#the incongruence of stars and flowers

[incongruence-osaf]

The Incongruence of Stars and Flowers PART ONE - Chapter One

1948

Space Colony ARK, Mobius’s Orbit

The brilliance of white heavenly fire gradually disappears behind the blue and green marble of planet Mobius. As the tenth dusk prepares room for pockets and fields of stars to shine in the never-ending darkness, a stout elderly scientist sits on a swivel chair in the frame of one of Space Colony ARK’s tall laboratory windows. He quietly observes the familiar changes of the station’s daily orbit while absentmindedly twiddling his long gray mustache. The dissipating halo of sunlight winks goodbye to Professor Gerald Robotnik, the reflection no longer glinting in the clean lenses of his round glasses. 

The beige and gray surfaces of the lab’s machinery will be darkened by shadows once more for another ninety minutes. He eases out of his focused state and becomes aware of just how much time has passed when the glaring glow of the computer screen in front of him can no longer be ignored behind the tint in his glasses. Stress from transferring complex genetic data charts to colleagues, as well as impatiently checking for emailed test results from the Pediatric Endocrinology department, had finally caught up to him. More testing had been determined necessary by his granddaughter’s on-site care team within the last week. Her conditions were changing in curious ways, creating more puzzles to solve inside the complex enigma of her deteriorating brain and body, the progression of which is slowed down by the low gravity in space. The scientist rubs his wrinkled face and stands up to stretch his creaking joints in his now cold and unlively workspace. 

A new light source from the adjacent hallway illuminates a path toward the weary man after a blonde-haired child opens the door. A shiny keycard dangles from a lanyard around her neck. His granddaughter, Maria Robotnik, is wearing a baggy blue hoodie over a hospital gown and sleepily saunters past the tables of equipment to join him.

 

For a few moments, the only sounds interrupting the silence are the grippy steps of her socks, the ambient hum of computer beeps and fans, and their relaxed breathing syncing as she wordlessly leans into his plump embrace. Her lean feels heavier and unsteady today, the poor girl, while she buries her face into his wrinkled white lab coat. Gerald pecks the top of Maria’s head that’s decorated with a daisy-patterned blue headband. Her hair is thin and rather yellowish in tone. It used to have a healthy golden luster before her body started to attack itself. The memory of the sun with its summery hues filtered through the barrier of Mobius’s atmosphere flits through his mind.

“Táborák.” Gerald quietly muses to himself.

Maria furrows her brow against the pen pocket on his chest.

“What's that Grandpa?”

He pulls away slightly but keeps a gentle arm around her shoulders as a guide while he walks them along the wall of windows. “It’s a Slovak word I learned when I was a young boy. It means ‘campfire’. Like in the Western film we watched yesterday after your tests, when the cowboys were cooking meat and laughing over the fire pit. You might have been too young to remember, but we had several family campfires with your parents before you and I moved to the ARK.”

The preteen girl squints her eyes for a moment before speaking, taking interest in the newly visible specks of stars. “...I remember a little bit. You had your funny sweater on that made Dad laugh. I was cold, but my parents warmed me up in their laps. I was really small but the sky seemed so big and pretty,” she recounts, the corners of her eyes creasing upwards.

“I’m glad that fascination sprouted in you since you were a little tot,” the elder wistfully smiles down at her, now holding the forgotten cup of coffee he obtained from the nearest wall of cabinets. “Say, there’s an almost imperceptible cluster of stars located just past the shuttle bay, through the corner of this window here. Their colors would look very much like a campfire if we were to view them through a telescope. Do you remember what kind of stars those are?”

Maria presses her floppy blue sleeves against the glass to follow where his finger points. “Hmmm…those could be spectral type K, or M, such as red dwarf stars. Those live the longest and are the coolest…just like Shadow is.” Maria snickers with a proud grin.

 Gerald wheezes, coughing up the small sip of cold coffee he just inhaled, “Haha! Very good Maria! You are correct on both accounts.” His chuckles trail off as he almost puts his mug into the wrong microwave, closing the door of the one used to dry lab materials and instead opening the household microwave beside it. Its uncentered turntable clicks in a sporadic pattern compared to the rhythmic whirring of the machines and computers in the wide room. Maria looks lost in thought and her face droops while staring at the dark liquid turning round and round.

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, słoneczko?” 

“Are the stars really as pretty as I think I remember? From Mobius, I mean? We spin so much that I get the constellations mixed up and forget where they are. I forget where we are, and what they looked like. They’re cool, but…” she huffs in frustration. Gerald can see that Maria’s eyes have become glossier in the dim glow of the microwave at her eye level before it shuts off. He ignores the now heated coffee and carefully leans down to put comforting palms onto her shoulders.

“They’re absolutely as beautiful as you remember, if not more. When I was a student in Poland, I’d gather around campfires way too big for my mother’s liking. I'd talk about the meaning of life with fellow stargazers, friends who are no longer alive. When the same stars that we see so frequently start to peek out in the darkness of the Mobius sky, especially in the country where no city lights can reach…it’s the closest I’ve gotten to feeling a higher power. Sometimes there’s so many that it looks like a living painting, glittering all together on a more focused canvas than the infinite darkness we see in orbit. The stars keep company and comfort in such a way that we often take for granted here aboard the ARK.”

Maria blinks the teariness out of her eyes and settles her gaze on the vacuum of space only kept separate by the thickly reinforced glass. Gerald does his best to make sure her life on the ARK is holistically nourishing. But he knows that what the adults sometimes consider to be an escape from an imperfect world full of multitudes of harm, a growing utopia…to Maria, it’s cold isolation during her most formative years. Gerald resolves that Maria will be able to live on Mobius again, healthy and safe. That she will see with her own eyes the wonders of the world outside of books and pictures. It doesn’t matter that he’s past his prime; he will dedicate the rest of his days to make sure that her dreams become reality.

“Let’s add making a campfire to the ‘bucket list’. When we go to Mobius, we’ll find a quiet place where pesky city lights won’t obstruct the view of the true night sky. The flames and the stars will shine on the new memories all of us will make together. You, Shadow, and me.” Gerald reassures her warmly. 

Maria rubs her eyes with her sleeves and clings to her grandfather for another hug. He feels and hears her stomach gurgle through her oversized clothes.

“Sounds about time for a snack. Want to come with me to the cafeteria? I need to give my old eyes a break. And here, use my cane.” Arm in arm, the pair slowly exit into the hallway, leaving behind the flickering red, blue, green, and white buttons of the machines blinking like eyes in the pitch-black laboratory.

CHAPTER TWO HERE

[hauntingblue]

Why is this flashback happening now... whi is it centered on mista.... do not kill him too please..... I do not care that much about him but Jesus christ....

[undertheorangetree]

Pomegranate Seeds

Summary- A retelling of the abduction of Persephone.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Hades and Persephone AU. Star-crossed lovers vibes. Uncle/niece incest. Making out. Angst. Fluff. Titty sucking. Handjob. Cunnilingus. Vaginal fingering. Soft smut. Mild praise kink. Mildly OOC Aemond.

Author's Notes- Yeah I was a Percy Jackson/Greek mythology kid, thank you for noticing. I'm still playing incredibly fast and loose with the mythology tho so we're gonna have to make our peace with that. This is a beast btw, it's like 9.6K and you can find the rest on AO3 with the link below :)

divider created by @firefly-graphics

It is moments like these, she thinks, that she loves most.

Alone in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the babbling of the creek as it flows over the rocks. Everything green with the exception of the purple, white, and yellow flowerheads but lush and everbearing and alive, the sun little more than a hazy warm glow, not yet hot enough to be overbearing. It is peaceful here, so much more than she is used to. She had come to an agreement with her step sisters, Baela and Rhaena, that they allow her a few hours on her own in this meadow, undisturbed by anyone else. Though her mother much preferred to that she remain alongside her sisters whenever she is out of sight, she, Baela, and Rhaena had come to an agreement that what her mother didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. And besides, they were never too far away from her. Being water nymphs, they could be by her side in less than a moment if she really needed them, so long as she doe does not stray too far from the river. And she has never been more grateful for it than she is right now.

Stretching her arms high above her head, she stretches out along the grass, enjoying the feeling of every blade of grass, the sweet smell of the blooms wafting on the breeze. Admittedly, this meadow had not been quite so plentiful when they had found it, following along the winding river, but she is the goddess of spring. Flowers bloom at her word and sun shines with her will. It had not been too difficult to turn this meadow into her own personal paradise, away from the chaos often wrought by her mother and brothers and stepfather.

There is a sudden change in the wind that causes her to sit up. Colder than it had been before, something more akin to winter than spring. The ground seems to rumble beneath her, shaking as if the sudden cold has sent it to shiver. Curiously, she turns her head toward the tree line, where the birches and willows keep the meadow shielded from view, only to find a man standing among them. Dressed in all black- breeches, cloak, and the shred of his tunic she can see beneath it- his platinum hair is almost jarring in contrast. He is not a big man, long and lithe, but there is an air to him that feels dangerous, dangerous enough to give her pause. He has not noticed her yet, face turned away, but she can see the long, stern plains of his face from where she sits, looking incredibly serious. That seriousness is only exacerbated by the dark leather eyepatch covering the eye closest to her, a deep red scar carved beneath it.

She does not think she has ever seen anyone here before, not outside of Baela, Rhaena, and herself, and his presence here is almost incongruous. Still, there is an air about him, one that makes it clear that he is a god just as she is, and that alone should make his surprise appearance less shocking.

“Hello.”

The sound of her voice seems to catch him off guard. Quickly, he turns toward her, shoulders tense, but they relax when he takes her in. She cannot imagine that she is intimidating, sitting flat in the grass all alone. “Hello.”

But it is that reminder of the grass that brings her pause. What is this man doing here? Where had he come from? It is not as if this meadow is easy to find, hidden amongst the trees as it is. She feels her brows furrow, head cocking in question. “How did you find this place?”

She had not put a glamour over this meadow, but she did not feel she had too. The forest, though light and airy, was a labyrinth of trees that seemed deterrent enough to keep any unwanted guests away. They were incredibly difficult to find your way through and she had been convinced it would be impossible to try- for God or mortal.

Near impossible, it seemed then.

His eye darts back to the treeline, taking half a step back. “If I am intruding, I can leave.”

“No.” She says it far too quickly and she can see the way his eyebrows raise in response to it, but she can’t find it in her to be ashamed. She is intrigued by this man, more so than she likely should be, and finds she wants to know more. To learn how he came to find this place. “Just because this place is unknown does not mean it is mine alone. You may stay. Beauty like this should be enjoyed.”

“Wise words,” he agrees, coming toward her. He hesitates at the end, torn on whether or not to truly join her, but it seems courtesy wins out as he lowers himself to the ground, joining her amongst the flowers. He looks entirely out of place, black against the blooms, but she says nothing, keeping her observation to herself.

They sit in absolute silence but she does not mind. He sits stiffly, as if uncomfortable, while she continues to take in all that is around her. From here, she can see the way the willows sway with the wind, the white puffy clouds floating by in the soft blue sky.

“I did not mean to,” he says. She looks at him, head tilted once again. “To find this place. It was not my intention. Though I admit I have never seen anything quite like it.”

She smiles, though he could not possibly know that he had complimented her. “It is a rare thing.”

“It feels almost as if it were from a painting,” he adds, looking around the meadow to take it in further.

She joins him in it, finding no shame in admiring her own work. It is a pretty place, though that had always been her intention. Olympus was beautiful in and of itself, but it was stark in that way. Ethereal and otherworldly, but cosmopolitan. Bright white marble, painted statues, stained glass. Everything beautiful, to be sure, but not in the untamed way that she seemed to crave. She preferred the beauty that was found in nature, in heavy branches filled with green leaves, tall grasses and wildflowers and crystalline waters.

“Do you know much about art?” she asks to fill the silence.

He seems caught off guard again from her question, but answers it anyway. “Not as much as I would like, but I can appreciate the beauty in something as well as any man. Though do not tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation.”

She laughs. “You needn’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Which periods do you prefer?”

They talk for hours, the conversation unfurling as naturally as a bird’s wing. Art, history, philosophy. There is no subject they do not indulge in. He becomes less awkward with time as he grows more comfortable around her and she almost pulls a laugh from him not once, but twice. It seems quite the feat, for a man as serious as this one seems to be, though she does not let her pride get the better of her. When she asks him how she managed to find her well kept secret, he had simply said that one always finds the best things when you are not looking for them. A non answer, but that was alright. She was sure she could coax the answer from him eventually.

“Forgive me, I never asked you your name,” she says after what must have been hours, half appalled by her lack of manners.

He does not seem to mind, a good natured half smile making its way onto his face. “My friends call me Aemond. You may as well.”

It is not uncommon, for Gods to prefer more earthly names. She is often the same. There is power within a name and for such an innocent encounter, she does not feel the need to have him call her Persephone or Kore or any of those that strike some rumination of power and fear. So she gives him her common name, the one she feels is more true to who she is, and he smiles in response to it, repeating it back to her as if to test it. She likes the way it sounds when he says it, the way each letter seems to roll off him tongue, and somehow hearing him say the word alone is enough to make her flush.

She turns her head to hide it and only then notices that the sun has dipped below the trees, leaving the sky a hazy orange. Her mother will be expecting her home soon and there is no telling how poorly she will react if Rhaena and Baela return home without her. She doesn’t doubt that Rhaenyra will send her great serpent Syrax after her should she be even a moment late.

“I have to go,” she says, unable to keep the apologetic tone from her voice.

Reluctantly, she stands, brushing the dirt from her skirts. His lips had parted at her announcement, but now he ducks his head in an understanding nod. She smiles at him, not truly wanting to go yet, and makes her way toward the creek to call upon her sisters to come and fetch her. She does not make it two steps before he is calling after her.

“Can I see you again?”

She turns back to look at him. The insecurity on his face does not seem to match his features, looking almost out of place there. Still, she finds it entirely endearing and she realizes that she would absolutely like to see him again.

“Yes,” she agrees softly.

“Tomorrow?”

She does not bother to fight the smile itching its way onto her face. “Yes.”

He matches her smile then before standing. He comes forward and takes her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips and placing a chaste kiss there. “Then I shall see you on the morrow, my lady.”

She can do nothing but hope he does not notice how hot her face has become.

“On the morrow.”

Read the rest here

[sthbigbang]

✨ 2024 Creations Masterpost Part 3 ✨

See below for the final 94 works that were created during this event!

Part 1 | Part 2

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I Still Fall For You (Like Suns Do For Skies)

[Sonic/Shadow]

Art 1 Art 2 (Bonus) Art 3

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In Another World

[Sonic/Shadow, Silver/Blaze, Sonic & Tails, Sonia, Manic]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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The Incongruence of Stars and Flowers

[QPR Sonic/Shadow, Sonic & Knuckles, Knuckles & Shadow]

Art 1 (Bonus) Art 2

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Sonic Re:VISIONS

[Slight Sonic/Amy]

Art 1 Art 2 (Masterpost/Bonus)

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Once a King, Always a King

[Slight Sonic/Amy]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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A.R.K. Angel

[Shadow/Amy]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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Fangs

[Shadow/Amy]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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Hedgehog Day

[Shadow/Amy]

Art 1 (Bonus) Art 2 Art 3

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Sonic Heroes: Star System

[Sonic, Shadow, Blaze, Silver]

Art 1 Art 2

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A Moment Trapped For All Time (unfinished)

[Jewel/Bark]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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Castles and Creepy Creatures

[Minor Sonic/Knuckles]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3 Art 4

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Game Night

[Honey/Breezie]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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Their Directive Is Tracking Down Your... Knights?

[Lancelot/Gawain/Sonic]

Art 1 Art 2

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Orphaned

[Sage & Silver, Eggfam]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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The Path Not Yet Taken, The Path With A Blockade

[Background Sally/Sonic, Bark & Bean & Nack, Bark & Sally]

Art 1 Art 2

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This Comes From Inside

[Sonic & Mr Tinker, Sonic & Metal]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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King Shadow

[Ambiguous Shadow/Rouge, Sonic, Sally, Maria, Hope Kintober]

Art 1 Art 2

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My World is Chaotic Anarchy

[Scourge/Fiona]

Art 1 Art 2

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Family Road-Trips (Are For Actual Families)

[Vector/Vanilla, Espio & Silver]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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Home Is When I'm With You

[Honey/Mighty, Mighty & Ray, Honey & Matilda]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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We Shine Brighter In The Dark

[Tails/Kitsuname, Tails & Kitsunami & Rouge & Shadow & E-123 Omega]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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Re-Materialized

[Infinite/Gadget, Sonic/Sally]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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What I'm Made Of

[Metal/Amy]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3 Art 4

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Frozen Moments in Time(lines)

[Sonic, Tails, Eggman, Metal Sonic, Shadow, Amy]

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

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[celestinagoldentrail]

Flowers and Mysteries 🌺🌹🌼🌻🏵️ [] Alagadda fanfiction

As I regained consciousness, I found myself surrounded by the gentle rustling of golden grasses that swayed with the breeze in the air. My memories of how I ended up in this unfamiliar forest were hazy, but I remembered leaving on a mission to purchase flower seeds for my roses. All that I could recall was the transition from that place to this one, which was all a blur to me. Upon examining my surroundings, I was shocked to discover a peculiar scene: a forest filled with towering trees and lush greenery in a palette of striking red, bright yellow, vibrant black, and pure white. Occasionally, I caught a faint glimpse of opaque purple among the forest's tapestry of colors.

I raised a brow and glanced upwards, puzzled. The sky was an eye-catching shade of yellow and adorned with an array of shining stars, all against a black sun that shone brilliantly in the center. I felt further befuddled when I gazed upon my clothes, noticing that I was garbed in something entirely different from my previous dimension. Draped across my form was a comfortable red corset, complete with a yellow edge accent, red shoulder less sleeve blouse with fingerless black gloves, and a ruffle layered skirt featuring gold trim. I completed the ensemble with black platform heels adorned with red flowers and a black hat that featured four flowers: red, yellow, black, and white, as well as a porcelain mask that bore a grinning expression and red lips.

As I attempted to remove my mask, I found myself unsuccessful. Could it be permanently affixed to my visage? What the devil was awry? I cast my gaze around, bewildered, until my eyes lit upon a crimson pathway. Reluctant to proceed, I nonetheless found myself following the red path out of my own volition. There was nowhere else to go, after all, and I was drawn to the path's mysterious aura.I exhaled heavily as I felt a sense of confusion and disorientation wash over me. The bizarre nature of my circumstances gave me the impression that I was dreaming, yet I knew this wasn't the case. The path brought me to the edge of a towering cliff, where I gazed downward to see a sprawling city situated in the valley far below.

A spark of intrigue ignited within me as I pondered the possibility of other life in this strange new world.I slowly made my way down the pathway leading toward the city, a feeling of unease settling in the depths of my heart. An inner voice beckoned me to turn back, but I found myself unable to heed its warning. It was as if I was being towed forward at the behest of some unseen force, my bodily movements guided by a will beyond my own.

The moment I crossed the city gates, I was inundated with awe at the impossible structures that seemed to defy the very laws of physics. Upside-down stairs, winding corridors, and other disorienting paths stretched as far as the eye could see, while the citizens went about their business, their attire reminiscent of the Renaissance and Baroque eras, adorned with masquerade porcelain masks.

Despite the strange nature of my surroundings, I pressed on, attempting to communicate with the locals, to no avail. Time and again, they either ignored my entreaties or dismissed me with a courteous yet firm rebuff, citing their preoccupation with other matters. Nevertheless, I persisted, driven by my desire to unravel the mysteries of this enigmatic city.The question that loomed the largest in my mind was a simple one, yet one that defied a simple answer. I felt as though I had somehow stumbled into a realm entirely incongruous with anything I had ever known, and the unknown depths of this strange environment left me with more questions than answers. And so, as I explored the city and its enigmatic denizens, I could not help but wonder...

...

Where am I?....

(This is just a small page I'm sharing to my fellow Tumblr users out there! I'm actually making a story and this is it's first part! My story is called "Flowers and Mysteries" by "XxCelestinaxX"! It's on Wattpad if you guys wanna check out on the updates! It's also where I'm telling and spilling all the things that had been done. You know, Rubedo being evil, Duo coming back in Alaggada, Odious' silent misery, Albedo's snitching, all that!)

[tpc-tangled-au]

Chapter 11: Wayland and the Winter Child

I say, why did she go so quickly?

Hmm? From Wayland, you mean?

Why, after all, if she was so very mesmerized by the fellow, why rush to leave? Or… well, no, not like that. I only mean that… oh, how to word it?... well, only that he seems to have been rather striking in that moment, rather impressive. Would she not think it rude to excuse herself from such a fellow’s presence so hurriedly?

She might not have thought of that. She might’ve been too afraid to consider it.

Not afraid. No. Not afraid. Only unsettled.

But why, Melisande?

It’s what we’ve seen already. When she hears the boy speak so strangely, it’s the same. It’s that little incongruity, the mismatch of words with face and voice. In a man like this, it’s stronger still.

Why, yes… yes, it’s the ancient in the voice of the child!

And then the desolation in the voice of the comforter. The stone in the soft heart. Wayland.

As the lady scuffled off, Wayland heard it. The cry, hazy with distance, of what had once taken man’s form. His every muscle went taut at the sound, hand cautious on his hilt. But it was far-off still. Nothing swooped into sight, nor descended on him in fury.

Still, he could not rest easy.

He knows the stone. More than anyone living, Azarias knows the stone. It would not be out of the question for him to know its hiding-place. And I cannot risk him attacking the Othryans again. Not in… in that form.

His gaze sank into the snow.

How could he give in? Why now? He’s held off this power for so long. And how often have I seen him come back from the edge! How often has he mastered it! If I had done something more, done something sooner, perhaps he could have… perhaps he would…

He halted.

No.

His fist clenched at his side.

No, stop. I cannot think of that. Not now.

He held his breath tight until he was sure it would not come out shaking.

I will not weep until the work is done.

Wayland turned his back, forbidding it to bend or bow. He dragged his eyes up from where they had fallen in the trampled snow. And there they found one place where the white was unbroken. There they found light. The stone of Glaedsar, burning like a drop of sunlight.

The fireflower they had come to preserve.

He had only ever seen one of the seven: the darkened stone of the Underworld. He had only ever seen the catastrophe its power wreaked upon that kingdom. He had never seen it—or any of them—as things of beauty or restoration or peace. And now he looked on another of the seven.

He knew that it would restore those for whom it was sought. It would heal the queen and save her child.

And oh, it was beautiful indeed.

But as he stared at its glowing petals, he could not help but wonder—how long would it bring peace? How long would its healing be a joy, and not a regret? How long before the breach in the shining barricade let loose that perilous influence upon this kingdom?

How long before the dark star-heart’s power runs wild?

Wayland’s chest clenched at the words, ringing through his head almost—almost—as if his partner had notioned them himself. For his words had been true. War would come. Upon the Underworld, upon Othrys, upon all the kingdoms.

Through this little peace would come war, great and grievous. And that was exactly what he had come to prevent.

What they had come to prevent.

That moment was a moment of danger. Choices flickered in one man’s sight. Voices echoed through one man’s memory. Two words hovered parallel, suspended in the dark air, looming as mountains and fragile as flowers. And a little lie could keep them from crashing ruinous into this kingdom…

A distant cry came from somewhere he could not reach.

And suddenly, the moment was over. The choice was no choice at all—even if he could have found a way to mislead the Othryans now, and swear the strangers to secrecy, it was not for him to decide. Such an act would betray the alliance between Elian and Frederick. Such a decision was not in his authority to make.

I was sent here this night as a herald. My duty is to deliver my message… and, now, to find Azarias. Not to sabotage. I cannot risk one war to prevent another, even if—

He could not finish the thought.

Even if his friend had lost the silver in his soul to do so.

The fist on his hilt—the heart in his chest—tightened. The choice was made. Yet not one muscle was at ease.

How now, peace-giver? Hast none for thyself?

Wayland’s head jolted upright. He heard it truly this time. Notioned words, like another’s thoughts conversing with his own. But not his partner’s thoughts. This voice was different. It was younger. And it was older.

Yet his eyes stayed fastened on the gleaming war-banner in the snow. Peace? he notioned back. What peace have I given this night?

‘Tis in thy nature, soldier though thou be. The steps were silent that brought a pale form small to his side. Thou wear’st the livery of Stamros stained; yet that star Restimos shone o’er thy birth.

Wayland felt a smile’s edge threaten his face, though a grim one—how many times had his parents told him that as a boy? How many times had he gazed up at that star in foreign lands? And how often had he missed the sight in the Underworld?

‘Tis so, notioned the lad beside him, seeming to nod. The seventh star—last, greatest day! O day and star of peace, and rest, and hope! ‘Tis that fair influence works in thy blood; ‘tis Restimos that finds its way in thee.

At that, though, even the edge of smile vanished. A different edge turned in his heart. Through me, I hope. But not in me. The knuckles on his bare, besymboled hand whitened on his hilt. Not for a long time.

The silver image of his friend blackened in his memory. The golden image of the flower blurred in his vision.

How can there be peace again after this night?

A hand, cold and small, touched his arm. And it was not the touch of a child. It was not the touch of some wide-eyed little one who knows no other way to comfort. Nor was it even the touch of comfort.

But when he heard the notioned voice, the words did more than comfort could.

When thy burden’s like a stone, know it is not thine alone. When thy worries, wearying, steal, may thy sleeping soundly heal. When the light is blinding thee, may’st thou all things, by it, see.

Wayland, at last, dared to turn his darkened eyes. By the gilded gleam, in the frostlike face, two other eyes smiled up at him, dimmer and brighter both.

When too many pay the cost, know that death already lost.

Sound drew near. Shouts and hoofbeats, men and horses. Kings and soldiers and red-haired maidens. But in the snow beyond their sight stood Wayland and the winter-child, wordless together. Yet though the soldier was silent, his head rang with benediction.

Now, we must keep in mind that these are just our initial drafts of what the real letters will be.

Eh? Why must that be kept in mind?

After all, we don’t KNOW what all these people were thinking in these moments, or what notioning went between them. Some of them, we can ask, but—

You won’t have to ask him. Those were exactly the sort of thoughts in his head, whether his own or another’s, and that certain.

Why, how do you know, dearest?

Because I asked him already.

Portent Longwhite stood with the soldier, the man named Wayland, a moment more. Then came voices. Then came soldiers. Then came a king, by a red maid led.

“Yes, they’re right down here, sire,” she was saying, as down the slope she came with care. “Your soldier friend, and my… my guide, sire.”

Down they came, then, red on the white snow, gathering all in the hollow there. Soldiers stood, then, waiting for orders, waiting for word from their king to act.

But he just stood there, silently staring, staring with wonder upon the bloom. Hardly a breath did stir from his lips then. Hardly a cloud in the frosted air.

Yet at last, King Frederick of Othrys, shaking his head with an awestruck smile, straightened tall, in spite of the tear-wells, gilding his eyes in the star-lost light.

“What a miracle,” came the muttered words. “Thank the Lord, what a miracle.”

Portent heard the thanks in his murmur, though there were few who caught its sound. On that king, he looked then with reverence, notioning greeting that none else heard.

Noble master, full of care! O man strong enough to bear all the things that are to come! Crownéd head with heart of home!

Frederick started, scanning the hollow, searching for he who the words had thought. He found Portent, and his head lifted. Understanding there passed between.

Yet he spoke soon, turning to Wayland (whose silent war had been stemmed for now). Words unheard between them by soldiers yet were marked by the winter-child.

“Any sign of that friend of yours?”

“No, Your Majesty. Only sounds, and those distant.”

“But he was heading the same way that boy pointed out to us. Do you think he’s trying to find this place?”

“I don’t know. But I… think he’s too far to spot us. For now.” Wayland’s voice here lowered still further. “If Your Majesty still plans to dig up the fireflower, I suggest it be done swiftly and secretly.”

Frederick nodded. Then, to the soldiers, orders he gave, which they fast obeyed. Dug up, placed in cloths was the fireflower. Wrapped were its roots in their earth-stained cloak.

Then they took it. Gone was the fireflower. Gone was the light that in hollow gleamed. Gone were the soldiers. Gone was their master. Only three in that place remained.

“Well… that was quite something!” breathed out the lady (Wayland was standing still at the top of the hollow-hill). “To be thanked by a king, and—and to help save a queen! Not the sort of thing that happens to you every day, is it, boy?”

“Many things there are that rare occur.” Portent nodded to her excitement—how like a red-haired child she was! “But this is surely one, Miss Somerset.”

“And there I should hope you agree!” In her palm, she tapped something little, restlessly toying, as on she spoke. “Oh, I wonder what their little prince will look like—I heard them say the queen was about to have a child, you know. I hope they make their way back to her in good time. And—”

There she turned. And there were her hands shown. Clear now at last was the thing she held.

Portent froze, with eyes locked upon it.

Dark was that dagger, with sablen blade.

“Where did you get that knife, Miss Somerset?”

Green eyes, turning, glanced at the bodkin, borne in her hand like a harmless stick. Then she looked back. Then shrugged her shoulders. Then came a smile, with the least concern.

“Oh, this?” She laughed a little. “Oh, I just stumbled across it somewhere—”

“Whence came that dagger’s hilt into your hands?”

Forth came Portent, fierce as a snowstorm. Hardened as hail had his eyes become. Wide were hers, though, staring upon him. Never once yet had his anger shown.

“What? You… oh, you don’t really think I stole it, do you? Because I didn’t! I swear!”

“A sablen blade the worst of swearing breeds.” Firm and desperate gripped he her forearm, searching her face for the awful truth. “O, tell me how it found its way to thee!”

Just a moment stared his companion, darting her gaze to and from his own. Then she breathed in… slowly released it, clouding the air… and her answer came.

“I found it. After you left, when I walked over to the fireflower, I found it in the snow. I picked it up—I thought it’d be good to have some kind of weapon while I was alone.” Many feelings bubbled inside her: agitation, confusion, dread. “But that’s all I did! Really, believe me!”

Portent Longwhite sighed without misting. Fury—and fear—he released unseen. “I do believe your word, Miss Somerset. There is no guile upon your honest face.”

Yet, while smiling came to relieve her, once more stealing across her lips, trouble darkened the pallid princeling, casting omens into his thought.

“But this bodes ill for Frederick and his house. The fireflow’r was long considered lost, a jewel mislaid by time’s forgetful lords. But this, thy finding, hath disproved the tale.” Here, he nodded down toward the dagger (how he hated the sorcerous blade!). “‘Tis clear some wicked person kept it hid, by spell or charm or violent defense; for none but wicked ones do sablen use.”

She looked down then, eying the dagger, the night-forged poniard, in her hand still. “So… so it’s some sort of black magic? And someone used it to hide the fireflower, to keep it from the Othryan kings of old?”

“Aye, so it seems; but it is worse than that.”

“Worse? How can it be any—well, perhaps I shouldn’t say that.”

Portent fixed his eyes on Miss Somerset, certain as death and as grim as stone. “If witch or warlock hid the bloom away, what will he do when he has found it gone? The story will go out across the land—the miracle that saved the Othr’an queen—and there can be no chance he will not hear. I ask again, what think you he might do?”

Though her face was tinged with the sunlight, tan as if she were born thus burned, at these words, she paled like the hoarfrost. Hardly a word could she bring to bear.

“But… but they can guard. Can’t they? They can watch out for anyone like that.”

“Perhaps. But of this peril, they know not, nor needed they to guard against such kind in many years. They need a man who knows of this, their present danger, and of ways to fend off those who love the sablen blade.”

There, a frown crept over her features. She eyed Portent uncertainly. “You can’t. You know you can’t. We have our own important business to tend to—and anyway, you’re not a man! I don’t think the Othryans will take to having a child watch over them.”

No rejoinder made he to that word (though her own steps could prove her wrong). Still, he knew he could not abandon this, their mission, for anything.

“I will not leave you now, Miss Somerset. Yet I believe that there’s another one, who knows the danger and knows his defense. An you stay here a moment, I will go, and speak to him who’s marked our every word.”

Then they turned their eyes to the hilltop, where still was outlined a blue-cloaked form. Still stood Wayland, still as a statue, features affixed… and resolute.

Portent Longwhite went up to join him, leaving below his companion fair.

“Well, I don’t know what’s going on anymore.” She stared up for a moment, squinting. Then she looked at the little knife. “But I do know I don’t want this black thing for one more minute. Ugh!”

Holding it gingerly now, she looked around for a place she could ditch the thing. Not in a tree trunk, not in the bushes. Certainly not in the snow again! Maybe, if she just threw it away, as hard as she could, off in the woods…

“No, that’s silly too. That would just leave it somewhere for some stranger to pick it up, or some little creature to cut itself on it. And who knows what that might do? I don’t.” She frowned. “If I knew anything about sablen, I might.”

Still, she searched on, trying to figure how to get rid of this stupid thing. She stood still, her head on a swivel. Where could she put it? Where—

Unless…

An idea growing in her head, she tiptoed until she was standing right over the spot that had warmed her an hour ago, though it was now just a hole in the ground.

Over her shoulder she glanced one more time. There were Wayland and her strange friend, talking away (though she couldn’t quite make out what they said). Then she glanced at the dagger in hand. She glanced at the hole. And, sighing a mist, she made her choice.

“At least nobody will step on it,” she murmured, already dropping onto her knees.

~*~

[Chapter 1/Writing the Story]

[Chapter 10/Go Back ... Chapter 11/you are here! ... Chapter 12/The Hope]

[Also on AO3, if you want to hop on over!]

[cedefaci]

Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, Fabio di Vongola

warning for suicide

It took him a few repetitions to notice. Like a song from a music box, the noises from outside his cell were locked in a seamless loop, the same murmur of conversation repeating on a three-sentence beat. Peering through the bars, he could see the guards cycling through their own series of movements, like figures in a zoetrope, standing up and sitting down only to stand up again.

It couldn’t be. He had taken back the Half-Rings. But it could only be— “Spada?”

“Fabio.” Spada emerged from nothingness, as impeccably dressed as ever, and took a seat on the narrow cot pushed against the wall.

“You know,” Fabio said, trying for teasing and arriving at wistful, “I think this is the first time I have heard you call me by my name.”

“Perhaps.” Spada said, tilting his head back, gaze far away, “What else could I call you, here at the end of all things?”

There was no bite to the words, and yet—Fabio sighed, leaning back onto damp concrete. “I suppose you were right then, when you said that the fight would come to us, one way or another. I can hardly call myself Don Vongola when I failed to see that.”

Spada pursed his lips. It was clear he agreed with Fabio’s own judgement, but they had been friends too long to countenance such sharpness easily. The CEDEF Commander settled by saying, neutrally, “You established a foundation for your heir to build upon. The Vongola will not survive its trials without the resources you have acquired.”

Oh. He had hoped, for a moment, that this was a rescue, but he had personally laid down the law regarding the keeping of omerta, and it would have been hypocritical for him to demand an exception.

“I see.” He needed to focus on the important things. “They took the Ring when they came to the house, they knew what it was for, we have a leak. You’ll also need to take Daniela to my sister Claudia in the Vestals, she has my Will in her keeping—I trust that you have no objections to Flavio as my successor?”

Icy water trickling down his spine. Spada was shaking his head, full of sympathy. “Daniela was arrested the same time as you, and Flavio was tricked into giving himself up for her, not that Mori let her free.”

No. The world spun, the floor of his cell came rushing to meet him—cold hands caught him.

"I have failed then, both as a Don and as a father." He said into the orange flower water scented shoulder of his consigliere.

"Flavio shines gold with honour," Spada said, not quite disagreeing, "He can capture hearts, but is unsuited to scheming."

"But?" Fabio clung to the hope in the upturned lilt at the end of Spada's words.

"But, Daniela blazes as a bonfire." Spada said, "Her Will is unmatched, her courage undaunted, her Flame without peer. Your daughter, Fabio, has the heart and stomach of a king. I would offer the Rings to her."

"She is young." Fabio whispered, "A girl, besides. The Vongola will not bow to her."

"She has the Will to hold it." Spada drew away so that their eyes met keeping his hands on Fabio's shoulders. "Trust in her, and in me who trusts in her. I have witnessed the rise and fall of many heroes, and in Daniela I see strength and conviction which would shame Ricardo. Make a new will here, Settimo, and your daughter will see your dream of the cosa nostra united under Vongola's banner through."

At that, his Intuition, silent in helplessness, pinged. He focused on the incongruity in Spada's declaration. "You would compare Daniela to secondo, not primo?"

Spada smiled, nostalgic laughter in his eyes. "She is as Ricardo, Fabio. The one who rallies the family once their predecessor's failures overtake it. You are like Giotto.”

“The one who failed?”

His friend’s gaze softened. “The dreamer who gave me hope. Giotto was like a shooting star, a spot of brilliance burning out and fading fast, and like him, your work was not half-done when your will faltered. And though for the sake of those works I have turned from you, they sprung from you nonetheless, and I cherish the memories of our fellowship, the joy of which I shall use to hone my grief into vigilance. This I swear.”

Fabio swallowed, his mouth had suddenly gone very dry. That flash of sapphire, years ago, when they had bared their hearts to each other. “I would rather that you just lived—looked up Katzbalger’s old retirement plans, maybe.”

“You need not wish me well.” His friend kissed his hand, the hand bereft of the Vongola Ring for the first time in more than two decades. “You have already returned love to me, when all I had was hate. For your sake, Fabio, I shall avenge thee, and see your children grow old.”

Flavio would be safe too then, under the dark wings of his godfather.

“You speak as if I am already dead.”

“You will be.” The man who had been his External Consultant said at least had the decency to look him in the eyes as he said it, as steady and inexorable as the age-old beat of a marching drum. “You have failed, and have been defeated, Don Vongola. It is time to do as the Romans do, and fall on your sword—or would you give the government their very own puppet, or else allow their kangaroo courts the humiliation of the Vongola name?”

“I cursed my father for putting pride before life and love.” Fabio said.

“You would give your life for love and freedom.” Said the one who had once been one mind with him. “Worry not for your kin. Sostrata has taken your mother to safety in England, and your wife has will return to her father’s house to politic for Daniela there, once your last affairs are arranged. Flavio is being kept in the same gaol as this, and the tumult over your death will give Timoteo the opportunity to extract him. I shall retrieve Daniela myself.”

That was all he still cared about taken care of. Fabio did not relish the thought of life in prison, or giving the government the satisfaction of his execution. But—he had one question left.

“Is my death the price you demand for your service, Daemon Spade?”

His friend froze. Then he started chuckling, vibrant colour seeping into his eyes and hair—pale hair and steel-blue eyes, of course, Daemon would have delighted in getting one over his old rival.

“One might understand it thusly.” Daemon said, drawing himself up to his full height—clearly, the first impression he had given Fabio had been no act, the man was an utter peacock. “Bind me with your lifeblood and last breath, Vongola Settimo, and your daughter shall command the deathless bogeyman of the underworld.”

In his hand he held a straight razor, its edge so sharp as to cut without pain.

Fabio took it. “That’s a bit small for a sword, isn’t it?” He said drily.

Still. Wrist or neck?

He lifted the blade up, Intuition guiding each movement, then drew it swiftly forwards and down.

The last thing he saw was his friend’s face, leaning in.

“O Fabio,” Daemon Spade promised, “Forgive me this, and I shall make you a pyre worthy of any emperor.”

Cool lips touched Fabio’s, sealing them with a kiss, and he knew no more.

Remember what I said about weird Roman traditions? Daemon is leaning particularly strongly into them because of the whole glorious death and redemption through suicide thing he has going on here. Claudia, Fabio’s younger sister in the Vestals, has custody of his will as would have been the case in ancient Rome.

It is also, according to Wikipedia, custom for the closest relative to seal the passing of spirit from the body with a last kiss, in accordance with a belief that equated the soul with the breath. I think I implied that Daemon was committing literal vampirism with the kiss, drawing out all of Fabio’s lifeforce and power and taking Fabio into him.

[daesungindistress]

Hey explain GD's Kwondo Panda. Didn't know he into pandas all of a sudden. Is he trying to save the species from extinction or something? He's such a hero! GD for pandas!!!

OR could he be coming out with a whole line of wildlife based shoes?!?!? Oh my stars and stripes!!! So looking forward to the following ones, Kwondo Porcupine and Kwondo Hippo.

Everybody knows what/who those 5 lines represent. Don't kid yourself. Remember the sweet ending of Still Life? Those 5 lines are GOLDEN.

FYI for obvious reasons, the remaining members aren't allowed to outwardly support him but that doesn't mean that you are right. Also do remember, you are able to emotionally support someone without supporting what they had done. Some people have a heart and are able to forgive. Give it a try! Being bitter all your life won't get you anywhere.

Gladly. "Panda" is a marketing term used by Nike to describe a specific white/black colorway on their products. The name "Panda" isn't exclusive to GD and has been used on other Nike shoes, which you can easily confirm with a quick Google search. Pandas galore. GD did not come up with or assign the name "Panda" to this variant of the Kwondo. Nike did. What, did you think he designed a special line of sneakers to honor Seungri? Wow, get real.

The small minds of your kind are as miserably one-tracked as ever I see, and not grounded in reality. You plague rats have to stop making fools of yourselves and making everything about that man. Forcing your delusional bullshit about a convicted sex offender onto the BIGBANG members does absolutely no one any favors. Not you, not me, not BIGBANG, not even Seungri. The phoney public image you fell head-over-heels in love with is over, as is his time in the group he left. The group that has just now begun to recover their careers after he set them back years, continuing their journey forward without him in a song and video that delivered a message unequivocally in support of four. There's no such thing as a fifth season. When Seungri is released from prison next February, he will be required to enter his personal information on a national registry for sex crimes, per court order. He is not under any circumstances (outside of one's imagination) returning to BIGBANG, and BIGBANG are not returning to him. Deal with it. And by that I don't mean deny it. God knows y'all have done enough of that.

The five lines logo. Is everyone in agreement about what that logo represents today? Are they really? Because the fact that there are KVIPS still happily displaying it -- KVIPs who have no love for Seungri and mobilized en masse to deplatform him from Instagram immediately after his conviction -- should be giving you second thoughts about how it's perceived by different groups of VIPs. And this KDCKV person isn't an isolated instance. She's just one of many.

As for the MADE logo at the end of the Still Life music video, it was significant, but not in the way you think. Sadly, BIGBANG's strong sense of narrative seems lost on folk like you. It's very basic of you to reduce the MADE logo to a number when it can be seen as so much more than that. It also seems incongruous to tout it as a statement about holding on tightly in the context of a song and video whose message is of leaving the past behind. BIGBANG's use of those familiar lines at the end of the video more than likely signals the formal conclusion to BIGBANG's MADE era. The final installment, an outro of sorts, and the closure we all needed.

BIGBANG coming back to reunite with fans when the flowers were blooming was the fulfillment of the promise made in Flower Road, which was itself a continuation of MADE. In this way Still Life establishes itself as the completion of that story arc in BIGBANG's history (get it? History. Sorry, couldn't resist). There's so much beauty and poetry in the way they worked in references to Flower Road and Last Dance and other themes that were prevalent throughout MADE, then, as a finishing touch, used their old logo that marked the ends of MADE era music videos to say goodbye to that time of their lives, to offer a eulogy, an "in loving memory" before the new beginning, tying up a loose end and closing the book on a chapter of the band that had been left open for far too long. Keep the memories but move on.

Too bad it's too much for simple-mindeds like you. By viewing BIGBANG's artistry through such a narrow lens, by boiling everything of theirs down to the one who gave everything up, you're missing out on something great. Truly.

(However, if you insist on interpreting the MADE logo as meaning five, then you're more than welcome to see it as the members saying goodbye to five.)

BIGBANG have signaled their intent to pick themselves up and start anew amid the ruins of the worst reputational devastation they've ever faced as a group, and so far, their hard work and their resolve to remake themselves as something better than before has their future as four looking very promising. Stop shoehorning the source of that devastation back in where it doesn't belong. Stop standing in the way of healing. Stop standing in the way of BIGBANG's new beginning.

[incongruence-osaf]

WELCOME to The Incongruence of Stars and Flowers

SUMMARY:

"This alternate universe combines the vibrant world and history of Sonic the Hedgehog with our very own, resulting in a version of Planet Mobius that’s both familiar and distant. Yet, this altered reality is neither idealized nor greater than the sum of its parts.

Anthropomorphic beings, humans, and animals of Mobius are struggling to rebuild their cityscapes, ecosystems, communities, and personal lives in the wake of the cumulative devastation of the Perfect Chaos Flood and the Black Arms Invasion. Shadow the Hedgehog takes a leave of absence from G.U.N. to temporarily settle down in Station Square, laying low after the world-shattering encounter with his alien DNA donor Black Doom. While the cityfolk around him undergo the growing pains of instability, nonconformity, sociological upheaval, and corruption, so too does the alien hybrid. With the support of unyielding friendship in aloof activist Sonic the Hedgehog and cultured confidante Rouge the Bat, Shadow coasts in this new life chapter while feeling profound pulls to unravel memories surrounding his loving creator, Professor Gerald Robotnik and solve mysteries within his environment, mind, and body.

Past and present perspectives interweave to show slices of unordinary lives, drawing from early-to-mid 2000s culture shifts/natural disasters/political tensions, U.S. and European history, and various fields of science as inspiration for this multi-chapter science-fiction drama mystery."

PROMINENT CHARACTERS:

Shadow the Hedgehog, Sonic the Hedgehog, Rouge the Bat, Professor Gerald Robotnik, Maria Robotnik, Black Doom, Commander Abraham Tower, Helen (from Sonic X), and new original character(s)

RATED PG to PG-13 (might change as story progresses) for swearing, discussion of uncomfortable topics, visceral/intense imagery, mild mentions of blood/violence

POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNINGS (might change as story progresses): body dysmorphia and dysphoria, racism/speciesism, internalized xenophobia, mentions and possible depictions of police violence, generational trauma, trauma & imagery from medical settings, processing grief, suicidal thoughts, depictions and/or descriptions mentioning blood

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

[swirlmup]

Hey I decided I wanted to add the progress pics to making this because it turned out to be quite a journey and i feel they're good enough to share as well :o So progress pics below the cut!

mostly screenshots because i dont feel like making a million files lmao, but here's the first sketch with the first idea i had for a background, where it was basically just. a wall with a bloodstain in the one corner.

sketch 2 because i realized the pose in the first sketch was jank

base lineart, was starting to get a different idea for something better to do for the background

rough painterly sketch of the ideas i started having for the background. I began to feel strongly that the background should have a highly romantic atmosphere to it, to better serve the incongruity of the bloody gift.

what follows now is a series of screenshots as i added each element of the background, starting from the sky leading up to the blood and flowers in the foreground. the stars however i saved for last so i could arrange them around the trees and astarion nicely

and here's the finished background by itself! Honestly, really pleased with how it turned out all by itself. Fun fact: all the plants are referenced from real life ones, such as black poplars and judas trees.

Finally i could turn my attention back to Astarion, filling in these base flats.

Obviously though during the rendering process, I made a lot of heavy edits to the colors, lineart, and even the proportions and placement of features until i was finally satisfied.

Thanks for giving this a read! This was a very nice piece of fanart to work on, and I got to learn so much during the process. Ta~

yes of course i got obsessed with the pale elf like everybody else so sue me

[crisp-sweet-pink-lady]

Summer of Strawberry Shortcake: Berry Bitty Adventures episodes 1-4

While the later seasons are more tightly arced, most of season one is made up of stand alone episodes, probably because it was made before the series had a home (all four seasons would eventually air on The Hub). Because of this, I'm sticking to the airing order, even though I'm fairly certain that a couple of episodes are out of order. Just because there aren't as many story arcs doesn't mean there isn't any continuity, but since I haven't watched most of these episodes since they first aired, I can't be entirely sure which episodes are in the wrong place. I'll point out any incongruities as I notice them.

Even though these are stand alone episodes, you can tell that Fish Out of Water is meant to be the first one, if only because it features a handful of Berrykins speaking in rhyme, something that got phased out (as far as I remember) later on, except for Berrykin Bloom, and possibly Princess Berrykin (she speaks in rhyme in these four episodes, but I feel like she stopped doing that after a while. Maybe she just stopped appearing as much). Strawberry is also treated as more of a community leader here, with the girls and Princess Berrykin going to her with their complaints, rather than the girl they actually have a problem with.

While all of these episodes were enjoyable, I think I liked the third, Vanishing Violets the best, just because it had the most different story beats. The other three mostly followed the "here's our problem of the episode, here are the ways it continues to be a problem, and now here's the solution" narrative in a straightforward way -- Fish Out of Water: Orange adopts a fish as a pet that turns out to be a frog, the frog causes trouble for everyone in Berry Bitty City, Orange takes responsibility for the trouble, but ultimately realizes (like Strawberry had been saying all along) that she has to return the frog to the wild; Babysitter Blues: Strawberry agrees to babysit a baby berrykin who can change the colors of things and does so at every opportunity because he's too young to realize the trouble he's causing, he causes trouble in Berry Bitty City until Strawberry can make him understand the trouble he's causing, and then there's a denouement where she teaches him that changing colors is okay as long as he asks permission first; A Stitch in Time switches things up by having a B Plot about Strawberry's failed attempts to see a falling star (so she can write about it for a poetry reading), but the A plot follows the formula: Plum, Orange, Lemon, and Blueberry pretend to be "fashion elves" to help Raspberry make a dress, but Raspberry starts making "suggestions" for the "elves" and the girls start to feel the strain of sneakily sewing all night, until they finally agree on a design, but then Raspberry reveals that she really wants to make the dress herself, and her friends come clean.

Vanishing Violets technically follows this formula, too, but in a way that makes it feel different from the other three. The violets Lemon Meringue plans to enter in the big flower show start disappearing, and Berrykin Bloom seems to be the most likely suspect, until his flowers start to disappear, too. (You can tell this is an early ep because the girls call him Mr. Bloom, and I'm pretty sure later on everyone just calls him Berrykin Bloom.) Despite feeling contrite for suspecting Berrykin Bloom, Lemon continues to leap to conclusions, until she chews out Mr. Longface Caterpillar without warrant. Since everyone's flowers have been disappearing, the girls camp out to catch the thief, and after some hijinks, they discover the thief is moving underground. A spelunking expedition reveals the culprit is a hungry gopher, and Lemon sacrifices the last of her violets to lead him away from Berry Bitty City so that the flower festival can go on. She ends up winning first place anyway, since Strawberry got a good picture of her flowers and submitted those in her place (her sacrifice probably helped, though).

So yeah, the trouble continues to be trouble, but they tackle it in different ways over the episode, and that's why Vanishing Violets is the best of this batch. But overall, this was a good batch to start off the series.

No notes from the script this time around, though not because there aren't any. The same site where I found the SSC03 scripts also has scripts for the first two seasons of BBA, but unlike the SSC03 scripts, these are more like actual scripts, so I'm going to go through them more carefully, rather than just skimming for interesting stage directions. If there's anything worth noting, I'll make a separate post for a bunch of them (maybe splitting season one into two parts).

Also unlike SSC03, there are synopses for each episode that includes who the main character of the episode is, what their physical goal is, what their emotional goal is, and what the overall theme for the episode is. For example:

[groovesnjams]

“Put You On” by Girl Talk, Wiz Khalifa, Big K.R.I.T., and Smoke DZA

DV:

If we’re really heading into some kind of real indie sleaze revival, it would only make sense for Girl Talk to resurface too. He wasn’t from either coast, and because of that it feels like it’s easy to overlook how central he was to the last go-round. Greg Gillis embodied that American Apparel-and-glitter-and-sweat, peak hipster aesthetic as well as anyone; his mashups were arguably second only to Glee in solidifying classic rock as part of the millennial canon; his live shows as important as early Arcade Fire in teaching the indie kids to dance again. And true, he’s been producing occasional tracks since 2010, but this is meant as the first single from his first full album in over a decade. Which means I’ve got slightly higher expectations for where Gillis could be aiming, and which means “Put You On” lets me down as soon as it transitions off Wiz Khalifa’s opening verse. To be clear, Wiz and K.R.I.T. and Smoke DZA do fine work here, keeping the energy high and the flow moving. But on a posse track, with three disparate rappers in the room together and trading off, there’s simply no reason to have the beat stick to the same handful of samples and snares from the intro through to the outro. Especially when you’re fucking Girl Talk, one of the few mashup artists to actually make the form worthwhile! A multi-rapper collab should be the perfect opportunity to bring some of the sense of surprise and glee from the mashup era into an original beat. And yet it's honestly wild how “Put You On” carries none of the anarchic charge of Girl Talk’s best work, where incongruous pieces melded together in ways that you never expected but that instantly felt natural. This is boilerplate, it’s generic, it offers nothing new or surprising from anyone involved (except I guess Smoke DZA, who’s new to me.) Maybe “Put You On” is a red herring; maybe Gillis has more interesting productions in store for the album itself. Or maybe this comeback, in perhaps the ultimate tribute to indie sleaze, is just three dead rats in a trenchcoat.

MG:

It’s three rats in a trenchcoat, but they’re not dead. To sound perhaps a bit too naive and nostalgic here, I think a big part of what made Girl Talk so ubiquitous for a year, as well as novel and gestalt shifting, was that it formalized a mode of listening that everyone -- intrinsically -- uses. When you pop off your riding shades, kill the engine, and walk from the sanctity of your car’s curated playlist into the flat absurdity of some department store’s satellite radio station you’re mashing up in real time. You’re always mashing up in real time! Your head has a song stuck in 3rd gear but your laptop is blaring motown: mash up. You hear Dion singing about heroin addiction on “Your Own Backyard” and your brain inserts it in the heroin-spoon pantheon alongside The Rolling Stones’ “Dead Flowers” and Spiritualized’s “I Think I’m In Love”: mash up. Girl Talk simply took a very specific form of mashup (the beat match) and wrote it to scale in a font the size of turn of the century pop culture. Night Ripper (obviously) had a huge effect on DV and me, but part of that effect was downloading it and hearing it blaring from dorm rooms whose inhabitants had more, better RAM while my progress bar seemed to shuffle back and forth in an eternity of non-completion. We were far from the only two swept up in the magic of hearing Notorious B.I.G.’s flow synced with Elton John’s piano.

So, okay, many years later and we now have rappers who voluntarily drop their verses over emo, folk, hyperpop, and any and every outré beat; plus, indie artists like Bon Iver, Beach House, and Rostam who blend their specific, honed sonic worlds with pop stars like Carly Rae Jepsen and generational artists like Kanye. Everything feels much freer and unconstrained and able to be as much or as little as any genre out there as it wants. No one says they like a little bit of everything but rap and country anymore. Orville Peck works with Diplo.

Night Ripper was an intense moment, maybe even the singular sound of indie sleaze, and there was never any way of repeating that, despite Girl Talk’s considered attempts. Unlike Feed the Animals and All Day, “Put You On” sounds like giving up, scaling back. It’s Glossier firing 30% of its staff because it forgot it was a beauty brand and thought that a period of intense popularity meant it was an app. Maybe it will turn out that Girl Talk is as accomplished a producer as he is a technical wizard, but I don’t feel optimistic about the odds. His love of 70s slickness and all the colors of a sunset make him a good match for Wiz Khalifa’s laidback stonerism, but, in a way that again aligns this single with all the rest of Gillis’s comedown, “Put You On” does too much by trying to shove Big K.R.I.T. and Smoke DZA into the mix.

[candied-peach]

ao3: “jeepers creepers” rating: T warnings: putting others first spoilers, sympathetic remus, sympathetic deceit, dukexiety genre: fluff description: Remus invites Virgil on a date. If it means getting out of showing up after the wedding, he'll do anything.

Virgil taps on his boyfriend's door, fidgeting from foot to foot. The note slid under his door said to meet him in Remus's side of the Imagination, but he can't help but quietly hope that Remus really means his room, because Remus's side of the Imagination is an adventure at the best of times, and Thomas's mental health has been so shitty lately, Virgil's nerves are on a hair trigger.

The door creaks open and for all its chaos (organized chaos, really), Virgil can tell that it's empty. Acid green paint stains the far wall in an enormous splotch that makes him wonder if Remus just grabbed a bucket of paint and threw it there. Janus won't be pleased when he sees it. He never is when it comes to Remus's 'renovations,' but even Virgil can tell he doesn't actually mean any of it.

Janus is busy now, though, busy helping Thomas with the aftermath of his decision (and did he make the right one? Right about now, Virgil thinks not), and there's just him. Him and the ominously cracked door into Remus's half of the Imagination. (It wasn't quite half, but it was close enough, and Virgil doesn't care to figure out the appropriate fraction when his stomach keeps churning and feeling like it's about to drop to his toes).

He darts across the room, flinging open the door like ripping off a band-aid. The smell of lavender drifts on the breeze, making his eyes widen in surprise. To his further surprise, there are no bloody freshets of unimaginable liquids spilling themselves across the ground, or bundles of suspiciously shiny tentacles writhing in the trees. Instead, there are flowers- rather ordinary flowers, although most of them are black or purple (not that he would dream of complaining) and the ground is carpeted in nearly alive grass, dark under the light of a bone white scab of moon. Virgil follows the thin curl of path, his hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, and his shoulders slowly relaxing under the weight of lavender on the wind.

"Virgey!" Remus's excited voice floats to him, and Virgil runs the rest of the way, skidding to a surprised stop. In the middle of a crumpled clearing, a TV sits, incongruous, on a tall, cracked tree stump. A Nintendo Switch sits next to it.

"Remus," Virgil greets him, slouching over to his boyfriend and giving him an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek. "What's all this?"

"Figured you didn't wanna deal with the wedding aftermath any more than I do," Remus says, scrunching his nose. "My bro's upset."

"Well, all Thomas seems to have gotten out of it all is a new high score on Word Crush," Virgil admits glumly. "I hate saying we made the wrong choice, but-"

"I just don't get why you didn't tell Thomas to talk to Lee and Mary Lee," Remus says, with a baffled shrug. Virgil freezes, realization hitting him like a morning star blow. He groans, covering his face with one hand.

"We're idiots," he mumbles. "That- that would have been a way better idea. I mean, maybe we'd still have gone to the wedding, but-"

"Oh well," Remus says. "Anyway, wanna play Just Dance? I borrowed Janus's copy."

"Does he know you did?" Virgil asks, raising an eyebrow. Remus grins, unrepentant.

"I'm way better at asking forgiveness than permission," he says. "Besides, wanna try and beat his high scores? He'll be so mad."

"You are the worst," Virgil says, laughing. "But sure. Sounds good to me. Which Joy Con do you want?"

"Right one," Remus says, catching it when Virgil tosses it at him. "Be prepared to be annihilated." Virgil snorts.

"Like to see you try," he says, and starts scrolling down the available songs. "Hey, Remus?"

"Yeah?" Remus asks, looking up. Virgil gestures at their surroundings.

"Thanks," he says. Remus grins.

"No prob," he says.

tag list:  @k9cat @paravigilant-virgil @croftergamer @airiervessel @littlestliu @matthindavick @ambersky0319 @yalltookmyurlideas @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @ihateitwhenyourejustvague @bexxbeauty @killjoy-3000 @the-sunshine-dims @sneaky-slytherin @reesiereads @rabbitsartcorner @quackerz-creations  

[little-bloodied-angel]

Of the artist wishing to become art.

I've written so many poems about so many things.

About angels surviving Hell and being all the more perfect for it. About the "something about you..." that this or that. A Mediterranean nymph with coral lips. Cinnamon skin and cocoa eyes and the sweetness of him. Sugar on her lips. The jasmine flowers that shared a name with someone that became my safe haven. About spun gold hair and emerald eyes. About soldiering the cracks in broken wings with lacquer and gold dust.

Perhaps because I've always strived to see beauty wherever I looked; because I cannot help loving too much and weaving pretty words that turn my love into something tangible.

Do muses know that sometimes poets despair of never being the subject of verse?

All my life I've tried to be things I was not. Beautiful, charming, graceful, witty, intelligent, funny, talented. I suppose they have all coalesced into this: I wish, desperately, to be the kind of person poems are written about. The kind of beauty that makes your hands itch to paint, the kind of body and face and soul you weave into verse and metaphors because no regular words will suffice. The kind of person that brings out the art in you, the vision of a world you hadn't seen before ("because he was with me, and for the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I had always looked for, and always missed"). The kind of person who can't be loved quietly, because that kind of person makes you want to shout your love to the earth and stars, write it in the sweep of a paintbrush, the ink of a word, in music notes.

But I am not. I am not. I am not. Not once have I been the recipient and inspiration of any kind of art, because I am not a muse. I am a poet with a bleeding heart, prince incongru d'un talent dérisoire, "with your coal black hair and rugged face, intellectual expression and all that". Cyrano with his ugly face and pretty words, cloaked in shadow.

I'm tired of being Basil Hallward. What I wouldn't trade to be Dorian Gray.

Que j'aimais tantes d'autres sans être aimé...

[managingmymuse]

secret societies

for writer's month 2021

day five: secret

(original work | Avalon witches universe)

I found the rose on my bed one afternoon in mid December.

It was the end of term, about a week before the solstice. A few flakes of snow, incongruous with the Nevada climate, drifted down from the sky. It would never stick to the ground, not with our weather, but watching it drift outside the windows was always quite nice.

Not that I had time to watch the snowflakes drift down. Term was due to end in a week, and I had five finals to study for. Worse, I had three papers to finish, and an application for mentorship in the Conjuring Arts.

It was enough to break a witch down. I'd been basically living in the library for the past three weeks. My cousin, Winter, had all but given up on ever finding me in my room, and had resorted to tracking me down at my favorite carrel on the third floor.

But the carrel didn't have a bed, and things weren't quite so desperate that I needed to catch a few winks sitting up. So I'd trekked the half mile back to my dorm in the whispering snows, and hauled myself through the door and up the stairs.

It was a little after three in the morning now. Well past the witching hour. Despite what humans like to think, we witches aren't nocturnal; sure, we might occasionally stay up to review the moon or the stars or cast a spell at a precise lunar time, but most of the time, witch schedules were just like human schedules. Dawn to dusk, give or take a little around the edges.

As a university student, my edges tended towards late nights and late mornings. But even though I'd once walked in on a heated debate on the Avengers at five am, at the moment my floor was quiet. No light spilled out from behind closed doors. No voices echoed down the halls.

It was strangely peaceful, in a way, and I pulled the silence close to me, hugging it to my chest like a blanket as I made my way to my room and opened the door.

Inside, the room was cast in grayscale; the open blinds allowed light from the street lamps to spill across the floor, and rather than turning on my light, I padded across the floor in the dark. My books hit the desk next to my bed, and in a few seconds I'd shimmied out of my clothes and into my pajamas.

I should have brushed my teeth and washed my face and whatever sort of niceties there were to do. But the truth was, I was too tired. It could wait until tomorrow. Hell, it could wait until next week as far as I was concerned.

I was turning down my covers when I noticed the funny little lump set at the foot of my bed.

For a moment, I stared at it. In other circumstances, I might have ignored it, but something about it grabbed at the back of my mind. At some sliver of consciousness I didn't realize was awake yet. It wasn't magic-- not exactly, anyway-- but it was definitely something.

Something good or something bad? I thought, kneeling next to my bed to examine it. In the darkness, it was really just a blob. A hunk of dark on dark. But the longer I stared at it, the more it resolved into shapes. The darkest blobs-- they were fragile. Like petals. And the slightly lighter blobs surrounding them-- could those be leaves?

My heart lurched in my chest, and I lunged for the light switch. The electric clicked on with a hissing hum, and I threw a hand over my face, cursing at the light. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

But my heart was still hammering, and I had to know. I forced my eyes open, squinting at the pain and the light. Looking for the object. Looking to see if it was what I thought it was.

I felt myself stop breathing when I saw it in the full light. Sitting at the end of my bed, unassuming among the rumpled covers, was a black-petaled rose.

I reached out for it instinctively, until, at the last second, I pulled my hand back. My god, I'd heard about these before, but I'd never thought I'd actually get to see one. Not in person.

I knelt next to my bed so that I could examine it at eye level. The blackness of the petals was as rich as the night sky in the desert. Faint ridgelines showed where they had creased as they had grown. Against the darkness, the green leaves looked brighter and more vibrant than any rosebush I'd ever seen.

Slowly, I reached for the flower. My fingertips brushed against the petals. They were soft. As soft as the clouds floating through the sky. Sweet goddess, if you could create a fabric that felt like that.

But no, of course you couldn't. Because this flower didn't grow anywhere in the world. It wasn't one of the "black" roses which are really, upon close inspection, deep purple or red or maroon. It wasn't a white rose that had been dyed to look black. And it wasn't an experiment that had come out of a herb witch's greenhouse somewhere in the city.

The flower was from The Between.

Gently, I picked it up. The stemless rose blossom fit neatly against my palm, the richness of the petals a striking contrast against the pallor of my skin. I held it to my nose and breathed in its scent. It wasn't sweet like most roses; instead it was pungent and dark and a little bit musky. I suspected it would linger on my skin for hours, if not days.

But I couldn't be unhappy with it. Not when I discovered the neat envelope under the rose. Not when I cracked it open and revealed a gold-edged card with a black rose emblem. Three lines of neat calligraphy were printed on it.

The first quarter. Midnight. 333 Forest Street

A shiver rolled through me, followed by pure, inexpressible joy. The Black Rose had called me. They had seen my work, and they'd called me to join their order. The most legendary secret society in all of Avalon had invited me into their membership.

I leapt to my feet and jumped up and down. I did a funny little dance before spinning on the spot. All of the fatigue I'd been feeling earlier evaporated as if it had never been. I'd been called to the Black Rose. I was going to get to study the Between!

I glanced towards my cellphone and then I bit my lip. I wanted to call Winter. I wanted to tell her about my good fortune. About all the new things I was going to learn. But even though it hadn't been printed on my card, I knew I couldn't. If the Black Rose found out that I'd told anyone about their invitation, they'd kick me out as surely as if they'd never invited me. And I'd never get to learn about the Between, let alone walk there. Let alone see the Wild Roses growing as tall as my head.

Chastened, I slumped into my bed. The rose was still in my hand, a little bit misshapen from my dance-break, but basically whole. Carefully, I set it on my nightstand. It glowed darkly in the lamp light, and a feeling of deep peace swelled in my breast as I sat there, and looked at it.

I was going to be in the Black Rose. They had wanted me.

And sighing, I turned the light off and tried, in vain, to go to sleep.

[studiono13]

A Weekend in London - A Painting Masterclass

I took the day off on Friday and had a day in London with an old friend.  We live about 10 minutes apart but the only way we can actually spend a day together is to travel 120 miles so that there isn’t the constant background hum of all the things we should be doing…

Our first visit was to the Tate to see the new Paula Rego show .  The lovely thing about going before Boris has decided Covid is over is that booking is essential and very limited and everyone still has their masks on. You really have time to stop and ponder at each painting without feeling rushed on or having to peer over someone’s shoulder.  And only occasionally had to pause whilst 2 women took it in turns to arrange themselves in front of paintings!!?  Grrrrr - I take quick snaps for reference but this was some full on insta photo shoot!?!

The exhibition starts with early works - a lovely portrait of her father, collages, gouaches, book illustrations, some etchings.  All sorts of things I never knew she’d done and some that I’d forgotten about.

You move into a room with those enormous acrylic canvases, the girl with the boot, the dance and I sort of thought this, this is what Paula Rego is all about - these are the paintings that I  was first aware of.   I’d forgotten how huge they are - the dance is 2m x 3m!  And it’s all in the looks and glances and the stories, the ambiguities. They’re sort of like watching a play with intriguing, incongruous little details in the wings.

But then you go into a room where she discovers pastel and wow - it’s like an explosion of creativity and energy and mark making.  There’s a rawness and immediacy to the action of drawing with pastel that is somehow more expressive and passionate.   It’s like she’s found her medium and it’s perfect for expressing all her fury and emotion and politics.  I’m just beginning to use pastels and it was inspiring to see what an absolute master can do with them - she must get through boxes and boxes of them.

Paula Rego’s work is all about the enigmatic narratives and protest but she is also so proficient with her colours and her materials and just bloody brilliant at drawing hands and feet .  If ever there was a must see exhibition this is it - so much to take away from it.

And then we went off to see the residency of Julie Bennett at the Bankside Hotel, having just had a 3 week one myself I was incredibly jealous of her 6 weeks - painting her art icons in a fab location.  I love having a poke about, looking at how people work and the materials they use.  Julie is incredibly prolific and very proactive - she has all sorts of events going on there and on zoom over the next couple of weeks - check her out on instagram…

Then off to see Yayoi Kusama and Chantal Joffe at the Victoria MIro.  Yayoi Kusama first - pumpkins, dots, colour, texture - a world away from anything I do or hope to do but I find her work so arresting.  And then Chantal Joffe - I love her work for it directness, honesty and intimacy  - they are autobiographical, paintings about relationships.  And I love the oasis that is the little garden out the back.

And then still basking in the freedom of not having to be anywhere else we went to the pub!  And lunched and talked, and I also kind of checked it out because I have an exhibition there in November so I guess that was sort of work (really hard not to do anything isn't it?!)

I stayed in London for the whole weekend, doing things with family and friends but couldn’t resist sneaking into Kenwood House on Saturday when they were all distracted by cake!  There’s a fab collection of Gainsboroughs and Turners and Constables.  There’s even a Vermeer but to be honest not one of his finest.  The stars of the show for me are the Sargent - Portrait of Miss Daisy Leiter - hidden away on the stairs where you probably wouldn't notice it if you weren't looking - and the Rembrandt Self Portrait with Two Circles - just fabulous.

And then on Sunday I went to the Serpentine to see the Jennifer Packer exhibition - I’d never been there somehow and always love going somewhere new.  And I really don’t know anything about Jennifer Packer, just that I’ve seen a couple of paintings and really liked them so had no expectations.  The flowers have a sort of melancholy to them and the portraits have a real connection between artist and sitter.  But most of all I loved studying her use of paint, areas when paint seems printed or rollered on, washed, scrubbed, sketched and areas of canvas left exposed. Loved it.

Spending time with art is good, spending time with friends is wonderful.  My head is very full, I spent all day yesterday catching up with all those things I should have done and now I’m ready for some time in my studio hoping I’ve soaked some of it up….