#there's a ton of buildup

[redliferiot]

grian pearl and scott: none of us chose or even truly desired to win, rather, victory was thrust upon us like the cloak of destiny that we all don. victory was unwelcome and in some cases unexpected, it could've been anyone but it was us martyn: i murdered cause i wanted to win and i won cause i wanted to murder

[blueskittlesart]

kind of obsesed with the incredibly obvious royal retcon about halfway through the p5 manga

[oooocleo]

Hi there! I'm a new follower and saw you mention your trip to MCM -- are you going to have an artist alley stall or are you just going for fun?

Have a lovely day! ✨️🖤

im tabling! potentially the only time ill ever be doing that in the UK bc boy. is it more complicated than EU cons now 🤡

ill be at table B-20 w/ lots of prints! and ill probably only be able to accept paypal payments lol........... but please come chat if ur there!!

[lunar-years]

(I actually love the way the Jamie love confession to Keeley is written but I understand that it doesn’t land for a lot of people and I do wonder if part of why it feels so out of left field is because we literally don’t see Jamie all episode only for him to pop up in the last 10 minutes and say all that…. Like, “I’ve been all over the place today” “today taught me” okay babe but like. WHERE.)

[glitchfang]

ive said that ash shouldve gotten a real fairy pokemon in galar and used alcremie or hatterene as an example but tbh? i feel like he could’ve actually had a zacian. why not. he already had legendaries in sm

[rascallyrose92]

Rewatching the Avengers so I can experience peak superhero fiction again:)

[aureatchi]

ᝰ𓂃⊹ ִֶָ SHE PAINTED THE HIGH RENAISSANCE ONTO HER BLANK CANVAS. . .ft. fyodor dostoevsky & dazai osamu

৻ꪆ RIASSUNTO. fata viam invenient...you attend a ball, fated to stumble upon two demons in disguise. you don't know whether it is for better or worse that you somehow already know them, all masqueraded as angels, regardless of how laughably far off that would be.

◞ OR ROME WAS TRULY THE PROMISED LAND, and you sought the art of chaos, rivalry, and seduction.

SERIES MASTERLIST. → ii. | PLAYLIST ♫. | wc. 9.6k+

৻ꪆ a/n. it’s FINALLY HERE !! get ready because there’s A LOT. i’ve poured sm heart into this so i hope you enjoy it as much as i do :) THANK YOU TO EVERYONE who was patient + reached out telling me how excited they are for this. this series is also my entry for @kentopedia’s love through the ages historical!au collab. thank u sm for putting this together <3

৻ꪆ info. fem!reader. renaissance!au. drama & romance. cursing. some suggestive parts. love triangle. arranged engagement. slowburn. lowk touch-starved. a lot of story buildup/complex character. suicide attempt from dazai. historical inaccuracies. bad poetry. religious imagery/symbolism.

— THE MONA LISA WASN’T REAL. And Vincenzo Peruggia was not, in fact, the person who stole the piece, contributing to the boom of its fame to the general public, but was planned in a way to frame him so that the origins of the painting would be a secret gossip only a group of the most successful artists knew about. 

The gendarmes were close. They were correct in assuming that another artist could’ve stolen the painting during the investigation. But they never suspected it could be the person the portrait was painted of herself—no, obviously not Francesco del Giocondo’s wife—but the original face who remained under the cover-up. 

An artist’s face, who later went under the alias of “Raphael” to conceal her contentious image and entanglements from the public eye—you. 

The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin amidst the summer air. The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders, and an unknown heart who vowed to drown you…

“My, miss, you’re already stirring up tons of drama, and you’ve only been here three days!” 

The past couple of months had felt like a dream. It almost seemed like yesterday when you packed your things into suitcases and moved to one of the most famous centers of the art world, Florence. 

Yet now, you entered through the gates of the ‘eternal city’ itself—Rome, a great privilege granted to you by the Pope himself. You almost cried when you received his invitation, commissioning you to paint the frescos in his private library. Of course, there were some strings pulled, like the person who recommended you…

“It’s all thanks to you, Ranpo,” you giggled mischievously. As the lead architect of the Vatican (but before that, your friend), he had told the Pope, “...she might as well become the best painter in all history. She may not be well known here in Rome, but say her name in Florence, and you’ll awaken the whole city. You’ll realize you’ve found a diamond among all the rubble. Trust me on this one; I’m never wrong.” 

“It was nothing,” Ranpo replied with a smug smile. “His Holiness, Fukuzawa never doubts my word.” He tapped his head with his forefinger and winked. “Not only does he recognize my talent in the arts, he also acknowledges my outstanding intellect! I’d be a detective in another life.” 

You chuckled before he continued. “The rest is all on you, princess. Again, you’re progressing quickly-” he pulled out a letter to summarize out loud. 

“-His Holiness was so impressed that he’s giving you the rest of the rooms to paint,” Ranpo said while you stared at him with widened eyes. “He…fired everyone else who was working on them. On top of that, he invites you to a ball happening in a couple of days to make an announcement on new projects. Other than you, he’s invited only the most influential artisans to attend alongside the aristocrats.” 

“No way!” You grabbed Ranpo’s hands in excitement. 

“Yes, way.” He let you spin him around on the pavement in eagerness, your long dress following along. “Though, I feel like you’re going to have to explain to him how you painted the library’s frescos so quickly.” 

Your turbulence of elation calmed. “Hm, you’re right. 

“I hope the question slips his mind.”

You hadn’t actually told Ranpo, but it always seemed like he would figure out everything about you anyway. There was one reason why you had become so famous in Florence. You created masterpieces in what felt like seconds—it was almost like you were granted the touch of creation itself. No one had ever seen you paint, so the mystery of how you were able to produce your portraits in mere weeks—sometimes days remained a mystery to the entire world, no matter how fast science progressed. 

You called it an ability. To be able to visualize—a mental image in your head you wanted to come to life in the form of a still painting on a canvas was what you did. You conjured the concept yourself, freezing daydream into textile. 

You weren’t sure why you possessed something supernatural, or perhaps there were other artists you didn’t know who could also do the same thing, but firstly, you kept it a secret—it seemed almost inhuman to hold such a power. Yet secondly, it was even more the reason to follow in your father’s footsteps. 

He, too, was a painter in the courts of Urbino and would’ve liked to become a famous artist as well. Now, that dream lived on through you—you had studied and trained under his teachers and other artists until you mastered their techniques from the foundations to geometry. Your father was no longer alive, but you were sure he’d be proud of you for getting this far. 

“Oh, one more thing,” Ranpo said.

“The two angels of art are going to be there.” The brunette closed his eyes and rested his arms behind his head as if he already knew the shocked expression awaiting your face. “Your inspirations. Osamu Dazai of Milan and your fiancé, Fyodor Dostoevsky of Florence.” 

“Pardon me, Fyodor?” 

…

A long time ago, your uncle—your now legal guardian—arranged your marriage to Fyodor Dostoevsky. However, the same would’ve happened even if your father had been in charge due to his family’s good societal position. 

It was just meant to be, you guessed. 

Coincidentally, Fyodor had also taken an interest in art the few times you two saw each other when you were younger, and you eventually saw him go on to become the most talented sculptor in Florence. 

However, your path of similarities ran cold after that. You hadn’t seen him in years, and you weren’t even close. You were obligated to write to each other once a month, but each message almost seemed like business transactions rather than love letters. Fyodor was too aloof a person despite being well-educated and polite—though he checked off every other box (and you were sure any other woman would want him), you realized you would never be able to connect with him. He was just not interested. 

You couldn’t do anything to change the engagement, but as long as there was no set wedding date to look (dread) forward to, you were content with life for now. 

You didn’t necessarily like Fyodor, nor did you go to Rome to finally pursue him, but you admired him from a different standpoint. 

He and Osamu Dazai were truly angels of art; even gods, if the Church was not one’s forte. Everyone across the country knew their names—patrons and civilians alike worshipped them at the feet. Even the powerful Medici family, sought by every artist to be commissioned, held close ties with both. 

Clientages saved their money to have the two paint for them, upcoming artists aspired and envied their success, ladies came with their names rolling off their tongues to the horror of their husbands’ faces—they were rumored to be devilishly handsome, too. Self-portraits of the prodigies were yet to be made, but you didn’t doubt it one bit. If Dazai was anything like Fyodor, he had to be fanciable too. 

They had the world and heavens as masterpieces in their hands; one could say their names traveled as far as the badlands. You arrived in Florence right after they departed for Rome, and you studied the creations left behind to figure out how they made crowds swoon and create such huge impressions on people.

And you found their pieces were indeed the pinnacle of the renascene summer. You silently made them your mentors, incorporating what was successful for them into your own works. 

…

“And you’ll be there, right, Ranpo?” 

“Of course, so don’t you worry your pretty head about a thing,” he tapped his head with a smile. “Though, I have some work to finish first, so I’ll leave thee to explore Rome.” 

“Don’t take the wrong wagon this time,” you giggled. Ranpo was late to meet you on your first day because he kept taking the wrong passenger coach to get to you. For some reason, he was knowledgeable at everything but navigating transportation. 

“I’m taking a horse this time,” Ranpo replied. 

“Even worse! You better not fall off!” 

There was a tailor you had been recommended to by your aunt before you departed. You decided to head to his shop first to find a dress to wear for the evening. 

“Good day, my lady,” the couturier said with a kind smile. “I have multiple options of gowns for you tonight. Please do take your time selecting.”

“Gramercy,” you replied with a smile in turn. Your measurements had been sent to him a few weeks ago, so that you wouldn’t have to wait for your garments to be made. 

He brought out at least four cioppas. You didn’t even care to figure out how many in total because among all the regal reds, greens, and royal blues stood out a silk, off-white dress with gold accents. Your eyes were immediately drawn in, though you couldn’t put your finger on why. It wasn’t the most showy in the bunch, but that didn’t matter to you. It was like a rare gem among common stones—though you would need a good eye to really appreciate its uniqueness. 

You ran your fingertips across the fabric, closely observing its craftsmanship. You became fascinated with the opulent designs on the flowy skirt and the long sleeves. You guessed that if you didn’t take it, you’d instead dream of it for the rest of your days in regret and freeze it in one of your paintings for eternity.

“I think I’ll try this one first.” 

Your first choice proved worthwhile when you tried on the gown in the separate dressing room. You exchanged the simple front-laced bodice and plain cotton attire for the new, elegant piece sewn just for you. The fabric hugged and complimented your curves in all the right places, creating the most flattering look as you turned in front of the mirror. 

You imagined yourself with your hair styled and matching jewelry to accompany it—you felt like a princess. Perhaps this confidence was the only thing that would help you get through the ball this evening and perhaps your entire time here. You hadn’t been around so much aristocracy in years—though you grew up privileged, you preferred to live humbly and simply focus on your hobby (and you spared your change on those in need). You were lovely yourself, no doubt, and maybe that’s why you charmed many people of different social classes as you grew more popular. 

You studied yourself through the mirror again, and it was like the polarity of your dresses reflected the fate of this new chapter of life set against the one you left behind.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and an unknown heart that vowed to drown you…you suddenly felt cold. You rushed to get out of the room. 

“It’s perfect on you,” the tailor said, unable to disguise his awe when you asked him for his opinion and to ensure all the sizing was correct. You nodded in curiosity when he asked, “Now, would you like to know the inspiration behind the dress?” You always looked forward to seeing how your tailors incorporated your personality and family style into their design. 

“It’s a play on a singular topic,” he said. 

“Angels. A dual purpose signifying both the type of art you create and how you give off an entrancing allure—they will be curious about your enigmatic yet enchanting importance. That will be your statement tonight among the darker colors.” 

The earlier thought of comparing your two inspirations to angels came to mind. You decided right then—you found no need to try on any of the others. 

“I’ll have this one sent for me tonight,” you said. “Thank you again.”

Rome was alive and busy with action at every corner you turned. You strolled down the streets with no set destination, admiring the liveliness of the city. There were markets and shops everywhere and merchants with all sorts of foreign goods. 

You discovered a ruella at the corner of one street, and the door was widely opened. You peered in to see a group of women inside, probably discussing various intellectual topics. 

You decided to go inside and socialize, having nothing better to do. As you stepped into the salon, they all turned to greet you. 

“Good day, miss,” a few of them said. 

“Oh, aren’t you the Florentine artist?” one of them asked. She moved to the side so you’d have a spot to sit.

I got recognized, you thought, and you couldn’t hide your smile. 

“My husband was there awhile back,” she continued as you sat beside her. “He couldn’t stop talking about how enamored he was with your style and was sure you’d make it here next. Looks like he was correct!” 

“I’m very flattered,” you responded, a warm tint in your cheeks. 

“Did you recently arrive?” she asked. “I hope your journey here went smoothly.” 

“Yes, it went alright!” you said. “The weather wasn’t too bad, and I enjoyed the views on the way. I even passed by some lakes…” 

You felt it again. A shiver ran down your spine. The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin that stood perpendicular to summer’s balmy weather. The intense feeling to stay alive—to save yourself and the soul you did not know…

Your journey had gone smoothly up until you passed by one of the lakes near Rome. It had been a peaceful day, and your coach driver suggested that you look outside. You lifted the curtain and were received with one of nature’s blessings—verdant grass and plants that thrived around clear blue waters. 

You could’ve painted it if you remembered the sight. You truly could have if the memory of the scene wasn’t tainted by what you saw seconds after. 

“Hey, is that a person?” you asked your driver, squinting your eyes—unblemished, untouched picture shattering in your head. The land on one side of the lake was vastly elevated, creating a cliff on that end, and a figure stood in the distance.

A moment passed. 

“…Yes, my lady.” 

Your eyes weren’t betraying you—there was a man dangerously close to the cliff’s ledge, and you weren’t born yesterday to not know what he was thinking of doing. 

“Stop the wagon,” you said, a slip of panic in your tone. Your driver looked back at you hesitantly, but you ordered once again. 

“Please stop the wagon. Don’t come after me. And don’t tell anyone about this.” 

The horses carrying you came to a halt, and you rushed out of the chaise. You weren’t sure what had gotten into you at that moment—there was a random person you happened to catch making more than a terrible decision, why get involved—but you couldn’t stop now as it was like your legs were carrying you themselves. You immediately took off east towards the cliff. It would take you a few minutes until you got to the man. 

What would you even tell him? Would you try to talk him out of it? Gaslight him into stepping away from the edge? Offer to paint him a custom piece for free?—“Oh, I’m actually a famous artist in the country, I can paint you whatever you wish. But I can’t really do that if you kill yourself.” You dashed past grass and rocks as you hurried up the hill.

You would definitely have to change once you got back—the bottom of your dress was already soiled, and you were sweating.

Splash!

Your face was struck in complete horror at the loud sound. You peered over the edge to see huge ripples cascading across the surface of the lake. 

Oh shit! 

You ran back down and then towards the shore. You thanked God that you weren’t using any heavy layers under your dress that day and prayed you weren’t going to end up killing yourself as well. You knew how to swim, but the man was far from the bank. 

Am I really going to do this? 

This might’ve been the most spontaneous thing I’ve done. And the worst.

You liked to think that if you saved him, you would be rewarded in some other way. A good Samaritan—you thought. It had to be worth it. You couldn’t die before your new life even began. 

You submerged yourself into what felt like frozen water, your clothing suddenly feeling uncomfortable around you. Still, you wasted no time swimming toward the man who jumped in. 

He was already sinking—of course, this lake has to be deep. You immediately grabbed onto his waist when you got to him, but not before you took a good look at his face. He was probably of the working class because he only wore a simple white shirt. You also noticed he was covered by an absurd amount of bandages. Soft waves of brunette hair framed the man’s profile, and he looked far more content and at peace than he should’ve been. In any other situation, you would’ve thought he was taking a pleasant nap by the way his eyes were closed, and his lips were slightly parted. 

You’d never seen anyone so pretty underwater. If you hadn’t seen him as a human above land, you would’ve thought he was a mermaid or some other foreign creature. 

Your thoughts and observations were interrupted when you realized you couldn’t hold your breath any longer. Trying not to panic anymore, you first tried to drag the two of you up above the water, but you weren’t strong enough to battle the weight of it against the two of you. 

You would have to swim to shore and didn’t know if you had enough air to return. 

Well, I need to make it work anyway, you thought. You wouldn’t let this mysterious guy you didn’t know cut off everything you wanted to pursue. 

You took ahold of one of the man’s loose arms and, with determination, tried to propel yourself the way you came from, kicking your legs through the water. You were more than correct in assuming it would be complicated—the energy in your body drained quickly. 

You were only halfway from where you started when you accidentally choked. But that caused you to completely seize up—water poured into your lungs like open floodgates, and you were unable to breathe. You tried to push yourself up to get air, but you were already too weak to carry even yourself.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and trying to save an unknown heart that had led to you drown—you wondered if he was still alive. He would have to be resuscitated at this point, and you realized, you too. If anyone came in time to save you, that was. You shouldn’t have had ordered your driver to not follow after you. Or rushed into the lake unprepared. 

Or involve yourself with this man. It was his decision to jump off the cliff…and now you had tied his own weight onto your life. Maybe it was all too heavy to carr—

“I’m happy to hear,” the woman replied, oblivious to and interrupting the encounter you were replaying in your head. “I wish you the most success here.” 

“Thank you,” you replied. “You are very kind.” 

“I am a bit nervous,” you whispered. “I’ll be meeting His Holiness for the first time and other artists. Do I even compare to them?” 

It was evening now. You had spent the last couple of hours preparing for the ball after exploring town—you had on the classy cream-colored dress you selected earlier from the tailor, accompanied by a couple of necklaces. Your hair was put up in a complex style and fastened by a few pieces of jewelry. 

Your mind utterly conflicted with your appearance, though. Your thoughts were in chaotic peril—you tried to hide the fact that you had been pacing around your room in anxiousness right up until Ranpo picked you up. 

“Thou art second to none, miss,” Ranpo replied with a wink and a tight squeeze of your hand. It had only half the same effect as his bear hugs the viridescent-eyed would give you when you weren’t in public, but it was enough. “There’s no reason to be nervous. You fascinated him long ago—you might’ve even been his favorite if I wasn’t here!” 

“Maybe so.” You giggled at his lighthearted smugness. “Well then, let’s get going.”

Ranpo nodded and led you through the large doors of the ballroom. Immediately, you were greeted with the celestial light from the chandeliers contrasting the dark evening sky outside. 

Your eyes drifted in awe among the artigiani and aristocratici of Rome. It was almost chimerical—you hardly remembered you were still holding Ranpo’s hand. The scene looked like it came straight out of a painting. 

“Appealing so far?” Ranpo asked, guiding you down the stairwell. “Can it stand against the Florentine carnivals?” 

You slowly nodded, still focused on the liveliness surrounding you. “It feels divine.” It was more prestigious than any event you’d been to so far—most likely because this was held in one of the Pope’s courts itself. 

“You haven’t even experienced it yet,” Ranpo laughed before leading you into the waltzing crowd. “Shall we dance?”

You and Ranpo followed the movements of the other couples. When you were sure of the pattern of the steps, your eyes wandered again to admire the setting. Everyone was dressed to the nines—although, as your tailor said, they all wore darker colors. You pretended to not notice the looks you received from strangers—however, they were not insulting. They were out of captivation and marvel.

Multiple pieces of artwork were hung around the hall, too, and you wondered if the chosen artists who created them were here now. You considered if they knew of your name too, just as you recognized theirs. 

However, your heart almost stopped when you were reminded of a completely different topic. Ranpo noticed a moment of shock flash through your eyes but did not proceed to question you. (Thankfully, he knew when you would prefer him not to be nosy.) 

You saw the back of a man’s head dressed in pure white—his brunette hair in slightly messy, soft waves. 

There is no way. 

However, you could not confirm your suspicions because he approached a lady in a beautiful, deep red gown to ask for a dance. His face and figure became completely hidden as he waltzed with her at the opposite side of the room. 

“See someone you know?” you heard Ranpo ask. 

Of course he didn’t need to be nosy, because he figured out everything about you anyway. 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” you responded quietly, still trying to get a glimpse of him, but before you could say anything more, a guard standing next to the entrance silenced the entire crowd. 

“Enter, His Holiness, Fukuzawa!” 

You immediately turned around, and once more was someone dressed in white—the Pope, Yukichi Fukuzawa. You glanced at Ranpo, who gave you a nod of reassurance before politely applauding with everyone else. 

“Thank you for attending this event today,” Fukuzawa started. “Our city has made much progress due to the collaboration and contribution of our artists, so I would like to take tonight to celebrate all of them. Ultimately, I want to reveal the next upcoming project.” 

After a few more words, everyone applauded again, and the party resumed activity. You and Ranpo moved away from the dance, him deciding it was finally time to do the thing you were dreading. 

“Look over there.” Ranpo urged his head towards two men in conversation standing a few feet away. 

If the ballroom really represented the heavens, surely these two were the angels. Even without Ranpo telling you, you knew them to be Osamu Dazai and Fyodor Dostoevsky, standing side by side, white suits further proving their empyreal position.

But your eyes widened, and if you hadn’t been careful, your jaw would’ve dropped, too. Obviously, you recognized Fyodor—tall, jet-black hair—handsome and intimidating as ever, but you didn’t dwell on him for too long. Your eyes quickly scanned the room in search of a woman from earlier with dark curls, dressed in deep red, and when you found her, she was no longer dancing with the brunette dressed in white. 

You looked back at the man beside Fyodor.

It’s him. 

And as if hell—fate, whatever wanted to taunt you further, Osamu Dazai noticed you and Ranpo first, pausing his share of thoughts with the ravenette. You locked eyes with him, and you immediately became embarrassed. 

What the hell? First, one of them is my fiancé, whom I don’t even say a word to, and then the second is…him? 

Perhaps we shall meet again, were the brunette’s words to you by that lake. You truly didn’t believe him then, but it wasn’t the first time you choked on your assumptions. 

In a split second, you pulled Ranpo out of sight. “Ranpo,” you pleaded. “I can’t meet them now!” Your fingers hastily ran through your hair, making sure everything was in place. “I’m not even sure what to say-”

“You’ll have to rip off the bandage sooner or later,” he said, tugging on you. “And I say the sooner, the better! I’ll introduce you to them!” You felt even more displaced at the fact that he offered to introduce you to your own fiancé. However, before you could even object (or say, “Ranpo, somehow I already fucking know both of them!”), he dragged you back—toward the two painters. 

“Good evening, my lords,” Ranpo said as you approached them. 

You didn’t miss how Dazai’s face lit up in a curt smile. Meanwhile, Fyodor had on a neutral expression—probably the only appearance you ever saw him wear. 

“Good evening, Edogawa, the darling of His Holiness,” Fyodor said, the slightest spite in his tone. He did not glance at you at all. 

“Still as cold-hearted as ever, Il Divino-Painter,” Ranpo replied with a chuckle, but it was apparent that he did not like the man.

“I am a sculptor,” Fyodor corrected, a bogus smile still plastered on his face. 

“Don’t mind him,” Dazai said, patting your friend’s shoulder. “He’s just jealous you’re in charge of planning out the entire Vatican palace. And also at the fact His Holiness had to force him into a suit!” When Fyodor gave him a look, Dazai turned to you. 

He had eyes of the sunset, paving the way of something between hell and earth—though in a perfect world, it should’ve been the other way around because he looked as if he had just come down from heaven. You felt your cheeks warm and an uncertain feeling in your stomach. 

“Good evening, my lady,” Dazai said, knocking you out of your reverie. You blushed again as he knelt to take your hand and kiss it, bowing before you—the single minute felt longer than nox itself.

Was this the same man you met at the lake a few days ago? 

He was the artist you admired all along? 

“Apologies for not greeting you first,” he continued as he stood up. “I did see you earlier. How could anyone not notice the angel of Florence who creates masterpieces in days, especially when she looks like one tonight?” You became even more flustered by his sweet words. 

He was familiar with my name all along.

“Ah, so you already recognize her?” Ranpo asked. 

“Of course I do!” You suddenly tensed—half expecting him to reveal your previous encounter with him that you did not want anyone else to know. (If Ranpo knew, you hoped he would keep his mouth shut for your sake.) It would cause too much trouble if someone decided to spread it, and even worse if your uncle found out. He was very strict on image.

But to your relief, he did not. 

“I am very fond of your style, my lady,” Dazai said, resting his hand under his chin. “Madonna del Granduca,” one of your paintings. “You capture human sentiment and emotion so well, even in the most simplistic pieces.” 

Finally, you were able to respond to one of his compliments without becoming a mess. “Thank you.” 

“...And sfumato, your technique,” Fyodor added. “Perhaps you like her style so much because she takes it from you.” 

It was only now Fyodor finally acknowledged you. 

He may just be the son of Nyx. His intentions were tucked away behind amethyst eyes, slumbering in the peaceful twilight he allowed mercy to while all else was caught up in chaotic darkness. Maybe no one else noticed that—if anyone did, Fyodor would not be as beloved as he was now—but you did. You saw through the three strands of malice that laced his following words. 

“Good evening,” he said softly. He kneeled in front of you with your hand, tormenting you with eye contact.

“It’s an honor to see you again, miss. Though I must ask, was Florence not enough? 

“Is grasping originality so tough?

“Are you here to copy more artistic concepts to boost your own depictions of seraph?” 

He delivered a deadly kiss to your hand before you could respond, and before he could see the puzzlement on your face. 

“Excuse me?” 

But you did not falter before him as he stood back up. He did not intimidate you. 

“I’m flattered.” 

For once, the slightest sign of curiosity seeped onto Fyodor’s face.

You gave him a poisonous smile of your own. 

“Sfumato—the blending of colors to create smooth transitions between them,” you explained, giving a nod toward Dazai. “I’m honored that you immersed yourself so much with my painting that you could observe such a detail.”

Ranpo pretended to look around the hall as if he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening, while Dazai couldn’t keep a snort from escaping his throat. 

You kept your eyes fixed on your fiancé’s violet gaze, trying to figure out whether or not you’d be dead after the night was over. Actually—he seemed like the type that could seduce someone into death. Stygian black hair framed against his pallid complexion—ethereal, no doubt, yet you would not be surprised if he turned out to be the Grim Reaper’s right-hand man. (And you were supposed to marry him!)

“I’m here because His Holiness summoned me to paint the frescos in his house. I feel that if he sensed plagiarism in my work, he would’ve not trusted me with this project. 

“What about you, my lord?” 

There was a pause; he was thinking. 

“I am simply searching for something important,” he replied. “An inspiration, if you want to call it. I need it to complete a piece I have been working on.”

“And you’re sure you can find it here?” 

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

The foreign word rolled off of his tongue like honey. He dressed his voice to sound like a lullaby, and you remembered why you thought of him as an angel before he decided to insult you. 

What a juxtaposition. 

“What did you say?” 

“Did you not hear me?” 

He wasn’t going to tell you what he said, nor what he meant in entirety. “Nevermind. I did. Good luck trying to find it.” 

…

“May I have this next dance, my lady?” 

The charming brunette extended his left hand out to you. You had become irritated with Fyodor after his apparent distaste for you—So this is how you treat me after years of not seeing each other? You thought you could at least try becoming acquainted with him to make your inevitable fate a bit easier for both of you, but it seemed like that wasn’t happening anytime soon. You left the conversation at the nearest opportunity and moved to the other side of the room, unaware that your other dilemma was following you. 

“Lord Dazai?” 

You noticed something new about him as he stood in front of you. Those sunset orbs also harbored a concept as far as the sun. There was something distant in them that felt like half of his mind was immersed somewhere else. You wondered where. 

“I don’t like Dostoevsky at all either,” Dazai chuckled. “Even though tonight’s given me another rival on my list, I like you way more.” 

“Don’t speak so soon,” you scoffed. “You’re going to hate me when I take all your customers.” 

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, bella.” You frowned at his attempt to flirt. “And besides, many of them are very loyal to me.” 

You hesitantly took Dazai’s hand as he led you to the floor, joining the circle of couples who had already lined up to dance the almaine. 

“I’m still annoyed with you,” you said quietly as the two of you lightly skipped across the floor on your toes, never breaking eye contact with his tawny eyes. That same look was there—it was like he was thinking of everything and nothing all at once. “I’m only agreeing to this so I could boost my status. You just caught me off guard back there. That’s why I acted nice.”

He dramatically pretended he was offended. 

“Why, tesora?” Dazai took both of your hands. You circled around each other gracefully before reversing to step in the other direction. “I saved you! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be dancing here tonight and finally knowing the name of the poor soul who jumped into the lake!” 

“If it weren’t for you, I also wouldn’t have nearly drowned, idiota,” you glared. 

“Keyword: nearly!” 

You continued sulking at him while the dance went on, ignoring the rest of his defensive sentences and the friendly endearments he added to the end of them. 

“Ow!” 

Dazai had stepped on your foot during another turn. 

“What was that for?” you asked, silently observing how he made sure he did not catch your dress along too, so it would not ruin. 

“Hm? What do you mean?” Dazai spun you again; this time, he stepped on your other foot. 

“Lor- Dazai!” You disliked how much fun he was having with this. Now, he wore a mischievous gleam in his eyes that coupled an unmistakable, playful grin. 

He spun you one last time, and this time, you purposely stepped on his foot. 

“Hey—why did you do that!?” he pouted. 

“Thou did it first,” you replied dryly. “You’re a bad dancer, my lord. You can’t even keep up with the slow ballroom almain.” 

He smirked as the number concluded, and then he brought you to the center of the floor. 

You looked around to see at least half of the couples moving off, either to watch or go elsewhere. 

“Let’s see if you can keep up with this one,” he chuckled lowly. 

“What dance is this?” you asked.

“A galliard. The La Volta.” 

Your lips slightly parted to say something, but you didn’t know what. 

It made sense now why so many chose not to participate in this one. The La Volta was a bit obscene—first, the women were lifted up in springs and jumps, even though that was usually improper. It was also very fast—it would require skill to do it comfortably, especially with the long, heavy gowns you wore. 

Finally, it required close contact between the couples, which was…scandalous. Like a forbidden fruit. 

You had never danced it before. Nor had you planned to. You were engaged, after all.

I bet noone in this room, but Fyodor himself and Ranpo even know we’re to marry, though, you thought to yourself, even though you shouldn’t even be considering excuses. …And he probably couldn’t even care less.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dazai said, a bit more seriously, leaving it up to your decision, but his eyes alleged something else. Like he was pleading to let you indulge. 

The forbidden fruit and its serpent. Why was this man always tempting you to things that could sabotage your name? It was as if his heart vowed to drown you to doom…

“No, I’ll do it,” you decided. 

…yet you had let him, again and again. The descendants of Eve never learned. 

“They call you the Renaissance Man, my lord? I’ll steal your title when I show everyone I can do more than paint…and outdo you in dance.” 

“Dance is a form of art, too, y’know,” Dazai smiled before he parted from you. “How about instead, you think of it like we’re creating our own special piece together.” 

“Competition,” you disagreed in one word, curtsying before him as the drums cued.

“Collaboration,” he bowed. 

You two rose, and a new tension was ignited in the room. Your eyes locked with his again, but this time more determined—more passionate, as you gracefully swept to the left while the brunette the opposite way. You continued that movement while also gravitating closer. 

Closer, until he was finally able to lay hands on your waist. 

“Look up, miss,” Dazai softly reminded you. “Too flustered that you’ve forgotten etiquette?” 

You didn’t even realize your eyes chased down to where he was holding you—no man had touched anywhere near your corset before. You felt nervous; it was supposed to be so wrong, so why did his hold feel so right? As if his fingers were always supposed to be wrapped around you, the final touches to a masterpiece of intimacy. 

You were falling for it—the serpent’s art of seduction. This wasn’t supposed to be a collaboration. 

“What happened to your confidence?” Dazai teased, whispering in your ear; you felt his breath tickling your skin.

Your eyes drifted back to his in embarrassment, but you couldn’t give your rival the entertainment of winning against you in something you proposed. Fighting against your nerves, you wrapped one of your arms around Dazai’s broad shoulder.

“Shut up.”

He lifted you by the hips to aid as you lept and turned around him, his left thigh pushing you upward, and that same nervous excitement returned to your stomach. It was as if pools conjoining both everything and oblivion at once lay physically on you. His gaze resembled hands—he caressed your shoulders; he traced your face like he wanted to paint every angle of you. 

He was gentle with his actual hold on you, too; Dazai carried you as delicately as the brush strokes he made on canvas. He carefully set you down with ease after every jump while still treating you like a porcelain doll, and there you made the mistake of wandering your eyes down to his lips, lightly parted—you realized this was the second closest time this man had come near enough to kiss you. 

His body was so warm, he could pull you flush against him if he wanted to. His breath was minty, the coolness of his mouth addicting, and if Eden smelled heavenly too, he had truly just slithered down, carrying the sweet, earthly scent along with him. All your senses were overloaded by the man standing before you like alcohol; you wondered if you’d even end up home by the end of the night. 

“You’re enjoying this way more than to simply boost thy status.” 

In that moment, you snapped out of your haze of dopamine, and the music faded into a new routine. You also realized that an entire audience had been watching you. That was not ideal. 

You scooted back right after Dazai released his hold on you, looking down in coyness. “Maybe I’m just a good actor.” 

“You’re a terrible one,” he chuckled, following you out of the crowd. “You can’t even look at me to sell your lie!” 

You glared at the brunette once more. “I don’t have to look at you to tell you the truth.” 

“So cold-hearted,” he sighed. “Even after a dance to loosen you up. Guess I need to work harder to ask you out.”

“For what, a double suicide?” You once again recalled some other things he had said during your weird, fated meet at the lake. 

“Exactly! You remember!” 

“Well, sorry, that’s not happening,” you responded. “Go find some other lady to ask. I’m sure you do this all the time anyway.”

Because how did he touch you so perfectly? How did he dim out every other person in the room to make it seem like it was just you two?

He paused. “No, I don’t. You’re the first person I danced this galliard with. You realize we were even in skill, right?” 

“Didn’t seem like it. And I don’t understand why you chose me.”

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence,” Dazai said. “You did save me in a way. Sure, we’re rivals. But one day, I’ll paint you myself. 

“You’re too beautiful to not.” 

…

“I hope you all have had a lovely night,” Fukuzawa spoke over the room. “To conclude the gathering, I would like to announce what the Vatican’s next project will be.” 

Artists all around you waited in anticipation, for good reason. You and Dazai looked at each other too. You’d already experienced it for yourself—a commission from the Pope himself guaranteed immediate, enormous success (and money; your job from him was your biggest pay so far). Whatever he proposed required another artist, and it could be anyone in the room. 

“The Sistine Chapel,” Fukuzawa said. “The large crack that has formed along the ceiling is to be repaired in the upcoming year.” 

There were a few chatters after that. The chapel was insanely impressive—the interior of the large building was covered in stunning frescos by some of the great artists who had come before you. Even though the Pope hadn’t even said what the job was to be, anyone working on things concerning it would have to be just as good as its predecessors. 

“Along with reparations, its panels shall be painted.” 

There were a few gasps from the patrons. Was that even possible? How could someone even paint the ceiling without it being taken off of the roof? And it was so large, too, like a mega-sized canvas. 

It was unheard of. 

“I have already selected the person I would like to work on this,” Fukuzawa continued. There was silence again. 

“It’s probably Dostoevsky,” Dazai said to you. 

Fyodor? “Why do you think so?” you asked. 

“He completely stole the spotlight with that statue of David he finished this year,” he dryly chuckled. “Well deserved, I’m afraid. You saw it too when you were in Florence, did you?” 

“Yeah,” you replied. You had to acknowledge how impressive it was for yourself. It was like the man turned hard stone into pliable clay. 

“But that’s sculpting, not painting.” 

“Oh? Do you think you’d be a better candidate?” 

He was smiling again. “No, I never said that,” you scoffed. “I was going to say maybe you’d have a chance-”

“Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Fukuzawa said.

Oh.

You paused, scanning the room to see where he was. 

He was on the other side, intently making his way to the Pope. 

“I request you to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.” 

Fyodor stood in front of him and then bowed. 

“...I offer my sincerest gramercy for this opportunity, Your Holiness,” the artist said.

There was a pause.

“…I would like to discuss the rest of what this entails in private.” 

Your brows furrowed. That was almost a bit…rude. Sure, he hadn’t declined the offer, but for whatever reason, he also didn’t accept it. 

“Very well,” Fukuzawa replied without a change in his tone. “I adjourn this party. Bonam noctem.”

There was a final applause for him and the city’s next project, and then everyone began filing out. 

However, you and Dazai stayed in place until Ranpo suddenly tugged on your arm. 

“There you are! Let’s go!” 

“W-Where?” you asked as he started to drag you away. 

“Goodnight!” you heard Dazai say before disappearing into the crowd. His small smile remained in your memory, and a part of you wished you could give him a proper goodbye.

“To eavesdrop, duh,” Ranpo replied as he sifted you through everyone moving the opposite way. “Don’t you also want to hear what Fyodor has to say?” 

“I don’t understand why he didn’t just accept the proposal,” you said. “Anyone else would do it in a heartbeat!” You were sort of jealous; that job was given to someone so ungrateful! If you were the one who recieved it, you would’ve put your entire effort into transforming the ceilings right away. 

“I don’t know how he’s so beloved,” Ranpo continued. “Not even His Holiness likes him that much; he just doesn’t show bias when choosing people to paint his architecture. Did you know Fyodor was supposed to produce his tomb?” 

“What happened with that? I thought it was being worked on by a few other artists.” 

“He kept clashing with His Holiness about it,” he said. “Until the plans got so messed up, Fyodor called it a ‘tragedy’ and left Rome for a while. Quite literally abandoned it.” 

What an asshole! Especially in front of His Holiness!

“I don’t like him at all,” Ranpo squeezed your arm. It had become quite apparent to you that Ranpo admired Fukuzawa—not just because he was his so-called favorite or because he was the Pope, but something else. You had seen them together during the party earlier, and you were reminded of father and son. “He has a nasty ego, and I can’t figure out his intentions. I feel off every time I meet with him.” 

“Intentions? For what?” 

“Don’t be stupid, miss,” Ranpo said. “He told you himself, he’s here for something. It’s just so annoying! He hides it all behind those stupid, purple eyes…” 

You approached the entrance to a hallway at the very back of the room, and you heard two familiar voices outside. 

“...I carve marble, not paint.” 

“You discredit your skill with a brush too much.”

“Your Holiness, we had very different views during the last commission you gave me,” you overheard Fyodor say. “I simply don’t want to cause another commotion with this.” 

You only peeked through the large doorway to hear more clearly, but Ranpo continued walking right in as if they wouldn’t notice. 

“R-Ranpo!” you whispered harshly.

Immediately, Fukuzawa and Fyodor looked at you both, and you scrambled behind Ranpo. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Holiness,” you replied, accidentally locking eyes with Fyodor, who looked at you unfazed as if he had already noticed you two a mile away. You couldn’t even think of an excuse to explain what you were doing there, but then Fukuzawa resumed the conversation without a care. 

“I see then,” he replied and then gave it some thought. “I felt you were the only one who was fit for the matter, but perhaps I could just hand it to-” 

Fukuzawa looked at you, and Fyodor looked at him before looking at you. 

“Ah, what I said was just a concern,” Fyodor interrupted to your dismay. “I’ll accept your commission on one condition.” 

The three of you waited. 

“On the contract, it shall be stated that noone shall view the inside of the Chapel until it is completed,” Fyodor stated. “Including yourself, Your Highness.” 

He thought for another moment. 

“Very well, Fyodor. It will be arranged.” 

What a rat!

It had been a few weeks since that eventful ball. You had started work on painting the rooms in the Pope’s chambers—there were sketches of concepts scattered all over your desk. Coupled with your thoughts—thoughts reliving all the situations you were thrown into that night. 

You hadn’t seen the two angels since then. Well…would you even call them that anymore?

Knock, knock, knock!

“Hey! Let me in!” You heard Ranpo’s voice from outside your house. You were still half-asleep, trying to make breakfast, but you immediately rushed to open the door. 

“Ranpo!” You were startled. “What are you doing here so early?” 

“Stop complaining. You’re going to love this.” 

He stuck his hand into his pocket and then revealed a set of shiny keys. 

“Sitting in my palm are the keys to the Sistine Chapel.”

“No way.” It was like the sight fully awakened you, like caffeine. “Ranpo…how?!” 

“Hmph!” He shook his head. “You underestimate me so much when you quite literally depend on me!” When you laughed, he continued. “Lord Fyodor’s on a business trip until next week. Do with that info as you wish.” 

“You’re a genius,” you replied with a mischievous grin as he threw you the keys. 

“Of course I am! I despise him, but I’m too lazy to mess with him right now, so I’ll just leave it up to you. After all, he didn’t want to do it initially because he thought you set it up.” 

“By me?” you asked, shocked. “He hates painting so much that he thought I had a hand in it? Imagine giving away the Sistine Chapel.”

He was really something else. Was dead set on declining the offer right until His Holiness debated giving it to me…

…

Ranpo sat at the dining table eating the remaining tarts left over while you finished washing the dishes in the kitchen after your meal. Your move had gone smoothly, and you were pleased with the home you created for yourself—the windows in front of the sink were opened, letting air and the sounds of nature in as you looked outside. 

“His Holiness instructed me to paint over the previous works in the Palace when I first walked inside because he deemed what I could produce more important than what was already up there,” you told him with your own dash of pride. You couldn’t contain the bright smile that flashed on your face. 

“Just as I suspected,” he replied, pleased. 

“...But social-wise, I think I dug a hole for myself.” 

“Definitely!” Ranpo said with no hesitation, popping another dessert into his mouth. He already knew what you were going to talk about. You gave him a look before sighing, realizing that he probably was right.

“A few days ago, I overheard people in the salons saying that…I have a special thing going on with Lord Dazai. It’s not true! I don’t know why he was being so friendly with me!” 

You hadn’t even seen him after that night. Maybe you were a little disappointed, but you should’ve seen that coming anyway. He was known as a charmer, but he hadn’t committed to anyone. And regardless, you were to marry Fyodor one day. 

Ugh, Fyodor.

“And you were friendly to him in return,” Ranpo replied. “You could’ve shrugged him off like normal rivals do. But it looked like you were completely enraptured with him.” 

Enraptured?! He was completely enraptured with me! However, you couldn’t describe to Ranpo how exactly he was—how the brunette’s eyes pleaded with yours to follow him into the eventide, how he made you feel like the only person that existed in the large crowd of people…maybe Ranpo would have his point proven.

“Well, other than that, I’ve got thee settled in Rome well enough. I’ll be here for the rest of the unwise decisions you’re going to make, but from here on out is on you, princess.” 

“Thanks, Ranpo,” you sarcastically replied. “Seriously? Unwise decisions? Rome is just different from everywhere I’ve been to before. I’m learning.” 

“Exactly, there are arts of everything,” he said. “Thou better grasp them quick or fall behind.” 

Dance. 

Deceit.

Dreams. 

Only a few you had discovered so far. 

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence. You did save me in a way.”

You couldn’t even grasp,

Dazai.

You didn’t know how long you were out. All sense of time was lost when you gained consciousness again, and you realized you had been washed up on land. 

Did God stay true to your pleas? Did an angel really come down to rescue you?

That was certainly what it seemed like in the first few seconds because you were blinded by light when you opened your eyes. You heard insects buzzing off in the distance and maybe even a bird chirping as you lay on lush grass. Perhaps you were in heaven instead, and this was your first taste of peaceful paradise. 

But all was ruined when your eyes finally focused, and a face obstructed your view. (Why was he always ruining your flawless moments?) He hovered on top of you, and the first thing you became aware of was that his mouth was dangerously close to yours. 

You immediately coughed—out of both shock and the need to. Lake water gushed out of your mouth, causing you to sit up without warning. The brunette was flung off of you, landing harshly on his bottom.

“Ow!”

You paid no mind to him as you coughed again. And again. 

When all the water was finally out of your lungs, you looked at him in utter confusion.

“Why the puzzled look?” he asked as if he wasn’t the one who was drowning and you weren’t the one saving him (and less importantly, it hadn’t looked like he was about to kiss you).

Now he sat beside you, almost perfectly fine if it weren’t for his clothes that were soaked. 

“But…you—we were drowning?” You turned to see if anyone else was in the distance because who was it that saved both of you? 

“Yeah, I was drowning,” the man replied, and you now noticed the honey color of his eyes that had been shielded behind closed eyelids and pretty eyelashes earlier. “And this time, it almost worked! Until you decided to rescue me!” 

“Um, what?” You asked sharply, even more bewildered at the way he tried to make your efforts sound negative. 

“At first, I thought maybe thou were a lovely lady who wanted to commit double suicide with me! But I realized that wasn’t the case when you started fighting to get some air…” 

“Are you crazy?” you asked, not caring whether you were speaking impolitely or not. “Double suicide? Why else would I dive into a cold lake to join a stranger? And you were aware of what was happening all along?” 

“Maybe! Women have done a lot to try to get close to me.” You didn’t believe him. “And, well, yeah! Obviously, I couldn’t continue because of two things. The first was you because I couldn’t let an innocent involved be harmed along with me! I had to save you, of course.” 

You became even more irritated. “You wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t pretend you were drowning! I had to use all my strength to rescue you, y’know! I could’ve died as well!” 

“But you didn’t!” the brunette replied. “There was no way I was going to let someone so beautiful drown.”

You scowled at him before you stood up. “You’re ridiculous. What’s your second reason?” 

“Drowning in a lake ended up becoming uncomfortable.” You wanted to punch him in the face—uncomfortable was an obvious understatement. “I didn’t like the feeling of suffocation that set in, so I just decided to give up.” 

“It didn’t even look like you had any air left in you,” you muttered, facing your back towards him, remembering his placid expression earlier. “How were you conscious if you weren’t even holding your breath?” 

“Party trick,” he responded, and when you dared to glance back, he wore a smug grin. 

“Oh…are you leaving me then?” he asked as you started walking away, saying no more. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” you scoffed, not stopping. “I’m completely soaked, and I don’t know about you, but I have important things to get to.” 

You heard a chuckle from him. “Is that so?” he asked. His voice was getting farther, meaning he was no longer following you. “Where are you headed?” 

“Rome.” 

“I live there. Perhaps we shall meet again. And then, I could ask you—properly—if you would like to commit a double suicide with me.” 

“I doubt it,” you replied, assured you were never going to see this man whose face looked kissed by Aphrodite herself again. Perhaps you would’ve found him handsome if he was in a less disheveled state. 

As if you did not already. 

“Why do you seem so sure? Anything can happen.” He chuckled once again. 

Well, I am a painter, and you don’t look like someone who would even have an eye for art, is what you wanted to say. But you didn’t want to open more doors to curiosity and stay there even longer. 

“Maybe you’re right,” you stopped. “Okay, then.

“If you think you’re going to see me again, can you promise to not kill yourself until then? Until I agree to you?” 

You figured you would just give him some hope so that your efforts to save him would not be in vain. If he would actually keep your word, anyway. 

When you turned around, the brunette was still standing on the shore, and he had a smile on his face. 

He really did carry the setting sun in his gaze. It was still midday, but the man’s soul seemed to prefer the softer shades of light that appeared just before the cool shades of night. 

And you felt his eyes tenderly cupping your face, even though you were feet away from each other. You weren’t sure if you were so lost that you were imagining things—but he looked at you as if he’d known you a hundred lifetimes, longing to touch your soul once again. 

“I pinkie promise,” he said. 

You thought that finally ended the conversation, but he asked one more thing. 

“Your name?” he asked. 

“Do you really need it?” It was unlikely, but you didn’t know if he would recognize your name. You didn’t want to risk anyone knowing about this encounter. 

“I saved you,” he said. “I almost thought you were done for. You still weren’t breathing when I performed chest compressions, so I had to—” 

“Okay, stop right there!” you interrupted, becoming flustered. You didn’t need to hear the rest. You imagined the stranger’s mouth on yours—trying to give you oxygen, of course, but his mouth on yours regardless. 

You told him your name. “Don’t bother with yours. I’ll figure it out if we run into each other again.” 

His grin was smug. “Fare thee well, mia belladonna.

“Until we meet again.” 

…

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

ur man of choice (or both if u’d like) dances with u during the ball if u rb; reblogs are incredibly cherished; they are what support me the most. <3

WE DID ITT !! i hope this was decent, tbh i’m rly nervous HAHA ᡣ𐭩 dazai rly got most of the love here, but i promise there’s waay more to come.

+ check THIS FOR EXTRA INFO/LORE, it’s cool ;) comment on the masterlist to be added to the tagslist !! & ilu if you made it this far, thank you so so much for reading ᰔ

TERMS & DEFINITIONS:

CIOPPA - outermost layer of a dress

RUELLA - salons/social gatherings

ALMAINE - slow court dance; GALLIARD - fast court dance (in the renaissance)

TRANSLATIONS: (not all bcz they wanna be mysterious)

gramercy - “thank you”

artigiani; aristocratici - artisans; aristocrats (italian)

bonam noctem - “good night” (latin)

© AUREATCHI 2024. no reposts or translations. do not steal. support banner + animated line divider by cafekitsune. header + series dividers mine; DO NOT SAVE.

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

What's most amazing about people who hate that birds are dinosaurs is that, without the discovery of birds being dinosaurs in the 1960s, none of y'all would have ever actually cared about dinosaurs

the history:

dino craze in 1800s. people thought, birds are very similar to these guys. Dollo fucked it up, made a bad theory, and people stopped thinking that

Early 1900s, dinosaurs deemed sluggish, stupid, pointless evolutionary failures. most people not really into dinosaurs anymore. this continues until

1960s: Deinonychus discovered. suddenly, dinosaurs interesting again: vibrant, lively, warm blooded animals. Also... birds might be dinosaurs?

from the 60s through the 70s, a slow buildup of dinosaur culture - both in crappy stop motion movies, but also in children's books and other media

80s cladistics revolution shows birds are living dinosaurs, though not without flaws. documentary after documentary is made, causing the major dinosaur boom of the late 80s and early 90s

the peak of this boom are the A&E and PBS documentaries, which both outright state birds are dinosaurs

cartoons like land before time and other dinosaur content keep coming out too, especially at the end of the 80s and the earliest 90s

the book jurassic park, referencing the birds are dinosaurs thing, is written in the late 80s. in the early 90s, is adapted into one of the greatest blockbusters of all time. now dinosaur interest is MAINSTREAM.

jurassic park isn't the start of the dinosaur boom, it is the apex

90s becomes the decade of dinosaurs, with tons of new discoveries, television shows, documentaries, and other programming

1996 first feathered "nonavian" dinosaur discovered. birds are dinosaurs is the closest thing we have to proven phylogenetic fact

1999 walking with dinosaurs premieres, revolutionizing the dinosaur-documentary genre.

early 2000s becomes the age of Period-Type Dino-Docu-Dramas

velociraptor is determined to have feathers

suddenly, dinosaur mania starts to die in the later 2000s

even though discoveries keep happening and we learn so much in the 2010s, the 2010s becomes a very regressive time - a sort of reactionary response to the birdification of dinosaurs and the dinosaurification of birds. the height of this is jurassic world

we may be in the middle of a dino-docu-drama revitilization thanks to prehistoric planet. stay tuned on that one

like, everyone was fine with the birdification of dinosaurs up and until they looked "feminine" on the outside, because of feathers.

It's just all such transparent misogyny and homophobia and people who react against feathered dinosaurs or birds being dinosaurs are just... so transparently parroting conservative talking points

Anyways, yeah. without birds are dinosaurs, you wouldn't have jurassic park. Sooooo

[prettyboykatsuki]

yknow the kind of like bonedeep orgasms that ppl get after tons of buildup. like eyes in the back of ur head mindless cant form words? yeah. before dating him you thought that “fucked stupid and cumming your brains out” was like an overhyped myth but after karasu you understand all to well. rip

exactly ,,,, it’s hard to explain but karasu really caters to You Specifically. i think a lot of guys (or just ppl honestly) have a certain understanding of sexuality that’s still kind of based on stuff they learned but karasu has sex with you like he knows like. every inch of who you are and fucks you with the intent to untangle all of it. it’s very hard to explain. the way he nudges you, cradles you, holds you—especially the way he speaks to you has such a like. stellar clarity. it’s honestly kind of hard for me to put into words ?

it just feels focused. he wants every orgasm to be the one that breaks you and he manages it with will alone and it’s honestly very scary. you have to really be comfortable with him to let go that much but you can do it bc

he looks so, so scary satisfied after. like so fulfilled it makes you shiver and blindsides you every time. he almost looks wrecked and he wasn’t the one who was being made to cum like that and it’s just So Much. he’s so weird

[oblivionbladetd]

Lily definitely thinks that not using cliches or “subverting expectations” make her a good writer. Guess it’s not surprising seeing as that’s Disney’s bread and butter these days and we all know how much she loves kissing their boots.

It is an understandable pitfall, but still a bold step into a deep hole. The main way to really grab eyes is nice big shake ups! Though it does need said that an old story told well will always have a leg up on a new story told poorly.

A big weakness of writing to avoid is definitely that it is almost trivial to miss the forest for the trees. The most infamous example off the top of my head is the Hawkeye fake out in MCU Age of Ulton, tons of buildup to then kill the new guy and call it done and dusted. It doesn't benefit anyone, it doesn't hinder anyone... took till wandavision for it to matter to anyone.

Her avatar Niva stuff certainly reeks the stankest of any of her fics simply because she just rips out very well justified tropes of Avatar and doesn't really put anything back in its place. Though to give her any credit, avatar niva is all of like, 3 vignettes and a trope list more damning than it isn't... she could surprise us... COULD. Don't hold your breath just yet.

To end with some actionable advice. Even tired old clichés have limitless potential. Take the age-old Knight, Dragon, and Princess combo. There's still ways to play it unwaveringly straight and still have it be good, but you can swap up the roles and subvert expectations. The dragon could need saving from a knight or princess. You could combine two and see where that gets you. You could start with the incident where the princess was taken or the aftermath of the slaying. It's all fantastic as long as you believe that it's truly a story you feel needs told. One sentence written from the heart is worth more than endless libraries written in smug superiority. If you believe subversion or aversion in itself is good writing, you're certainly contributing to that endless library.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

How well JK execute mystery in her books?

I'd say pretty well overall. Like, each HP book has its own slowly building mystery thread, and then you have mysteries that are over the course of the whole series. In general, I think she's pretty good at slowly building up a mystery and leaving a ton of foreshadowing behind for a second reading.

Philosopher's Stone has a really well-structured mystery. It's planted in the reader's mind at Gringotts when Hagrid takes the package. Then Gringotts is broken into, there's the out-of-bounds Third Floor Corridor, and something is killing the unicorns. Like, it's very well structured and has a satisfying conclusion that fits all the buildup.

Chamber of Secrets has one of the better mysteries in the series, I think. Like, in how it's written and structured. We start this one not slowly, but with a bang by Dobby telling Harry there's a nefarious plot. This already gets the ball rolling and the reader questioning. Add to that we see Lucius at Diagon Alley, we later see Ginny acting odd, Myrtle is there since very early in the book, and Harry's Parseltongue from the beginning of PS comes back into play. The foreshadowing and buildup are all there and the tension slowly builds up as Harry (and you) learn more. Then you meet Tom and fall for him a little like Harry does which makes the reveal (which is obvious in hindsight) all the more heart-reaching. I really like the mystery in CoS.

Prisoner of Azkaban takes a page out of CoS and starts with the bang of "Sirius Black escaped Azkaban and he's trying to kill Harry". Unfortunately, unlike in CoS, the mystery doesn't really breathe over the course of the book. Sure, you have the "what's up with Lupin" thread, but throughout the book, Harry isn't really interested in that mystery. It's all about his parents and Sirius Black. There is no question regarding Sirius' guilt throughout this book until the very end and the question of what he wants isn't raised either because Harry believes he is out to kill him. So, I'd say PoA isn't really a mystery the way the first two are since the answers we got don't fit the questions we asked.

Goblet of Fire is, like its name, fire. This is my favorite book, and the mystery plot is serving in this one. Moody acts strange throughout the whole book, someone puts Harry's name in the goblet, Moody is drinking from a flask, and Snape has some potion ingredients used for Polyjuice in CoS stolen from him. And then you have the memory of the trial scene of Barty and Ceouch Sr walking around too. All the buildup to the reveal is great and super fun to point out on a second readthrough. The answers are super satisfying as well and are so worth the buildup. Like, the ending of this book hits. There's a reason this one is my favorite.

Order of the Phoenix is a bit of a weaker entry. Not for the same reasons as PoA though. OotP does ask the questions: "What's the weapon Voldemort is after?", "What are the Order guarding?", and "What is this hallway Harry keeps dreaming about?" And all these questions get a satisfying answer. My problem is in the buildup. The buildup in this book of Harry's connection to Voldemort is more relevant to the overarching mystery regarding Harry being a Horcrux, not to the internal mystery of OotP. So, OotP's mystery lacks in the slow progression throughout the book itself, but you don't feel it cause it has so many other great things going on in it.

Half-Blood Prince is similar to OotP. Like, it has two mystery threads, really and both of them don't really get a slow, gradual buildup towards that answers (even if the answers are good). Like, the mystery of who the prince is doesn't really get much foreshadowing, and even on a second read you barely get hints toward the prince being Snape. Same for what's Draco up to, honestly. Like, as the reader you kinda know what's going on with him, so it's just Harry trying to figure out what you kinda already know. Like, it doesn't have the gradual build from the earlier books of the mystery being unraveled slowly until the final moment of the reveal. Like OotP, HBP has a lot else going for it so you don't notice it much.

Deathly Hallows, has so many little mysteries inside it so it feels unfocused because it's trying to do too much. Becouse of that, I think some of the mysteries are better than others. It's the culmination of the mystery of Harry and Voldemort's connection, which I think was very well structured over the course of the whole series. Dumbledore's past and master plan and who Dumbledore really was, was a fun theme/mystery that I think was done well. I would've liked it better if Harry didn't name his kid Albus if only to leave this mystery open-ended a little, you know? so the reader could think for themselves what they think about Dumbledore without shoehorning in that Harry thinks he's good. The mystery of Deathly Hallows, which is the titular mystery of this book, could've been built better. It's lacking some buildup during the book (and before it if we're being honest) and I would've liked learning more about the Hallows than what we got. Like, it feels like a mystery that didn't get all the answers it should've gotten. Like in OotP and HBP, there is so much else going on, that the weaker internal book mystery would've been basically unnoticeable if the book was more well-structured and had better pacing.

These are my opinions as there is some subjectivity in this sort of question.

[kinkandkreep]

.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・ ✧ :-.・゜

You study Mikey’s hands often.

They're almost perpetually bruised, the knuckle of each thick finger darkened with fine stripes of dried, occasionally fresh blood. 

When they're not tucked into his pants pockets, Mikey's hands can almost always be found cradling a dessert of some sort, most usually dorayaki, or tucked underneath his head as he naps on whatever surface is closest to him.

The appendages appear battle worn and aged, slightly calloused and rough to the touch.

You find comfort in them, but you also can’t help but wish Mikey would take better care of his hands. 

You know asking him himself to do better would be pointless, and though you know Ken is dependable, he’s also still a guy, so you take it upon yourself one day to sit Mikey down and perform some basic nail care on him. 

He has a perplexed expression on his face when you arrive at his door with a large case, and his confusion visibly deepens once you open it. 

Inside, there’s an array of tools and apparatuses, each with, presumably, a different purpose. It’s not like Mikey can tell. 

You haven’t spoken to him beyond a simple greeting when you entered, having been silent as you dragged him over to his bathroom and made him wash his hands, dragged him over to his bed and sat him down, then began to rummage through your box o’ wonders with a surprisingly serious look on your face . 

Mikey watches as you pull out about 5 different tools initially, shutting the box partially and setting it to the side.

Finally, you look up at him, holding his gaze for a moment before a large smile breaks out onto your face. 

“Alrighty Mani, today we’re gonna do some nail care!”

Mikey blinks once, twice, before simply standing and pointing to the door. 

“No. ♡︎”

You sigh, already exasperated and the real battle hasn’t even begun. 

“Oh come on Mani let me do this for you! It’ll be quick and relatively painless. And I promise you’ll like the results.”

“Relatively??” A single one of Mikey’s blonde brows shoots up, lithely muscled arms crossing his chest. 

You grin sheepishly, scratching your cheek with a finger. “Well, yeah, some parts might hurt. But that’s only ‘cus you don’t take proper care of your hands and probably have a ton of cuticle buildup.”

“What do you mean ‘don’t take proper care.’ I wash my hands all the time, thank you very much.” Mikey humphs, turning his head away from you. 

“That’s great hun, but it’s not enough. Come, let me show you.”

You beckon him over with a hand, and while in any other circumstance Mikey might keep up the obstinate act just for the sake of doing it, he can’t deny that his curiosity is getting the better of him. 

He’s always noticed how soft and well kept your own hands are, especially in comparison to his or one of the other guys. He wonders how you get them like that, aside from the obvious use of lotion, and he thinks this may be his opportunity to get some insight. 

“Ugh, fine.” He plays up his annoyance, trudging back over to his bed and taking a seat, one of his hands outstretched. 

“But be quick about it please. And try to keep the pain to a minimum.”

Clapping excitedly, you nod. Taking the towel you brought with you, you smooth it out on the mattress beneath Mikey’s hands to catch any debris, and to make for easier cleanup. 

Gripping Mikey’s hand, you pick up a long piece of what looks like glass. Oddly, it sounds like sandpaper when you run your nails across it, and the sound sort of makes Mikey’s ears hurt. 

“What is that?” He juts his chin out toward the object. 

“This is a crystal nail file. It’s used for shaping the nails and reducing their length. Don’t worry, this won’t hurt, although it may sort of…tickle.”

Mikey opens his mouth to ask you what that means, but is interrupted by a sharp tingle radiating up and through his hand and arm as you begin filing at his nails. He jerks back instinctively, not liking the feeling at all. 

“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head, and you nod, instead reaching for what Mikey assumes is another nail file, although this one looks like a piece of cardboard. 

“So, you don’t like the crystal file. It is a bit more abrasive than the emery board, and considering this is your first time getting a treatment like this done, I should have figured it might have been too intense for you. This file has a lesser grit and should feel a lot better.”

Mikey’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but eventually he eased his hand back into yours. 

“You sure?”

You hum. “Positive.”

With that said, you begin the filing process again, and this time Mikey doesn’t jerk away, which you take as a signal to go ahead. 

You’re able to successfully file all the nails on his left hand down to a much neater and natural square shape, leaving the minimum amount of length. You do the same on his right hand, inspecting both hands when you’re done to ensure they’re even. 

“Alrighty! Now, we’re gonna push back and remove your cuticles.”

The confused expression returns to Mikey’s face, this time mixed with the most minute amount of alarm. “Remove them? How are you going to do that?”

You search through your box, pulling out a large bottle of milky white liquid. You hold it up so Mikey can read it. “With this.”

The bottle reads “Chemical Cuticle Remover” in big blue letters. Mikey leans back, eyes once again narrowed. “I don’t like the sound of chemicals.”

“It’s nothing harsh,” you assure him. “This method is totally safe and painless.” 

Mikey hesitates, but shrugs. “If you say so.”

Taking a metal tool this time, Mikey observes you push the blunt edge against the skin right at the edge of his nail. He can’t really tell that anything is happening, but he trusts you know better than him. 

Once you’ve finished that process, you apply a small amount of the cuticle remover to each of Mikey’s cuticles, taking your finger and slightly smoothing out the product. 

“Now we wait a bit,” you say. 

The two of you are quiet for a few seconds, both your eyes trained on Mikey’s hands. 

“How long do we wait for?” Mikey eventually speaks, wiggling his fingers slightly so they don’t begin to cramp. 

“Oh, not too long, just a few more seconds.” You give him a small smile.

Once about 30 seconds have elapsed, you take a napkin and wipe away the product on Mikey’s left hand, followed by his right. You then have him run to the bathroom to wash his hands. 

“Make sure to use warm water!” You yell after him.

Once he’s seated, you study his nails, nodding and humming as you’re satisfied with the result. 

“Ok, now I’m gonna take these cuticle clippers and remove any excess cuticle. There shouldn’t be much left; it looks like the remover did a pretty thorough job. This process will be painless because though we’re technically cutting the skin, it’s dead skin, and it’s been softened by the cuticle remover.”

It only takes a few snips for you to remove the remaining dead skin from around Mikey’s nails. You work efficiently, leaving him watching in silent awe as your deft hands tend to his own. 

“Oook! That’s that.” You exclaim, putting away the majority of the tools you’d pulled out. 

“Are you done?” Mikey questions as he studies his newly manicured nails. 

“Not quite, just a few more steps. Let me see?” You outstretch your hands, palms up, and Mikey lays his over top of them. 

“I know I just had you run to the restroom but now I want you to take this product,” you lift a small container full of what looks to Mikey like crystals, “and you’re gonna do something called exfoliating your hands.”

That word sounds familiar. He may have heard Emma say it once or twice before. 

“Ok. And what is that gonna do?”

“It’ll remove the dead skin cells from your hands, consequently softening them and renewing their appearance.” You place the container in his hands, standing and beckoning for him to follow. 

Once in the bathroom, you open the container, shaking a bit of the crystal concoction onto the palms of Mikey’s hands. 

“Is that,” he sniffs, brows furrowing for a moment. “Is that sugar?”

“Yep! It’s something called a sugar scrub. It’s a little abrasive but frankly, your hands need it.”

Mikey decides not to be offended by the implication. 

“Now, just rub your hands together as though you were washing them. You don’t have to do it too forcefully, just gentle motions.”

Mikey follows your instructions, despite not being too fond of how the scrub feels on his hands. 

After about a minute, you give him the go-ahead to wash it off, and once his hands are dry you both make your way back to the bed. 

“Now what’s left?” The words come out a little distracted from Mikey, so focused he is on how surprisingly soft his hands now feel. 

You watch him with a smile, pleased with your success thus far. 

“Now, it’s time for moisture and a massage.”

That catches his attention, and Mikey looks at you curiously. “You’re going to massage my hands?”

“If you’ll let me.” You bat your eyelashes at him, giggling when he clicks his tongue, momentarily turning away from you.

“Yeah yeah, just get on with it.” He holds his hands out, waiting for you to move. 

Satisfied, you squeeze a bit of a masculine smelling moisturizer in the palm of your left hand, putting the bottle away and rubbing your palms together. Once they’re sufficiently coated in the lotion, you begin the process of rubbing and massaging Mikey’s hands. 

“You’re tense,” you observe aloud, giving each finger a quick tug until you hear a low pop sound. 

“This is unfamiliar territory. Yeah, I’m a little apprehensive.” Mikey jumps slightly with each pull on his fingers. 

You pause, leaning forward until you’re nearly nose to nose with Mikey. He meets you evenly, the pitch blackness of his irises appearing dark blue in the light. 

“You know I’d never do anything to hurt you, right Mani?” Your tone is suddenly serious, expression flat when you speak.

Mikey’s eyes widen in surprise at your words, but nevertheless, he nods almost immediately. 

“Of course. I trust you, __.”

Searching his face for a few moments more, you eventually lean back, smiling sweetly at him. 

“Good.”

It takes a few more minutes, but eventually you declare that you’ve completed Mikey’s hand massage.

“There! All finished. How do they feel?”

The blond boy takes a moment to study his hands. 

His nails, once slightly jagged and unruly, now look uniform, neat and clean. His hands themselves are loose and relaxed, and the skin glistens under the room light.

“Very nice,” he admits in response to your question. “I’m afraid they’ll just get ruined again the next time I get into a fight though.”

Swiftly reaching out, you grasp both Mikey’s hands gently in yours, pulling them forward and placing tender kisses on the back of each. Manjiro can immediately feel his face reddening, warmth radiating all throughout his body at the fond gesture. 

“Gives me all the more reason to treat you like this again, hm?” You meet his eyes, and Manjiro feels his breath catch in his throat. 

Without preamble, Mikey cups your face, bringing your lips together for a soft kiss. The two of you remain connected for several seconds before separating, genuine smiles curving your mouths. 

“Thank you, __. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Manjiro.” 

.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・ ✧ :-.・゜

ᵃ/ⁿ: ʰᵒᵖᵉ ʸ'ᵃˡˡ ᵉⁿʲᵒʸᵉᵈ!

[space-blue]

s2 has been so ass and the butchering of silco and vander's dynamic by making them know the mother is so stupid. to me , the entire point felt that when vander saw the two orpahsn on the bridge , spotting their dead mother, and putting down his gauntlets, it was that he was not ready for the base violence necessary for change, so to say, and obviously he wasn't, so he reinforces the status quo (and zaun, for some reason, draws murals and statues of him and lauds him as a peacekeeper , comparing him direclty to jinx in s2 in that stupid mural??) . like im rambling but it's so bad. s2 is so bad. oh my god

IDK that it is stupid for them to know each other, but it is stupid that it has been irrelevent.

Vander's charm was that he adopted kids he had seemingly orphaned. Then he dropped his gauntlets and embraced them, in a very symbolic moment.

But now the writers want to tell us that this moment was nothing, and that he still turned to violence against Silco, even though he was last off the battlefield, even though he had seemingly turned a new leaf?

His adoption of kids he didn't know well (you can tell he knows who they are, or else how would he know who the mother is?) served to show all this. Now it turns out he's just feeling very endebted to his friend.

It cheapens the situation, especially since his emotional outburst against Silco is basically what sparked all the story up to now.

But it's still workable. It's not great, and leaves some really stupid questions in the open. I genuinely don't think we needed ANY backstory at all.

But I don't hate the show. I just feel like it's going way, way too fast, not establishing characters, not stopping to show key scenes, all because there is SO MUCH plot to get through.

And honestly it leaves me wondering how much does Arcane cost them to make, vs. how much does it bring, through Netflix.

Because this season is full of extremely static shots, much cheaper looking music videos, and with a ton of plot and very little time to get through it. Was a third season really not in the cards?

Was expending to 12 episodes really not an option?? I know for certain we would all have stuck with a slower pace if it meant getting more character interaction and better relationship buildup.

Regarding the statue of Vander, since Silco basically owns the Lanes, it's pretty clear he's the one who commissioned it. Makes sense if they were, you know, very very very close. But also because he was in power a long time, and Silco brought stability. When Silco dies, shit immediately hits the fan, and there is nobody to build him a statue. Who would pay for it? Who has the time?

And it makes sense that Jinx is becoming a symbol. She's the one who blew up the Council, and she's the one they're getting harassed over.

What I would really have liked to see on that Mural is Jinx with Silco AND Vander. People who don't know better looking back and thinking "our past two leaders and oh wow they shared the care of Jinx too, come to think of it."

[evillemons]

WHAT SEX WITH TAEHYUNG WOULD BE LIKE (V pt.3)

~ everyone’s favorite part, based on the character as described in part 1 and part 2. Masterlist here.

*NSFW CONTENT*

(this picture is so fuckin spicy I love it so much)

• Perceptions on how Tae is in bed are quite mixed, but here is my take:

• I see him as borderline demisexual, and he takes a while before he’s ready to have sex. There’s a lot of buildup and he would think about it often, but he would want to make sure the time is right and that she is the right person.

• But when it happens… it’s kinky, sexy, and smoking hot.

• Candle wax, rose petals, champagne, dark ambiance, music. Their vibe would be moody and sensual, but loving and romantic at the same time.

• Tae is so sweet it’s almost painful, but he would not be timid in bed. I see them engaging in threesomes, public sex, role playing, or light BDSM.

• He’s quite dominant. Not in a masochistic way, but he likes to be in control. Because of this, he would most enjoy positions from behind such as doggy style, spooning while holding her leg up, or on top of her with her legs on his shoulders.

• OR he could be into extreme switching of power dynamics. I’m torn on this one, but I think either way he likes it a little rough.

• They wouldn’t hesitate to have sex in the car or to find a private room in a public space if they were horny in the moment. She would love to get him off under a table or in an isolated outdoor space.

• He wouldn’t turn down anything she wanted to try; in fact, he would be eager to oblige.

• He is extremely touchy and affectionate; his hands would always be on her face/neck, back, waist, ass etc. They would be all over each other, and there would always be a level of romanticism despite whatever act they are indulging in that day.

• He would kiss her neck, collarbones, and breasts aggressively.

• Loves eye contact and to watch her face as she orgasms. He would think she’s so pretty when she comes undone for him, all sweaty and makeup smudged.

• Like Namjoon, this man is excellent at dirty talk, although is a lot more explicit and occasionally a little degrading.

• “You like it when I do that?” “Cum again for me.” “Take off your clothes and open your legs.” “Touch yourself.”

• I actually don’t think they would use a lot of toys, as Tae would want to please her himself. He would be very good at multitasking and using his mouth, hands, etc. at the same time. He would love to make her squirt.

• Likes to be in control during blowjobs. Gripping her hair, thrusting his hips, telling her to look at him while he’s in her mouth. Would cum on her face or in her mouth without warning (although might feel bad afterwards).

• Oof, I can see him loving spanking. Like, hard, repeated spanking that leaves her with a red mark. Maybe with his hands, maybe with a belt or paddle.

• He would love if she wore skimpy lingerie, to which he might rip with excitement.

• They would be quite loud, vocal, and expressive together, with lots of demands and heavy moaning.

• Dirty shit aside, there are also times when he would want sex to be gentle, slow, and intimate so that he can show her how much he loves her. He may be freaky, but at the end of the day he is still a romantic at his core and would value his partner a ton.

[bethanythebogwitch]

Wet Beast Wednesday: Cuvier's beaked whale

Today's Wet Beast Wednesday post is going to be a deeper dive than usual, because this week's post is about the deepest-diving whale. Beaked whales are an elusive and poorly-understood family known for diving to extreme depths. Of the 24 known species, Cuvier's beaked whale is the most well-known. Dive in (get it?) to learn about this cryptic cetacean.

(Image: a Cuvier's beaked whale underwater. It is a small whale similar in appearance to a bottlenose dolphin, though stockier and with a shorter snout. The dorsal fin is far back on the body Its body is gray and covered in white, circular scars, likely bites from cookie cutter sharks. End ID)

Beaked whales are poorly-studied because of their remote habitats and tendency to spend more time underwater than other whales. It is also often hard to distinguish between different species without a close examination. The name comes from their skulls, which are notably toothless and elongated around the mouth, making them look like they have beaks. Beaked whales only have one pair of teeth and they only grow out in males. Female beaked whale teeth remain in the gums and never grow. Cuvier's beaked whale (Ziphius cavirostris), sometimes called the goose-beaked whale, is large for a beaked whale, with the larger males maxing out at 7 meters (23 ft) and 3.5 tons. They resemble dolphins in body shape, but with robust and stocky bodies. Their bodies are gray to light brown while the heads are lighter in color, especially in males. The melon is relatively small and the mouth is shorter than in most beaked whales, making it easier to differentiate them. The melon is an organ found in toothed whales that aids in echolocation.

(image: a beaked whale peaking its head out of the water. It is likely a male due to its white face. Its back is densely covered in long, whit scars. End ID)

Beaked whales have multiple adaptations to deep diving. During dives, the heart rate decreases and blood flow is redirected to more important organs and tissues. The lungs collapse, leaving oxygen storage to the hemoglobin in the blood and myoglobin in the muscles. Long periods of time without breathing results in the buildup of lactic acid in the blood, which can be toxic. Beaked whales have enlarged spleens and livers that may help filter lactic acid out of the blood. Their bodies are very streamlined and the flippers can be held very tightly against the body to reduce drag. There are likely other adaptations for very deep and very long dives that have not been studied.

(Image: the skeleton of a Cuvier's beaked whale. It is somewhat short for a whale, with small flippers. The skull is long and flat. End ID)

Cuvier's beaked whale is the most widely-distributed beaked whale, being found worldwide in tropical to temperate waters. They prefer to swim in very deep water and are rarely seen near shore. Cuvier's beaked whale holds the record for the deepest and longest dive of any marine mammal. The records (recorded by satellite tags) for depth was a dive to 2,992 m (9,816 ft) and for length was a 222 minute (about 3.75 hours) dive. The whales will usually make multiple shallower dives to around 500 m (1,640 ft) between each deep dive, possibly to give their bodies time to recover while still searching for food. They spend very little time at the surface between dives, usually no more than 8 minutes. These short surface intervals may be to avoid predators like orcas. Occasionally, longer surface intervals of several hours have been observed. Their hunting behavior changes depending on how deep they dive. On shallower dives, they remain silent, possibly to avoid being overheard by predators, while on deep dives, they use echolocation to find prey in the darkness of the deep ocean. Cuvier's beak whale hunts via suction. They open their mouths while retracting the tongue and enlarging the throat to create a vacuum that sucks prey into their mouths, which is then swallowed whole. Dissections have revealed that squid make up over 80% of their diet. The whales forage in small pods that coordinate their dives and hunting strategy. It has been speculated that the teeth of males are used to fight over access to females. Males have been found with scars that would seem to fit being raked with another male's teeth. Males also generally have more scars than females, which would be consistent with them fighting each other. Almost nothing is known about beaked whale reproduction, though calves do live with their mothers as in other whales.

(Image: a Cuvier's beaked whale jumping out of the water. End ID)

Little is known about the conservation needs of Cuvier's beaked whale. They are likely the most abundant species of beaked whale due to their wide distribution. They are known to be threatened by entanglements in fishing nets and have been harvested by whalers in the past. They may be targeted by the Japanese whaling industry, but it is difficult to be sure due to the secrecy of said industry. Cuvier's beaked whale is known to be vulnerable to sonar, especially mid-range sonar. They have been observed avoiding areas where sonar is used and use of sonar has been correlated to mass strandings and symptoms of decompression sickness (the bends). It is possible that the sonar drives them to ascend from dives too quickly, leading to potentially fatal gas embolisms. Notably, several mass strandings happened in the Canary Islands while naval exercises were performed there. Once those exercises stopped, the mass strandings stopped as well. Cuvier's beaked whale was described and named by naturalist, zoologist, paleontologist, and virulent racist and misogynist Georges Cuvier, who described it using a skull he thought was a fossil. There has been a small push recently to begin using the name goose-beaked whale instead to keep from honoring him.

(Image: a Cuvier's beaked whale poking its head out of the water. Its body is light gray, with a few scars. End ID)

[utilitycaster]

You mentioned it briefly a few months ago (but it lives rent free in my head sorry!) that the most popular ship from this campaign has almost only AU fanfics and it's really telling me something about the characters from c3, that there is just really nothing to explore about them.

So here's the thing. I do not think the characters aren't worth exploring! There's been good character work (a lot of which gets ignored, actually, because it's not what many of the people who insist that C3 is their favorite as they slowly turn into a corncob want*; see basically anyone on Twitter about Orym), it's just not central to the plot.

I stand by what I originally said and which was validated at a recent Q&A panel: the cast wasn't told that this was going to be the Moon Plot Campaign (they were just told pulpier and deadlier) and Laura wasn't told that Imogen would be as central a character as she was. So I think we have characters who could have, for the most part, had a character-driven campaign around them, but it became clear relatively early on that this was the Moon Plot campaign and that wouldn't be the focus; and because to get all of his ducks in a row for the Moon Plot Matt had to take a heavier hand with the rails and as a result the party didn't have a ton of bonding time early on because they were always taking NPC missions/being ferried around in an airship with no need for watch conversations, and it's hard to go back and fill in those interactions later, which is why they've sort of fallen out of the habit.

With respect to the ship...the thing is, I genuinely believe it could have been good. The reason I'm not a fan of imo/dna isn't because I think the characters aren't good (well, my feelings on Laudna are documented but I do think Imogen is a great character). It's because, ironically enough, every barrier between them did get removed all too quickly in the service of Cottage Endgame and as a result I think many of the people who wanted that are like "wait...that's it?" Like, the gnarlrock fight fizzled out only for the same conflict to come up briefly with Ishta (swordgate) 70 episodes later and be resolved a day later in-game. When they reunited I was like you know what would have made this good? If Laudna had remained angry in episode 65 and turned Imogen down which Laura 100% expected to happen, because they hadn't talked about this and they were awkwardly trying to deal with unresolved feelings for 30+ episodes and perhaps Laudna actually leaned into Delilah wholeheartedly during that time and realized she had feelings for Imogen after all, while Imogen was simultaneously struggling with that rejection and realizing Laudna was going into a dark place but didn't feel like she could get involved, and they both leaned more (platonically) on other characters and Swordgate was the point where Laudna said "oh no, I'm becoming too much of a problem and I do want Imogen to like me" and the soul anchor felt like a culmination of a deeply felt struggle instead of a quick fix for something that had only inconvenienced her a few times and led to a 20 hour long minor spat at best? If we actually got a fucking slowburn? It would have been great! Turns out if you always go for the instant gratification, it makes for a story without any tension! And now we're watching people who were always clamoring for skipping to the good part realizing that in doing so we skipped all the buildup that makes it the good part. There could have been something to explore. It was not explored.

*I think that there are people who for whatever reason do legitimately prefer Campaign 3 for whatever reasons and are in earnest and this isn't about them. While I don't share their tastes I support them and their feelings; we all have our preferences. This is about the people who are already visibly setting up the groundwork for a dramatic rage quit that will make copious, wildly incorrect use of the term "neoliberal" if the campaign ends with the gods still in place while still insisting this is definitely the best campaign and making absolutely brainless statements about prior campaigns not being as political even though this is the least politically inclined or aware group by a country mile. I think the lesson from the above and from here is that you really cannot have your cake and eat it too.