#garnet blasting

[omarwolaeth]

Alright. Time to grind the new box for the Witches and pull everything but what I need

[capstone-abrasives-company]

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[jennablackmorebooks]

So in Regards, it is the garnet that falls out of Mirdri Abanador's acrostic ring because that is residue from a different regards acrostic ring vampire novel I tried to write in October 2020, wherein the garnet came out of the ring and was replaced by a piece of wood from a sentimental tree to the owner. so then instead of "g" for garnet, the acrostic word would be "rewards" with the "w" for wood, and in this story, the ring became like extremely good luck materially and was therefore coveted. Well, I never did write that addition into Regards when I added the ring into a previously existing story and character set to make the novel as it is. I thought about it as something Sidus Sagebrush could benefit from after Adrienne Passer knocked the garnet out, but then, god, when would the book ever end? It would have made it too long. Sidus gets no more luck. Woe to him. But that is why specifically the garnet is lost from the ring.

Is it only now occurring to me that for maximum symbolism, I could have had the sapphire, which in another instance represented Mirdri's stepbrother tangentially, be the gemstone to leave the ring, and leave the empty space in her ring? YEAH. Yeah that would have been good too, considering he is now out of her life more than she wants him to be. Leaving a space in her life where her stepbrother used to be. Just like the space in the ring. But alack and alas, not everything can perfectly align with the gemstone motifs I've assigned to the different characters, and sometimes decisions in the book were instead residue from something I tried to write nearly a year before.

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[euroblastme01]

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[haruhar-u]

“A rose upon you”

Rook x g/n reader, fluff

A/N: damn this is finished earlier than I thought it’s be finished. I did struggle to write his dialogue so I apologize if it’s ooc

edited but not beta read

The first day, it was a red rose that smells vaguely of apples. Then it was a box of your favourite chocolates. The rose had a velvety garnet bow with gold trim around the edges. In gold embroidery was the initial "R.H." Seriously, who is this admirer of yours? You sat on the couch in Ramshackle’s lounge, holding the two items in your hands. Oh, Ace was there too. Your flaming tuna cat and Deuce were out buying snacks at Sam’s. 

"Oooh,” Ace cooed at you in a teasing manner, almost like when in elementary school a boy and a girl get called to the board together, or even in the same group, for that matter.

“Shut up.” You elbowed Ace in the ribcage, not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough for him to get the message at least. You looked closely at the ribbon around the rose, softly tracing your finger over the embroidered initials. Ugh. Everything this person did made your heart race. You weren’t even sure you could think straight.

“Yo, look.” Ace pointed out the embroidered initials. "Obviously, that could be Rook Hunt…..he’s the only one crazy enough to do this anyway.” 

Rook Hunt….? The vice of Pomefiore. You will admit the two of you have gotten oddly close as of recently. He’d always try to help you with your work and would suggest you two go to the oddest places together. Such as the woods. At 3am. Why????

“I’m gonna go on a….walk?” You tell Ace and get off the couch and put on your fuzzy jacket and boots. You all but gently open the door. The icy winter air blasts on your face as you step out, snow crunching under your boot.

You don’t have to trek out much further until you hear someone call out “mon trickster” from the bushes. At this point, you’re not going to question why he was in your bushes in the first place.

“Were you the one behind... well, all this?" You ask bluntly, approaching him with the rose in hand. He steps out to hold the rose in his hand, gazing at the ribbon.

“Of course it was me. I thought you needn’t have to put much thought into it!!” He says all dramatically. “-Name- do you accept my confession of love??”

Your name instead of a nickname in French?! Does that mean he’s more serious than you originally thought? You take a moment to think about it. After all that happened in Styx, the Pomefiore vice was with you every step of the way. He always made sure to check on you to make sure you’re okay, both physically and mentally. Sometimes it’d be by tapping on your window at 3 a.m., but that was his way of showing affection. “I do.” You say when you finally come to an agreement with yourself.

“Magnifique!” He grabs your hand abruptly, causing your heart to skip a beat. “I have so much for you to witness.” He pulls you off into the nearby forest, presumably to read you some poetry. The snow-capped trees looked a lot more inviting with him by your side. Forever and always.

Taglist : @xen-blank @krenenbaker @edith-is-apparently-a-cat @whspermy-name @the-banana-0verlord

[minor-r]

My Weapon concept for WD!Steven X Garnet fusion!

Click for better quality / Кликните для хорошего качества

Steven from @ask-whitepearl-and-steven made by @thechekhov, more specifically.

Info under the cut / Подробности дальше

I drew it in CorelDraw, and what can I say... I'm not drawing anything in Corel by my own will again.

Рисовал я в CorelDraw, и что я могу сказать... В кореле я больше по своей воле ничего рисовать не буду.

It can change length of both its segments, just like Steven's staff does, and gauntlets can be detached if needed, for example to reveal a sharp spike, or to be thrown at enemy! in this scenario two additional effects also take place: Garnet's rocket gauntlets and Steven's energy blast!

Как и посох Стивена Это оружие может менять длину, а перчатки можно отсоединить, чтобы обнажить острый шип или запустить их во врага! В последнем случае также активируются сразу две способности: ракетные перчатки Гранат и Энергетический выстрел Стивена!

I haven't figured out what the fusion themselves would be like, but I imagine them to swing it around like a VERY heavy kung-fu stick and sometimes use it as a hammer.

Как само слияние выглядит я так и не придумал, но я представляю, что оно бы сражалось этим оружием в основном как кунг-фу палкой, только ОЧЕНЬ тяжелой, иногда используя его как молот.

Fun fact: I got this idea more than a year ago, on Aug 15, 2022! (no idea why I remember this lol) At some point I was even scared that by the time I finish this Steven and Garnet will already fuse in the comic XD Забавно, но этой идее уже больше года! Она пришла мне в голову 15 августа 2022 года! (Без понятия почему я это помню хввх) Какое-то время я даже боялся, что к тому моменту, когда я это доделаю, Стивен и Гранат уже сольются XD

I also got some ideas for Steven X Rose, so maybe I'll draw this too sometime! But not soon.

У меня также есть пара идей о слиянии Стивена и Розы, так что может быть когда-нибудь я и это нарисую. Но не скоро.

[nerak-01]

"I love you- NOT~!!" (PART 1)

childhood bestfriend/crush katsuki bakugo x hopeless romantic reader

synopsis: Love is so addictive. You know, even when you've never really felt it. The feeling of being in love is even worse when your counterpart doesn't reciprocate.

tw: female reader, cursing, angst, heartbreak, bakugo being oblivious/a little insensitive, crying, reader relying on herself

author's notes: REPOST; BUT GET EXCITEDD CUZ PART 2 IS GETTING POSTED SOON!! I'm so sorry this has taken me so long. Writing block + workload + no romance = absolute sadness. UGH! NEW YEAR, NEW ME!! Happy 2024, Darlings!

wrd count: 800+ not edited!

Katsuki Bakugo and you go way back. It all started in grade school when you first caught sight of the brooding child, Bakugo.

You were supposed to focus on learning how to add and subtract fractions, but instead, your attention drifted to the boy sitting next to you. Your desk mate was laser focused on the lesson as his garnet red eyes seemed to bore into the teacher's. It gave you the perfect opportunity to judge this potential friend. He had wild blonde hair that somehow looked neat, framing his chubby cheeks. He had a button nose, cute. You concluded that your desk buddy was adorable, and he would be an excellent first friend. Oh, if only you knew.

From an adorable childhood in the suburbs, to an awkward and moody middle school period, and then a slight reflection in high school, Katsuki Bakugo had changed alongside you. You saw Bakugo go from his messy blonde locks, to spikes. He saw you change from an awkward bangs stage to a more defined hair part. Your friendship bloomed as the two of you were able to confide in one another as the years passed. Bakugo got sassier, and you shot back the same attitude. You differed when it came to feelings. That became abundantly clear when puberty and dating became a middle school topic. Bakugo used to talk to you about how girls were annoying and unbearable. He said he never would understand the appeal of dating. You dumbly nodded along, as if your heart wasn't hammering in your chest every time Bakugo Katsuki was in the vicinity. It was like your heart was a professional Bakugo tracker. Perhaps that's when you should have realized that you were in too deep.

All the same, high school left you high and dry. U.A was a challenge in and of itself, but adding rocky childhood feelings wasn't exactly ideal. Especially when Bakugo began to realize that he was a little more interested in relationships as he got older. You remember one instance as clear as day...

"Hey, Y/n, I'm waiting for someone, don't fucking wait up," Bakugo muttered. He didn't make direct eye contact with you. You swear you could make out the faintest pink blush on his cheeks.

"Oh? You got a special someone finally?" Y/n laughed. You hoped your tone sounded teasing and not sour. You wondered if Bakugo would ever realize how your lip wobbles or how you fidgets anxiously with your shirt whenever he talked about relationships. He was so observant unless it came to feelings.

"You could say that. I'm going out with Mina, one on one." Bakugo always did this when he was nervous. His answers became more brief and he seemed more guarded.

"Listen, big guy, you got this. I'm sure Mina and you will have a blast. I don't know, give her some Katsuki charm~!" You winked while pointing finger guns at him.

"Piss off!" Bakugo rolled his eyes, but you know you saw a slight smile right before. Your silliness worked as his hands relaxed from balled fists. Suddenly, his eyes seemed to dart to the approaching pink figure. Katsuki exhaled loudly, as if trying to ground himself.

You turn around and watch Mina with him. You understand why Bakugo was interested in her; she was fierce, outgoing, bubbly, easy on the eyes, and you assumed her curves helped. Whatever the reason, when you looked at Bakugo again, his eyes seemed to shine in a way he never could with you. His perfect pink lips parted slightly like he was in a trance by her.

"I wonder if I'll ever have that effect on a guy," you mumbled quietly. You didn't mean to let it slip out, but judging by Bakugo's zombie state, you doubt he's even listening to you.

"What did you say?" Bakugo asked, still not looking back at you.

"Nothing, have a good date." With that, you left Bakugo to head back to your dorm, by yourself, for the first time in a year. As you walked, you wondered if he ever knew you like you patiently grew to know him. You knew he had a mole on the left side of his growing adam's apple; you knew his top twenty hero list by heart; and most importantly, you knew exactly when Bakugo first fell in love with a real girl. At the very moment and forever more, Ashido Mina was the first girl Bakugo truly had a crush on.

You're not sure when your cheeks got damp, but you noticed you were crying when your nose was runny. Unlike the past, Bakugo would always be there to call you 'stupid' and wipe away your tears with his callous hands. Now, you sat alone in your dorm room, sobbing in one of his old t-shirts. You had this since you were in grade seven. Bakugo grown quickly, but his All-Might t-shirt was one of the first ever gifts he gave you himself.

Even thinking about him now hurts your head. To think someone who caused you so much grief, could still be the one you cherished most.

[pinksilvace]

! PAC NYC CATS SPOILERS !

What I remember from the show, feat. some official photos

This is all going off of my note-less memories so there may be some minor inaccuracies to these recollections.

Welcoming Remarks/Overture

The crowd was welcomed by the voice of Junior LaBeija, who encouraged us to google him before shutting our phones down.

We were encouraged to make noise at any and all parts of the performance

Filming, even during bows, was strictly prohibited

This show is LOUD. I wore ear plugs the entire time, and I don't consider myself to be particularly sensitive to noise. It makes sense, considering that the audience is meant to yell and the music has to be heard over them.

The theater space itself was relatively small. All seats were good seats.

Mr. Mistoffelees (Robert "Silk" Mason) could be seen dancing through the window set pieces above the back of the stage.

Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats

(clip)

The cast began all around the theater, with spotlights illuminating them as they began to sing. They did not mount the stage until the "Mystical Divinity" portion of the song.

The crowd went WILD at the part that has had its choreography revealed already.

The Naming of Cats

The "Man over there" bit was done by Antwayn Hopper (Macavity). In general, he seemed to be having an absolute blast throughout the show.

During the parts where cats sharing the names in the poem were mentioned, spotlights illuminated them.

Munkustrap led this number and was the only one onstage for the duration of it.

The White Cat Solo

(clip)

Compared to how this is presented in replica productions, the dance moves were very fast.

I am uncertain as to whether this part was meant to characterize Victoria, or if it was just a great chance for BABY (Victoria) to show off her incredible dancing skills.

The Old Gumbie Cat

Jennyanydots (Xavier Reyes) began the number by pulling out a trophy, showing she'd won at balls in the past

During the day, it was implied (I think?) that Jennyanydots has lots of sex. Whether it's sex work, a sugar daddy situation, etc. was unclear. What I can say is that she did lots of bouncing - on other actors, on the edge of the stage, and on a chair.

At night, Jennyanydots is a very harried single Latina mother trying to keep her kids out of trouble.

Instead of Jenny competing in a category herself, Cassandra (Emma Sofia)(implied to be one of Jenny's children, either literally or metaphorically) competed while Jenny directed her choreography from the sidelines.

The Rum Tum Tugger

VERY laid back. This is definitely Jason Derulo's version of Tugger, but done so incredibly right. He was honestly a bit too effortless for how easily he won categories.

It's not shown in this photo, but he wore a gold and black striped fur coat throughout most of the show, sort of like Munkustrap's grey and black one (shown above, with Jenny)

There wasn't very much choreography in this number, save for a bit at the very end where he was facing off "Pretty Boy vs. Thug"

Grizabella the Glamour Cat

Grizabella ("Temptress" Chastity Moore) approached the side of the stage and killed the mood. Everyone kind of just avoided her. Munkustrap tried to talk her into going away, but she refused. He then tried to pay her actual cash to leave, but she stood her ground.

Sillabub (Teddy Wilson Jr.) approached her curiously and backed off at a very subtle warning from Demeter (Bebe Nicole Simpson). (I have to add on that Sillabub wore an orange t-shirt, short pink overalls, and orange converse shoes with a crown of sunflowers on their head. They were easily my favorite character.)

Grizabella showed off a trophy she had won in a previous ball and implored the interim judges to let her compete. They refused.

This Grizabella was almost frighteningly determined.

Bustopher Jones

For the performance I saw, Garnet Williams filled in for Nora Schell, with Tara Lashan Clinkscales filling in for Bombalurina.

Bustopher was referred to with they/them pronouns.

A large portion of this number was spent with Bustopher walking around the theater. When they mounted the stage, they pulled open their shirt to reveal a bustier emblazoned with the English flag.

Bustopher competed and won in the "Body" category. They continued to remain present throughout the rest of the show.

Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer

(clip)

It is specified both in the program and during the number that these two are from Victoria Grove, New Jersey

Those New Jersey accents were aggressive

"one of the goyles suddenly misses her woolworth poyles"

Honestly, I wouldn't expect anything less from them

During the Macavity scare preceding this number, Macavity dropped off some trash bags filled with clothes for Bombalurina and Demeter. Mungojerrie (Jonathan Burke) and Rumpleteazer (Dava Huesca) attempted to steal these.

During the second verse, both changed costumes behind some costume racks on either side of the stage.

They competed in the "Tag Team" category against Victoria and Tumblebrutus (Primo) and lost. They then stole the trophy, which Victoria and Tumblebrutus stole back.

Anyway I just desperately need other US productions to give them New Jersey accents

Old Deuteronomy

Munkustrap (Dudney Joseph Jr.) was the only one onstage for the first part of this

Tugger (Sydney James Harcourt) approached the side of the stage and grasped Munkustrap's arm at the "numerous progeny" line

The stage was left empty for Old Deuteronomy (André De Shields) to walk out on

Before he walked out, Sillabub threw flower petals all over it

Mr. Mistoffelees (Robert "Silk" Mason) pulled out Old Deuteronomy's chair for him

There was a VERY long pause for applause when Old Deuteronomy reached his throne at the far end of the catwalk. He turned in a very slow circle. We made eye contact.

Song of the Jellicles/The Jellicle Ball

(clip)

During the Macavity scare, Macavity strides up to Old Deuteronomy. Old Deuteronomy waves him back out of the room in a way that honestly looked like magic. (It's worth noting at this point that the Macavity in this production is a goofy role.)

Because of how the stage is set up, most parts of the dance number were done with only 2-5 actors onstage at a time. When there was a larger group, the dancing remained mostly sedentary.

No mating dance

Grizabella appeared on one of the high balconies. Sillabub waved enthusiastically at her. Everybody else just stared at her.

Many categories were competed in during this part. One of them was sort of an "anything goes" (I forget the exact name) category, in which Munkustrap came out in a golden ensemble with giant wings. Old Deuteronomy didn't like it. Munkustrap gave him sass.

Memory (part 1)

Old Deuteronomy walked out of the room along with everybody else (I THINK.) Grizabella approached the side of the stage, took off the scarf covering her hair, and draped it over one of the railings.

Grizabella caressed the stage as she sang.

Sillabub approached the other side of the stage, watched her for a bit, and departed. They returned near the end of the number with a glittery dress, which they offered to her. Grizabella ran away.

At the end of the number, Sillabub climbs onstage to grab the scarf and look out at the audience. Cut to black.

Moments of Happiness/Moonlight

This part took place entirely between Old Deuteronomy and Sillabub. Sillabub was still onstage, almost got scared away when Old Deuteronomy returned, and knelt in front of him.

As Old Deuteronomy sang about happiness through many generations, he tied the scarf around Sillabub's neck.

While all of this happened, old photos and reports about old balls were being projected on a large screen at the back of the stage. There was then a listing of old house mothers. Most of these were real. The final name listed was Grizabella's.

The rest of the cast joins in for Moonlight, stationed all around the theater. Bombalurina and Demeter were right next to me on the lower balcony. Bombalurina smiled at me.

Gus the Theater Cat

Shereen Pimentel (Jellylorum) was AMAZING.

Gus (Junior LaBeija) was only present for this number and the bows. Most of his lines were performed like spoken word poetry rather than through song.

There was no show-within-a-show piece after this number, but Gus did say the "I once played Rumpus Cat" line. At the very end was Tumblebrutus (I THINK) re-enacting a young Gus a la Grizabella in Tecklenburg 2015.

Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat

(clip)

AGGRESSIVELY a New Yorker in the same way Mungo and Rumple were from New Jersey. Queen of the subways.

Skimbleshanks' (Emma Sofia's) hair had tiger stripes!!!

Lyrics were both English and Spanish (?), especially during the "it was very pleasant" part

She lost her category against Rumpleteazer. They embraced and continued to dance together for the rest of the song.

Macavity the Mystery Cat/"The Fight"

Macavity (with a comically evil cackle and some Hanna-Barbera-style running around) dropped off some more trash bags through one of the windows in the back, which Demeter unpacked. As it turned out, those bags were filled with designer products.

"Macavity wasn't there" was a line used to refer to the fact that Macavity was supposed to be competing but didn't show up on time

Oh yeah, Demeter and Bombalurina were members of the House of Macavity

After Macavity proved to Old Deuteronomy that all of the products were genuine, they all got dressed up and competed in "Labels". The House of Macavity won.

Members of the losing team found attached tags on the products, indicating that the items were shoplifted.

As police sirens blared and blue and white lights flew around the room, Old Deuteronomy ushered Macavity to leave the venue. The police officers entered, looked around the audience, and then looked on the stage, where Old Deuteronomy stood in front of the bags of stolen goods and gave himself up as the perpetrator of the crime.

Macavity returns looking downright distraught.

Magical Mr. Mistoffelees

(clip)

It was much more believable to see everybody turning their backs on Tugger in this production than any other I've seen

Mr. Mistoffelees was referred to with he/him pronouns, so that's what I'm using here

Mr. Mistoffelees is introduced as a ballroom dancer who meets success, in part, by magic-ing his opponents into having wardrobe and performance malfunctions.

He also steals their stuff but I'm unsure whether that has to do with saving Old Deut or if it's just enriching for him

Old Deuteronomy was magicked into a box and stood very still when the curtain was pulled off. When Macavity approached, Old Deuteronomy jumpscared him.

After the song was done, Tugger and Mistoffelees kissed. They were not, as I have seen others say, eating each other's faces; it was very chaste and tender and lasted for just a handful of seconds. The audience went wild, of course.

Memory (part 2)

Grizabella came out in the dress Sillabub had offered earlier

Maybe I was reading too much into it but it looked to me like Old Deuteronomy and Sillabub conspired together to make her reappearance happen

This song was sung in a lower key than usual to better suit Temptress' voice

She looked so uncertain the whole time

Journey to the Heaviside Layer

A big staircase hinged down to the stage, just like in replica productions

Grizabella left through a door at the top of the stairs. Through it, the sounds of New York City could be heard.

The Ad-dressing of Cats

This song makes WAY MORE SENSE in this production in OG Cats, in my opinion. There, it sometimes feels like a bit of a slog. Here, it reinforced the core message of the show about accepting people as they are. To me, the context made it much more powerful.

These last few numbers were loud even through my ear plugs and I don't know why.

The ensemble (Frank Viveros and Shelby Griswold) brought the cast flutes of champagne

Bows

Munkustrap announced each member of the cast as they did individual dances down the stage. This was one of the only songs unrelated to Cats music.

Tugger did a striptease.

After all of the actors, the conductor came out vogueing down the stage.

Afterward, the cast began singing the "practical cats, dramatical cats" portion of Jellicle Songs. I sang enthusiastically along, catching Bustopher's eye. They blew me a kiss.

Other thoughts

Electra (Kendall Grayson Stroud) EASILY had my favorite costume: a holographic top and little black skirt with a huge ruffled rainbow coat over it

Victoria's costume changes made her much less noticeable than usual, especially as she mostly served as a member of the ensemble (I don't think anything in particular about this choice; I just found it interesting)

Despite all of the changes, this very much felt like a production of cats. Even though the actors were staged to be humans, they did nothing else to emphasize it. All of the lyrics were true to replica cats productions.

Where ballroom beats were implemented, they never distracted from the songs they were placed into. They actually enhanced the songs very nicely.

Almost all of the changes made to the original story make sense in the context of this production. I.e., Alonzo's absence makes sense because his role is no longer necessitated. Same with Coricopat and Tantomile.

I am in LOVE with this Sillabub. I really cannot emphasize that enough. They had so much youthful whimsy and KILLED those high notes. They should have been frolicking but instead they were at the club smh

Understated Tugger was an interesting look, and I think it worked well, considering that this Mistoffelees was definitely the most eye-catching member of the cast.

It was actually really cool to see a production where Macavity is accepted as one of the tribe. I fully believe that Mungojerrie learned a few pointers from this one. Again, I have to emphasize that it looked like Antwayn Hopper had the time of his life in this role.

Speaking of, there may have been some Deut bros (Tugger+Munkustrap+Macavity) staging, but I don't remember clearly enough to say for sure.

Most of the transfer of the story made sense... except for the stuff surrounding Grizabella. I've seen the directors talk about ageism in the ballroom community, but with how much emphasis this production put on respect for elders via Old Deuteronomy and Gus and the lack of general contempt from the cast, I honestly don't know why she would have been outcast to begin with. I also have no idea why she ran away from Sillabub.

I kind of wish there had been more extreme makeup, but most of the cast switched between their characters and ensemble roles frequently, so it makes sense. It didn't make the show any worse.

Overall, this was an incredible production that deserves the praise it is given. Yes, I think a number of Cats fans are casting too much judgement on the creative decisions. Yes, I think too many reporters have dunked on the original Cats staging more than is warranted in order to prop this production up. Regardless of those two factors, it was clear that the cast and creative team had a real love for both Cats and ballroom, and I think they married the two concepts beautifully.

[cosmignon]

sometimes I wonder if the new wave of gravity falls fans know that not ONLY did NWHS come out and blow everyones freakin minds by confirming the stan twins theory

but also. here on tumblr specifically. you must understand. only 3 days later the ecosystem was blasted by JAILBREAK from STEVEN UNIVERSE. yknow the one where Garnet fusion theory was proven true.

i think ive mentioned this before but it just bares repeating bc its so funny in retrospect. tv animation fandom was bonkers for like a week straight and i loved it

[saphronethaleph]

Visual Misidentification

“This is White leader to all squadrons on this net,” Harrier called, glancing left and right to check on the other Y-wings in his squadron. “We are go for our new tasking, launching an attack run on one of those cruisers. We’re going to need an escort.”

“Roger that, White leader,” another clone replied. “Dirk squadron is flying close cover on you, we’re three seconds behind you and twenty degrees below.”

“Copy that, Dirk lead,” Harrier said. “What’s a dirk?”

“Is this really the time?” Pinion called, from the gunner seat – then his turret opened up, blazing away at the nearest buzz-droid from a scatter that had been launched in their direction.

“Dirks are a kind of blade, White lead,” the other clone said, sounding amused. “We’re off the Scabbard, all our squadrons are named for old weapons.”

Harrier laughed, then swung his bomber to the side. The twin nose cannons fired in a staccato blaze of light, and the rest of White Squadron followed suit just a moment later.

The combined volley cut down three Vulture droids, opening a hole in the formation ahead of them, and Harrier rolled his bomber through the gap.

“Report in,” he called, weaving his fighter back and forth around its base course. There were so many ships battling in the skies over Coruscant it was hard to keep track of what was even happening, but he was fairly sure all his fighters were still there…

“White four to lead, I have some damage to my left engine cap,” Garnet said, after a few seconds. “My R3 thinks we’re good unless we take another hit on that engine.”

“Copy that,” Harrier replied. “White four, white six, switch places.”

The complicated dance took place behind him, and Harrier didn’t need to look – which was good, because all his attention was focused on the gun duel ahead. A Lucrehulk battleship was heavily engaged with a Republic heavy cruiser, battering down the shields, and shots were landing home on the beleagured friendly ship’s hull.

“White three to lead, do we fire?” Decade asked, from White Three. “If we don’t do something the Sun Shadow is going down!”

“We have our mission,” Harrier answered, glancing between his weapons displays and the fight, then cursed. “Fine – guns only, do not adjust base course! Try and take out one or two of those turrets, but save the torpedoes and keep moving!”

Pinion’s turret slewed around before he’d finished speaking, and ion bolts and laser blasts did the best they could to chip away at the Separatist battleship’s turrets.

Twenty crowded seconds later, White Seven was down, but Dirk Squadron had chased off the rest of the tri-fighters that had tried to pounce them. Only one two-bird element of Dirk Squadron remained for top cover, but that had to be enough – they were nearly there – and Harrier flicked his targeting computer online.

“All White elements!” he called. “Slave your targeting computers to mine, we need a precise salvo if we’re going to get through the shields!”

“Roger that!” Decade confirmed.

The other clones of White Squadron were complying as well, carets appearing in Harrier’s computer one after another as the Y-wings deferred to his on launch orders, and Harrier swallowed.

This was the most dangerous point in the entire run. They had to run straight and level to give the computers a good course… his shoulders hunched, knowing that at any moment a fighter could smoke them or a capital ship gun could rip them to shreds.

“Crink,” Pinion murmured. “Is that the Negotiator?”

“Is what?” Harrier replied, then his computer pinged and he hit the firing switch.

There were six bombers left, and each ripple-fired two of their four torpedoes. A single twelve-torpedo salvo ripped out towards the bridge tower of their urgent target, the CIS dreadnought Prosperous, and Harrier threw his ship into a left swerve to avoid colliding with the enemy capital ship.

“What is it, Pinion?” he asked, looking around. “Reinforcements?”

“I mean General Kenobi!” Pinion replied, sounding awed. “And I think I see Skywalker’s fighter, too – they’re heading for the same ship we just fired on!”

In his peripheral vision right, Harrier saw the bridge tower of the CIS dreadnought exploding.

“Who fired those torpedoes?” General Skywalker demanded, on an open channel. “All concerned, who just fired those torpedoes?”

“...which torpedoes, General?” Harrier asked, on the same channel.

“The Chancellor’s been abducted and is being held on the CIS dreadnought Invisible Hand!” Skywalker replied. “We just saw a torpedo volley impact on the ship – hold fire, we need to rescue the Chancellor!”

Harrier had a sinking feeling.

Wasn’t the Invisible Hand another Providence-class, like the Prosperous?

“...oops,” he said, lamely.

[capstone-abrasives-company]

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[liketwoswansinbalance]

Salt & Storybook

This fic is also available on Wattpad or AO3, if you would prefer to read it elsewhere.

⸻

@heya-there-friends and @wisteriaum Yes, the whump fic is out! And here it is!

Hopefully, if I meet your expectations, I’d be like a magician announcing an act:

Step up, one and all, Evers and Nevers, young and old—step right up to witness the death-defying struggles of one Rafal Mistral! The great Rafal, horrifically maltreated by his own Pen, tortured within an enclosure of his own “design!” After all, there is no rest for the wicked…

Anyway, have fun. I sure did. Ngl, whilst I wrote this one, it kind of became a laugh riot at Rafal’s expense. So, don’t kill me. I’ve done a lot of damage.

CONTENT WARNING:

If you do not like dark humor, graphic depictions of violence and injury, and/or do not like the thought of Rafal being physically tortured, please, do not read this fic, or read it at your own discretion. I do not want to upset anyone. So, that is why I’m telling you this now: that probably, by most standards, I’ve been really cruel to him.

The fic contains the following:

Alcohol, vandalism, book burning, physical assault and punishment (by the Pen), disproportionate retribution as revenge, some swearing on the milder side, depiction of injuries.

Thus, potential for violence in my TOTSMOV41 WIP aside, this is literally the absolute meanest I’ve ever been to Rafal.

And, Rafal is a bit of a silly goose (not in a good way) due to his impaired judgment. Though, I tried to keep him in character. Rhian should’ve grounded him in the absence of their parents. But it was too late.

Summary:

Rafal does some much needed “spring cleaning” to remove every trace of Vulcan from his tower and gets far more pain than he bargained for in return.

Or

Rafal has an idiotic episode after the resolution to the Vulcan fiasco while Rhian is oblivious.

Context:

This fic takes place during Rise, shortly after Vulcan’s murder and slightly before Rafal’s renovations to Evil and his torture of the Never students.

It is also somewhat plotless, so I could call it a character study. The exposition part towards the beginning was essentially my premise for writing the whump in the first place, which is why there is some lead-up prior to the action.

⸻

With an impish gleam in his eyes, Rafal blasted the glass display cases Vulcan had left behind to smithereens, spraying the stone walls and floors of his tower with razor-edged shards and splinters of glass.

Then, from Vulcan’s black desk, he dashed a cluster of black crystals to the floor for good measure.

The floor crunched underfoot with every step he took, a mosaic of inedible salt and pepper, as he whistled the shanty he’d composed, mentally gliding through the lyrics:

I asked the queen. . .

What is more pathetic than a Vulcan?

She said: Nothing I’ve seen!

He ground the shards into the grooves between the stone tiles, pulverizing most of what remained. The coarser flecks of glass dust caught in the traction of his boots, and it struck Rafal that he’d have to sweep up his mess before Rhian accused it of being a hazard to their eyes or lungs. Ah well. One more task to add to his steadily growing list. But it was all worthwhile.

No longer would his chambers be a stultifying “museum,” dedicated to the past exploits and conquests of that vile man. It was first and foremost his study.

Rafal sunk into one of the leftover black leather chairs, the one by the desk, and picked up the wineglass he hadn’t been attending to, swilling the garnet liquid around before taking another sip.

Just yesterday, when the brothers had supped together for the first time in six months, Rafal had gotten into an argument with Rhian about the restorations to be made to the silver tower and all the changes he’d already enacted in his School and its curriculum.

He would rather have lived in a bare cell than spend a minute longer in the company of Vulcan’s things, but Rhian had objected, saying the enemy’s furnishings were better than none at all.

And Rhian had further countered Rafal’s calls for immediate action, claiming they had all the time in the world, and to not be childish and impatient. With time, Rhian had said, he could devise a tasteful, new decorating scheme and between the two of them, they could even enjoy all the odds and ends Vulcan had left lying about in his wake.

Yet Rafal was having none of that. Their first order of business was not mindlessly pleasuring themselves but removal—no, it was the complete erasure and sterilization of the premises. That’s what would be done with the remains. Not the human ones though.

Rafal had eventually relented on that matter as Rhian had staunchly drawn the line at Rafal mounting Vulcan’s severed head on a wall as he’d once said. Thus, the head was discarded before it ever had the chance to rot.

Aside from Rafal’s efforts to claim a mortal trophy to no avail, everything else was proceeding smoothly—contrary to Rhian’s wishes. Rafal was still adamant that everything which so much as stunk of Vulcan’s musky cologne vanished from their sight as soon as possible. After all he’d endured to retake their School, he deserved to have his way, that much Rhian owed him.

Glancing out the window, he observed phase one of his plan already coming to a close as his chest swole with heady, vinous pride.

That very moment, thick, churning smoke laden with ash clogged the skies overhead, curling around Evil’s spires—physical proof he had retaken his School.

He stood up and inhaled the noxious fumes and drained the rest of his glass before setting it down again. He was recommitted all right. Here, he’d remain, ’til the end of time.

The spectacle far below was truly a sight to behold. Rafal had burnt the entirety of Vulcan’s life’s work in a great, purging pyre.

Gone now were the steaming, taxidermied bats, the mirror of molten, incandescent glass, the barechested portrait, warped and discolored, and more grotesque than ever, the deformed periscope Rafal had knocked the lenses out of, and the desiccated roses with their petals flaking off into the ether—it was all worthless memorabilia, everything, transformed into a charred, lifeless, amorphous mass that still smoldered this very hour, the objects caving in on themselves, the dying embers retreating into the disordered miscellany.

Rafal set his glass down, hesitated, and poured another up to the brim in celebration. The rising heat was hellish.

All that was left to do was buff away the gilded bats carved into the stairs and he would be rid of that loathsome viper forever. Then, his chosen renovations and agenda would commence, carried out by Humburg, his Stymphs, and the Man-Wolves.

But, he couldn’t get ahead of himself. He sipped from his glass, savoring the bitterness of the red wine, and set it down firmly.

Then he set to work, freeing the storybooks.

The benighted Vulcan had stowed the tales away in massive, black leather chests that had been ignorantly shoved aside, stacked slantedly like a slag heap in half-shadowed corners.

Coarse, drunken pirate. The imbecile was wholly unfit to direct the course of Evil’s future. Only Rafal could be capable of manning such an operation, charting such a course for the students once again under his eminent tutelage.

Hand aglow with black, he whisked his glass off the desk again, floating it over to himself, and took another swig before setting it on the floor beside him. He’d cleared away a small oasis for himself to sit in, until he swept up the shards decking the floors all around him.

The alcohol burned his throat, matching his surfacing rage as his head clouded.

No one would replace the storybooks on the tower’s shelves if he didn’t, he thought resentfully.

His brother had done enough damage already. Enough was enough. He wasn’t Rhian’s personal manservant. What a degrading role that would be.

But Rhian never remembered to clean up after himself, and the books had to get onto the shelves in some way or another.

Rafal exhaled. His brother was in dire need of a lecture, but first, Rafal carped to himself, the task of cleaning up lay before him.

He and he alone would restore the storybooks to their former, casual glory in their places of honor, just as the brothers themselves had been restored by the Pen.

Naturally, Rafal stacked all of Evil’s tales at the top of the tower’s shelves, for his own reference. Rhian surely wouldn’t quarrel with him after all the work was done.

Besides, it was true. Rafal was the only one willing to do it all. To forge order out of inscrutable chaos, mogrify the failed students at every class’ graduation, attend to the Stymphs, clean up the rubble, execute invaders, burn up the corpses—he took on all sins, all so his Ever brother wouldn’t have to lift a finger and stain his hands.

All for naught, was it?

No, Rafal consoled himself. Definitely not. Rhian couldn’t be trusted to do a thing.

Rhian was too cowardly and weak to handle the more gruesome chores on Rafal’s roster. He’d invited a numbskull substitute in, to replace his own brother with.

That batty substitute had no place in his School. Vulcan hadn’t even been a true Never. Not in name or in memory.

Rafal lifted his glass to his lips and tossed back more of his jewel-toned drink, blood and heat and vigor rushing to the surface of his alabaster skin.

If he had missed anything, every piece of evidence, every last little shred of a reminder would be burnt to the ground, even if it took both castles down with it, he decided right then and there. He would will it to happen.

He set his glass down on a stone tile.

No matter if the taxidermied bats could’ve raked in a tidy profit. He didn’t need material wealth when he had sorcery. The usurper’s mere presence had overstayed its welcome and Rafal intended to do something about it.

He picked up his drink again and downed half of it, swallowing the wine quickly as the rest sloshed onto the floor, glinting a deep ruby in the dim, afternoon light.

He scowled. More mess to clean up.

Rafal squeezed the fine, crystal stem of his wineglass with a vise-like grip. It snapped in two—just like how he would snap Vulcan’s spine in two, if the man ever dared return from the dead.

The glass had splintered under the pressure he’d applied, needly slivers sticking into his fingers, pricking his palm, until his pale hand was dotted with pinpricks of blood.

As always, the blood suctioned itself right in, drawn back by an invisible force, and the pinpricks sealed themselves up.

Rafal tended to cast off pain with ease, like it was just another one of his overcoats. By now, he was numb to little cuts like these, unlike his foolhardy yet absurdly delicate brother.

He scraped himself off the floor, up to his feet again, and staggered over to the last chest.

Then, he thrust the chest’s weighty lid back, and lifted out the first stack of storybooks.

His fingers grazed the gold-foiled title of the first book in the stack.

In a glaring, grandiose script, the tale’s cover read: THE UGLY DUCKLING.

Duckling.

Rafal grimaced as his temper flared, revulsion climbing up his throat. Then, his resolve hardened. He’d vowed to strip this place of Vulcan, and he would.

The other storybooks fell out of his grasp and clattered to the floor, face up at the one still locked in his grasp.

Duckling indeed.

Rafal flipped the front cover of the storybook open and tore out a single page.

The page sailed down and landed at his feet, settling lightly atop the broken display glass and fragments of wineglass.

Then, he grasped a stiff handful of pages, the heavy paper twisting, warping only slightly, and finally bending in on itself as he wrenched it apart from the book’s spine.

The paper’s edges sliced into his hand, drawing blood from cuts that vanished as soon as they appeared.

He let the handful he’d ripped out scatter to the wind.

Some pages flew out the window. Others dropped into the greedy, licking flames of the fireplace, curling in on themselves, blackening, joining the soot.

The rest of the pages, he extracted one by one, methodical in his process, tearing each painstakingly lettered sheet from its seams, which had been sewn together with care, as if he were plucking feathers from a wild fowl to be cooked—now, just a hollow, pageless shell of binding left in his hands.

Without a second thought, Rafal slung the storybook’s empty binding into the bright, steadily burning fire.

It caught on the fireplace’s grate, angled like a broken bird.

Rafal heaved a great sigh of relief. Gone. At last.

Then, fully satisfied with himself, he surveyed his efforts at cleaning up, even if the room looked worse than how it had begun this morning. Still, he cast his gaze over the terrain of reshelved tales, spilt wine, scattered glass and black crystal, and the few, loose pages pinned to the floor, wedged underneath the broken glass, fluttering in the breeze.

Despite everything, he felt accomplished.

It was only when he caught sight of the Pen, suspended and still, that he remembered he wasn’t alone. He was being watched.

Not long before, the Pen had stood, vertically suspended in the air over its lectern, its gleaming metal cool, but now, it scalded hotter and hotter, angrily searing hot as a branding iron. Then, it tilted, tip glowing red like a reproachful eye.

Rafal simply stared back, waiting for the Pen’s response. Yet, it did not move, a fact which puzzled him.

The Pen’s tip brightened to a blinding, radiant, white pinprick, as if it were readying itself to defend its tales from the scourge of Evil it had allowed to take up residence in its tower.

Rafal squinted at the light. What was it up to?

That was when he glimpsed something launching out of the fireplace in his peripheral vision.

The storybook’s binding rocketed out from its resting place, where it had nested in the grate, flying at him like a missile, sizzling through the air, like a shot bird with its flaming wingspan spread, its front and back covers open, its spine cracked.

A corner of the binding struck Rafal square in the eye. Hard.

Only one foggish, halfway lucid thought flashed through Rafal’s mind as he squinched his eyes shut: It was taunting him. Mocking his flight.

His face gnarled in pain as he doubled over before crumpling to the floor like an ungainly egret.

Splayed on the floor, Rafal hissed, clawing at his eye, knocking the smoldering mass away from his face. Then, he drew himself up into a crouch, his torso supported by shaking forearms, his hands pressed against the glass-strewn floor, jagged edges cutting through the fabric of his slacks at the knees and into his palms as he tried to sweep some of the fragments away.

Hell. Just Hell. He should’ve cleaned up sooner.

He supposed he was done with cleaning today, come what may, and that he should get started on the glass.

Yet first, Rafal strained his neck and examined his distorted, many-eyed reflections in the shards beneath him, prodding the skin near his wounded eye. His fingertips came away with bright blood.

A few areas of his face still bled slightly, gradually mending themselves, thin rivulets of blood trickling down his neck, criss-crossing in a fine, thorny latticework, ultimately staining his starched, white shirt collar.

He rose to his feet slowly and latched onto a shelf as he faltered for a moment, attempting to regain his balance. Then, he drew himself fully upright again, as if nothing had happened. And, with one hand still gripping the shelf’s edges, he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, the one, restrictive one that always pressed against the base of his throat, so he could breathe properly and catch his breath.

Rafal sighed in relief. He’d served the absurd, seemingly arbitrary punishment the Pen had dealt him and it was now well over with.

Then, the Storian moved.

His every muscle tensing, Rafal clutched the shelf harder as it creaked under his death grip, his knuckles white as bone. About to bolt for the open window, he realized his legs were stiff and cold, a cramp shooting through his side from his last fall.

Straight as an arrow, the Storian tore through the air toward Rafal, dead set on harming him.

By some miracle, Rafal caught the Pen, letting go of the shelf as he dropped to the floor, not without taking the entire floor-to-ceiling bookcase down with him.

Rafal willed himself not to scream as his eyes widened in horror at a great shadow looming over him, deepening seconds before the crash as vertigo overtook his senses.

Were the pages whirling around him? It couldn’t be bats amid those ink-hatched illustrations. It couldn’t! Not when Vulcan was gone. Not when Vulcan was dead.

As it neared, the bookcase grew larger and larger in Rafal’s sightline, rushing forward rapidly, encroaching on him, almost eclipsing him. Blood roared in his ears and rushed to his head tossed back at a perilous angle, right before he shunted himself back, turning, his back towards the storybooks’ spines, as books fell out at random, several hardcovers hitting his flailing extremities as they poured out and passed him by en route to the floor, one solid thud after another.

The bookcase had narrowly missed his core, but it had trapped his legs, pinning him to the floor, slowly leaching away his vitality as his head swum and his vision dimmed, turning to a feathery blur.

All the bones in Rafal’s legs had shattered upon impact, when he made contact with the stone, bone spearing through his split skin, drenching his pant legs in hot, rapidly clotting blood as he choked aridly on what little spittle he had, too parched to scream, blinking away the blackness at the edges of his vision.

His bones immediately started to knit themselves back together, but refused to heal completely, for, the soul-crushing force of the bookcase still bore down on him, mincing all the unrepaired fragments in his legs.

Leaning on his elbows, Pen still clasped tight his grip, Rafal set his jaw, soldiered through his faintness, and tried to drag himself forward, out from underneath the suffocating weight of history, scraping slowly over the flagstones still littered with glass.

Suppose his bones joined the shards. Then what?

He freed his hips and one of his legs, struggling further, but found he was effectively immobilized for the time being. Only his ankle was caught now, but it would’ve been unwise to dislocate his leg from its socket by yanking it any harder than he was already.

The structure of the shelf collapsed further, the more he struggled beneath it, like a snare closing in on a bird, threatening to cut off its circulation—but if he could just loosen his foot from these damn planks, it…

It was like the Pen wished to teach him a lesson by entombing him, entombing him here, under the weight of every fairy tale he’d ever taught.

Rafal’s face burned.

EVIL SCHOOL MASTER ENCASED AMONG MANUSCRIPTS—he could picture the words emblazoned atop every paper in the Woods, documenting this final humiliation, all the next day’s headlines shouting and blaring in Rhian’s face.

The Evers would pop champagne bottles. His students would dance over his grave—dancing in the chequer’d shade… come forth to play, on a sunshine holiday—how’d that line go? And which tale was it from?

Wrapped in a delirium, he thought of the sprawling tale of Satan’s fall. Demon, chastened and exiled. Hell. What had he gotten himself into? Hell.

At least Rhian would mourn him, he thought grimly, and shook his head, his rage simmering. The boards wouldn’t loosen around his foot!

Rafal swallowed a heaving breath and let it settle in his chest like a stone. There he lay on his bed of glass, still holding the Pen, now hoisting it aloft, over his stone-abraded face, as it glinted in the light, his arms outstretched in a perverse kind of victory, absolutely sloshed and nearly slain, by his own shelf, by his own Pen, by his own hand.

Another thought surfaced suddenly, unbidden: He could lift it all with his sorcery.

But at that thought, the Storian sparked to life.

Hell. That Pen. To Hell with it.

The ancient script running down the side of the Pen glowed and cast shadowy glyphs across the floor, refracted light catching in the glass, piercing Rafal’s eyes, and the strange markings heated, the Pen’s shaft scorching against his palms, causing Rafal to loosen his grip slightly as he tried not to let go.

Yet, the Storian prevailed and wrested itself from Rafal’s grip, slipping out from his fingers with ease, likely readying itself for a second wave.

Gritting his teeth, Rafal steeled himself for action, both hands alit as he at once summoned the last of his magic, drawing from his deepest reserves, from his lifeblood.

Working through his total exhaustion, he managed to lift the bookcase up at a modest tilt, by only a few hairs’ widths—yet that was enough for him to crawl out from underneath it.

He hauled himself up onto his feet again with most of his weight distributed on his better-healed leg, thinking about slaking his thirst, punishment presumed to be over.

Just then, a cool gust of wind blew in, battering the diaphanous, silver curtains Rhian had put up, as if it meant to revive him, and Rafal turned away from the Pen to the window.

That was the moment the Storian chose to attack with a new vengeance, redoubling its efforts against Evil incarnate.

Some unseen force from within the tower flung Rafal across the chamber, casting him onto his side as he skid across the dining table, long limbs catching in the folds of the tablecloth, his obtruding form sending Rhian’s once deftly arranged table settings—now clashing utensils and dishes and glasses—flying before they smashed against the far wall along with Rafal’s skull as he clenched his teeth at the sheer percussive force of the collision.

To wit, it had to be the Pen. What else? Rafal griped. A fairy-tale punishment fit for a fairy-tale villain?

His ears rang with the strident sounds of shattering bone china and clanging metal, ricocheting off the wall as plate shards rained down on him, the whole tumult reverberating like he was trapped in an echo chamber with a cavalcade.

The din resounded as his side throbbed and he kicked blindly at the bonds of tangled tablecloth wound around his legs. Part of the white cloth had settled over his head, draping like a sheet, and he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t see any of the ruins about him, much less sit up.

Finally, he tore the cloth back viciously, reclaiming his sight in a huff. Apparently, a singular knife had skimmed past his heart and had instead lanced through the flaccid fabric of his shirt, burying itself between the stone tiles.

Rafal groaned and turned over rigidly, his shirt tearing around the knife blade as he settled for lying prone, bloodied cheek to the floor, small cuts abound, droplets of blood blooming across his shirt and the tablecloth.

Then, Rafal rolled his eyes back to the ceiling and noticed the Pen hovering above him. He dealt it a withering glare from below, not yet beaten into submission, and reached upwards with tremorous arms to grasp at it.

The Storian appeared to glare back as it flitted out of his reach, darting back and forth archly as if to tease him, rendering all his exertion futile.

That was when the Storian made to invoke a final crescendo to complete Rafal’s torture. It descended on Rafal with an exhilarating swoop as the School Master shielded his eyes, burying his face in his shuddering arms, bracing himself for excruciating pain, fervid blood coursing through him as he tried to propel himself onto his feet and act, but he felt as if he’d sunken into the floor. He couldn’t move!

And the Storian didn’t hold back.

Its nib ripped through the back of his shirt, tip to flesh, sharp as a spindle, glowing with white-hot ire. It then raked over his exposed back, his neck, and the back of his arms.

Eyes watering insanely, Rafal hissed and rasped for breath, abject fury surging through his veins. A strangled gasp left his lips—he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been choked to death by his own slit throat.

One stroke after another, the Storian lashed across his skin, slashing with a capricious flourish.

He was sure that it intended to flay him alive, and he’d never gotten the chance to say goodbye to Rhian, he thought morosely, head dulling.

These cuts were worse than the time the vampiric, literal blood-sucking, ruby-throated hummingbirds of Akgul had swarmed him. The Never mining kingdom bred them specifically to flit around, slit the throats and tear to shreds the clothes of any passerby who ventured too close to the vaults which were filled to the brim with riches.

Those cuts had been shallow, mere scratches that had closed in a matter of seconds. These lacerations were flesh-deep.

And the Storian didn’t cease moving. Again and again, it slit open his flesh.

Rafal choked out another gasp and pressed himself into the serrated glass and crockery below him as if he could escape the terror above, and shifted onto his side, realizing his mistake immediately as he remembered.

The salt.

The night before, his routine dinner argument with Rhian had culminated in his act of hurling a glass salt shaker at his brother’s swollen head, for being pompous and self-righteous that day.

Naturally, Rhian had become upset last night—not just because he’d been clocked in the head and not just because Rafal had obstinately accused him of being an aesthetic-obsessed egomaniac—but because, of course, this all had happened after Rafal had already swept three dishes onto the floor that selfsame week and broken them.

Smashing the fine china had started to convert itself into a regular dinnertime event, much like an extravagant, exceedingly costly, burlesque sideshow. Predictably, Rhian had insisted that bone china plates were a rank pain to replace. And then, he proclaimed that if this, this breach, this delinquent conduct, continued, he would never dine with Rafal again. In sum, this was his tirade directed towards an unresponsive audience of one, one thick-skulled, unsympathetically glacial brother, all the while dramatically bemoaning Rafal’s dramatic tendencies.

Shortly after, both brothers had refused to clean up, each claiming the mess was the other’s fault, Rafal alleging that Rhian was the source of his provocation, that Rhian drove him up the wall and had thereby caused him to lose the plot—and break his tenuous accord with the Pen since it had last resisted his will over the matter of Aladdin’s placement.

And, the miserable result of these acts was that the salt shaker had cracked open and emptied all its contents—all over the very tract of tower floor Rafal had just rolled over onto. All due to the Pen.

Damn the little devil! Rafal fumed, writhing as his flesh was stuck by glass shards and the spilt salt needled its way into his fresh cuts, aggravating them. And his cuts weren’t healing! Instead they stung. Even the shallower scratches hadn’t closed.

The Storian sliced his front, nearing his throat, as he tried to suppress the feeling in his every nerve, awash with a sense of mounting dread as his own movements repeatedly caused him to be pricked by splinters of glass and the rough, tearing grit of the salt, recurrently entering his open wounds.

Why had he thrown the salt at Rhian when Rhian had simply asked him to pass it?

And now, he was paying for his deed. He’d only compounded this, this agony, and the Storian was making sure he knew it.

How much of an absolute sodding fool he was!

Rafal thrashed further, and spat blood in protest once more at the infernal Pen, choking on nothing but air as his tongue went dry and his voice died in his throat.

His eyes turned bleary and itched. It was as if he could feel his nerves drying out and dying with every passing second as the salt absorbed his blood, the skin around his cuts shriveling, even if the cuts themselves widened, rubbed, and stretched open by the salt and debris, which irritated him like sand would’ve, if not for the chemical burn—the prickling, electric flares of sharp, white-hot pain.

And yet, the corroding burn shocked him awake with a revelation, shearing through his senses that had been suffused with the duller pain’s veil.

What if this torment wasn’t just punishment for desecrating a storybook? It was a petty, Evil act, to be sure. But wasn’t that to be expected from him? Why would the Pen retaliate like this then?

And what if it wasn’t just punishment for vandalizing the Pen’s tower? What if he was expected to apologize to Rhian?

Never. What an indignity that would be, he rejected the idea like a foreign body, then stiffened at his first instinct.

But could apologizing be any worse than where he lay now? Perhaps, he should. If he lived through the Pen’s torment, he probably ought to.

In that instant, his vision whirled, reddening, and his body betrayed him, surrendering to the Pen as he blacked out.

⸻

Rafal’s breath hitched as he returned to consciousness. Had the Pen yielded?

He fought to turn his head as he glanced over at the Pen, watching him from across the chamber at a tilt.

Then, the Storian righted itself, stationed back over its lectern, dormant, as if nothing had befallen its master, once again turning a blind eye to Man’s treachery when doing so suited it, as it always did…

A fairy-tale punishment fit for a fairy-tale villain.

What scraps remained of Rafal’s shredded shirt clung to his lean frame. The fabric was soaked through with blood. He shut his eyes for a moment and inhaled. He’d have to peel it off in the bath, likely.

As he sat up, the muscles in his back twisted, exacerbating the pain of the gashes crossing his back, which still stung, continuing to bleed.

The blood loss wouldn’t be fatal, Rafal knew. But, he wondered whether the Pen would let it go on until he fell unconscious again.

His blood wasn’t clotting regularly and it was all the Pen’s fault, for its magical interference, preventing him from healing any quicker than he usually did.

At this rate, he couldn’t foresee the Pen granting him relief from these wounds—not when it believed he deserved to live so he could suffer. All he could do was staunch the bleeding.

Rafal clambered to his feet for what he hoped would be the last time, stumbling forward before he thrust out his arms to hold onto the edge of Vulcan’s desk and keep himself from falling.

He decided to seek out bandages, or rather, any strip of fabric he could tear, save for the tatters of his grimy, thoroughly bloodstained and oxidized shirt, which looked a rusted brown, far from its former, crisp, white state.

The curtains. The curtains would serve well enough. He hobbled over to them, lit his fingerglow to assist himself, and tore away a strip from the gauzy swaths of fabric, shooting the Pen another glare as he trod, breathless, towards the bathroom.

Once within the bathroom, he planned to run himself an ice-cold bath, but first, he’d run the cuts on his arms under the water for a while, to numb himself, so he could recover a greater range of motion.

No need to undress. His clothes were unsalvageable at this point, and he was certain his brother would agree.

Then, anticipating the reprieve of the biting chill, he bent over to turn on the tap, and did not realize that he’d overcorrected himself, headrush returning, knees buckling, as he pitched forward and slammed face-first into the faucet, passing out.

The bathwater continued to gush and his blood continued to flow forth, mottled bruises already forming across his severe pallor.

Rafal’s body slid partway into the tub, and he awoke minutes later, wracked with a dull ache, half his frame slung over the side of the tub, smeared with blood. His head jolted up, hit by the faucet a second time, as shock permeated his body, which was half-submerged in the frigid, faintly pink water. Not that he could truly sense the cold.

He tried to collect his bearings, but found he didn’t want to move any longer. Nor could he. But he figured he’d wait out the pain, or numb it. Whichever came first.

Albeit, when he sat up, extraneous heat still streamed through his body, radiating outward from his core to his extremities, and he doubted the swelling about his cuts would recede that soon.

Fortunately, he couldn’t catch a fever. He was immune to all illnesses… unless the Pen revoked his immortality. Though, he’d be fine alone. And besides, he had no time to brood.

Rafal stared down at the lacerations lining his forearms. New, youthful skin was already beginning to pave over his cuts, at an imperceptibly slow rate, even if the process hurt like Hell.

To pass the time and staunch the blood, he conjured up strands of gauze bandages that unspooled in midair, allowing them to turn rounds, to twirl and spin before his eyes for an infinitesimal moment before he seized them.

Then, he wound the bandages loosely around his arms, making a poorly-executed, overall hack job of it as his stiff, frozen fingers lacked the dexterity required to tighten them any further.

Well, that would have to suffice for his purposes.

But, no sooner than when he tied the last bandage did he realize the gauze on his other arm had to be replaced since it had leaked through, sopping red once again.

Nevermind.

A copious number of bandages dangled from his outstretched arms as he shuffled back into the main chamber of the tower like one of the undead.

There he sat as the day turned to dusk, stewing silently, tending to the rest of his wounds, awaiting Rhian’s return, applying layer after layer of rapidly reddening gauze.

At last, when he was partly wrapped up, he resembled a dehydrated corpse that would be preserved for the rest of time, forever bound to his duties, like one of the undead, who hadn’t the mind to know when to let go, tugged along by the colorless skein of an immortal life.

He didn’t bother to light a candle.

⸻

As Rhian ambled up the tower staircase, he hummed to himself under his breath and wondered if Rafal had left him any wine. His brother was often a spoilsport and Rhian wouldn’t have been surprised if Rafal had tossed their last bottle.

He took stock of his mental checklist while he continued on his ascent. He’d left Rafal alone for the day, after their tiff last night. Perhaps, Rafal would be ready to apologize. But Rafal was often stubborn, and Rhian suspected he was still sulking.

Brothers. They were such work.

The new furniture he’d ordered from Gillikin would arrive by the School’s shoreside tomorrow, so the place had to be spotless.

Without a doubt, Rafal had finished the spring cleaning by now. And petulantance aside, Rafal never could stand disarray, so surely, he could be trusted with that simple of a task.

Indeed, maybe the Pen really was on his side, and Rhian could check that item off his list now.

He set his foot on the next step, and flinched at a cracking sound.

Rhian peered down at a fragment of glass, cleft in two.

That was odd. Rafal had probably missed a spot when he’d taken out the rubbish, Rhian reasoned, his stomach turning with a twinge of anxiety. Nothing to fret about. Nothing at all.

Rhian knelt down and picked up the shards, stuffing them into one of his jacket pockets. He had to remind Rafal about sweeping up after airing out the place—speaking of which, not one of the windows Rhian had passed had been opened. The air was stale, and it seemed that Rafal had forgotten.

Rhian sighed. He would do it himself later, before his shower. He’d had a long day of curriculum reform as his brother had demanded he add a new section to Surviving Fairy Tales, about distinguishing Good from Evil, because, Rafal had jabbed, even Good’s Master direly needed a refresher when he’d invited the worst kind of Evil into their School.

As he proceeded on his climb, Rhian observed that the stairwell was coated in dust, like it had been beset by a cyclone of some kind.

Now, it wasn’t unlike the Nevers themselves to bathe in dust, but their School Master was definitely above poor sanitary practices, at least regarding himself, if not his renovations. And yet, every surface was saturated with dust, oddly granular dust, that drew blood when Rhian pressed a particle of it between his thumb and forefinger.

Rhian winced at the stinging sensation, knowing his pain would fade soon. Was this glass? He’d told Rafal he didn’t want to compromise their lungs! But Rafal never listened.

Rhian watched as the blood seeped back into his skin, that closed where he’d been pricked. Well… that was a comforting sign. His bond with Rafal was still intact despite last night’s conflict.

He made his way further up the stairs. It was a moonless night and he only had the stars to see by.

Stray storybook pages flapped in the stairwell, and the steps were riddled with more glass dust and drops of blood?

What if they had been besieged by another intruder? Another Vulcan? That would explain the glass. What if Rafal blamed him for allowing an uninvited guest to break in? Had he cast the entry-sealing spell when he’d left their tower that morning? Or had he been preoccupied by, by Storian knows what! He couldn’t remember now.

Heart thrumming, Rhian raced up the remaining stairs in a panic and flattened himself against the wall by the entryway to the tower’s main chamber, to listen.

All he heard was the echo of rustling paper and the cool night wind.

Rhian lit his fingerglow. It burned with warm, pure, golden light, gilding the stones around him. He would vanquish any threat that lay ahead of him. And if Rafal was there, they’d face it together.

Trembling, Rhian swept the presumably monster-clawed, blood-encrusted, silver curtains aside, unsure of what dark horrors he’d be met with in the confines of his own home.

Stepping softly over the threshold, he picked his way into the pitch dark chamber, gold fingerglow illuminating the space, as a scene of total carnage flashed into existence.

Rhian gaped as his eyes flicked across the blood-spattered floor, his light spilling onto it and bouncing back into his eyes. All he saw was pure upheaval. The fire had long since guttered out as it had consumed all of its kindling. An entire bookcase, overturned. Water, pooling out from beneath the bathroom door, circulating along the grooves between the stones. And the tales. They had clearly flown across the room, tossed about erratically, like they’d been subjected to a storm at sea. And—

His gaze landed on a stooped figure with a ragged, irregular breath, shielding its eyes from the sudden flare of harsh light.

Rhian’s breath caught. Was it a Night Crawler? Or some other lethal creature of the night? Some undead thing? He backed up.

Finally, Rhian’s eyes adjusted to the light—was that Rafal?

He squinted down at spikes of snow-white hair, matted with blood, then, eyes widening with recognition, surveyed Rafal’s baffling state of partial undress. Rhian’s distempered brother had propped himself up at the base of the fallen bookcase, and hadn’t risen from where he sat.

Rafal stared up at Rhian in the lit doorway without a word, his eyes hollow and vacant.

“I-I thought you were a monster.”

Rafal’s frown deepened. “Lovely,” he breathed hoarsely. “You’re not the first to think that.” He snuck a brief look at the Pen.

Rhian’s chest flooded with relief. It was only then, after Rafal had spoken, that Rhian’s fears had evaporated. He recognized his brother’s voice and was now certain he was with the living and not one of the undead, some sinister being risen from the grave with the intent of taking over their School.

“Where’s our intruder then? Have you burnt up the corpse?” Rhian wrung his hands, glancing around.

“There is none.”

Rhian paused for a moment, processing his brother’s words. “Then whose blood—” Rhian stopped, unnerved. “Yours? It’s yours?”

Rafal nodded, grim, and began to placidly wrap more bandages around his torso, tightening them with the aid of his sorcery.

With narrowed eyes, Rhian peeked fearfully at his brother’s back and almost passed out in shock. It was all cut up and bleeding, crossed by haphazard strips of overlapping bandages that hung off his arms.

Concerned, Rhian stared at Rafal, haunted by the bloody sight, until he found his voice. “Wh—” He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, trying to quell his nausea. “What happened?”

“The Storian.”

Rhian blinked at his imaginary monster, and gazed warily at the true monster, hard at work, diligently inking in a new tale, once and forever unmasked. It had been the monster all along.

What would they do now? Subdue it somehow? Though, Rafal’s trials were already over…

“Will it heal?” Rhian asked tentatively, wide-eyed.

“What do you think,” Rhian’s monster answered. “I’ll walk it off.”

That was when Rhian registered his brother’s resignation, and knew he should drop the matter altogether. But, he had one final question: “Why did it attack y—”

“Ice. Bring me ice.”

“But—”

“Now,” the Evil School Master cut out caustically. “And not a word about the Pen favoring Good.”

Stunned into dead silence, Rhian scurried away to fetch ice. The most damage always occurred within the shortest window of time.

Yet one fact held true in his mind: Rafal hadn’t learnt his lesson and never would.

⸻

Note:

I’d leap at any feedback you have! Please, if you’re up to it, I’d love to hear your reception of this fic, any thoughts, feelings, reactions, or concrit you have, any at all, especially as this is the most action and the least dialogue I’ve possibly ever written, given the unusual nature of the fic.

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m almost always willing to elaborate!

In addition, I’m not of a legal drinking age in my country nor do I have any inclination to drink. So, apologies if there are any inaccuracies regarding the alcohol use. You can certainly let me know what the errors are, if there are any.

Did anyone catch any of the references I made?

In writing this fic, I realized it diverged a lot from my previous ones because it relies more on imagery than dialogue, so I personally had to really push the envelope with it. In fact, this was probably the most difficult fic I’ve written thus far because I think crafting dialogue tends to come to me more easily than action sequences do, and well, this fic is almost all action.

(And I wanted the fic to feel cinematic, as if it were panning over a train wreck or a hazard zone the audience wouldn’t be able to peel their eyes away from. Yeah, I know. It probably sounds strange, that the desired effect I had in mind while writing this was “vehicular collision,” haha.)

Trivia: My use of “Pen” versus “Storian” was very intentional here. For some reason, I just intuitively found that it made some kind of weird sense to call it “the Storian” when it had an active role and “the Pen” when it was an object acted upon or mentioned, with a few exceptions. It just felt right.

⸻

I even wrote a rhyme for the fic:

He gets bruised—he was struck.

He gets burned; he gets cut.

All done by a Pen

While he’d been drained of his luck.

And all befell him while salty and drunk.

⸻

Playlist:

“Fall Away” - twenty one pilots

“21 Guns” - Green Day

“Save You” - Turin Brakes

“Enemy” - Imagine Dragons & JID

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[gale-gentlepenguin]

Power ask Rose Quartz/Pink Diamond

“Lacks feats to stand on” |“Weak sauce” | “Just a guy” | “For the streets level” | “City Smasher” | “Walking Nuke” | “ Continental Break-Fast” | “World shake that thang.” | “Supernova deez nuts.”| “Universal problem child.” | multiversal pain in the butt.| “Broken AF please nerf”| “They are probably in your walls right now

What’s interesting is that we don’t get a lot of feats from pink diamond.

Her best feat was her shield protecting her, Garnet and Pearl from the diamond triple blast. Which didn’t take the attack but really reflected it out. Protecting the earth… but corrupting every gem on its surface.

But we do know that Steven is a perfect stand in for pink as he has her gem and any powers he has. She would have.

And we know Steven (Kaiju form) overpowered the cluster, whose was so powerful that if it ever fully emerged would destroy the earth. Now since it was only one arm that we saw visible (so likely only a fraction of its power, we can’t say that Steven or pink are world level. We can argue she is probably the most powerful diamond though.

But based on their feats. She is a kin to country/continent level

[haphazardlyannotated]

Since I'm already thinking about pearlrose:

The fact that in giving Pearl the gag order, Rose deprived both of them of the chance to be forgiven.

If Rose hadn't banned Pearl from ever speaking about their past, they could have at least talked to each other after the corruption blast. It would have been messy and painful, but at least they would have been able to acknowledge to someone that, you know, all but one of their friends got turned into monsters as a direct result of their actions.

By giving Pearl a gag order, Rose made sure she would never find out that forgiveness was even an option for her. We get to see that she could have at least received some level of understanding in Now We're Only Falling Apart, but Rose died believing that she was unforgivable.

Pearl meanwhile can't even confess that she had a part in the 'shattering' of Pink Diamond. In Rose's case at least everyone knows that the corruption is a consequence of her actions, so Garnet can at least offer her some level of absolution for that. But Pearl? She can't even reveal that she also needs comfort for this, because for that she'd have to admit she had something to do with it in the first place.

Pearl must have pushed down the guilt for both lying to her friends and her role in getting everyone corrupted for 5700 years to keep her own sanity somewhat intact. Maybe that's why she seems to glorify the war the way she does. If it was all for a good cause, then maybe it was worth it, and she doesn't have to drown in guilt quite as much.

The most beautiful thing about all of this is, that when Pearl found a way to share the truth about what happened with her family, that information enabled them to finally fix it. She trusted her loved ones and it saved the day. And if that isn't the most Steven Universe message there is.