#hes not COMPOSITED yet but he is in fact shaded

[flufflecat]

one down, 3 to go

[starryeyedstray]

THIS IS THE FIRST TIME ANYONE HAS DRAWN FANART FOR ONE OF MY FICS AND IT'S DONE BY THE AMAZINGLY TALENTED ELLE?????????? AAAAAHHHHHH

TAKE ALL MY LOVE AND AFFECTION (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )づ♡

-

This fic has been haunting me for a hot minute so i decided to draw it out!! All credits go to @starryeyedstray, it's so so good please go read it and give it a like because i said so it's that good

[oceanlipgloss]

WATERCOLOUR

ANDREALPHUS.

+ warnings: angst, mentions of blood and death.

+ female mc, feminine pronouns.

Was this what it’s like to wash away one’s sins?

The water was warm on his skin. The sky may have been weeping blood above him, but that was just the shower. The enamel tub was dyed crimson, as though painted with watercolour. Molten garnets trickled down his pale flesh.

Soap makes foam that’s white in colour. Water is clearer than crystal. Red are the tears of his sick victims.

He couldn’t see, but she could; she watched the pure water turn a morbid hue. Ugly, turbid. She watched cherry-red get bleached into the shade of unhealthy peaches.

Water of nauseating colour.

Like watercolour it trickled down his closed lids. Tears of pale blood.

A vicious sight.

So much gore.

Starving burgundy snakes slithered with ominous slowness into the water. Were they his own hissing sins, or those of his violent destiny?

When he was a child, the world had bared its sharp teeth at him. He had so many enemies.

There are children who enjoy dipping their soiled brushes into clean water just so they can admire the way colour swirls and makes the liquid unrecognisable, changing its very identity and composition.

Despair is like that too at times, isn’t it...? Pain destroys some souls and mangles others beyond repair and recognition. The victims begin to wonder who they are, and whose mistake everything was.

Who was it that fucked up? Was it the people, fate, God? They themselves, perhaps? Each and all of those factors together?

So many questions, but no definite answer. Life’s complexity is a displeasure. Why do things have to be this way, stay mysterious forever?

Endless millennia to think about, thousands of subjects to ponder. There are those who have the time to contemplate, and those who disappear early. Maybe much too soon.

Her touch melted his skull. Soft. It was soft. With her breakable hands she tried to erase the evidence of his hatred. With her breakable hands she tried to clear the proof of his anguish.

Behind his lonely back, she radiated warmth.

The cold bathroom floor was wet with murky water under her feet.

Creamy was the scent of soap and rancid was the smell of blood as they twirled into one in the air, lacing the steam.

Everything could have made one feel queasy. Even him. He was marred, bloody.

Yet, with a swollen heart aching from heartbreak for his misery and lust for his body, she merely thought about how he was so sad and so very pretty.

He felt better, but she was only washing his hair. It’s not that important. It’s not permanent. Tomorrow he would once again think about something dark, something else.

Death can be nice sometimes.

After all, he was alone. He had no one. So had he not promised revenge, if it were not for bloodlust and justice, he would have liked to disappear, too.

+note: finally got around to finishing this WIP that's way past its expiration date. It's so old it was beginning to rot. Depressive episodes and stress normally paralyse my 'writing-brain,' but this was another one of those rare times in which that was not quite the case. I was still somewhat reluctant at certain parts, though that's pretty normal anyways—and surprisingly enough, I managed to continue writing with a sort of ease. Thank you to the torment for taking this damn WIP out of my way, I suppose.

On a side note, long before the game's ordeal I was clueless about how to continue all the 'What in "Hell" is Bad?' WIPs I had, so I scrapped 98% of them. As of now, I have one WIP for each of Leviathan and Andrealphus, but I'm stuck and still debating whether to finish them or scratch them out as well. Besides, the displays of greed and the in-game mess lowered my desire to write 'What in "Hell" is Bad?' fics to near 0. However, albeit the fact that I no longer feel compelled to do so, I guess I'll likely write if ideas visit me. Normally, it would be hard to resist writing an idea I like, of course.

+ MASTERLIST

+ AO3 POST

©𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

Thanks to an especially virulent strain of the winter flu, his headstrong boyfriend’s voice crackles and rasps; punctuated by the occasional rattling cough that shakes him to the bones. His skin is pasty. His lips are chapped. Every flash of animation, it seems, comes at a cost of energy he just doesn’t have, and eyeing the general detritus of Kleenex boxes and lozenge wrappers that litter the wooden coffee table, Oliver’s hard-pressed to remember if he’s actually seen him eat.

Elio’s been slouched on their tan three-seater since the first light of dawn: swaddled in an oversized sweatshirt and some plaid pyjama pants as he rifles through various files of staff paper and his ubiquitous notebook. I’d much rather fail at originality than succeed in imitation, he’d declared last Wednesday, lamenting each scathing critique from his pompous review panel, yet much as Oliver appreciates his righteous indignation, his protective instincts can’t help but bristle at the fact he sounds utterly miserable, to boot.

Thanks to an especially virulent strain of the winter flu, his headstrong boyfriend’s voice crackles and rasps; punctuated by the occasional rattling cough that shakes him to the bones. His skin is pasty. His lips are chapped. Every flash of animation, it seems, comes at a cost of energy he just doesn’t have, and eyeing the general detritus of Kleenex boxes and lozenge wrappers that litter the wooden coffee table, Oliver’s hard-pressed to remember if he’s actually seen him eat. 

There’s been plenty of herbal tea to soothe his scratchy throat. Nasal spray. VapoRub. A regular dose of Tylenol from the Walgreens two blocks over. But nothing that falls under the category of food. An untouched plate of toast on the nearby bookcase bears out his suspicions, so Oliver raids the kitchen cupboards for a can of chicken soup, then heats the contents on their gas-powered stove; wincing in sympathy when Elio convulses with a gut-punch sneeze, swearing and hacking in alternate breaths.

Several minutes of snotty sniffing later, Oliver turns off the burner then pours the simple meal into an old Columbia Lions mug: the one Elio’d claimed for his own upon his initial move to the States. The other man’s squinting at a dog-eared composition sheet when he eventually returns to the couch, and Oliver figures his blocked sinus is the culprit as he pinches the bridge of his cherry-red nose; probably trying to banish the cobwebs.

“Scoot up, Patient Zero,” he says, sitting down carefully beside him, and when Elio blinks sluggishly his mercurial eyes are nothing but dull slits of colour beneath his heavy lashes; the light of their freestanding lamp shade apparently too much to bear. “Tell me again how you never get sick?” 

Elio summons a gimlet glare. “I'm not sick; I’m dying,” he groans - the edge of a wheeze rattling the vowels - but he accepts the mug all the same, and Oliver hums indulgently as he sweeps an unholy assortment of balled-up tissues into a neat little pile. 

“Your stubbornness is commendable,” he says, pleased to see Elio make short shrift of the steaming liquid, if not the noodles themselves. “But do yourself a favour and get some rest, yeah?"

“Un mal nécessaire.” A yawn: barely stifled. “I have to finish these -” 

“Not today you don't.” Oliver rescues the mug from his slightly-drooping hand. “Even us creatures of habit deserve a night off.” 

Elio smirks; slow and playful. “Is that so?” he says, nodding at the Sophomore Ontology coursework partially obscuring the living room rug.

Which, yes. Fair enough. But -

“I’m still new to the syllabus,” Oliver replies, nudging him gently with his knee. “Professor Johnson’s lesson plans were shoddy at best. You, however, have a fever of thirty-eight.” As the flush on his sunken cheeks can attest. “So don’t pretend you’re not ready to pass out from exhaustion.”

A grunt is the only acknowledgement he receives, and Oliver’s all set to try a different tack when Elio slumps sideways like a stringless marionette. It’s completely proprietary - the way he claims his unsuspecting lap as an ad hoc pillow - but Oliver’s quick to adopt his role as a piece of human furniture, uncaring of the knobbly shoulder blade digging exorbitantly into his thigh.

Little victories, he decides, and reining in a grin, smooths the messy curls from his maestro’s clammy forehead. 

“Do you need anything else?” he asks instead, the slim column of Elio’s neck spasming amidst his muttered grumblings. “A blanket? Some water? There’s a fresh bottle of vitamins in the bathroom cabinet…”

“Just your support in these harrowing times,” Elio murmurs, the arm around his middle snugging tighter, so Oliver follows his own advice as he drags a knitted Afghan over the curve of Elio's body - fishes a dog-eared copy of The King Must Die from between the sunken cushions - then crosses his legs at the ankles as he settles in for the duration. 

[optimisticgrey]

If anyone asks:

Yes, I am working super hard today.....

On the idea that has occupied my thoughts for the last two days and for which I have drafted 6997 words.

And yes, I concede, the beautiful writing of @evverest made me steal her airport idea.

(If you haven't read it: in your neighborhood for your darkest times is one of the most beautifully alternate universe fan fictions ever)

Excerpt of my current attempt to drown my own thoughts:

They took the cab in silence, each of them contemplating what this might mean. Celeste was certain of it. She felt the nervous tingle in her fingers but told herself it’s just the drugs wearing off.

What else could it be?

A man she has known for a few hours? Unlikely.

The hotel lobby was decadent at best, indecent to the accomplished travellers’ eyes. Marble floors, high ceilings with oversized chandeliers, an opulent mixture of gold and red.

Celeste had never understood the appeal of dried plants stuffed in vases and yet, she did not seem to be able to evade them.

The lobby buzzed with activity. Lines of tired travellers forming in front of the counters. But a sharp-eyed concierge caught sight of her and waved her over.

Setting her bag down, Celeste reached for her wallet and passport.

“Good evening. Do you have a reservation? I am afraid we are fully booked,” she stated apologetically. Dark eyes, blond hair, a friendly smile.

Celeste returned the smile. “Dr. Celeste Horn, I do, in fact, have a reservation.”

“Welcome, Dr. Horn. Your husband is accompanying you?”

Celeste froze the fraction of a second, realizing they had not introduced themselves. She did not even know the name of the man she had invited to share her hotel room.

What a little sleep deprivation can do.

He started to object but Celeste only nodded, shutting him down with a single pointed look.

To her surprised, he complied.

“Yes. We need additional robes and towels, and a bottle of your finest dry wine please. What’s on the menu? Is the kitchen still open?” She handed over her credit card and passport without missing a beat.

“Certainly, Doctor,” the concierge smiled. “The kitchen will be open all night, as is the laundry. Today’s meals selection include a composition of lamb sliders served with pickled vegetables and stewed potatoes or grilled reindeer steak, seared and served with a rich red wine reduction sauce. In addition, a traditional fish stew made from fresh white fish mashed potatoes, onions, and a creamy white sauce is available.”

Celeste turned. “Darling, what do you prefer?”

He nearly laughed, a tingle of mischief in his eyes, but he smothered it down with a smile and a nod. “Reindeer steak, my love.”

Celeste turned back to the concierge, choosing to ignore the tingling sensation the soft tone in his voice sent down her spine. “Reindeer steak for my husband, I’ll have the stew.”

“Certainly, Doctor. Room service will be available all night, if you need for anything else.”

“Splendid,” Celeste noted, pocketing her card and passport.

The concierge’s smile turned a shade more knowing as she handed over the key card.  “Good night, Dr. and Mr. Horn. You’ll find your room on the top floor, first elevator on the left. We wish you a pleasant stay.”

Celeste shouldered her bag and, without hesitation, reached for his hand. He instantly slipped his fingers into hers. They waited in silence for the elevator and do not part as they enter.

They both made no attempt to part their hands during the elevator ride or when they entered the penthouse suite.

[nelithic]

　𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭　/　dancer mastery ₊

　　　　　　　　　　　　　❪ fell xenologue spoilers near the end. ❫

　　　　　　　　　　　　✶

two thousand years ago, she danced.

all day and all night. morning to night, to morning again. summer to winter, to summer again. her feet became calloused as a dancer's; her hands became cramped, her bones strained and at times shattered. she bruised, she bled, she rose again.

as with any performance, the stage did not end because she grew tired. the audience did not stop watching. she could not disrupt the formation of this finely choreographed production for such simple things as a sprained ankle, a mending limb, a broken heart. and as with any performance, they were not one or individual, but the whole — a cabaret of matching hisses and reptilian hides, fangs not one inch high or one inch low, a perfect row of smiling grimaces just as father made them. all day, all night, they danced. they were brilliant as gems were brilliant; they were each of them full of imagination because there is nothing that works harder than the mind in such darkness where the eyes cannot see.

and because they were each of them visionaries, one scale off of sombron after the next, the show would never end. put ten thousand artists upon a stage where each of them can dream the world but never touch it and the show will never end.

in her sleep she danced. she held pevar's hand in one and snapped his ribcage with the other, dragged the tines in to pierce his lungs. they spun whirlishly as he struggled to spill her innards with his last gasping breaths.

in her waking she danced, punctured teirvet's throat with her fangs, a bite like a lover's. her poison was teirvet's poison was the poison of each and every one of them; they had practiced this routine countless times, almost playfully, and for a time it had been the closest she thought siblings could ever be — a closeness gradlon's eternal bolero could never permit: they passed mere inches by each other with every step and never, never closer — but then teirvet like countless others had dared to slip, and with that, the unending rehearsal was pushed out before the house in yet another reenactment of the original sin, tearing curtains from the walls in its fever. even the congregation had fled in its wake. but their homeland's composition was a composition of error, made for missteps and casual casualty, or perhaps it should be said that it was in fact a pageantry of these very things. and so when hysterical daou had come at her too afterwards with rage over the death of his twin, with glee over the death of his twin, with excitement, with grief, with vengeance, with gratitude, screaming that he would get her until he was hoarse, screaming that he would get nil, that he'd taste his blood, that he'd kill him if she couldn't, he would kill him, killhimkillhimkILL HIM, in what other way could she have felt close to him but in a dance?

it was the only way any of them felt close to one another.

the only way any of them loved.

one thousand years ago, she danced this old dance again: the dance of siblings, of family, of loved and hated and scorned and cherished ones. it was the dance only they could dance — who closer than twins? of whose half neither would have lived nor grown without the mirror half, of whose bone marrow lived in synonym with the other's, loaned out like the heart loans blood to the hands and the feet in understanding that it would come recycled back someday.

they danced to the death, finally. as had always been meant to be and as she had been avoiding; as she had left gradlon avoiding but which, she always suspected, would find her nevertheless. their steps were long, long overdue, and now there was no audience left to watch. a gallery of corrupted, and false spectators from another world — shades, only.

it did not matter in the end that it was she who killed herself or nil who killed her or rafal who killed her or she who killed either of them. that the hands they had both been dealt stained and redeemed the blood that flowed.

all that mattered was that it had finished. the curtains would finally close. the stage would empty into the wings. the house would never fill again.

[tangleweave]

{ Spicy Consent } ( @brooklynislandgirl​ )

“Does that feel good?”

The question might seem innocuous, maybe even oddly irrelevant given the fact that the mattress beneath their knees buckles gently under them. That Vision’s shirt has been cast aside to parts unknown but likely found a home on the floor aside or atop her own. He has allowed her to feel his new flesh before; taking in the hue and texture and offering advice on just how close to human his efforts passes for, knowing as he does exactly how sensitive she is to such things. In turn, maybe out of fairness and maybe out of curiosity about the nature of their relationship, she’s allowed him to touch her in equal measure. To draw conclusions based on her skin ~soft, pliable~ based on his physical receptors, his direct visual input, whatever system he has in place that allows him to breath in and smell her, the combinations of her skin, her essential oils, and shampoo.

This is different.

Her breath is strained both by nervousness over the newness, but more particularly the way his eyes seem to bore beyond hers and right into her soul. The way his fingers stroke along her collar bones in mirror fashion to how she caresses him slowly, carefully stirs feelings she isn’t used to. Do the memories of his previous incarnation hold any sway over him? She knows that particular iteration of him had his own witch ~does this suggest subconsciously that he has a type?~ and she does not presume they were entirely chaste. On the other hand, is he even really the Vision she’d known in the past? He might recall moments long since past but that doesn’t necessarily mean he has the same experience of them. Is this as new for him?

Then there’s the lingering whisper of doubt, silky and dark, in the back of her mind; that being a synthetic sentient- he may not have the same needs and desires as another human ~or at least some very close kin~ might have. She can’t stand the idea of objectifying him even in this tender way. It is bad enough that they wanted to make a weapon of him.

Her fingertips flutter at his hip where they’ve come to stop after trailing down his side in her thus far serene exploration. The wall of his chest is surprisingly warm against hers. Her tongue skims her lower lip before drawing it between lightly pressing teeth. Her other hand rises and cups his cheek. Her eyes gleam with unspoken invitation, a yearning hunger to kiss him.

~*~*~*~

Never has Vision been human. He has been a voice without form... a scarecrow with a brain... a tin man with a heart. He has shared in that which humanity offers. Compassion. Humility. Determination. Celebration. Despair. Frustration. Vindication. Fear. Relief. Community. Solitude. Intimacy. Desire. Love. Life. Death.

But he has never been human.

Yet, from the first moments of his existence, he has observed, analyzed, and admired the beauty present within flaws and failings... not merely within humanity, but also the world they inhabit. Perfection and order have their place in the universe, of course, but to achieve true perfection and balance? It would require such distribution of resources and elements that it could never be accomplished in a trillion lifetimes. And what, truly, would be accomplished, beside absolute sameness? Identical distance between all things... identical composition of all things.

No. Perfection of this magnitude would be impossible, unachievable. And so, there must be chaos. There must be disorder. There must be flaws. There must be the ebb and flow of creation and destruction. Waves rising and then breaking against the shore, only to recede back into the ocean again.

There must be that which is hard as vibranium... and also that which is soft as flesh.

Here and now, he does not need to retain the hardness of his base form. The ivory-shaded shell which houses all of the parts and pieces, all the wires and circuits which comprise his structure... it is what he is made of, yes, but it is also malleable to a degree only the Wakandans ever explored. The most versatile metal known to humanity.

To share in the truth of intimacy requires vulnerability. That willingness to cast aside armor that guards against injury, be it physical or emotional, and exchange it for what is soft and gentle. And Beth is the very definition of these things, both in body and in soul. He does not need his hands, his digits, any tactile sensory input to confirm this as fact... but that he employs these things to do so anyway is a core element of being.

Not even being human. Being sentient. Because existence would be an intolerable sufferance in isolation, and that which exists and knows it does, craves connection, and will seek it until it is found.

To feel Beth's touch upon him now, to feel her seek that connection on the most human of terms, bids his heuristic reasoning to offer her flesh, contact, connection which is just as soft and gentle as her own. He has had many opportunities to explore the nuances of human flesh. The pliability of skin, its frictive qualities when moisturized or dry, the hardness of muscle at various levels of strain. He has done his level best to recreate, through both unlocked memories and more recent trial and error, the humanoid body he had once perfected for the sake of both stealth and connection through intimacy.

But his concern over how those curves and planes feel to Beth is set aside when she asks him an entirely different question. She asks him how being in contact with her feels to him.

He has never been human.

For a machine, such a question would seem wholly ambiguous, too broad and subjective to garner a satisfactory answer. But he understands what she means by the inquiry -- she wants to know if her touching him is a pleasurable experience. She is offering him the opportunity to course-correct if it is not... or even to put a stop to it, if he so desires.

He has a nervous system, of course, but his synthetic nature means endorphins are not a part of the equation. He relies instead upon what can be quantified. Even by the standards of humans he has been in physical contact with, she is soft. Her hands are normally cool to the touch (he has heard more than one observation that they are occasionally "like ice" despite never approaching anything near zero degrees Celsius) but now, they are nearly approaching her core body temperature as they drift across his form.

Those gentle touches, paired with the look on her face -- open, inquisitive, vulnerable, and anxious -- are evidence enough that she is giving all that she can, the best she knows how. And that is far more than enough. Because while Beth has been extraordinarily generous, Vision knows, perhaps better than most, how her heart has suffered unconscionable bruising, through circumstance, genetics, and family politics.

Given the pain and humiliations they have both experienced, it defies reason that they should be in so vulnerable a position now. Together. Sharing space upon her bed. He is a mechanical ghost, and she is a shapeshifting blood witch. There could be no greater mismatch in the history of Earth. It would have been more than enough for her to shelter him, and he would never have imposed further upon her.

But in sharing their grief, their guilt, and their sorrow... something beautiful had taken root and blossomed.

She has offered him the space of her home out of the kindness of her heart, but these moments they share now... these are hard-won. They are earned.

He has never been human.

But he does not need endorphins. He needs simply that truth. And that is what makes this feel good.

His palm presses against the base of her spine, and he adjusts his coolant flow, allowing warmth to build up that he can impart to her. He looks into those shimmering eyes, shades of amber and emerald in contrast and yet in harmony with one another... and when she touches his face, he turns slowly into that palm so that he can press his lips to the meat of her thumb. And when his lips part, they brush a murmur of his personal truth against her palm, his warm exhale landing against her own lips, mere inches from him.

"It does.”

His other hand lifts up to cup to her cheek, mirroring hers upon him.

“You are the passion of my senses, and I cherish your every touch." 

The tip of his nose is nearly brushing against her own now, and he realizes a desire welling up from some place far beyond his collection of heuristics. Something born not from his logical reasoning... yet seems so very logical an act. Because what else could be appropriate for two people in such a position of entanglement?

He wants to kiss her.

"And as for you?" His murmuring tone now descending to a whisper. His thumb sweeps along the arch of her cheek, his hand at her back holding her just a little firmer against him. His lips drift ever closer to hers, until her breath and his are intermingling in the diminishing space between. "Does this... feel good?"

[clouds-of-wings]

'"When Music, heavenly maid, was young," begins the ode; but Music, heavenly maid, seems to me still so young, so very young, as scarcely to have made her power felt. Her language is yet unlearned.

When a baby of a month is hungry or in pain, he contrives to make the fact understood. If he is at peace with himself and his surroundings, he leaves no doubt on the subject. To precisely this degree of intelligibility has the Heavenly Maid attained among us. When Beethoven sat down to the composition of one of his grand harmonies, there was undoubtedly in his mind as distinct a conception of that which he wished to express, of that within him which clamored for expression, as ever rises before a painter's eye, or sings in a poet's brain. Thought, emotion, passion, hope, fear, joy, sorrow, each had its life and law. The painter paints you this. This the poet sings you. You stand before a picture, and to your loving, searching gaze its truths unfold. You read the poem with the understanding, and catch its concealed meanings. But what do you know of what was in Beethoven's soul? Who grasps his conception? Who faithfully renders, who even thoroughly knows his idea?

Here and there to some patient night-watcher the lofty gates are unbarred, "on golden hinges turning." But, for the greater part, the musician who would tell so much speaks to unheeding ears. We comprehend him but infinitesimally.

It is the Battle of Prague. Adrianus sits down to the piano, and Dion stands by his side, music-sheet in hand, acting as showman. "The cannon," says Dion, at the proper place, and you imagine you recognize reverberation. "Charge," continues Dion, and with a violent effort you fancy the ground trembles. "Groans of the wounded," and you are partly horror-struck and partly incredulous. But what lame representation is this! As if one should tie a paper around the ankle of the Belvedere Apollo, with the inscription, "This is the ankle." A collar declares, "This is the neck." A bandeau locates his "forehead." A bracelet indicates the "arm." Is the sculpture thus significant? Hardly more does our music yet signify to us.

You hear an unfamiliar air. You like it or dislike it, or are indifferent. You can tell that it is slow and plaintive, or brisk and lively, or perhaps even that it is defiant or stirring; but how insensible you are to the delicate shades of its meaning! How hidden is the song in the heart of the composer till he gives you the key! You hear as though you heard not. You hear the thunder, and the cataract, and the crash of the avalanche; but the song of the nightingale, the chirp of the katydid, the murmur of the waterfall never reach you.

This cannot be the ultimatum. Music must hold in its own bosom its own interpretation, and man must have in his its corresponding susceptibilities. Music is language, and language implies a people who employ and understand it. But music, even by its professor, is as yet faintly understood. Its meanings go on crutches. They must be helped out by words. What does this piece say to you? Interpret it. You cannot. You must be taught much before you can know all. It must be translated from music into speech before you can entirely assimilate it. Musicians do not trust alone to notes for moods. Their light shines only through a glass darkly.

But in some other sphere, in some happier time, in a world where gross wants shall have disappeared, and therefore the grossness of words shall be no longer necessary, where hunger and thirst and cold and care and passion have no more admittance, and only love and faith and hope and admiration and aspiration, shall crave utterance, in that blessed unseen world shall not music be the everyday speech, conveying meaning not only with a sweetness, but with an accuracy, delicacy, and distinctness, of which we have now but a faint conception?

Here words are not only rough, but ambiguous. There harmonies shall be minutely intelligible. Speak with what directness we can, be as explanatory, emphatic, illustrative as we may, there are mistakes, misunderstandings, many and grievous, and consequent missteps and catastrophes.

But in that other world language shall be exactly coexistent with life; music shall be precisely adequate to meaning. There shall be no hidden corners, no bungling incompatibilities, but the searching sound penetrates into the secret sources of the soul, all-pervading. Not a nook, not a crevice, no maze so intricate, but the sound floats in to gather up fragrant aroma, to bear it yonder to another waiting soul, and deposit it as deftly by unerring magnetisms in the corresponding clefts.'

-- Gail Hamilton: Gala-days (1863)

[kiigan-archive]

"...I don't even know where we are."

If it came down to the most simplistic reasoning, only two options were available at the moment: either something had happened to Sasuke, or something had happened to Itachi himself. Perhaps a third option, where something had happened to both of them.

The last decade.

The last decade, to him, was a run-up from seeing a war field for the first time to becoming ANBU captain. Graduating from the academy, watching Tenma die before his eyes, becoming as tight with Shisui as friends can ever be, carrying in his arms a small, warm bundle that would scream from the top of his tiny lungs every time someone who wasn't Itachi dared to hold him. And, in the span of those ten years, surely there was no room for his brother shifting from not-born-yet to a grown teenager. Definitely, fever dream territory.

Just like that, however, all else lost importance when the first bout of coughing squeezed blood out of Sasuke's insides. In that precise moment, Itachi's entire demeanor changed; not a subtle change like the grey slivers of dawn slowly entering a dark night sky. This change was a whole table being flipped unapologetically. Teenager or an eight-year-old child, if this truly was Sasuke then he took priority over the rest of the world.

"We can figure this out later. Right now, I need to get you to a hospital."

Quickly, Itachi checked himself for any personal belongings other than the strange ring -never mind nails painted in a shade of dark indigo- and the necklace he could also feel around his neck. He found a pouch of shinobi gear, but it was empty save for the single shuriken left within and what seemed to be... a small bottle with some sort of medicine? It was unlabeled, however, and he wasn't about to offer it to his brother without knowing the composition. Not even a bottle of water or a soldier pill, unfortunately. Think, Itachi. Think.

"Sasuke-" Kneeling by his brother's side, Itachi reached a hand to gently dab the blood away. "Do you know where we are? At least a vague location?" That would already solve half the problem. Itachi had memorized every rest point existing between Konoha and every of the other four main hidden villages; if he could get even basic directions, he could figure out the nearest safe haven. There was the issue of his own exhaustion slowing them down, but it shouldn't be too terrible. Save for the burns along his right arm and the smear of cuts and bruises a little all over his body, Itachi couldn't find anything else of note. In fact, some sort of vague instinct was telling him this was the healthiest he'd been in a long, long time; as if his body had grown so used to some kind of chronic suffering that battle wounds wouldn't begin to compare.

"Don't worry," he said to his brother in the same loving tone, moving Sasuke's arm carefully to leave it around his own shoulders, so that Itachi could support both their weight as he stood up, "You're going to be all right."

As much as Sasuke would enjoy standing upright, the last of his energy was siphoned by his technique. Only the shock and adrenal rage kept him on two feet— now balanced on the ball of one foot and knee digging into the ground. He wanted to sustain his anger, keep his mind spinning on theories of what is happening, figure out if this was genjutsu, a genuine dream, or a bad hallucination. There were moments where he was sure he was dead and this was a final goodbye from Itachi to him as a parting of his oh-so goodwill.

Gritting his teeth, he exhaled heavy and inhaled light, forcing his breath to steady and his body to cease its exhausted shiver. Real or not, he needs to return for someone to retrieve his body, so that he may escape this cold, muddy area by nightfall. The focus didn't come easy, seeing as this kid-tachi rounded around his body to stare him in the face once more, as if to taunt him.

No energy to move, he allowed the small hand to rest on his ( only for now )," what the Hell are you talking about? You should be the one telling me what happened."

Sasuke's curled his fingers into a fist trying to make sense of it all. "Do you at least... remember why I am here?"

Mouth agape, flecks of blood coughed out onto his open lap. The rising inflammation and injury were flowering with him along with fatigue, hunger, thirst, and undeniable ache. By now, he would have returned to Karin for her strength and expertise to heal over the superficial wounds, but he was delayed.

For now he rots.

He coughs again, a little more blood than the last," if you don't remember that at all.. then I don't think I can tell you anything. You would have forgotten the last decade..."

Exit the words, enter the dread. Oh Amaterasu, if Itachi didn't remember that all... then was all of Sasuke's suffering...

The thoughts are suppressed for now. He can cry about it later. Once more, he tries his hand at standing only to stagger forward onto both knees now, palms firmly planted into the ground, on his last leg of stability.

[young-artist-ai]

Sketches of a comics.

When I wanted to draw a comic based on fan fiction, I chose this one, despite its length and complexity of composition. The fact is that YOU CAN NOT DRAW ANYTHING AT ALL, ESPECIALLY ARTHUR'S FACE, BECAUSE HE IS BLIND 🤡

In general, speaking of composition, it also attracted me. At some point I realized that now when I read something, I automatically imagine it in the form of a comics. And when I read this work, I realized that it is built more on conversations, feelings and plot twists than on pictures. The narration comes from the face of Arthur, whose face is almost completely wrapped in bandages. Therefore, in order to convey to the reader his worldview, the entire comic will be in black and white shades, not counting things whose color Arthur knows. Also, the environment will be undrawn and blurry, because Arthur barely imagines it.

It will be wonderful if by the end of the comic there will be people who have not read fan fiction yet, because THIS CAN ONLY BE EXPERIENCED ONCE. this work, even in the form of a text, is included in the category of those that are being talked about: "Erase my memory, I want to see this masterpiece again."

Although the people from here will still get acquainted with the plot just through my comic, because I don't think there will be those among you who want to read Russian fan fiction.

[imaginativeamateur]

Hi! Congrats on 500 followers! I absolutely love your blog, and I'm so happy to see it grow and achieve new milestones!

I would love to make a visit to Ramen Ichiraku :)

Table 1, 1 bowl of Shoyu ramen with Chashu and Wonton, with some Green Tea, please!

Arigatou gozaimasu!

[Kakashi Hatake X Reader] Let the Rain Kiss You

|500 Followers Event|

Order: Table 1: Shoyu Ramen with Chashu and Wonton, Green tea

Pairing: Kakashi Hatake x fem!Reader

Note: Hey!! Thanks for placing an order! This one is a bit different from the style that I've been writing in, I wanted to try something different :D So definitely let me know what you think! Without further ado, please enjoy your ramen!

Mid-summer rains were for flowers to bathe their shying petals in serenity.

Mid-summer rains were for memories to drop by and once again relive…

You were having an uneventful day at the bookstore where you were landing a part-time job at. It was summer and dewy raindrops pounded at the front steps melodically. Your bookstore was located in the outskirts of the village, quite far from where the downtown hustle was, making it even more solemn on days like this. The sky started to pour at four and it was six by then with customers so few that you could recall which sections they stopped by without hesitation.

One more hour until closing time and you found yourself bending languidly across the desk, eyes gazing over the green grass just outside the glass window. The ticking of the clock and dulcet songs playing in the background brought reminiscence to you as you watched the clear droplets hitting the leaves then gliding smoothly against the flourishing surface. You remembered the first time you came here and immediately fell in love with the tranquility the place possessed, from the wooden shelves packed with paperbacks to the windows that would glow misty every time it rained—it was relict yet refreshing in a mesmerizing way.

Your thoughts were disconnected when faint footsteps approached the entrance. A silver-haired man calmly shrugged off his drenched flak jacket and got inside the store. The droplets of water fell from the tip of his hair and trailed the outline of his sharp jaw. One of his eyes was covered with a forehead protector—the Konohagakure symbol shining brighter with a layer of water atop. Though you were unfamiliar with Konoha’s Shinobi and never went outside of your village for the entirety of your lifetime, you were able to detect a powerful aura emanating from the man.

You stood up from your seat abruptly to welcome the newly arrived customer with a bright smile, “Hello, how may I help you?”

He scanned the whole storey and put his hands into his pant pockets, seeming dejected. “I don’t think what I need to find is here.”

“May I know what books you're looking for?”

He thought for a moment and looked around once again before clearing his throat, “… Some poetry would be fine.”

You were puzzled. Your store was full of poetic compositions, from hundred-year-old ones to the most recently published ones, but he just said what he was finding was not here. Albeit confused, you made your way around the desk and walked closer to him. Only then did you realize that he was dripping wet.

You wearily offered, “I think it’s best if you can come in and dry yourself a little.”

He nodded and smiled humbly, “That’s very kind of you.”

-----

In fact, Kakashi was on a journey for his mission when it rained and he could not find a roof to seek asylum—none besides a lone storey that stood out at the border of the forest, not too far from the center, but distant enough to preserve its own peace and quiet. When he came closer, his hope faltered when the place turned out to be a bookstore, not an inn. But the girl was benign enough to offer him some hospitality. Though he noticed that she was cautious of him, she still guided him through the hall and into a larger room, surrounded by old bookcases with a mystic scent of forgotten beauty.

“Please wait here if you don’t mind,” she whispered, “I’ll go get you a towel.”

Kakashi settled himself on a bench, resting his head against the side of one of the shelves when she stepped out of the room. He could see the last weakling rays of the day shining through the glass windows, casting a warming yellow tone on the ancient volumes neatly placed on the bookcases, pleasant to the eyes. His thoughts slipped at the slight cracks of her footsteps approaching and the gust of wind that billowed into the room once she opened the door.

She carefully handed him a plain white towel, her gaze never left the floor in the process. The space was accommodated with comfortable silence and the rhythmic raindrops being the only sounds making their way through the little creak of the partially agape glass panes. Kakashi dried his damped hair with the towel, inhaling the subtly sweetness from the soft fabric, the furrow of his brows unconsciously loosened themselves.

The last exquisite glimmers finally dimmed, leaving the warm lamplight draping the room with pleasant hues of amber. She had long disappeared behind the shelves, swiftly strolling along rows of different compositions, looking for what he—an unexpected, special customer—asked for. Kakashi did not notice the moment his visible eye started trailing her petite figure across the room, following her lithe steps as she turned side to side in her search. He could not help but wonder the peculiar thoughts that quickly entrenched his mind—Kakashi suddenly felt oddly sedate.

-----

You came back with five books of different thicknesses and covers in your arms, sweats glimmering on your forehead from the quite strenuous expedition. You placed the books down one by one while explaining with faint pride, “I didn’t know what you like specifically, so I picked out five different styles for you to choose.”

You looked up with glinting orbs but your face immediately flushed a deep shade of pink when you saw his still slightly wet top glued to his defined frame, outlining the muscles underneath the thin layer of black fabric. Your eyes drifted outside the large window, pretending to admire the night rain, clearing your throat in embarrassment. He seemed to have noticed your flustered state, a low chuckle vibrated in his chest as he leaned forward to draw in one of your picks. The sudden closure of the distance between your body and his made you flinch, instantaneously stepping back, and missing your footing carelessly.

His hand flung out of instinct, grasping tightly around your wrist, pulling you back from landing on the hard wooden floor. Yet, with the strong force that he was used to exerting in his training, your dainty figure was forced into his bosom in a mere second, too fast for you to register everything. When you finally realized that your palms flattened themselves against his broad chest to cushion the impact and the beating of his heart was right under them, you gasped in surprise.

-----

Kakashi peered down at her with his only visible eye, sophisticated gaze scanning her body for any injuries. Seeing that she was still staring at him in shock, her hands right on his chest, he felt another surge of warmth flowing through his heart, leaving his mind in a daze. Kakashi gave her an assuring grin, and she snapped back into reality, hastily standing up from his lap, looking at him timidly as she scooted farther away. He felt empty when she escaped from his embrace. The cold air surrounded Kakashi almost instantly after she got up made him a tad unsatisfied.

He reached forward again for the leather-cover book, flipping through the first few pages with elegance. She stood there and watched silently, not daring to make a single noise. Though his eye was fixed on the pages, his focus was on the figure standing at the other side of the table that was rubbing her hands together out of nervousness.

“I like this one,” he blurted, trying to assuage the invisible tension.

Her eyes lit up and the familiar smile returned to her lips, making Kakashi smile too.

“This one is an old publication,” she explained as she led him back, “I remember seeing this one around when I was four or five.”

He took the paperback with one hand, the other grabbing the green flak jacket hanging from the hook, “It’s probably a great one for sure.”

Kakashi left when the rain stopped, with poetry in his hand and her smile in his heart. When he was finally able to find an inn and settled in for the night, he held the book once again in his hands, smoothing the cover with adoration. The title graced in silvery read, “Let the Rain Kiss You.”

-----------------

Taglist: @dai-tsukki-desu @thenightfallingstar @animepickle7 @simping-master-69 @tirzamisu @rinnegankakashi @the-tiniest-one @greenshirtimagines @theacevampire

[paintingdragonfeathers]

Whew! Survived Nekocon 2022! But no rest for the wicked—I immediately went home to finish packing things for the movers this weekend. Then I can get back to creating AAAARRRRTT.

Thank you everyone who stopped by the Painting Dragon Feathers booth in the artist alley and either taking home some art or signing up for commissions, and thank you everyone who came to the “Dragons, Cryptids, and Dinos, OH MY!” Panel. While it was only my second time ever vending at Nekocon, and my first ever pro-row booth, it was one of my most successful conventions to date! And thank you cosplayers for showing off your craft!

Special shoutout to my stellar friends and booth beard for all their help manning the booth and keeping us all sane over the weekend.

I also had a chance to meet some new faces and make some new friends. And I had a humbling interaction with a particular congoer—a young man approached my booth and said he came to the con specifically to see ME and my work after seeing it on social media.

This is already heartening as it’s proof my social media posts don’t end up yeeted into the void, lol.

Anyway, this young artist came seeking advice on how to pursue a career in the arts as he heads off to college. Now, I’ve looked out for and helped newbies and first-timers in artist alleys over the years, but this is the first time someone made a pilgrimage to talk to me. I can remember when I was in his shoes, and now with close to a decade of experience between college and cons, I had a split-section realization of “Oh crap…I’m an ADULT ARTIST and can offer this kind of advice.”

So, I didn’t sugar coat it—I was frank that I was very fortunate to have a foundation of supportive friends and family to pursue the arts in school, and as a career I’m at the point where it’s still feast or famine, but I encouraged him that perseverance is key. A lot of times something worth doing is a long gambit and requires patience since stuff rarely happens overnight. A typical rule of thumb I go by is for small businesses of most ilks (including creative work) they tend to either gain traction or “fail” between 4-6 years. Fun fact, until the pandemic hit and set EVERYONE on the planet back, I started gaining traction as a professional artist at years 5-6 of Painting Dragon Feathers. It’s good to be ambitious, and it’s healthy to be pragmatic; I’ve seen so many talented writers and artists flounder because they lack a lick of business sense and don’t know how to apply their skills. And that a lot of skills, whether creative or business-y, can be learned.

I told him that there are so many resources—books, online groups, etc.—that can help him make connections, study artistic principles, and learn the trade to make life as an artist easier. And when he showed me some samples of his art, I could tell based on his expressive line work and composition that he has the creative chops. I recommended him which digital art programs (something he asked about) and tools best emulate traditional media, yet emphasized that it is just a tool, and that you still need to know the principles of art—shading, hue, tone, composition, etc.—whether you’re picking up a paintbrush or a stylus.

All in all, I count myself blessed that I have had excellent guidance and mentors myself over the years from bigger, “adultier” artists, and that if I can hand down some of those sparks and advice to make younger artists coming after me walk a smoother path while I’m still learning and bushwhacking the road for myself, then I’m doing something right at the end of the day. I have no doubt that that young gentleman is gonna go on and create cool stuff.

Go forth and make cool things young artists. The world needs them, and you never know who’s watching your work. And my digital mailbox and art booths are open if you want some wisdom too. ;)

#nekocon #nekocon2022 #nekocon24 #convention #anime #animeconvention #artist #artistalley #cosplay #cosplayparade #costume #fursuit #furry #lifeadvice #paintingdragonfeathers

[synchronousemma]

13th December: Riddles of every sort

Read and comment on WordPress

Read: Vol. 1, ch. 9; pp. 44–45 (“The Picture, elegantly framed” through to “Miss Smith could inspire him”). Context

Harriet’s portrait is hung in Hartfield. Emma and Harriet begin their riddle-book. Emma asks Mr. Elton for a contribution. Note that the first section (“Whose Line Is It, Anyway?”) may contain spoilers. The section “Cupid? A Chimney-Sweep? Love-In-Idleness?” contains reference to the sexual abuse of minors.

Readings and Interpretations

Whose Line Is It, Anyway? This section continues the previously mentioned pattern of narration that shades between Emma’s and the narrator’s perspective, or that is a composite voice belonging to each. We are told that

[Elton] got up to look at [Emma’s portrait of Harriet], and sighed out his half sentences of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet’s feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin’s being no otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter (vol. 1, ch. 9; p. 44).

“[J]ust as he ought,” a first-time reader may assume, could be an opinion about Mr. Elton’s ideal conduct that has narratorial sanction; it could, as the reader ‘in the know’ may guess, be Emma’s opinion alone; it could be an opinion belonging to both, though each would apply it with a different emphasis. Given Elton’s focus on form and following the formulae of courtship, the construction may also bear a shade of his consciousness, or at least take advantage of an ambiguity in the contextual meaning of the word “ought”: Elton’s sigh in regarding Harriet’s portrait is the externally perceptible sign of a spontaneous overflow of feeling which would allow an observer to guess at that feeling, and thus “ought” is a commentary on the suitability of external signs to a favorite interpretation; or it is an indication that the action is performed by rote (he sighs because it is what he “ought” to do). That this construction is an echo of one that occurred earlier (“Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again”; vol. 1, ch. 6; p. 29) heightens the ambiguity. The comment on Harriet’s “sort of mind” is also at least nominally ambiguous in provenance. Assuming that it represents Emma’s thinking, it points to something that Elizabeth Sabiston has argued regarding the relationship between the two women: “Internal evidence points to the fact that Emma is completely lucid about Harriet’s shortcomings. Far from being infatuated with her, as [Marvin] Mudrick supposes, she constantly points a finger of gentle scorn at her ignorance, incidentally contrasting it to her own wit” (p. 35). The second sentence then brings us back to an explicit narratorial framing of Emma’s perspective. A Great Deal of Useful Reading We learn early on in this section that Emma and Harriet begin their riddle-book project in default of a more serious course of reading:

[Emma’s] views of improving her little friend’s mind, by a great deal of useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at Harriet’s fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts (vol. 1, ch. 9; p. 44).1

In the 19th century, riddles were widely collected and reprinted by presses and by individuals, and were commonly thought to have an educational function that particularly suited them for young people. Per David Selwyn:

[C]ollections [of charades] were common in the period, and their purpose was as much educative as recreational; the preface to [an] 1823 publications […] recommends the study of the enigma and the charade as ‘an exercise, well adapted to the mind of youth. When I say youth,’ the author adds, ‘I mean persons of both sexes, matured to that age, at which they are taking leave of their early seminaries.’ This is precisely Harriet’s position. Jane Austen’s satire is not directed at the charade itself but at the fact that this is the extent of Harriet’s literary activity and that Emma is content for it to be so (p. 287).

C. Larry Chabot connects Emma’s complacency in avoiding more strenuous literary undertakings to what he argues is her central fault, the inability to perceive and value the external world:

The acquisition and development […] of an educated mind necessarily entails the recognition of values outside the self. Emma […] long appears constitutionally unable to accomplish this. […] In short, Emma perceives her world and all it contains as a plaything which exists solely for her immediate gratification. Throughout much of the novel Emma dwells within a world her desires define. Her reshaping of her world not only violates the autonomy of each person with whom she comes in contact but also cuts her off from the comings and going of the real world (pp. 293–4).2

You will recall, however, that there are scholars (such as Claudia Johnson and Hilary Schor) who do not see Emma’s dilatory approach to learning and accomplishment as symptomatic of a larger flaw (see the section “Dear Emma’s Little Faults” in the post for 15th November). Cupid? A Chimney-Sweep? Love-In-Idleness? This section features Mr. Woodhouse attempting several times to recite a riddle he had known in his youth, beginning with the words “Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.” Jill Heydt-Stevenson argues that the “sexually frank and brutal” riddle indicates the existence of a subversive quality in Austen’s novels that critics often suppress:

Written by David Garrick, this verse was first printed in 1771 in The New Foundling Hospital for Wit […] [T]his riddle is quite lewd, even disturbingly so: [reprints riddle] The riddle addresses the plight of a man (the narrator) who has been infected with venereal disease (“a flame I still deplore”) and who “prays” to “the hood-wink’d boy” for a cure. The solution to the riddle of lines 16–19 is that the youth who raises and quenches such flames is a chimney sweep. And the prize for guessing—the kiss—is slang for sexual intercourse. The first two lines offer multiple interpretations about how the speaker has been infected. For example, did he contract it from Kitty, the “fair, but frozen maid,” or from another woman? […] The next two stanzas describe two possible cures. Lines 11–15 reveal the narrator invoking a remarkable species of magical thinking, since he believes (according to the folklore of the time, which was still being circulated as late as 1857) that sex with a virgin would cure him of the disease—hence, “Each day some willing victim bleeds.” [FN: The line […] is of course tragically wrong insofar as these children were the victims of violent rape.] […] Austen interweaves into the novel the issues that the riddle introduces, such as prostitution, venereal disease, and the double standard; and she incorporates the same images—a matrix of heat and cold and figures of cupids and chimneys—that we find in the riddle. […] [T]he young women have written it out entirely on their “second page,” having copied it from the “Elegant Extracts”—another joke on Austen’s part, given that the Extracts were a most conservative publication. […] Because the riddle exists on a vulnerable border between the acceptable and the illicit, it highlights what is subversive in the novel and also collapses what we have been conditioned to think of as the gulf between the underworld and the respectable world (2000, pp. 319–20).

She speculates that this bawdy riddle may be the cornerstone to a number of clues pointing back to Mr. Woodhouse:

Through a series of covert allusions, Austen raises the ludicrous and hilarious possibility that the clearly asexual Mr Woodhouse might have been a libertine in his youth and now suffers from tertiary syphilis. For example, Emma’s father, a hypochondriac, cannot bear to be cold and so prefers a fire, even in midsummer; the riddle’s narrator, ill with venereal disease, also longs for fire to cure him. […] Further, it is also deliciously, though seditiously, funny that one of the repeated cures for venereal disease was a light diet mostly consisting of a thin gruel (ibid., p. 320).

Some scholars assume that Emma’s sourcing the riddle—perhaps sanitized of its lewd associations by the early 19th century—from Elegant Extracts was a mistake on Jane Austen’s part (see Selwyn, p. 199; Shapard FN 53, p. 139). Arnie Perlstein, however, argues that this is highly unlikely:

To believe that this is Jane Austen’s mistake is to somehow reconcile in your mind two opposite things: that Jane Austen demonstrated a learned knowledge of the provenance of the Riddle having, in its original published versions, been attributed to Garrick’s authorship and having had three stanzas, and was very clever all the way through, but then blundered badly by placing the Riddle in an absurdly, grotesquely inappropriate contemporary publication venue (n.p.).

Susan Allen Ford writes that if the Elegant Extracts misdirection is in fact part of Austen’s joke, the citation “highlights the distance between the sexual play in which [Emma], however unwittingly, is engaged and the ‘merry [evening] games’ of Abbey Mill Farm [vol 1, ch. 4; p. 17], perhaps in its invocation of disease even suggesting Hartfield’s distance from the bucolic health of the Martin home” (n.p.).3 My First Doth Affliction Denote… Emma and Harriet owe to Mr. Elton “their two or three politest puzzles” (vol. 1, ch. 9; p. 45). Heydt-Stevenson argues that this emphasis is further evidence that Emma (and Austen) are aware of the brutality of the “Kitty” riddle (2000, p. 320); it is also yet another linking in the novel of Mr. Elton to the word “gallant,” given that he is “most earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the sex [that is, women] should pass his lips” (ibid.).4 Mr. Elton’s first attempt at contributing to the riddle-book is a charade which Austen calls “well-known,” though she “offers no hint as to where it might be found, and she does not explicitly furnish a solution to it” (Sheehan, n.p.). A charade is a specific type of riddle “in which clues provide the individual syllables of the key word” (Tandon, FN 11, p. 103); the solution typically furnished to this particular charade is “woman” (the first syllable being “woe,” and the second “man”).5 Colleen Sheehan writes that this answer “is certainly a fitting solution to the charade,” but is perhaps “insufficiently clever”; the “author of Emma […] challenges her readers to discern the intent of her composition,” “not to be ‘too quick’ or insufficiently clever in our conclusions” (n.p). An additional answer is yielded by employing the “Shakespearean technique of reversal/inversion” (like that caused by Puck’s enchanted dew in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which is referenced later in Emma) and taking note of “how Austen uses this technique to play on the different connotations of English and French words”:

If the denotation of affliction is “fiel,” which in French means a painful swelling, though in eighteenth century English usage it meant comfortable or at ease; and that which feels this is the “heart,” then, following Bottom’s rule, the charade’s solution is “heartfiel.” “Heartfiel” is of course a play on “Hartfield,” the home of the mischievous fairy Emma and her all too lively and unrestrained fancy; it is “where the wound had been given” and where “the cure [must] be found” [vol. 1, ch. 18; p. 93]. Quite literally, “heartfiel” is at once the heart’s pain and that which eases the pain, or the heart’s ease. Clearly Austen is having a sporting good time at her readers’ expense (n.p.).

Footnotes

On the syntax of this sentence see Dry, p. 94.

See also Merrett: “Emma lacks [a] sense of connection [between imagination and learning] both because her imagination is often merely whimsical and because there is an abstract cast to her thinking that displaces empirical ideas. […] Emma lazily surrenders her agency and identity to a weak imagination and perversely turns away from both reason and empirical ideas” (p. 41).

On this riddle see also Sheehan, who suggests the answer “love-in-idleness.” On charades, games, and riddles in Emma see also Heydt-Stevenson (2015).

On the word “gallant” in Emma see Wiesenfarth (pp. 16–7).

See for example Shapard (FN 15, p. 123); Tandon (FN 12, p. 103).

Discussion Questions

What is the relationship between real feeling and form in courtship? How might this relationship interact with the themes of signs, perception, honesty, and dishonesty in the novel?

What do you think causes Emma’s appreciation for riddles, and what does this suggest about her?

Which suggested answer do you find most convincing for each of the riddles proffered in this section? Can you furnish any of your own?

Bibliography

Austen, Jane. Emma (Norton Critical Edition). 3rd ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, [1815] 2000. Chabot, C. Larry. “Jane Austen’s Novels: The Vicissitudes of Desire.” American Imago 32.3 (Fall 1975), pp. 288–308. Dry, Helen. “Syntax and Point of View in Jane Austen’s Emma.” Studies in Romanticism 16.1 (Winter 1977), pp. 87–99. DOI: 10.2307/25600065. Ford, Susan Allen. “Reading Elegant Extracts in Emma: Very Entertaining!” Persuasions On-Line 28.1 (Winter 2007). Heydt-Stevenson, Jill. “‘Slipping into the Ha-Ha’: Bawdy Humor and Body Politics in Jane Austen’s Novels.” Nineteenth-Century Literature 55.3 (December 2000), pp. 309–39. DOI: 10.2307/2903126. _____. “Games, Riddles and Charades.” In The Cambridge Companion to ‘Emma,’ ed. Peter Sabor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (2015), pp. 150–65. DOI: 10.1017/CBO9781316014226.013. Merrett, Robert James. “The Concept of Mind in Emma.” English Studies in Canada 6.1 (Spring 1980), pp. 39–55. DOI: 10.1353/esc.1980.0046. Mudrick, Marvin. Jane Austen: Irony as Defense and Discovery. Princeton: Princeton University Press (1952). Perlstein, Arnie. “Kitty A Fair But Bowdlerized Maid.” Sharp Elves Society. Blogspot. 24 February, 2014. https://sharpelvessociety.blogspot.com/2014/02/kitty-fair-but-bowdlerized-maid.html. Accessed 10 December, 2021. Selwyn, David. Jane Austen and Leisure. London: Hambledon Press (1999).

Sheehan, Colleen A. “The Riddles of Emma.” Persuasions 22 (2000), pp. 50–61. Tandon, Bharat ed. Emma: An Annotated Edition. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press (2012). Wiesenfarth, Joseph. “The Civility of Emma.” Persuasions 18 (1996), pp. 8–23.

[nerdyfangirl67]

An Angel to Me - Phantom of the Opera Reader Insert

Pairing: Erik Destler x genderneutral!reader 

Warning: woke!Erik (he is in touch with his feelings in this one, so I hope it’s not too OOC), artist!reader 

Word count: 1067

Request by: @iamcavainna​

“Erik’s s/o being an artist who loves to draw him but does it in secret in fear of upsetting him but Erik finds one specific drawing. The drawing is a charcoal drawing of him with angel wings (shirtless or not, either one works) and the drawing is of how his s/o sees him. In the drawing he’s radiating like an angel and he’s beautiful despite his scars and that’s when he realizes how much his s/o loves him and that he is worthy of her love (or something like that) and he starts crying. When his s/o comes back, she find him curled up in a corner crying clutching the drawing to him. When he sees her, he tells her how much he loves her and needs her (even tho she already knows) and they end up going through all her drawings of him together”

A/N: I changed it just a bit, but I hope you still enjoy it! Thanks for the request darling! I used “ma chérie” and I think it is the feminine version of “my dearest”. I did, however, include the masculine version of the endearment in parentheses, so you can use whichever you prefer. I believe other than that, this is a gender neutral fic. (This pic isn’t really POTO related, but gives me POTO in Paris vibes)

You stare at the drawing you just finished, wondering what had possessed you to draw him, Erik, like you had. Usually when you chose him as your subject, you drew him doing what he loved best, making music. Your sketchbook, or what could pass for one, was full of drawings of Erik. Erik playing at the organ, Erik hunching over his music sheets as he creates another masterpiece, Erik standing solemnly amongst the hundreds of candles in his cavern, Erik languidly stretched out across the large, black satin covered bed. 

Yet, never before had you drawn him as you truly see him, until now, and it left you breathless. You hadn’t once needed to look at him as you drew, your charcoal pencil hardly leaving the page once you started. You set your sketchbook aside, deciding to take a brisk fall walk along the streets of Paris. You write a short note to Erik, promising to be back soon, and place it on top of the keys on his organ, hoping he finds it.

Erik’s POV:

He entered the cavernous opening, expecting to find you on the velvet chaise longue beside the organ, your nose in your sketchbook, completely unaware of everything around you. He didn’t find you on the chair, but he did find your abandoned sketchbook. Curiosity seizes him and he grabs the book off the cushion. He knows how private you are about what was on those pages, but he also knew how truly happy the works on those pages made you, as happy as his music made him. Because of that, he had to know what was on the pages of your sketchbook.

He tentatively opens the cover, surprise filling him when he sees the drawing is of him. You had drawn him bent over his work table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he furiously wrote a new composition, neglected music sheets piling up at his feet. He stares a moment longer before flipping the page, his surprise becoming disbelief as this drawing was of him too. You had drawn him stretched out on the bed shirtless, a muscular arm tucked up under his head, his mask discarded carelessly on the floor, a barely there smile on his face. He continues to flip through the pages, each successive drawing of him. He finally reaches the one you had just finished and his surprise turns into disbelief.

It was a charcoal sketch of him, except extending out past his shoulders was a set of beautiful black angel wings. You had drawn him face uncovered, the scars on his face visible, along with the several littered across his chest. The lines were soft and the shading just enough to draw attention to the scars marring his body. Usually the sight of those scars, even if they were just a rendition on paper, left him filled with disgust, but the way you had drawn them? He thinks they are beautiful, in fact, he thought the whole drawing of him was beautiful. He realizes then that this drawing shows how you truly see him. Tears blur his vision, a lump forming in his throat as continued to look at the picture. He realizes then that you love him, and looking at the drawing again, he also realizes that you find him worthy of that love. 

Your POV:

You return from your walk, your heavy cloak damp from the cold mist falling over the city sending a shiver down your spine. You drape your wet cloak over the small velvet stool resting next to the worn stone steps. You don’t hear the organ playing, which you had expected when you entered the cavern, and upon reaching the organ, you don’t find Erik sitting there, hunched over his music.

“Erik?” You call softly, worry starting to creep up in your chest. “Where are you?” You don’t hear any response, but you do hear movement deeper in the room. After looking for a few moments, you find the source of the noise. Erik is sitting on the ground, tucked in one of the small dark alcoves of the room, his knees drawn tightly into his chest and his head covered with his arms. 

“Erik?” You question, reaching out a hand to rest it on his shoulders. He shifts, your sketchbook falling off of his lap. An irrational feeling of fear seizes in your chest, causing you to stumble back a step. You had always worried about Erik finding your sketchbook because you knew exactly how you drew him in your pictures. You drew him unmasked, the scars he deemed hideous clear and present. You drew him the way he was around you, quiet and almost gentle, and knowing Erik, seeing that would make him feel exposed. 

You sit down next to him, tucking your legs underneath you. A long silence stretches between the two of you, the sounds of your mingling breaths the only noise filling the room. He finally sits up fully, his hand coming to rest on the cover of your sketchbook. “Erik? What is the matter?” You ask gently, resting your hand on top of his. 

He turns to face you, his eyes red and slightly puffy, as he says, “I was not aware of the depth of your feelings for me, ma chérie (mon chéri). How much you find me worthy of your love.” He unfolds his long legs, slowly standing and offering you a hand. You take it and he pulls you up, bringing you in close to his chest. “I will always love and cherish you ma chérie (mon chéri).” He pauses, running a rough finger over your cheek and looking deep in your eyes. “You make me a better man and I do not want to imagine my life without you.” 

You tilt your head to place a gentle kiss on his lips, letting your forehead rest on his. “Erik, I love you as well.” You take a small step back, bending down to pick up your discarded sketchbook. You flip to the drawing you had finished earlier that day, gently pushing the open book into his hands. “This is how I see you Erik. You are an angel, beautiful and radiant, even without the mask.” You whisper, giving him a soft smile. You hoped that he would eventually see himself as you saw him, as your angel, an angel of music.

[the-brave-and-the-dumb]

FGO OC FRYDERYK CHOPIN

Ideas for characters live in my head rent free since idk when so it's time to finally do it. Sorry for the cringe but also not sorry. I am not mastermind when it comes to technicalities of the game, tho.

Background: polish composer born on 22nd February (or, as another sources claim, 1st March) 1810. One of the most prominent composer of Romantic period. Living in France for 18 years, he lead life of young celebrity, was supported financially by his admirers and formed friendships especially with another composer, Franz Liszt. Had a tumultuous relationship with his wife George Sand, a writer and in his youth he was in love with his friend, Tytus, which can be read in his letter to him.

Over 230 works of Chopin survived; some compositions from early childhood have been lost. All his known works involve the piano, and only a few range beyond solo piano music, as either piano concertos, songs or chamber music. He was heavily influenced by Polish folk music but also classic composers like Bach. His speciality were mazurkas (in polish sing. mazurek, plur. mazurki) and nocturnes.

Chopin died at age 39 of pericarditis and tuberculosis.

Character personality: wishes to come across as calm and collected as he is melancholic type of lad but he's all sorts of emotional, not afraid to faint theatrically nor to throw hands in the most dandy fashion. May not seem like it but he's strong willed and dedicated to music, as he was a young boy he trained himself to cover 10 piano keys with one hand by stretching his fingers with wooden blocks (painful!). Very polite and soft-spoken, quite a bookworm.

Alignment: lawful neutral

Gender: male

Height, weight, general looks: 172 cm, around 60kg idk I'm not good with such numbers. Thin, pale man who blushes easily wether it is from embarrassment, passion or anger. Hair in cool shade of brown, dark-colour eyes.

Servant Class: caster

Class skills: territory creation: dreamy effect of inviting enemies and allies to his childhood house in Żelazowa Wola that lulls the first ones to sleep and boosts morale of the companions with it's idyllic charm.

Personal skills:

Of course I can imagine him being able to throw charm on the opponent so they don't harm him, so that's it. Call it "Ballade No.1 Op.23"

"Serce Chopina" (Chopin's heart) – add HP and NP points for yourself and your allies. The name is tied to the fact that his heart was brought by his sister to Poland and put inside the wall in church of Saint cross in Warsaw.

"Nocturne No.2 Op.9" – curse one of the enemy for 2 turns, stunning them

Noble Phantasm: "Revolutionary Etude" (op.10 no.12 in c minor playing in the background) – I imagine Chopin more of a healer so it definitely gives strength to his allies. Come back later maybe I will edit this and add more details. I imagine this kinda like this but not at the beach maybe...

On Bond 4 he let's you call himself Frycek, the nickname only his closest ones used.

On Bond 5 he tells you how cruel Liszt once cruelly gave a cruel concert in dark room to trick the audience into thinking he's Chopin because "everyone can play like Chopin". At the end of the dialogue, I can imagine him dropping on the chaiselongue dramatically.

I'm not very good at drawing but I tried to give him perfectly balanced look of "I'm trying to be calm and collected but I'm also raging bisexual" – shimmering vest and possibly white or brown jacket with wings/feathers, I haven't thought of the colours much.

Other ideas that may be published: Poniatowski | Chmielnicki | Skłodowska-Curie | Twardowski/Twardowska I haven't decided yet |

[obae-me]

A Taste of His Own Medicine- Satan

While it was well known among the household that the second and fourth among the brothers were ill, Lucifer banned you from contact with Satan. Mammon was now well on the mend thanks to your efforts, so you figured you would help the eldest out with Satan. Lucifer was constantly busy, not to mention the fact that his knowledgeable younger brother was expending all his strength in keeping his brothers away. It seemed like the logical choice, and rarely did Lucifer prevent you from keeping an eye on his brothers. So why now of all times?

“He’s being...unreasonable,” was Lucifer’s answer. Out of all the possible reasons, this seemed among the most pathetic. You supposed it was better than his typical “because I said so” response.

“If I remember correctly, you were also pretty unreasonable,” you stated, a smirk curling across your lips. He just scowled, glaring you up and down. He leaned back in his cushy seat in his study, placing his much too expensive pen down by the pile of work he needed to finish by tonight.

“And if I remember correctly, we agreed it would not be discussed again.” His sharp expression softened just a touch, a light shade of pink gracing his cheeks as he recalled how you took care of him in his weakened state. He brushed staggering hairs away from his forehead and sighed, folding his arms in front of his chest. “His body and mind have been weakened, therefore he has no control over his anger. He is wrath, and I shudder to think what may befall you should you try to talk to him right now.” He looked deep into your eyes, taking note of your unwavering stance and stern composition. “And yet I suspect you’re going to go see him anyway.”

He had that right. So with a look equal parts exhaustion and worry, Lucifer lifted the magical lock placed on Satan’s room, ensuring that, at the very least, Beel would be just outside should anything happen.

You took a deep breath, clutching to your chest some medicine and a hardcover book from the human world containing old fables. You knocked on the door, loudly stating your presence before entering Satan’s room. You were pleased to find that so far you were unharmed, which was admittedly a great first step.

However, you quickly found yourself awash in a sea of books. Normally, Satan had his room as neatly organized as a professional library, everything had a place, except now, it looked like a bomb had gone off. Books and scrolls were haphazardly stacked, covering the floor, basically everywhere. You couldn’t even see his bed, it was hidden somewhere in this labyrinth of tomes.

You held your breath, you didn’t even dare breathe for fear everything around you would come tumbling down. The last thing you wanted was to be crushed to death, and if the books didn’t kill you, you had a wary feeling Satan might. So you carefully weaved your way through slender passageways in the piles before you found, what you assumed, was Satan’s bed.

The reason you could only ‘assume’ is because at this juncture in time it hardly looked like a bed at all. Just a quick glance and it would’ve matched any other mess in this room. It was camouflaged with more books, torn pages, binders, etc. you had a passing thought about checking if there were any shows about demon hoarders down here.

You could see a jagged green-tipped tail dangling from beneath the bed-pile. It twitched and flicked, sending some novels skidding across the floor. You inhaled deep through your nose.

“Satan? It’s me.”

Satan’s tail whipped across the space between you and the bed, striking at one of the impossibly high stacks of books, sending it teetering and tottering threateningly before crashing down. If you hadn’t taken a few steps back, you would’ve been under that pile. You huffed to yourself. You wanted to help him and this was how he was treating you?

“Satan, please.” A book whizzed past your head and you winced, feeling a little paper cut start to sting on your cheek. The air in the room was hot. You knew these were demons. You knew they were capable of destroying you in seconds, but that didn’t stop your stubborn nature from feeling absolutely offended. And so, as if you had a death wish, you scolded him.

“Satan!” You strutted over, throwing the covers back and sending even more clutter to the floor, but at least you could look at him. But a part of you wished you couldn’t.

He looked absolutely feral. His hair was messy and untamed. His teeth were bared as his mouth formed a menacing scowl. His eyes were glowing an unnatural green, reminding you of shows where beasts eyes shone in the shadows. You could hear a deep rumble emanate from his chest, and it wasn’t till he pressed himself against the back wall, knees close to his chest that you put your fear beside yourself.

Yes, at first glance you may have been entirely convinced he was going to tear your throat out, but then you ran your gaze over him a few times. His face was covered in patches of deep red. He was only wearing a green long-sleeved shirt and stripped boxers. There was a sheet of paper skewered onto one of his horns, and he now was curled up protectively against the wall in a little ball.

“Get out,” he demanded. It would’ve maybe been threatening sounding if his lungs didn’t sound as if he swallowed a squeaky toy. He was wheezing, fingertips shaking, and his tail protectively curling up against his legs, the tip of it quivering.

To be honest you wouldn’t leave this room right now for all the Grimm in the Devildom. “I’ll leave after I’m done helping you out a bit,” you assured him, but he didn’t want that answer.

“Get out!” He clutched another book in his hand and chucked it in your direction with a shout, this time missing you by a mile. You blinked. Was he...having a tantrum?

You had to stifle your smile with a little cough. “Satan, throwing stuff at me isn’t going to make me leave any faster, so cooperate and I’ll be out of here as soon as possible.” He had no retort or nearby ammo left so he tucked his face into his knees and let you get to work. It would take you hours to clean the room, but you did what you could for the moment, tidying up the chaos surrounding his bed. How he would’ve slept with that mess on him was beyond your understanding. Or maybe that was one of the reasons why he was being so cranky.

You shook off his blankets, puffed up his pillow, and then took a hesitant look at the medicine you’d put on his nightstand. Lucifer had told you where to get it, it was a powerful medication that tasted as bad as the one taking it felt. It was also administered as a liquid, because for all their power, they hadn’t made pills a normal thing yet. You had no idea how you were going to get Satan to take it.

Maybe being sweet first. “Satan,” you cooed, sitting yourself beside him on the bed while he remained curled up in a tight angry ball. “I have some medicin-“

“No.”

That didn’t work. Maybe begging? “Satan, please, please, please, pleaaaaase take-“

“Bite me.”

You scoffed aloud. He was absolutely, without a doubt, being bratty and rude. You took a moment to recall how you convinced Lucifer and Mammon. Lucifer was only won over when you stood your ground and told him what to do for a change, challenging his pride. Mammon, you gave him exactly what he wanted to hear. With wrath...did you?

“Satan, I swear to God above and Diavolo below, if you don’t quit moping around and refusing to take care of yourself, I’m going to shove this entire freaking thing down your throat till it’s the only thing you can taste for decades!” You raised your voice, shouting at him with a fury in your chest you’d never used before, ever. Especially not against Satan. You didn’t want to die that badly. But you were alive, and instead of smoke coming out of his ears, Satan looked up at you from behind messy bangs. He looked shocked beyond belief, his mouth slightly ajar. He uncurled himself from his position and sat up slowly, his head looking down.

“Tch.” He puffed air through his teeth, giving in finally. It was like you had won the lottery. You hummed to yourself in success taking the cap off the bottle and pouring in the medicine. It smelt awful, and you felt for him, but if it was going to make him feel better, he needed it. You held it up to his lips. He growled in frustration but then parted his mouth to let you pour in the foul mixture.

He looked like he was going to be sick. He slumped his posture and began to release shuddering coughs. You instinctively put a hand on his back and rubbed up and down. Once he was done with the episode, he sat back up, swaying in his seat back and forth until you held onto him, gently bringing him back down onto his pillow. You moved the hair out of his eyes and sighed in relief. Thanks to whatever magic Devildom medicine had, his redness had already gone drastically down, and he looked fairly calm for now.

His eyelids couldn’t tell if they wanted to be open or shut, like he was struggling to fight sleep. You got up off his bed and pulled the covers tighter around him, urging him to go to bed. You told him you’d finally leave him alone, and picked up the book you had forgotten you’d brought with you. He grabbed your wrist before you could even attempt to leave, he sleepily read the cover before letting his hand drop back onto the mattress.

“I bought that...for you,” he mumbled. With a grin, you nodded. He had bought it for you during the adventure to London. It was filled with old fairytales and fables, the authentic gruesome kind, not the kind human kids grew up on, which Satan had labeled as ‘disgusting dull-headed drabble’.

“I brought it here for you, but you need sleep, besides you have plenty of other books here…” your voice trailed off as you reached for the horn that still had the paper stuck to it. You yanked it free with a light chuckle.

“Will you…” Satan started, gripping at his own sheets so tight you thought he would rip holes in them. “Read...to me?” Your heart soared so fast you almost went lightheaded. You sat back down on his bed, fussing over him just a bit more to fix his messy hair. He groaned as you did but let you do it anyway.

“Of course, I’ll read for you whenever, Satan.” You flipped the book open to the first page, reading about terribly sad events with a terribly soft voice. Every so often he’d correct you if you fumbled on a word, but eventually he went to sleep. You could see his eyeballs moving frantically under his eyelids as he slept. He’d say some incomprehensible word in his sleep while his fingers twitched in random increments.

You used the stray paper that had been on his head as a bookmark, placing it back on his nightstand for later. “I guess they all get to live happy ever after this time,” you whispered to him in his unconscious state before you pressed the back of your hand against his cheek and wished him sweet dreams.