#thread: no blue no green (authority +1)

[fixomnia-scribble]

Scientists are very serious.

This is a post about science. And soup.

Dr. Elinne Becket, a microbiologist from Cal State University, is in the middle of one of those Fridge Experiments that happens to us all - except in this case, she is uniquely placed to unravel the science down to the microbial level.

While cleaning out her fridge, Dr. Becket found that a tub of family-recipe beef vegetable soup had turned bright blue. “Ok I'm outing myself here,” she tweeted, “but there was forgotten beef soup in our fridge we just cleaned it out and it was BLUE?!?!? Wtf contam would make it blue??? Like BRIGHT blue!!  Even w/ all my years in micro I'm not handling this well.“

Read on for a breathless and ongoing saga of Soup and Science, and the wonderful international community that is Academic Twitter.

Academic Twitter quickly reminded her of her Responsibilities to Scientific Inquiry. (Cue the chanting from around the world of “CLONE THE SOUP! CLONE THE SOUP!”)

“I can’t believe y’all talked me into going back into the trash.” she tweeted in response, over a photo of a puddle of beautiful Mediterranean-sea blue soup in the trash bin, with bits of veg and noodles arising from the depths.

Scientists being scientists, Dr. Becket agreed to take a sample and send it to colleagues for cloning and microbial analysis.This involved getting arms-deep into the trash bin of Old Soup. “I’m never forviging @ATinyGreenCell (genomic biologist Sebastian Cocioba) for this.” Dr. Becket tweeted, with a photo of a properly dipped and snipped and VERY blue q-tip in a small clear plastic tub.

Diving into decomposing soup was not the only hazard. She writes: “My mom (who made the soup for my birthday) came across this thread and now 1) I have to answer for letting her soup spoil and 2) she's worried @ATinyGreenCell will figure out her secret recipe.“

Dr. Becket and Sebastian were able to culture the Blue Goo!

Becket posted a photo of three petri plates of streaked beef bouillon agar at 72 hours incubation, at 37C, room temp and 4C. She writes: “Left the plates where they were for another 2 days, except the 37°C one was brought to RT, which then grew white stuff over the yellow stuff and stinks to high heaven. RT looked the same. 4°C had impressive growth. Restreaked them all onto TECH agar, awaiting results!”

Sebastian, from his lab, tweeted a photo of three more covered petri dishes, with early results: “Great progress on isolating the glowy microbe from our #BlueSoup! It's so fluorescent the streak is GREEN. Still needs another restreak as it seems there is a straggler but should clear up in the next plate. Exciting!”

Then yesterday, Sebastian tweeted out an updated photo of his plates under daylight and blacklight. “Whatever grew on the #BlueSoup colony plates overnight glows under UV, but only on King's Agar B! That particular media is used to tease out fluorescein expression in pseudomonads. What are the chances that the same cell line expresses fluorescent AND blue pigments?“

“Looking closer, there definitely is a handful of different microbes showing distinct phenotypes. Could be that the blue producer and the fluorescent microbes are totally different microbes!”

At which point, Professor Cynthia Whitchurch of Norwich, England, responded: “Consistent with P. fluorescens being at least part of the #BlueSoup community. The fluorescence is due to production of the siderophore pyoverdine which is up-regulated when iron availability is limited. P. aeruginosa produced this too but my guess is you have blue Pf.”

And Australian agricultural researcher @WAJWebster helpfully tweeted a petri dish of ALL KINDS of colourful bacterial colonies from white to yellow to orange to stark black, with a cheerful: “You need bact-o--colours? I got you, fam.”

The best part is that as of today, March 9, 2023, THE BLUE SOUP MYSTERY CONTINUES. WE ARE WATCHING SCIENCE HAPPENING!

A paper is being written. And Dr. Becket’s mum is getting an author credit as the proprietary owner of the #BlueSoup recipe.

Dr. Becket’s Twitter is here: https://twitter.com/bielleogy

Sebastian Cocioba’s Twitter is here: https://twitter.com/ATinyGreenCell

Fun IFLS story is here: https://www.iflscience.com/microbiologist-investigates-after-her-beef-soup-turned-blue-in-the-freezer-67894?fbclid=IwAR0H27KqVZhzzrosnjzzKkxuKASZ-0L0Lt6hGwCRDJK8xvFbbSlyS4JvwlM

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

My Fair Lady's Maid (Regency! Aemond Targaryen x Lady's Maid!Reader) Sneak Peek

Frustrated with his grandsire's tedious and thorough process of choosing him a "suitable" bride, Aemond makes a declaration that a lady's maid could be indistinguishable from a true noblewoman so long as she was sufficiently dressed and educated in embroidery, conversation, and the like. Otto takes this as a challenge, and gives Aemond four months to turn one of Helaena's lady's maids into a noblewoman.

Pairing: (Regency! Aemond Targaryen x Lady's Maid!Reader)

Author's Note: So, about 2k words of this just kinda happened today...

Chapter 1: Loverly

“AAAAOOWWWW!”

Her knees pounded with pain, the edges of her vision pulsing black, but she pulled herself up to her elbows, focusing only on what was directly in front of her.

The flowers were scattered across the cobblestones, half already trampled on by people scrambling to avoid falling with her. Those had been the best blossoms, the ones she put at the top of her basket to entice people into buying from her. All that remained in her basket were the scant pickings she used just to make the basket look full – no one would want to buy those.

Nearly a full day’s wages, gone like that.

“What in the devil’s name was that noise, girl?” The bastard who ran into her sneered. She’d never before heard a voice so suited to sneering. She lifted her head to growl something back at him, but any biting words quickly died when she saw who looked down at her.

He was finer than any man – any person – she’d ever seen in Rosby. Not a single silver hair out of place, not a loose thread anywhere on his fine clothes, or a speck of dust on him. Well, except for the slight smudge of grime left on his deep green tailcoat from where he’d crashed into her. The sight of it made her want to crawl into her dirty basement and never come out again.

“You should watch where you’re walking, brother,” another man, standing next to the severe man who had run into her, said. The familiar resemblance was obvious in their coloring – the silver hair, the eyes so vibrantly blue they were nearly violet.

The severe man scoffed, his lip curling as he looked at her. “I was, Daeron. But the little wretch came out of nowhere.”

“I ain’t no ‘wretch!’” she shouted, indignation burning through her fear and embarrassment. “I’m a respectacled woman, I am!”

The man scoffed and rolled his eye, and only then did she notice: his left eye was entirely white, its milky paleness emphasized by the angry red scar stretching from his forehead all the way down through his cheek.

She didn’t mean to stare, really. But she had never seen a man who looked like him – scar or no. He was like something out of a fairy tale. Especially when his scowl deepened, and his one blue eye seemed to catch fire.

“Have you looked your fill?” he growled. She immediately averted her gaze, not knowing what to say. She couldn’t think of a single word.

[peerlessscowl]

Now that he saw where the wellspring was, it was harder to take the villagers' concern seriously. Sure, it was a noticeable degrade of their resource, he could see that clearly from the lines of sediment, but the facts of the matter seemed clear to him: this was too great a volume of something so heavy and cumbersome as water to simply transport away.

The princess seemed to come to, at the very least, a complementary conclusion, and Raven watched as the bickering villagers dispersed before he nodded his agreement.

"There's a lot we're missing that I don't believe we'll get from them. I don't…think they can be trusted to be objective." Of course not - and neither could he, should he be in the same situation, if he were being completely honest. It was easy to lay the blame of something catastrophic at the feet of another person, but harder to admit when a situation had, truly, none to blame.

"This seems…odd, though." There was something about the whole thing that had struck him, from the very beginning, that he had not been able to parse into a cohesive whole until the villagers had brought them here. Raven gestured, a thumb over his shoulder at the path which had led them up here. "Awfully secluded place, isn't it? Seems to me that anyone who wanted to draw from here would have needed to go through them, first."

Indeed, it seemed as though the two villages, by design, were as difficult to reach by one another as possible, with the road doubling back to reach the appropriate fork more than once, and a handful of natural barriers blocking what might have been the easiest path.

When they did reach the neighboring village, there was a guard posted, though the tired look on his face and the awkward grip he had on his polearm indicated that this was not a position he held normally.

"Identify yourselves?"

"We're from the Church. We're here about the water."

This seemed to make him all the more tired, and he simply waved them inside with an expression of bone-deep fatigue.

— no blue, no green.

[imgeekgirlfan]

The Curse of Cassandra [EP : XII]

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings :  Qimir x f!reader(SEA Reader)  [The Acolyte]

Content Rating : Mature 18+ Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

tags/themes : Alternate Universe - Dune & Star wars, Partners in Crime, Strangers to Lovers

Summary : Finally, you meet Master Vernestra, Qimir's former master. This encounter reveals the tragic story of Qimir's past as a Padawan and the reasons that drove him to the dark side, ultimately leading to his transformation into the Sith Lord he is today.

Status: just finished writing this fic! (It will end in Episode 14)

Ps.If you enjoy my work, please reblog it. Just liking the post won’t help others discover it.

➡  Intro // EP : 1 // EP : 2 // EP : 3 // EP : 4 // EP : 5 // EP : 6 // EP : 7 // EP : 8 // EP : 9 // EP : 10 // EP : 11 // EP : 13 // EP : 14 (Completed)

Special OS : Phantom Thread

[Episodes 12] The people who can destroy a thing, they control it.

The dawn sky over Coruscant remains dim, deep blue shades tinged with a glowing golden hue as the rising sun slowly peeks over the horizon. It's still too early for most to be awake; the entire city slumbers while the Jedi Temple remains cloaked in silence.

In this quiet, the echo of hurried footsteps resonates within the temple. Though not loud, their hurried steps are clear to your ears. Just as you open your eyes, the door to your chamber swings open. Yord and Jackie stand side by side, having sought you out without prior arrangement.

Their expressions convey different emotions: Yord looks tense and worried, while Jackie appears visibly panicked. You silently observe their reactions and immediately understand what has happened.

You step out of bed and address them in a calm, unbothered tone, “Give me a moment to dress. I hope Master Vernestra can wait.”

The meditation room has been selected as the temporary meeting place since Master Vernestra has arrived at the temple unexpectedly, without prior notice, leaving no time to prepare a guest chamber. Yord and Jackie are not permitted to enter, so you are left alone to face her. As you step inside, you find her already seated in a cushioned chair by a large window.

Although you have never met Vernestra in person, her appearance is consistent with the visions you’ve seen. Her light green skin reflects her Mirialan heritage, and her bald head is marked with several black dot tattoos—a symbol of her race, signifying past accomplishments. She wears a long, form-fitting white robe embroidered with the Jedi insignia on the shoulder, representing the formal attire of a high-ranking member of the Jedi Council. Even when she sits still, she exudes an aura of authority that easily intimidates lesser Jedi and ordinary people in encounters with her.

You approach her, standing with hands clasped in front of you, but you do not bow as the Jedi protocol dictates when meeting a superior. Your demeanor remains composed and indifferent, unfazed by her sharp gaze that seems to scrutinize you.

Master Vernestra’s mood isn’t the best lately. Interplanetary travel has left her inexplicably fatigued. She is becoming acutely aware of her advancing years as she enters her century, with both her senses and strength gradually waning over time. This is why she no longer undertakes missions herself like other Masters, preferring to delegate from behind the scenes. She seldom sets foot off the planet Olega unless absolutely necessary.

Who would have thought that the urgent matter forcing her to leave Olega and travel all the way to Coruscant today would turn out to be a minor issue that has nonetheless plagued her thoughts relentlessly? This issue stems from a strange woman outside the Order who claims to have prophetic visions and accuses one of her former Padawans of being a Sith Lord responsible for the recent killings of several Jedi.

Vernestra clenches her fist without realizing it as unpleasant memories resurface. She then shifts her cold, piercing gaze back to you, appraising you from head to toe.

Whether by coincidence or subconscious choice, you wear a white dress that resembles Vernestra’s. However, the feeling it conveys is distinctly different. Perhaps you appear more fragile and vulnerable, as if about to shatter, with your features framed by simple locks, your appearance unremarkable—not conventionally beautiful, but not unattractive either. The only striking feature is your deep blue eyes, mysterious and unsettling in a way that is hard to define. They are so unnerving that Vernestra has to avert her gaze momentarily, avoiding direct eye contact.

“You’ve caused quite a stir within the Order these past few months, haven’t you?” She begins, her tone sharp and her intent clear—putting pressure on you.

“I don’t think so,” you respond calmly, undisturbed. “Most people here think I’m lying, so they don't really pay attention to what I say. If my words have caused any trouble, it's likely confined among a few.”

She dares to retort me! Vernestra frowns in irritation, her already stern expression growing even harsher.

"Others here may not know, but I know exactly who you are from the moment I see you,” Vernestra sneers, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and fear. “You’re a Bene Gesserit witch! Someone like you shouldn’t exist in this galaxy.”

You know perfectly well that Vernestra brings this up intentionally to intimidate you, to scare you into fleeing. The existence of a Bene Gesserit is forbidden, and if this secret ever reaches the public, your life will be in grave danger. Even Sol may not be able to protect you.

Yet you remain unflinching. A cold smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you look up at the high-ranking Jedi with a challenging gaze.

"So? What are you going to do about it?” You reply nonchalantly. "Will you try to kill me like you did to your former Padawan?"

The instant those words leave your mouth, Vernestra’s expression changes dramatically. Her body stiffens, and the anger in her eyes has now been replaced by undisguisable fear as she stares at you. "You... you..." Vernestra stammers, struggling to find her voice.

You lock eyes with her, intuitively realizing she looked at Qimir in the same way when she first sensed the dark side within him. This thought pulls your consciousness deeper into the stream of time, unearthing Vernestra’s past and letting you see it unfold again through your vision.

"Your Padawan reminded you of yourself, back when you were the youngest Jedi Knight in history, and everyone believed that you’d become the greatest Jedi of your era." you muse, staring into empty space, your mind swimming through the endless stream of information flowing in "But time was cruel. You had grown older and weaker with each passing day, while your Padawan was still young and growing stronger. You saw that boy following in your footsteps almost exactly, knowing that one day he would surpass you—a truth you couldn't accept. Am I wrong, Vern?[1]"

“Silence!" Vernestra snaps, her voice shrill and trembling, almost a scream.

"Are you going to deny that what I said is true?"

 You counter, already knowing she won’t answer.

Because in front of a Bene Gesserit with the gift of second sight, any attempt to hide or lie is meaningless. Vernestra knows this well, so she remains silent, shivering, unable to find words to defend herself.

"You already know, don’t you? That the Padawan you abandoned that day has now become a Sith Lord?" 

The question is not asked to seek an answer. You only aim to press Vernestra further, prodding at her until she finally admits the truth.

"Yes, I know," Vernestra lifts her chin defiantly, though her acceptance isn’t a sign of submission. "But I didn’t cast him out because I wanted to. He broke the code of the Order, and I was obligated to punish him. It was my duty as his master."

Jedi must suppress their emotions and feelings, as emotions are the path to self-destruction and lead the mind to the dark side of the Force. You recite the Jedi Code silently in your mind. Some details resembled Bene Gesserit teachings, except that the Jedi Code is far more extreme—so extreme that it ultimately does more harm than good to the Order.

These absurd rules are a major reason why the Jedi Order will face its great downfall in the future.

"His crime... was simply because he had love and attachment for others." You speak, your expression still calm and emotionless, but your voice carries deep pity. "Are you telling me that you feel nothing at all about the tragedy at Starlight Beacon?[2]"

Vernestra's eyes widen in shock, forgetting how to breathe for a moment. If she weren’t sitting, she would be sure her knees would have buckled beneath her. 

She knows about that too!

"I know," you nod, as if reading her thoughts. "A long time ago, you and your colleagues were assigned a mission to subdue the Nihil, a group of space pirates that threatened the Republic. You brought your Padawan along the way and stopped to help the people of the planet Eiram, who had just suffered from a cyclone disaster. It was you who allowed them onto the station, not realizing you had invited the enemy inside. It was all part of Nihil’s plan. They had one goal: to sabotage and blow up Starlight Beacon as a declaration of their defiance against the Jedi and to showcase their power to the Republic."

You recount the images from your vision, weaving them into words effortlessly. "They succeeded. Every life on Starlight—Jedi and innocent civilians alike—was lost. Except for a few Jedi, including you and your Padawan, who were not on the station at the time. You stood on the sands of Eiram, looking up at the sky ablaze with orange flames. You saw everything happen right before your eyes, but you could do nothing to save anyone."

"It wasn’t my fault," Vernestra protests, her voice shaking, so for a brief moment, it seems as if she’s on the verge of tears.

"I didn’t say it was. No one intended for such a terrible thing to happen." You’re surprised at yourself for speaking with such empathy. "But is it really your Padawan’s fault for feeling anger and losing faith in the Jedi’s handling of things? When everyone he loved, including innocent civilians, had to die because of this? Wasn’t it the Jedi’s arrogance and carelessness that led to this tragedy?"

The memories of Qimir’s past flash through your mind once more, as if they’re your own. You see the face of the young blonde Padawan, a close friend who Qimir often calls ‘Imri.’[3] Then, there’s the image of a confident, dark-skinned woman, wearing a dark brown jacket and a blue scarf. She introduced herself as 'Avon,'[4] the ship's lead inventor, who later became another close friend of his and the one he secretly loves, though he never had the chance to confess his feelings.

Beautiful memories fade quickly as the scene transitions to the sandy shores of Eiram. You see Qimir kneeling on the sand, eyes red and filled with despair, gazing up at the sky stained deep orange by the flames of Starlight Beacon’s explosion. He doesn't scream or cry; he just sits, watching as the world he knew crumbles before his eyes. The world of his youth and goodness was destroyed that day.

You feel the deep darkness inside Qimir surge forth, expanding toward you. His confusion, rage, and thoughts at that moment coalesce into words that come clearly from your mouth: 

"Everyone involved will pay for what happened."

Vernestra wants to argue, but she knows in her heart that you're right.

She remembers clearly that her Padawan was the first to sense the anomaly among the people from Eiram. He was the only one who insisted they shouldn’t rush to bring the refugees onto the station without thoroughly verifying their identities. Vernestra agreed with him, so she called a meeting to discuss with everyone. But the other Jedi and the higher-ranking Jedi dismissed the warning. They claimed there was no time for such precautions due to other important missions. They were confident that Starlight Beacon was impregnable. It was not just any space station; it was the Jedi command center and the Republic's primary communication hub, equipped with top-level security. There was no way the enemy could infiltrate and cause any damage.

That overconfidence became one of the biggest mistakes—a painful lesson the Jedi Order learned the hard way and a deep scar in Vernestra’s heart to this day.

She knows that the tragedy could have been avoided if they had just listened to her Padawan's warnings from the start.

“You knew all along, Vern,” you state, emphasizing what she's thinking. “But instead of standing by your Padawan, you cast him out of the Order, claiming he was unfit to be a Jedi. You abandoned him at his weakest moment. You pushed him to the dark side yourself."

"I didn’t abandon him!" the Jedi shouts, her patience gone as she stands abruptly, her body shaking with overwhelming rage. "He’s the one who chose this path! He forsook the Jedi way, consumed by vengeance beyond redemption. He hunted down every person connected to the remaining Nihil, mercilessly killing them all, sparing not a single soul. At that point, he was no longer my Padawan—he was a murderer, and I had to stop him before things got worse…”

“So, you decided to kill him with your own lightsaber," you add, undeterred by her fierce fury. “But you failed, and your actions drove him onto the path of the Sith because he felt betrayed. The master he once loved and revered chose the Order over him and was willing to kill him on the Council’s orders.”

Vernestra chooses to remain silent.

You continue speaking calmly, and for the first time, you talk to her as the Reverend Mother of the Bene Gesserit, not as a mere servant. "When things spiraled out of control, you and the Order decided to erase all records of him, concealing the truth about the new Sith Lord that had emerged, all in an effort to protect the Order's reputation from disgrace..."

Your voice trails off, and a heavy silence blankets the room as your distant gaze turns to Vernestra. Your blue eyes glow with an unfathomable power. "The Jedi murders on Olega—you already know who the killer is, because every person who was slaughtered had ties to what happened on Starlight. And I'll tell you this, Vern... you're next on his list."

Vernestra's anger peaks. She draws her lightsaber from beneath her cloak, but you anticipate her move. You speak sharply, your voice slicing through the tension.

"Don't you dare challenge me, child. I am now the last Reverend Mother, the remaining heir of Lisan al-Gaib. I stand far beyond the comprehension of you or any mortal. Know this: I could end your life with a single word before you even think of striking me with that lightsaber.”

Each word you utter ripples like a tangible force, resonating with the highest level of Bene Gesserit control, as if your very speech is alive. The power in your words sends a chill deep into Vernestra's bones. She stumbles back, retreating several steps as she feels the sheer force invade her mind.

Vernestra realizes that you are telling the truth, and she understands her powerlessness against the command of the voice.

"Did he do all of this just to get revenge on me?" Vernestra murmurs, her voice trembling as she grips the back of a chair to steady herself, struggling not to collapse.

You sigh and shake your head, pitying how even now she is still unable to grasp the full picture.

“He has gone far beyond that," you reply. "He has a purpose now. He’s no longer driven solely by revenge; he acts to cleanse and change. He won’t stop until the Jedi Order falls, just as it happened to the Bene Gesserit in the past.”

The more Vernestra listens, the deeper her fear grows. 

She swallows the dryness in her throat, her voice barely a whisper. “Is there no way to stop this?” Vernestra asks, her eyes still reflecting a glimmer of hope, pleading for an answer that only a visionary could provide.

“Everything arises, sustains for a while, and ceases to exist,” you say, lifting your gaze to meet hers. You let out a heavy sigh. “Your role is just a small piece in the grand design of fate. There’s nothing you can do now except wait.”

“Wait? What am I supposed to wait for?”

You turn your gaze away from Vernestra and look out the window, where the soft sunlight filters through. You allow your mind to drift into the vision of time once more. “Judgment,” your answer comes as a whisper filled with bitterness. “For both you and me, it’s drawing near.”

The waiting ends sooner than expected. 

A week later, after Master Vernestra Rwoh received the prophecy about the future from you, she was found dead in the temple at Olega. Her life ended quietly, yet with unbearable suffering. They say the state of her body was nearly unrecognizable, especially with the deep, cross-shaped wounds that had been carved into her back.

The murderer leaves a message behind, its contents known only to the Jedi handling the case.

You learn all of this firsthand when Master Sol arrives on Coruscant, summoned back from Arkinnea to once again take charge of the investigation. The brutal killing of a high-ranking Jedi sends shockwaves through the very core of the Jedi Order, especially as the victim is one of the most renowned Jedi of the era.

Vernestra’s death sparks questions in people's minds—if even a Jedi's life isn't safe, how can citizens ever hope to be?

Facing Sol this time feels no different from your last meeting on Olega. You and he sit in a closed, windowless interrogation room, the atmosphere heavy with tension and unease. But this time, Sol looks even more worn out. The weight of pressure from both the public and the Order clearly affects him, making him appear years older within just a few days.

Sol clears his throat lightly, his bleary eyes glancing at you cautiously. Whenever you meet, you sense his fear towards you, but this time, it’s even more palpable. Even you aren't quite sure why.

After a moment of tense silence, Sol finally breaks it. "Before Vernestra died, she sent me a confidential message revealing everything about her former Padawan, including the details of what she and you discussed privately."

He pauses briefly, then pulls an envelope from his cloak and places it on the table, pushing it towards you. His movements, as you observe closely, are filled with tension you've never seen before.

"Inside are images from the crime scene. The murderer left a message on the wall. I believe that message was meant for you."

Your heart pounds with fear, a chill running through your veins as your eyes lock on the envelope before you, unblinking.

It takes you a while to gather the courage to pick it up and open it. Your hand pulls out a photograph—an image of Vernestra's private chamber, which shows signs of a violent struggle and blood scattered everywhere. But the most striking detail is the message written in blood on the wall—a chilling statement that reads, 'You can't run away from me.' 

You know instantly that he is talking about you.

In that moment, you feel the looming catastrophe ahead—a calamity that threatens not just you but everyone involved.

The end of this story is inevitable, but what form will that ending take? 

Even you can't find the answer.

Footnotes:

[1]Vernestra's nickname is 'Vern' and according to canon, she doesn't like people calling her that. So when 'You' keeps calling her 'Vern' over and over, it's totally on purpose just to mess with her.

[2]This part references the Destruction of Starlight Beacon from Star Wars: The High Republic, originally set when Vernestra first becomes a Jedi Knight with Imri Cantaros as her Padawan. I have altered the timeline and details to fit the fan fiction, making Qimir Vernestra's sole Padawan and placing him at the event.

[3] Here's a small Easter egg: I decided to adapt Imri Cantaros (Vernestra's former Padawan) to be Qimir's close friend, aligning it with Star Wars canon.

[4] Another Easter egg is the character Avon Sunvale, who plays a significant role in Star Wars: The High Republic as the daughter of a senator and a talented inventor, whom Vernestra Rwoh was assigned to protect. In my fan fiction, she is a close friend to both Imri and Qimir, and also someone Qimir secretly loves.

Ps. And if you pay close attention, I mentioned that Qimir isn’t actually his real name. He has another name from when he was a Padawan, but I decided to steer clear of mentioning his real name because it felt weird to just come up with a random one for him. So, I chose not to say it at all and just referred to Qimir as "he" or "him" when he was a Padawan. I only use the name Qimir in the present context.

[cliff-and-the-kid]

(Noodling around with different 'verses, since that seems to be a Thing happening more often lately)

Main TFP universe, aka Cliff Lives

My first and foremost setting for Cliffjumper and Sierra, based on some fan fiction I wrote several years ago. Unless otherwise specified, this is where I'm working from concerning interactions, whether that means a thread is taking place in my AU, or Cliff and Sierra have un/intentionally gone universe hopping. Their groundbridge acts screwy plenty often, no need to elaborate beyond that.

One!verse

I just saw the movie yesterday and it is a FUN sandbox to play around with, alright? Further details to come, but so far I'm dropping this Cliff into the role of 'even with a t-cog he's still small and scrappy and definitely willing to make that everyone else's problem'. No Sierra, no pre-defined relationships, he'll recognize famous names like anyone else but that's about it.

Fae!verse

This one comes from @sparkmender, who's shared a frankly fascinating giant-magic-insect AU that I'm dipping my toes into, with red lily beetle Cliffjumper pretending he isn't breaking any rules by smuggling a teenage human into Iacon Hive, and said human changeling Sierra figuring out how to poke her magic into revealing itself. And also how to avoid being eaten.

Sarant!verse

Look. I'm a self-published author with one (1) novel to my name so far. Sarant is a big massive complex world I've been building over the past fourteen years, there's a tabletop roleplaying game I started crafting alongside the various book plots, and I will absolutely take any excuse to put some free publicity out there while also having fun amusing myself and friends. Hence Minotaur!Cliff and Quirren!Sierra and a few others I've been putting together.

Jedi!verse

Aaand this one I blame @ghostlyvisage for; mentioning a Mandalorian bounty version of Ghostspire instantly catapulted my brain towards all the space-magic shenanigans Cliff and Sierra could get into with the Force. So, introducing Devaronian Jedi Master Clieff Jammp'r and his human padawan Sierra Redsand, blue and green lightsabers respectively.

Cyberkid!verse

This one's just an excuse to draw Cybertronian Sierra, not sure what it's going to turn into yet...

Adventure!verse

Dragon Cliffjumper and young elf Sierra, need I say more?

[trekkie-lkm-archive]

Info: Reboot McCoy (Karl Urban) has very changeable eyes: they go from blue-green to different shades of green to golden-brown to really dark.

So…5 Times Spock Noticed the Color of McCoy's Eyes (thread)

Fill: 1/1

Author: Igrab

Archive Link

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 23: Prom Queen

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Summary of chapter: Ladies are meant to look pretty and keep their mouths shut. But Takara the sad clown isn't pretty, so therefore does she have the right to speak? Her makeup drips, and she feels like a fool in front of two handsome artists. But do they think the same way her demons do?

Author's Note: The song for this chapter is Prom Queen by Beach Bunny.

Content warning: For poor body image, self-harm behaviors. The lyrics of the song inserted are references to an eating disorder.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Shut up, count your calories

I never look good in mom jeans

Wish I was like you

Blue-eyed blondie, perfect body

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

There’s something special about sitting cross-legged on a back porch in early fall, the way the air is still warm and the shade isn’t too cool, and the smell of wood wafts from the boards underneath you. The fading roses that wilt on the bush are perfect for the performer’s homemade flower press, which sits in ties beside her now. Deidara and the siren are idling time by, waiting until her friends (amazing she’s closer to them than he is, how long he’s been part of the gang) are back from initial surveillance and security setup of their new home base. Home base indeed, the artist notes, sticking the tongue on his face out just a bit in concentration as he kneads clay in his fingers. He had expected Pain-sama to pick something more like a cave; surely that’s where their leader lives, with how much time they spend in one when he’s around.

A house, though...nearly a mansion in size, though it feels more like an apartment complex with shared amenities. Just enough room to house the Akatsuki, even if the elbows are bumped a little too much. Yet...he caught that girl, again, sleeping on the couch…

“Takara-chan,” the blonde begins to ask, the honorific used more in a more friendly sense and less cutesy than how Tobi sings it to her, “...What’s up with that?” After a hum in response, her looking up from the blank book he lent her to doodle with, Deidara elaborates. His visible eye flickers between her and his half-done creation, dappled light spotting a ring of blue around his pupil. “Why don’t you just...pick a room? Hell...you could kick one of the others out while they’re gone. I’d watch your back.”

If only because the sight of it would be so funny. Red-faced Hidan getting as close as a man can to exploding, Kakuzu chasing her down the hall with a thread-laced flying fist, Kisame pinning her to the wall with that brick of a sword…

And perhaps Itachi will finally demonstrate once more how he has no mercy.

The traveler wouldn’t die, of course, just...barely scrape by! And Deidara would look all the braver rescuing her from it. But this fantasy is cut short as the woman shakes her head.

“Doesn’t feel right.”

The artist hums once more, tilting his head so that yet more of his face is curtained by golden strands of hair. “That’s all you got, huh…? Nothing more elaborate...un?” he prods with curiosity. But, unfortunately, this time she nods in confirmation. Hum number three comes longer, releasing a bit of his confusion and fascination.

“Well...do mull it over. I’d love to get into your head, un.”

…

Each leaf, whether still green or beginning to brown, sigh together in the pleasant breeze in such a way it sounds like waves. No matter how far she goes, the ocean chases her, caresses her, loves her to death. Though that’s only of her to blame. She puts aside the ethereal dreams that have been coming in and out of her sleep like a tide, considers the addition of the pair she’s hardly known two and a half days.

The trickery Deidara of Iwagakure pulled for more time than not since they’ve met has repeated in her psyche tenfold. The words so sweet amplified, moaned under his breath with touches no one has ever dared to provide her. She’s gotten used to pushing the images of the men from red clouds to the corner of her mind, well enough so it doesn’t interfere with merely trying to fit...fit in like a normal human being as much as she can, as much as a circle can find home in a square hole.

But with this one...it’s harder. He brought up so much about her appearance, lied about her being attractive… It makes it harder to forget. She’s never been called pretty before. It has to be okay that he didn’t mean it. That’s the only answer. No more time letting the feelings of others outside of her control haunt her, not again into this life.

Her eyes raise, trying to take the man in with less of this touch-starved lust and more kindness, sincerity. Though he doesn’t seem to notice her doing so, she notes the way he evaluates his clay is still so...sharp. The brush in her hand loses its path as the woman becomes distracted. Why does his gaze always seem that way…? Her own eyes crinkle in a slight squint, trying to judge that part of his face like Deidara himself is a work of art on public display.

There’s a crinkle of his own, she realizes, and that something hides how softly— indeed, softly— he’s lowered those eyelids down in meditation. What is it that’s deflecting her from that, making him always seem so manic…?

Her stare outlines his lashes until she realizes that it’s that very thing:

“...Oh,” she murmurs aloud. “...Eyeliner.”

“Mm?” he grunts, only understanding she spoke and not yet the comment she made. Despite herself, she goes against her gut and repeats:

“I only just noticed you’re wearing eyeliner.”

… “Ah. Yes.” Perhaps pointedly, he looks up at her, and the suspicion is confirmed as the black above his eyeball appears to thin as his gaze raises. “You don’t have to tell me...it looks good.” Whether he’s patting himself on the back, defying her possible scrutiny of a man wearing makeup, or hiding embarrassment...doesn’t matter. Her response is the same, is genuine:

“It does look good! I…”

She bites the inside of her lip for a split second before deciding to dig up bad memories.

“...I was never really good at it myself.”

There’s a nice view, now as he blinks, how far up his eyelid the black ink has been painted. As an artist, he knows well the kind of look on her face: admiration. Admiration for that which she’d love to recreate. A fourth hum, but this one is closer to a chuckle. One hand puts his project into his pocket while the other brushes his large yellow bang back, beginning to retie the hair so his face remains fully visible.

His smirk looks so much less lopsided now that it’s entirely unobscured...though the woman can’t say the rest of his face is more symmetrical. There’s a metal eyepiece of two colored orbs where the matching eyeball should be.

“What’s that?” she asks. Oh, Deidara notes, how quickly her attention can be redirected. He pockets that detail for later.

“My scope,” he explains with no complaint. “I battle from afar...display my art from that distance, too. It makes it all the more precise.”

She blinks, trying to imagine herself through the largest lens, the blue one that’s more turquoise-leaning than his natural sky-colored eye. Can it be a microscope in addition to binoculars…?

A question forgotten as like it was made to lock in and out of place upon his head (most certainly was, silly girl), the eyepiece is removed, gently set upon the planks of wood that make up their floor outside. Closed is, most assuredly, another human eye...and it looks so different without the liner. The previous hypothesis is confirmed: his unaltered state is so...relaxed. Mild...

“Perhaps you can practice, un,” Deidara proposes, no tone to indicate how intimate this action has always seemed to her on television. “You’ll have an example to imitate, perhaps teach you how to make the strokes, the shapes you’ve been missing.”

Heat dusts her cheeks, but how can she say no?

Though he leans forward to help and so does she, it still feels as if the woman is practically on the man’s lap as they begin, a brush in one hand and a tin of black ink in the other. The tip of it looks so shaky, so saturated, even after she re-dips the tool as to try to be rid the excess liquid. As she studies the handsome man’s visage, those piercing eyes look up at her, his head tilted down as to aid the angle she needs to work with. It makes her heart flutter.

She swallows back memories of her dream last night and tries to be as close to a regular, acceptable person as she can.

The ink is cold on Deidara’s skin as she attempts to recreate his design. It’s simple enough, appearance meant to be— for the most part— a complete surrounding of his eyeball. But there’s artistry down to even this about him, the way it’s drawn just so, varying thickness and depth to give the illusion of uniformity at a head-on view of the invisible paparazzi. His stare of his one already painted, open eye follows like a mirror each motion between her fingertips, no matter how sketchy, or unsure, or smooth. There is nothing more flattering than to learn from another’s own technique.

The woman’s brow furrows as her wrist gets sore, forcing her to move more from the shoulder than with her fingers. Bigger movements, perhaps, but surprisingly finds it makes for cleaner strokes. She exhales gently, in and out with a prayer that he can’t feel it on his nose, and paints on one last streak from the external corner of his eye to make the wing, like how an artist signs their signature.

Confident, or at least committed to the vision at hand.

A pocket mirror is brought from the inner of his cloak, a click as it opens and tilts his image up for him to grade.

“Mmm…”

And though he always smiles, after studying his face for so long, she begins to have a better idea that this one means something closer to good.

…

Confirmed as simultaneously, the mirror shuts and so do his eyes in satisfaction.

“Well done.” She didn’t realize she was so tense until his response makes her shoulders drop with relief. “I saw how you started to draw from the shoulder, un. It takes control but that’s the ideal way to do it. Good work.” A finger lazily pulls the skin of the lower lid, trying to clean it up. “Though maybe don’t start from the outer corner to the inner for the bottom eyelid next time.”

A nervous smile grows from her lips, the emotion in her chest so careful, so guarded.

“Deidara? Sir?”

The eye she did opens. “Mm?” It sees how forced that grin on her face is...so guilty, somehow, but needing to persist, lest she give up entirely.

“Can...you do...mine?”

Gradually, the left eye widens. A bit of red airbrushes his own cheeks. “Yeah, sure...un.”

The traveler swears that even though her hands are to herself, tying their fingers into knots upon her lap, the artist can still feel her shake. The look he wears...it’s indifferent, she decides, at least to her as the canvas. The bit of pink sticking out of his mouth (the one on his face— mind you it’s hard to forget that one of his hands could open up and lick her cheek any moment. Bluh…) is simply due to concentration, attempting to beautify that which must be difficult to do. The buzzes of satisfaction from his lips are about his handiwork, not her. The woman has to remind herself these things; she must, lest her head get too big, she climbs up the ladder of self-importance only to so easily crash down with a couple of words, as has already occurred in a past life she’s lived halfway through.

And so the woman must meditate not on the man but the process. He uses a fingertip to press the right eyelid down and she abides, closing both. The end of his immaculately painted nail is used to comb the lashes in the correct direction, so lightly and precisely. And then, finally, the cold ink on her skin is so, so smooth, obvious that he’s done this every day of his life. Is she a challenge then, she wonders? Her imperfections a bump in the road in comparison to a handsome face he’s used to…?

There’s a part where a palm cups her cheek and he leans in close, so near that warm breath fans by her nose. Her right eye, now complete as he sculpts the left, cracks open. It glimpses that airy, fresh sky blue, a ring around a black hole that sucks her in. As soon as Deidara’s eyeball twitches to indicate his gaze is shifting, her own eye shuts again, and it stays that way until she feels his presence pull off, and even then not until he gives permission. Even though she doesn’t see, she feels his frown in the last few minutes, the way he shifts from fun to displeasure...

“...Take a look.”

Lashes dipped in black flutter, unused to the weight upon them, as the performer opens her eyes to find that tiny mirror of his right in her space, the only thing she could possibly see first. A stranger sits in his palm, blinking up at the woman with an unfamiliar stare.

“I’d say it’s quite a look on you, un.”

…

Emotions seep in through her so very aware skin and sink to the bottom of her stomach. Does that mean she looks good…? Bad…? Is it sarcasm or praise? Is it simply the most polite way to avoid lying to her, avoid a compliment he doesn’t mean? The corners of the face’s mouth twitch up but just as quickly fall down.

“Takara? Un?”

She pulls back to reality as best as she can, glancing up at her sculptor; it’s clear Deidara is waiting for a reaction. And so, not knowing what the truth is, she must merely be courteous:

“...You’re very good at what you do.”

And as outwardly he smirks to accept the compliment, internally he notes something that the woman has kept hidden in plain sight. It’s hard to miss when you drink in someone’s presence for so long, agonize over details so precisely and in close range.

He needs to talk to Sasori. Hopefully the promise of a future favor can drag the hermit crab out of his new, dark and dusty shell.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Maybe I should try harder

You should lower your expectations

I'm no Quick-Curl Barbie

I was never cut out for Prom Queen

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“You look like a doll!”

Tobi’s words cause a blush to prickle the woman’s cheeks. Normally she’ll play along at least a little bit— attempt to match his energy even if she disagrees— but she is painfully silent, perhaps even more so than as he found her like this. She sits at the dinner table, ignoring the cup of tea she had made to ignore the very thoughts overtaking her now. The spoon meant to stir in her sugar is held in front of her face: a tiny, accidental mirror of a mug that isn’t hers that caught the corner of her eye and hasn’t let her go since.

“Tobi…?” she murmurs, so soft the masked man can taste her anxiety in the air between them. He tilts his head and shrugs his shoulders, exaggerating a bemused response.

“Er— yes, Takara-chan?” The response is quick now that she has permission to speak:

“Is that a good thing?”

“I—” Oh, the man behind the swirl has a decent idea that there’s no right answer to this. ...Well, there is, but it might not be what she wants to hear, and so he flounders. “...Uh...hmmm….”

Fuller lashes blink up at her from the warped metal between the pastel jester’s fingers. She wants to frown, he can tell— at least unconsciously— but each time she does, its spotted by her own judgment in the spoon and returns to something more neutral. But neutrality forced therefore, ironically, becomes anything but.

“...I don’t think it’s a bad thing to look like a doll, Takara-chan.” Tobi chooses his words wisely, one at a time. Then a concept hatches in his head, and he runs with it: “Sasori-senpai might like it!”

Finally, the hypnosis is broken, and the woman pulls away from her own scrutinizing leer. It’s all too innocent the way she brings her attention to him, Obito notes, and yet not at all. Just like him, many contradictions at once, and yet they are all true. Fascinating…

“What do you mean?”

“He plays with dolls all the time! And he makes them!”

“Dolls…?” Her brow raises. “Wait… You don’t mean that giant spider-mask thing, do you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about but probably yes!”

Her mouth becomes a straight line, pondering the monster that is still gaped open at her front door. “...Hm.”

“But...he makes prettier ones. Ones that look like people. Deidara-senpai says he doesn’t like them much, but I think he likes them a lot! Just doesn’t want to admit it. They both think they’re the better artist!”

To this, the fellow clown puts her fist over her mouth, hiding how she’s chewing on the inside of her lip until she finally knows what to say to all this:

“So.” She follows slowly, trying to carve the path Tobi has laid out for her to raise self-esteem. “You think. That other guy will be ha—” Not happier, that’s too hopeful. “—Tolerate me more if I—…?”

Phrases repeated ad infinitum haunt her again. Even if she hardly bought beauty products, the advertising works. She’s still thinking about them, even after low self-image helped her die. Dying wasn’t good enough; the smiling, airbrushed faces still want her to be beautiful, just like them. The logical part of her brain knows better...but…

Hidan isn’t here to bolster that one up, to tell the chemicals to stop, or utter any other such phrase that could boggle her so badly that she’ll return to a state of consciousness closer to present and normal. Tobi senses her silence, and he makes a big mistake in reading it. He can’t help it; after all, the little boy with goggles only ever wanted to be wanted. So he accidentally speaks insidious, venomous advice:

“Maybe if you look like one...it’ll...help?” It sounds so unsure, but it only takes the barest hint to justify what she already is thinking.

She doesn't look pretty. Not like Deidara does. But perhaps being a doll is close enough.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

If I get more pretty

Do you think he will like me?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“What’s wrong?”

Deidara’s mouth stretches into a thin line as he chooses his words to this question wisely, following a gap of time today since he and the performer played dress up together. “Hnnn—” he hums, tongue to the top of his mouth. He isn’t a very convincing liar, not when it’s on the fly like this. “—Sasori asked to see you.” Yeah, that’s it. Nothing to do with Deidara, not at all! But that answer just makes her heart skip an extra beat as he guides her up the stairs to her doom.

She hardly recognizes this hallway, just below the attic, now that the redhead has thrown everything out the hole he crawled up into. It reminds her of the crowded spaces of a hoarding relative, things simply moved aside and therefore out of mind. They look so...different in the light, no longer vague backdrop skyscrapers for the critters that shared her room with. She frowns a bit, unconsciously bringing the crook of her index finger between front teeth—

“You.”

Me?!

Her heart downright stops as she sees a face in the gap above, shadowed within the attic entrance. She looks side to side; Deidara is no where to be seen. Oh my god.

“Yes, you. No one else is around to waste my time.” It cannot be overstated...how soft Sasori’s voice is, and yet it is not kind. And looking above, through the planks that make the layer between them, somehow that look of boredom that pins her like a butterfly to cork board is so far apart from the one Hidan wears. The reaper’s demeanor is always like he’s hungry, searching for more, waiting to do something better. In this brief time they’ve known one another...the woman can still tell that the way this other artist carries himself is more...indifferent.

And she knows the age old adage of an indifferent god being scarier than a passionate one.

She’s not even worth the effort to wave up; the hermit merely slips back into the darkness, and the stillness tells her to obey. The fears are swallowed but the lump in her throat doesn’t disappear. Hands climb back up a passage she’s taken every day, and yet it is more nerve-wracking than it ever was before.

Every time before, she felt so big in this space she claimed as queen of the hill, siren of the mice; the boxes and old furniture and forgotten keepsakes crowded like a busy subway, made her squeeze to fit until she wiggled her way into the corner she called a bed. She’s not used to not only inches of spare room ahead of her as she crawls onto the landing, but these feet and meters. They feel like miles. Miles of empty space between her and a figure ahead, hunched in a bundle of black night and red clouds, back facing her, distance vaster than ever with a curtain now draped over the lone source of direct daylight. Seemingly with a snap of his fingers, a flame flicks from his sleeve and a lantern is lit, only now revealing a small footrest propped up in a corner she has not explored. It rests beside a vanity repurposed into some sort of...tool display. Screws and hammers and scissors and scalpels and forceps and bone saws and RIB SHEARS—

...This is kind of like how those torture movies start, right?

“Sit.”

The skin around her body, for once, feels like what it is: its own organ. It prickles and writhes around her, making her so very, very aware of each and every square inch and the delicate flesh that lies underneath. The brown eyes stare, so lusterless and impossible to read.

So still that somehow, it’s all the more intense.

A shriek sounds as from across the room, somehow and suddenly, the woman is thrown at him; surely, she can tell in this split second, that is she is flying right at him and they are about to CRASH—

...But though it is not necessarily gently, she is oh so smoothly seated beside him on that little green footrest, no harsh crash to be found. Blue shimmers, lines thin as spiderwebs are iridescent, nearly invisible, as the she spots them wrapped around her arms and ankles. “What-?! HNCK—” Words interrupted physically at the source, gripped by underneath and around the jaw. Sasori has no qualms about getting right in her personal space, noses nearly touching as fingertips with exaggerated joints hold her cheeks. He begins with that which he dislikes most, and it is the first time she sees this puppeteer emote at all whatsoever:

Disgust.

The tip of his index finger pulls down the stranger's bottom lip, just as Deidara suggested he look after studying her face for so long. The blonde said every time she talked, he saw something: markings hiding inside her mouth. Sasori fails to ignore the saliva that sullies his perfect form as he lingers at this spot only just long enough to confirm or deny this suspicion. He sighs under his breath, wiping his hand on her sweater. “Living humans...so revolting...so wet…”

If he sees the big eyes begging for either answers or for him to stop, he dismisses them gladly. Onto the next matter:

Her jaw drops loosely as she watches the hands— hands, hands, phantom-like hands, pale and ghostly floating in the dark and out of black sleeves— linger downward. Finally seen in the background, amid the corners of her sight and the little glow the flame gives, are body parts. Faces and eyes and arms and gaping maws. But the hands over her keeps moving, and she cannot ignore. Past her neck. Past her collarbone. Breast. Stomach. They find her lap. He reaches down.

One of her own hands there is taken up, and as if she is merely an object, the man wordlessly brings it over her shoulder so the knuckles face him. The press of his thumb upon the round muscle that controls her own forces the woman’s palm to stay open, and he tilts the hand in different angles to examine the next detail Deidara noticed, looking over her shoulder this morning to observe her attempts at art alongside him. The cuticles are red, puffed and shredding at the edges of the nails. Even now he can see her instinctive motion to continue tearing at them, trying to resist his restriction in order to carry out her stress in physical manifestation. Already hooded eyes narrow even more, and he hums in disapproval.

“What a fool the brat is…” he murmurs, voice caressing behind her ear, somehow, though he still lurches ahead. “You have no disease.”

One hand lets the other go, and it falls just as floppy and loose as the jaw before, having no control over her own body whatsoever.

“Not one that medicine can fix...maybe a poison.” The eyes are shaking in her sockets, so he continues and explains. A tilt of his head makes those blush locks of hair look so silky. “How awful of you… I suspect you don’t keep a spare body.” The brows raised in disbelief now curl in confusion. He feels her breath on his face as she gasps and he hates it, abruptly backing away in one seamless motion. “A word of advice, girl…” he hisses, feathery as can be. “Take care of the body you have. It can’t be squandered.” More flatly his voice delivers the most terrifying thing someone has ever told her:

“…I don’t want the extra work of repairing you after you’re dead.”

And just like that, without looking where to, he points with the full length of his arm, back to the little hole she writhed in from. She looks between it— the small slit of light— and him— the unblinking eyes that are slicked in the secondhand sunshine from below. Her gaze is right on them as he speaks her sin:

“Don’t waste my time.”

And like the zombie she is, her scarred and cut body carries itself out, her soul guiding from somewhere outside of it. She will remember how, so very strangely, his fingers were plush less like living flesh and more like ballistics gel.

When she is gone and out of his sight, Sasori takes in the sight of his dolls and sees if he really can imagine her among them. The words he said that was terrible to her was meant to be wonderful from him. To be a doll is a glorious thing.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Dissect my insecurities

I'm a defect surgical project

It's getting hard to breathe

There's plastic wrap in my cheeks

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

So what on earth are you supposed to tell yourself after a day like this?

She doesn’t know. Her stomach churns and twists and hurts, its owner having hid past dinner time, passing around corners and moving room to room as footsteps near her hiding place. The day is finally over, though. The woman sits on the couch that is her new bed, self-aware palms pressed into the cushion at her sides. Every bit of her is so felt. The quiver in her lips, the pulse that runs through them carrying on till it fills and shakes the rest of her from her head to her toes.

The performer feels sick, perhaps inevitable after fighting off stage fright for so long. A small hiccup of a sob vibrates the back of tongue, and the back of her hand rubs the corner of a watery eye. As it pulls back, a black smear paints it, making it so easy to imagine herself now, a clown with makeup ruined by tears.

Inevitably, it makes her cry harder, bite her bottom lip tight in hopes no one will hear, ignoring the taste of blood.

“Takara-chan?”

She sharply turns her head away to save what little face isn’t melting away. It’s the last voice she wants to hear right now. Deidara stands in the opposite direction so she does not see yet the state he is in. A mouth struggles to speak without trembling:

“Y-...yeah? What...’s up?”

The blonde’s lip purses, half behind fully loose hair even longer now that it isn’t caged behind his head. Well, this isn’t what he expected to find tonight. “...You okay?”

She nods too enthusiastically— urgently, even. A grip on her shoulder makes her freeze, but the shake it gives is mild, a worried smile reaching forward far enough to make her see it. “Hey, heyyyy…” the artist soothes, “What’s wrong? Come on, you can tell me.”

Why he could care is beyond her. Maybe it’s just pity, just courtesy, and so she responds in kind. “I’m...I’m fine—”

“...But you’re not.”

Oh.

Deidara is sitting beside her now, mouthed hand drifting away so he simply basks in her presence, allows the woman to feel his. “Come on, you’re even messing up the eyeliner I took so long to do…! Have a heart, why don’t ya?” The tease is bittersweet...but the logical part of her brain reminds past the drowning emotions that it is meant to be more sweet than bitter. She abides.

“I’m...I’m sorry…” she manages, gaze still low, his hands and lap now in the space her eyes decided to fix. The strange appendages themselves seem to grin as the palms motion up, asking the woman to look him in the face; the smile there is lopsided and his hair is down. The black ring around his eye is impeccable, but of course its the one he already did himself.

“Come on, lady, it’s okay! We all gotta cry it out sometimes, I suppose. Question I have...is why you are tonight of all nights...” His head tilts, and she wonders if his hair is as soft as it looks as it drapes over the shoulders of a green tee shirt. “You miss ‘em?”

...It takes a second for her to follow. Truth be told...she had entirely forgotten that her friends were supposed to be back already. Too tired to lie, she shakes her head, even though its tempting to blame them and push the truth away. “I…” There’s no way she can say this without being mean, being selfish and petty. Her eyes squeeze shut, gray-tinted tears staining the trails down her face. “I…”

She can’t say it. At least not until a thumb brushes the liquid away. To Deidara, it’s like playing with watercolors, and he admires the way the ink tints her flushed skin. Her eyes open and, to her disbelief, the smirk on his face, even while accompanied with a concerned curl of the eyebrow, seems genuine. “...Yeah?” he coaxes. It was never expected for the man who lied to her face about being pretty to try to be so nice to her now. Maybe he’s just a good liar, and so she tests the water, pushes the boundary:

“I don’t...think...I could ever...be...pretty.”

The brow’s furrowing deepens and his smile widens at this absurd thing the performer just said.

“Does it matter?!”

The breath hitches in her throat. She knew it. She fucking knew it, she’d never be—

“Even if you don’t think so...it just is. You are. Facts don’t change even if you don’t believe in them, un.”

This is such a roller coaster of emotions and twists that she’s mute, having no idea what to say to that. Turns out this is advantageous to the sculptor, shaping this situation into what he wants it to be. “The way your emotions are so fleeting...how well you speak without words...it’s envious, you know. The way you carry yourself?” He huffs, and it makes her heart do loop-da-loops. “...No wonder Kisame calls you a princess.” The sky blue becomes partially hidden, an eyelid lowering as he turns up the charm to impress the charmer. “It’s an earned title, un.”

But surely...surely this isn’t something so specific to her, she sourly hopes…!

“Do you think everyone...is pretty?” the woman reaches. The blonde man rolls his eyes up in retort.

“Well, yeah! But. Doesn’t make you less so, un. I might have been buttering you up, but I don’t need a scope to see that.”

…

Oh.

Her face hurts from blushing so much from sunrise to sunset. Perhaps the heat has made the tears evaporate by now, as she no longer feels them. Merely exaggerated blackish marks put there on purpose for the drama, so a far away audience can tell what she’s been feeling.

“Now...with that out of the way… I actually came to propose something.” Deidara doesn’t give enough time for her to interrupt; his word, as it should be on subjects of beauty, is final. “Since you won’t go into a room to sleep...we’ll hang out here. Together.”

…

He waits. Yes, she is allowed to speak now. It comes out sputtered and quick as she goes off the rails.

“W-w-w- what? Why? Wait—” She feels her own hair drift as the woman cranes her neck forward, is if looking closer at him will force this to make more sense. “You...really?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he half lies, and again, somehow, it is intuitively known he is winking despite the one visible eye. “Think of it...as a sleepover. Until we can figure out a way you’re worth a bedroom of your own...well…” He shrugs, the action an explanation to himself as much as it is for her. “...You won’t necessarily have to be all by yourself.”

It’s so flattering that she doesn’t know what to say at first. This man waltz in, sees her ugly-cry his art away, tells her she’s pretty, and says he doesn’t want her to be alone. This is a lot to take in, especially from someone that she hasn’t even known for a full week.

And yet.

And yet.

...He seems like the type. The type to dive right in, not mince points. Not unless it’s meant to explain what he’s doing, what really matters to an artist who defines the divine by the fleeting. For someone who thinks art is best brief, he sure does pour over his words, laying them low and slow like tilting your head back and trickling fine wine down your throat.

...Anyway. Not to mince points. Not when it’s so obvious that it doesn’t need his dissertation. Cautiously, the woman steps into his ring, shy eyes gazing up at him, unwitting how hypnotic they are in their own way.

“...You sure you want that? You don’t have to…”

“Don’t worry,” he promises, allowing a second to pass in order for her to drink in his certainty. “I want to.” He could spend all night solving a puzzle; he could spend every night solving the mystery that is this siren. Deidara watches her, wonders how on purpose it is that she coyly glances to the side, hums under her breath. The answer she provides is less a decision and more permissive, as is her way to avoid blame even for something that is good:

“...If you’d like, then.”

And that’s how the end up spending the rest of moon’s hours, starlight guiding Deidara’s hand as it holds hers tenderly, painting his slick, black polish onto her scarred, torn fingers. She worries it makes her injuries look redder, more visible, but he waves the concern away. Everyone will be too busy seeing how nicely he’s done them, the man insists. His own fingers outstretch in demonstration next to hers, teaching them how to show off the matching color. He waits, waits, until the muscles in her hand twitch them unsurely into a matching pose.

“See? Looks good on you! Though...I should tell you a secret.” The traveler grunts questioningly, a rising blink finding him so sure, as the man always seems to be. “You’re always going to look good as long as you’re having fun, un.”

And though you hear stuff like that over and over...it really only makes sense once you’ve lived it.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Teach me how to be okay

I don't want to downplay my emotions

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

There’s a soft snore in her ear as the performer wakes in the middle of the incidental slumber party, the swirly masked man having joined in later on and wore them all out (seemingly to Deidara’s annoyance) until he curled up next to her feet with a pillow. She lays now, head above Tobi’s, upon the couch where she’s been since the scorpion overtook her home. A shift, a rattle in the air, and one eye cracks open.

His back to her again, the woman sees over Deidara’s sleeping form as Sasori holds up cracked lenses that glow pink onto blemishless fingers. Indeed, underneath his skin, it even seems as if he lacks veins to carry blood— just pure, doll-like flesh. Slowly, the puppet’s head turns like it’s on a hinge, so perfectly smooth without needing to adjust his neck or shoulders. Brown eyes look blue next to glass so vibrant, midnight seeping over him until the man drifts into the background. They look right back. Maybe they don’t see her. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

She watches him once again slip into darkness, fading away with her rose-tinted glasses with no explanation to be found. The phantom hands will visit her dreams tonight, alongside the sculptor’s sweet nothings.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

They say beauty is pain

You'll only be happy

If you look a certain way

I wanna be okay

I wanna be okay

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[somediyprojects]

DIY Felt Bag

Project by Clare Youngs:

i’ve had the book scandinavian needlecraft (cico books, 2010 $19.95) sitting on my couch for a few weeks now, just drooling over all the projects i’d like to attempt (and will probably never fully finish). author clare youngs has gathered together some of the most delightful home craft projects ranging from firewood holders + christmas stockings to pillows and curtain tie-backs. but today i’m thrilled to be sharing the full how-to from my favorite project (which is on the cover of the book): a scandinavian-style felt bag with embroidered bird. marny at cico was kind enough to share the templates with us so you can make the project using these instructions online. if this project gets the gears in your head turning, you’ll love the rest of the book- you can pick up a copy right here for $19.95. thanks again to marny and clare for sharing this project with us!

Materials:

1. Template (Download the template here)

2. 40×18 inch cream colored felt (choose a thickness that works for you- but keep in mind you’ll want it fairly thick to give the bag support and shape)

3. small piece of blue cotton fabric to go behind the cut-outs

4. small piece of blue felt for the applique

5. 3.5 x 1.5 inch orange felt for label

5. dressmaker’s carbon paper

6. blue and green stranded embroidery floss (cotton)

7. Sewing machine

Steps:

1. Print out and enlarge the bag template by 250 percent. Transfer the bag shapes to thick cream felt and the applique shapes to the thin blue felt, and cut out. Using dressmaker’s carbon paper, transfer the stitch guide (on the template) to the front panel of the bag. Cut out the three leaf sections from the front panel.

2. Place the blue cotton fabric behind the cut-out leaf section. Pin it in place, making sure that it is free of wrinkles. Using thread that matches the felt, machine topstitch around each cut out leaf shape, stitching close to the edge.

3. Pin, then slipstitch the four blue felt applique pieces in position. Following the stitch guide on the template, embroider the design in blue and green embroidery floss (cotton).

4. Choose your own motif, or stitch a small star (as pictured) onto the orange felt fabric used as the label. Stitch it to the right hand side of the label, leaving 1/2 inch of felt to tuck into the side seam.

5. Fold the label in half lengthwise and sew up each long side close to the edge.

6. With wrong sides together, pin the front and back panel of the bag together along the side edges, inserting the label in the top seam 3/4 inch down from the top left edge.

7. Pin the base to the bottom of the bag and baste (tack) it in place. using the blue embroidery floss (cotton), work the decorative cross stitch around the sides and base of the bag. Bring the needle out a the top of one side seam on the right side, about 1/8 inch down from the top of the bag and 1/4 inch in from the side. Take the needle over the top of the bag and back through the same hole. Make evenly spaced diagonal stitches all down the side seam and around the base. Fasten off, then work the second seam in the same way.

8. Come back the other way, making diagonal stitches that slant in the opposite direction so that they cross over on the joined edge. You’re done!

[luce-723]

5 Minute Presentation

Chakra

Enlarged loom

Round loom

Achievement

Colour psychology

Today, I had a 5 minute presentation, where I presented how my work has progressed and what research I have been exploring, including my findings. I talked about how I am continuing to experiment with weaving and how it can be applied in a health setting/environment. During the presentation, I was questioned how weaving can be linked to art and health or how it can be related to health settings. I explained how, from research, there have been some people who have used the craft of weaving to improve their health. One example, is a man who had severe head trauma from an accident which resulted in losing some strength in one side of his body that mainly affected his arm/hand. This man used weaving to help to improve his hand to eye coordination and subsequently build strength. Another example was of a middle aged woman who lives with MS. She weaves to help distract herself from the pain of the debilitating illness and in turn, helps her mental health. That being said, after creating a weaving, there is a huge sense of achievement. The piece has gone from pieces of yarn or cotton or thread, to a full hanging piece that can be exhibited anywhere. There is no maximum size, it depends on where you are creating the warp.

I talked about how I mainly work intuitively. When I start a fresh piece, I don’t think about how I want it to look once it is complete because the process is far more important than the outcome. The action of weaving can be meditative due to the monotonous nature. I never really pay attention to the colours of yarn I am using, I just automatically grab whatever ball is in front of me, but after reflecting on my weaves, I realise that maybe there is an unconscious reasoning behind each colour I use? This is something I am going to explore on a deeper level. Why do I naturally reach for pink or purple? What about the days where I use green or blue, why have I opted for these colours? I am going to explore the psychology of colours, how colours affect an individuals perceptions and behaviours. In line with what I spoke about colours, Jaine suggested I look at the chakras. The chakras are the energy points of in your body and have relation to colour. There are 7 main chakras in the human body which all have a corresponding colour.

I also talked about how I do want to move away from the traditional wooden rectangle loom and experiment with everyday objects to create a weave. In the past I have used a broken deckchair, which was exciting and full of improvisation but it was still more or less the same as a traditional loom. I want to step outside of my comfort zone and use things that are quirky, things that you would not associate being or creating a weave from. One student suggested exploring round looms, they are circular and wooden. This could be exciting however the purpose of it is being a loom to create weavings, I want to experiment with objects that are not associated to weaving. I think I could create some really adventurous work, but most importantly the process of creating it would be exciting.

Research / Essay / Article findings.

After the 5 minute presentation, I then presented my findings from the first task. Task 1 was to find an article or publication (podcast, film, video etc etc) that inspired me artistically, made me feel something emotionally or related to my practice.

I found the Baker-Miller Pink study, by Alexander Schauss in the book, ‘Feminists don’t wear pink and other lies’. This book is curated by Scarlett Curtis and has approximately 50 contributing authors involved. The Baker-Miller Pink study was talked about by Scarlett Curtis. This is the first time I had heard about this study from this book and I am currently doing some further research into it.

[wexarethewalkingxdead]

1. what color do you associate with your muse? 2. is there a song that reminds you of your muse? 4. do you have any advice for other writers? 8. do you follow canon, or dump it in the trash? 9. best scene featuring your muse? (chapter, film, episode) 11. fluff or angst? 14. ghosts or monsters? 15. what does your name mean? 16. ice cream, candy, pie or cookies? 21. do you believe in extraterrestrial life? 22. mcdonald’s or burger king? 25, are you religious? 26, what are you doing right now? 27, describe yourself in two words 30. most used emoji?

* interview the writer - send a number. a mix of serious and fun.

1. what color do you associate with your muse?

Andrea - blue, Beth - yellow, Carol - red, Charley - purple, Daryl - green, Rick - blue, Shane - orange, and Sophia - pink.

2. is there a song that reminds you of your muse?

Andrea Harrison - Who Will Save Your Soul by Jewel Beth Greene - How You Get the Girl by Taylor Swift Carol Peletier - Make You Miss Me by Sam Hunt Charley Eaton - Til My Heart Stops by Too Far Moon Daryl Dixon - Hate Me by Blue October Rick Grimes - What Ifs by Kane Brown featuring Lauren Alaina Shane Walsh - The War We Made by Red Sophia Peletier - Hands by Jewel

4. do you have any advice for other writers?

Only do what makes you happy, but remember that there are partners on the other end of the screen. Be kind.

8. do you follow canon, or dump it in the trash?

I mix it up. In some threads, there is canon compliance, and in some threads, there is complete canon divergence. It just depends on the verse/plot/partner.

9. best scene featuring your muse? (chapter, film, episode)

Andrea Harrison - The whole episode for Prey. It was so suspenseful and heartbreaking. Beth Greene - When Beth and Maggie are speaking through the door, and Beth tells Maggie that they all have jobs to do. Carol Peletier - When Carol is caught by the Saviors after running away from Alexandria, and they have a confrontation and she takes them out. Her acting in that scene is just amazing. Daryl Dixon - Daryl finds Merle and has to put him down. Rick Grimes - When Rick comes to the quarry and finds Lori and Carl. Shane Walsh - The scene outside the barn when Shane opens the door and lets all of Hershel's friends and family out as walkers, and they're all put down. Sophia Peletier - Sophia being chased from the highway by the walkers.

11. fluff or angst?

A balance of both.

14. ghosts or monsters?

Ghosts.

15. what does your name mean?

In Latin Baby Names the meaning of the name Larissa is: Cheerful. Joyful. A lover of Poseidon.

16. ice cream, candy, pie or cookies?

Candy.

21. do you believe in extraterrestrial life?

Yes, I do. There's no way that we're the only intelligent (if we're even intelligent) lifeforms in the entire universe and beyond.

22. mcdonald’s or burger king?

McDonald's.

25. are you religious?

I used to go to church every week when I was a teenager. Then something happened within the church and it left me jaded. Then my husband started going to church several years ago where his brother was going to start preaching, so after a bit, I started to go with him. Then I got really tired of being told that the Bible says I'm a second-class citizen and couldn't lead a song or say a scripture in church on Song and Scripture Sundays (which were every second Sunday in each month). That women aren't supposed to have authority over a man. That's how his church believes. It was a sore spot for the two of us until I got him to understand that it's not how I was taught in the church where I used to go, and that I don't agree with it. So now I just don't go. And honestly, I'm not sure what I believe anymore. With the state of the world, I'm inclined to believe that there is no higher power. But I don't know.

26. what are you doing right now?

I'm watching Charlotte Dobre on YouTube and doing this ask meme draft (that I sent to myself).

27. describe yourself in two words

Loyal and approachable.

30. most used emoji?

[randomfoggytiger]

These and many, many more (Tumblr cut me short):

@agent-troi's Bloom - Chapter 1

@aloysiavirgata's A Heart of Star and The Water Is Wide

@amplifyme's Quonochontaug and Light Don't Sleep

Anonymous's Emergency Autopsy

 astronaught's Haze

@baronessblixen's Whispered Words, New Day Has Come, Never Cold With You By My Side Dreams Are Made Of This, Name Calling, Five Minutes

 catsndogs's All Creatures

@cecilysass's Not Orpheus, Not Eurydice and All the Dead Mulders (and Pause-- can't link because Tumblr limits)

@crossedbeams's Misty Blue

Davd Stoddard-Hunt's XFVCU-fic - Pret' Near Midnight

FabulousMonster's Hoop Dreams and Hair Wars

@fbismostunwanted1158's Nurse Mulder and The Fall, X-Files Style

@firstofoctober's Pulling the Thread/Five Wishes

@frostbitepandaaaaa's Four Days AU

@gaycrouton's Her Own Gesthemane

Jamie Greco's Truth or Dare/Truth AND Dare, Scarlet, Five Months Lost, Breathing

JenAndrews's Skyland Mountain (AU) and Rainbow Umbrella (MSIV)/Snow Boots

Jenna Tooms/misslucyjane's An Acceptable Level of Happiness and Shooting Star

JET's Small Lives Awake

Jill Selby's Poised for a Fall (because I tie it to @annablume, who introduced it to me... if my trash memory remembers correctly)

Joyce's Revenant/The Ghost in the Dark

Karen Rasch's By the Wind Grieved

Keleka's Gray Ghosts

Livia Balaban's "Cunegund's Restoration (or, The Best of All Possible Worlds, Really) (1/2)"/"(2/2)"

LuvTheBeez's Snow/Equanimity

Maria Nicole's Bridge

@mchalowitz's chain reaction

@melforbes's seaglass blue (because I've lived it, to a less harrowing degree) and true minds

@monikafilefan's Pre-IWTB at the unremarkable house, Mulder

@muldertxf's Cheap Motels and Headaches

@onpaperfirst's Home, Home and Honey Hi

@palepinkpores's Solo

@pilotinthestars's a green nursery

prufrockslove's Hiraeth

Revely's The Unfinished Universe

RoseThornhill's Cookie Monster and Spooky Mulder: The Revenge/Alice is a Punk Rocker

saltringangell's the time it would take (to fix my heart)

@sixhours's Morning Sickness

@slippinmickeys's Mulder being there when Scully gives birth, NOT INSPIRED BY ACTUAL EVENTS, North of Zero/More North of Zero

snow_and_rain's Bill and me

Sukie Tawdry's The Way Things Are (1/2)"/"(2/2)"

@teethnbone's The Ansted Graft

touchstoneaf's Amor Fati: The Fated Love

@welsharcher's Toothpaste (she wrote it for me!)

@wexleresque's stars

All of @sigritandtheelves's S8 or post S8 AUs (Ground, Headcanon: Scully’s first Mother’s Day, Off Limits, A 2004 AU, Advent to name a few)

(I have to tear myself away from short fics/writers because the list would never end; but I'll begin and end with: every. single. one. of baronessblixen's and melforbes's and @ghostbustermelanieking's and @o6666666's and @enigmaticdrblockhead's and @mappingthexfiles's and @settle-down-frohike's and welsharcher's fics. Can't describe in words how much their work is now coded into my DNA. Must reads also include previous authors listed and @scenes-in-between and @storybycorey and @suitablyaggrieved and @leiascully and @dreamingofscully and @msrafterdark and @writingwell and @danascullysjournal and @numinousmysteries and @television-overload, and @thescullyphile and @swinging-stars-from-satellites and @two-microscopes and @sharpestasp and @ragnarockz and @invidiosa and @spidey-is-tired and @thursdayinspace and @ellivia and @skelavender and @pennyserenade and @careful-fears and @mollybecameanengineer and many, many more.)

Recommendations for X-files Fics?

I've read a lot of the newer ones from Ao3, but I heard that the x-files fandom is a little special with sites predating Ao3 and fanfiction.com.

So what are the must read fics? What are your all time favourites, you know, the ones you've saved to re-read later. I'm a baby-phile what have I missed?

Some of my re-reads

Unbroken by Fox_sync

Felix Felicis by misslilli

More Than A Feeling by SisterSpooky1013

Goshen by Bonetree (Todesfuge)

Universal Invariants by Syntax6

[pridelessdaydreamer]

Wanted Plots (February)

Was considering holding off until the finale was over, and then I realized Linhardt’s not participating! Preferential treatment for once.

Mission Board Prompts

Note: Linhardt is a Black Eagle, so he’ll need a Blue Lion for these tasks.

idk who’s trying to trap you but anyways. [Faith +1]

It is in part for the skill point, but also this ‘noble’ guy begging for help and promising compensation? Not only have you failed to appeal to the healer, but you sound like an absolute fool.

taken by: [n/a]

green-haired pronouns haver- [Authority +1]

The real ‘Lady Lyndis’, you say? (Also, he is not at all fond being seen as some noble that he isn’t. He’ll take the compliment though? If they think he’s so pretty.)

taken by: [n/a]

Non-Mission Board Prompts

the logistics of launching projectiles over long distances... [Bow +1]

He’s not actually interested in shooting people — rather, he’s far more intrigued by the mechanisms. It’d be pretty great if war tech could be repurposed into something better...

taken by: [claude (@hominisvis)]

why am i doing this again? [Axe +1]

He’s not hunting a bear. (Fine, just to make sure no one dies.)

taken by: [n/a]

(Oh, before I forget! I’m open to other threads/ideas as well, just shoot me a DM or ping and thus, the plotting ensues. :eye:)

[writeshite]

Good Natured

Summary:

There are a great many mysteries in this world; some are solved by the advent of science, others remain secrets of the universe, but without a doubt, perhaps the greatest mystery known to humanity is how you willingly dated and continue to date the Homelander.

Pairings:

Homelander x Gender Neutral!Reader

Tags:

Magic!Reader | A Little Bit Of Flower Language | 5+1 Things (Sort Of) | Fluff | The Tiniest Wee Mention Of Violence

Words: 4584

Author's Note:

The original ask is here, requested by @ayamethewitch I spent three hours reading up on flower language, mainly cause I got sidetracked again. This turned out way longer than I thought it would, and idk how 😭

There are a great many mysteries in this world; some are solved by the advent of science, others remain secrets of the universe, but without a doubt, perhaps the greatest mystery known to humanity is how you willingly dated and continue to date the Homelander.

Every child dreams of becoming a superhero, flying through the sky, saving people from dangers, fame, fortune, and adoration. Annie’s looked to the skies and the heroes that came before with admiration and plastered her bedroom walls with their merchandise; she’d run around the house like she was flying, arms out and smile on her face. Now, as she stood in Vought, the newest member of the Seven, it was safe to say she was far more than just ecstatic.

Though it wasn’t really like anything she’d imagined - the Seven and various other supes stood around the room; the public had had their fill of her, so now, she mingled with her fellow heroes. She’d been nibbling on the same cookie for the past thirty minutes - Stormfront and Homelander were the big no-nos; the two were in the midst of showing off - Queen Maeve had spoken to her for a bit before moving on. Annie was now standing by the Deep and Black Noir, half-listening to whatever the topic of conversation was.

“Hey,” a new voice called out softly. Annie turned, and you held out your hand, “Bloodroot, lovely to meet you.”

“Bloodroot….” Annie says the name cautiously, shaking your hand, and examines you. You’re, for lack of a better term, perhaps the oddest one in the room - your witch hat resembles a mushroom, and your loose pale green shirt has various flowers threaded on the sleeves. It dips down on your chest, exposing the multiple necklaces you have; your pants are a dark color, as are your shoes. Annie notices the necklaces and rings you have all have some form of star-like symbol; if not gold, they’re either red, blue, or white. ‘Reminds me of Homelander,’ she thinks to herself.

“Yeah, it’s a dramatic name, but it does the trick,” you wink. A few petals bloom from the corner of your eye; they drift to the floor and melt into the ground. Annie gawked at you, and you shrugged, “It’s kind of on point, though.”

“That was amazing,” she says, and you wave her off.

“Not really, making petals’ a parlor trick, although….” you trail off, taking off your hat, you shove your hand in it and stick your tongue out, fishing for something, you pull a whole bouquet of yellow roses, and hand them over to her. “Yellow roses to brighten up your day.”

When Annie takes them, the petals open, twisting out to become butterflies that flutter around her, leaving a trail of golden sparkles. The sparkles fall on her, leaving a slight glow and bringing a smile to her face; the stems unravel, and the leaves burst into birds, settling on her shoulders. The unraveled stalks shoot up, then burst like fireworks, Annie’s smile gets wider as she marvels at your magic, “Holy shit….”

“Welcome to Vought, Starlight,” you say. 

The others around had stopped their conversations and joined Annie in marveling, some reached out to the butterflies as they drifted away from her. A few looked just about ready to rush towards you and ask for more magic marvels but resisted doing so. John hated the attention you gave new supes, but it helped them feel less nervous and brought a smile to their faces. Granted, it also meant that a few would latch onto you for a few days before John would threaten them.

“Don’t I get any flowers?” Kevin pouted.

“No.” You almost groan at the sound of John’s voice; he’d gone from his little show-off to your side at the mere mention of flowers from the Deep. He placed his hand on your waist and frowned, glaring daggers at the other hero, “Sorry, Guppy, but my partner’s not some charity.”

“John —” 

“Partner?” Annie questions, and John takes your hand, turning it over to showcase the various rings on your hand; he points to one in particular - the band resembles a vine, twisting towards the center and around three diamonds in the middle. The band wraps around the jewels like a branch would emerge from a tree, “Wow.” It’s all she can say; she’s only been around for a few hours, but from the little she knows so far - you and Homelander are on two ends of the personality spectrum. 

You shake your head as John proudly displays the ring; he doesn’t let go of your hand, instead keeping it in his hold as he stares down the Deep. You’d given him flowers once, and John had thrown a right fit about it, Annie gulps nervously, and you elbow John. “Starlight, is it?” he turns to the newest addition to the team, and she anxiously nods, shaking his hand with a tight smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to welcome you properly.”

Her tight smile loosens when you toss her a reassuring smile, “So…” she starts, “how long….uh….have you been married?” 

“We’re not married, well, not publicly,” John responds, “as far as the public’s aware, we’re recently engaged. Vought likes the opposites attract story, and I like showing off my partner.” 

“How did you meet?” Annie asks; she directs the question at both of you but looks to you.

“I tried shoving my hat down his throat,” you reply, almost deadpanned, it brings a snort out of Annie, “Course, it didn’t work, so I settled for almost turning him into a tree.” She laughs, then reigns it back when John glares at her, “...sorry, sorry….” but then you laugh, and she takes that as a sign that she’s safe to do so again. 

The party’s died down since your welcome gift as people mill about, and the excitement settles down; John grows weary of the conversation, tapping his foot impatiently. When you and Annie’s laughter dies down, he starts to steer you away, footsteps slow as you bid goodbye to the new supe, “Don’t hesitate to find me if you need help,” you say, elbowing John again when he shakes his head sternly, eyes tinted red.

Annie watches you get swept away, now, just you and John; she notes how the supe’s figure nearly wraps around you as if to block anyone from laying eyes on you. It’s not just her; it seems; the other guests all wait for Homelander to direct his attention  - however brief - elsewhere before looking at you. Some practically avert their gaze when you pass by, and Annie has to take a moment to grasp the soft (?) look Homelander gives you.

“Strange aren’t they?” the Deep remarks, “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one who wonders how Homelander got them to date him.” He assures her, “By the way, his hearing barely registers when they’re around, so nothing you say will have him ripping your lungs out.”

Yeah, nothing quite like she imagined.

Every day, the damage control department at Vought sends kisses towards the photo they have of you. The picture hangs framed in the back corner, tucked away in a tiny cubicle, where the tired department has set up their offerings - see before you, they had it tough, cleaning up after one supe was hard enough, but cleaning up after Homelander was a nightmare. Then, like an angel, you graced this world, and their jobs became easier, Homelander’s damage rate decreased, and they could rest easy, knowing they wouldn’t have to sacrifice countless nights to fix things.

Various other departments had their own altars, but damage control was the main one - it was well hidden, polished daily, and sometimes prayed to as well. This was all, of course, on a need-to-know basis; Homelander didn’t quite appreciate anyone so much as looking at you for too long; Anika shuddered to think what he’d do if he found out. Security had personal altars, all tucked away by their stations - hers consisted of a vase of sweet peas and yellow lilies, a subtle way to convey gratitude. The combo was very common around security, and some had even gone as far as to wear it on their person.

The higher-ups were none the wiser, and no one felt inclined to inform them on the matter. “Your flower’s drooping.” The silent worship you received from the Vought employees also brought about superstitions - letting flowers die on Vought grounds could bring misfortune or, worse, Homelander (somehow). As if Anika didn’t already have enough to fear from this godforsaken job.

She tended to leave her flowers till the day they were shriveled before replacing them; her coworkers all shook their heads at her as she dumped the old flowers. She’d already had her last break of the day, so she’d have to wait and come back tomorrow with new flowers. She shook off the nagging feeling, focusing on her work; just when she thought she was home-free, low and behold, Homelander comes charging into the room, eyeing each and every one of them as he lays out his demands - she prays he just waltzes past her, but he doesn’t. Choosing her to find what he needs and to find it now.

Her hands slightly tremble as she works; the supe stands over her, arms collapsed behind his back - she thinks she can feel the heat of his laser eyes as she takes what he deems as too long. He’s almost fed up with her slow progress when salvation appears; you waltz into the room - your iconic hat gone - you don a classy suit-like attire, with a waist cape and fingerless gloves, you look every bit the witch Vought market you out to be. 

“There you are,” you say, coming up to them. Anika’s coworkers try not to seem too nosy, but some have their heads slightly turned in her direction. “John, you’re bothering the poor dear.”

“I’m not bothering her; am I bothering you?” John asks in a demanding tone. Anika’s not sure what answer he expects, but she shakes her head, a strained smile on her face, “See.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re bothering her, John; come on, if you’re that bored, I’m sure we can find you something else to do.” You grab his arm, tugging lightly; he takes a step, then turns back to Anika, “You can get the report sent up to you; now come on.” You tug a few more times, and he finally turns to leave; you move to follow but pause, hand reaching out to Anika’s vase. Sweet peas and yellow lilies sprout from nothing, “Should last you longer than the last ones,” you tell her. 

Her head snaps to you, as do the heads of everyone else, but you just chuckle and leave them with a wink. Anika leaves an offering at every altar in the building for a whole week after, a grand gesture of thanks that she’s still breathing. She’s on her way to damage control when she bumps into you; she steps back and thanks you profusely.

“No problem at all,” you tell her, “feel free to come to me if you need any help.” 

She nods, watching you as you go by, then averts her gaze when Homelander rounds the corner. You take one of his arms, disrupting his perfect posture, threading your fingers through his; you almost skip in the corridor - Anika leaves extra on that offering.

Whatever Ashley did in a past life to deserve this, she’d like to repent for now at this very instance.

Of course, you happen to fall sick on the day of a major interview, and of course, the doctors forbid you from leaving the bed until it's passed. The first wave of get-well-soon flowers get returned when your sneezing makes them explode; Homelander practically bars anyone aside from the doctors from stepping foot in your shared suite. 

“John, I can’t get better if you chase away the doctors.” You try to sit up, but John pushes you back down, wrapping you to your neck in blankets. It wasn’t anything too serious, most likely just a cold; a week’s worth of bed rest should do you some good. The doctors had been sent to double-check and make sure the diagnosis was correct; you wrangle your hands from the cocoon you’re in, taking John’s hands in yours. “Dear, I don’t need to be buried in mountains of blankets.”

“Yes, you do,” he insists, “that’s what people do when they’re sick.” 

Ashley nods her head to herself, he’s not wrong, but she thinks he might be smothering you - not that she says that aloud. Homelander hasn’t left your side since you woke up with the cough; he’d thrown out all the flowers when someone had commented on pollen allergies - not that he knows if you’ve got them - you’re decked head to toe in cozy clothing. An hour ago, the heating had been up to the max, but you’d put it back down after Ashely had shown some discomfort. 

“Homelander, sir,” she interrupts, gulping when Homelander turns to her with crimson eyes, “the interview starts in —” she ducks, barely managing to dodge the laser from his eyes. 

“What did I say about the interview?” 

She whimpers, “The executives said….” her eyes dart away, “....they said it’s not an option.”

Your coughing fit draws his attention away from her, and she sighs in relief; he speeds off, returning with a glass of water. He puts the edge of the cup by your lips, you manage half the glass, but Homelander doesn’t move, insisting you finish the rest. He pushes your hair back, shirking off his glove, and placing the back of his hand on your forehead - your running temperature is running almost as high as he usually does. The medicine they’d given you had been sickeningly sweet, and even now, John could still smell it in your breath - you’re eyes droop, and you’re on the verge of nodding off, yet stubbornly, you refuse to sleep until this matter is resolved.

“Sleep,” John demands, but you shake your head.

“Not until you promise to go to the interview.” Your voice is raspy, and you’re quite literally hanging on a thread; your mind is foggy, and your limbs feel heavy; the plush comfort of the bed lulls you further and further from the waking world. “John,” you persist until he groans, agreeing to it; once you’re sure he’s not just saying it to get you off his back, you give in to the fatigue. John tucks you in bed, a kiss on your head; he switches off the lights and drags Ashley out of the room.

“You don’t leave them alone for anything,” he seethes, “I don’t care if the building catches fire; you stay by their side until I’m back. Got it?”

Ashley nods, eyes wide as she tries not to wince at the tight grip the supe has on her forearm; Homelander straightens back to his signature posture, and she tries not to quiver at the way he scrutinizes her. She walks back into the room where you rest, grabbing a chair; she puts it close to the bed but moves back when the room takes on a scarlet glow. Homelander’s footsteps echo as he leaves; your face is half hidden under the blankets, and she doesn’t reach out to touch you - on the off chance your maniac’s using his x-ray vision to spy on her. She takes back what she’d been thinking earlier; she’d obviously been lucky enough not to be stuck with Homelander in this life.

Channel One prided itself in being the first at everything; over the years, they’d been the first to interview Vought and give the public the best of what journalism had to offer. Today, they had the luck of interviewing the it couple at Vought - Homelander and Bloodroot - the opposites that attracted the title’s still in work. Jennifer prided herself in being the one to catch this interview - the last interview hadn’t been a bust per se, but you’d been sick, and Homelander had been on edge the whole time.

She’d gotten a double couch for you and Homelander to sit on, and an armchair for herself, an assortment of flowers had been arranged for you - anthuriums for hospitality and heathers for admiration - not the usual combo they’d pick for guests but anything vaguely romantic like a rose might have her losing her arm to the Homelander. The live studio audience sounded excited; they murmured among themselves as they anticipated your arrival. They quieted down when you entered the room, followed closely behind by Homelander. You and the supe sat close together on the double couch, his arm draped behind you on the back, his other hand holding one of yours in his lap.

She held out her hand to introduce herself but pulled it back when Homelander stopped you from reaching out. She smoothed down her hands on her skirt, the director signaled, and the cameras started rolling, “Good evening and welcome; tonight, we return with Homelander, accompanied by his partner, Bloodroot.” 

The audience clapped, and she handed you the flowers, “From everyone in the studio, we’re happy to see you up and about this week,” she said, ignoring the slight eye roll from the other supe.

You thank her, fingers thrumming on them, the vines twisted around themselves, and they went from bouquet to flower crown; the audience gasped, “So, tell us about your upcoming engagement party, what should we expect for the future of Bloodroot and Homelander?”

“Well, you can expect a lot more of this,” Homelander kisses you; it’s short, but it tugs at the heartstrings, “and a big wedding,” he adds on.

“That’s sweet,” she comments. The interview is a lot easier than the last one, Homelander’s still the egotistical bastard he usually is, but he tries to reign it in - barely. The flower crown on your head remains as elegant as it was when you’d made it, Jennifer has a blast, and the audience has fun chiming in with their own questions. She remembers the first time you and Homelander had an interview with Channel One - it had been at the beginning of your relationship, and the number of proposals you received was astounding. 

“So, aside from all that, do the two of you plan to start a family?” Jennifer asks.

You scoff, “Doubt it.”

“I prefer to have my partner’s undivided attention,” Homelander replies, shuffling closer to you. The audience is split in answers; some sigh in disappointment, others cheer - the interview ends with applause; when the cameras stop rolling, and the lights go out, Jennifer watches backstage as Homelander piles treat atop treat, mostly sweet, the two of you stand off in your own little corner, the supe devoted to listening to every word you said.

Hughie would like it on record that this had been Billy’s idea, not his, Billy’s. Because who else would think of kidnapping the world’s most overpowered psychopath's partner - though how they managed to get the jump on you is another matter entirely. Annie had helped; well, as soon as she’d made them all promise nothing would happen to you, screw what happened to Homelander; she wanted assurances you’d be safe.

“They’re not as bad as Homelander.” She’d been arguing back and forth with Billy; the subject of what to do with you had been the hot topic for the past few hours. They couldn’t step foot outside the lead shielded basement without a foolproof plan - Homelander had been rampaging across the country looking for you. “If we try, maybe we can convince them to help us.”

“You’re talking about the same bloke who stood by that fucking cunt,” Billy argued, “They’re married to him for fuck’s sake; what makes you think they don't know about him?”

Annie hesitated, “They’re not like that —”

“Just cause they helped you on your first day doesn’t mean they’re not gonna turn you to mush at the first chance.” Billy points at the wedding photo from last year; it had been as grand as Homelander had said it would be, “They slept with the cunt, they kiss the cunt, they married the cunt, they’re as bad as the cunt.”

“Well, at least I’m trying,” Annie says, “all you’ve come up with is making this a hostage situation as if we have the muscle to handle that.”

“Oh yeah, and what if your friend in there goes back and blabs about us to their husband? What then? You know how Homelander gets; you willing to have your head blown off?”

Hughie turns away as the timer goes off, he opts to hand you your food to avoid getting dragged into the argument again. You’d been placed in the most lead-shielded area of the hideout - Annie had fitted it to be more comfortable than its usual concrete flooring, she’d also brought miscellaneous books from your suite, and you’d been rereading those for the days you were trapped here.

“Any chance you’ll let me walk out of here today?” you ask, but Hughie shakes his head. “Worth a shot,” you shrug. 

Hughie doesn’t quite understand you; you’re not as malicious as the other people at Vought, or even most of the supes, so why on Earth did you choose to marry Homelander? Annie had said it was for genuine love, Frenchie had morbidly remarked that maybe you suffered from some form of Stockholm Syndrome, Billy had scoffed - the answers varied and against his better judgment - and the strict rule of not making conversation with you - he asked. 

“Oh, well, because he asked,” you replied, glancing down at the ring on your finger; you twist it with a small smile, “and I’d already gone through the trouble of falling in love with him.”

“But he’s —”

“A murderous cunt with the emotional intelligence of a three-year-old on steroids?” you provided, and he nodded, “Yeah, I’ve gotten my fair share of concerned letters from fans and anti-Homelander fans alike. He’s complicated, and —” 

There’s a crash upstairs, and Maeve’s voice carries through, she’s just arrived, and no doubt joined the argument. “Any chance you’ll divorce him and help us put him down?”

You shake your head, “Not likely,” you reply, “but I can agree to possibly holding off his murderous tendencies long enough to have you escape in one piece and hopefully making sure he doesn’t hunt you down after.” You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“You know then,” he mutters, “about….” he gestures to nothing, in particular, hand waving around in the air.

“It’s hard to miss, especially when he comes to bed with bits of human still in his hair.”

Hughie leaves you; he finds Annie and Billy have stopped arguing, but they occupy opposite ends of the room, Maeve in between, rubbing her temple and no doubt nursing another headache. “This plan was a mess from the beginning,” she mumbles, “did either of you even think this through?” 

“Well, I was thinking we could use them to get Homelander to heel,” Billy voices, “Miss starshine over there wants us to hold hands and sing kumbayah with ‘em.”

“That’s not what I said —”

“ —might as well have.”

“Enough,” Maeve yelled, “Homelander’s been plowing his fist through people’s chests looking for them, he’s burned abandoned lots looking for them, and he’s getting crazier and harder to predict by the second.”

“How bad is it?” M.M asks, finally feeling the need to join the conversation. 

“His costume’s more red now that it is blue,” Maeve responds, “We’ve gotta take them back.”

“How? Homelander’s been circling the planet 24/7; he so much as hears their voice outside these walls, we’re dead in a heartbeat.” Frenchie laments.

“Unless,” M.M. chimes in, “what if we leave and then have Maeve respond to an anonymous tip.” He accentuates the last two words with air quotations, “At least a couple hours after we high tail out of here.”

“That’s a stupid idea,” Billy says.

It’s their only idea, at least the only one that doesn’t involve any of them getting killed; they pack up everything and make it look like a construction company moving out and about. They don’t go too far - a lone truck driving speedily away from where Homelander’s partner is found a few hours into the morning would no doubt be suspicious - they park just behind one of the other buildings nearby, hiding away on the second floor of one of them. As planned, Maeve shows up first, Annie and the remaining Seven behind her; they step aside at the sound of a crack in the sky as Homelander lands upfront. 

 The ground isn’t perfect when he lands, shattering like glass; some of the concrete flies up as he rushes in, and the lead door flies through one of the walls a few minutes later, followed by a frustrated scream, then nothing. There are a few moments of silence, and Annie and Maeve share an uneasy look. Just as they were about ready to follow, the doors swung open, and out came Homelander, you carried bridal style in his arms.

“John, I can walk fine,” they could hear you insisting, but the supe was resolute, flying off before anyone could utter a word. 

The Deep lets out a sigh, doubling over on his knees, “Oh, thank god, we found them; I don’t know how much longer I could survive with Homelander that hopped up and manic.”

John doesn’t leave your side even when you get back to Vought towers; the doctors have to work around him as he glares down at each and every one of them. He doesn’t trust the food brought to you and has several of the humans who do bring it to taste it first, waiting to see if any of them pass out or die. You haven’t told him about Annie or Maeve, and you’re not going to; judging by how close he is to punching a hole through the wall, you opt to keep that little nugget of information tucked away.

It’s just the two of you now; John’s bloody uniform is lying in the corner of your shared bathroom, and you’re sitting between his legs, leaning back on him in the bathtub. The bathtub. is spacious enough, but he’s tucked himself in one end with you. You’d already helped him wash off the blood, and he’d taken his time running the soap down your body, reassuring himself you were, in fact, real. 

The water’s lukewarm now, so you pat his hand, but it takes a few more pats and a knock on the door to get him to move. You stand from the tub alongside him, but he guides you out, hand on your lower back, as the other grabs one of the robes; he has it gathered up to your neck; he wraps one of the towels around your neck and then opens the door - Ashley goes over a few more details, then leaves you and John to your evening.

“I’ll find them,” John mutters on your skin, “....make sure they die painfully.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

He doesn’t say anything, eyes void as he helps you change into sleep attire, “I’m serious, John, promise me you won’t do anything rash.” He nods stiffly, hugging you so as to hide his face as he mentally plans the demise of your kidnappers.

End Note:

This has been a rather long fic, and I have no idea where it started or where it ended 💀 Stay Hydrated.

[koolkat9]

Hetalia Polyship Week 2022: Day 1

@hetalia-polyship-week 

Prompt:  Musicals || “Thank god that I’m not you”

Rating: T

Ship: GerFrukPort

Word Count: 1243

Author’s Note: This is based on an au we discussed in my gereng server where engportfra are actors all pursuing set builder Ludwig while also being in a throuple themselves. Also, I like to think Francis uses he/they pronouns so I switch between those pronouns.

Curtain Call

The wings of the stage were buzzing with energy, for in a mere few hours, the curtains would rise, and the open night would commence. Ludwig put the final nail in the window frame he had been working on. At least it had fallen apart during the dress rehearsal and not the actual show. He just had to oil the wheels on one of the moving set pieces and check the other two to make sure they were still in working order, then they’d be good to go. 

Hopefully, with the show coming to an end, Ludwig would finally be free of all the confusing feelings that had arisen during production. The thought was both a relief, but it also kind of hurt. To have three actors pursuing you definitely was overwhelming and made Ludwig’s job a lot harder, it was nice to be the center of attention for once, and over this time, he got to know his three suitors; he would miss them when they all went their separate ways. 

He’d miss Arthur's nagging. Although it was annoying at times, it was nice to know someone cared enough to bring him water and make sure he was eating. He’d miss the way Arthur’s eyes would light up as he tried too hard to hide his smiles behind scowls. And most of all he’d miss the subtle compliments and flirty remarks that would rival the language used by poets of the past.

He’d miss Francis’s affection the most, he thinks. The way they’d hang off Ludwig as if it was the most normal thing in the world, how they would always greet him with a warm embrace and part with one even warmer. He’d miss the way Francis’s curls framed their face perfectly, always appearing so soft to the touch (but Ludwig would now never know if that was true). And though he was often overwhelmed by Francis’s forwardness when it came to flirting, he did appreciate the food they made, and he’d be lying if he said Francis’s compliments hadn’t boosted his confidence ever so slightly.

Lastly, he’d miss Afonso’s calmness. The way he could remain relaxed yet level-headed during even the most stressful situations and the way he would comfort Ludwig in the carpenter’s own stress. He’d miss the sweet, gentle nothings Afonso would occasionally whisper when Ludwig was burnt out and needed the pick-me-up. But the most he would miss the rare sight of Afonso focused: tightly knit brows, spark in his eye as he looked over his scripts, pulling any and all information to boost his performance.

As Ludwig pulled away from the last squeaky wheel, he came face to face with the three actors who had been consuming his thoughts. 

Arthur was dressed in a fiery red coat that just reached his knees, with golden stitching along the edges. Golden chains and earrings, striking red eyeshadow, and dark eyeliner accented the outfit. A leather corset wrapped around his middle gave the otherwise fearsome look an alluring aura. To top it all off, a pirate cap adorned with pale feathers. An outfit befitting of both a seductive yet dangerous pirate captain. 

Francis in turn was fitting in a frilly blouse and a pale blue coat that reached the floor. It was as if the stars had been taken and threaded into the fabric itself with the way it glittered with every small movement. His hat was a greyish white, decorated with dried flowers instead of the traditional feathers. He was dripping in jewelry and gems: earrings, necklaces, bracelets, all of which matched Francis’s eyes. The sparkly look was complete with purple eyeshadow with a hint of glitter. He looked like royalty despite being a mere pirate captain. 

Afonso was dressed in a nobleman’s coat. Darker green vine patterns wrapped around the torso and sleeves, meeting with the silver stitched pattern on the edge of the collars and cuffs. His hair was tied back by a matching ribbon, giving a clear view of his face. His natural features were amplified by simple makeup instead of the brightly coloured blends of Arthur and Francis, yet he was nonetheless beautiful. An elegant nobleman if there ever was one. 

Ludwig felt his whole face burn seeing them decked out in their costumes. All he could do was stare, unable to form a coherent thought in their presence. It was as if he was back to the very first time the three had begun flirting with him.  

Francis’s giggling shook Ludwig from his daze. Arthur shoved the Frenchman. “What?” Francis asked with feigned offense, “He probably thinks we look pretty. So much so he’s been left speechless.”

“Or he’s thinking: ‘thank god I’m not you,’” Arthur shot back, gesturing to the other’s costume. “You’re going to melt under all those damn frills.” 

“Aw are you concerned mon amour?”

Arthur’s face turned bright red, but if looks could kill, that glare would have ended Francis on the spot. Luckily before things could escalate. Afonso stepped between the two. “Now, now, meus amores, we have more important business here right? We’re going to scare him off like this.”

Wait… ‘mon amour’ and ‘meus amores’? Ludwig may not have been well versed in French or Portuguese, but he knew Italian well, and those sounded like…

“So…” Afonso went on, “I don’t know if you’ve realized what we’ve been trying to do, but with us parting ways soon, we’ve decided to just come out as say…”

“We love you,” Francis continued. 

“All of us,” Arthur added.

“Romantically,” Afonso concluded for clarity. 

So they did fancy him. It was quite obvious to everyone (including Ludwig) that these three actors had liked him romantically, but hearing it laid out so clearly still made Ludwig’s head spin. Perhaps part of the shock came from the fact that it appeared all three of the actors were dating as well. “Wait…Are all of you…”

“Together?” Francis finished for him, “Yes. Yes, we are.” To prove the point he took Afonso’s hand and gave it a squeeze. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t know sooner, it’s all over the tabloids,” Arthur noted. 

“But what we are trying to get at is that we want to invite you into it,” Afonso explained. 

Ludwig awkwardly opened and closed his mouth, trying to find what he wanted to say. It was a dream come true. Over this production, he had fallen in love with all three of them and couldn’t bear to choose only one of them. But with this revelation, he could have it all, and everyone would be happy. 

“Love,” Arthur spoke softly, stepping forward to put a hand on Ludwig’s arm. “You don’t have to make a decision now. You’ve got time to think. We just wanted–”

“I’d love to,” Ludwig blurted out. His blush surely darkened as he realized how desperate he sounded. “I-I mean…I’d like that…I have feelings for all of you so…”

The three actors looked at Ludwig with wide eyes. “Well then…guess it’s settled,” Francis said with an amused huff. “Perhaps we can have dinner after the show tonight.”

Ludwig nodded, perhaps a bit too eagerly. 

“Ten minutes till curtain,” someone shouted in the distance. 

“Well I guess this is farewell until intermission,” Arthur sighed.

The three bid farewell to Ludwig, giving the German the much-needed time to process everything. But as he waved to the actors as they departed, Ludwig couldn’t suppress a wide grin from spreading on his face. 

[nerdwriting]

The Creative Directors Behind Fate: The Winx Saga Must Not Be K-Pop Fans

Also, they have a pretty wrong idea of the role fashion should play in a show.

There are a few words that will stand out across most reviews of Netflix's Fate: The Winx Saga - drab, boring, flop, flat, unimaginative. Critics and audiences consensus is that the show is not only a mediocre-at-best story, but also an atrocious (and ultimately confusing) choice of adaptation of the color pop and fairy magic cartoon it’s based on, 2004 italian cartoon Winx Club.

Fate has plenty of it's own issues - white washing and erasing characters, cringey dialogue, outdated melodrama, etc. But where it truly, unequivocally fails is as an adaptation. Fate misses everything that was magical and lovable about the original series, in all levels, from bizarre writing choices, - such as never actually developing any sense of friendship between the characters, who are based on a cartoon about…..a group…….of friends -, but it's especially and immediately felt in the art direction and costume design.

Winx Club is set on a fantastical world, Magix, where each of our main characters hail from a different planet, à la Sailor Moon. Alfea, the fairy school they attend, is the most common background: a pastel colored, futuristic high tech-meets-fantasy, art nouveau inspired castle. Alfea sets the tone for the whole visual of the cartoon: bright, colorful, futuristic meets vintage, leaning into the technological positivism of the Y2K style, uniting it with magic, DnD worthy monsters and, of course, fairy wings. Often featured are also the Red Fountain school, where the Specialists train, and especially Cloud Tower, the goth and gothic inspired witch school Alfea has an OxBridge rivalry with (How cool would that be in a live action? I guess we’ll never know…).

On Fate, Alfea is the only school we ever see, and it’s another beige boarding school in not-Britain, somehow set in a magical world where everyone has the exact same technology and even social media that we have on Earth in 2021, no transformations and, most egregiously, no fairy wings.

This lack of visual creativity is pervasive throughout the whole show, and its most heartbreaking iteration is in the characters' wardrobe. The styling has the barest bones of a color scheme, - such as 'Bloom has to only dress in red since fire, duh',- the clothes are ill fitting, bland, dark and very dated. These are supposed to be teenagers who enjoy fashion, and yet they look like varying types of soccer moms from 2010.

The series seems to operate on an old and tired vision that women and girls can’t have depth and have adventures and fight monsters while also caring about fashion, a vision that the original show played a big, big role in challenging in the early 2000's. Fashion and costume design sets as much of the tone of a visual medium as the script does; through clothes we can gauge characters’ backgrounds, passions, and personality.

Winx Club has some of the best examples of this in the cartoon sphere - Bloom’s comfortable and bright style, Stella’s glitzy and bold, Musa’s edgy and cool, Aisha’s sporty and fun, Techna’s neon and tech gear inspired, Flora’s earthy and romantic, they all work as extensions of each character and serve a narrative purpose. And that’s not even mentioning how insulting it feels that in their quest to make Winx “edgier, darker” and fit for an older audience, the creators of Fate somehow decided that was in opposition to caring about style and fashion. Most “girly” shows, including the Winx Club are just as much adventure action shows as the ones geared towards boys, and it’s emphasis in fashion, friendship and color does not detract from that. The original run of the cartoon deals with war, violence, grief, abusive relationships and even genocide; leaning into those plotlines would not require Fate to erase any integral parts of what made Winx so beloved, and the fact that they did shows that the Netflix team completely missed the point of fashion in the original show, and really, the point of fashion and costume design in the world building of any show.

That, however, is not a mistake K-Pop makes very often; (This might seem like a bit of wild swerve in topic, but stay with me here). Unlike it's western counterpart, the Korean pop scene never lost the emphasis on music videos and how the visual medium can complete and potentialize music and performance; the K-Pop culture is very album and concept oriented in a way that has been all but lost in many other pop circuits, and the music video, styling and set design of a ‘comeback era’ is a key point of excitement among fans.

As such, music videos that follow storylines, connected universes, boundary pushing concepts and visual effects are the norm, rather than the exception, and a list could be made of works that are beautiful examples of what a live action Winx adaptation could look like. In fact, and very smoothly, here is a small list of exactly that!

A Small List of K-Pop Music Videos That Are Better Winx Club Live Actions Than Fate: The Winx Saga

3. Red Velvet - Psycho

If it was a darker and more somber look that Fate wanted, there was a way to make it actually appealing. While it still feels a liiitle too grown up and elegant for Winx, (maybe this author is biased, as a full proponent for the Y2K fun) Psycho makes a very compelling argument for a witchy, mysterious, fairy tale-esque show that could look scrumptious and definitely not boring, or even a gorgeous example of what the witches in Cloud Tower could look like. Black and white, dark green, pastel blue and pops of jewel tones make Psycho's color palette. To add interest to the understated colors, the styling is heavy on textures; We see plenty of stonework, intricate embroidery, tassels, lace on lace on lace, feathers, bows, opera gloves and lots of glitter. All of that is offset by bold, dark makeup, leather accents and eerie cinematography. Needle & Thread, Marchesa Notte and Self Portrait lend their hyper feminine and intricately detailed tulle gowns, juxtaposed with the creepiness of the lyrics and the dark backgrounds; their deep berry and green fairy tale looks are built with pieces from Zara to Nina Ricci to Dolce & Gabbana to Alexander McQueen.

Red Velvet’s more edgy styling for 2018's Bad Boy would also not feel out of place on the Trix.

2. IZ*ONE - Fiesta

IZ*ONE kicked off 2020 with sweet and fun Fiesta. The MV features rooms with mismatched décor that go from retro to space opera, rocky faux landscapes that feel other worldly, and visual effects that would look perfect on the back of a transformation sequence. Mirroring the set design, the girls wear various outfits by sustainable up and coming brand Chopova Lowena. Their signature skirts made with discarded and repurposed fabrics give a cool and interesting twist on a schoolgirl look that would look very sweet for a band of school fairies that occasionally go off to save the world. Also, wouldn't those bedazzled headphones look great on Musa's fairy outfit?

1. Aespa - Black Mamba and Next Level

Aespa is what fans call a monster rookie. With only three music videos under their belt, they still have some of the most visually interesting work in the industry right now. Their concept is very tied in with high tech, featuring even AI avatars of each member, packaged in a glitzy, fantastical and futuristic aesthetic, candy pop meets cyberpunk. I think I’ve exhausted ways to say that is exactly what a perfect Winx adaptation should feature.

Their debut smash hit, 2020’s Black Mamba is truly a perfect moodboard for live action Winx. Wearing a sequined and colorful mix and match of Dollskill, Gucci, Didu and Balenciaga to a backdrop that features some alien fairy forest realness, a pyschedelic fever dream, rooms straight out of a Y2K catalog or donning lime green and black techwear inside a metro fighting the "black mamba", Aespa look through and through the part of fashion loving fairies who save the world together, while looking fierce, stylish and, most importantly, interesting.

The styling and the sets jump seamlessly from more casual colorful fits with blouses, shirts and baggy pants to barren, darkly lit backgrounds and fringe-and-glitter heavy pieces necessary to fight giant snakes, in a way so fitting to transformation outfits for magical girls we could cry.

In their third MV, 2021's Next Level, the cyber in their concept is taken up a notch (get it. because Next Level-), set to a futuristic urbanscape intersped with a planet made of crystals and the ocasional alien fauna popping up again. We get treated to Monse, The 2nd Skin Co., Johanna Ortiz and The Attico styled to fairy princess standards, sporty sky racers and a white and sequined group styling that is top ten fairy busy saving the world uniform material, or maybe even a specialist worthy getup.

This particular look from Ningning is so Techna that it almost feels as if it's mocking Netflix.

And doesn’t this Karina trapped inside the "black mamba" in Alexander McQueen feel like a perfect Dark Bloom moment?

These are only a few examples of interesting and creative designs that are in line with what a live action Winx Club should have given us. There are so many more I could list, even among other TV Shows, like Sex Education and even polemic dark Euphoria, that know how to have fun with style and design without losing the depth of their stories. In the end, it's hard to justify why Fate creators even wanted to make an adaptation that didn't even try to capture the heart of its source material, and all we can do is watch one more "Restyling Fate: The Winx Saga" video on Youtube whilst mildly dreading season 2.

[sokkastyles]

I’ve talked about this before, but I need to emphasize that Zuko working in the tea shop is a huge part of his arc and development. It wasn’t just something that lasted only a few episodes that he hated and then moved on from, it’s something that is threaded throughout his arc and into the finale. 

Of course he’s not happy for a large part of the time he’s working there in book two. He’s a traumatized teenager who is desperately trying to achieve the approval of his father so that he can go back to the home he was banished from. Iroh tries to make the best of things in part because Iroh genuinely enjoys it and making the best of a bad situation is just who he is, but he also wants Zuko to be happy and wants to make the best life for his nephew that he can, and he knows that Zuko needs positivity and security in his life, as well as tries to nurture in Zuko an appreciation for the small things in life and an attitude of service. It is hardly surprising that Zuko is resistant to this, though.

Zuko complains even more when he and Iroh are presented with new opportunities, because he doesn’t want to accept the possibility of growth in this new life.

Iroh: Did you hear, nephew? This man wants to give us our own tea shop in the Upper Ring of the city!

Quon: That's right, young man, your life is about to change for the better!

Zuko: [Sarcastically.] I'll try to contain my joy. [Walks outside, slams door shut.]

Zuko spends seven episodes working in the tea shop in a twenty episode season. It runs through his entire Ba Sing Se arc. He grumbles, groans, and complains through most of it.

Iroh: So, I was thinking about names for my new tea shop. How about the Jasmine Dragon? It's dramatic, poetic, has a nice ring to it.

Zuko: [Shows Iroh the flyer.] The Avatar is here in Ba Sing Se and he's lost his bison.

Iroh: [Grabs the flyer.] We have a chance for a new life here. [Cut to Zuko looking out a window.] If you start stirring up trouble, we could lose all the good things that are happening for us.

Zuko: [Turns to Iroh.] Good things that are happening for you! Have you ever thought that I want more from life than a nice apartment and a job serving tea?

Iroh: There is nothing wrong with a life of peace and prosperity. I suggest you think about what it is that you want from your life and why.

Zuko: I want my destiny.

Iroh: What that means is up to you. 

Zuko’s time in the tea shop is part of his arc of discovering that he can choose his own destiny, and although he didn’t choose to live as a refugee, he can choose what he makes of it, which is what Iroh is trying to teach him here. Part of that is choosing to accept Iroh’s love, choosing to appreciate the good things instead of wishing for something that he doesn’t have, and we know that Zuko’s desire to go back to being the prince of the Fire Nation and earn his father’s affection is ultimately empty, and part of a life where he was abused, as well as where he was a part of a system that was oppressing others.

Then Zuko refuses Iroh’s advice about accepting a simple life in favor of pursuing Appa as the Blue Spirit - an identity that represents Zuko’s internal conflict between his fractured self image, which in book two involves him using the Blue Spirit identity to steal, to get back a part of the old life which he’s lost. It is extremely painful for him to admit that trying to get back to who he was before his banishment is causing him to engage in self-destructive behaviors that are stagnating his growth. Iroh just wants him to be safe and happy but he also knows that Zuko has to confront this conflict within himself.

That’s why, after he frees Appa, he must throw away the Blue Spirit mask once and for all, symbolically letting go of his desire to go back to the Fire Nation.

Iroh: You did the right thing, nephew. Leave it behind.

Giving up the past is never easy. Especially giving up the ideas he’s held onto for so long, the idea of what he can one day get back that, as Iroh said in book one, had kept Zuko going through his banishment, that gave him hope. But part of creating your own destiny is realizing that you can find hope in places you didn’t think you could find it. Zuko has to find something else to put his hope in and that’s represented physically by the sickness he suffers after freeing Appa. His entire sense of self has been shaken to the core, because change, real change, is hard.

Iroh: You should know that this is not a natural sickness, but that shouldn't stop you from enjoying tea.

Zuko: What's happening?

Iroh: Your critical decision. What you did beneath that lake. It was in such conflict with our image of yourself that you are now at war within your own mind and body. 

Zuko: What's that mean?

Iroh: You are going through a metamorphosis, my nephew. It will not be a pleasant experience, but when you come out of it, you will be the beautiful prince you were always meant to be.

Tea even makes an appearance during Zuko’s “metamorphosis,” because the tea is symbolic, y’all. Then when Zuko wakes up from his sickness, we see an immediate change in him.

Iroh: Now that your fever is gone, you seem different somehow.

Zuko: [Optimistically.] It's a new day. We've got a new apartment, new furniture, and today's the grand opening of your new tea shop. Things are looking up, Uncle.

This doesn’t necessarily mean that Zuko has suddenly decided that he loves serving tea and working customer service, but the change he’s experienced is about choosing to find the good, to accept change into his life, to accept humility, and love. And this is the most happy we’ve ever seen Zuko be. We also see him emotionally supporting Iroh and working on his relationship with his uncle because he knows that seeing Zuko happy makes Iroh happy. Before, Zuko made a big show of his unhappiness, slamming doors and frowning and shouting and generally acting like a spoiled teenager with major authority issues, which made Iroh visibly upset. Iroh constantly tries to get Zuko to change his attitude but in the end it’s something that Zuko has to choose himself.

Iroh: Who thought when we came to this city as refugees, that I'd end up owning my own tea shop? Follow your passion, Zuko, and life will reward you.

Zuko: Congratulations, Uncle.

Iroh: I am very thankful.

Zuko: You deserve it. The Jasmine Dragon will be the best tea shop in the city.

Iroh: No. I'm thankful because you decided to share this special day with me. It means more than you know.

Zuko: Now let's make these people some tea! 

This is more than just Zuko being happy for Iroh or trying to be happy because Iroh wants him to be happy. We see the idea repeated here that you can choose your own destiny, and that those who do are rewarded by life. This is also echoed in Zuko’s conversation with Katara in which he tells her that lately he has realized that he is free to choose what he makes of the scars of his past, and his future. We also see him practicing what Iroh told him, he lets go of shame by letting go of pride. Instead of talking about what he thinks he deserves, he talks about what Iroh deserves. The dialogue also indicates that Zuko chose to be there.

This development is emphasized when Zuko and Iroh are invited to serve tea to the Earth King.

Iroh: I ... I can't believe it!

Zuko: What is it, Uncle?

Iroh: Great news! We've been invited to serve tea to the Earth King!

Zuko goes from “step aside, filth!” and complaining about doing work to smiling about serving tea to the king of a rival nation. That’s character development. And as I said before, it was essential to Zuko’s development in becoming the kind of Fire Lord that he is supposed to be.

The dramatic irony of Katara finding them and unintentionally ratting them out to Azula is that when Katara enters the tea shop, she finds not only a Zuko in a tea apron, but a happy one enthusiastically taking people’s orders.

Zuko: Uncle! I need two jasmine, one green, and one lychee!

Iroh: I'm brewing as fast as I can!

I love this scene so much because it’s like, imagine that you decide to go to Panera Bread and you find Kylo Ren working at the counter, cheerfully asking you if you want chips or an apple with that. It’s also hilarious that Katara’s immediate thought is they’re infiltrating the city when she knows that there’s an evil force of brainwashing government agents lurking about.

That Zuko genuinely found peace with his life in Ba Sing Se is narratively important because it makes what happens next even harder for him. “The Crossroads of Destiny” is a true crossroads because he’s fought hard to find happiness and hope in his new life, but then it’s all ripped away and he’s put to the test. That he fails it this time just emphasizes how hard it is to break free of old destructive habits.

This is why when he does go back to the Fire Nation, we’re shown his doubts, and how uncomfortable he is. He tries to be happy and to accept his role as prince, but he already knows that this is not the destiny he wants for himself. The excessive opulence of the Fire Nation is meant to show this. We see this in scenes like Zuko constantly being unhappy during the beach episode and becoming angry when he is told to relax and do nothing, and his insecurity at the party in a room full of rich kids. 

In particular, we see him being uncomfortable being waited on by servants in “Nightmares and Daydreams”:

Servant #1: Fresh fruit, Prince Zuko?

Zuko puts out his hand and shakes his head respectfully.

Servant #2: May I wash your feet, sir?

Zuko respectfully puts his hand out and shakes his head again.

Servant #1: Head massage?

Zuko shakes his head again.

Servant #2: Hot towel?

Zuko looks at the towels for a moment and takes one. He is seen wiping his forehead before walking out of the room. The two servants bow behind him. Zuko walks out the palace gates, with Fire Nation citizens waiting for him.

Servant #1: Prince Zuko, is something wrong? You didn't take the palanquin.

Zuko: I'm just going to Mai's house. It's not far.

Servant #1: It's not a prince's place to walk anywhere, sir.

Zuko looks to the distance, walks over, and gets into the palanquin.

We see him trying to fit in with Mai because he’s a sixteen year old who has a girlfriend for the first time in his life and he wants to impress her, but what this scene actually shows is their differing values.

Zuko: Tell me, if you could have anything you want right now, what would it be?

Mai: Hm ... A big fancy fruit tart, with rose petals on top.

Zuko: You know, being a prince and all, I might just be able to make that happen.

Mai: That would be impressive.

Zuko: [To the servants.] Do you think you could find a fresh fruit tart for the lady, with rose petals on top?

Servant: Excellent choice, sir.

Mai: I guess there's some nice perks that come with being royalty. [Pushing Zuko to lay down with her.] Though there's annoying stuff, too. Like that all-day war meeting coming up.

Zuko: [Sitting up, followed by Mai.] War meeting? What are you talking about?

Mai: Azula mentioned something. I-I assumed you were going, too.

Zuko: I guess I wasn't invited.

The two look away from each other.

Zuko asks Mai what she would want if she could have anything and what she comes up with is fruit tarts. This doesn’t necessarily mean that Mai is shallow, but what it does mean is that she’s never had to worry about what she wants in terms of the big picture.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

She’s also never had to go hungry like Zuko has, and never had to serve others like Zuko has.

And then she brings up the war meeting, which to her is only an annoyance. Zuko doesn’t care about fruit tarts and palanquin rides, but this is something he cares about. It’s also funny to me that Mai is like “make out time,” and let’s be real, nobody would fault Zuko, a sixteen year old boy, for enjoying a little hanky panky, but Zuko is like “no, anxiety time!” Which shows how much he’s changed and how much he is struggling to be happy despite all the fruit tarts and hot towels and having a girlfriend who is all over him.

It is NOT a coincidence that when Zuko joins the gaang, we see him genuinely happy and among friends and making and serving tea.

Zuko had to go back to the Fire Nation to really understand how much he had changed and to really be able to choose his own destiny, but we know which one he chooses, between a life of empty riches and a life helping others. Even when we see him addressing the people as Fire Lord, his speech is all about service and humility. When the crowd cheers for him, he does this:

Zuko: Please. The real hero is the Avatar.

Which shows how far he’s come from the boy who so desperately wanted recognition, who was repulsed by the idea of serving others or lowering himself to the status of a “peasant,” who only thought of himself and what he deserved. His last scene is not his coronation, not his triumphant moment of standing in front of a crowd as Fire Lord, or even confronting his father, but a quiet moment, serving tea to his friends.