in those first eight episodes (4.01, 4.02, 4.03, 4.07, 4.09, 4.10, 4.15, 4.16), this is already his main conflict as a character. Duty and obedience to heaven versus thinking for himself and doing what he personally feels is right. We see him push back against his orders in 4.18 giving Dean information that will help him “defy prophecy” for the first time, and then we see him attempt to make a complete break with Heaven in 4.20 only to be captured and dragged back for “angel boot camp.” When he returns to his vessel, he’s entirely back to Full Obedience Mode as a function of his grace having been tinkered with in Heaven. Anna lampshades just how horrible what was being done to him there really was, just as Dean lampshaded just how unhappy Anna was when she was given no other choice but to take her own grace back on in 4.10. Her free will, her choice to be human was taken away from her and she did “what she had to do.”

Worst. Phrase. On the show. Ever.

In 8.23 Cas may have had his grace taken from him against his will, but he tried to make the best of it. He struggled with his sudden humanity, but by 9.06 he’d made his peace with it.

CASTIEL: No, Dean. (He puts the box on the counter and turns to face DEAN.) I’m not. I failed at being an angel. Everything I ever attempted came out wrong. But here … at least I have a shot at getting things right. I guess you can’t see it, but … there’s a real dignity in what I do – human dignity.

His entire conversation with Ephraim underscores just how he feels now, and truly introduces this question for the first time:

EPHRAIM: Shh-shh-shhh. It’ll be over soon. I’ll take the pain away.CASTIEL: I want to live.EPHRAIM: But as what, Castiel? As an angel? or a man?

(hey lookie there’s my tag for this entire concept…) but then there’s this:

EPHRAIM: You say you want to live. But you can’t see what I see. By choosing a human life, you’ve already given up. You … chose … death.

Because to Ephraim, who it’s been established has NO understanding of human pain, of human emotions at all, ANY pain is something worth killing over. Even a teenage girl being “sorta bummed” about her boyfriend breaking up with her. To him, ANY human emotions were a pain not worth suffering.

Meanwhile Cas had been doing everything in his power to SAVE HIMSELF, attempting to draw a banishing sigil in blood, cutting his hand on the rose thorns, until Dean managed to toss the angel blade to him and he could kill Ephraim before Ephraim killed him. Cas’s will to live was greater than his desire to only live as an angel. Even if he hadn’t fully chosen humanity for himself back then, he had passed step one of the test and chosen life.

This concept is underscored again when Cas describes to Sam why Dean would cling so hard to being a demon in 10.03:

SAM: What the hell are we doing to him, Cas? I mean, even after I gave him all that blood, he still said he didn’t want to be cured, that he didn’t want to be human.CASTIEL: Well… I see his point. You know, only humans can feel real joy, but … also such profound pain. This is easier.

Cas understands, because he’s experienced the same thing… he KNOWS the real joy and profound pain of being human now, and he also knows what it’s like to not be able to feel those things– not because he knows what it’s like to be a demon, but because he believes it’s similar enough to what it feels like being an angel. Now if that’s not horrifying, and if it doesn’t say bucketloads about Cas’s own personal regret about his own “I did what I had to do” moment in 9.09, in stealing Theo’s grace in what amounted to a sacrifice of his OWN humanity in order to save Dean… Tell me if ANY of this sounds like Cas is happy with this non-choice:

CASTIEL (on the phone) : Dean, I don’t have a lot of time, so listen. The leader of the opposition is an angel named Malachi.DEAN: How do you know that?CASTIEL: He had me. I, uh, I was tortured. But I got away.DEAN: How?CASTIEL: I… I did what I had to. I became what they’ve become. A barbarian.DEAN: What are you – Cas, where are you?CASTIEL: It’s better I stay away. They’re gonna want me even more now. But I’m gonna be all right. I… I got my Grace back. Well, not mine per se, but it’ll do.DEAN: Wait, you’re – you’re back? You got your mojo?CASTIEL: I’m not sure. But I am an angel.DEAN: And you’re okay with that?CASTIEL: If we’re going to war, I need to be ready.DEAN: (pause) Cas.CASTIEL: Dean. There’s more.DEAN: What?CASTIEL: Didn’t you say Sam was healed by an angel named Ezekiel?DEAN: Uh… Yeah, why?CASTIEL: Ezekiel is dead.DEAN: What?CASTIEL: He died when the angels fell.DEAN’s face has a very concentrated “oh this is bad” expression.

A VERY CONCENTRATED “OH THIS IS BAD” EXPRESSION

Under torture by Theo, Cas had asked for a quick death, until he heard that Ezekiel had died in the fall, and realized that Dean had trusted Ezekiel to help heal Sam… THIS INFORMATION WAS WORTH DOING “WHAT HE HAD TO DO” just to be sure that Sam and Dean were safe from this unknown angel that HE had personally vouched for… that we’ve just learned is actually Gadreel…

IT’S ALL A HUGE MESS.

To me, Cas’s decision to take on another angel’s grace was just as much of a non-choice as Metatron stealing his original grace had been. And to Cas, WHAT he is doesn’t necessarily matter as much as the fact that HE CHOSE IT FOR HIMSELF.

Every single time he’s done what he had to do, every time his agency’s been taken from him, the vehicle that made it possible was his grace.

He’s been asked over and over again for years if he’s really an angel (and been told to his face by numerous other angels that he ISN’T an angel anymore), he’s been called a tool and told he was only marginally useful… and yet he’s been called Family and welcomed unconditionally by the Winchesters. Mostly because they’re not FORCING him to be anything in particular, you know?

As to your “Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters” from 7.21, I’ve written a lot about Cas’s mental state in late s7 here, which goes a long way to give a fuller context to that line. Out of context, it sounds very different to seeing how it fits with the entire picture of Cas’s late s7 guilt. In a lot of ways, running away from his responsibility (think “I don’t fight I watch the bees” and constantly referring to himself and his actions in the third person, with “An angel brought the Leviathan back into this world, and – and they begged him. They begged him not to do it.”). It took redeeming himself in some small measure by helping to send the Leviathan back to Purgatory in 7.23 for him to even BEGIN to integrate himself again… And then begins his depression/atonement arc that includes his ongoing battle with his own agency via his choice to remain in Purgatory, his complete loss of agency to Naomi, and then Metatron… this has ALWAYS been what has driven and defined Castiel’s narrative, and every bit of character development he’s ever experienced.

And it’s ALWAYS been tied to his identity as an angel and the very existence of his grace. And even HE has said that he doesn’t identify as an angel anymore or feel allied to Heaven, but like Demon Dean clinging to whatever it was that made him a demon because it was easier not to feel that pain, like Soulless Sam desperate to do anything to prevent himself from being reunited with his soul, Cas is still holding on to his grace in a similar way (narratively speaking).

(thing is, once Dean was cured of the Mark and once Sam was reunited with their soul, they were GRATEFUL not to have been left in that unfeeling state, you know? they’ll take the pain, because it beats “being a stepford bitch in paradise.”)

Cas believes he needs his grace to be “useful,” despite already beginning to understand how the Winchesters see him as family. I don’t believe that Cas will be given a “no choice” scenario in which he’ll feel compelled to sacrifice his grace in an emergency situation, as some sort of “throwing himself on a grenade” because he had no other choice. The entire POINT is that it would be his freely-made CHOICE.

No matter WHAT he chooses. I’m not saying he absolutely must give up his grace. I’m saying that every sign and every conflict that’s driven his narrative development over the last 9 seasons has been leading him along this path where eventually he WILL have that choice. And when that time comes, I believe that what he eventually will choose for himself (because he wants it) is to live out a human life with the Winchesters.

I am REALLY looking forward to 13.04, because I think we’re going to gain a LOT of insight into Cas’s current emotional/mental state. And HOW he comes back from his current state of not-aliveness is going to be key to understanding what’s in store for him over the next season. So until then, I’m going to stand by this analysis.

#Anonymous #castiel winchester #are you an angel or a man castiel? (hint: he's no angel)#you learned it from the goats #spn 7.21 #spn 9.06 #spn 10.22 #spn 10.03 #spn 7.23 #spn 8.23 #and probably a lot more episodes but I'm currently burdened by fever delirium and i'm just happy that this reply is marginally coherent #and i do feel that the insistence that cas MUST retain his grace ignores the fact that it might not be what cas himself would even want #so we have both sides of the debate believing the other side doesn't care about what cas would choose for himself #when in reality all i want for cas is for him to be able to make that choice for himself...#i just haven't seen anything in the narrative that would point to the fact that his eventual choice will be to remain an angel #and everything points to him eventually choosing to be human #or else what is the point of repeatedly asking him that question anyway you know?#spn 4.22 #on the nature of angel grace #angels and souls #that's what free will is #and grace is sorta the antithesis of that...

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apathetic-revenant · 7 years ago

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by the skin of your teeth (part six)

inch by inch the plot slowly creeps forward

this was a tough one because there are really only so many ways you can describe long tense silences and people glaring at each other.

and also because the name ‘Fiddleford’ kinda has a negative impact on dramatic tension, tbh.

Fiddleford's place was in a rather seedy apartment block on the edge of town. Seedy for Gravity Falls, at any rate; it was downright posh compared to most of the places he'd stayed in, Stan mused as they pulled in. Fiddleford seemed to find it shady enough, though, judging by the way he glanced around nervously as he scurried to the door and fumbled with his keys so long it was almost comical.

Then again, he might have rather less mundane threats in mind than Stan usually did.

The inside of the apartment wasn't exactly unwelcoming, but it had a decidedly temporary feel to it. It was sparse, with nearly no decoration or personal touches, just essentials. Albeit essentials that were scattered all over the place. Fiddleford had achieved an impressive amount of clutter with a limited amount of resources.

He hastened them inside and all but shoved Ford onto the ratty old couch that took up most of the main room. Stan watched with some amusement as the engineer performed a remarkably matronly examination of Ford, putting a hand on his forehead and listening to his chest.

“I shoulda known,” he muttered. “I shoulda known as soon as I left you alone you'd wind yourself up in trouble. This happened all the time in college,” he told Stan. “Never met anyone so unable to take care of himself. Stayed up all night, skipped meals, wouldn't go to the damn doctor 'cause it took time away from studying- I told him, slow down and just get a degree like the rest of us. But no, he wanted a PhD. Nearly killed himself doin’ it.”

He bustled out of the room in a cloud of ambient muttering, leaving the twins in a somewhat stunned silence.

“You have a PhD?” Stan asked.

“Four,” Ford muttered. “Working on the fifth.”

Stan sighed and sank down onto the couch next to him. He'd always supposed Ford would excel without Stan around to hold him back, but this was something else.

He stared at the coffee table in front of them, which was actually just a large piece of wood balanced on a couple of boxes. The mess on top of it could have fit seamlessly into Ford's house: papers covered in a mix of equations, weird symbols, paranoid ramblings, and coffee mug rings, mixed with an assortment of books, chewed pens and wadded-up scraps.

No wonder these two got along, Stan thought. Talk about nerds of a feather.

“There's no need to scoff,” Ford said.

Stan blinked, momentarily wondering if Ford could read minds now. “What?”

“Acquiring a doctorate is no easy task,” Ford said stiffly. “Just because it's not what you think of as work-”

“What? I wasn't-”

“Tea's going,” Fiddleford said, coming back into the room. He was pushing a heavily duct-taped swivel chair, which he parked across from the couch, and carrying a blanket, which he threw over Ford.

“Why do people keep putting blankets on me?” Ford grumbled.

“'Cause you're sick,” Stan said.

“The presence of a blanket is hardly going to-”

“Shut up and huddle under your fleece,” Stan told him tiredly.

Ford looked sour, but he did huddle.

Fiddleford climbed into the swivel chair and folded himself up like a jackknife, drawing his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around his legs. “Gotta say, I've never seen you looking this bad,” he said. “Where'd you get that shiner?”

Ford and Stan glanced at each other uncomfortably.

“It's...complicated,” Ford said.

“Ah,” Fiddleford said.

“Not like that,” Ford said. “We didn't fight, if that's what you're-well, we did fight, but that's not why-”

“What is all this about, Stanford?” Fiddleford said quietly. “What's goin' on?”

Ford looked away.

“You...asked me where I was getting my ideas,” he said eventually. “My blueprints...if there was someone...”

Fiddleford said nothing, but he began to bounce one leg up and down nervously.

“You were right,” Ford said. “I...I encountered an...entity here, some time ago. Well before you arrived. He...”

He clenched his hands around the blanket, pulling it tight across his shoulders.

“I trusted him,” he whispered. “I shouldn't have-I should have trusted you, Fidds, I should have listened, I'm so sorry but I...I thought...I didn't want to tell you, I didn't think you would understand, and you wouldn't have, you wouldn't have and you would have been right not to...”

There was still no response from Fiddleford, but if he started bouncing that leg any faster he was going to take off, Stan thought.

“I thought he was a force for good,” Ford said agonizingly. “I thought...”

He swallowed harshly a few times.

“I...I thought I was...he told me I was special. I was important, I was chosen...I was going to do great things...and I believed it all. I wanted to believe it. He gave me the blueprints, equations, ideas...but it was all a trick. The portal was only ever meant to serve his plans.”

“What finally got it through your head?” Fiddleford’s voice wasn't angry, exactly, but it wasn't sympathetic either.

“After the...the accident-”

Fiddleford twitched sharply at the word, but his expression didn't change.

“...I got suspicious. I confronted him...he told me, he gloated. I'm so sorry, I was an idiot-”

“What do you want?” Fiddleford broke in.

Ford blinked. “Wh...what?”

“You didn't come here just to tell me how sorry you are,” Fiddleford said sharply. “You want something. You want me to come back, don't you? Come back and work with you again, help you fix this mess.”

Ford looked completely flabbergasted. It was almost funny.

“I...well, yes. That is...please, just, just for a little while. I need your help, Fidds, your mechanical genius -”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Fiddleford said.

“I'm being completely literal!” Ford burst out. “The portal has to be dismantled, and I can't do it on my own.”

“Why not? You mantled it in the first place. Didn't even need my help, apparently.”

“That's-that's not true, Fidds,” Ford said weakly. “I couldn't have done it without you-”

But Fiddleford was shaking his head. “Said you didn't need me. Didn't need me, or anyone else.”

“How many times do I have to say it?” Ford snapped, cracking his voice. “I'm sorry! I was wrong!”

For a moment Stan thought a full-on fight was going to break out then and there. Or at least, an attempt at one; both men looked like they would probably pass out long before anything really got started.

“Hmph,” Fiddleford said finally. “Well...I do know you'd just about rather spill your own blood than admit you were wrong about anything. So I guess that counts for something. But you ain't answered my question. What d'you need all of the sudden that you can't manage on your own?”

“I can't dismantle the portal on my own. Not...not right now. I can't. I can't risk the possibility that he'll sabotage it...make things even worse...if his plans come to fruition, Fidds- we're talking about the fate of the world here-”

“And what makes you think he couldn't sabotage me just as easy?” Fiddleford said.

Ford tensed suddenly, sharply, and Stan realized what was about to happen about a second too late to stop his brother from lunging across the table.

“Did you talk to him?” Ford's voice was high and wild with sudden panic. “Did you make a deal?!”

Fiddleford shrieked and tried to dodge away, inadvertently sending his chair rolling across the room and crashing into the opposite wall. Stan grabbed Ford around the shoulders and managed to yank him back onto the couch.

“Calm down, bro!” he yelled as Ford struggled against him rather ineffectually. “He didn't do anything!”

Across the room Fiddleford had untangled himself from the chair and was staring at them with huge, terrified eyes. Ford was starting to gasp, and the scant amount of color in his face had fled completely. He looked like he might pass out again.

“C'mon, just...just breathe,” Stan said desperately. “Just breathe. It's okay. It's okay.”

Slowly, painfully slowly, Ford's breathing steadied. His eyes were streaming, though thankfully without any blood this time, and his whole frame was shaking hard.

“Did...did you...make a deal?” he demanded.

“Jesus, Stanford, what are you talking about?” Fiddleford cried. “A deal with who?”

“With him,” Ford wheezed. “You...you said he could sabotage you...”

Stan coughed. “I think he was talking about more of a, y'know... abstract possibility there, Ford.”

“Damn right I was!” Fiddleford said. “I don't know what you're on about but I ain't made no deals with nobody!”

There was a moment when Ford tensed up all over and Stan thought he might jump at Fiddleford again; but then the moment broke and Ford slumped so suddenly that Stan briefly thought he really had fainted.

“Sorry,” Ford whispered. His voice sounded wretched. “Sorry...I thought...”

“Thought what?” Fiddleford spluttered. “You're making even less sense than usual, Stanford, you know that?”

“You don't understand,” Ford said. “He's...he gets in your head. He got in my head. I...I made a deal with him...he tricks people, Fidds, he can trick you and take you over and I can't, I can't trust anyone, he could be anyone...”

Fiddleford had gone very still. It was an uneasy contrast from his manic fidgeting.

“When you say he gets in your head...” he said quietly.

“I mean he gets in your head, I mean it! He can control people if...if they let him. I was foolish, so foolish...I fell for his lies and now, now if I slip up, if I fall asleep...he tried to hurt Stan, he used me to do it because Stan was in his way...I thought he was helping me, but it was all a trick, because that's what he does-”

“So this...this ain't a person you're talking about, here,” Fiddleford said. “This is...some kind of demon-”

“Yes, Fiddleford!” Ford snapped. “We're talking about an incredibly powerful entity from another dimension! He wants to come here and he used me as a pawn to do it and if we don't stop him he'll take over everything! His name-”

“Don't say it!”

Ford drew up short. Fiddleford was starting to twitch like a malfunctioning machine, like he was going to shudder himself apart any moment.

“Don't say it,” he said vehemently. “Don't say it! I don't want to remember-”

The kettle shrieked.

Fiddleford screamed and fell out of his chair. Stan made a strangled noise that wasn't quite a coherent expletive and nearly dropped Ford on the floor. He watched Fiddleford make a dash for the kitchen and slowly managed to release all the muscles that had suddenly clenched tight.

“What...what was that all about?” he muttered to Ford, who was squirming out of his grip. Stan let him go, since it seemed like the immediate threat of violence was over. “I thought we were trying to get him to help us, not strangle him.”

“I panicked,” Ford muttered back.

“Yeah, no shit.”

“I just...I thought he might have...I can't trust anyone, Stan, I can't, he could be anywhere, he could be using anyone-”

“What about me? You don't trust me?”

Ford opened and shut his mouth several times. “I...that's not what I meant, Stan...”

“Sure,” Stan said. “Okay.”

He couldn't exactly argue anyway. He was, objectively, untrustworthy.

They sat in an awkward, shaking silence for a few minutes. Ford stared at the papers scattered across the table in front of them. Then he frowned and began to shuffle some of them around.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no...I was right...”

Stan looked down at the sheet Ford had uncovered. Most of it was covered in technical jargon that he had to assume made more sense to Ford than it did to him, but there was also a symbol drawn several times in the margins: a crude image of an eye with a red X over it.

“Fiddleford...” Ford whispered, the paper creasing in his hands. “What did you do...?”

“Made y'all tea.” Fiddleford shuffled hesitantly back into the room with three steaming mugs clutched precariously in his hands. “Lemon and ginger, with a lotta honey in yours, Stanford-it'll do your throat some good...”

He stopped a few feet away as Ford slowly turned his gaze on him.

“What is this?” Ford said, holding the crumpled paper up.

“Just a project of mine,” Fiddleford mumbled, taking a step back. “Nothing to concern yourself with...”

Ford stood up so suddenly that Stan jumped. Fiddleford squeaked and spilled tea all over the floor.

“You're involved with them, aren't you?” Ford demanded. “The people in red hoods-the symbol painted everywhere-the dreams-what are they doing, Fiddleford? What are you doing? What did you do to me?”

“It-it ain't nothing bad!” Fiddleford protested. “We're helping people, Stanford! It's a good thing!”

“Helping people? With, with, with what, that gun of yours? That's what this is about, isn't it? You're erasing memories! How can you call that a good thing-”

“What,” Stan said, but no one paid any attention to him.

“Because there are some memories people don't want to have!” Fiddleford yelled back. “Especially around here, with all the...the things that happen...people shouldn't have to remember things like that! I didn't want to-I couldn't live with what I saw, Stanford! Whatever it was we did...what happened to me...it was eating me alive! I'm better now, and I can make other people better too-”

“This is a cult,” Ford snapped, taking a step forward and crunching the paper into a ball in his fist. “You started a cult!”

“You made a deal with the devil!”

“I once got tarred and feathered for selling bad air conditioners in Albuquerque,” Stan said.

Everything stopped. Both Ford and Fiddleford slowly turned to look at Stan.

“You what,” Fiddleford said.

“What does that have to do with anything,” Ford said.

“Nothing, really. Just didn't want to be left out.” Stan shrugged. “You know, if we're talking about really bad decisions that we've made.”

The silence hung heavy in the air for a moment before Ford sighed and sunk back down onto the couch.

“So you did erase my memory,” he said. “I thought so. About the people you hired...about building the portal...”

Fiddleford cautiously put the now rather less full mugs onto the table and scooted back. “You were making such a damn fuss about it. About the portal not being secret anymore. So I made it secret, but you were still so angry and you wanted to destroy the gun and...I couldn't let you, it was the only thing that was working...I...I guess I panicked. And afterwards everything was better, so-”

“You call that better?” Ford said bitterly. “Messing with someone's mind-”

Fiddleford retreated to his swivel chair and pulled his knees back up defensively, glowering over the top of his mug. “It is better. I'm better now. I'm not having screaming nightmares anymore.”

Ford likewise glowered into his own mug. “So you erased your memories of the...the accident?”

“And a few other things.” Fiddleford took a rather sullen drink of tea. “Not...not all of it. Didn't want no big holes or nothing. But...there were a lot of things I didn't want rattling around in my brain anymore either.”

“So...how much do you remember about building the portal?”

Fiddleford looked away. “...Didn't even remember it was a portal til you brought it up. Knew we were building something down there. Something dangerous. But I-I didn't want to think about it.”

“Right, so you decided you were just going to ignore it. You knew it was dangerous, but as long as you didn't have to think about it everything was just fine-”

“What was I supposed to do?” Fiddleford snapped. “I tried telling you to shut it down! I tried over and over and you wouldn't listen to me!”

The words evidently hit a mark; Ford slumped in on himself, the righteous anger dissipating off of him like steam. “You did. You did...”

He took a sip of tea and grimaced slightly. “I suppose...you don't remember a lot of technical details, then...”

“No.” Fiddleford shook his head adamantly. “I'm sorry. I can't help you.”

“There must be something you could do,” Stan broke in.

He couldn't believe this. He'd expected that maybe they wouldn't be able to find Fiddleford, or that he wouldn't be willing to help; he had most certainly not expected to find him just fine and then hear that he couldn't help because he'd erased his own damn memory with some weird science thing. What was the matter with these nerds? How did they manage to make absolutely everything way too complicated in the most unpredictable manner possible?

“You're still a smart guy, right?” he said. “Can't you, like...figure it again?”

Fiddleford glanced at Stan in surprise. Evidently he hadn't expected Stan to actually contribute anything to the discussion. Well, that made two of them.

“...That's not a bad point,” Ford said, which was even more surprising. “Your technical genius should still be fully intact. Besides, I have doubts about the permanency of the memory gun-I've already regained some recollection of our, uh, our encounter. With some prompting you could most likely remember-”

“I don't want to remember!” Fiddleford said. “I erased those memories for a reason, Stanford! I don't want them back!”

“I know that, Fiddleford, but-but the danger's still there! If I can't dismantle the portal, if his plan succeeds-you think you won't remember then? You think you won't have even worse things to remember?”

Fiddleford flinched away and somehow managed to ball himself up even tighter.

“Please,” Ford said. “After this...I won't ask anything more of you. You don't have to ever talk to me, or, or see me again. But for this one last time...I need you for this, Fidds. I need you to be brave just a little longer. I won't let anything happen to you again. The portal's shut down now, and we know what went wrong, it won't happen again-”

Fiddleford sighed.

“It ain't just the machine I'm scared of, Stanford,” he said. “It's...you.”

Ford stiffened. Stan did as well. A whole childhood's worth of memories suddenly rushed into immediate recollection: taunts of 'freak' and 'mutant' and 'monster', exaggerated reactions of disgust and horror, mocking laughter endlessly directed at his brother for being different. He found his hands curling into angry fists out of muscle memory ten years gone, ready to defend Ford one more time.

“I thought you at least were able to look past differences like that-” Ford said tightly.

“Oh, for...I ain't talking about your damn polydactyly, ya idiot,” Fiddleford said. “I'm talking about you. About...the way you go at things. You're the most stubborn man I've ever met by a long shot. You see a goal and you won't let anything move you. Sometimes that's alright, but the kind of goals you pick, the things you go after...it don't always lead to a good end. And...you draw people in. I dunno, maybe you got so much determination that it's catching, but...I left my wife and child to come help you on this! I ain't seen them in months! And I knew, I knew something was wrong, I knew we should have stopped, I should have left way before I did, but I didn't. I did things I shouldn't have ever done. Because...because I got caught up in it. In all that drive, it was like a magnet pullin' me along. I'm scared of what'll happen if I help you again. I'm scared of where I might end up. You can say it'll be simple, it'll just be one job and over with, and I don't doubt that you mean it, but...that don't necessarily make it true.”

Ford looked completely and utterly lost.

“I...I didn't...I didn't realize it was...like that,” he said distantly. “I never...”

“I know you didn't. You never see anything that ain't in your immediate sights, Stanford. That's always been a problem of yours.”

Ford looked down at his hands and said nothing.

Stan wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. He took a drink from the remaining mug of tea. It tasted like plants.

He couldn't really argue with this one. He couldn't respond to that with a punch to the face. Or, well, he could, but it wouldn't help anything. It wouldn't make Fiddleford wrong. Ford was...like that. He got caught up in his plans and he couldn't see anything else and it was so damn hard to argue with him. His conviction started to feel like a law of the universe, as pointless to argue with as gravity.

Of course...Stan had argued with him a considerable amount anyway. Maybe because he didn't know when to give up either, but still. It could be done. Besides, if Fiddleford's response to all this had been to go off and start a memory-erasing cult, he didn't think the man could put all the blame for bad science decisions on Ford.

He took another drink of tea, mostly because it was hot and the apartment was almost as cold as Ford's house, and also because it gave him something to do, and stared at the papers scattered out in front of them. He supposed some of them were schematics for whatever this gun was, but he couldn't really tell.

A memory erasing gun. Of all things. He didn't much like the thought of that, of someone mucking around in his head, deciding what should be in there and what shouldn't. Not to say that there weren't things he'd rather not have in his head, thanks...

And there was a thought there, but he couldn't quite pin it down. He frowned at the papers. Things he didn't want in his head. There was a lot of that going around lately, wasn't there...?

“So you won't help?” Ford said wearily.

Fiddleford had invented the gun because there were things he wanted to get rid of. Memories. Information. Ford had information he wanted to get rid of, too...and...

“I don't know, Stanford.” Fiddleford's leg was tapping again. “I know it's important. But I...I don't know if I'm strong enough, and that's the truth.”

...and...

It wouldn't work. It couldn't work. There was no way, because if it would work one of these brilliant science guys would have thought of it already. He didn't know anything about all this stuff. It had to be a stupid idea because Stan had thought of it and there was no way he was going to come up with any kind of smart answer to this mess.

But...

But Ford and Fiddleford were both sitting there staring glumly at nothing and the sense of despair was hanging heavy on the room and it was going to bother him unless he said something, and what could it hurt, really? They'd tell him it was stupid and then he could stop thinking about it and they could move on to...something else, maybe, if there was anything else.

“Hey,” he said. “Um. This...this gun thing. It erases memories?”

Ford glanced at him dully. “Yes.”

“Like...something in your brain...that you don't want to be there...this gun can remove that?”

“Yes, Stan, that is indeed an extremely basic grasp of the general concept,” Ford said, in that Long-Suffering Smart Person voice he got when he had to explain things to lesser intellects.

“It produces a radiation wave designed to target a specific area of the brain,” Fiddleford said. “It doesn't have any tangible effects. You can't just go around erasing things.”

“Oh,” Stan said.

Ford frowned slightly. “What were you thinking of?”

“It's nothing. Forget it,” Stan muttered, looking away. “It was a dumb idea.”

“No...no, what were you thinking of? Stan?” Ford's voice was oddly insistent.

Stan tapped his fingers together nervously. “Well, it's just...you know...if this gun, if it can affect what's in your head...and he's in your head...”

Ford said nothing.

“I don't know,” Fiddleford said. “You could target the gun to erase your memory of...him, but...I can't think it'd stop him any, if he's some kind of demon-”

“I said it was stupid,” Stan muttered. “Look, just-”

“No...no, hold on, hold on,” Ford said. His fingers were starting to tap frantically on his cup. “Bill manifests in the mindscape, which would necessarily be affected by anything having a significant impact on brain function...if you could just target it correctly...it would take some modifications, but potentially...”

He pushed several of the papers in front of him around, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath. There was a manic light growing in his eyes.

“Fiddleford,” Ford said, “I need to see your notes. All of them.”

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfic #by the skin of your teeth #scribulations #fanfic #stangst #no content warnings for this one that I can think of but there ARE way too many dramatic ellipses #also boy that kettle sure took a long time to go off didn't it

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hauntinghilarity · 7 years ago

Text

SLRP | Skinwalking 101: Ritual Magic

There was a point in which I was the head of magical studies in a group dedicated to giving the place I was writing at the time some villains. We often did some classes in character to help others get accustomed to roleplaying. This was also to give my magically inclined some new ideas. I wrote up the initial class beforehand, posts separated by breaks that tumblr hopefully doesn’t have a use for in terms of post formatting, which I planned to edit should the need arise or post around until I could get the class back on track.

Sadly, this class never came to be. It was interrupted by a group of dragons rudely attacking us. Always trust dragons to crash a party. Please enjoy, thank you for reading, and most importantly...

WARNING: Depictions of gore, violence, bad language, skinning, and probably a host of things that could be quite distressing.

To make up for that, how about a peek at my favorite freaky flower, Doc Boots! The picture below is of the avatar I made for second life. For information on who made these parts, please consult my flickr!

“I ain’ done one’a dese in a long while, so do pardon my potential rustiness on my capabilities as a teacher. I feel I ‘ave neglected de side of a mentor. So, as I ‘ave alluded ta it, I am gonna teach ya my two most used abilities. One a bit more passively, de otha’ as I use it wit’ everything, and it’ll be coming up a lot. As well, furtha’ disclaimer, I am a bat shit crazy plant. Anything I say is not ta be taken as fact for dis school of magic, but how I use it. Yes?” As he waited for acknowledgment, he would snapped his fingers, lifting his hand to make a series of gestures. One of his veggie cult members, waiting for his single, let out a squeal of acknowledgment before scampering off towards the dungeons.

--------------

A scuffle and a series of noises could he heard from the corridors as Doc’s minions struggled. The high pitched, obnoxious screeches of his distressed, simple veggie cult was indistinguishable. As well the somewhat disappointe sigh that followed. Rubbing his temple, Doc filled the air. “We got ourselves a volunteer. Don’ worry ‘bout dem. Won’ be ‘ere for long. Don’ get comfortable. Cute as dey may be. We ‘ave out lovely skin’a de evening. I been needin’ a new stag skin. For reasons. Now, lets start by explaining what i am talkin’ ‘bout what I will be teaching. Skinwalkin’! As well Ritual magic, as I said, I use it for everything of such importance.” His voice gave a peculiar giggle, almost bringing his lips to a creepy grin.. Only to have his attention stolen.

A loud, hollow knock was heard, along with a loud squeal as the elusive eggplant veggie cultist came flying momentarily into vision. It was such a fine specimen. Probably the greatest of his veggie cult members. Which was a crying shame, as it became the finest purple mush ever seen given the force it met with the wall adjacent to the entrance to the hallway. A vinestalk flopped uselessly to the ground. Doc’s face, now being covered by his hand and in such hiding the anguish this caused. Probably at the endless disappointment his veggie cult was proving to be more than grief.

-------------------------------------

“Don’ help dem vby de way. Dey must learn, and de day thing shouldn’ be dat difficult for all deir vines.. Anyway. Dey will be a moment. De demonstration comes afta’ de explanation normally anyway, don’ it? So.” He clapped his hands together. At first it seemed like his typical habit to talk with his hands, but a keen eye would notice him gripping the skin of his palm.

“I, as some of ya know, am not a mammal. Not a fauna at all. Not even a meat body! I am a parasitic plant dat weaves itself through de meat body host dat I lobotomized. Now, I sometimes need ta jump forms. I do not like constantly changin’ my face. I am fond’a dis one. Luckily, I was taught scraps of de art’a skin walkin’. Which I tailored ta my tastes, as I like ta customize my looks. For instance, I ‘ad ta remove de extra eyes dis form came wit’! As well de spider legs. More room for vines, and also got in de way’a my wing.. De eyes my flower eye..” He waved his handi n the air, as if dissipating his own words through the library. “But I am rambling:”

“Skinwalkin’ is an ancient and elusive piece of dark magic. It was created by a tribe’a people in de west. Luckily, thanks ta de stigma dis practice causes, some sought de peace ta practice deir arts in lands dat didn’ ‘ave legends of de skinwalkers. Dey say dey can steal your form wit’ a look… De one dat taught me? Said, least for ‘is sect, dis wasn’ true. No, no it takes far more.. Basically, skinwalkin’ allows ya ta take on de form of de creature whose skin ya wear. Ya can’t exactly get deir metaphysical traits, but advantages are about. Say de stag I am gonna be usin’. It is a good agile form, allowin’ for de use of powerful antlers, wit’ cushionin’ around de neck and scalp ta help protect de brain. Though I, personally, got otha’ methods. As a freaky flower. Now, I ain’ gonna go inta de specifics. As well, ain’ gonna be runnin’ around in skin suits ya’self either afta’ just dis class. Not dis class.. Well, maybe. Y’all hear how I ramble. No~.” He gave a rapid, chaotic chuckle.

”I am gonna teach y’all how ta get de most important piece! Ya must practice dis on animals or humanoids, whoever, and ever get a fine collection of skins. Ya won’ be able ta use dem properly, least for skinwalkin’, but think’a dis like enchanted leatherworkin’. A mixture of necromancy, ritual magic, and other schools I glanced at are at place here. So consider dis also a lesson on mixin’ magics, should ya judge my method befittin’ your own.

------------------------------

Whistling, impatiently towards the hallway, he pulled at the skin on his arm. It gave way far easier than one would expect, showing that it, normally, was held by his specially designed vines. Unhooking from his skin, it pulled away like a sticky leather. The moment the skin removed itself from his muscle, the skin lost its usual lush liveliness and instead appeared more like a mummy’s dried skin. That of a perfectly preserved specimen of the medical art, mind you. Runes showed themselves to be tattooed onto the skin in a delicate pattern. Once having shown as Doc’s tattoos, he had since taken to hiding them with a few adjustments. Beneath the skin, like tape being pulled from a surface, the muscle below appeared with his countless vines disappearing into the perfectly preserved network. Not a hint of his blood could be seen, having long since re-engineered his body to be more efficient. He went not further than the elbow, allowing a transition between his faux fresh flesh and the dried hyde that hung beneath his exposed elbow.

“Feel free ta come closa’ ‘n look at dis. Ask questions. ” Doc, seemingly taking on a new composure the more he rambled about a topic he held a firm fascination and fixation on, lost more of his meek demeanor, stepping forward and holding his macabre arm out for any who might want to examine it. “Please take care not ta rip it off. While I could repair it, I would prefer not ta at dis moment. I am already ramblin’ enough, and dat is an entire class in itself I’d imagine. And I’d like my arms protected for de ritual. Who knows what dat meat body de veggies are wrestlin’ got in ‘im. I don’ need no fungus.”

-------------------------------------

Finally, a group of sentient vegetables finally came with Doc’s captives in tow. A set of six, the veggies converged with one to each arm, and two to each hooven leg, one with a hoof covered in purple moosh. Vines grew from the top of their heads, entangling around the writhing, naked male satyr. Spouting similar feminine features to Doc, it was clear he was snagged for his own taste in skins. It was so hard to find ones in his size. The vines kept him bound, enough to be brought to the center of the room. He tried to scream and cry out, but a professional set of interrupted stitches made certain his lips were sealed. Doc didn’t need to have his lecture interrupted. He had already harmed of one his creations. Not like he could do much worse than what he had planned.

Doc shooed his veggies and the prey to the side, where the pair would struggle while Doc continued, taking a box of purple chalk from the desk. “Dere is an important step I must explain before we remove ‘is flesh; Now dat we ‘ave caught our victim after a honorable hunt; I would like ta explain what I mean by ritual magic. As I use it.” Vines began growing from his back in almost the same formation as his wings normally came out in, but lacking the purple petals that allows him lift. Each vine took a piece of chalk.

“A sigil is a very useful component in magic. It is a very volitile magic, especially when ya use it wit’ little care for de rules so many mages follow for deir own safety. Luckily, dere are plenty of sources of trial and error so ya don’ gotta blow ya own assistant up, unleash a demon, or so many other things daty can go wrong.” He outstretched his arms to the many books around them. “I warded de shelves for dis ritual. Well, more for de experiments, but things get messy and I don’ need de nightmares ‘avin’ another case’a my prisoner’s remains growin’ on de wall and askin’ for sweet release.” He clicked his tongue, as if berating himself.

“Now den. A sigil can be considered a symbolic representation of your spell. Ya can become abstract, so long as you yaself believe in de out come. Startin’ wit’ de outer circle, ta contain de spell.” his vines made quick work of drawing a circle. “A circle in de center where we will place our output.” His vines drew as he dictated. “Another circle to separation de space between de two circles…” He mumbled, scribbling away. “Now.. more circles, with balance being kept in mind, drawn within to house the reagents. In my case, I give a portion of de reagent’s energy ta de four natural elements, and de four divine elements. Put in ya own beliefs inta ritual magic, as dat is where de sigil gathers much of its power. Now, as de natural elements as less complex den de, quote unquote, divine elements, we place de divine elements closer ta de center, centered along a compass.”

Holding up a compass, he placed it down and drew a circle, between the inner circle and the dividing circle, along the four cardinal points (north, south, east ,west). “Now, for de natural elements, we place dem perpendicular along de outer circle.” The vines went along scribbling them long the outer circle, he drew the four smaller circles along the intercardinal points (ne,se,nw,sw.).

“Now, dis is de most complex part. We begin drawing runes along each one. Modifyin’ de spell ta our needs. I got a few.. Peculiarities wit’ my body, for example, so I take dat inta consideration. Ta take inta consideration my shape, but otherwise it is ta create a pathway for de magic ta follow, as well ta contain other components of dis spell. I will allow ya ta draw this as needed, though modifications would still need ta be made ta allow it ta form ta ya skin. As well, dere is far more dat must be done ta prepare ya body; spiritually, mentally, and physically; for de ability ta take on a creature’s form. I am leavin’ de reagents a pleasant surprise for both you and our guest until I start takin’ dem, but deir properties are also outlined. Along wit’ de percentage of de energy I wish ta go ta de elements each circle represents, which I will also go inta detail as I place de reagent. For each ritual, dese runes will be different. Same for each reagent. Dis takes knowledge of runic magic, but a creative mage can replace it for a similar magical study, should it fit de requirements.”

His arms and vines scribbled away, creating a vast series of designs around the circles through the runes. Given the complexity of the spell, it required a vast network of runes. It was this lone part that had him use his vines, as opposed to a need to show off. This saved him time. Rhythmically dancing around the circles filling in every piece, he surrounded every circle inside and out, before gracefully bouncing into the center circle. “Any questions before we move on ta de collection of reagents?”

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Clapping his hands against, Doc continued. The chalk in his hand discarded to a pair of vines that returned it to the box. “Now. I know we coverin’ a lotta subjects ‘ere, but dis ain’ simple magic. Dis ain’ as simple as slappin’ dat skin off ‘im. No. no ‘e ‘as ta suffer.” The stayr squealed through its stitches, trying to struggle more. “In fact, it is quite important dat we make certain dat ‘e DOES. NOT. DIE.” He made certain to enunciate each word, once more both for the class and his guest to hear. “Until most reagents are extracted.” He whistled suddenly, snapping his head towards the veggie cult and the satyr. The suddenness made the veggie cult stop and stare up at him in the midst of their endless struggle. The satyr did not, and cleaved its foot through the broccoli’s head. The fluff just tangled arought the hoof of the satyr, much to its dismay.

Doc’s following hand gestures were caught by the cult’s soulless stare, scampering to drag the circle. Showing a sudden determination and formation, the group scampered in a circle around the sigil. THe satyr was forced into the air as cult’s entangled nest of vines gained cohesion, thanks to Doc’s continued gestured. The vines took on a formation with clear inspiration taken from a spire web. Suspending the satyr above his sigil, high enough for Doc’s hand to slide along his cheek. His vines stretching his lips to inhuman lengths as his eyestalk stretched out to examine his flesh. Perverse as his actions and stare was, he was clearly looking right through the creature, having long since written off as an object, as his rambling helped explain. His voice taking on a far more excited tone as he tugged on his cheek. Testing his victim’s skin’s pliability.

“Ya see.. In dis kinda ritual.. An honorable death is highly important. Hunted down like de animal dey bein’ treated as, forced ta think as de primal beast dey descended from, forced ta unda’stand dat what chases dem is worse den death. Dat we wantin’ dem bewggin’ for escape. For dere every wakin’ moment since capture ta be agony. Like seasonin’ de meat. Similarly, deir death must be honorable.. Now, I ain’ talkin’ dat white knight garbage. Proper honor. Honor’a de wild. Taken down bare ‘anded, or vined in my case.” He gave a cheeky giggle. “And what is more honorable den ‘avin’ deir life taken ta expand de knowledge of our family?” He stopped groping the creature’s skin with a clap to the cheek. “Wit’ de added benefit’a a new form for me.. But Flourish is also a requirement. Why I can’t just take any skin I find.” Whether or not it was a lie, as he had said, it was the belief that it was true that counted.

“Most of all.. Ya must enjoy it. Must enjoy chasin’ dem down. Must enjoy tearin’ dem apart. Must enjoy every scream dey make. Dis is dark magic we deal wit’, and doubt can warp de form. Dis can make some sinister bodies, yes, but it could warp ya mind beyond recognition.” His wriggled the vines under his skin with another fit of cackling laughter, hoping to accentuate his point. “Though, for those who seek new heights in deir magic.. Messin’ wit’ dese steps can be de way ta go. Funny enough. De madness can also assist in keepin’ ya from messin’ up followin’ rituals! Since ya just guaranteed ta enjoy it! Especially wit’ such a wonderful guest. Most honored guest.” Another clap to the cheek.

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“Now, ta keep all de magic contained within de circle in a spell dis chaotic, it is advised ta ya use music ta temper de forces and spirits dat mgiht be drawn to ya ritual. Dey can cause plenty of issues if dey decide ta mess wit’ ya runes, posses de spirit, among otha’ things.” with a snap of his fingers, his cultists looked up to him again with those button eyed voids. A far shorter series of gestures sent them into a fit of noises and screeches. At first it seemed like they had lost their minds, wriggling and squirming with no apparent order. One by one, the adorable cultists began to sway in unison while their voices began to take on a far more harmonic, and symponious, quality to it. Pleased, Doc continued.

“Which is why it is also advised, while doin’ dis, ta use incense, pipe smoke, or both ta further appease deir senses. As well ta honor dem. Now, in dis case, it is a special mix dat’ll also calm down our enraged stag ‘ere. My favorite blend’a poppies, peyote, pot, poitin, lavender, rosemary, rose petals, and tobacco.” He lifted the prepared pipe up. “Soaked in de blood of your sacrifice, left ta dry. Normally, de pipe is all we’d use, but we got a lotta twisted spirits out dere dat love rituals like dis. Need more.” He gestured to four prepared bowls on the table.

“Ta act as incense, and ta help dry and smoke de skin while we remove de organs, we place a mixture of de various aromatics, incense, and woods. I like a mixture of hickory and mahogany.” He took the bowls and places them between the circles on the outer ring, in a bowl covered in carved runes that would allow it to begin to ember. “We place dese between de regents for de natural elements. Light dem as ya wish, I like ta use a series of fire runes ta control de temperature. Best done in layers. Metal inside where it heats de combustables, outside is a specially carved rock, where de metal is melted over so it sinks inta where ya carved de runes. Gotta special order dese normally. If ya know metallurgy or are good wit’ controllin’ rocks or crystals, dese also work ta make bowls or otha’ sources of heat.” As smoke began to rise from the bowls, some of the runes would show their purpose. Trapping the smoke between the inner and outer circle, it allowed the class to keep from having the same existential drug trip that the stag would soon have. The thrashing would really have caused his vines’ precision to plummet.

“Now, questions before removal? Oh, oh I know..” Prodding the stag’s forehead, he bent forward to stare down at the panicked male. “More delays yes. Yes ya get ta live even longer! A most joyous occasion.” Fidgeting awkwardly, as he once more forced himself bide his rambling, he forced his vines to clear his throat. That was what meat bodies seemed to do in situations in front of a class that’d normally leave him fidgeting. “And I know I been goin’ one for god knows ‘ow long like dis.. But I assure ya, we gettin’ closer ta de end.. De components are all slowly comin’ togetha’. Each one highly important, I assure you. Since I rambled again, and since we gotta wait for dis guy ta stop squirmin’, questions?”

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Once more, he clapped his hands together to draw attention. “Finally, de reagents I keep ramblin’ about so vaguely. Now, excuse me but I gotta get showy wit’ dis. I hope I won’ be hard ta unda’stand while I dance.” He bowed his head, before slowly beginning to rock his shoulders and hips. His veggie cult adjusting their tune accordingly. The vines holding on to chalk shot forward to get to work dutifully and deliberately creating complex sequences of runes along the stag’s body, their movements being seamlessly placed into his form. Once the chalk was discarded, he continued. His vines taking precise motions and already aligning themselves with the organ of choice, circling the entangled male like a eccentric, freaky ass dancing predator. With fluid and grace, of course.

Dictating as his vines quickly and delicately sliced and slide through the stayr’s body with the biological knowledge of a parasite, he did his best to make sure every action was made with the idea of keeping the stag alive as long as possible. The noises and squirming soothed as he began to puff at his pipe, heated in a similar manner, without inhaling, merely blowing it directly into the Stag’s face as he passed, calming him. “De natural elements are self explanatory. Air, Earth, Fire, ‘n Water. De elements most people tend ta think of when it comes ta magic, de ones dat dictate magic on a planar level.”

“Now, we ‘ave de directions a little cock-eyed for typical rituals of dis nature. Normally, water starts in de north. I am sure you’ll get de pattern, since minus bein’ skewed, it is de same. It is skewed on purpose, of course. First~.” He chuckled, and began by pusing two vines into the male’s sides, while another two made larger incisions allowing the kidneys to be removed. The vines gracefully placed them down in the North Western circle. Doc took a puff from his pipe as he took a step near the reagent. Spinning on his heel in tune with the reagent being place down, he blew the smoke out towards the direction it represented. As he’d repeat for each reagent. “Ta de North West, Earth. Why Kidneys for Earth? Kidney stones, a’course.”

He continued by threading a vine through the male’s urethra, while another made an incision along the waist, where the other side of the vine threading through the tip of his length came out with its bladder entangled. “To de North East, Water. So a bladder, obviously.” His vines targeted a single lung next. “For air in de South East, A lung. Largest of course. Can’t half-ass dis when ya gotta give some ta de elements. Now, de otha’ gonna pick up de slack, but not for long. Dis smoke only does so much.” His vegetables began to pick up the tempo and, in tune, he began moving and speaking quicker. “Finally in de South-West, we got fire. A stomach! As stomach acid can be as volatile and burn in a similar manner.”

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Really beginning to pick up his pace, Doc had to explain further for a moment. “Now dese next elements could be considered more.. Metaphorical. Dese are de ones dat influence de actions of de cosmos, life, death, and everything in between. It works in far more subtle ways. Dey can corrupt and create in equal measure, and require deir opposite ta truly thrive. Ta appease dese elements, we must take care and speed ta keep dem alive as long as possible.” He slammed his foot down in tune with the beat as he patched each fire. Blowing smoke into each one, the temperature began to rise as the smoke began to take on figments in the wisp resembling the many runes he wrote down. The embers in each bowl igniting into flames.

“De element’a life is a varyin’ one, as well requires care. De genitals have artieries in dem dat could really make us lose dem quickly. As well, I want de skin in tact. So..” He let out another mischievous giggle, as the vine still threaded through the stag’s manhood began to squirm oddly. A gut wrenching movement could be seen with in his sack, as violent twitches could be seen in the muscles of the stag, clearly the smoke was making certain to do nothing on the man’s pain. Those properties were for the element.s From the open stomach cavity that had the most organ traffic, a horrendous mess of tissues and fleshy tubes, slapped down into the center of the norther circle on the inner ring. The stag’s genitals, sans insides of course, laid flat against its pelvis. Both his penis and sack looking more akin to deflated balloon. “I normally suggest usin’ a hot stone or blade ta cauterize de arteries. I just pinched dem off.”

“For those dat are still watchin’ afta’ dat show,in de eastern circle we got order, de eyes.” His vines slipped into the tear ducts of his victim, popping out the eyes down to the optic nerve with the care and speed one would expect from someone who turned an extendo-flower-eye into his main identity. Repeating the same ritual, with ever puff of his pipe he made, the smoke inside seemed to darken, with the skin becoming visibly drier, smoking the man alive. The organs he pulled out were beginning to look a hint darker as well. He was really hoofing it now.

“In de south we got death. Death. Which will come shortly afta’ dis, so followin’ dat we got chaos in de west. De heart and brain, respectively.” His vines worked in cohesion now, a dance he had clearly done a distressing number of times. As he tore the heart from his chest with his vines, holding it high enough for the Satyr to see, he gave him just enough to take it in before his dance brought him behind his head, where he smashed a thick stick against his scalpe, his vines having helped prepare the area. Just before he made contact, the heart was placed down on its circle. Leaves grew to help him collect the gray matter as it poured out, shloshed down onto the final circle.

Doc brought his other hand down. His dance clearly over as his veggie cult, in unison, stopped singing as their vines began coiling back around their bodies, slowly sinking into wiggling bones. The victim’s head smashed into the center of the chaos circle. A purple light began to spread throughout the circlem following the circle from one side of the head and his palm to the other. One by one, the reagents began to burst into minute balls of light, countless of them that began to spiral into the blackening smoke, creating the illusion of a stary night. The smoke began to churn, spiraling into the crushed skull of the stag. Its began began to churn with in its skin as Doc’s vines rushed to escape the inside of the circle, but his hand stayed firmly inplace against the corpse’s face.

The sound of bones snaping, sinew snaring, and a truly unholy sloshing noise, the stag’s body seemed to slowly deflate, like a chunky liquid being forced down a metaphorical drain that was under Doc’s hand, which appeared to be a mild struggle. As quickly as Doc had finished the ritual, the stag laid as nothing more than an empy, and dried, skin. The runes, once chalk, now appearing like a smoky tattoo.

Hopping to his feet, Doc held up the skin with a happy smile and a ‘tada’ stance that had its energy fueled by the delight that, this time, the skin hadn’t come to life. Though he was still holding it out like he was expecting it to attempt to strangle him.

#fiction #second life #roleplay #play-by-post #horror #skinwalking #ritual magic #magic class #story time #doc boots

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