#undertaker looks so chiselled…

[eemoo1o-animoo]

@pain-in-the-butler Hey, look! I’ve got some nice Waltz on the Titanic posts for you… /j

The Cast of Musical Kuroshitsuji: Tango on the Campania

Sebastian Michaelis: Furukawa Yuta 

Ciel Phantomhive: Uchikawa Reo (b. 2004)

Grell Sutcliff: Uehara Takuya 

Ronald Knox: Mikata Ryosuke

Snake: Harashima Motohisa

Elizabeth: Okazaki Momoko (b. 2003)

Fred Abberline: Takagi Shun 

Sharp Hanks: Terayama Takeshi

Edward: Utsumi Akiyoshi

Francis: Akisono Mio Alexis: Nasu Kozo

Ryan Stoker: Kawai Ryunosuke

Undertaker: Izumi Shuuhei  

Viscount Druitt: Sasaki Yoshihide

[vacantgodling]

PARAMOUR CHAPTER 1: WEDDING PREPARATIONS

WIP: the fall of galere book 1: PARAMOUR

SUMMARY: an hour before the ceremony that will wed hyacinthus shrapnel to The Keeper of Chateau aux Aisles D'or, he receives an unwanted, but unfortauntely necessary visitor.

tw(s): implied murder, mentions of character death/patricide, a lot of footnotes lmao.

There were many preparations that one must think about to host a proper Galerian wedding—arrangments thankfully made without the bride to be, Hyacinthus Shrapnel’s, input.

He hadn’t had to go through the priests and clergy to secure an auspicious Temple for the ceremony. No, the prominence of his bridegroom was a weight hefty enough that it was preemptively arranged to be lofted to the most grandiose of heights: The Sanctuarie D’Orage¹, in its main, intimate nef². He hadn’t had to gather or oversee the étoiles or poisson³ to rehearse, nor even send out the illustrious invitations to announce his union with the head of the chamber, and perhaps true lord over all Galarian society even above the reagent, The Keeper of Chateau Aux Aisles D’or. The only responsibility that Hyacinthus had, in fact, in the undertaking of this grand occasion, was the procurement of his wedding gown and making sure it was presentable to his personal liking. A truly arduous task, as red was never his favorite color. 

Thus, here he sat, on the precipice of his wedding march, staring down the gown he’d purchased on his elder sibling’s dime with the same glower of hate that a chained dog bore towards it’s master. He had been painstakingly pampered for this occasion: a long bath run, with milk, honey, and all the usual exfoliants; his long, luxurious black hair was steamed, straightened, freshly trimmed; his nails gilded with pure gold… the list goes on. And as a denizen of the chapel applied powder and lipstick to his handsome, dark, chiseled face—entrée was granted to one he wasn’t particularly looking forward to seeing. The one who was the mastermind behind this betrothal arrangement, and the one who’s money Hyacinthus had no qualms about spending like water: the eldest of the damned and wretched children of one long dead business vulture Clematis Gunn—Vermassen⁴ Tagetes Gunn de Beneaux.

Their own weaseled wedding to the fifth prince of Galeré had taken place only several years prior to this date, but the royal manner of their current state was definitely going to their overgrown head. Hyacinthus scowled when they pulled back the curtain to reveal themselves, even more, perhaps, when he noticed the two flutes of bubbling champagne ferried in their gloved hands. 

“Come now Cinthy, don’t look so delighted to see me.” 

Sarcasm dripped from their treacherous tongue, disguised by the visage of a sinister, mustache-laden smile. They strolled leisurely across the room, easily elbowing the church denizen out of their way without a single thought. The poor girl stumbled, but she said nothing; knowing to yield to her betters. Tagetes set the champagne down on the vanity before Hyacinthus. 

“Even after all the trouble I went to procure you some liquid courage.” 

“I should think it’s poisoned, knowing you.” Hyacinthus sneered, but Tagetes only chuckled, and caught their younger brother’s chin in their hand. 

“Careful little dog; do not fully sever the hand that feeds you with those golden teeth.” As if queued, Hyacinthus bared his teeth at Tagetes, the golden hue of his canines glinting in the dimmed light. “Were it not for my intervention you would be left to the streets. Some gratitude for my interference is in order, yes?”

Hyacinthus yanked his jaw away, glowering further still—yet wisely, perhaps, said nothing. Neither to thank them, nor deny the accusation; he instead let his gaze wander away to the gown awaiting his figure to wrap around. 

“This isn’t my style.” He said. Tagetes followed his eyes, laughing softly. 

“No, I suppose you’d prefer to wear a white ball gown enmeshed with gold. Shoulder pads too, of course? Not that you need any help accentuating your shoulders—they are quite broad enough as is.”

If Hyacinthus was one to do so, he’d have upturned his nose. But he simply said, “It’d look less tacky.” 

“I hardly think it looks tacky—it is tradition. Even I wore such a gown on my wedding day.” 

“The tackiness of your own gown was in mostly due to whom was wearing it.” 

Tagetes tutted darkly. They gestured back towards the champagne that they bought. “Drink some.” 

“I told you—“

“And if I drank some first?” Tagetes gingerly plucked one of the flutes of champagne from the vanity and drew some of it from its glass prison—only until it was nearly half. Then, they set it back down again.

“The other as well.” Hyacinthus remarked. Tagetes shook their head. “You truly think I want you dead, Cinthy? With all the effort I have furnished in you? Truly, if I wanted you dead—you would be.” Still, Tagetes obliged and gingerly lifted the second champagne glass to their lips. As they sipped at it, Hyacinthus murmured, “Such as father, I presume.” 

He received no answer for that; though he needn’t one. Anyone who looked closely enough at the dynamics of the Gunn family knew that Hersieur⁵ Clematis’s death was no accident. Who was responsible for it… anyone’s guess. But if Hyacinthus had to bet money—and he was not of a gambling sort—he would put money on Tagetes. 

The saccharine smile he received for his accusation was sinister enough as it were.

Once Tagetes had leveled the second glass to equal fullness of the first, they set it back on the vanity before Hyacinthus. 

“Tell me, dearest brother, does this glass of champagne appear to you as ‘half empty’ or ‘half full’?” 

Hyacinthus scoffed and stood abruptly from his chair, sweeping towards the gown that he ought to have donned by now. Seeing as it was their cue, an assortment of servants scurried to his aid; first affixing the tight, red bodice that pushed his pectoral muscles up as a proper bosom, tying its laces tightly so it would not come undone. Next came the garter and stockings, then the first layer of skirts—a sighing orange color akin to the sun at dawn, growing increasingly deeper in color with each layer until the heaviest and most saturated top layer was laid over the underskirts. A beautiful vermillion in color, adorned with delicate golden beads like stars dotted across the entire body of the skirt, tapering off into golden flames that licked the bottom hem, to mirror the sun’s rays. 

As one servant affixed the veil, Tagetes saw it fit to continue; “If I were in your shoes, the glass I have presented to you is best viewed half full.” 

“I know you well enough to smell your schemes, Tagetes. I have no interest in being grateful for being a pawn.” Hyacinthus rolled his eyes, stooping gracefully in a near curtsey so a shorter servant could fuss with the laying of his bangs. “The streets.” Tagetes rebuttled with a sing song voice. “I could’ve easily married you off to an old, decaying lord, with old, dying money. You would struggle to find a richer husband than The Keeper. Nor one so well connected.” Tagetes’s dark eyes were practically gleaming when they said, softly, sinisterly, “The Keeper is more than your botched birthright should even afford you.”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Hyacinthus snapped, but it was easy to see how the words gnawed at his skin. He shooed the servant attending him away roughly, casting them to the side like a wet rag. 

“Now, now.” Tagetes tutted. “Behave Cinthy. I can’t afford to have you mess this up.” 

“I should strangle you within an inch of your life.” Hyacinthus snarled. 

“But then you’d lose access to your pretty dowry. Think of the storeroom I’m sure your bridegroom has.” 

“Money is—”

“Worthless? Perhaps. But with your expensive tastes, I doubt you believe that.”

“You—” Hyacinthus was cut off by the loud chime of bells overhead; The Sanctuarie’s clock tower alerting all of those far and wide in La Castra that it was nearing the auspicious hour—the time of the wedding to be spoken of for years and years to come; another Union of The Keeper of Chateau aux Aisles D’or—head of The Chamber, who benevolently ruled all of Galeré, even above the reagent themself.

“It seems as though the curtain’s draw is upon us.” Tagetes astutely observed. When they turned their eyes back to Hyacinthus, the look within them made something with Hyacinthus wither. 

“I do mean it. Behave. At least until the curtain falls. Remember your glass.” 

As quickly as they’d come, they swept out of the room, leaving both flutes of champagne on the vanity, and with a final wave of adieu, they were gone. Perhaps out to the nef, or perhaps to mingle. 

Hopefully to hang themselves, Hyacinthus thought.

But there was no turning back now; within the hour he should become a wife—whether he wished it or not. He regarded the two champagne glasses before him. Then seeming to make a sudden decision, he grasped one in his hand and downed it, without much other preamble than that.

FOOTNOTES:

¹ = Sanctuaire D’Orage or Temple of the Storm is the largest temple in all of Galeré located in the center of religious leadership La Castra. It is a large, foreboding structure with a catacombs underneath and stretches high into the clouds as though it were trying to touch the sun. It features the largest statue of The Shepherd in the country.

² = nef — referring to the central most part of a church or temple; ie: a nave.

³ = the étoiles and the poisson are the bride and groom’s wedding precession. in a Galerian wedding, there is no such thing as a maid of honor or bridesmaids/male equivalent—the bride is to take the role of the Sunset and the groom the Ocean. in old Galarian folklore, the earth was made via the union of the Sunset and the Ocean, and so traditional wedding garb is reds for the bride and blues for the groom. the étoiles and the poisson represent the stars and fish present at this union, and in a wedding they dance before the bride and groom as they enter horizontally, then meet at the central altar. the bride is accompanied by The Moon who leads them to the altar, and the groom is accompanied by The Coral who leads them to the altar.

⁴ = a Galarian honorofic, referring explicitly to a married wife. Husbands and Wives are not gendered in Galere; for husbands simply are breadwinners and managers of the external household affairs and wives are the managers of finances and the internal household estate. Hyacinthus Shrapnel, once he is wed, will become a wife as well.

⁵ = a Galarian honorofic, referring explicitly to a married husband.

[fengshenjunlang]

The Wen Sibling and their family are NOT Prisoner of War.

They were called the Wen remnants, not the war prisoner even in Canon.

MDZS chapter 72 (from exiledrebel):

Wei Wuxian, "You definitely remember him. Last month, when you were night-hunting in the area of Ganquan, you chased an eight-winged bat king to the gathering place or the detention camp of the Wen Sect's remnants and brought a group of the Wen Sect's disciples The one in the lead was him. "

Here, they were not called the Prisoner of War. They were the remnants of the previous Wen Sect, and some of them still have the identity of Wen disciples.

The place they were gathered together may be called a detention camp, but it is not the prison where you must do labor for others. It is further explained here:

After the Sunshot Campaign, the QishanWen Sect was destroyed. The territory that it was expanding was shared among the other sects. The Ganquan area was appointed to the Lanling Jin Sect. As for the remnants of the Wen Sect, they were herded into a small corner of Qishan, not even a thousandth the territory it once owned. They were crammed into the place and struggled to live.

They were driven to live into a small corner of Qishan, and struggled to live , yes. But not being imprisoned and become the prisoner of war.

The proof for their identity is the next explanation:

Wei Wuxian, "Fine, I don't mind explaining it in greater detail. You couldn't catch the bat king and happened to run into a few of the Wen Sect's disciples who were there to investigate the same thing. And so, you threatened them to carry spirit-attraction flags to be your bait. They didn't dare do it. One person stepped out and tried to reason with you That's the Wen Ning I m talking about. After some delay, the bat king got away. You beat up the Wen cultivators, took them away by force, and the group disappeared. Do I need to say any more details? They still haven't returned yet Apart from you, don't know who in the world I could possibly ask.

They are originally not prisoners who were forced to do labor for the winning party.

They are originally still a disciple, a normal cultivators, who could still have the privilege to even nighthunting on their own..... Until they were forcibly captured by Jin Zixun!!

As for the real prisoner of War, they were put in Qiongqi Path from the very end of the war. Look at this passage:

Now that the Lanling Jin Sect had taken over the Qiongqi Path, of course it couldn't let the QishanWen Sects glorious past continue to exist. It was in the middle of reconstruction, meaning that all of the reliefs on both sides would be chiselled down and new ones would be carved. Naturally, in the end, it'd be given a new name that'd emphasize the Lanlinglin Sect's gallantry.

Such a large-scale undertaking would need many laborers for sure. And, as for these laborers, of course there were no better candidates than the Wen Sects prisoners of war, who had become homeless dogs after the Sunshot Campaign.

Wen Qing, Wen Ning and their family branch were not Prisoner of War. They are just the remaining people of the Wen Sect.

They are not homeless but lived in Ganquan, despite the small corner they have.

As for the reason why they didn't get classified as the Prisoner of War. Lan Xichen has said it on MDZS chapter 73:

Lan Xichen responded a moment later, "I have heard of Wen Qing's name a few times. I do not remember her having participated in any of the Sunshot Campaign's crimes."

Here. Lan Xichen as one of the Leaders in the Sunshot Campaign has verified it.

Wen Qing is the leader of her own family branch, when she didn't participated in war crimes, naturally her followers wouldn't.

Not only did LXC verified it, Wen Qing herself has said it on MDZS chapter 60:

Wen Qing cut him off, "What the Wen Sect does doesn't represent what we do. We don't need to be responsible for the Wen Sect's wrongdoing. Wei Ying, there's no need to look at me like that. There's a beginning to all debts. I'm the office leader of Yiling but I was ordered to take the position. I'm a medic, an apothecary, I've never killed anyone, much less touched the blood of the Jiang Sect."

It was true. Nobody had heard of any lives lost by Wen Qing's hands. There were always many cases that people wanted her to take over. It was because Wen Qing was one of the Wen Sect's people whose way of doing thing was actually normal.

At times, she could even put in a few good words for people in front of Wen RuoHan.

Her reputation had always been good!

Here is the verification from both Wen Qing and the narration from MXTX herself.

And it's also to refute what Nie Mingjue said about Wen Qing never trying to speak against Wen RuoHan.

Yes, Wen Qing at times even put in a few good words for people. But obviously not when Wen RuoHan has already decided, determined, and already started long ago, to dominate the other sects.

But anyway, Wen siblings and their family are not Prisoner of War, originally!

[the-heaminator]

@icarusian The pygmalion fruk au that you so kindly infected my brain with, i did try to stick to the original story as much as i could but reading ovid gave me a headache.

The best marble was in Cyprus, marble of such high quality that once sculpted would look like the purest of ivory, and combined with his prowess in sculpting so potent it seemed to have been bestowed upon him by Hephaestus himself.

It was to be the closest to a sapient human in appearance that one can get without the flame of life or the breath of spirit within.

The sculpture was to be of a man, the most beautiful the world had ever seen, perfect in his divinity, the most perfect one would ever see in their lives, whether human or not.

He was to be everything Arthur was not; his hair long, free and soft, his nose sharp and handsome, eyes tender yet fierce, cheekbones high and proud, laughter lines because this man would be unafraid of happiness. His hands would have the calluses of a swordsman, yet are so beautiful in their own way, frame soft yet strong enough to protect.

To find a model for such perfection was an undertaking of the aeons, all the men on this island and beyond were imperfect and full of so, so many visible flaws, let alone what he couldn't see, he hunted and searched high and low, near and far; but finding someone so perfect to model his statue was impossible, nobody had what he needed, only his mind held the image, the perfect image of what he wanted.

Bitter at the world for the difficulties it had caused him over the years and now the impossibility of finding the perfect man to model, he decided to create his own from the depths of his psyche, and so he started. He isolated himself from the world more than he did so previously, focused solely on his creation, what was to be his magnum opus, slowly and oh so tenderly carving, chiselling, whittling away at the block of marble till it showed in broad strokes the body, but it wasn't perfect yet. He kept chiselling, working on it for days, weeks sometimes, on end, until it had all the details he needed.

Smile lines, an expression both soft and fierce, a body worthy of Olympus in its beauty, soft yet elegant yet strong, hair soft and flowing as a waterfall did, hands callused like ones of a swordsman, he was beautiful, there was no other word for it, simply beautiful.

When he was done, done with creating the most perfect man on earth, he realised, that despite his vow of celibacy, he had fallen in love with his creation, deeply deeply in love, the type of love that gets the notice of the Gods, but he didn't know that, the type of burning, pure love that gets people killed or in history books.

He finished his piece with a kiss, on the carefully carved lips, hoping that somehow the structure would come to life, he had poured out his heart and soul for it, so maybe just enough that he would come to life, but to no avail, he stayed as he was, beautiful and perfect, but made of marble and not flesh.

He had never experienced such burning desire prior, and may as well never do in the future without him, but well, at least he could love the statue, it would never be as real, with no feeling of warm, living flesh under his skin, the statue wouldn't move to protect, but it was the closest he would get, and he was happy for that.

He named it, named it Francis, though he knew not why he called it such, he made it a bed, softer than his ever was, and dressed it in the finest linens he owned, he slept with it every night and treated it almost as if he was a real man, cleaning him as he couldn't do it himself and guarded him fiercely against every and anybody who even as much as looked at him oddly.

And that was how it was for a long time, well until Aphrodite took notice on her feast day, Arthur had prayed to no end for his love to one day just come to life, and She had noticed, and on her worship day, she obliged, he made an offering and nearly cried at her altar.

The type of love that got people killed or in history books.

He never knew that she had obliged until he got home, and instead of the statue, in its place stood the most beautiful man he had ever seen, it was as if the marble had cracked open to show his love, which, who, was even more perfect than he was carved.

Hair softer than he could ever imagine, golden enough that it seemed to have been spun from the rays of dawn itself, smile crooked and toothy, so genuine and sincere, he was taller than Arthur, though only slightly, though enough that he had to lift Arthurs head for a kiss, beard scratching against him in a way that could only be endearing.

It was his love, in the flesh, oh so much more perfect than he could ever imagine as Francis pulled him in for a hug, almost enveloping Arthur's rather small frame as he did so, it was at that moment when his eyes were opened to the world, the beauty not just the pitfalls, and it was beautiful.

[autolovecraft]

God, what a rage!

He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass.

Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the tomb.

It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. Birch.

Sawyer.

I agreed that he was wise in so doing. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. Why did you do it, Birch? Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door.

Perhaps he screamed. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply.

The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer.

The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th. I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the tomb. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.

For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Davis.

[neelgamesartanddesign]

Practice 1: Weekly Practice

Red vs Blue

Blog 1

Red versus Blue: Preparing a Little Work of Art 

Welcome, exhausted voyager, to Red versus Blue, an energetic reality where the creative mind blends more grounded than any coffee! Today, I welcome you to step inside my most memorable creation for this wonderful task - a smaller-than-normal bistro overflowing with beguile and a sprinkle of lively competition. In this way, pull up a pixelated stool and let me let you know the story of creating an espresso sanctuary where red and blue beans impact.

Reference Meeting: Each barista-commendable brew begins with quality beans, and my imaginative motivation was the same. I scoured the web, my advanced spoon filtering through cafe scapes of every kind. My mental latte art gained flavour from references to Parisian bistros with charming awnings, rustic Italian haunts with warm lighting, and sleek modern shops with pops of colour.

Work process Hurricane: With my visual range prepared, I graphed my creative course. The ZBrush-Substance Painter-Incredible Motor 5 triplet turned into my confided-in devices, prepared to change pixels into an unmistakable bistro experience. Be that as it may, Red versus Blue requested a wind - a perky dance of light and variety. I imagined delicate morning beams gushing through dusty windows, projecting warm tints on natural espresso sacks. Conversely, lively blues would look from racks embellished with a la mode mugs, making a perky pressure between the two essential tones.

Sculpting in the Sun: ZBrush turned into my virtual mud studio, where I shaped the bistro's structure. Walls rose, tables grew, and seats came to fruition under my advanced fingertips. However, it wasn't just about shapes; I also used light as a sculpting tool. I cut windowsills to get the morning sun, calculated overhangs to create dappled shaded areas, and made unobtrusive flaws that murmured endless espresso-energized stories.

Finishing Stories: With the bistro's establishment laid, Substance Painter turned into my variety chemist. Here, I prepared surfaces that recounted stories. Endured wood murmured of innumerable supporters, chipped mugs alluded to vivacious discussions, and blurred banners of extraordinary beans guaranteed undertakings in each taste. But the theme of "Red vs. Blue" never left my mind—cobalt splatters on the shelves, crimson beans spilling from open sacks, and the playful hues of neon signs illuminating the walls.

Unbelievable Revealing: At long last, the bistro ventured into the spotlight of Unbelievable Motor 5. Lighting, my stage chief, arranged the scene. Warm morning daylight gushed through windows, moving on worn sections of flooring. Every nook and cranny was played hide-and-seek by shadows, adding mystery and depth. What's more, the masterpiece? Inconspicuous sprinkles of red and blue neon, as perky brushstrokes, rejuvenated the subject, changing the bistro into a lively material of espresso-filled competition.

From Pixels to Benefactors: Red versus Blue's most memorable creation may be smaller than expected, yet the illustrations learned are goliath. I've improved my computerized chiselling abilities, excelled at narrating through surfaces, and found the enchantment of light in rejuvenating a scene. Furthermore, in particular, I've embraced the perky delight of Red versus Blue, an existence where even the littlest bistro can overflow with unending imaginative potential outcomes.

So, dear reader, the next time you have a latte, keep in mind that even the simplest of moments can be masterpieces that are just waiting to be created. Take motivation from your general surroundings, snatch your computerized instruments, and blend your imaginative mixture. What's more, who knows, you may very well end up with a little work of art of your own!

This blog gives a strong groundwork to your narration. Go ahead and add explicit insights regarding your number one reference, the difficulties you confronted with light and variety, and the one-of-a-kind components you added to your little bistro. Feel free to the blog with your voice and innovative experiences to make it really your own.

[demolitionhobart]

Do it Yourself Bathroom Demolition

To save money, you can avoid paying demolition contractors by doing your bathroom demo yourself. However, you will need to know how to do the job correctly to avoid costly mistakes.

Before tearing down any walls, it is important to check whether there are electrical wires, copper water pipes or gas pipelines running through the wall section. If they are, you will have to carefully remove them.

Preparation

Getting rid of an old bathroom and constructing a new one is a major undertaking that needs a lot of preparation. From acquiring the right tools for the job to shutting off utilities, there are many things to check before starting the demolition.

One of the most important aspects is to find out whether pipelines for incoming water and sewage are running through the walls of the bathroom. If so, it is essential to dismantle them perfectly. If not, the contractor can leave them intact if they are in good condition.

It is also important to remove baseboards and heat registers to make way for the demolition of the wall. Finally, it is advisable to set aside anything you want to reuse or sell. This will save you money on hiring a junk removal service. Moreover, it will prevent the demolition process from becoming a mess. If you are not prepared, your project may turn out to be much more expensive than expected.

Safety

It’s important to take proper safety precautions when bathroom demolition occurs. This is especially true if the bathroom has water or electrical lines running through it. Damage to these lines can cause significant problems and significantly increase the cost of the project.

It is also a good idea to remove all toilets and sinks before beginning the demo. This way, you can avoid causing any damage to them. Also, be sure to remove the wax ring and closet flange from the toilet before starting the demo.

You should also wear protective gear while working on the demolition. This includes a pair of work gloves, earmuffs and safety glasses. It’s also a good idea to buy a shop vac, which can help clean up the debris and dust as you go. This can make the process much easier and faster. It can also protect your health and the health of others in your home.

Tools

Whether you’re replacing a vanity or completely tearing down and remodeling the space, there are some basic tools you’ll need to complete the demolition. This includes safety glasses, a mask, and ear muffs to protect yourself from dust and debris. It’s also a good idea to have a dry vac on hand to collect dust and small particles as you work.

Begin by deciding what exactly you need to demolish and remove from the bathroom. This could include items like a vanity, linen cupboard, mirror, light fixtures, and shelving. If you’re unsure, it’s a good idea to have a professional take a look at the space.

Turning off the water supply to the bathroom is crucial. This is because you never know what might be behind the walls, such as a copper pipe or electric wiring. You’ll want to be sure that this is done before you start swinging the hammer. To begin, remove the toilet’s tank and supply line valve from the floor or wall.

Equipment

Bathroom demolition is a strenuous project. Before you even pick up a sledgehammer, there are several things to keep in mind. The first step is to determine what you want to accomplish. Is your bathroom in need of a new vanity and light fixture, or is it time for a full remodel?

You will need standard tools such as a hammer, screwdriver and chisel. You should also have a pair of sturdy work gloves and safety glasses for protection from sharp materials. A dust mask is also a must. If you are going to be removing toilets, it is a good idea to stuff a few rags in the drain hole to prevent sewer gases from entering your home.

It is a good idea to turn off the water before you begin. This is especially true if you plan to take out the shower tiles. You never know what is behind those walls and you do not want to hit copper pipe or electric wiring.

source https://demolitionhobarttas.wordpress.com/2023/06/04/do-it-yourself-bathroom-demolition/

[cutiepisenpai]

Summary: Final Part of Undertaker has a new guest in his shop a young woman who had drowned in the lake.

Warnings: none

A/N: This is the 5th and final part of this series. I hope you all enjoy it. :). Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

The next morning starts normal, well as normal as their morning can be. For the first time since she first arrived in his shop Undertaker was actively avoiding her. He needed time to work through his feelings but he also needed to find the final missing clues to who she is. 

“(Nickname) dear.” he calls out.

“What is with that name?” She asks, walking to the front of the shop to meet him. 

“Do you not like it?”

“No it’s fine…” She trails off lost in thought. “I feel like I’ve heard it somewhere before.”

“I have errands to run today. Will you be fine here on your own?”

“That’s a strange thing for you to ask. You leave me here on my own all the time.”

She was right. After the first few times he never asked he would simply inform her of when he would be going out.

“Is something bothering you?” She asks.

“Of course not. I should be going now.” He says, with a wave as he leaves.

As Undertaker walks through the streets he feels a little ridiculous. She was just a human woman and eventually she will depart from this world of the living and leave him as well.

***

When Undertaker returns to the shop he can hear the tell tale sign of wood being carved. He has to wait for the contacts he reached out to to return with the information he seeks. He walks quietly to the backroom and sees her completely focused on the piece of wood on the table. He could watch her for ages. He slowly approaches, watching as she holds a chisel in hand hammer in another going along the pre drawn line. 

“So beautiful..” he whispers into her ear.

The sudden sound startles her and she jolts knicking the wood in an unexpected place. Furrowing her brow and rubbing her hand over the offending mark. 

“Apologies my dear. I did not intend to startle you.”

“It’s okay. I can fix it.”

“How about you take a break from the carving for now and try something new.” He suggests.

“Something new?”

“Perhaps you can assist with preparing a guest.”

She gathers the carving tools to put them aside before moving the wooden piece she had working on, propping it up against the wall. Undertakers brings in a large leather case holding the supplies needed for the procedure. He opens the case removing the scalpels, forceps,  injector needles, pumps and draining devices, setting them aside on a tray. He then leaves to retrieve their guest. She waits impatiently, happy to finally get the chance to show him what she is capable of. Undertaker wheels in the guest that they will be working on. 

“Come along dear, let’s begin.” He gestures for her to join him. She walks to stand next to him.

“No no, you will be performing this time and I will assist you.” he says while grabbing her by the waist and ushering her in front of him. “All of the prep work has been done already, you will be carrying out the embalming process. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed excitedly.

She reaches to grab a scalpel and forceps.

“You need to explain your process as you work dear.”

“Yes of course. I’m going to begin by making an incision at the carotid artery and jugular vein?” She says hesitantly, nerves getting to her.

“Are you asking or telling dearie?”

“Telling.” She says firmly. She brings the scalpel to the neck of their guest pressing and making the incision. She sets the scalpel aside and reaches for the forceps but the Undertaker has them in his hand.  

“I need those.” She says, looking over her shoulder at him.

“Yes of course. Hear you are dearie.” he says, handing them to her letting his hand linger on hers. She inserts the forceps opening the incision. “What do you do now?” Undertaker asks against her ear.

“I raise the artery and vein for better view and attach the arterial tube and lead embalming fluid into the artery.”

“Go ahead.”

He watches closely, not moving away. He can predict her movements and adjust himself only when necessary. 

“And now the injection of fluid displaces the blood and the drain tube ejects blood from the vein.”

“Very good. You’ve learned a considerable amount in your time here.”

She turns to face him, a proud smile on her face. 

“I truly do enjoy having you here with me.” He says moving a piece of loose hair out of her face. 

“I suppose that is a good thing. It would be terrible if you have grown tired of me.”

“I will never tire of you.”

They hold each other's gaze for a moment longer. “I believe that we should get back to our guest and begin with the cavity now.”

She turns her attention back to their guest before reaching for the scalpel again.

“For cavity embalming a horizontal incision needs to be made..” as she begins to press into the flesh. Undertaker presses himself closer to her, taking a hold of her hand that is holding the scalpel.

“You are too high up. This incision needs to lower on the abdomen near the naval.” He says.

Moving her hand along with his own, he shows her where she should begin cutting but even then he doesn’t move away. Keeping his hand placed gently on hers moving along with her own movements. When the incision is complete he takes the scalpel from her, setting it aside.

“Lastly, I will insert the trocar into the cavity to puncture the organs and fill them with embalming fluid.”

“That would be correct dear.”

 Undertaker watches as she completes the procedure. It takes a bit of time for the bodily fluid to drain while the embalming fluid replaces it so it is a good time for them to take a break.

“Alright dearie. Let's have some tea. We can come back to this later.”

After their tea break (C/N) went back to the guest, she removed all of the tools and equipment, setting them to the side for cleaning and sanitizing before starting sutures. She focuses diligently sewing in perfectly precise rows of sutures.

“Breathtaking…” Undertaker whispers to himself observing her work.”

“Did you say something?”

“Your work is exceptional.”

“Thank you sir . High compliments coming from you.”

***

A few days pass before Undertaker hears from his contact. They bring him some paperwork about who exactly she was before and perhaps he can finally piece together what happened. The page reads (F/N, L/N) Born xx-xx-1817 Death xx-xx-1838. There was family information, not too much and not that he cared. Her only other living relative is the woman who would have been her younger sister that he met at the funeral recently. Really the only reason he was able to gather this information. The most important information he found was her supposed death date. It was a date that meant a great deal to him as well. It was the date he freed himself from the shackles of being a grim reaper. He remembers that day vividly. He fought hard to escape and laid waste in the aftermath of the havoc. He had been planning his departure for quite some time and on that day he had no intention of being stopped. But in the end although his skin left marred with scars he was free. Aside from the scars and his death scythe the Undertaker had in his possession one last memento from his time as a grim reaper. He doesn’t know why he kept it; he hadn't even taken it with him intentionally. Rushes up to his bedroom and rummages through a trunk until he finds it. Sitting on the ground next to the open trunk, ledger in hand, it is his old soul retrieval list. 

That day, he had no intention of retrieving any souls and most of the pages had been lost in the scuffle. But when he opened it just one page remained. Although wearing with time it was still legible. A photo showing her beautiful smile, followed by name, DOB, expected date of death and lastly remarks on her expected death. The expected date of death and cause of death in the remarks both have a strike through them with no additional information. And there was never any updated death information. 

Undertaker was left in disbelief that he was actually the cause of her state. “I can’t believe she was actually right.” He laughs to himself, thinking of when she said that perhaps the reason she was still amongst the living was because her soul had just never been retireved.

“Who was right?” He hears her ask, coming over to see what he was doing. 

“Sit with me, won’t you dearie.” He pats the floor next to him. 

She comes to sit beside him. And he brings a hand up to cup her face, gently rubbing his thumb over her cheek.”

“I have something of great importance to share with you.” 

Although unable to see his face in its entirety she has learned over time how to read even the slightest changes in his expression. 

“There is something bothering you.” She says matter of factly.”

He takes a moment and leans forward to capture her lips. He pulls back to see her completely flustered face and can’t help but break out in a fit of laughter.

“Oh you’re terrible.” She says, swatting at him before moving to leave. 

He reaches out to keep her from leaving. “My apologies. But your reaction was just too hilarious to not laugh.” 

He tilts his head back pushing the hair from his face. She was in awe seeing his entire face for the first time. Getting closer she runs her fingers along the scar covering his face and is even more surprised when he opens his eyes to look down at her. She is left mesmerized, not breaking eye contact.

“If I asked you, would you stay here with me?”

With a large smile and no hesitation, “Of course I will.”

“You asked no questions, You shouldn’t agree so precariously just for my sake.”

“Are you blind? After all this time… really… have you not noticed.” She says with a huff, sitting back to look at him. “Is it not obvious?”

“No, it is not obvious. Please inform me of what I am missing” He says feigning ignorance. 

“I am here with you because this is where I want to be.” 

“Even if you could find the truth.” 

“Are you not the one who said it was for the best that I stay here? That a ‘dead’ person walking about would not be well received. What good would finding out the truth do? Where really could I go?.” 

“So if I told you that I found out who you really are, you wouldn’t want to know.”

“I know who I am, the past holds nothing of importance to me now. You are stuck with me.” 

Undertaker sits up to bring himself closer to her. “ So you would choose to spend your life in a place like this?”

“So long as you are here with me.” 

Undertaker grabs her to bring her closer to him and presses his lips to hers once again. When she wraps her arms around his shoulders he is quick to deepen the kiss, embracing her firmly holding her to him. 

[sepulchralblues]

You Were My Gravity

Ahh it’s Neil’s birthday and in honour of that I have a not-so-little ficlet that I wrote and I’m really excited to share it.

Something to note: Andrew’s past is entirely different from canon in this AU, and it shows in his relationships and interactions here.

Title - Gravity by Against the Current

Airports, in Andrew Minyard’s esteemed opinion, were hell in its finest form on earth. And airplanes? Metal death traps that took man where he wasn’t meant to go? They were much, much worse.

Really, if humans were meant to fly, they'd have been born with wings and pneumatic bones. But they certainly weren’t, were they?

The universe was conspiring against Andrew, because clearly it believed flying was a just and righteous activity for humans to undertake.

Why was the universe against him, you ask?

Well, because he had a twin.

Or rather, he had a twin who was getting married in Chicago. Couldn’t have been New York, where Andrew lived, or in Boston, which he could comfortably drive down to and back from on the same day.

No, it had to be in the city where the majority of his fiancée’s family lived.

No sacrifices to be made for poor Andrew Minyard, best man, that would prevent him from getting on an airplane.

And to think Andrew had planned such a brilliant wedding gift. First-class, really. Aaron would never top it if Andrew ever actually got married.

Perhaps the only saving grace of this entire godforsaken trip would be the gorgeous redhead in the queue in front of him.

Some people, Andrew knew, were just born pretty, and this man was one of them.

With a face chiselled like that of a Greek god’s, and long, lean legs that Andrew wanted wrapped around his waist, the man was probably the closest approximation to a walking wet dream.

Andrew was not drooling, thank you very much.

He watched as the man lifted his suitcase onto the conveyor belt for check-in luggages, and studiously noted the flex of his bicep.

Another counter opened up and forced Andrew to tear his gaze away from Greek God Man.

When he was done, he looked around the noisy airport floor for the man, but he was nowhere to be found.

Andrew held back an unhappy sigh. At least his perfect memory would serve to remind him of the beauty that had graced this airport.

Andrew dragged his suitcase onto the escalator, drumming his hands on his legs.

He spotted an interesting magazine in the shelf on the first floor, and immediately diverted his path towards it.

Security check could wait one minute for Andrew to grab a copy of Condé Nast Traveller.

He had almost reached the rack when someone crashed into him.

Andrew went sprawling. He landed on his ass in the most unflattering way. A hot flush worked its way into his ears, turning them bright red.

The flush spread to his cheeks when he saw that the person he had bumped into was none other than Greek God Man.

Oh, for the love of all things unholy. Why did this have to happen to him?

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” cursed the man, and Jesus fucking Christ Andrew must have done something grievously wrong in a past life, because that was a British accent right there.

It was truly a wonder he didn’t pop a boner in the middle of the airport.

“Here, let me help you up,” said the man. He pushed himself up to his feet and stretched a hand out to Andrew, who was still sitting on the floor like it was a feather-downed bed and not a cold marble tile.

Andrew swallowed, willed some cool into himself, and grasped the man’s hand.

He was not paying attention to the muscles of the other man’s forearm. He was not.

Andrew blinked hard and turned to straighten his suitcase. He noticed one corner of the top zipper was a little open and he pulled it shut.

“Sorry,” said the man again. “I was looking at my phone and walking, and I do really hate it when people do that, can’t believe I didn’t see you there. You’re not hurt, are you?”

Andrew cleared his throat. “No. I’m fine.”

The man grinned at that, as if what Andrew said was an inside joke. His smile was a little crooked. Andrew found it mildly adorable.

Honestly, fuck this guy for making Andrew think the word ‘adorable’.

“Oh, hey,” the man said, glancing at the ticket Andrew held in his hand. He pulled his own ticket out of his back pocket.

It had the same gate number and destination.

“Same flight,” said Greek God Man.

He had committed truly heinous crimes. Mass murder. Mutilation. Torture.

“Chicago is a horrible place. No one in their right mind should ever visit it,” Andrew said.

Greek God Man snorted. “What has Chicago ever done to you?”

“House too many people of the same family.”

Greek God Man raised an eyebrow, so Andrew elaborated.

“The wedding I have been coerced into attending is populated by residents of Chicago. Apparently, that was good enough reason for it to be held in Chicago.”

Now he looked amused. Andrew smothered the thrill in his stomach that came from putting a smile on those incredibly kissable lips.

“Wow. Let’s burn Chicago to the ground, shall we?”

“Oh, gladly,” muttered Andrew.

“Well. I won’t bother you any longer,” Greek God Man said, backing away slowly. “Guess I’ll see you on the flight…”

“Andrew,” he introduced.

“Andrew.” The man smiled. “I’m Neil. It was nice to meet you.”

With that Neil backed away, leaving Andrew stunned and shell-shocked by his suitcase.

Was that conversation just social niceties or was Andrew right to read into it, that Neil may have been flirting with him?

Reading into it. Definitely. With a face like that, why would he flirt with Andrew?

Security check was its usual hustle and bustle. Boots off. Gadgets out. Scanner beeping. Ticket stamped. Bag collected. Boots on.

And unbelievably, incredibly, walking right into Neil again.

This time it was at the coffee shop. Andrew had just collected his very creamy, very sugary drink and stepped out of the queue with one hand on his luggage. As he removed the paper lid to blow on his drink, his suitcase bumped into someone’s leg, and nearly caused him to spill burning hot coffee on his fingers.

“Fuck,” he swore, carefully turning to grab his suitcase.

“Hello again,” Neil said, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “It seems we were meant to bump into each other one way or another.”

Andrew hated the heat that infused his cheeks when he said, “Neil,” in a calm, non-strangled-sounding tone.

“Andrew.” Neil glanced at Andrew’s coffee and wrinkled his nose as if the drink had offended him. “What is that?”

Andrew looked at the paper cup in his hands and then back at Neil. Slowly, he said, “My coffee?”

“That’s not coffee,” Neil snorted. “That’s a monstrosity.”

No one insulted Andrew’s drink. Not even Neil of the Greek God-like face.

“You can talk to me again when you make better life choices. Drinks like these are the right way to have coffee.” With that Andrew turned away and started walking towards the gate.

Neil called out from behind him, “Our gate is in the opposite direction!”

Spitefully, Andrew kept moving in the same direction. Neil could shut it.

Right before he turned the corner, Andrew swore he heard a chuckle come from near the coffee shop.

—

The plane was unusually empty. Apart from Andrew and wretched, gorgeous Neil who had all the wrong tastes in drinks, there were maybe six other passengers.

In hindsight, he probably should have found this odder than he did. At the time, he was thrilled there were going to be less people who would see him fighting off his anxiety.

It really wasn’t Andrew’s day at all because his seat was pretty fucking close to Neil’s, which meant the redheaded menace that had followed him around the airport struck up a conversation as soon as Andrew sat down.

“So,” Neil said, leaning against the armrest and towards the aisle separating the two of them as the plane started moving onto the runway. “Whose wedding were you coerced into attending?”

Andrew regretted every decision that had led up to this point. “My twin brother’s.”

Neil cocked his head. “Twins, huh.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow in question.

“I’ve never met someone who has a twin,” he explained.

Whatever Andrew was going to say in response to that was swallowed by the sound of the plane’s engines as they fired up and the plane started moving faster and faster.

The pen Andrew had taken out of his backpack was clutched in his hand. His knuckles squeezed around it so tightly they turned white. His fingertips dug deep into his skin. There would be half-moon marks left for a few hours.

There was a crushing pressure on his chest as the plane tilted upwards. Repeating in Andrew’s head was a litany of prayers and curses jumbled into one another to form a chant he couldn’t recite again for the life of him. Even with his perfect memory.

Everything felt painful until his ears popped. His stomach had been left behind on the ground, and his intestines had knotted themselves together thoroughly.

“Hey,” Neil said, cutting through the fog in Andrew’s head. He didn’t wilt under the force of the glare Andrew sent him. "If it makes you feel better, fewer than twenty planes crash every year and it's not always due to the weather. Sometimes pilots are just unreliable. I'm sure it's a quick death either way."

“What,” Andrew ground out.

Neil pointed at the pen in his hands that he was almost denting. “You’re afraid of heights.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re still afraid of heights.”

Andrew wanted to say fuck you again, but he chose to stay silent.

It wasn’t long before the air hostess walked out handing out drinks. Andrew got himself a nice whiskey and took a long sip.

Beside him, Neil turned her offer down to ask for a glass of water instead.

Although he wasn’t apparently afraid of heights, Neil grew more jittery as the flight proceeded. His foot would not stop tapping and he kept zipping and unzipping his jacket.

When Andrew got up to use the washroom, Neil tensed up so suddenly, Andrew nearly asked him what was wrong. But he relaxed almost immediately, so Andrew kept quiet.

Those two minutes out of his seat shouldn’t have changed Andrew’s life the way they did.

The scene on the plane when he stepped out of the washroom was infinitely different and exactly the same, all at once.

All passengers apart from Neil were slumped in their seats. Neil himself was leaning against the armrest of the aisle seat between his and Andrew’s seats. He was holding two little bottles of vodka.

Andrew carefully stepped up to him, senses prickling and on high alert.

Neil handed him a bottle before he spoke. “There’s a little issue with the pilots.” He raised a palm before Andrew stopped breathing altogether. “It’s alright. It’s not a huge problem. I can land this plane just fine. You won’t even notice the difference.”

Andrew blinked at him. He uncapped the bottle and swallowed the drink in a few mouthfuls without pulling off.

He pointed the empty bottle at Neil. “Did you just say you were going to fly this plane?”

Neil nodded.

Andrew glanced down at his feet. “The one we’re in.”

Now Neil frowned. It was a small thing, creasing the skin between his eyebrows. Andrew wanted to press his lips to that frown.

“Yeah, this plane.”

Maybe it was the shock, maybe it was the alcohol kicking in. Andrew thought out loud. “So if you’re here talking to me, and the pilots are having ‘issues’, who’s flying this thing?”

Neil scratched the back of his head. “At the moment, autopilot. But that’s not gonna last for long, so what I need you to do is calmly get back in your seat and buckle up nice and secure, got it?”

Andrew felt hysteria bubble up inside him. This guy was joking, right? Andrew had hit his head on the toilet. He was passed out on that disgusting seat right now. He wasn’t having this conversation with Neil.

This plane wasn’t fucking flying itself with no pilots to man it.

“—rew? Andrew?” Neil snapped his fingers in front of his face. Andrew blinked at him.

“Did you hear what I said? You need to get in your seat and fasten that seat belt now.” Neil’s voice had taken on a hard edge.

No way. If dream-Neil was going to fly a plane, Andrew was going to see it happen. He couldn’t be affected by a fear of heights in his dreams, right?

“No. I want to come to the cockpit too,” he said.

Neil sighed as if Andrew was being difficult, but he kept glancing towards the front of the plane.

Andrew looked too.

The door swung open to reveal two men leaning out of their seats. There was red on one of their foreheads.

Were they dead?

It had to be a dream. A really weird dream.

Neil ran his hands through his hair. He let out a frustrated noise and said, “Fine. But you will get your ass into a seat and fasten the goddamn seat belt, got it?”

Deliriously, Andrew nodded.

The cockpit was a mess. Neil shoved one of the pilots out of his seat and sat down, reaching for the headset with one hand and the controls with the other.

“Andrew,” he said. “What did I say? Sit. The fuck. Down.”

Fine then, if he was going to get annoying. Andrew sat on a seat towards the back of the cockpit and fastened the seatbelt. This one was different from the usual passenger seat belts. It hooked from the top and pushed Andrew’s torso firmly back into the seat.

Neil was saying something into the headset, but Andrew couldn’t make out any of the words.

“Andrew?” Neil called out. “This is going to be a rough landing!”

“What?” Andrew said. “We’re not there yet.” He glanced out of the window and swallowed back a wave of nausea. “We’re in the middle of some farmland!”

“We weren’t going to land in an airport. Airports are too dangerous right now.”

“What? What does that mean?”

Neil tossed the headset aside and grabbed the steering wheel sort of thing with both hands. “It means hold on!”

‘Rough landing’ didn’t cover it. Andrew was bruised in places he didn’t think could bruise, and his ass felt glued to the seat.

It still felt like a dream, but somewhere in Andrew’s head he was starting to recognise that he hadn’t been knocked out on a toilet seat.

He was actually here, in the middle of some random farm, with Neil, who it turned out was some sort of secret agent or something who could land a fucking plane.

Neil dragged them to a halt a few hundred metres from the plane crash and sat him down on a large rock.

“Listen very carefully to me,” he said, kneeling down in front of Andrew. “They’re going to come for you.”

The alcohol was really kicking in now because it seemed like Andrew was hearing things.

Come for him? Really, Neil?

Andrew squinted at the other man, but he didn’t say anything.

Neil pushed away from him and reached into his bag, which he had somehow recovered along with Andrew’s. He pulled out a white bandage.

Tugging up the edge of his shirt, he pressed his fingers to the bloody patch on his skin. He hissed and uncapped another bottle of alcohol.

Idly, Andrew wondered when he’d pilfered them from the air hostess after refusing to drink at all.

He poured some of the alcohol over the wound and bit his lip to mask the pain.

Andrew asked, “Were you shot or something?”

“Grazed by the bullet, actually,” Neil answered.

He peeled off the protective covering of the bandage and pressed it to the wound, sealing it from edge to edge. He took another sip of alcohol and tossed the bottle aside.

He pulled out yet another one from his bag, and this time handed it to Andrew.

“Drink that,” he said, cracking open the seal.

Wordlessly, Andrew complied. He didn’t know if it was an after-effect of whatever that experience on the plane was, or if his head really was pounding so much he reasoned a drink could make it better.

“Hey,” Neil tilted his chin up. Andrew swatted his hand aside, so Neil said, “Look at me.”

Andrew looked at him.

“They’re going to come for you. You weren’t supposed to be on that plane. I don’t know why you were. Fuck,” he swore. Neil ran a hand through his hair. “They must have seen the switch on the cameras. Fuck, that was a beginner’s mistake. Shit.”

“What switch?” Andrew asked. His vision was slowly becoming blurry. “Who’s coming?”

“Never mind that.” Neil tapped his fingers on the rock Andrew was sitting on. “Think of them as the bad guys.”

“And you’re the good guy?” Andrew asked wryly.

Neil smiled. “Well of course.”

That smile was wiped away instantly by a more serious expression. Andrew alone mourned its loss.

“They’re going to want to take you away. They’ll use words like ‘safe’ and ‘secure’ and ‘package’. Andrew.” Neil snapped his fingers in front of Andrew’s face.

So rude, really.

“Andrew. Don’t answer their questions. Definitely don’t get into a car with them. And don’t, under any circumstances, say you know my name. Got it?”

Andrew’s vision was nearly black by now. “Did you drug me?” He asked, words slurring.

Neil almost looked apologetic. “I did.”

“I hate you.”

He shrugged. “That’s perfectly acceptable. Did you hear anything I just said?”

Annoyed, and tired of being treated like a little kid, Andrew said, “They use the words ‘safe’, ‘secure’ and ‘package’. Don’t talk to them, get in a car with them or say your name. I’m not an idiot, Neil.”

Neil chuckled. “No, you’re not, Andrew. No, you’re not.”

He rose to his feet and backed away from Andrew. “It was a pleasure meeting you. I’m sorry about the mess.”

Andrew wanted to say something. The words were right there, on his tongue, but the darkness crept in, and his vision turned black.

The last thing he remembered was the feeling of strong arms lifting him up and carrying him away.

He was too far gone for the panic to set in.

[mickules]

There will be a comic of Daiya survived the biker crash?

The crash was bad Daiya's injuries are concentrated to his abdomen and legs. He got some gnarly road rash, broke his right badly in several places, needing the bones to be pinned, and shattered the kneecap in his left leading to an above the knee amputation. When Mondo got the news that Daiya was going to survive, but hearing the extent of his injuries; Mondo made the self-destructive choice to essentially banish himself from the Diamonds, forcing himself to believe that was the only way he could 'right' his wrong. Of course it was actually a way for him not to have to face up to his intense guilt, and expectation of Daiya's hatred. Daiya of course WAS angry, not so much Mondo but the whole situation. He was scared and angry and in pain, but the longer he went without a word from Mondo, his anger and distress began to dissolve into a fear for Mondo's wellbeing- by the time Mondo comes back, Daiya's already forgiven him in his mind. The gang managed to spin Mondo's absence somehow into some sort of 'heroic quest for vengeance' that painted him as coming to Daiya's rescue after the crash - a tall tale that Daiya isn't aware of, and that Mondo cannot seem to quell, so he still develops imposter syndrome and an inferiority complex, although not as pronounced as in the game.

By a twist of fate, it's this injury that leads Daiya into his legit post-diamond business. Since he lost his left leg, he could no longer ride his bike as he was unable to change the gears with his left foot. He'd had rat bikes before so he'd dabbled in jerry-rigged repairs, but modifying his bike so he could change gears with his hands was a huge undertaking which he threw himself into. He ended up loving the challenge and started up a garage for specialised motorcycle customisations.

Daiya now walks with a noticeable limp, and on rare occasions he uses his crutches when his right leg acts up. The fact he uses a prosthesis for his left isn't obvious unless he runs.

(fun fact! Daiya's injuries here are based on an old family friend's who had to have his leg amputated after a bad bike crash on the Isle of man, ironically whist spectating, not participating in, the notoriously dangerous Isle of Man TT bike race)

@tea0-0stache (!! :D Many Thanks!) I have Araki and Josuke Higashikata to thank for prebby Daiya

---

@mezzybaby-art [a minicomic from this ask dump] plus [where Daiya and Takaaki get the idea from] Daiya is a terrible dancer, and that was BEFORE his injuries from the bike accident. He's the type to prop up the bar, but he's not too proud to embarrass himself on the dancefloor on the rare occasion.

Mondo definitely has some . . . less than tactful questions for Daiya, which ends up being a somewhat awkward, but productive conversation about how Daiya can show his support for any gay diamonds by being happy to be seen in a gay bar, how he can redirect any hate to himself rather than the member if any rival gangs take issue with it. By painting being a visible ally as an example of positive masculinity, it begins to chisel away at Mondo's insecurities. Eventually the conversation steers toward the question of "but if you and Officer Ishimaru were bein' good allies and shit. . . why'd Takemichi send me the video?" this leads to an even longer, even more awkward conversation that culminates in Takemichi accidentally blurting out his orientation to a stupefied but supportive Mondo.

Essentially: having little to no understanding of lgbt+ things previously, Mondo leaves with the new sensation that a real man isn't a bigot; and the understanding that if a total badass like Takemichi could be gay, then he's clearly gotten the wrong idea from somewhere about what being 'gay' is. Maybe it's worth looking into . . . (throughout the conversation Daiya is desperately trying to hint that it's totally fine if maybe Mondo comes under that lgbt+ diamond umbrella, that Daiya's support extends to any of Mondo's friends *hint hint* from school, but it goes totally over his head.)

Takaaki meanwhile has to explain to Taka what a Drag Queen is.

(note the [pride] comic I did exists separately from this ^ main non-despair au, as I crave mutual pining idiots, so they aren't nearly as self aware here XD)

Mondo having to work through and unlearn his toxic masculinity is definitely one of the more interesting aspects of his character - especially as it is unambiguously the source of his downfall, which is a rather rare acknowledgement. Daiya had to have been pretty young when they formed the gang. I can easily see a doctrine like "don't hit girls" being misguided but made in good faith. Over time that kind of unnuanced phrasing coupled with how Daiya was put on a pedestal, could easily morph it into the absolutist stance that Mondo takes: "I shouldn't hit girls" and "I shouldn't bully the weak" becomes: "I shouldn't hit girls BECAUSE they're weak" - which ain't it chief. I don't think Daiya has as many hang-ups as Mondo does, although I've no doubt he still has his own preconceptions. But for what it's worth I think he'd be more receptive than Mondo when he's challenged on them, since he's not weighed down by the same peer pressure from the gang. Daiya can't help but be impressed by Sakura's sheer grit; it deserves nothing less than his full respect.

(next set of asks [some more pairing asks (and a lil fem!ishimondo)]) (previous set of asks [about taka’s habits & the thh kids])

[abliafina-18782]

English fancast for a Black Butler live action adaptation

So I rewatched the Japanese live action version of it, it's not a bad movie per say. The modern setting definitely works, but I'd love to see one set in the late 19th century following the Ripper Arc!

Disclaimer: I haven't picked out anyone for Ciel or Lizzy because I think their roles would be perfect for up and coming actors. (In my version, they'd also be aged up to 16 at least.) I haven't picked out anyone for the servants or other smaller roles for the same reason.

ALRIGHT LETS GO✨

Lao

He doesn't have a very big role in the Ripper Arc, but I think it's important to include his character nonetheless to introduce the criminal underworld. I think Lewis Tan would make a great choice for Lao. Now admittedly, I've only seen him in Deadpool 2, but he's a martial artist and stunt coordinator and I think those skills would come well in hand for playing Lao. He's got that mysterious look about him, yet there's still that knowing glint we'd look forward to see when Lao actually gets serious.

Viscount of Druitt

James McAvoy. The range of this man. If anyone is going to portray our favourite flamboyant Viscount, it's this guy. Watch Split and you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

Undertaker

Comedic timing would be essential to playing the Undertaker and I think Hugh Grant would be an excellent choice. I know for a fact if the Undertaker watched The Gentleman he'd be hollering. Of course Hugh is in his 60s now (so if this became a series I don't know if he'd be too old by the time we reach Campania) but I think his charisma and stage presence would more than make up for it.

William T. Spears

Will Poulter, because his name is William. He's got very nice chiseled features that I think would suit William's appearance. He also had nice moments of deadpan humour in We're The Millers that fits William's character to a T (see what I did there).

Grell Sutcliff

Our favourite lady in red. Hunter Schafer is perfect for this role. I know how we all felt about Jules after season 2 of Euphoria, but it's exactly that complexity and nuance we'd need to give Grell a fair movie portrayal.

Madam Red

I had plenty of different actresses in mind for Angelina but the one I thought would fit the best is Rachel Weisz. She's got the beauty and charm to play an aristocratic elite, given the right material I think she would make a killer (😉) performance as Madam Red.

Sebastian Michaelis

We need no less than one hell of an actor to play Sebastian. Christian Bale is exactly what we'd need and I will take no criticism. What's the guy not done? I think he could perfectly capture and explore more of Sebastian's demonic side. As we saw in Thor Love and Thunder, he could also bring that extra layer of being a parental figure and protector over Ciel. I also just want to see him kick ass wearing a tailored suit.

Now remember kids, this is all in good fun and I wrote the post for shits and giggles. If you dislike my choices, that's fine and I couldn't care less. If you wanna continue the discussion, please interact and tell me your fancasts for the characters or others!

[petaledwitnesses]

Undertaker

by Patricia Smith When a bullet enters the brain, the head explodes. I can think of no softer warning for the mothers who sit doubled before my desk, knotting their smooth brown hands, and begging, fix my boy, fix my boy. Here's his high school picture. And the smirking, mildly mustachioed player in the crinkled snapshot looks nothing like the plastic bag of boy stored and dated in the cold room downstairs. In the picture, he is cocky and chiseled, clutching the world by the balls. I know the look. Now he is flaps of cheek, slivers of jawbone, a surprised eye, assorted teeth, bloody tufts of napped hair. The building blocks of my business.

So I swallow hard, turn the photo face down and talk numbers instead. The high price of miracles startles the still-young woman, but she is prepared. I know that she has sold everything she owns, that cousins and uncles have emptied their empty bank accounts, that she dreams of her baby in tuxedoed satin, flawless in an open casket, a cross or blood red rose tacked to his fingers, his halo set at a cocky angle. I write a figure on a piece of paper and push it across to her while her chest heaves with hoping. She stares at the number, pulls in a slow weepy breath: "Jesus."

But Jesus isn't on this payroll. I work alone until the dim insistence of morning, bent over my grisly puzzle pieces, gluing, stitching, creating a chin with a brushstroke. I plop glass eyes into rigid sockets, then carve eyelids from a forearm, an inner thigh. I plump shattered skulls, and paint the skin to suggest warmth, an impending breath. I reach into collapsed cavities to rescue a tongue, an ear. Lips are never easy to recreate.

And I try not to remember the stories, the tales the mothers must bring me to ease their own hearts. Oh, they cry, my Ronnie, my Willie, my Michael, my Chico. It was self-defense. He was on his way home, a dark car slowed down, they must have thought he was someone else. He stepped between two warring gang members at a party. Really, he was trying to get off the streets, trying to pull away from the crowd. He was just trying to help a friend. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fix my boy; he was a good boy. Make him the way he was.

But I have explored the jagged gaps in the boy's body, smoothed the angry edges of bulletholes. I have touched in in places no mother knows, and I have birthed his new face. I know he believed himself invincible, that he most likely hissed "Fuck you, man" before the bullets lifted him off his feet. I try not to imagine his swagger, his lizard-lidded gaze, his young mother screaming into the phone.

She says she will find the money, and I know this is the truth that fuels her, forces her to place one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, I want to take her down to the chilly room, open the bag and shake its terrible bounty onto the gleaming steel table. I want her to see him, to touch him, to press her lips to the flap of cheek. The woman needs to wither, finally, and move on.

We both jump as the phone rattles in its hook. I pray it's my wife, a bill collector, a wrong number. But the wide, questioning silence on the other end is too familiar. Another mother needing a miracle. Another homeboy coming home.

[qqueenofhades]

Fake dating AU for the idiot Heartrender Husbands! I beg of you!

As ever, I am preposterously easy to enable, and since they will eventually make an appearance in A Phantom in Enchanting Light, I decided to write their backstory for that verse. Also, “fake dating but it’s only fake because they’re both idiots” is an Aesthetic. I love them.

Moscow, 2010

The guy is most definitely late. Fedyor got here early – probably too early, since they’re supposed to meet at eleven and he arrived by quarter past ten – but it’s now 11:08 and still no sign of him. Fedyor has claimed a corner table in the coffee shop just off Red Square with its splendid old tsarist-era décor, surrounded by the murmur of conversation and clicking laptop keys as his fellow Muscovites get on with their daily lives. The rule is fifteen minutes, yes? If Ivan Sakharov doesn’t show up in another seven, Fedyor is free to bail. But it’s been so long, and Nadia, the mutual friend responsible for this set-up, has begged Fedyor to give him a chance. And since it is understandably difficult to date as a gay man in Russia, Fedyor’s patience must be tested longer than usual. He sips his flat white and glances at the door again. Still no Ivan.

Fedyor opens his phone and checks the photo that Nadia sent him, trying to decide if this man is attractive enough to compensate for his tardiness. It’s hard to tell. It is 11:14, and he is absolutely about to pack up and leave by no later than 11:25, when a tall, grim-faced man in a red windbreaker strides in. He stops short, glances around, spots Fedyor, and powers over with such single-minded determination that Fedyor fears he’s about to be arrested. “Hello,” he says curtly. “I am Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov. I believe you are waiting for me?”

“Ah – ? I am Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, yes,” he manages, offering a hand, which Ivan crushes in a Terminator grip. “It’s – nice to meet you?”

Ivan snorts, pulls out the other chair, and drapes his jacket over it, then orders a small plain coffee (black like his soul, evidently). Then he returns, sits down, and claps his hands as if he is calling a misbehaving class to attention. “Where are you from?” he barks. “How long have you lived in Moscow?!”

Fedyor continues to gape. He’s genuinely not sure if this is Ivan attempting to get to know him on speed-run, or if he’s being interrogated by a FSB agent who can’t even act for two seconds like he’s not. It’s ominously possible. Dmitry Medvedev is the president and there are hopes that there might be a social liberalization, but the Orthodox patriarchs and the far right have been increasingly agitating against Russia’s embattled LGBTQ community, and things could just as easily get worse. Is this a setup or a setup? Nadia would never knowingly put him in a dangerous situation, of course, but maybe she was likewise fooled. You’d think that if this was a sting, they could have found a guy who was actually capable of pretending to be on a date, but maybe that’s the point? What the hell is going on here?

Fedyor opens his mouth, then shuts it. As a matter of fact, he is originally from Nizhny Novgorod, but moved to Moscow for university and has lived here for seven years, but if Ivan is with the FSB, he probably already knows that. Is this a trick? Is Ivan trying to match him to some police intelligence file or see if he’s a liar? Fedyor is seriously about to get up and walk out (or maybe sprint out) when Ivan, perhaps realizing that he’s blowing this to a heretofore unprecedented degree, says, “Sorry. I am from Krasnoyarsk. I enjoy rugby.”

Of course he likes rugby if he’s from Krasnoyarsk. This is a disaster. “Uh, what side?”

“Krasny Yar,” says Ivan, in the tone of a man about to stand up and belt out the fight song. “I also enjoy football. Yenisey Krasnoyarsk. Though I have begun supporting Lokomotiv since I came to Moscow. That was five years ago.”

So, he’s definitely a hooligan. Fedyor does his best to keep smiling. In the flesh, Ivan is definitely not unattractive. His hair is crisp and brown, there are glints of hazel in his eyes, and he has that hard, chiseled handsomeness that Fedyor always ends up getting suckered into. Except for the fact that he is lively, extroverted, and outgoing, likes clubbing and mingling and making friends, and this man does not appear to have ever heard of a single one of those things. What was Nadia thinking? It’s not like her to whiff this badly. Or did she have to be so circumspect in asking Ivan if he would like to meet Fedyor that, even if he’s not an undercover cop, he is in fact clueless about the true nature of this social engagement? Thinks it’s guys being pals?

“Did you have somewhere you were coming from earlier?” Fedyor asks, after another excruciating silence. “Is that why you were – ?”

“My apologies. The bus was late. I am normally very punctual.” Ivan scowls ferociously, as if the bus ever dares to do such a thing again, he will personally murder it. “What hobbies do you enjoy, Fedyor Mikhailovich?”

“I think you can call me Fedyor, yes?” They are clearly nowhere near “Fedya” and “Vanya” just yet, but “Fedyor Mikhailovich” always makes Fedyor look around warily for his grumpiest professor at MSU. He tries to think of subtle conversational gambits to find out what Ivan knows, without being obvious. Oh God, he really should just cut his losses, but something – perhaps the pathetic conviction that even a terrible date is better than no date at all – keeps him in his seat. Presuming that he does get out of here alive, he will call up Nadia straightaway and ask her many, many questions, mostly consisting of Why??! “Well,” Fedyor says at last. “I like having fun?”

“I also enjoy fun,” Ivan says, stone-faced. “I am very funny.”

Russian humor is normally extremely deadpan, to the point that Fedyor does wonder if Ivan is in fact a diabolical troll genius, but somehow he doesn’t think so. The rest of the conversation proceeds in this fashion, but by the end of an hour, Fedyor still has no idea if he has just been on a date or a trip to the gulag. Ivan gets up, administers another bone-crushing handshake, thanks him for his time, and marches out. Fedyor can practically hear the Red Army Choir thundering some patriotic anthem in his wake.

When he gets home that afternoon, Fedyor is resolved to write off the whole thing, except it was weirdly kind of not as bad as he first thought, maybe, somehow. If nothing else, he’s fascinated by this, like watching a slow-motion train crash. He takes out his phone with the intention of calling Nadia, only to see a text message from an unfamiliar number. When he opens it, it reads, Hello. Your company was agreeable today. Thank you. Perhaps we could meet again next week. Please reply yes or no. The message uses the formal styles of address, and some of the spellings are slightly old-fashioned. He has also signed it – Иван Сахаров – in case there might be some confusion with another Ivan the Terrible at Dating of Fedyor’s recent acquaintance. It is a bit like getting a text from the undertaker.

Fedyor stares at it, insanely tempted to burst out laughing, and finally, just because now he’s too curious to refuse, texts back his gracious acceptance. Still chuckling, he makes dinner, and then, as his phone pings with Ivan’s response, wonders in horror what on earth he is getting himself into.

This is how things continue for the next six weeks. Ivan and Fedyor meet up for the second time, stroll sedately around one of Moscow’s many city parks together, then part ways, and this time it’s Fedyor’s turn to ask if he would like to do it again. He isn’t sure exactly why, except that Ivan is unexpectedly easy to spend time with, and he nods in stoic approval of whatever Fedyor says. Of course, they follow the usual rules of dating which are especially important in Russia: don’t talk about politics, don’t talk about religion, don’t talk about America, don’t talk about Ukraine, don’t talk about Chechnya. From what Fedyor can glean, Ivan’s views tend to the doctrinaire, but he is surprisingly undogmatic, and willing to at least act as if he has an open mind. If he was an FSB agent, it feels like he would have busted Fedyor by now, but maybe he is waiting for him to do something unmistakably gay. That’s not it. Right?

Nadia calls, wanting to know how it’s going, and Fedyor grills her for forty minutes over whether Ivan is a law enforcement plant, a lonely guy looking for a friend, the world’s most method practical joker, or just extremely stupid. Nadia insists that he is actually very nice once you get to know him (HA, thinks Fedyor) and has no particular affection for either the ruling classes or the oligarchs. He can certainly be an acquired taste, but he is not evil.

Forced to accept it, still chickening out of asking Ivan whether he knows they’re dating, wondering if they are dating, if Ivan knows that Fedyor knows they’re dating, if Fedyor only thinks he knows that they are dating while they are not actually dating, or if Ivan thinks he knows that they’re dating while they’re… whatever the fresh-fried fuck is truly happening here, Fedyor trudges off for what has become his almost-weekly rendezvous with Ivan the-Maybe-Not-Quite-So-Terrible. They manage to have a few conversations verging on meaningful, and Fedyor has found himself telling Ivan about his family and Nizhny Novgorod and other such things. Fedyor likes to talk and Ivan likes to listen, though he breaks in now and again with a bone-dry quip. He’s still never what you would call loquacious, or easily forthcoming, but Fedyor likes that. Ivan is tough, complex, enigmatic, guarded, occasionally willing to let down his walls but only if the other person is worth it, and Fedyor finds, to his surprise, that he wants to be worth it. If this is a long-con mind game, he almost doesn’t care. (Almost.)

The problem, however, is that they’ve been seeing each other regularly for a month and a half and they haven’t gotten any closer than walking through a park, outdoors, in full view of their fellow comrades. Even the first time Fedyor takes the plunge and invites Ivan to his apartment, they sit three feet apart on the couch, watching a badly-Russian-subtitled version of Die Hard and providing critical commentary. Fedyor’s English is a lot more fluent than Ivan’s, and his middle-class family, while not exactly wealthy, is definitely better off than Ivan’s hardscrabble clan of miners and loggers in Siberia. That upbringing certainly does explain, to some degree, why Ivan is the way he is, and Fedyor wonders anxiously if Ivan views him as an insufferably posh city boy. Ivan barely finished high school and went straight to working in a Krasnoyarsk aluminum factory. He definitely did not faff around Moscow State University and attend global development seminars in Paris.

Nonetheless, despite their obvious differences, they do get along, and Fedyor is unable to deny the fact that he would, if it’s all right with everyone, like it to be more than that. Of course, finding out if Ivan knows, etc. etc., has been the paramount challenge, and there is no way to find out other than to go for it. Fedyor is 75% sure that they’ve been going steady for two months, but if it’s actually the other 25%, this is going to get awkward in a hurry. Is this essentially a fake relationship, or is it only fake because they’re both idiots?

After having duly commended his soul to God, Fedyor invites Ivan over on Saturday night. He rents a tiny flat by himself since he’s been burned on rooming with strangers, but Ivan is used to it by now, and it doesn’t feel too small with the two of them. Fedyor strains his limited culinary skills to cook supper, probably making his babushka cluck her tongue and sigh in a judgmental fashion back in Nizhny Novgorod, and they sit down and eat in silence for five minutes. Then Fedyor says, “Vanya?”

The consistent use of the diminutive has started sometime in the last few weeks, neither of them remember quite when. Ivan doesn’t correct him. “Yes?”

Fedyor clears his throat. “Do you…” He winces. “Do you… like me?”

“Yes?” Ivan says again, looking confused. “I would not have spent so much time with you if I did not, don’t you think? We are friends.”

“Yes, I know that we’re friends, but…” Fedyor looks at the ceiling. It doesn’t help, so he looks back at Ivan. “Are we… special friends?”

Ivan continues to look blank. “Are we?”

Fedyor resists the urge to tug at his collar, thinking that it’s a damn good thing that he didn’t go with his other idea of just leaning across the table and passionately kissing him. With absolutely no change of tone or expression, Ivan says, “Please explain. Special friends how?”

“Friends who want to…” Fedyor takes a deep breath. “Be… more than friends?”

“How?” Ivan orders again, ruthlessly. “Be clear, Fedya.”

“Are we maybe… boyfriends?” Fedyor’s voice squeaks on the word. “As in… we have feelings for each other that aren’t just… friendly? Like… feelings which are… romantic?”

Ivan continues to stare at him like a statue for several more seconds, and Fedyor contemplates the feasibility of tunneling directly through the floor of his apartment and running all the way to Latvia. Then at last, Ivan throws his head back and – startling Fedyor deeply – breaks into real, genuine, belly laughter, the kind that he has never heard from Ivan before. “Oh my,” he chortles, slapping the table. “Your face. You were sweating bullets.”

“WAIT, WHAT!?!” Fedyor pushes his chair back and stands up with a clatter, incandescently outraged. “Are you – were you messing with me?!!”

“Maybe a little,” Ivan says, wiping his eyes. “You know, all this time, I have not been sure if you are shy or a terrible prude. Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

“God’s Mother in Heaven – ” Fedyor feels another prick of disloyalty to his babushka for swearing on the Bogomater, but some people deserve it. All inhibitions forgotten, he charges at Ivan like a runaway train, as Ivan springs out of his own chair in readiness, and starts pounding on his chest in transports of fury. “You are the worst! You are the worst person ever! For two months, what have we been doing?! I have been afraid this whole time that maybe you don’t know what’s really going on, and now – ?! You are the worst!”

Ivan catches Fedyor’s flailing arms, holds them away from him, and picks him up bodily, swinging him around and pushing him against the wall. “Maybe I am just a dumb country boy from Siberia,” he remarks, “but even I am not that stupid, Fedyor Mikhailovich.”

“I hate you,” Fedyor pants, their faces and their mouths an inch away from each other. “Get out of my apartment.”

“Mmm?” Ivan cocks an eyebrow. Then he plants both hands on either side of Fedyor’s head, leans in, and deeply, savagely captures Fedyor’s mouth with his own.

Every remaining vestige of barely rational thought in Fedyor’s head evaporates in screaming shock. He still wants to shove Ivan away, knee him in the balls, or break a chair over his head, but if he did that, he would have to stop kissing him, and he can’t do that either. He moans, Ivan’s tongue takes the opportunity to slip into his mouth, their hands clutch and claw and their legs melt out from under them, they turn away or break contact only to gulp a breath before diving back in again, and the next time Fedyor is aware of anything, they have collapsed on his kitchen floor in a wrung-out, entangled, gasping heap. Ivan says in his ear, “Do you still want me to leave, Fedya?”

“No,” Fedyor manages. “Because now, I am really going to make you suffer.”

Ivan’s smile is dark and full of promise. He pulls back, gets to his feet, and holds out a hand. “Then I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”

(Ivan doesn’t leave Fedyor’s apartment that night. He doesn’t leave it the next night either. At the end of the week, Fedyor calls up Nadia and informs her that he hates her so much, and when they do next see each other, he’ll shake her by both shoulders and then thank her for introducing him to the no-good, truly awful, very bad love of his life.)

[fatefulfaerie]

Rest

A special fateful April birthday to @drsteggy !! I hope you like it!

There still wasn’t a night without a mare, that rode and galloped in the unconscious minds of tired heroes, the hooves of which silent as foggy brains filled with images of crimson blood, of a magenta pink that Zelda would never again call beautiful after her seventeenth birthday, of burnt greenery that spread rampant fire like the gossip-mongers spread lies.

Yet as the years went by, these nightmares were far less believed, although Link and Zelda both had a habit of clutching the other just a bit tighter when they woke up from one.

Link did so where he lay, one hand comfortably around Zelda’s torso and the other entangled in her hair. He breathed into way he cherished her ever so gently, melting into her figure with a sigh of relief breathing warm onto her pointed ear.

Half awake, with eyes half-lidded and seeing only the way her blonde hair looked in the moonlight, Link smiled at how the silver glow accentuated the numerable white hairs she insisted she wasn’t growing.

“You’re so beautiful,” Link said softly, just above a whisper. He ran his thumb up and down her side, where his hand already was, a motion he couldn’t help but do in tune with her breathing.

Link touched a kiss to her temple, that lingered with a softness that never seemed to end, even when Link returned his head to the pillow.

When Zelda awoke with the breaching sun, Link was fast asleep, even as the birds wished their own fellow kin a good morning.

By now Zelda had gotten fairly good at wriggling herself out of Link’s loose hold when need be, but there was no urgency any longer, no baby to nurse, no toddler to soothe, no child to clothe, no teenager to wake up, no young adult to converse with, no company to make breakfast for.

Staying here in his arms was simply lovely, Zelda bringing her arms to cover his with a smile and a blush upon her barely wrinkled face. If someone were to ask Link, he would say that in one hundred and thirty years, she hadn’t aged a day.

“Good morning, Link,” she said, feeling his breaths behind her. 

“Good morning,” she was surprised to hear in response. “No crisis?”

“Link,” Zelda said with a laugh. “Don’t you remember? Wendie left to explore Hyrule yesterday, and Elyjah has been happily married and living in Lurelin for six months now.”

“If I said I didn’t remember, could I go back to the time when they were just babies?” Link asked, his voice slightly muffled by his pillow. Zelda sighed into a warm smile.

“I know,” Zelda said. “I miss them too.”

“It used to seem like such an undertaking back then when they needed us for everything but now that the twins are all grown up…” Link paused. “I guess I just haven’t quite gotten used to them not needing us anymore.”

“Oh Link,” Zelda said as she turned her head and shoulders to face him, placing a hand on his somehow still chiseled jaw. “Of course they still need us. They need us to love and support them. They need us to be here for them. They need us just as much as we need to rest. They know we deserve it.”

Link brought his hand to hers where it rested on his face.

“How are you always so right?” Link asked rhetorically with a deep love in his ocean blue eyes. Zelda tipped her head with a giggle that truly hadn’t aged a day, still seventeen years old and echoing around Silent Princesses on hills with green frogs and knight attendants with a secret and yet blooming crush on their charge.

“I just am.”

[autolovecraft]

Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago.

He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died.

The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked.

For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Sawyer in their last illnesses. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he did not care to imagine. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground.

Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. Birch, being by temperament phlegmatic and practical, did not shout long; but proceeded to grope about for some tools which he recalled seeing in a corner of the tomb. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. Davis died. Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Why did you do it, Birch? Why did you do it, Birch?

Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground.

His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste.

He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude.

It may have been encouraging and to others may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door.

In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider.

In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door.

The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness.

Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep.

It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. Birch? Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform.

[friththetraveller]

woah hay i forgot to post this !!

this was just gonna be like a fun doodle supplement for ease of explanation to the campaign im running right now but i let myself keep drawinnng so it ended up being like ... a full-on micro ethnography sketchbook found in a druid enclave’s library on a tribe of friendly goblins instead lol

somewhere down the line i might finish up a copy of these in my usual art style but this was good fun to mess about with, and an excuse to play with some nice fine liners id just bought <.<

i’ll waffle a little more under the cut to save your dashboards :L

an art !! hurrah !!

SO basically i have a subrace homebrew table in my giant folders of Stuff

of the goblinoids your basic gob has the most subraces, and one especially rare one is Woodwose! my D&D contains a heaping cup of nuance because original 70s D&D was a Smashy Game and i like worldbuilding, so not ALL goblins of any subraces are inherently evil, but woodwose are m u c h more likely to coexist with their neighbours than use theft and bonks on the head as a survival strategy than your average bunch of goblins. i think of them as being softly furred like a greyhound with little to no head hair, opposed to the standard goblin which may be more wiry or sparse in hair in a human-like pattern

SO this is what these guys are :’> Neverwinter Woods’ resident band of Woodwose; traders in hard to reach goods from deep in the woods - a pretty dangerous undertaking for those who dont know the mysterious forest well. AND their most prized trade goods are the products of the deep forest bees, especially their honey  - deep and bright like maple syrup, tangy and piney, surprisingly sharp and unsweetened. It makes the most excellent mead in the Savage Territories, if not the world. some herbs the bees collect from can make the honey a little psychoactive if you know what to look for ... the supply channels are narrow and their trust is hard to gain, and they trade for specialist goods they have difficulty crafting themselves - such as metal for prized weapons, special food or cloths, or raw materials their territory doesnt produce in high volumes.

they rehome these bees in large open hive rings as well as keeping an eye on local swarms out in the woods, they maintain a few permanent gardens near big populations but employ hidden slash and burn groves, and they keep the large and sturdy Cragfoot goats - descended from Hotenow Ibex - for work and milk, and then their bodies. materials at the end of their life. what meat they eat comes from some sparse hunting and occasional fishing in the web of rivers.

they live in little stone roundhouses, supplemented by stone-bottomed barns, tall wooden granaries and pit-fridges, tent lean-tos, often all ringed by stone banks, and use wooden vats and coil pots (some of the best potters pattern their work). they are usually adept at moving in treetops too, with networks of pegs and hidden ladders, climbing loops and platforms along trails and around houses

they mostly dress in rough cloth and leather, protection made of bone or wood and with their best warriors using traded mail for extra defence. jewellery is made of wood and bone, and some decorative furs are obtained by chance. the best of these goes to the chief and the shaman who co-ordinate the group. they decorate themselves and the outer walls of their structures with paints of white, green and grey.

ive REALLY grown to love these guys a lot i wanna draw them more and colour this art sometime ... here’s some art labels left to right top to bottom :’>

Page One

seasoned honey-hunter collecting honey from a wild hive

youngster with a large slab of honeycomb

a kept hive filling out the inside of one of the hive-rings

an empty hive-ring with a swarm-catching basket

mashing honeycomb through a mesh to collect the wax and honey ready to separate over heat

the gear of a honey-hunter or hive-tender; their body is rubbed in a coat of fresh ashes, arms and legs more wrapped than usual, they carry a smoke-torch to pacify the bees and a large knife to cut the wax , they wear mesh over their eyes and plug their nose to protect from bees and some of the smoke.

(all jars) a small lightly patterned jar, a much larger more decorated jar with fibre rope on the handles, a large dugout wooden vat, a patterned corked decanter or teapot with fibre string handle and cup.

Page Two

Cragfoot goat harnessed to a simple trundle cart made of a large carrying frame fitted with wheels

a shaman applying new paints to a young Woodwose before a new first for them (like a hunt, trade mission, bee-catching etc)

a senior shaman performing ritual divination

on farming duty, using a digging stick to move soil and a carrying frame to keep young babies safe

typical stone roundhouses with wooden rooves, with a rise and lip to let smoke out of the top

an empty carrying frame made of wood and woven fibres, no straps or wheels attached

using a carrying frame on their back

bribing a goat with fruits to shear its thick fur ready for summer

(tools) bone hooks, toggles, needles, awls, stoppers etc; stone chisel; stone hammer; fishing spear; knitting needles; wooden spoon; wooden digging stick

Page Three

skilled archer in an antler hat and mail skirt

spear-carrying warrior in a fur cape and mail skirt

band of happy hunters coming back with birds and hares

(weapons) stone spear, metal sword, metal machete, metal knife, bone-pointed darts and blowdart-tube

highly esteemed warrior, possibly a chief, wearing a fox skin and mail skirts, and carrying a metal sword

hunter setting up snare traps, showing illustrator how it works with a stick

scout with a blowdart-tube, having fun in the branches of a trail tree fitted with climbing loops and pegs