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asleeplessren · 2 years

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Keep Going

(AoUAD fanfic)

Jang Wujin x OC

"Wujin."

"Yes?"

"I'll save you from the monsters."

← 002. →

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Daesu had Wujin in a headlock.

“Let me go! You smell!”

The taller boy clicked his tongue and tightened his hold as they continued walking, “Not until you apologize.”

Wujin struggled harder, “I’m telling Hari about your BTS poster if you don’t let me go!”

“It’s not a poster!” Daesu surrendered, “it’s an album and I just respect them as fellow artists!”

Wujin shoved at his friend and tried to fix his hair, “Yeah, sure you do.”

Daesu cried out, “Why can’t you just believe me?”

“I refuse to believe the guy that dragged me all the way back to school in a headlock,” he fixed his vest with a glare, “just to see if he left his jacket somewhere.”

“Please,” Daesu pouted, “my mom will kill me if I return home without it. She just bought it for me!” He pressed two hands together in front of him, bowing in desperation.

His friend sighed heavily, “Fine,” Daesu tried to hug him, “just hurry up! And I don’t owe you food anymore!” He shoved Daesu’s arms off of him.

“I’ll feed you! You’re saving me!” Daesu shouted before running to the very corner that Wujin’s group of friends always spent their breaks.

“I want real food this time Daesu! Candy doesn’t count!” Wujin shouted after him, “Aish! You hear me?!” His friend didn’t hear him.

Wujin sighed again, how did he put up with this guy?

It finally hit him that he was back at school and the sun was setting, emptiness his only companion. He stared at the grounds, abandoned as far as the eye could see. But there was one sound, and it was trickling out of the gymnasium doors. Sneakers squeaking on the woodboards, pounding footsteps, girls’ voices yelling every now and then. The volleyball team was still practicing. They had a game tomorrow, so that made sense. Still, Wujin wondered why they’d be pushing themselves this hard, knowing they’d need their energy for the next day.

He shouted for Daesu, but heard nothing in return. He could stand here, kicking the ground, or he could sate his curiosity.

The choice was easy.

His feet carried him to the double door, light pouring out, the random voices becoming more distinct.

The entire team was practicing, divided into four teams on two courts, with any remaining players doing laps. He wished he could be like normal guys; a building of attractive girls running around in shorts, this should be heaven. The Wujin that didn’t know Park Minha yet would love this. But he did know her, and he could only focus on her.

She was resting briefly, standing by the net (appearing even shorter than usual), her hands gripping her knees as she took the time to catch her breath. Her eyes never left the ball as her side got ready to serve. The moment the ball was in the air, she was tensed to move.

It all went so quickly; hit, hit, swish, hit, smash. Shouts of “got it”, “and “let’ s go!” filled the air, each member of the team seamlessly working together. He watched Minha cheer for the girls around her, looking like she belonged there. She really flew. He’d seen her jump higher than the girls around her, blocking a ball like it was nothing, and he’d witnessed how devastating her serves could be. But there was something about watching her look so focused as she practiced, coupled with the happiness that came with no stakes. It was just practice, but she looked like this was the most fun thing in the world when she didn’t have the seriousness of a real game weighing her down. She jumped on her neighbor’s shoulders, giggling loudly, and Wujin felt himself smile with her.

That of course was the moment Jiwoo noticed him. She was standing right by the court and was supposed to be taking notes on her clipboard, but her gaze wandered outside when she realized there was someone standing there. He caught her eye and felt himself cringe, seeing her smirking face and raised eyebrows. She caught him.

He felt how red his ears were and how wide his eyes grew. He had to get out before she made fun of him too.

Jiwoo crossed her arms and shook her head as she watched Wujin stumble backwards to hide from everybody. Why were boys like this? No, she’d seen some guys be normal. Lee Suhyeok was never like this, and she was ninety percent sure he was down bad for a girl in his class. Then again, she’d never actually seen him trying to win her over, so maybe she hadn’t quite figured the junior boys out. Regardless, Jang Wujin looked mortified to have been caught by her and she couldn’t wait to tell Minha.

Her mouth opened to get Minha’s attention, and that was Wujin’s cue.

He retreated as far from the building as he could, stopping in the same courtyard he’d been waiting in before. His lungs felt like they were twisting.

“Let’s eat!” Daesu’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

Wujin jumped, his heart trying to pound out of his chest, “Aish!”

Daesu laughed loudly, “Bet you didn’t think I could be sneaky! I may be bigger than you, but it’s all muscle!”

“I wasn’t paying attention, ok?” He yanked the recovered jacket out of Daesu’s hands before stomping off, “can we go now?”

“Don’t leave me, brother-in-law!”

——

It was dark by the time Minha finally entered her home. Her shoes were the last pair to rest in the front entryway tonight. She could hear the family gathered in the dining area, probably enjoying dinner together. Despite knowing her host parents wouldn't have a problem with it, Minha felt guilt churning in her stomach for being out so late. She and Jiwoo's stops for street food were more frequent than she expected, but at least she already ate. Following the sounds of conversation, she made her way to the dining area. Her host family was fully present, already starting to clean up. She bowed apologetically, "I'm sorry. I meant to be home sooner."

Jang Yeji, her host mother, was already waving her hands, "Minha! We're just happy you made it home safe" She smiled warmly at the teenager.

Jang Seyoon, the patriarch, tagged on, "did you eat?"

Minha nodded her head, "Jiwoo made sure I ate."

He made a sound of approval, "that's good to hear! How was practice?"

Minha sat down next to Hari, who was still finishing her food, before answering, "I think tomorrow's game is going to be a piece of cake."

Yeji returns to the table to grab the dishes in front of her silent son, "There's going to be scouts tomorrow, right?" Seyoon's face showed his interest too. Both of her host parents had high hopes for Minha to be a national athlete. It was the entire reason they took her in in the first place.

Hari cut in before Minha could answer, "No, but tomorrow is supposed to be the game that decides who plays when they do show up."

Minha nodded her agreement. She often forgot that Jiwoo was Hari's friend too. Jiwoo managed for multiple teams at the school; this was how she got around her parents nagging her to be in sports or be more social. If she was the manager, she'd have all the social benefits and none of the physical exertion. And her parents would leave her alone.

"Is the whole team going to Seoul tomorrow?" It was her host father's question.

Minha shook her head, "Coach Kim is taking the first line and a few subs. Everyone else will be staying behind to play Yangdong's second line for practice."

"Wasn't Yandong already here today?" So Wujin was going to join the conversation.

Minha barely looked at him before turning to her host parents, "We had a friendly scrimmage today, but it was their first line team. Tomorrow's practice unit will be joining us."

Hari oohed next to Minha, "You're so cool Minha. You really sound like a professional when you talk about volleyball."

Minha smiled into her lap before nudging Hari, "Stop! You're the cool one. You'll be on the national team by this time tomorrow!"

Mr. Jung nodded in agreement, "I know you'll make us proud tomorrow. Both of you!"

Minha could feel warmth in her chest. She wanted exactly that, to make her host family proud. But even moreso, she wanted to hold onto this specific feeling: being a part of the family. If she can prove herself as an athlete, then everything they've done for her won't be in vain. It was this that drove her to do well in everything. This final year of school had been grueling, especially as she'd been studying for exams. She knew that if she did well in volleyball, she wouldn't need to test well, but there was a voice in her head constantly insisting that she had to prepare for the worst.

Wujin spoke once more, "I'm sure you'll both be great." And then he smiled across at them. His ears were pinking, but Minha felt the sincerity in his words. His sister smacked him in the shoulder, calling him cheesy. Minha laughed at their antics before curling into a ball to avoid the next hit Hari aimed at her for not taking her side.

Mrs. Jung shared a smile with her husband before clapping her hands at her children, "Alright! Finish cleaning up and then straight to bed. Tomorrow's a big day!"

The three teenagers groaned in unison.

"Ah ah, you all are old enough to use words." Seyoon chuckled at them, "we're trusting you as near adults to take care of the house and each other while we're in Incheon." Tomorrow was their anniversary, and they wanted to spend it away from their three teens for once.

Hari, being the oldest, was the one to push the other two into motion, "Of course appa, you can count on me. I'll watch them," she pulled Wujin into a headlock.

Wujin struggled halfheartedly before just giving in, dead weight, "Eomma!"

His mother laughed, "Hari, you're gonna stress your arms out. Let your little brother go!"

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Aaaand another one up! Thanks for reading, I think I'm always going to be a little scared when posting lol But I want Wujin to have something, so I'll push through! I really genuinely appreciate everyone that takes the time to even skim through my little fix-it of sorts; I'll see ya again soon!

#jang wujin #all of us are dead fanfic #all of us are dead #aouad #zombie apocalypse fanfic #kdrama fanfic #fanfic #oc: park minha #daesu all of us are dead #wujin all of us are dead #jang hari #hari all of us are dead

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matthewbeilschmidts · 3 years

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It’s been a long while since I’ve posted but I’m so glad that I am :’)

This is for Day 1: of @prucanweek - Ordinary

Apologies for spelling errors, it’s a little short but I hope you enjoy 😭💞

Matthew doesn’t mind that he’s living an ordinary life. Really.

He grows up near the coast, two parents, a fraternal twin brother, and their gangly hairless cat, Tony (picked curtesy of Alfred). Their parents take them everywhere they can during their childhood, the beach, museums, sports game. They focus on their interests, figuring out what the two like and dislike, as they encourage them both to be themselves and do what they love no matter what. Alfred debates between whether he likes wrestling or football more, while Matthew settles into hockey. In between family get togethers, community festivals, and endless sports training, they somehow have time for homework. (The two share answers a lot.)

He and Alfred each have their own rooms when they enter their teen years, a space to decorate and fill with their own mementos and awards. The sports continue, but later their parents find themselves a little bit busier than before. They do though, give them as much time as they can during the school year, never wanting them to go without someone by their side.

Matthew fades into the background a little bit as they get older, while Alfred puts himself front and center. Matthew watches once with a hand over his eyes as Alfred auditions for the school musical, and surprisingly he read and sings the lines well. “It’s always the rowdy ones!” their theater teachers says after he’s finished performing, a mix of anticipation from planning on putting Alfred on stage and dread at the thought of having to manage him.

Matthew silently supports him, after all he has his own things to do.

He’s the co-caption of the hockey team, the coach giving him the position to give him a little more of a voice, and his teammates verbally agree, considering on the ice Matthew has a lot more to show than he does in person. He accepts, albeit hesitantly.

By the time graduation comes by, Matthew can barely believe how the time has passed. His team even wins a championship under his watch. Some of his fellow classmates look so ready to go out and experience the world, and it’s scary to him because weren’t they all going at the same pace?

His parents talk him through picking his college of choice, and he decides to go. He needs to do what everyone does and experience the world.

And if he decides he wants to come home, that’s okay because at least he tries.

He’s in his first art class during his third year at university. The time has been going well, he’s got pretty decent grades and has managed to join a few clubs. But he’s not done yet. Extra curriculars, can’t finish without them. He prioritizes his general education first, and even slips himself into a few major classes early on, but humanities is on record now and has to be completed no matter what one’s studying.

He can get through one semester, he hopes.

Next to him, a student is snickering and the professor doesn’t look amused.

“Gilbert.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“If you’re done, I can introduce myself now.”

The professor goes in with complete, in-depth introductory slides with her name and credentials, and a briefing of all they will overcome this semester.

He’s never been an artist, at least not one that picks up a pencil and creates a realistic masterpiece with nothing but that and a pad of paper. Maybe some poetry contests in high school, if that counts. The written word has its own impact, its own set of colors to breathe out for the world to see.

There’s another snicker, interrupting his internal monologue.

He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know the student, and it’s not his place to control others. But, if it starts to hinder the class, maybe he’ll tell him something. He’s paying to be there, too.

The man catches him staring.

“Yes?” he asks Matthew without being spoken to in the first place.

“Oh,” Matthew flushes at being caught, not that he was trying to hide it anyway. “Well, she didn’t say anything funny?”

The guys waves a hand, making a “psssh” noise as he does.

“I’m just laughing because of how formal this all is. She won’t be this dignified later in the semester that’s for sure. She’ll be ripping her hair out.”

Matthew glances back, he doesn’t want to say anyone looks mean but, he would believe it if she was.

“You look scared,” the guy laughs, which is rude because isn’t he the one that just put the thought in Matthew’s mind? “She’s not too mean just a sticker to the rules. Will get real pissy if something doesn’t go right.”

“And you still set her off knowing that?”

The man laughs again, but this time around he’s actually trying to contain it behind the thin art easel. He’s not very hidden.

“She’s my cousin’s wife.”

Ah, that makes sense then? Messing with family is normal, but also he shouldn’t be bothering her at work.

“It’s no wonder you seemed casual.”

“She taught both of the lower division figure drawing classes, too. This is my third semester in her class. She’s the only one teaching this specific class I didn’t have too much of a choice.”

“Art major?”

“Yep! And you?”

“Psychology major. I have to get in some cultural classes.”

“Ever taken art?”

“Actually no, not even in high school. I got through that stuff by working backstage in the theater department.”

“Well not to worry my friend, because you picked the best one.”

“Is it easy to pass?”

“Nope. Well, maybe if she likes your work,” Matthew deflates at the blunt response, “but don’t worry because I’m here to be your guide.”

Matthew perks up, but it takes him a moment. This guy’s gonna help him?

“Are you any good?”

“Am I good?” He looks perplexed Matthew would even ask. Matthew has to cover his own amusement. “I may not look it but charcoal and I go way back. I’ll show you my work later as proof.”

“Deal.”

“Gilbert, since you’re adamant on talking, you can be the first to introduce yourself.”

Even if his name wasn’t said, Matthew feels just as guilty. Caught, for talking on the first day of all things.

“Gilbert Beilshcmidt. Fourth year. I’m an art major and my favorite breakfast food is pancakes.”

Matthew looks surprised that he was paying attention, even to the last addition of their introduction. Matthew’s not sure he would have known considering he was distracted.

And so their friendship starts.

Gilbert sits next to him again. And again.

Where ever Matthew sits in the art room, Gilbert follows not too long after.

Some days they take the sitting desks, some they stand and lean against the stools.

And despite not even talking much, Gilbert treats him like a friend.

“Do you have any plans this afternoon?”

“Nope, this was my last class.”

“Do you want to get some coffee and work on our sketch books.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Matthew finds himself meeting Gilbert in his downtime. Every Thursday after drawing for three hours becomes the day they meet. At first, all they do is draw, little more.

Gilbert is animated in all moments, but he has short spurts where he focuses exceptionally on his work. Matthew is no art critic, but he thinks Gilbert expresses himself quite well on paper. Graphite, charcoal, and pastels, all the utensils glide easily without a single stroke missing its mark.

Watercolor though, could use some work, which actually happens to be Matthew’s favorite. Even if the intention is to guide the colors with a brush, it’s okay for them to take a life of their own spreading across the thick paper.

They share snacks, art supplies, and their time.

Gilbert proves himself very useful as he promised. Matthew though never planning to be the next Van Gogh, has to pass this class. And it would be nice to pass it with flying colors, but some concepts are harder to grasp than others.

It’s obvious to tell he’s a beginner, while Gilbert excels. Matthew finds out he only now needs the intro class since it’s the first semester it became a requirement.

Gilbert helps him find the shapes he’s comfortable with, explains the processing for hatching and how it relates to shading. And while he’s no expert, he sees a subtle improvement over the next few weeks that makes some pride swell within himself.

“Do you want to come with me and my friends to this cool bar for dinner on Friday?” Gilbert asks about a month into the semester.

It’s the first time Gilbert and him will have spent time off campus.

“Yeah, I’d love to.”

Gilbert’s friends are just as animated as he, it’s almost hard to keep up. Overwhelming as they are, they’re extremely welcoming. Matthew eases into the atmosphere, joining in when he can but mostly pleased to be out and doing something different.

He’s made friends during his time, but like him they’re a little more reserved and pick quieter places on the town.

It’s fun. And he wants to go out again.

Matthew invites Gilbert and his friends to watch his next hockey game.

After their shock in finding out he plays such a violent sport, they’re all agreeing and planning to find the best seats in the arena.

“Are you serious. Are you hiding muscles under that red sweater?”

Gilbert pokes at him, it tickles when he gets closer to his biceps, but he knows he’s only teasing.

“You think I’m playing but I’m serious! You should have been there, well you were there. On the stands, I mean. We all screamed after you sent that player flying against the wall.”

Gilbert recreates the motions, but only slams himself into the wall and whines after he bounces back. He then plays it off like it doesn’t hurt. Gilbert’s not a very good actor.

People tell him it’s so much different watching him on the ice, but it’s still him. He’s always wondered how much different, he feels like himself. He just knows he goes into the zone when he’s in his gear. He just wants to win. And he will.

“It’s like night day,” Gilbert continues. “You were ready to kill a man down there.”

“You’re not the first to say that. I guess maybe, I could be a little more out there in real life, huh?”

Gilbert stops walking.

“Nope.”

“Nope?”

“You’re perfectly fine the way you are. I like the way you are, so don’t go change. I don’t want to be at risk of dying during art class.”

And as silly as it sounds, he’s pleased. He likes Gilbert a whole lot, too. Just the way he is.

“Do you want to have dinner with me?” Matthew takes the initiative.

“Dinner?”

“Yeah, just you and me. I want to take you out.”

“Like you did to that guy on the court,” Gilbert laughs nervously.

“On a date. Gilbert, would you like go out with me?”

He says yes.

Later that evening when he’s heading home, Gilbert starts running through the courtyard cheering that “I have a date with the cutest guy I’ve ever met!”

Matthew’s window is open, he’s face is bright red and he slams head first into his pillow. He needs to plan the best first date ever.

Three months into dating, he’s finally heading home again for a school break. He wants to take Gilbert with him, who is waiting for the next major holiday to go back home. But isn’t it too soon? They haven’t been dating that long, after all.

But Gilbert surprises him, and jokingly says he wants to go with him because he’ll miss him too much while he’s gone. And then, Matthew asks if he seriously wants to go.

“I do.”

So they ride the 3 hours train down to Matthew’s childhood home. He’s a little bit nervous, because he’s had dates to school dances, and brought friends over, but this is entirely different. This is someone he wants to take a serious step with, even if the time hasn’t been that long. They’ll never get anywhere if they don’t, so they’ll both take the leap and pray it works out.

“Mom, dad, Alfred, this is Gilbert.”

It’s the most timid Matthew’s ever seen him.

“Nice to meet ya, I’m Matthew’s boyfriend.”

After he shakes all their hands, he takes his hand back to link pinkies with Matthew.

There’s not an once of regret in his mind as the long weekend passes.

Gilbert graduates the next year, and the year after it’s his turn. They’re going to move in with each other. Gilbert really has no irresistible urge to go back to his home town, satisfied with just visiting a few times a year. And Matthew thinks he would like to go back closer, just to figure out his next move. So, they go together.

It’s only a one bedroom, but is more than enough space for them both. Gilbert finds work as a docent while Matthew works for a second degree in education.

He still plays hockey for a local league, Gilbert becoming their number one fan. They find their own rhythm, a pace that works for them both, where they can settle down or speed up when they agree with each other. Dewey mornings, warm summers, chilly evenings they spend them altogether.

They decide move up North closer to Gilbert’s hometown. Matthew’s more nervous meeting his grandparents than he was introducing Gilbert to his own family, but Gilbert assures him again and again they’re just a stuffy old family who actually really care about each other a lot more than they let off.

Gilbert’s grandfather towers over him, despite being a hair above 6 feet. He’s silent, eyes boring into Matthew as he introduces himself. And to end all of Matthew’s worries, the elder man pulls Matthew into a hug and tells him he’s glad him and Gilbert are home. Gilbert, just as perplexed as he, stares, but he melts into a pleased laugh.

Yeah, this is his and Gilbert’s home now.

They stay, for a long while, contemplate moving a few times, but they’re satisfied for now.

Gilbert and him always make time for each other, continue their own respective interests with complete support of the other. They’re never afraid to complain, because they always work through it rather then let it simmer.

Gilbert’s vivacious spirit keep them going, and Matthew’s heart keeps them grounded.

His life at first seem a little bit ordinary, but how can he complain when the pieces of the puzzle fit themselves in and stayed locked in tight.

#hetalia #prucan #prucanweek #APH Prussia #APH Canada #.txt post #I forgot all my writing tags #will fix later HAHA

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astroaedes · 3 years

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NCT MARK SOULMATE READING ASTROLOGY & TAROT

ASTROLOGY

Mark has no known birth time which will affect not only the depth of the astrological part of this reading but also the accuracy so keep that in mind!

It’s quite hard to examine someone’s potential soulmate without their birth time so this reading will not be as in depth as the one I did for Taeyong. I will try to go more in depth in the tarot part instead. Edit: this reading ended up being so long 😅

Venus - Virgo

Jupiter - Taurus

Juno - Scorpio

Valentine - Leo

Juno is known as the soulmate asteroid and can describe the qualities of our soulmate so it is very likely that Mark’s soulmate has major Scorpio placements, 8th house energy, or a combination of fixed and water placements. Mark’s soulmate is passionate and emotionally intense. He will most likely experience an immediate, magnetic attraction to them when they first meet. Devotion is the key word here - they will be utterly committed to each for better or worse. Marriage is almost certainly in their future but their commitment goes beyond a legal contract. They will be emotionally and physically bound to each other - such is the depth of their bond. Both of them may experience intense personal transformation through this relationship.

With his Jupiter in Taurus Mark will be very sensual and indulgent in this relationship. He may be slow moving and will take the time to build a solid foundation (which is good considering the intensity of their connection). He will be very generous with them in terms of wealth and has a desire to provide for them and give them a sense of security. Taurus, as fixed earth, is another committed sign but with a greater sense of stability and practicality than Scorpio. Once he and his soulmate are together, they are in it for life. They will likely meet in some sort of familiar setting - through family, friends, work, a mutual hobby, a cafe they both visit etc.

Valentine in Leo is a SUPER romantic placement as Leo is the sign of true love so Mark’s relationship will be overflowing with love and affection. Even if they were on opposite sides of the room it would be exceedingly obvious to everyone else that they are together. His soulmate will be bold and creative and and bring immense happiness and joy to his life. They will find Mark’s fame and job very appealing and could even be in the entertainment industry themselves. Especially with his Scorpio Juno, Mark’s soulmate could be a fellow artist, someone who channels creativity through their emotions.

TAROT

Major Arcana - The High Priestess; Justice; The Wheel of Fortune

Minor Arcana - Eight of Wands; Seven of Cups; Seven of Pentacles; Ten of Pentacles

Court Cards - Knight of Pentacles; Queen of Pentacles; Queen of Swords

In multiple past readings I’ve done for Mark he has been represented by the Page of Pentacles, but in this spread he has graduated to the Knight of Pentacles! This tells me that he has yet to meet his soulmate and will need to grow and evolve before he does. His soulmate is represented by the Queen of Pentacles which does not surprise me - both his ideal type and relationship readings featured a lot of earth energy. They are most likely a little bit older than Mark or a bit more experienced and mature. His soulmate is sensual, nurturing and has deep thoughts and feelings. I get the sense that they are very perceptive and will be able to see right through Mark. I don’t know if this makes much sense but Mark will cross THEIR path - like Mark will be the one who initiates their meeting.

With Judgment and the Eight of Wands - ooohhh boy - their relationship will happen so suddenly and so intensely. Boundaries and walls will come crashing down and feelings will develop rapidly. Mark will be minding his own business and then BAM! his true love and soulmate is staring at him right in the face. Their meeting will be a pretty monumental point in Mark’s life and a point of no return. There will definitely be a pre-soulmate era and post-soulmate era for Mark. It’s interesting that Mark is Christian because both of these cards can have religious connotations of a prayer being answered or a sign from God. One book of mine calls the Eight of Wands the “call and response of the universe”. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mark prays or sets intentions about meeting his soulmate.

Both Mark and his soulmate have a major opportunity for some serious growth in this relationship. They will be able to find wisdom and personal authenticity through each other and uncover emotional and spiritual truths that may have gone unnoticed. The High Priestess represents the blueprint of the soul and together their souls will help guide each other. However this will not come effortlessly to them and they will have to make a conscious choice to explore this side of themselves. In the readings I’ve done for Mark there has always been this sense of fate, a higher power and uncontrollable forces (the Wheel of Fortune appears in this spread as well) so I think maybe he can have this mindset of “what is meant to be will happen, don’t try to force it”. But in order to get the most out of this relationship he will have to push those thoughts aside, grab the steering wheel and BE the driving force.

The Ten of Pentacles appeared in Mark’s relationship reading and it represents a pretty crucial aspect to his idea of love and commitment so it’s no surprise that it has appeared again! Mark places a strong importance on family, community, and tradition - he doesn’t just want children, he wants to create a lineage and a legacy. With his soulmate represented as the Queen of Pentacles, in his eyes, they will be the perfect person to do this with. Similar to his Taurus Jupiter, the Ten of Pentacles shows that wealth will be abundant in this relationship and that Mark has an innate need to provide for his partner and family. I will potentially delete this part later but I want to quickly address the Queen of Swords. This is a pretty outdated interpretation BUT this card can sometimes represent difficulties becoming pregnant or during pregnancy. The only reason I considered this was because it was the next card after the Ten of Pentacles.

I’ve spoken before about how career driven Mark can be and his relationship with his soulmate will put that to the test. If he wants to build a life with this person then concessions and sacrifices will need to be made. Whenever Mark prioritises one area of his life over another he will always second guess himself and question his motives and the perceived outcomes of his decisions. One of Mark’s major fears is unfulfilled success and he would hate to feel as though he has mistakenly focused on his career when he should have focused on his relationship and vice versa. This relationship will feel fated and out of Mark’s control whereas his career has been more driven by conscious effort and choice on his part. It will be difficult for Mark to let go of something that he himself has put so much work into in order to focus on a relationship that has appeared so suddenly.

#mark lee #mark #nct mark #nct #nct 127 #nct dream #nct tarot #nct astrology #kpop tarot #kpop astrology #kpop readings #tarot #astrology

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rainii-reads · 3 years

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Chateau

DESCRIPTION: After a fateful encounter, you and Yoongi have finally decided to go public with your relationship.

This was inspired by the song Chateau by Tokio Hotel. Bolded dialogue are direct lyrics.

WORD COUNT: 1, 903 PAIRING: Idol!Yoongi x Reader GENRE: Fluff and comfort

Warnings: Implied slut shamming; analogies referencing cuts (there is no self-harming, only references to words hurting.)

Author’s note: This is my first fanfiction for BTS, and my first story in a long, long time. Hope it’s not too bad! You can also read it on AO3.

🌸

Taking up Arms: ARMY Feuds Over SUGA and Y/N

As news of BTS’s SUGA sweeps the kPop world, fans are divided. Many ARMYs citing Y/N as a clout seeker - stealing their Min SUGA. ARMY’s on the offense challenge the perceived ownership of the Bangtan rapper. This brings to question, however, do these fans approve of the relationship or are they simply defending SUGA?

The Next Yoko Ono: Will Y/N be the end of Bangtan Sonyeondan

Silence rings clearer than the stroke of the keyboard. Three weeks have passed since word broke of the famous rapper’s new relationship. The onslaught of hatred continues to poor out in droves, yet silence remains from the musician’s fellow members. Is it possible the six comrades also dislike Y/N?

Anti-Y/N Accounts Take Twitter by Storm

In the last week Twitter has taken action and began removing dozens of accounts dedicated to canceling Y/N. While Twitter works to delete the insults and threats of harm, where is Big Hit? Will they take action to protect BTS’s SUGA and his new sweetheart?

“Sweetheart?” You snapped. “And what’s with the italics – we all know you’re being sarcastic. No need to lay it on thicker.” You fumed for a moment longer, at the snippy report, before you found your laptop being pulled from your grasp. You dared not look up at the sleepy gaze of the man in debate.

“Sweetheart, why are you reading the headlines again?”

It was the truth. Your streak of laziness was something Yoongi often appreciated about you. It resulted any many home dates and working side-by-side in the Genius Lab at all hours of the day. Shared moments you loved. However, you couldn’t handle any more inquires from that man, he had been unyielding for days, and you were slowly breaking.

“Excuse me, are their free refills on black coffee?”You had asked, trying to spare him from the one-sided conversation (if it could even be called that). Yoongi used the moment to escape and take a seat at the table nearest you, waiting for his iconic iced-americano. You remember the sweet smile he gave you as he mouthed ‘thank you’ – the start to your simple chitchat about the shop’s décor and more.

You often giggle as you remember the notes you passed on the plane ride home. The ones kept safe in your nightstand. Had you not looked up, the moment he walked down the cramped isle, Yoongi wouldn’t have shared a smile with you, before taking his seat in first-class.

Within an hour of the flight, a young, excited stewardess had come to your seat handing you a folded sheet of paper. Noticing she was waiting for you to read the note, you unfolded it and struggled to stifle the laugh that emerged. “So, who is your bias?” Yoongi wrote in memory of when your phone rang at the coffee shop, announcing your ARMY status as Converse High played. It was the rare time you had left your sound on.

From time to time, you wondered about the excited flight attendant. You wish you could see her again just so you could tell her thank you for putting up with Yoongi’s archaic flirting. Had she not been so kind and willing, your relationship may not have formed.

These and many more memories were what put you to ease when you sat in a conference room at HYBE Entertainment. It was there where plans were made for the announcement your relationship with the one and only Min Yoongi of BTS. Photos of your not-so-secret dates had progressively found their way onto Tumblr and Twitter, gaining the attention of gossip sites. However, it was more appropriate to call it an interrogation than a planning session.

“Y/N,” you remember the head of PR starting, “Are you sure there are no past scandals that will cause Min Yoongi any problems?” The intention behind ‘scandals’ had not been lost on.

Your usual demeanor was gone as you snipped back. “I’m pretty sure I was too lazy to have any scandals.”

Yoongi snorted as he held back his laugh.

It was the truth. Your streak of laziness was something Yoongi often appreciated about you. It resulted any many home dates and working side-by-side in the Genuis Lab at all hours of the day. Shared moments you loved. However, you couldn’t handle any more inquires from that man, he had been unyielding for days, and you were slowly breaking.

Your sarcasm hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Do you not understand what kind of position you are putting our artist and company in? We need to be prepared for whatever we will need to clean up after you. You need to take this seriously.” Intentions ringing clearly, again.

In your heart, you knew he trying to do right by Yoongi and the company, but the judgement that wove into his words cut. You also took offense to how he made you sound like a disease that clung to Yoongi, bringing him harm.

As you looked back, it was the first of many wounds that told you, you were unworthy of Min Yoongi.

“Y/N is very aware of what implications a public relationship will have.” The man in question spoke, his tone shifting as he said, “She is more than clear of any scandals. Worst we’ll see are malicious lies and rumors – no truth within them – and that is where this discussion will end.” As Yoongi spoke, his few words carried immense weight. For each previously inflicted cut, his words bandaged themselves around to ease the pain.

Heeding the warning, the interrogation ended, and the meeting regained its original focus: preparation for the announcement and aftermath.

Two weeks after the tense convening, the news was released through an official statement form HYBE, confirming the relationship of Min Yoongi and his new girlfriend. The media and social-media platforms were instantly in a frenzy and, as planned, everyone remained silent. It had been decided that everyone would keep silent for a month, to see what would earn a response.

That singular month had been the sharpest cut to your fragile skin.

_______________________

Breaking through your thoughts, Yoongi spoke again, “Y/N.”

You looked up at him, finally, and sighed. “I’m sick, okay? I can’t help but want to see what is being said about me, about us. Did you see they’re calling me Yoko Ono? Will the media ever cease with the constant Beetles comparisons? Don’t they see you guys are tired of responding to the accolades?”

He spared you a look, leaving you to end your rambles. The rambles he knew you were using to deflect from your current, unhealthy obsession.

“I really can’t help it Yoongi,” You sighed. “In less than a week we can finally speak out and I need to know what I’m defending myself against.”

In an almost languid fashion, he placed the laptop down and sat next to you. Pulling you closer as he organized his thoughts. “That’s not really for you to worry about. The company and I will handle that.”

“No, I need to do something. I can’t just hide behind you. People are talking about us and they’re going to watch and critique every little thing we do. I know that isn’t what we discussed, but this anxiety is unlike anything else.”

He reached out and gently ran the tips of his fingers down the sides of your face, smoothing out any traces of stress. The very hand that famously held a tight grasp on a black microphone, was now the source of your ease. The very hand that was adored by many, was saved for you.

“Here’s the thing,” he spoke slowly, “People are gonna talk. So, let them talk; let them talk about us. People are gonna watch. So, let 'em touch, let 'em see, let 'em feel what love is.”

They were simple words, yet, as the always did, they healed the damages from the last three weeks.

Tears overwhelmed your eyes, gliding down to touch the tips of his fingers. “Let it all go, since it finally happened.” He had worried about the brave face you had been parading. “I know they’re going to talk. I know they’re going to watch. Baby, I don’t mind as long as it’s you and I. We’ll just let them see what real love is.”

As you processed the abundance of emotions that had accumulated, Yoongi held you close. Occasionally whispering the right sentiments to soften the anxiety more. While you laid with him, you wondered: Exactly how much had to go right for you to be with him? The gossip columns may say that the two of you were different, too different in fact, but your time together showed you how alike you were. How right you were for each other.

Many more challenges awaited you, but with him you knew it would be fine. You were not coming down from your cloud.

_______________________

Later that evening, as the tears dried and the anxiety eased to rest, you proposed a trip. “Hey, the next time were in California we should stay at the Chateau Marmot.”

“Isn’t that place haunted?” His abundance of quirky knowledge never ceased to amaze you.

After a quick search to confirm, you scratched the plan. “I’ll find another chateau. One free of the paranormal.”

A short moment of silence passed before you asked your next thought, “What did you mean earlier when you said, “let them touch”?

Yoongi looked up from his phone and paused for affect. “Don’t know. It just sounded right in my head – I didn’t mean anything weird by it.” He laughed, exposing his renowned smile.

“Pervert.” You teased, tossing a pillow his way.

In an unexpected fashion, Yoongi lunged forward seeking retaliation. Having not anticipated it, you stumbled off the bed, in an attempt to run away, but he pulled you back before you could escape. In the most cliché of moments, he tickled your sides until the fits of laughter led to you sharing a loving gaze and slow kiss.

“You’re right,” you said as your lips separated, “Let ‘em talk – we’ll show them what real love it.”

_______________________

The Power Couple that is Y/SN

A year has since passed since news of Y/SN occupied our every thought. In celebration of our favorite power couple, we’ve broken down the Top 10 Reasons why we love Y/SN!

Goals: How do we land a relationship like SUGA and Y/N’s?

Recently, photos and videos of a not-so-secret date between SUGA and Y/N made their way onto the internet. As the young couple is seen leaving Chateau de Sureau, they’re hand-in-hand showing signs of laughter. The love between the two is so clear not even an anti-Y/SN could deny it. So, the question remains, how do we get our own fairytale romance?

We’ve been asking, but has SUGA?

The question all fans of Y/SN have been wanting to know: When will SUGA ask the big question? Our sources suggest it may be sooner than you might think. As BTS wraps up their latest world tour, preparing to go back to the studio, rumors of the young rapper ring shopping have bubbled up. Whether this is true or not remains to be seen, but we look forward to the exciting news for our favorite couple.

#min yoongi #yoongi fanfic #bts #song fic #fluff

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redrosesartcabin · 3 years

Text

Self indulgent series: Part 2.1

Life: Part 1

(Kenji x female reader, authors perspective) (the reader is a singer) (also: Some angst in here. I dunno why, but I just love writing some angst with fluff endings xD)

“So, let me get this straight”, the interviewer said, bewildered by the story the singer and songwriter Red Rose had brought up, “you met your now husband, Kenji Kon no less, on Jurassic World as one of the kids who got stranded for five months?”

“That’s correct”, she said. She had answered that very question a million times, but she couldn’t fault them for it: It was an unbelievable story (though she started to wonder how not everyone was aware by now that she was one of the teens back than).

“It was in December of 2015. I was thirteen years old and exited to be one of the first teens to visit Camp Cretaceous. I have to admit, I wasn’t and still am not, maybe even less than before, the biggest fan of dinosaurs. I’m not particularly interested in facts about them, but I definitely was interested in seeing some Dino action! So when I won first place at the talent show of my school-“

“Unsurprisingly”, the interviewer interluded at which the audience gave a collective chuckle.

“-I was still very excited about going to Jurassic World. My parents never wanted to go and in retrospect I can understand why. But you know: I was a naïve thirteen-year-old and didn’t think much about the consequences of the past. What happened at Jurassic Park you know? I was convinced Jurassic World was different and all worked out. Boy was I wrong! We all know it now! But at least I can say that I got, besides trauma, lifelong friends and my amazing husband out of it”

“That definitely can’t be disputed”, the interviewer agreed. Red Rose found him quite pleasant. Although he was a chatterbox, he was still very respectful and didn’t poke too much into the Jurassic World story: Although she was, for the most part, over the trauma, it was still a work in progress and it’s not a time she always remembers fondly. On most days she remembers the good moments she had with her newfound friends there, but sometimes she could feel the adrenaline rush through her as she thought of dinosaurs trying to eat her and her fellow campers. She saw flashes of sharp teeth and could feel hot, stinking breath and hear growls drawing shivers down her spine. Red Rose liked to focus on the human part of the experience, so she preferred being able to tell the tale of Jurassic World the way she wanted without being asked too much…

“So, Kon helped you reach fame if I remember correctly?”, he asked.

“Definitely! Though, I mean: I was able to do most of what I’m doing. Teaching myself how to use certain programs. I taught myself how to sing and I’ve always written my own stuff…But I certainly wasn’t good at marketing myself or making myself grow.

Kenji and I became boyfriend and girlfriend when I was sixteen and he was eighteen. That same year we went on vacations for three weeks in the Caribbean’s. And “, she let out a laugh. The camera closed up on her and caught a smile and a glance that looked so touched by love anyone could feel how much she adored her spouse, “I remember how we went on the private part of the beach Kenjis father had purchased. I sat down on a hammock and a guitar and just started improvising and singing. Little did I know my boyfriend -gosh that sounds weird to say now- was filming me. He put it up on Instagram, and he already had quite a following back then, so it gained quite some attention. Though not necessarily because it was a nice scenery or any of that: But because people genuinely liked how I sing and the melody I had come up with. And well… it got wild from there. People soon requested I make my own Instagram page for making music.

A year later I was asked if I would like to produce some music and well… then my career started”

“That’s honestly such a cool and sweet story. Though how about an even sweeter reunion? Please welcome: Kenji Kon”

Red Rose got up from her seat with a wild jump, not as the eccentric, elegant yet kind of crazy minded artist, but as y/n Kon. As the wife who hadn’t seen her husband in person for a month because of the production of yet another movie starring him as the protagonist.

The crowd clapped in awe of him, as fans. She wanted to clap because her heart was clapping too. Her heart was dancing a tango inside of chest as though she was seeing her middle school crush in the hallway. His dark eyes, ridden with depth met her y/e.c. ones and all they could read in each other’s eyes was happiness and love.

This happened within miliseconds, but it passed by in slow motion for her, so she perceived herself running towards him with calm. For the rest of the world however she was perceived as looking like a golden retriever who had missed his owner whilst they were at work and were ready to play.

It was adorable. It was downright touching how the couple met each other halfway and gave each other a long, passionate yet gentle kiss (so that it wouldn’t be too inappropriate for life TV).

“Not to be giddy, but you really are a couple to die for”, the interviewer said. The audience half chuckled half yelled in agreement. She felt her cheeks blush in a deep dark shade of red and heard her husband chuckle in embarrassment. She looked down to her and whispered “Hello love”

Kenji had, unsurprisingly, had found joy in being actor. Being dramatic and showing his face on camera all the time? Perfect!

And he honest to god was a great actor. Though it did get annoying from time to time that he was casted as either the pretty faced villain or the charming, perfect love interest. Sometimes he was even both.

Y/n didn’t like to admit it, but she was quite jealous at the beginning when she saw him kiss other men and women on screen. It took a big fight for her to admit that.

She wasn’t proud of that fight at all. She had been, without wanting to, been very critical of her then fiancé (it was about six months before they got married). She would call him several times a day when he was on set of a particularly spicy rom com and observe his socials every couple of minutes. Y/n remembers her friends teasing her about it in the beginning and then eventually scold her. “Don’t you trust him?”, they had asked and she had answered, “I do….”, and they knew she was telling the truth, yet there was more behind it.

Kenji soon caught up and noticed her strange clinginess.

“What is up with you, Y/N? You know I have work to do! You can’t call me that often on set!”, he had yelled when the topic came up. He had been visiting for the weekend before he would go back on set.

“Why not? Can a girl not talk to her fiancé?”, she had asked with a sharp undertone

“Of course, you can darling. But twenty times a day is simply too much!”, he argued, yet he tried keeping his tone softer.

“I don’t call that often”, she pouted

“Oh YES you do!”, he put his phone out and showed her the times she had called just the other day. She counted about thirty, “I was nice with that number!”

“And? So what? You can just put your phone on silent”

“Yes, of course I can. This isn’t about solving the notification issue it’s about solving your trust issues towards me. Why don’t you trust me?”, as he asked the question his anger had subsided and genuine hurt showed in his eyes in his voice, “you monitor me like I’m an inmate”

“I…”, she was only able to say, her throat suddenly seemed dry, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I…”, she couldn’t find the right words to explain it. It hurt too much to admit. She thought she had been over that thought pattern a long time ago, but it had returned to her.

“What? What have I done to deserve this?”, he asked, “Why are you even with me, if who I am disturbs you so much?”

And that… that sentence had hurt her more than that ugly thing inside of her she hadn’t wanted to face.

“You fool!”, she screamed in fury as the sentence he had uttered stung, her eyes filling with endless tears, “How could you ever think you disturb me? You are the most beautiful, wonderful human being I know, inside and out. And on top of that you are incredibly kindhearted. And that’s why I’m like this… I don’t want to lose you. And it’s not that I don’t trust you: I highly doubt you’d ever cheat on anyone. You are too kind for that. But I fear… I feared when you are together with all these good-looking actors you might not find me enough anymore. I know it’s stupid, but you see: The past haunted me again. When I was called fat. When I was called not-good-enough. When I read social media comments saying you’re out of my league and I don’t deserve you. Ugly words that ate me up inside when I was a child and young teen. I thought I was past that but I…I…”, now the tears were too many and her words died with hiccups. She felt his form surround her in a hug that felt so warm and yet sharp as knifes. She loved his touch but felt guilty for not opening up about this sooner. She had never wanted to be like this, but alas she had been too much of a coward to burden him or herself with this.

“Love”, he whispered after comforting her for a couple of minutes, “Look at me”

She lifted her head. Her eyes were red and puffy, her lips were dark pink, and tears had run streaks across her cheeks. It broke Kenji to have hurt her so deeply, yet he also knew that it wasn’t his fault. It was however his responsibility, to clear this up once and for all.

“Love listen”, he started, “I completely understand your jealousy. But we’ve been together for almost ten years and in all that time, I’ve never encountered a woman more incredible, deeply fascinating and intrinsically beautiful as you. No acted kiss could bring me away from you, no sexy actor could keep my mind from ever wishing for more than to be by your side. I’ve been by your side for almost six years: What should change now?

The monster from your past is, as already stated: Past. Their words were untrue. These people were in pain themselves when they caused you pain. You were a target to unleash the inner turmoil of others. It’s no excuse but it is the explanation. Those who feel they must hurt others are those who seek the most attention and power because they’d be devoid of having a self. I should know: I used to be similar to that. And I had my phase of jealousy as well, you know?”

“Really?”, y/n managed to ask

“Oh yes! I was in rage every time I heard you talk about any of your guy friends back in high school. Difference is I could hide it better because we were apart a lot of the time. I feared you would find someone who had more of a personality than me. I was no longer sure looks would cut it”

“Gosh love”, she answered, her voice love drunken, “you burst of personality. You aren’t just a pretty boy or well… pretty man. You have so much spirit and energy to give to the world. You are the definition of happiness and sunshine. And on top of that you are an incredibly talented man with so much to show. You wield the human mind and emotions so well you can convert yourself to be something other than yourself convincingly-”

“See?”, he asked, “and just like you love me like that and see all that good I sometimes don’t recognize, I see it in you… I always love you”

“I love you too. I’m sorry”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m so happy we had this talk. It was much needed”

“Yeah”, she hummed as her lips almost touched his and within seconds the couple found themselves passionately kissing

Ever since then they hadn’t had any of these kinds of self-worth problems. They’d say I love you on a daily basis and gave each other compliments whenever they could.

One thing the fans found especially cute was that, without fail, Red Rose would comment on each of Kenji’s selfies and comment “hey gorgeous, you single?” and he’d answer every single time, “Sure Sugar. Meet me at seven on your favorite street-corner”

One time they took a picture of each other on a nice-looking street corner. Kenji had called the picture “finally found the street corner. Been waiting to meet this lady for a while, apparently her name is ‘your wife’, which is peculiar but otherwise she seems nice”.

The picture even went viral and became one of the all-time favorite celebrity pictures of 2026.

After the talk-show they flew back in his helicopter.

They were in New York city and y/n looked at the city landscape with a fascinated gaze as she observed the flickering lights of the big apple.

Kenji looked at her with eyes shining almost as bright. He loved her love for everything new she sees. He had noticed that the first time she had seen the watering hole. He wasn’t really interested in her that way yet. He was fifteen and she thirteen, that makes quite a difference at this age. But still he couldn’t but smile as she looked at the dinosaurs with big eyes. And he loved that she hadn’t lost that spark, even as she got older, even as they came together and grew and changed together.

Y/n noticed his gaze and shifted hers to look at him.

‘What a beautiful man. I’ve missed him so’ she thought to herself.

“I missed you”, he said as though he had read her mind just now. Maybe he had. They had been together for so long they were often able to read each other’s subtle shifts in expression. Quite a beautiful thing.

“I missed you too”, she simply answered, “did you plan this talk show surprise?”

“Yes and no”, he admitted, “I was meeting up with Donavan O’Connor, the director of the ‘Elaine, the one?’ series. When calling Donavan, he told me had been to talking to Ray (the interviewer) and he was casually pointing out the funny coincidence you were meeting up for and mention the funny coincidence, that you’d have an interview with him that same day I come to the city and well… needless to say I called Ray and arranged things... I just had to. Couldn’t miss the opportunity to surprise my beautiful wife”

She smiled at that. A shy and flattered smile that reminded Kenji of when they were teens.

They landed on the roof of a nice-looking hotel. They had decided to stay the night here in New York before travelling back to Ireland… yes: Yes Ireland.

Most celebrities lived in L.A., but Kenji and y/n had preferred living a bit apart in an old mansion near the coast of south Ireland, close to the northern border. Although Kenji was a people person, he didn’t like the dishonesty and lying in the industry and wanted to get away from that with his wife who thought the same.

Besides: It was a beautiful country.

As they entered the room, they felt peace and happiness as well as a certain kind of tension arise.

Needless to say, there was another kind of reuinion going on that night...

(Sorry about that short ending, I had to heavily edit that ‘cause it originally was a... well... non Pg scene xD)

#kenji camp cretaceous #kenji x reader #kenji kon #kenji kon x reader #camp cretaceous #camp cretaceous fanfiction #jw cc #jurassic world camp cretaceous #self indulgent #self indulgent af

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themidnightfarmer · 3 years

Text

Babes in Mimeland || Nora & Jared

Timing: This past week sometime.

Location: The common.

Tagging: @fearfordinner

Description:

Triggers: Mimes?

Jared wasn’t completely comfortable to be away from the farm that day, but he’d given his word, and he wasn’t going to go back on it. Surely everything would be fine for an hour or two while he did this. So there he stood, in a t-shirt that implored passing customers to support the performers behind him. He was holding flyers and smiling as wide as he could whilst flagging down passers-by to take them. A mime he’d started to consider a friend had mimed that he should come and help them out that day, the mime in question part of an air-band as a side hustle for working at Yours, mime, and ours (where Jared was a frequent customer). “Don’t forget to support your local mime performers! They’re good at what they do and they have mouths to feed at home whilst working on their passions!”

A music box was an odd reward Nora decided twisting the box around in her hands. The eyeball, a necklace that she’d taken to wearing frequently, was a much more satisfactory prize. Nora was about to flip open the prize she’d come to winterfest to claim when her eye was caught by the mime band. Oh great! They were performing. Music box forgotten and shoved into her pocket, Nora trudged through the crowd to admire the artists at work. There were no hard feelings on her part that her last encounter with a mime had left her rainbow colored for a week. There were hard feelings to deal with on her part with the idea that her favorite mime had died right in front of her. Ideas that she refused to acknowledge. A shout about helping mimes made her ears perk up. Nora snatched a flyer from a giant, glancing over it. “I want to help.” She announced. “The mimes are great.”

Most people passing Jared by were trying their very best to ignore him, he watched many fliers find their way into the trash. It was a little disheartening but overall expected, you didn’t have shirts like the one he was wearing unless there was some serious stigma going on. His head tilted down and a more genuine smile bloomed on his face as someone actively approached to take a flier. “They are! One of my friends is in the band, they’re honestly great at what they do and everything helps, people in town aren’t so forgiving for being different…” he trailed off before he could add just how strange he found that considering the variety of species that you could find in all corners. Jared blinked away the thought and returned to focus on the person showing interest. “So-” He was cut off by an obnoxious laugh off to the left towards the gingerbread house. He couldn’t quite hear what was said but the way the group of people mock mimed along with the band rubbed him the wrong way. His face soured.

Friends? With a mime? Was that legal? Wouldn’t that be like being friends with mythical legends who are way cooler than you? Like the real babadook or maybe the boogyman? Even goatman. They were all famous figures Nora admired but wouldn’t know how to befriend if they were before her. It was a sudden moment of awe as her blank gaze passed between the giant and the band. If she helped could she be friends too? Nora dug in her pocket and pulled out her beaten up old wallet. She was ready to pay a large sum of money before laughter met her ears and she could see a group of adults, probably in their late to mid thirties, making fun of the mimes. A different way to help crossed her mind as she watched them enter the gingerbread house. “What if we scared them?” Nora asked, her monotone making it sound like a serious and reasonable suggestion. “Make a point that people can’t keep mocking mimes because they are quiet.”

He’d forgotten what he’d planned on saying next to the other when she piped up with an idea. Jared looked after the group as they laughed and joked at the expense of his mime friends before heading into the gingerbread house. He nodded slowly before deciding it was a perfect idea, no amount of money fixed hurt feelings, but a little bit of revenge might. “Yeah, yeah that’s a good idea. People are always doing stuff like that.” Jared frowned and tucked the fliers into his back pocket, ready to so what it took to have those meanies regret their choices. “Let’s do it.” he said only pausing a split second before moving towards the gingerbread house (that had already closed its door on the group, trapping them) to ask “What’s your name anyway? Since you’re leading the charge, what’s the name of the commander? I’m Jared.” he offered preemptively.

Commander? Nora liked being called a commander. She could see it now, a field of dead bodies around her as she stood tall, proud on a rock, wearing a military jacket. There’d be some life in the people somewhere, and they would be full of fear. Life changing fear. The kind of fear that made for a meal instead of just a snack. She’d paint that picture later. “Nora.” Nora answered, her affect betraying nothing of the mental spiral she’d just followed. “Are you good at scaring people?” Nora hadn’t noticed the door close behind the other group. She pushed through the crowd and to the door, pushing it open and holding it for the giant - er - Jared. She wondered if he’d hit his head on the door frame. This Jared, friend of mime, was about to see things. She hoped he’d enjoy them as a fellow lover of mimes.

“I’m not sure, Usually it’s by accident, but I could try and make something work.” He wondered briefly if he could get away with using his glamour to help spook the group, without his partner in crime noticing. It would be far easier to do some scarring in the name of the mimes if he could make himself look like he had stripes like some sort of angry chameleon. Jared ducked in the door that was held open for him, and it pulled shut behind him. The inside was dark, the windows were as they tended to be on small gingerbread house kits that you could buy at the store, the windows were painted on in icing rather than cut out. It was pitch black aside from the gaps around the edges where the icing hadn’t fully sealed the walls in place. The group were in the next room of the house whispering now that it was dark as humans tended to do, as if the dark was suppressing any noise. Using the quiet he mimicked one of his kids' cries as loud as he could just to start them off. The angry call of a bies sounded from his lungs abruptly and clearly for a singular second before cutting off to return to silence again.

The noise that came out of the giant’s mouth was absolutely brilliant. Loud. Jarring. Inhuman. No animal Nora could recognize. She gave one slight nod of approval. Maybe this stork, now nicknamed for being a giant bird and not just a giant, accidentally scared people more often than naught. Reaching inside herself, Nora lit the string of her magic. Her fingertip traced across the gingerbread walls as she walked. Icing started to coat her finger but she ignored it. Instead she concentrated on making the screeching noise of steel on steel. She’d seen it cause the hairs on people’s neck to rise. She hoped her cover of dragging her finger would be enough to fool new friend Jared. She’d claim it was a party trick or something. Damn, she really hated frosting.

Jared extended his glamour past his usual skin cover to also alter his clothes just that little bit, the mime shirt was a little too telling after all. Instead he added stripes subtly in the darkness, only really put in place for his own peace of mind rather than for any impact. He hoped it was too dark for anyone to notice, so that he didn’t have to explain to Nora either. The noise she was making sent a chill up his spine as well for a half a second before he settled into it, it was easier knowing where it was coming from...sort of. He had no idea how she was doing it, but he was certain it was Nora doing it at the very least, no other way a gingerbread house could make that noise. The group were muttering to each other, clearly unsettled as they headed into the next room trying to find the backdoor to escape. Jared spotted a runner rug down the hallway, so he stooped to tug on it and send the last straggling person flying into the rest, holding back a snicker as they toppled like bowling pins.

Was the stork looking a little stripy or was it the shadows of the gingerbread house? It wasn’t very well lit. Probably because it was made out of ginger and not wood. Nora found herself wishing she bore the strips of those they came to protect. An illusion manifested itself across small patches of her clothes; black and white alliance patches. The group they’d followed in were becoming less of a snack and more of a meal. Nora took a deep inhalation in, enjoying the rewards of Jared’s carpet tug. They piled to the ground obviously scared of what was going to happen. “Where’s the exit?” One shouted. “I-I don’t know, I don’t see any. How can this place be this big?” Panic made their voice high pitched and frantic as they shouted over Nora’s noise. She let the noise fall, leaving them and their prey in a sudden silence. “Boo.” Her monotone was briefly followed by an illusion monster appearing behind them. Black and white stripes mime meets masked monster with a giant maw and sharp rows of teeth. It gurgled towards the fallen group. Slowly. Leaving a trail of stripes behind it as it went.

Jared was unaware that it was Nora that had created the mime monster, he himself had seen the mimes do some incredible stuff so he wasn’t put off at all. It was a mask of only a slight surprise, thinking that they might have stopped performing to aid in this situation for themselves. This is why when a striped goo seemed to seep in the cracks of the gingerbread house (to form into another more ‘traditional’ looking mime on the ceiling) he didn’t even flinch. This mime turned it’s head like it was an owl to look down at the monster curiously for a split second before scuttling down the wall towards the now scrambling pile of humans. Jared flattened himself against the wall of the gingerbread house and increased his glamor in the moment to look more like the mime that had appeared on the ceiling, although not able to move his head like it had. He didn’t have quite the same energy, but he tried his best. The group screamed and swore and scrambled past Nora and Jared being chased by both Nora's creation as well as the mime who had come to see what was happening, only to be delighted with its findings.

This scene was beautiful. Perfect. Picturesque. The gaggle of bullies trying to run away. The mime manifesting. The illusion chasing, gurgling, gnashing its giant teeth. Nora was almost satisfied with the scene and the meal but it was missing something. A soundtrack maybe? Oh. She had the music box. Maybe that would add some ambiance to the whole shindig. It took a minute to windup the old box. It popped open displaying a couple wrapped in each other's arms dancing an eternal waltz. The music began, gentle, haunting, almost mournfully and her eyes fixated on the waltzing couple. She was met with an absolute need to waltz. Carefully she placed down the music box and held her hand out to Jared’s, the silent question to dance. A question that only had one answer as everyone around them started waltzing together. The gaggle were screaming in terror now, practically drowning out the beautiful music. “Why are we dancing?” Why can’t we stop dancing?” “Why am I dancing with a mime?”

The screaming had drowned out the ticking of the small music box winding up, so when the tune started Jared almost didn’t notice his body was moving towards music. Taking Nora’s hand they began to dance through no action of free will. The screaming did not die down, it seems the music was taking their movement alone, their voices would remain their own. Spinning around the room he was sort of delighted to have noticed that one of the group of humans had paired with a mime, who had turned its head all the way around again to watch the scene unfold in full rather than focus on it’s partner. “What kind of music box is that?” Jared asked Nora, his voice only faltering when her platform boots came down on his toes, yelling over the screams and panic of the humans with as wide a smile on his face as he could muster. Acting as is if the extra noise was only part of the song. He suspected magic, but he didn’t want to outright ask.

“I do-” Nora had never been good at dancing, and despite the dance being magically pre-choreographed for them, that didn’t go away. “Oh sorry.” She mumbled. “I don’t know anything about the box.” Nora nodded at the mime as they twirled past the beautiful friend. “It was the reward I got for getting second place.” First place shouldn’t have won. Her art was masterful. Oh well. Beggars couldn’t be winners. But apparently second place could be dancers. “I wonder how long it lasts.”

The screams and music could be heard by passing townsfolk for a while and they all ignored it, as was usual in white crest.

#P: Chatzy #C: Nora #fearfordinner

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beneaththetangles · 3 years

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Reader’s Corner: Springtime Window, Boys Run the Riot, and A Sign of Affection

A Sign of Affection, Vol. 2

Volume one of A Sign of Affection was a manga I had on pre-order a full year before it released, and I instantly hit the preorder button whenever a new volume becomes available. No surprise then that I stopped everything to read volume two when it arrived, and it did not disappoint. It’s every bit as good volume one, and perhaps better. My heart was so giddy and happy when I finished because Yuki is such a brave and courageous woman and was really moved at how she is able to share her feelings so openly. And Itsuomi! He treats her so well, and so respectfully! I am very much appreciating this very sweet, slow burn romance, though I am eager to witness it fully unfold, especially after seeing both these characters open up to one another. Volume two shows more of Yuki’s hope concerning her friendship with Itsuomi, as well as more about Itsuomi’s dream, along with the lingering concern, first voiced by another character, about whether Yuki can fit into it. And just as Yuki feels her time spent with Itusomi is so short, I can’t help but feel the same way. I’m desperate for the third volume because the ending was such a cliffhanger! But not only that—I just love the sweetness of this story and this beautiful romance. I highly recommend this josei series! ~ Laura A. Grace

A Sign of Affection is published by Kodansha Comics.

Stitch and Samurai, Volume 1

Stitch & Samurai asks a very important question: Can the premise of Lilo & Stitch titulor alien crash landing in feudal Japan and being found by an aggressive warlord carry an entire manga series? Turns out, the answer is yes, yes it can. This first volume opens with Lord Yamato preparing to burn an entire village down as a way of spreading his authority. Then he sees something crash into the ground. It’s a rocket, holding Stitch. The “blue racoon,” as Stitch is called, causes Yamato to totally lose focus on the war efforts and instead shift them toward trying to befriend Stitch. It’s ridiculous in the best possible way. Also, the artist approached this work by doing a combination of a more traditional and realistic manga-style artwork for the Japanese cast contrasted with the American cartoon look of Stitch. It works beautifully. The first volume was a lot of fun and I look forward to seeing where this ridiculous concept goes next. ~ MDMRN

Stitch & Samurai is published by TOKYOPOP.*

Rascal Does Not Dream of Petite Devil Kohai (Rascal Series, Vol. 2)

Despite its focus shifting from “bunny girl senpai” to “petite devil kohai,” and thus severely lacking in the rapid fire exchange between Sakuta and Mai that made volume one so much fun, Rascal Does Not Dream of Petite Devil Kohai is a vast improvement on its predecessor. Author Hajime Kamoshida’s habit of not letting the story unfold in a natural way, but forcing it to go where he wants and then quickly trying to explain the rational when certain situations don’t add up, returns but in far fewer instances. Although the plot seems as complex as that in volume one—Sakuta and Tomoe, the kohai with whom he exchanged butt kicks in volume one, are trapped in a time loop in which they pretend to be a dating couple to avoid the latter being ostracized by her friends—there are actually far fewer complications with this sci-fi device and thus a smoother plot overall. Buffeted by the endearing personalities of the central “couple,” as well as final chapters that take the story in an interesting and unexpected direction, Petite Devil Kohai is a triumph, an entry that is compelling from start to finish and, after the inconsistencies of Bunny Girl Senpai, an encouraging sign for the future of the series. ~ Twwk

Rascal Does Not Dream of Petite Devil Kohai is published by Yen Press.*

Springtime by the Window, Vol. 1

Volume one of Springtime by the Window is nothing but warm, fuzzy feelings—namely, the lovey dovey kind. Cool and popular Yamada is in love with his childhood friend, Seno, while Yamada’s friends, Akama and Toda, appear to have feelings for one another as well. Originally posted as tweets by the artist, the volume has a social media or webcomic feel to it, featuring short chapters with miniature payoffs as they depict school life and place the would-be couples in situations that push them nearer and nearer to admitting their feelings. I do think this series would probably best be enjoyed in such short bursts, but I admit, I found myself reading quickly through the volume, like an elementary-aged child tearing through an entire bag of candy, making a meal on food that’s quite lacking in nutritional value, which in manga terms, comes across somewhat in story but more profoundly in the almost-novice and inconsistent art. But also like said kid, I was too hopped up on the sweetness to really care. ~ Twwk

Springtime by the Window is published by Tokyopop.*

Boys Run the Riot, Vol. 1

Based purely on the concept of the openly transgender mangaka Keito Gaku developing a manga featuring a transgender and LBGTQ+ lead discovering his voice while entering the world of street fashion, Boys Run the Riot would demand attention. But this series isn’t satisfied with staying within the confines of that premise, as complex as that lane by itself would be. Instead, Gaku is weaving a tale of young character who are trying to find out and be comfortable with who they are, despite the sacrifice and cost that comes with doing so, as represented in this volume through Ryo, who is facing gender dysphoria while being surrounded by fellow students and teachers who, whether entirely real or imagined, don’t care about his struggles; Jin, the transfer student, held a year back and seen as a delinquent, and who finds a kindred soul in Ryo as one who shares his eye for fashion, quickly enlisting him as a partner in starting a brand; and most surprisingly, several others in more subtle situations who are likewise trying to find their own way in an unforgiving world. What results is a powerful and human look at the complications for those working through issues of gender identity and a host of other identifying traits about themselves in a cultures that impresses normalcy on them, and how they learn to fight back by being themselves. This is a moving and significant work. ~ Twwk

Boys Run the Riot is published by Kodansha.*

The Treasure of the King and the Cat

The Treasure of the King and the Cat is a TokyoPop collection of two stories (and a set of small postlude vignettes) about the half-elf wizard O’Feuille and Prince Volks, the twin brother of King Castio, saving various people. The first story revolves around a young boy whose mother is ill while also conducting some world building about the inherent magical nature of half-elves in this world setting. The second leads more into the main plot about people disappearing and cats turning up all around town. This is advertised as a Boys Love (BL) manga as there’s heavy homosexual overtones, though everything is winked and nodded at with no actual relationships developing. Volks’ huge crush on O’Feuille is played up a lot with the king and his humble servant implied a lot as well, but again, no development beyond that, There’s a kingdom of missing people to deal with, after all! As you can tell, the story is silly and simple, a read without much distinction, but it does make one think about the nature of what it is you genuinely treasure. ~ MDMRN

The Treasure of the King and the Cat is published by TOKYOPOP.*

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Reader’s Corner is our way of embracing the wonderful world of manga, light novels, and visual novels, creative works intimately related to anime but with a magic all their own. Each week, our writers provide their thoughts on the works their reading—both those recently released as we keep you informed of newly published works and older titles that you might find as magical (or in some cases, reprehensible) as we do.

#Manga #Light Novels #Yubisaki to Renren #A Sign of Affection #Stitch & the Samurai #Tono & Stitch #Seishun Buta Yarou #Rascal Does Not Dream #Springtime by the Window #Boys Run the Riot #The Treasure of the King and the Cat #Ou to Neko no Hihou #Reader's Corner #Articles #Author: Laura A. Grace #Author: MDMRN #Author: TWWK

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yamisnuffles · 4 years

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Dig Down

Part 9 of Too Much of a Good Thing

Hell comes to congratulate Crowley on the Spanish Inquisition. When Crowley's curiosity gets the better of him, he ends of shaken to the core.

Read on Ao3

“You, my friend, are a terrible model.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at Leonardo. “What? How can anyone be a terrible model? All I have to do is sit about. Maybe you’re just a terrible artist.”

“Maybe so.” Leonardo laughed and set his sketch aside. “But I would hardly call what you do sitting.”

Crowley had one foot tucked underneath him and the other thrown over the arm of the chair. He was reasonably certain he hadn’t started in this position. He’d done his best to channel Aziraphale, back straight and hands folded neatly on his lap, when first Leonardo had started his drawing. He flung both of his legs out and used the momentum to stand. His floor length braid swung pendulously behind him.

“Can’t help it,” he said with an easy shrug. “Sitting around that long is unnatural.”

Leonardo gave him an appraising look. “What’s unnatural is the way you walk.”

Crowley stilled instantly. “What’s wrong with the way I walk?”

“I didn’t say it was wrong. Really, it’s quite pleasant to watch but it does make me long to see the muscle and bone beneath. There is certainly something intriguing going on there.”

Aziraphale had commented a few times on the way he walked. Then again, Aziraphale had also commented on his hands, his nose, his hair, his eye, his freckles, his knees, his teeth, and everything else about him. To hear it from another, he worried he didn’t look as convincingly human as he hoped. It made him conscious of every step to a degree that very nearly caused him to trip. He saved himself by leaning against the table where Leonardo’s sketch had been cast aside.

He plucked the red chalk drawing up between long, spindly, ostensibly human fingers and examined it with eyes he knew were not a color found amongst mortal men. The face was cleverly rendered but everything from the shoulders down was decidedly more gestural.

“Mind if I take this?”

Leonardo dismissed the image with a wave. “Go right ahead. I can hardly use it for anything, though perhaps you can repay me by sitting for a portrait. Your face makes for a good study, even if the rest of you refuses to behave. You’d make an interesting angel, I think.” When Crowley sputtered incoherently in response, Leonardo laughed again. “A piece I was commissioned for,” he explained. “Or, part of one, anyway. For now, I have other work to do and I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your angel.”

Crowley felt his cheeks burn. Rather than try for a reply he knew would only come out as a garbled mess, he carefully rolled up the drawing and bobbed his head in thanks. “Well, whenever you want to get that portrait done, you know where to find me,” he said as he hastily made his exit from the studio. He could only take so much embarrassment in one day and he was sure Aziraphale had stored some up for him back at their villa.

Once he was out of the busy streets of Milan, he snapped his fingers. A note appeared, tucked into the drawing. A gift from our mutual friend, it read, to help you anticipate my return home. A grin and another snap sent it ahead. He could have gone with it but he enjoyed walking the Italian countryside. It put him in mind of breathless, startled confessions of love and kisses under the stars that added a spring to his step. He couldn’t bring himself to worry if that walk was passably human or not. He was all but skipping down the sun baked road when the smell of something putrid wafted through the summer air. He skidded to a halt just in time to avoid tripping over Hastur as he rose up through the hard packed dirt.

Crowley scowled. He should have miracled himself home and saved himself the trouble. He could very well still leave but if Hastur was bothering him, it was for a reason. It always was. It was also always something miserable that he didn’t want Aziraphale dragged into. He’d had a few hundred year’s peace after their initial meeting and, while Hastur hadn’t come around with any more job offers, he usually bore information. Wretched, gut wriggling stuff that Crowley was probably better off not knowing but could never seem to resist.

He had enough time to collect himself, to cross his arms and pretend at calm. Annoyance. He knew he could fight if he needed but he really preferred not to. Luckily it had been some time since a demon had forced him to it. Chances were today would be no different. All the same, he’d keep himself wound and ready, should it come to it.

Hastur emerged fully with a sneer already on his face. Crowley resisted the urge to push him right back down into the earth and instead asked, “What do you want? You’re sort of ruining my attempt to enjoy the fresh air.”

The corners of Hastur’s mouth widened slow and sloppily as the filth he reeked of until it formed a too wide smile. “Just came to congratulate you, Crowley. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

Crowley merely blinked. He couldn’t think of anything of note that he’d done in the past couple of centuries. Really, he’d been remarkably good, even by his own sometimes nebulous standards. He’d helped inspire a saint or two, been a patron of the arts, and had handed out the occasional blessing. Mostly he whiled away the time with Aziraphale, wherever they found themselves living as Aziraphale did jobs for Heaven. He’d even taken on a few of Aziraphale’s jobs, first as a way to let Aziraphale chase his own pursuits and then simply because he’d wanted to. Aside from helping a fellow angel skip work, he’d practically been a model angel.

“Hit your head on the way up from Hell, did you? I haven’t done anything.”

“Don’t be so modest. Weaponizing questions, really. Everyone Downstairs is impressed with this one. I’m almost jealous.”

Crowley felt a prickling down his spine. Something about this put his teeth on edge. Other than the obvious, that it was Hastur speaking to him, he didn’t know what it was about this that made him so uneasy. He wanted urgently to be home with Aziraphale. It wasn’t just the usual desire to be with his husband but something deeper than his bones. Deep as his very essence. This was the sort of warning urge that had sent him deep into the stars, once upon a time, a warning that things would shift irreparably if he did not act.

He shook the stiffness from his limbs. No need to be tense. No need to run. It was just Hastur and whatever he was babbling about. He hadn’t done anything- he really hadn’t- and nothing the demon said would change that. He took a step to walk around the demon. “If you’re done…”

Hastur angled himself to stop Crowley. He would have grabbed him if Crowley hadn’t already been on the defensive and ready to slip away. “Tell me how you did it? How’d you talk the humans into this Inquisition in Spain?”

- - - -

Crowley wasn’t sure what day it was. He wasn’t sure where he was but the near empty bottle in his hand implied a tavern or something of the sort. Usually drinks were poured into cups, though, so there was a chance he’d grabbed a bottle and taken it somewhere. That, or someone had let him simply drink from the bottle. Either way, probably not any sort of fine establishment. He wasn’t sure if he felt good or bad, either, but that was by design— don’t feel anything, don’t think. Seemed to be working fantastically judging by the fact that he could neither see, sit, nor think straight.

“There you are.”

That voice was familiar. Made something warm settle into the sloshing sea of alcohol in his system. “Here I am,” he agreed.

“Perhaps you should stop drinking a moment and look at me.”

Crowley sank down to embrace the bottle. The glass was cool against the side of his face. It felt nice. “Nah. Think I’ll just stay like this,” he said. Or, tried to say, judging by the slurred garble that slipped out of his mouth.

There was a long sigh. “Crowley.”

The bottle was carefully pried from his grip. He tried to resist, muttered a few choice curses, but was easily left slumped against his own folded arms. A gentle hand landed on his right elbow and when he turned to look at it, a face came into view. It took a moment for him to focus well enough to bring any of the features clarity but it could have stayed a bright, blessed blur and he would have known that face anywhere.

He picked up his head and beamed. “Ziraphale, s’good to see you.”

“I’m surprised you can see anything, judging by the state of you. Why don’t we get you home?”

Crowley shook his head. He abruptly stopped when the whole world seemed to shake with it. “Nope. Too drunk. Would probably discorpra- discapor- die if I tried a miracle.”

“Well then, why don’t you sober up?”

Aziraphale’s voice was low, sharp, and even. It was the sort of voice that in any other situation would have had Crowley worried but he’d done too good a job of getting rid of silly things like worries at least half a dozen bottles ago. Maybe more. He’d lost track after the first five or fifteen.

“Told you,” he said, resting his chin in the palm of one hand, “no miracles. B’sides, I don’t wanna.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “You don’t want to?”

“Nope.”

Crowley popped the ‘p’ and then repeated the sound until he fell into a fit of giggles.

“Then allow me—”

Everything was too murky for Crowley to remember why exactly the idea of sobering up sent his heart pounding and his stomach plummeting but he instantly snatched Aziraphale’s wrist to stop it from happening.

“No.”

“If you really feel so strongly about it, I won’t. Can you at least tell me why?”

Crowley opened his mouth. Closed it. Shook his head. Every time he reached toward the source of that feeling, something fractured and threatened to fall away completely.

He heard another long sigh. An arm wrapped around his back and another under his legs. Suddenly he was being carried. The lift into the air made him dizzy. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest. His shirt smelled nice. Like… flowers or something. Something pretty and nice. Like Aziraphale.

“You smell nice.”

“I’m glad,” Aziraphale replied flatly. “Do you have a room?”

“Dunno.”

“You don’t— where have you been staying all this time?”

“Dunno. Has it been a long time?”

Yet another sigh. Crowley felt like he should start taking count.

“It’s been over a week since I expected you back.” They started moving and Crowley had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop feeling dizzy. “Well then, if you don’t have a room and you won’t let me sober you up, what do you say to me bringing us both back home?”

Home. For much of his existence that had been a moving target with Aziraphale as a constant center. It didn’t need to be a physical place, the heart of it would always exist someplace beyond, but at the moment it was. More importantly, it was somewhere away from here. Whether he could articulate why he didn’t want to be here any longer, he knew how happy he was at the thought of leaving, particularly in Aziraphale’s arms.

Crowley hummed appreciatively and pressed in as close as he was able. There would always be a part of him that worried he would forget this form if he shifted back into his serpentine one but he missed the simplicity of it. He could never feel quite so much as a snake and he could instead rest easier, coiled around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Maybe he still would, when he sobered. He knew that Aziraphale would love him no matter his shape. It might not be better but it would be easier and, at the moment, that sounded very tempting.

There was a feeling of compression and then expansion as a miracle sent them both home. Instantly Crowley was inundated by the rich smell of oak from Aziraphale’s heavy wooden desk with a whiff on top of ink and parchment. He remembered the sound of wind rustling through the olive trees and the scratch of a quill as Aziraphale passed the nights writing while Crowley slept. Or tried to, anyhow. Oftentimes he would lay with one eye open and watch Aziraphale work by candlelight.

He thought of those nights as Aziraphale laid him on a bed that was far more comfortable than it had any right to be. Aziraphale took a seat on the edge of the mattress. Apparently neither of them was willing to break the silence that had fallen between them. Instead, Aziraphale quietly ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Or tried, as he got caught in hair that had managed to tangle despite being braided.

“When was the last time you brushed your hair?” Aziraphale asked as he drew his hand back to himself. “Or bathed? Or did anything to care for yourself?”

“You said I’ve been gone over a week? Then, uh, yeah. Probably something like that. S’not like we need to bathe or anything. Not like humans do.”

“You do if you’re going to soak yourself in alcohol and drunken humans.”

Crowley groaned and buried his face in a pillow. As it happened, an angel’s metabolism didn’t allow for passing out drunk, or that had been his experience over the last however many days of attempting to reach blissful oblivion. Maybe he could sleep, though. That might be alright.

He forgot why he’d been avoiding sleep until it overcame him. He’d gotten complacent since his marriage to Aziraphale. Even in the worst of times, life with his Principality had been a waking dream and the sleeping world had shaped itself accordingly. But the world wasn’t painted in only soft shades of cream and powdery blue, sometimes it was the harsh, steely grey of cruel human ingenuity or the slick scarlet shine of blood. The blood wouldn’t wash from his hands no matter how ferociously he scrubbed. It gathered under his nails, stained his skin, and blemished the band of gold around his finger.

Then there were the screams. They were never ending. If he pressed his palms tight as he could over his ears, they still rattled through his bones. He suspected he would continue hearing them even if he banished his ears altogether with a miracle. He just wanted them to stop. He screamed for them to stop. He begged and pleaded like he had for little else in his long existence.

Silence returned with two words. “Wake up.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. He breathed in gulps through a raw and ragged throat. He looked impulsively at his hands but they were clean. The screams had been his own, the blood imagined, and yet he couldn’t seem to free himself of the sensation of either. He rubbed senselessly at his forearms until a pair of arms encircled him like a vice and forced him to stop.

“It’s alright, dearest. You’re alright.”

“It’s alright? I’m alright?” he repeated, each statement transforming into a question in the mouth of a non-believer.

“Yes. I’m here. You’re safe.”

This time there was no doubt. There never would be, not in Aziraphale. He relaxed into Aziraphale’s arms. “Yes.”

“How about a bath?” A snap and the scent of lavender filled the suddenly humid air. “I’ll take care of it. All you’ll have to do is relax.”

Crowley let out a hollow puff of laughter. “Is that all?”

Aziraphale gripped him by the shoulders and sat him up so that they were face to face. There were tears obscuring his storm grey eyes. “Then you don’t need to do even that. Simply let me take care of you as best I can, alright?”

Crowley nodded when his throat tightened too much to make a reply. He loathed seeing Aziraphale cry.

Aziraphale helped him to his feet and out of his clothes. Each article of clothing was removed with more care than it deserved, stiff and smelling as it all did of a week’s worth of drinking in whatever establishment would have him. If he thought too closely on that he was liable to consider once more what had driven him to drink in the first place and, for Aziraphale’s sake, he was determined to at least try to relax.

He set his eyes on their bath. It was a lovely thing made of delicate white marble. Carved on the outside were scenes of angels dancing and drinking and generally having a lot more fun than real ones did. Bathing came and went in vogue with humans, but Aziraphale had developed a special fondness for it in Rome and so they’d kept a private bath wherever they settled since. Such, he supposed, was the luxury of not worrying whether the locals had plumbing anymore or not. One quick miracle and they had a full tub with steam that rolled in easy clouds off the surface.

“Come now,” Azirphale said as he took one of Crowley’s hands, “let’s see if this helps you any.”

Crowley let Aziraphale lead him to the bathtub and then climbed in without letting go of Aziraphale’s hand until he’d lowered himself most of the way down. Aziraphale carefully undid the braided hair that trailed after Crowley like a train. Once done, he gathered it up into a careful coil and deposited it in the water with Crowley. The water rose to the edge but didn’t spill over. It was just enough for Crowley and not a drop more.

Crowley let out a long, trembling breath as the hot water worked its wonders on him. He wasn’t quite as fond of bathing as Aziraphale but he did very much enjoy the act of being bathed. It was a bit like sleeping, without the danger of nightmares. Instead it was the very best sort of dream, shaped by the one he loved the most. Strong, calloused hands worked at the tense muscles in his shoulders and scented water poured over his head from a glittering copper vessel. The ritual of it was a comfort bordering on the sacred.

Aziraphale rubbed a small dab of scented oil on Crowley’s temples. “I got Leonardo’s sketch,” he said.

“I should hope so,” Crowley replied, “or I would have to worry my miracles are starting to go awry.”

Aziraphale nudged Crowley into a seated position so that he could better comb out water loosened tangles. “It was quite lovely. I do hope that you told him that and that you thanked him for his patience. I could tell you were as restless as ever at your sitting.”

“Er—” Had he thanked Leonardo? He couldn’t remember. “Oh! He asked me to come back for a proper portrait. Said I’d make a good angel.”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “At least someone thinks so.” The comb hit a snag and was replaced for a moment by careful fingers. “I don’t know how you managed this.”

“Dunno.”

“You do have a talent for finding trouble.”

When one segment was finished, Aziraphale moved to the next and the next in meticulous fashion. Crowley’s eyes fell closed as he sank into the comfortable rhythm of it. He felt like a bit of flotsam tossing gently in the waves without a care in the world.

“I suppose this hair is what put Leonardo in mind of angels,” Aziraphale continued. “I don’t think you’ve had it this long since Eden.”

Crowley opened his eyes again as he pulled himself from his quiet reverie. “I mean, I was a snake for quite a while after that, so hair was sort of off the metaphorical table.”

“Indeed. But… it’s nice. I like it quite a bit when it’s this long. Of course you know how I love it no matter the length—” Crowley ignored the burn in his cheeks and Aziraphale continued to comb. “—but it’s nice to remember simpler times.”

“For the, what, handful of minutes we had them?”

“Even so.”

Simpler times. Crowley hardly remembered them. Yes, he’d forever recall his first sight of the delightfully soft Principality, high on the eastern wall of Eden, when he’d been nothing more than an out of place Seraph with perhaps a few too many questions on his lips. But any memory of that time was overshadowed by what came after. And then what came after that. And after that. And on and on and on despite all the good mixed in.

Crowley pulled his knees up and hugged them close. “Hey, so, uh, with my rude awakening earlier, I think I’ve sobered up enough to, er…” He ran his tongue over his teeth and pressed extra hard on his left incisor, which had always run a bit sharper. He didn’t want to talk about it but it was a dark and hungry secret that he worried would devour him from the inside out if he didn’t. “I remember everything, if you wanna hear about it.”

Aziraphale stilled for a moment and then continued combing Crowley’s hair. “Only if you want. You can take whatever time you need.”

“No, I should— I want to now. Maybe then I can start to forget without an ocean of alcohol to help me along.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut but when he did, he could see that faces of humans contorted beyond recognition by unfathomable pain. It was no wonder Hell was impressed. The humans were up here serving up the sort of punishments even demons might not have dreamed of. He looked instead at his hands beneath the surface of the water and reminded himself that they were not stained in blood. He tried to remind himself also that they were clean of any guilt in this, but he was less successful on that count.

“So,” he continued when Aziraphale didn’t make any response, “ran into Hastur on the way home.”

“What did that wretched demon do this time? If he’s the one that caused all this, I’ll… I’ll… well, let me think on it but it will be suitably ghastly, I assure you.”

“No, it’s not— he didn’t do anything. Well, guess he did but not like that. Not that I’m against the idea of you laying down some holy wrath on him, if you’re so inclined. But I’m—” Water splashed as he gestured broadly at himself. “Because, well, how much have you heard about the Spanish Inquisition?” He only waited half a heartbeat before charging on. “Hell thinks I cooked it up, since it’s all being done in Her name and with the whole, you know, inquisitive nature of it. Aziraphale, it’s awful.” He emptied his lungs into that word and still it didn’t seem to be enough. “Monstrous. Wretched. Abominable. Really, really… bad. I’d say hellish but apparently they hadn’t even thought up half the things these humans have. Got the impression they’re taking notes.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded so small behind him. “Oh, Crowley. Why did you go look?”

“Had to, didn’t I? If everyone thinks I did it, I should at least know what I’m getting my name on.”

Aziraphale’s hands fell away from Crowley’s hair as he rushed around to the side of the bath. “But you didn’t have anything to do with it! You know you didn’t, my dear, so why torment yourself over what a pitiable bunch of damned creatures think?”

“Well, it’s not like they’re completely out of bounds thinking I’d gone and corrupted the humans again, are they?”

“It’s not— Crowley, how many times are we going to have to have this argument? You can’t take all of humanity’s sins on your shoulders.”

“I can try.”

“You certainly can and I know that you do, but I wish you wouldn’t. The humans will do whatever they will do, for good or ill. You know that. Not even the Almighty can stop that.”

“Why the blazes not?”

Aziraphale froze except for a sudden fluttering of his lashes. “What?”

“Why can’t She put a stop to this? They’re committing atrocities in Her name. She’s fucking well put a foot down in the past, drowning a whole load of people and—”

“Stop!” The walls of the villa shook at the command and for a moment Aziraphale seemed much larger. He shrank back down as he grabbed either side of Crowley’s face. “Stop, please. Not another word like that.”

Aziraphale crushed their lips together in a fierce kiss. He kept kissing until Crowley no longer had the mind or breath to argue further.

“Please,” Aziraphale said once more. “Not this. If there’s one thing in the entirety of existence you don’t question, let it be this. For me.”

Crowley could feel the drip of tears onto bath wet skin as their foreheads pressed together. He wanted for all the world to agree to that. Even being able to lie about it felt like it would be a weight off his shoulders. His life— their lives— would be so much easier if he could. If he could just trust in whatever damned plan there was, he might not have spent the last week drunk out of his mind.

He pulled back enough to look Aziraphale in the eyes and frowned at what he saw. “I made you cry again.” He bent forward and kissed the tear tracks off round, ruddy cheeks. “I’m sorry, angel. I won’t say anything like that again. Not to you.”

Aziraphale’s brows lowered over watery eyes. “Not to anyone.”

“Right. Not to anyone.” Crowley sank into the bath and deeper into himself with a hunch of his shoulders. “I promise I’ll try not to even think on it, not ever again. I just want to be with you and to be happy with that.”

Aziraphale laced their left hands together so that their rings pressed together. “You have me and you always will.”

#good omens #good omens au #go au: tmgt #crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #angel!crowley #my writing #fic

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danganronpasurvivoraskblog · 4 years

Text

Operation Coronation Part 2: Shuichi, Maki and Kaito.

*Shuichi grabs a radio and speaks into it.

Attention all soldiers. This is Ultimate Detective, Shuichi Saihara.

As you are very much aware, many of your fellow countrymen and countrywomen find themselves at the risk of being oppressed and in mortal danger at the hands of Angie Yonaga, if she were to become Queen.

That is why today, we shall not let that happen! We shall free Sonia Nevermind, undergo the rite of passage, and save Novoselic!

The lives and the future of every man, woman and child in this kingdom are on the line! Be swift and be bold, but not lethal! You all have badges as members of the Novoselic Royal Guard. Earn them!

This is Maki Harukawa, visuals on front gate...Ready to go.

Kaito: Copy that. Lady Dropping...Now!

*As Kaito says this, a small fighter jet flies over the outer castle walls and drops a bomb down in front of it.

Kaito: Was that a hit?

Sure was. Anti-Aircraft unit disposed of everyone!

Shuichi: Give me a reading on sky patrol.

Kaito: Sky patrol non-existent, Over.

Shuichi: Copy that.

Kaito: By the way, great rousing speech their Shuichi. Didn’t expect any less from my sidekick!

Actually, I think you’ve been demoted to the sidekick Kaito.

Kaito: Huh!? What was that Maki Roll!?

Shuichi: C-Come on you guys. Focus on the mission for now. Maki, move to phase two!

Roger.

*Maki waits alongside a few other soldiers clad in dark uniforms. At the sound of the explosion, several guards come rushing out. As they do, she and the others assassins leap down and take them out.

This is Maki Harukawa. West Gate is under control. We now have one more route in.

Shuichi: Good. Maki, Kaito, meet me at the smaller gate. My men just got this place clear.

Kaito: So, we’re going all the way to central command?

Shuichi: I’ve given the commander orders. They know what the strategy is.

Let’s do it then...

*Another explosion of the smaller gate alerts the guards to the position.

Enemy Guard: Wh-What it the hell...!? Who are they!?

*Shuichi, Maki and Kaito stand alone against the small number of guards.

Maki...Kaito...I shouldn’t have to tell you this but...

Attack at will...!

Heh...I’ve been waiting for this!

Remember! Don’t kill them!

It’s not on me if one of them dies...!

*Despite saying that, Maki is cautious. She avoids the swing of a sword from the first guard and bashes his head with the hilt of her combat knife. She tucks and rolls out of the way of the over and trips him up.

HYAH!

*As the guard regains his mobility, he raises his sword above his head, but Maki knees him in his jaw and knocks him flying.

Enemy Guard: Bitch! ACK!

Hey! That’s my girlfriend you’re calling a bitch!

*Kaito’s fists slam into the faces of two of the guards and they are knocked flat.

NRRGGGGAAAAHHH!!!

*Kaito leaps and jump kicks another three guards. Two of them are knocked out, and he grabs the one who isn’t and smashes his head against the ground until he is.

Enemy Commander: Dammit...Men! Line up with shields and attack! Show them no mercy!

*The guards begin to line up and charge towards Kaito and Maki.

*BANG! BANG! BANG!*

Guards: GUGH!

*Shuichi pulls a gun out his pocket, and aims and fires at the knights. The bullets pierce right through the shields and their armour. They all fall down.

Are those more of those non lethal bullets?

No. These ones are real...

But if I aim for their armor, it won’t be enough to kill them.

Some shields these guys’ve got...

Enemy Guard: UGH!

Enemy Guard: NRGH!

Enemy Guard: ACK!

*The guards keep dropping like flies as Shuichi, Maki and Kaito mow them down. Eventually, they manage to get inside the castle walls.

Where abouts are we?

I’d say we’re not too far from the room we stayed in last night...

...

Shuichi? What’s...

Oh...

*Shuichi stops for a moment to look at the giant poster. The paper scraps of King Olivers poster are still at the foot. Now all that’s left is the giant poster of Roland Sigmund.

...

That must be King Sigmund...right?

Yeah...

...

Hey...are we really the good guys here?

What do you mean...

Just a thought...I mean...

Sonia’s nice and everything...but if her great grandfather stole the throne from Roland Sigmund...then...She doesn’t have a claim to the throne, does she?

And Angie does?

I never said that...I’m not having second thoughts about stopping her...

I’m just wondering if after all this...is Koyasunaga really the one who deserves to be king?

Yeah...maybe you’re right...

Wait a second...

Hm...? What’s up...

...

!!?

I see...! So that’s how it is...!?

Mind speaking up some?

...There’s something not right about this portrait...

What’s that?

The poster of Roland Sigmund was only revealed a few days ago when Mikihiko tore down the poster...

Yeah...what of it?

If this poster was really being hidden away for over millions of years...

Then tell me...Why haven’t the colors faded on it?

...

That’s...actually a really good point...

That’s not all...I recognize this style...I think I know who painted it...

Whoever it was, it looks pretty legit. Almost like it was done by an expert...

Yes. An expert...or rather...

An Ultimate...

Ultimate?

Though it’s hard to remember this every time you see her, Angie Yonaga is the Ultimate Artist. She can paint, sculpt and do almost any other arts and crafts project like a professional.

I’m pretty sure forgery would be right up her alley...

But why would they make a fake picture of King Sigmund?

...I think I’m beginning to figure that out too...

Watch...

*Shuichi approaches the painting, and points to a gash in the paper.

This must have been from when Mikihiko Koyasunaga slashed the poster...but if I tear it down again.

*Shuichi grabs the tear and with a hety tug, rips the portrait down!

!!!??

*Kaito and Maki stagger back in shock of what is underneath the painting. It is yet another painting. Not of Roland Sigmund and not of Oliver Nevermind...But both of them. Both holding the Scepter of Tamuzan high in the sky towards the son, joined hand in hand and smiling in victory.

...Bullseye...

#danganronpa survivor #danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #drv3 #shuichi saihara #kaito momota #maki harukawa #novoselic revolution arc

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lloydsluck · 3 years

Text

Crow’s Feet

Prelude

Ever looked at something that’s so fundamentally flawed, so bad in design, form and function, it’s actually intriguing. Like a botched piece of taxidermy or a first attempt at a short novel. A piece of work that was probably not half-assed but whole-heartedly assed with good intention and it would be insulting to the creator to jokingly ask did you write this story as if you’re the old piece of gum stuck underneath a Grade 8 English Lit student desk? With no light, sense of tense, or spellcheker? The stereotypes and bad similes cause eye rolls so

far back into one’s head it’s like… well it’s hard to think of a comparison here, so count yourself lucky. Not to mention the ADHD diversions, talking about mounting dead animals in one sentence quickly sidestepping to self-awareness of this piece of literature. I digress. When last did you see a questionable piece of art that you found beautiful? So bad, it’s great. So useless and time-wasting, it’s what you’ll think about ironically one day on your deathbed. Because heck… made you look.

The Incision

Mondays. The start of a new week. New opportunities for a new you. A fresh squeeze of hope that things will get better served with a side of “I can change” attitude. And no matter how many Mondays we have, (4 187 to be precise, if you, like the average human being will live to 79), you will wake up to the same old boring Monday, every week, the same way.

Each one with a long dreary stretch and sigh, heavy eyes, telling yourself that you will make the most out of this week. But you won’t. Because laziness is time consuming and you don’t actually have anything else to do, really.

However, on this particular Monday, which was Fick McOwen’s 2226’s Monday, things were different.

Fick woke up with the dreadful sensation of drowning. Sinking deep in a casket of darkness. As he gulped in a breath of thick air, it tasted of rotten cabbage coating the back of his throat. Blind and bewildered, sharp metal sounds scratched close above his head. The sound stung his eardrums and made him cock up his forehead banging it hard against a flat surface.

‘Jeeezus fuck’, he hissed.

With no sense of time and space, his ears were ringing overcharged electric chimes in his head which felt cracked and ready to explode like a reactor in Chernobyl. He took a few minutes to try and calm himself. No good ever came from a panic attack in closed confines with a possible concussion. He finally raised his hands to his chest and did what most drunks do the minute they wake up, pat themselves down and check their underwear.

One week earlier.

If she was just a bit nicer, Jeffrey thought, she may have already had a proper and dignified burial for her husband. Stomping up and down a room that looked like it was decorated for a five-star hotel in Vienna, the newly-widow’s bony figure moved fast from left to right like a rabid old fox prowling a fence. For Jeffrey, her unwanted but needed bodyguard/help/punching bag, she was Hitler’s sphincter. She sparked fear in him and tightened his nerves with her demanding presence. Like a screwdriver twisting and turning into soft wood. A reaction he despised about himself. It ruined many good days. Sunny days and days like today.

Watching her from the corner of the large room, she attempted phone call after phone call, shouting at poor bastards who made the simple mistake of answering their phones that day.

Wanting to disappear he closed his eyes and listened to every passive-aggressive step she took in the room. He liked to tell when she walked on the tiles or the bear rug; it was a fast tac tac tac womp womp womp womp tac tac womp womp…then nothing. He opened his eyes and with a fright found her standing right in front of him, steaming red with anger.

Her greying blonde hair was fastened in a tight pincushion on top of her head. This pulled back her frail white skin that held everything in place. Face to face, he couldn’t help but stare at the permanent makeup she had done on the lower lids of her eyes and on top of her brows. It was starting to fade and as a result, it looked like she put eyeliner on days ago and never washed it off.

Her stare was cold and deadly like an overworked mortician’s. It complemented her daily outfits of thin grey pencil skirts and matching suit jackets. She had her name embroidered on the inside of the neckline since all of her clothing was specially washed and pressed at a local laundromat. One that she owned of course.

Margaret.

That’s what her husband used to call her. Or Margarine, Margie, or Macaroon. She would always remind whoever was listening that she was actually named after Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowden. If you had to look her up, you would see the uncanny similarities between the two women. So much so, that Jeffrey often wondered if they weren’t related. Considering how much of a royal bitch she was.

Nevertheless, he had to call her Mrs. Ergo. And he preferred the kind request from John Ergo, her late husband, since he didn’t think she would have liked the names he had listed for her in his head anyway.

She snapped back up and walked across the room towards the large oak desk that faced the gigantic windows that looked out onto their garden. Their Ergo-Eden. With a deep sigh, he sat up straight and smoothed back his black hair that was styled according to an old Italian mobster he saw in a film when he was 15.

“It’s all in the confidence of smoothing the wax over your hands first and then through your hair.” That’s what the old man said to his fellow pasta slurping, red-wine drinking, two hits a week gang that sat around a checkered table talking about the importance of looking respectable, no matter what the job. And this was what he told himself in the bathroom mirror every morning, (impersonating a very bad Italian accent of course) while he prepared for his day.

Apart from the respectable hairdo, Jeffrey was built like a small bull with a refined jawline. At first glance one would imagine he spends his days lumberjacking in the forest; but instead of plaid shirts, he was forced to wear black on black as per ‘management’s’ request.

He refocused his attention on her and as foul as she was acting that day, somewhere deep inside him, he felt sorry for her and her loss. His face twitched as he clenched his jaw trying to shape compassion on his face, but feared he looked more like a constipated clown trying to keep his cool. He was given cards once with all the different faces and expressions on it. Ironically, the illustrations looked like they were drawn by an autistic robot with no emotion nor artistic talent (it was), but it helped him deal with different people. Lines that came down the forehead with no teeth, meant anger or disappointment. Teeth showing meant they were happy – or about to bite you.

Margaret often made faces Jeffrey couldn’t place on his cards and her teeth always had some lipstick stains on it, which quite frankly, just distracted him altogether.

He watched her go down a list of names and numbers, furiously scratching them out when the call didn’t go as planned. Eyeing the last name and number on the list, she picked up the phone and started dialing.

Fick carefully pulled the skin up the neck and then over the top of the head, trying his very best to keep his hand steady. He wore magnifying goggles that pushed his choppy brown hair up toward the ceiling and enlarged his olive-grey eyes. It looked like the head of a praying mantis was stuck on a lanky man's body who dressed as if he found a discarded box of 80s band shirts and never bothered to wear anything else again.

'There.' He said as he lifted his hands and inspected the bird-like shape that was coming together in front of him.

In the back of the garage-turned-workshop, a small radio was trying to hold itself together while Henry Rollins tore away at its speakers. The music filled the room and gave Fick the ability to concentrate. Nothing else was audible. Not a phone or a thought could break his focus.

And it paid off; the crow started to take a lively shape, fast. All it needed were the eyes and some beak touch-ups and this bad boy was ready for some teenager's window sill.

Fick lived in Long Fountain, a small town where the kids were either into wrestling, the backyard kind, or satanism – also the backyard kind. This meant there were a lot of goth-like metalheads who gave themselves names like Agares and Forneus and hung outside the grocery store to smoke cheap cigarettes they bummed off the shop clerk. They would wear black makeup and dangle fake blood vial necklaces around their necks. Some would even proudly claim that they spray-painted hale satin on the backside of the church announcement board. To top off their rebel-without-a-cause-and-lack-of-basic-grammar-look, these kids would own a taxidermied crow on their windowsills, just for that extra edge.

“It’s a phase” most parents would say, but Fick couldn’t care less. He got fifty bucks out of it, liked the work, and asked no questions.

As a self-employed middle-aged Taxidermist, he could work from home and at his own pace. Something he considered to be more valuable than a performance bonus cheque at the end of a year after slaving away in a badly lit office desk from nine to five, five to seven days a week.

He didn’t necessarily consider himself a hermit, but he did prefer his own company with the exception of a few selected people – very selected and very few. This was a choice he made unapologetically clear to others who wanted to befriend him for no real reason. When presented with this frankness, they would awkwardly laugh it off and insist he’s just a fun and sarcastic guy. He despised those people the most.

Furthermore, Long Fountain was a small enough town for the nosy types to know everyone and their business, while still quiet and sparse enough for others to embrace the privacy of the town’s border. If you had to take a drone shot from high above, the edge of the town looked like it disappeared into the desert like an ocean of drought that spilled into a suburb. Fick could never figure out why they called it Long Fountain though, as there wasn’t even a lake or river anywhere near them. But he liked it there and he appreciated the colourful desert sunsets that could be found if you were at the right place at the right time.

The only other peculiar thing about the town was that there was an abnormally large crow population, which he didn’t mind because it meant more product for him. That, and an abnormal amount of old age homes.

He gripped the tweezer handle between his teeth while he carefully glued the last soft tiny black feathers to the rim of the beak; he tended to hold his breath during these final touches. While the song came to a screeching halt, the ringing of his cell phone surfaced through all the noise and concentration.

‘Fuck!’ He spat out the metal twangs, pulled off the goggles and flipped his phone over to reveal four missed calls from an unknown number in town. He was about to throw the phone over his shoulder onto a once purple–now grey–couch, when the screen lit up again with the same number flashing.

‘Hello’ he answered casually trying to simmer down.

‘Hello, is this Fick McOwen?’ A sweet lady’s voice kindly asked on the other side.

‘Yes, how can I help?’

‘I’m looking for someone who can help me with a,’ she paused for a second, ‘stuffing job?’

‘Well ma’am, I do all kinds of taxidermy. We don’t call it stuffing though, rather mounting,’ he smirked. ‘Anything from crows, bucks, ducks, even your pet poodle.’ He stared at the one-eyed crow that was perched up in front of him.

‘What is your rate?’ She calmly inquired.

‘It depends on the job. Small birds and animals start at thirty bucks, and then it can go up to a couple of thousand for a full deer, buck or elk.’

She went quiet on the line. He could tell she was busy writing something down, possibly a calculation. He hated long silences, it gave him indigestion.

‘What would you like to have mounted?’ He nudged, just to check that she was still there. She remained quiet.

‘Hellooo?’

‘Ten thousand.’

‘Excuse me?’ He quickly asked to confirm that he probably misheard.

‘Ten. Thousand.’ She repeated sternly.

‘Ma’am. What do you want to have done?’ His stomach started to tie knots of doubt, anticipating a job he may not be able to do.

‘I prefer a private meeting to discuss this further.’ Her tone suddenly changed from a sweet old lady to an office crank complaining it’s cold. He hesitated for a second. Feeling his gut whisper all tales of caution to avoid this type of interaction. “If it’s too good to be true…” he would always remind himself.

But…then again...

The ten thousand dollars started to swim through his mind like a beautiful woman in a red bikini, blowing kisses from a crystal blue pool. Caught in the moment, he impulsively replied, ‘Okay.’ She quickly confirmed that her people will be in contact with his people and disconnected before he could even take a breath to say he doesn’t have “people”.

Confused about the call and left with nothing to follow up with, he decided to write it off as another crazy old lady from one of the care homes who got hold of the nurse’s office phone. Eyeing the cotton-eye-crow, he proceeded to hit play on his stereo, threw his mobile on the couch and stuck the tweezers back in his mouth to finish the job.

NEXT CHAPTER COMING SOON

#fiction #short fiction

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bcdrawsandwrites · 5 years

Photo

Fandom: The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance

Rating: T

Genre: Friendship, Angst

Characters: urGoh, skekGra, skekSil, skekSo, skekTek, skekVar, and more to come...

Warnings: A LOT OF VIOLENCE

Description: One was as vile and repulsive as his brethren. He murdered, and maimed, and reveled in it.

The other was as slow and indirect as the rest of his brethren. He hated his dark half as much as the others did theirs.

But who they were did not matter, for Thra saw its moment, and seized its opportunity.

Notes: HERE IT IS! This is the fic that’s co-authored by @jaywings and I! I’m really excited to finally start posting this. Hope you guys like it!

---

Chapter 1: That Ancient and Most Sacred of Arts Summary: In which the Conqueror shows off his painting and puppetry skills.

---

The sky had been a dark crimson that early morning as the triple suns rose, a deeply foreboding sign for many.

For skekGra the Conqueror, one of the sixteen Lords of the Crystal and a regent of Thra, known far and wide for his prowess in battle, it was as if the very elements had already known the outcome of the approaching battle and were lamenting it.

He took it as an indication of great fortune.

SkekGra ran his tongue over his fangs, seeing it all again: the flashes of sunlight on the line of his army’s swords and armor as they crested the last hill and gazed down at the red-tinged Silver Sea lapping the shoreline, where their quarry had set up a last, desperate defense. He had arrived with two other Skeksis and a convoy of Gelfling castle guards and volunteers—a small battalion to be sure, but more than was needed for such a task as this.

"Can I get anything for you, my lord?"

The sudden voice made him give a start, blinking, the thick paintbrush clasped in his talons pausing in its careful application of pigment to canvas. He peered over his shoulder; a Gelfling had entered the room, looking up at him earnestly.

"Oh! Hm. Yes,” skekGra said, with a glance down at the dish holding his—for lack of a better word—paint. “Fetch me more water."

"Of course, my lord. It's good to have you back, by the way."

He nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the Gelfling scurry away, before he turned his focus back to his canvas and dipped his brush in the bowl, swirling it around.

Some artists enjoyed charcoal. Others used clay, and still others delighted in pigments made from berries and flowers.

SkekGra certainly had his preferred medium.

On the canvas was an image of his own likeness—the first thing he always painted when beginning his personal works. Eventually there may be a few of his other Skeksis brethren behind him, just to stop their whining. For now, though, he would keep himself standing alone. Below himself, he was beginning to paint another race—this one short, stout, and hunchbacked. Their arms were strong, their fingers deft, but their strength and wit were no match for his. And in this painting, they would be depicted bowing to the Skeksis. To him.

"Your water, my lord."

Nodding briskly without looking up, skekGra set the pitcher next to the bowl that contained his congealing paint, ready to thin it out when necessary. His spines bristled briefly at the realization that he was being observed—but, noting it was merely the servant, he smiled and went back to his work. "Come on, you can watch if you want."

"Thank you, my lord." The Gelfling stepped closer, looking on in silence for a moment. "Those are…?"

"Gruenaks," he answered. "We hoped to... ah... ally with them. But they proved to be enemies of the Skeksis, and thus of the Crystal." He regarded the Gelfling seriously. "They have been dealt with, Vapra."

"O-of course! I would expect no less of the Conqueror."

His tongue poking out from the side of his beak, he retrieved a smaller brush—this one fitting neatly onto the end of one talon—and started in on depicting the Gruenak’s faces. He had to get the expression just right, exactly the way he remembered it. He could see in his mind’s eye the twenty or so remaining survivors of the Gruenak tribe in a loose formation down on the glittering sand of the beach, staring up at them with their eyes wide and terrified, lips pulled back over blunt, harmless teeth as they took in the might of the army that had come to meet them, framed by the blazing suns and the blood-red sky.

He pondered his easel. Should there be rain in the painting? The real battle had started off on as clear a morning as he had ever seen, before dark clouds rolled in from over the sea and obscured the three suns, and the heavens of Thra had opened up in a deluge. His skin felt clammy even now at the recollection of his robes plastered to his frame and giving him the appearance of a drowned fizzgig, his feet skidding in the mud and blood while his tail dragged through the muck behind him. Everyone struggled to fight through the storm; yet he managed better than all of them, cutting down any enemies that stood before him with his newly-sharpened blade, which had been whet with stones from the very mountains under which these vermin had attempted to seek shelter.

Oh, how he had missed this. After what seemed like endless trine of pursuing Arathim, here finally was an enemy whose face he could see. The Gruenaks proved far better foes than the Arathim had ever been. It was not, after all, so satisfying to squash a bug.

The rain had even given his army an advantage in the end, despite his commanders skekVar and skekUng taking it in turn to whine about it to him (oddly, the Gelfling had never complained, while his fellow Skeksis seemed to consider it a proper pastime). The Gruenaks, technologically-advanced as they were, had brought fierce machines to do their fighting for them. But many of the machines failed to operate in the rain, and the weaponless Gruenaks had been forced to make a stand on foot with whatever they could find to defend themselves.

The corner of his mouth quirked. The weaklings had no fight in them. It could hardly even be called a battle, really.

It was a slaughter.

The thought had come from nowhere, and the force of it shocked him to his core, making him catch his breath and pause in his work for a moment with his hand trembling. The Vapran Gelfling was alert at once.

“My lord Conqueror?” it asked, its airy voice tinged with concern.

“It’s nothing, Gelfling, I’m fine,” skekGra said, giving a quick shudder to rid himself of the unpleasant sensation. The Gelfling took a step back, still looking uncertain. It didn’t seem at all intent on leaving—maybe he should send it off somewhere. SkekGra wracked his brain for what the Vapra’s name was but came up with nothing. Well, he could hardly tell the Gelflings apart anyway.

He tried to focus back on the painting, which swam before his eyes. What in Thra had just happened? For just the barest instant he had felt it again—a strange hollow feeling in his chest, like someone had dug their claws in and ripped something out while he still breathed. He coughed, his throat rasping, and in a burst of frustration grabbed his thicker paintbrush and jabbed at the painting, leaving a dark streak where he hadn’t really intended to put one.

SkekGra glared poison at it as though the harmless mark were to blame for all his recent troubles.

“Are you… quite sure you’re all right, my lord? Is something bothering you?” the Gelfling asked tentatively. “Should I call for someone?”

“No need!” skekGra said sharply, forcing himself to take measured breaths and regain his composure. Whatever this was, he would deal with it later. “It’s only from a lack of sleep and a good meal, which I will soon have at the feast tonight.”

He took care not to look the Gelfling in the eye. For if he did, it might see that his mind was not, in fact, on the feast they would surely be having in his honor, that it wasn’t something that bothered him, but someone…

Hatred boiled in his gut. This must be from his influence. His compassion—a vile word that made him bare his teeth and let out a soft snarl of contempt—his weakness. The unexpected encounter must have affected him more than he’d thought. He needed to be rid of it.

Well, tomorrow morning he would rejoin the Ceremony of the Sun with the others and be purged of this sickness for good by the Crystal. Until then, he must betray nothing, must only give the outward appearance that the battle had been a conclusive victory, that all had worked out, that everything had gone according to the needs and wants of the Skeksis.

And that memory—the tail end of the battle, the brief period where skekUng and skekVar had been looting the bodies for spoils, and the Gelfling had regrouped to talk amongst themselves and clean their weapons, and he had been alone, or so he thought—that memory would be shoved to the back of his mind, where it would rot and be forgotten. It was over and done with, and would become entirely unimportant by the time the first sun rose tomorrow, and there was nothing he could do about it now anyway.

He needn’t concern the Emperor or the General with trivial matters. SkekSil especially should hear nothing about it, as he was likely to look far too deeply into it and end up causing more problems for skekGra than he had started with. The shifty Chamberlain had seemed eager to get in his good graces the last time he had been at the castle, as well, perhaps hoping for favors or spywork. At least this time he hadn’t seen a sign of skekSil since he’d arrived back at the—

"Conqueror!"

SkekGra bristled and the Gelfling turned in surprise to see another Skeksis in the doorway, his brilliant red robes standing against the shadows of the castle.

"SkekSil," skekGra acknowledged. By the Greater Sun, it was like he’d been summoned.

“You have returned!” the Chamberlain exclaimed as he crossed into the room. His eyes darted over the clutter of dusty canvases and scattered art supplies, his brow wrinkling slightly, but the tone of his voice remained sickly jubilant. “Apologies I was not there to greet good friend Conqueror. I was under impression you were not due back until rise of first moon tonight.”

“The battle was shorter than we expected,” skekGra said. Almost imperceptibly, he stood a bit straighter as he resumed painting, allowing him to turn and look down his beak at the newcomer. He was slightly taller than the Chamberlain.

“Ah yes, yes, should have guessed. Yet, no one told me you were back already. In fact—” the other Skeksis took in a whistling breath through his nostrils, squinting up into skekGra’s face. "I have even heard that friend skekGra has reported to Emperor without friend skekSil, hmmmm?" he said.

SkekGra’s talons clenched on his paintbrush.

SkekSil’s jaw parted in a simpering smile, which he aimed toward the Gelfling. “Your attendant need not stay, surely? You—Conall, isn’t it?—” The Vapra servant nodded, “—Go, please. Conqueror and I, we have much things to discuss.”

Conall the Vapra made a small bow to each of them, uttered a quick thank you to skekGra for showing his newest work, and hurried from the room under the Skeksis’ close watch. The Chamberlain, in turn, sauntered further across the floor, his eyes glinting in the light from the window. He craned his neck to peer at the canvas over skekGra’s shoulder and let out a satisfied hiss.

“Another successful conquest, hmmm?” he said. “How excellent! Is best if have all been eradicated, yes, lest Gruenaks’ dangerous machines be used against Skeksis. Though, it is almost a shame, if none were brought back as slaves. Would have made valuable servants, with such knowledge metal and machinery. And they are not talkative!”

SkekGra clicked his beak, forcing out a snicker. “Ah, they could have given you lessons.”

“Yes, of course,” the Chamberlain continued, taking a step backward; if he was annoyed by the comment, he didn’t show it. “But oh, Conqueror, why must I find out about Skeksis victory by lovely painting and not hearing for myself? Why was Chamberlain not present during report to Emperor?”

Turning away from the canvas again, skekGra flashed him a grin, letting the light catch his jagged teeth. “I don’t know, skekSil. Why was Chamberlain not present during battle with Gruenak? Hmmmmmmmm?”

The other Skeksis ducked his head and blinked owlishly. “Battle?” he crooned. “Oh no, no. Perhaps in light of own achievements, Conqueror has forgotten? Emperor strictly forbade me from going into battle, yes! Many trine ago! I am not fit for war! Am not strong like Conqueror or General, or especially Hunter. I would be viciously dismembered by Gruenak machines, or worse!”

SkekGra let out a light chuckle and eyed his painting again, scrutinizing the dark, drying marks for any areas of detail he’d left out. “Do not worry, skekSil, I jest, I jest! There are few Skeksis I would take with me into battle, and you—” he turned quickly and prodded the Chamberlain, who had ventured much too close again, in the chest with his paintbrush handle, “—were never among them!”

The Chamberlain let out a horrified, undignified squawk and checked over his outer garments for paint drips, though any spots would be difficult to see on his red robes.

"But really, I would have told you all about it if you had been there," skekGra went on. "I went to the Emperor as soon as I returned, and he didn't want to wait. I suppose we forgot to send for you." And you might have suspected I was hiding something in my report, Chamberlain. That sounds like you.

"Hmmmm. I was with Gourmand, making sure plenty food would be prepared for friend Conqueror's arrival. If only I had known had returned already..."

SkekGra’s eyes brightened. “The celebratory feast?”

"Yes. With roast nebrie, fresh from Podling village, special for Conqueror. I was hard at work with much preparations for skekGra!"

"Well..." SkekGra smiled. "I guess you'll just have to hear all about the battle at the feast tonight. I have a show prepared."

"...Yes," skekSil said, tipping his head. "Friend Conqueror is most kind and creative. Will see you at feast."

With that, skekSil finally stepped back out of the room, and skekGra turned back to his painting at last. He caught sight of the inside of his paint bowl and huffed, prodding the hardened pigment with a claw. SkekSil had kept him talking for too long—he didn’t understand the care that needed to be taken with this particular medium. Grumbling, he poured water into the bowl to thin it out again.

Blood had the annoying tendency to clot.

—~~~---

This was almost his favorite part of any conquest: the triumphant return to the Castle of the Crystal, the welcoming feasts held in his honor, and the artistic treat he would be sure to give his fellow Skeksis every time.

Tonight his audience consisted of nine other Skeksis, mostly talking amongst themselves but a few watching him with expectant, beady eyes over hooked beaks. They all sat along the curved table at the front of the hall, waited on by bustling Podling servants while a small group of other Podlings hovered over the music machine in an alcove at the top of a set of stairs, waiting for skekGra’s cue.

He stood in the center of the room, facing the table with a covered object next to him, and cleared his throat loudly; the idle chatter died away and every eye focused on him.

“Fellow Skeksis!” he cried, brandishing his arms. “Podlings! Gelflings! ...Gelflings? Are there any Gelflings here?” He glanced around but spotted none, and felt oddly disappointed. “Have we stopped allowing Gelfling in the Banquet Hall since I was last here?”

“Gelfling made one too many derisive comments about our eating habits,” skekOk called out from one end of the table, in a clipped voice. “They were rude. Now they are forbidden!”

“It’s just as well,” skekSo said. He sat in the place of highest honor at the table’s center. “I did not get any joy from watching them scarf down their food, either.”

A few along the table let out creaky laughs. Seated at skekSo’s right side, the Chamberlain slowly stirred his bowl of boiled crustaceans and swamp weeds with the utensils on the ends of his claws. Though he wore his usual smirk, he did not laugh with the others, and his narrowed eyes were fixed on skekGra.

“Come onnn,” skekLach complained from the other side of the table, in the midst of hacking into an old handkerchief that had probably once been white. “Are we watching a show or what? Give us some entertainment!”

“Yes, of course! But first…” SkekGra made a grand, sweeping gesture with all four arms and a ripple of crimson robes. “Fellow Skeksis! Podling slaves, one and all! I present to you my latest work… the Conquest of the Gruenaks!”

With a single smooth motion he grasped the tattered cloth covering the object next to him and ripped it away, revealing his newest painting. A collective “Ooh!” issued from a few of his audience members’ beaks.

The finished painting—monochrome, of course—depicted himself standing triumphant over the vanquished Gruenaks, who bowed to his glory. Behind him he had squeezed in some of those who had joined him in battle: skekVar and skekUng, who were as similar as they were different and had squabbled constantly as bitter rivals, yet both fought like warriors against the enemy. He had even included a number of the Gelflings who had fought by his side (none of which could speak a word of Gruenak, of course—he had handpicked them all with that very requirement). The whole thing was likely his greatest composition yet.

“Why, that’s wonderful!” skekEkt exclaimed in delight. “Do one of me next, I want a portrait!”

There was a chorus of agreement as everyone clamored for a picture of themselves, to which skekGra bowed deeply.

“My lords! You must know these things take time! The arts are simply my hobby, not my greater role to benefit all Skeksis,” he said. “But if my Emperor wishes me to paint portraits for you, I will.”

All eyes turned to skekSo, who stroked the side of his beak thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he said, and the Ornamentalist clapped his talons in delight. “Once there are no more important matters to attend to."

"But of course, sire!" SkekGra gave a short bow. "Nothing is more important than bringing every inch of Thra beneath our Emperor's rule. And speaking of..."

A brief glance was all it took for the Podling slaves in the balcony above to begin beating against the instruments, producing a crude tune that slowly rose in tempo and grandeur (or as close as simple Podlings could get to such a thing). In turn, two other Podlings quickly wheeled out a well-sized, mobile puppet stage, which they then ducked behind.

With a flourish, SkekGra pulled away the curtains on the stage to reveal a landscape painting (disappointingly made with common pigments). Next, he swiftly produced two objects out of his pockets, keeping them hidden behind his back. “Behold the spectacle of my greatest show yet: The Conquest of the Gruenak, in puppetry form!”

The music swelled, and he showed the first object: an intricately detailed wooden puppet of himself, which he made to march onto the stage. With another musical flourish, he brought the second object forward—this one a marionette, the appearance of which made the majority of his brethren lean forward in interest, skekOk adjusting a couple pairs of his glasses.

Unlike the first puppet, this one was made of more... interesting materials: fabric torn off the garments of a Gruenak, and a body made of segments of carved bone, taken from the same creature (with a great deal of satisfaction on his part). Even if the others couldn't see these details for themselves at this distance, they were familiar enough with his artistry to know the materials he enjoyed working with.

“Pay close attention!” skekGra continued in a cry, really warming up now. “I’ll be requiring audience participation!”

Everyone slumped backward with audible groans.

What followed was a mostly unscripted, blow-by-blow account of the battle, illustrated with the standard, intricate puppets he used for every show (the one of himself, and two Gelfling puppets), along with the couple that he had put together during the carriage ride back home. He had his Podling assistants act out a few of the simpler, background roles, and also put them in charge of effects—which turned out to have been a bad idea, as half the time they forgot their cues and he had to work around their frustrating clumsiness. He left a few choice details out of his performance while ramping up others, keeping one eye trained on the Skeksis to gauge their approval.

A few seemed to grow bored as he carried on, apparently more interested in the nearest tureen of soup or other delicacies than in skekGra’s hard work. However, he glimpsed the shadows in the wide doorway behind him shift slightly and noticed skekTek slip into the light—late to the feast, as he often was, but drawn from his lab below by the smell of food and now watching the performance with rapt attention.

His production gradually expanded from the stage to making the puppets run along the banquet table, forcing a few Skeksis—namely skekAyuk—to yank their plates away from him with noises of protest. As his manikin self fiercely battled Gruenak machinery he attempted to have several Skeksis pretend to be Gruenaks and set up obstacles along the table, though the response to this was lackluster at best and downright contentious at worst, so he dropped that tactic.

“Ugh. Isn’t it over yet?” skekLach griped to skekShod next to her in a rather carrying whisper, while reaching out to grab something from the Treasurer’s plate. SkekShod growled and swatted her hand away.

“He’s giving himself too much credit with all this,” skekVar, sitting on skekLach’s other side, grunted. “I haven’t even been mentioned.”

It looked like now was as good a time as any for the finale. SkekGra spun around, twirling the train of his magnificent red robes impressively, and brandished his puppet self at his audience.

“The fight had lasted for hours,” he said, slowly making his puppet stumble over the table, a sword hanging limply from its claws. “Neither side could hold out much longer, and we knew we must end it. It was when the final brother had set over the horizon and the last vestiges of light faded from the sky, that we found ourselves facing the Gruenaks’ last, secret weapon.”

He had reached the puppet stage again, where behind his back one of his secondary arms slipped under the stage and retrieved a rough sculpture of wood and metal.

“An unnameable, unknowable creation!” he went on, his voice hushed. “A mechanical device the likes of which I had never before seen!”

There were startled gasps; skekGra had secretly flipped a lever that made the stage’s curtain apparatus collapse in on itself, in the same motion raising the metal sculpture onto the stage and whipping away from it in a flurry of robes. The overall effect was that the machine seemed to have appeared from nothing. A flick of his tail signaled the Podling operators behind the stage to crank the machine with their fingers, causing the thing to grind together, sharp metal jaws snapping open and closed.

Quietly making his way over to his seat next to skekZok, skekTek gave him a tiny nod of satisfaction. The Scientist had obliged to build the prop in exchange for blood and bone samples procured from the battlefield.

“Granting protection to the last of the Gruenaks riding its hull, it bore down on us!” skekGra announced to the audience. “One… hm… unlucky Gelfling fell victim to its horror…”

The machine gave a particularly savage snap; in the light, the mechanical parts seemed to gleam with splashes of pink and red.

He ducked down, raising up puppets with three of his arms—himself, a rough model of skekUng, and the rattling Gruenak marionette; the Gruenak stood atop the machine, its body language taut with savage triumph as it looked down at the two Skeksis beneath, who gazed up at it and then at each other.

“There was only one thing to be done,” skekGra said. “I must burn it to the ground.”

At the table, skekVar jerked his head up. “I was the one who burned it!”

“Ah, but, you see, the torch is in my hand!” skekGra said, holding up one talon.

A Podling lit the match for him, which he took unseen and transferred it to the hand of his puppet proxy with a quick movement. The puppet now held a blazing, miniature torch.

“For Thra!” he cried, his voice ringing in the cavernous room. “For the Skeksis!” And he made to toss the tiny flame onto the metal sculpture.

But his hands were empty, and were not his own.

He was standing in a dark, narrow tunnel; he could hear murmuring voices and saw three figures shuffling near him, looking tense and nervous, glancing over their shoulders repeatedly as though worried about being followed. They were Gruenaks, all of them, from the same tribe he had just purported to have wiped out. The ones he had been forced to let escape…

Words issued from his own throat, though he did not speak them. They were uttered in a deep voice, achingly familiar, repulsively familiar: “Go, hurry. You will be safe here. They are not following… yet.”

It was his own voice. But it was also not.

The Gruenaks pressed past him and headed on down the familiar-looking passageway ahead. One turned back to give him a last look—part grateful, part terrified; and its eyes widened slightly, mouth agape, as though it had noticed something odd about his face, a shadow of something lurking in his eyes—

Panicked yells brought him back to himself, snapping him back to his senses like he had been yanked out of deep water. His Podling assistants had abandoned the puppet stage and encircled him, crying out. Along the table, most of the other Skeksis had jumped to their feet, shouting or screeching with laughter, and skekTek was rushing back toward him with a soup tureen in hand, a hiss issuing from his beak.

Out of the corner of his eye, skekGra saw something flickering brightly. He turned his head, and his breath caught in his throat.

His stage was currently on fire, as were the hem of his robes.

“Fool! Curse your negligence!” the Scientist growled in a low voice as he reached skekGra’s side and doused the burning stage in soup. “You didn’t tell me you were going to light it on fire! I labor on that confounded mechanism of yours since before the first sunrise today and you incinerate it?” The fire had died down a great deal and he beat at the remaining flames with his robes, snapping to everyone in the general vicinity, “Well, help me extinguish it! Do we want to be consumed in a great conflagration?”

If the others had been laughing before, they were howling now, skekEkt going so far as to hammer the table with his fist and skekOk very nearly toppling off his chair.

SkekGra paid them no mind, stamping out his smoking robes and assisting skekTek in beating out the fire on the stage, biting back a hiss when the fire burned and blistered his hands.

Part of him relished the pain. The thought of that creature whose mind he had shared for a brief instant, his… other half… feeling this too was comforting, in a way. He felt sullied at the shared contact, corrupted, unwhole—

But that’s the point, a small voice in the back of his head whispered. You are unwhole.

He crashed his hands over the last of the flames, snuffing them out, and hoped urGoh felt every blister.

Why was this happening? And why now?

Next to him skekTek, panting, shook his head vigorously and stepped back from the smoking wreckage. No one else had rushed to help put out the fire—the Podlings still cowered away, and while every Skeksis was now standing, none had left their spot at the table. Most seemed to still be struggling to breathe.

“Er—the end!” skekGra called, and gave another low bow. He nudged skekTek, who, rather than bowing, just grunted and gave a stiff nod to the audience; then he marched back to the table to finally claim his seat, muttering darkly to himself.

“Another performance getting out of hand, I see,” the Emperor said, sitting back down and prompting everyone else to do the same. His eyes flashed with dark amusement. “One can only imagine what you’ll have in store for us next time.”

“It was a momentary distraction!” skekGra called back, idly fiddling with a piece of charred wood from the stage. “Humblest apologies, Emperor. It will not happen again!”

Only after he had spoken did he wonder if he could have gotten away with blaming skekTek for building a faulty, overly-flammable prop. Then again, the Scientist had been the only other one to do anything about the fire.

On skekTek’s left, skekVar snorted. “Wonderful time to be distracted. Handling fire.”

He seemed disgruntled. Perhaps he was upset that there had been time to build a puppet of skekUng, but not of him.

“Well I thought it was excellent,” skekOk said, leaning back in his chair with the light reflecting off every pair of his glasses, turning the lenses white. “A brilliant finale. I do so love when these shows of yours end in fiery disaster, Conqueror.”

“Which is every time!” skekAyuk laughed heartily, then choked and had to cough up a leg bone from his entree.

With the show definitively over, they all fell back into aimless chatter and feasting. SkekGra directed the Podlings to help him clean up the ruined stage, taking care to examine his puppets for damage. None of them had escaped unscathed. He didn’t notice skekSil slip away from the table until he heard the Chamberlain’s characteristic whimper emanate from right behind him, making his hackles rise.

“Are you very well today, Conqueror?” skekSil asked. He shifted his sleeve over his hand and gingerly swatted at a bit of the stage that was still smoldering. “Is not usual for skekGra, always so focused on task at hand, to be so… distracted. So… forgetful.”

“Yes, well, it has been a very long day—and night—for me,” skekGra said nonchalantly. “I suspect I’m merely tired. In fact, I may just take some food to my chamber and retire early tonight.”

SkekSil nodded. “Of course, of course! Tired from sleepless night on long carriage ride back to castle, yes? And from days spent fighting Gruenak war machines, with no rejuvenation from Crystal, yes, yes. SkekGra must have rest. Would not want to make further careless mistakes, especially in upcoming battle… against Arathim.”

SkekGra nearly dropped a broken piece of machinery and scrambled to catch it with one of his secondary arms. "What?" he cried, whipping his head in skekSil's direction.

With an obnoxious hum and a tilt of his head, the Chamberlain picked up the singed Gruenak puppet from the floor and turned it in his hands. "Yes, while friend Conqueror was busy preparing for puppet show, I talked with Emperor and General. Gelfling scouts from Stone-in-Wood came to us, told us of Arathim invasion at Caves of Grot. Poor Grottans have managed to fight back some, but will need Skeksis help, hmmmm?"

"You volunteered me?" His lips twitched, fangs gleaming. He would have said yes to the proposition regardless, but the fact that the Chamberlain had done this without his consent…

"Yes, yes. After all, I know friend skekGra well. Emperor knows this. And I know skekGra would be willing to aid Skeksis in whatever needs vanquishing, even if it is short time after recent battle!" With a stroke of his claws, he brushed the soot off of the Gruenak puppet's outfit. "If Conqueror can talk to Emperor about important matters without friend Chamberlain, surely he trusts me to do same."

"...Of course, of course." He snatched the puppet out of skekSil's hands, swiftly pocketing it. "I will gather the details and plot our course of action when the first brother rises."

With that, he took the handles of his mobile stage and wheeled it out of the room, leaving the Podlings to mop up the ashes on the floor. He hadn’t eaten anything at his own feast, but he’d quite lost his appetite.

"Good night, Conqueror," skekSil called after him. "I eagerly await your report in morning!"

SkekGra merely flicked his tail behind him as he retreated to his quarters.

—~~~---

Everything the Skeksis owned—their castle, their outfits, their banquets—was quite ornate, and their bedchambers were no exception. Small diamond-shaped windows, a plush carpet on the floor, an enormous wardrobe (hand-carved by Gelflings—which tribe, he couldn't recall) with enough room to store a single outfit, and a massive bed with a dense quilt and several layers of blankets.

What separated skekGra's room from the rest were the paintings that hung on his walls (all monochrome, each a different shade of red, brown, or black), several canvases stacked up in one corner, a mess of art supplies (papers, charcoal, brushes, carving knives) scattered across the floor, and the shelves that featured his puppets—each depicting a different race he'd conquered. It was on this shelf he placed the Gruenak puppet, and by a blank space of wall he set his recent painting, to be hung up later when he had the time.

Which certainly wouldn't be anytime soon.

Sighing, skekGra began the arduous task of removing his layers of clothing: his armor, his collar, his outer robes, and so on, carefully placing each in the wardrobe. He examined the singed hems of his robes, thinking of repairs, but decided it wasn’t too noticeable.

As he changed, he kept his mind focused on the challenge he would face tomorrow: of fighting the Arathim, again, and of protecting the Gelfling tribes that served the Skeksis. He thought of the defenses of the Arathim, how he'd fought them before to drive them out of the Caves of Grot, of whether or not he'd be able to track down skekUng again on such short notice, and the strange and exploitable connection that the Arathim shared—harm one, and the rest cry out in pain with him…

So intent was he on focusing on these matters that he didn't notice he'd forgotten to pull one arm out of its sleeve before starting on the layer beneath it, and the two sleeves caught on his wrist, and pulled—

The grasp was as unexpected as it was strong when the hand flew out and caught his arm to block his strike, and the look in the Mystic’s eyes was unusually piercing; but urGoh’s sudden arrival at the battle wasn't what nearly made him drop his weapon in shock. It was the feeling, even through the layers of clothing, that bolted through him, like a sudden blow to his chest—

With a snarl he ripped all but one of the layers off, shoving them roughly into the wardrobe and slamming the doors shut. He grit his teeth, his breath hissing between his fangs, as he kept his talons pressed against the cool wood, focusing everything on keeping his mind away from that scene.

From that memory.

And yet he could still feel it, in whatever passed for a heart in his twisted body. One hand pressed into his chest, and it took a surprising amount of willpower to not claw at it, if only to give himself something different to feel.

After a moment he clicked his beak, shaking his head; he wasn't going to stand here all night, not when he had a battle tomorrow. But as he slipped into bed and began to drift off to sleep, the memories trickled back into his mind.

The low voice of the urRu, uncharacteristically harsh as he stood in front of the three cowering Gruenaks: “You... have done enough here today, skekGra. Leave these few... and go slink back to the rest of your kind."

The unfamiliar, vague sense of completion at the contact, when his light half appeared in the downpour and seized his wrist to stop his sword.

And for the first time since he'd taken this form, for the first time in hundreds of trine...

The feeling of guilt that pierced through his heart.

You have done enough.

#skekgra #urgoh #skeksil #the dark crystal #the dark crystal age of resistance #skekso #skekvar #skektek #for unity #my art #my writing #ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS ARE BY JAYWINGS!

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ultravioletproxy · 4 years

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[Sona] Hine Cross (Proxy OC)

I've finally done it. I finally finished an actual sona reference up as well as finally completing a updated digital reference of HINE! I'm so very pleased with this and how my art has progress since his original reference, all those years ago... I actually was able to get up the energy to go fully in depth with his information and soon I'll get to his backstory comic going.

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Personality/ Mental State:

Basic summary; Hine is a VERY complex character. He has many layers to his personality which I'll try my best to explain. He is a quiet person with a lot on his mind, constantly bombarded with various thoughts which makes it hard for him to keep track of all that's going on around him. Hine "Zones/ Spaces Out" occasionally and does not realize that you're talking to him, he might even not respond to you in the middle of a conversation. All of these things may come off as rude; but he really doesn't mean to be. Later on in his timeline/ as he grows up, Hine becomes much more of an unstable person, laughing a little too loudly at things (and volume control in general), walking off in the middle of conversations, and tends to get a bit unhinged...

Hine has several mental disorders that can effect his personality:

⊗-Autism: Doesn't pick up on social cues, and it takes him a while to think of a response when in a conversion, in turn he pauses and stutters. With autism comes anxiety, if in a high strung social environment or decision, Hine may have a break down (Sitting down and grabbing his shoulders tightly), He does not let people see him break down, he will go to a private area to try and cool down before coming out into view and acting perfectly fine. This luckily, doesn't happen often as he's trying to cope with his social anxiety. During a conversation Hine may accidentally say something that he doesn't mean, like a mess up of words(Saying something unintentionally mean as he just didn't think how it would sound when spoken or combining two words together.)

⊗-Compulsive liar: He doesn't ever mean to lie, a lot of the times he feels as though a lie is safer than telling the truth and before he even knows what he's done, the person has accepted the lie as truth and he's too afraid to tell them that his response was false. This stemmed from abuse during his life at the orphanage. He currently is trying hard to pull away from this.

⊗-Minorly a Paranoid Schizophrenic: Sometime this disorder makes him feels like everything and everyone has an ulterior motive, even though the thought is completely irrational. Hine mentally beats himself up for having these kinds of thoughts as he feels like he's betraying his loved ones/ friends. The thoughts themselves tend to be of a violently disgusting nature as they try to convince him that everyone is lying. He rarely witnesses hallucinations, mostly just little shadowy things in his peripheral vision.

⊗-Hypochondriac: Do to being mixed with a Slender, and his fear of dying, he constantly feels like his body will just give out on him, or that any sickness no matter how minor will end up killing him in one way or another, he's very paranoid of random aches and pain, irrationally telling himself to accept the fact that he's just going to die.

⊗-Sociopathic Tendencies: Hine has a hard time grasping that other people are just like him and have emotions, thoughts, and a consciousness. He tries quite hard to convince himself that other people are essentially sentient like him.

⊗-Unintentionally Manipulative: When living in the orphanage Hine was treated poorly due to his lack of social abilities and therefore was mostly ignored by the caretakers and fellow children. He desperately tried to figure out ways in order to be able to get a break from the constant chores and duties that he was given since he would not participate in being social with the others. He(not exactly intentionally) developed ways to read people in order to get what he wanted, again, not in a particularly malicious manner. More of just a way of survival.

Habits/ Quirks, Likes, and Dislikes:

⊗-Quirks/ Habits: Hine has quite a few funny little habits. One being collecting, he just adores collecting various things from silverware, to plushies, to seashells, really anything he finds the least bit intriguing and holding sentimental value. He is a little bit of a pack-rat you could say. He also has a bit of a compulsion to essentially "preen" or "groom" himself. For instance; cleaning under his nails, picking fuzz off a shirt, or even idly pulling hairs. He also has a lot of trouble finishing hot drinks, particularly coffee as he tends to forget about them, they get cold, and then he's too lazy to heat them up. Hine is mostly nocturnal as bright lights make him disorientated. Another not so good habit include Stress Smoking developed from watching a certain Slender and a friend smoke and seeing how it relaxed them. He occasionally delves into cannabis (Once Mr.KittyKitty comes around) due to the many medical benefits it has, such as anxiety relief, being more talkative, painkillers, motivation, or to calm him down.

⊗-Likes: He loves long walks alone in nature, particularly next to streams/ rivers either in silence or with music. He loves listening to the wind through the pines, the birds chirping, the sound of rain hitting the underbrush, and classical music. He loves pickled foods/ the taste of vinegar, as well as eating, and cooking in general. He tends to be rather indecisive about his favorite foods as he likes way too many, although salt and vinegar chips, popcorn, pomegranates, and cherries are a few of his favorites. His favorite drinks are Earl Grey Tea and Shirley Temples. Animals he adores are Bears, Raccoons, Ferrets, Ravens, Barn Owls, Coral Snakes, and Cats. He absolutely loves to draw, he makes his own characters and story lines, he also delves into other artistic feats such as crafting, painting with water colors, and sewing. A good book/ movie in the supernatural or horror genre will keep him content for hours. He loves dark humor, and coming up with ridiculous jokes(Blaming that on L.J.), and has a penchant for spouting the most random of facts. He really loves to talk to others and tries his best to keep up with them even though he has a hard time figuring out a response a lot of the time. Lastly, he has a weird enjoyment for the smell of disinfectant chemicals and has a particularly strange fixation on tornadoes...

⊗-Dislikes: He very much dislikes crowded areas, physical interactions, cities, thunder/ loud noises. He's not too fond of overly cutsie things. He can't stand highly sweetened foods or drinks (Candy, Cakes, Chocolate); once in a while/ a craving is fine, but he'd much rather take a bite of fruit. He doesn't care for baking all that much except for making breads at which he's none too shabby at. He doesn't care for bright colors unless they're mixed with dark ones.

Relationships:

⊗-Significant Other: Is in a delightfully happy relationship with flannelRaptors's Character, Johnny.

⊗-Slenders: When he was young, Hine ran away from the orphanage, he found his way into the forest where lovely Splendorman welcomed him with open arms and tendrils. Soon after, Slenderman himself took interest in Hine and became some sort of a strange father figure to him. The other Slenders joined in with helping take care of Hine. Trender helped his practical artistic side, while Splendor helped him understand his emotions, social cues, and tame his wild mental health state, Slender was his stable rock, and Offender schooled him in street smarts and how to deal with the "real" world.

⊗-Other Creepies: As a quiet person, Hine mostly sticks to himself, however if the opportunity presents itself, he absolutely loves talking to and learning about other people's pasts, Likes, etc.

Basic Background Summary:

⊗-Past: When Hine was young his parents were murdered by a trusted family friend they’d met from the church they attended. This person in turn, kidnapped and tortured Hine for quite some time, until Hine was eventually freed. However, as a mentally scarred young boy, shipping him off to an orphanage didn't really bode too well and he eventually ran away to join the Slenders' care and eventually became a "Proxy" to Slenderman.

Basic Background Summary:

⊗-Appearance: Hine has many abilities as shown above, however there are a lot more details and catches than what's written on the reference sheet. As the acronym may explain, Hine does not have any eyes. In an accident in which Hine almost died, Slenderman gave Hine an essential blood transfusion. The Slender blood, being incredibly aggressive, took over a good chunk of Hine's DNA giving him not only Eyeless vision, but also tendrils, an extra set of blood vessels, and a whole new horrible form.

Slender Affected Abilities:

-Hine can still see, but he now has what is called "Slender Vision" which is a 360-degree sight range, meaning he can see in all directions at once, ultimately maddening when first getting used to it. This is one of the reasons why Hine is constantly distracted. The range of sight and focus can be altered however it is rather difficult to do so as he was not born with the ability. Most of the Slenders can see a good mile or so around them while Hine has a shorter, about 50 ft range. Hine, not used to his new vision, rarely turns his head to look at objects that he is focusing on, due to there not being a focal point of eyes, therefore he tends to come off even more blank and emotionless than he really is.

-Hine's tendrils are hidden beneath his skin in what are called "Ports". Hine has a total of eight "ports", 4 on each side of his back. The tendrils can painfully be pushed through his skin at will, ultimately piercing through his back. He's supposed to constantly leave them out so the holes can seal up around them (much like a piercing would), but to do that he would have to keep out of sight from all other non-slender beings, as him being half slender is a well-guarded secret. The tendrils can lengthen and split apart to form thinner smaller pieces due to their "braided nature". However, in the early stages all of Hine's slenderification, his abilities are all INCREDIBLY clumsy.

-Other attributes Hine’s gained include, but are not limited to: heightened versions of all the senses, Moderately increased strength and speed. A bit of an iron stomach (ex: can eat raw meat), and more advanced healing rates (the less severe the slower it heals).

-With all these benefits came quite a few negatives. For instance, until he gets used to it, Hine's depth perception and hand eye coordination is completely off. His two blood types sometimes mix and therefore cause him to become incredibly ill for short periods of times, his varying blood colors also result in a pale yellowish grey complexion. Hine’s body has an unnatural slimness to it; he experiences continuous, nonstop increase in height in addition to having disproportionately long and lengthened arms and legs.(He has to make his own custom clothing.) Due to these things Hine suffers from minor growing pains as well as occasional cravings for human meat/ flesh. (Inherited from the dietary nature of the Slenders)

I applaud you if you read this all! Here's a TLDR version of this massive piece:

Hine is a mentally and physically scarred orphan who grew up with all the Slenders as his family. He came close to death at some point, but Slenderman saved him by transfusing his own blood into Hine, resulting in a well-hidden secret. Hine got really cool abilities with a few pretty bad side effects and is now an official Slenderman Proxy.

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⊗-Terms of Service-⊗

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jlf23tumble · 5 years

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I’d love to hear more about your thoughts on different ways they interact with fans in light of their personalities and teams and so on, if you’d like to!

God, I’m so sorry that this has taken me so long to answer! I *do* talk some shit in interviews have some thoughts about their current management teams and how they *do* seem to reflect each artist’s myriad goals and constraints, how they aren’t sabotaging things (given what we know is going on), how they have to walk such a fine line with fan involvement, but lordt, that is not a popular opinion.

Probably because 1Dhq actually *did* know what they were doing: they wanted to exploit five young guys for immediate fame and short-term gain, and they did it primarily through constant fan access and overly publicized private lives (real and fake). Turning that spigot off or trying to change its course isn’t exactly easy because a lot of fans struggle to a) absorb the post-1D landscape in general and their role in it in particular, let alone b) understand how much the music industry has changed from even one year ago (spoiler: it requires following other artists closely, and I just don’t see that here). Add to that the fact that these men themselves (yes, they’re all in their mid-20s now, they’re men) seem to encourage intense fan engagement when it serves a specific purpose (looking at you in anger, recent tweet from Niall), and the waters just get muddier, le sigh.

I keep writing and rewriting my thoughts, and they keep spiraling out of control because this is a topic that fires me UP, especially because it mixes in some things that I could spend hours venting about:

the amateur marketing experts and business analysts who feel qualified to make sweeping statements in spite of having no clue about the goals, budgets, constraints, personal life issues, conflicting schedules, or anything else happening bts

the baffling assumption that any of these guys is a struggling indie artist aged 19 who desperately requires any of our unpaid labor and angst, 24/7 (OR TO CALL UP RADIO STATIONS, NIALL)…they are male millionaires at this very moment in time

the policing of anyone enjoying anything because they just don’t get how terrible it is that a magazine with the characters from “Frozen” on the cover “leaked” an album title

the underlying misogyny in so much of allll of this (and this one ALONE I could go on about for days)

the use of words like, “I’m so confused about why xx is or isn’t happening”…because, yeah, makes sense, YOU DON’T WORK THERE, IT ISN’T YOUR JOB TO BE UNCONFUSED ABOUT IT

Deep breath, yes, I know, “not all fans”: lots of people like me focus on loving them, supporting them, buying songs, buying an album, going to a show, buying some merch, screaming about bullshit on tumblr. But a small but extremely vocal minority screams about how I’m not doing “enough,” and newsflash, I’m not paid to stream songs all night or call radio stations or make presents or absorb the levels of anxiety I see in some inboxes, and more to the point, I’m not paid to feel guilty about it from a fellow fan or deal with a bunch of misguided anonymous bullshit. I get tired just thinking about it, tbqh. Teams of people literally DO get paid to handle the majority of that, in fact.

That’s my hot take on the fan side, anyway (I wrote up a full breakdown per man in the D—how each team is actually honoring each man’s various goals, how fans are involved in that process because it’s literally part of the promo process, you are a commodity, etc.—but it’s winter, and I’m tired, so I’ll save that for some other time). The bigger issue is what these teams actually manage, and why I feel some sympathy for them (NOTE THAT I’M NOT A DUMBASS, THE FOLLOWING IS GIVEN: the music industry is fucking awful, mgmt teams get paid handsomely, most of them are monsters, artists get screwed no matter what, I don’t lose sleep over a mgmt team’s pain, deep breath, calm down).

As Kim said waaaay more eloquently than I ever could when I was in full vent mode with her yesterday (??? feels like years ago, lmao), people don’t give their teams enough credit for the impossibly complicated situations they’re managing. This was her overall point, and I completely agree: these guys are all closeted, but it’s so much more complicated than “some fans cling to their het fantasies so their teams (have to) keep up the closet and cater to them but end up alienating fans who think they aren’t straight”, because what about the contracts (not just Simon’s, but the ones with Sony, Capital, Columbia, the Azoffs, any other powerful person who’s treated them like shit and/or handcrafted their image for at least six years)?

Their teams don’t just have to deal with a fandom that’s split into different factions that are basically at war over opposing images of who these guys are and what their lives look like, they ALSO have to deal with it in a way that doesn’t breach ANY of these old contracts or tells any subsection of fans that they’ve been lied to by their idol for a decade or plays into any of the (pretty arbitrary) things that either fans or the guys themselves have come to hate being associated with over the years, while ALSO crafting an image that’s distinct and individual enough to distance them from 1D enough to have a solo career, while ALSO being recognizable enough for existing fans to still stan. All that, PLUS they have to listen to their client’s wishes and help them navigate whatever it is they’re trying to accomplish as artists. It’s not an easy task even for the best team, so mistakes will be made, miscalculations will happen, big news will pop up in a throwaway article in a magazine that’s promoting the vocal talents of the “Frozen” cast. And it doesn’t mean that the team is BAD, let alone sabotaging anyone on purpose: it most likely just means that they’re trying to handle a very difficult situation and are doing it in real time. They’re building a plane as they’re flying it. On top of that, they know information we simply don’t–much of it highly personal and volatile.

Ugh, I”m getting fired up again, so I’ll sign off. Those are my thoughts, I really should shut down my inbox…enjoy!!!

#random OPINIONS #that's right #OPINIONS #and a shout out to kim #and i do have even MORE thoughts about individual mgmt teams and what they're doing to help their guy #but yea #time to shut shit down i spose

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silyabeeodess · 4 years

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FusionFall Retro 2019 Holiday Event Fic: Icy Imagery, pt. 2

Previous: https://silyabeeodess.tumblr.com/post/189843252259/fusionfall-retro-2019-holiday-event-fic-icy

The next day—bundled in layers of clothes with a large, black sweater draped over her—Silya marched up the spire to find around a dozen soldiers at one of its lowest bases all gathered by the Ice King’s all but forced invitation. Everyone had a holstered weapon, but fortunately, the area had already been cleared of Penguin Pests. The Ice King had manifested a table beforehand, and had laid a small spread of chips, veggies, dip, liters of Super Porp, and what looked like some kind of potato salad, but they were either slushed or frozen by the time anyone got there. Despite this, everyone had one snack or another pushed on them.

Waiting for the last of the stragglers to arrive, Silya sloshed her iced drink around in its cup without taking a sip, not for the first time that day rethinking her decisions in life. She wondered how insane she had to be to let herself get talked into this and whether or not it would amount to anything. Maybe she’d just spent so much time as one of Dexter’s lab rats that rational thought had abandoned her a long time ago.

Whatever the reason—passion, desperation, or her own madness—there she was, standing in the cold, about to take lessons from a raving lunatic. Well, at least she wasn’t the only one crazy enough to be there…

Even if only a few others showed up after her. Their pitiful numbers didn’t deter the wizard: He just glanced them over with a thoughtful pout and affirming nod before deciding to himself that they’d waited long enough. He raised his arms in a calling gesture, “Alright, alright, everybody, settle down.”

No one was saying much to begin with, all dialogue confined to a dull murmur, but they stopped to fire incredulous glances at him all the same.

The Ice King took on an authoritative persona that was almost comical, pacing in front of them as if he were their commander, ready to lead them into battle. “Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here… It’s because your brains are all mush!” He waved his arms at the group. “You’re telling me that you all are capable of drawing from some kind of superpower, but you can’t even use it without a bunch of sciency junk? If it’s imaginary energy, then you should focus on using your imaginations a little.”

“Easier said than done…” someone muttered to Silya’s left. They were right. This was just the kind of thing she was worried about. IE went a lot farther than what the Ice King described—if it didn’t, then it would’ve been seen used in almost every aspect of human life—so, no, just ‘using their imaginations’ wasn’t enough. She glanced back the way she came, already considering her escape.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Who knew what kind of response he was expecting, but clearly whatever speech the wizard had prepared didn’t go much farther than what he’d already said. He glanced over the group again, the kind of look of his face that begged for someone else to step in. When no one did, he held his hands up, “Uh… look, maybe it’d just be easier if I show you.”

A light blue aura shimmered around his fingers, a clear sign to everyone of Ice King’s elemental magic. Some recoiled instinctively, hands lingering by their sheathes and holsters. Instead of directing it at anyone there, however, Ice King instead aimed for the ground. The magic scattered at their feet, manifesting in crackling icy, geometric patterns. Then it swarmed around them, a cold chill pouring over them like a sudden, snowy blast of air. Silya shielded her face from the winds with one arm, reaching for her sword with her free hand in case a stray bolt of ice trapped her legs.

Despite the Ice King’s bad history of encasing people in ice, however, none of them were harmed. Instead, the frosty cloud distorted their surroundings into some kind of strange, starry void washed in shades of green. The spire was gone and they were left hovering in the air. A mix of excitement and panic took over the group.

“What is this? Where are we?!”

“Is this some kind of imaginary world?”

“It can’t be. I’m checking the readings now, but I’m only picking up low traces of IE.”

Silya said nothing, taking it all in. There was no way this could be an imaginary world. Not that she’d ever had the chance to explore one herself, but no one could just summon one up like that! Besides, it didn’t look like much of any kind she’d seen from the reports about them: They were always spawned with some kind of wonderland-like element to them. There was nothing here. Nothing besides them…

Her eyes fell on the Ice King as their brief talk from yesterday entered her mind. Sure enough, he called them back to attention with a proud grin on his face, “Fellas, you’re in my imagination zone! Pretty cool, right?” He wiggled his brows. “It’s like a mindscape where anything goes. Even Finn’s got one of these—and he’s got the imagination of a missing sock!”

“Mindscape?” a young man echoed to her right.

Were they all currently somehow connected to the Ice King’s thoughts then? Like some form of telepathy? She grimaced, unsure of how comfortable she actually was with that…

“Yeah, everyone’s got one they can go to. Or should, I mean, I guess you shmoes never figured that out. But that’s about to change.” The Ice King hunted through his robes until he withdrew a worn, ruddy blue book. “You guys read my fanfiction, right? Since the ideas are all written out for you, it shouldn’t be a problem bringing Fiona and Cake and the rest into the world.”

Caught between a mix of irritation and guilt, Silya didn’t know what to feel worse. Did he make us come here just to see if we could bring his fanfiction to life? It didn’t exactly surprise her: Of course there was a catch. There was always something like this no matter what villain joined the Fusion Fighters. On the other hand, he had such an eager, puppy-like expression on his face that she felt bad for him. She bit her lower lip. While she didn’t have the hurt to dump her copy, she’d buried that brick of text somewhere so deep into her storage bank she didn’t even know where to find it without combing through everything.

One look at the others told her that none of them had read it either. Few of them answered him, and the ones that did had some excuse or another:

“I’ve been fighting fusion monsters, so I haven’t really gotten a chance to sit down with it…”

“Y-yeah! A-and it’d be a shame to rush through the story: It’s so… detailed.”

Miraculously, it worked, although the wizard still seemed disappointed. He lowered the book, muttering a faint ‘oh,’ before a sudden anger took over him directed at no one in particular. “Well, this was a waste of time!” The charge of emotion came and went, replaced with an excited smile, “Oh wait! I can just read some of the good parts aloud right here then! Makes sense, since it’ll keep us all on the same page.”

This time, at last, Silya finally interjected, raising her voice as a look of dread passed over the soldiers, “I think we’re good, Ice King.” Caught under his curious stare, she thought up something quick, “Think about it: No one’s gonna know your characters quite like you do anyway, so even if we managed to create them, they wouldn’t exactly be the same.”

She wasn’t lying: It was a case that happened all the time with imaginary friends. People had their own needs, desires, and impressions, and those things always imprinted on imaginary beings. It was even the case with their nanos, who took traits from themselves as often as they did their original counterparts.

“Artistic interpretation and all…” she finished, scratching the back of her head. “So, if you want to see Fionna and Cake, don’t you want them to be just like you’ve written them?”

He stared at her hard for a long moment—so long that she wondered if he’d snap again—but instead his expression turned a little sad and he dropped his gaze to the book in his hands with a casual shrug. “Yeah, sure, but I tried all that before. Even kidnapped some buddies of mine to find a life-giving mage to do it, but it didn’t work. Took forever to write all the stories again after that…”

She wasn’t even going to ask: Somehow, she just knew that they and the Ice King had extremely different ideas about “buddies.” However, it gave her an idea for how they all could get what they wanted. “How about a trade then? There this place called Fosters’ that specializes in imaginary friends. They might be able to help out. You show us how to enter our own imaginary zones and we’ll get you in contact Fosters’.”

Silya could feel the eyes drilling into the back of her skull from her fellow soldiers. They could judge her all they wanted. Frankie would probably kill her for passing the Ice King along like this, but after all the times she’d had to look after Cheese in the Darklands, the young woman felt that turnabout was fair play. If this was their chance of getting one step closer to mastering IE, then it was worth it: He could make an army of Fionnas for all she cared.

Before she could get an answer though, one of the other Fusion Fighters spoke up, “Wait… If this is a mindscape, then what about our physical bodies?”

The area went so silent that you could hear a pin drop. All heads turned to them, eyes wide with growing realization. The wizard answered somewhat dismissively, “Duh, this is an imagination zone: It’s not like I could bring those here. You’re lucky I was able to get everyone here at all. I never tried it with so many people.”

“But if we’re all here, then who’s watching our backs in the real world?!”

Continued through the following fic...

#fusionfall #fusionfall retro #ice king #fusion fighters #silya #silyabeeodess #video games #fanfic #fanfiction #icy imagery #ice king invasion holiday event #adventure time

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dentalrecordsmusic · 5 years

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Fest Review: Rockstar Energy Disrupt Festival, Noblesville, IN, 7/14/2019

Words and photos by Ari Jindracek

Okay, imagine this: you’re in the middle of an open field with maybe three trees in sight. You’re out of water, you didn’t put on enough sunblock, and it’s 95 degrees. You feel like you’re going to pass out if you don’t sit down right this second. However, when your heat-exhausted body slams into someone else who smiles as they push you back into the pit, you forget why you wished you could be anywhere else. Usually a Chicagoan, if you hadn’t yet noticed, I headed out to Noblesville, Indiana and the Ruoff Home Mortgage Music Center to catch the Rockstar Energy Disrupt Festival (because I have family near Indy and couldn’t get to Tinley Park). At 1:30 PM, with the sun high and blinding in the sky, a small crowd kicked off nine and a half hours of music, standing belly-up to the barricade at a small stage a few minutes’ walk from the amphitheater itself. As every lead singer who took that small stage would note, it was hot as hell. However, as you can probably guess if you’re reading this, it was super worth it.

The first act on the bill was Hyro the Hero. Starting half an hour after gates opened, when a large portion of the crowd hadn’t shown up yet, Hyro nevertheless drew a lot of attention. He climbed and jumped from amps and from the drum platform, borrowed hats from other band members and switched them around, and, near the end of his unfortunately short set, climbed into the crowd to ensure that the festival was going to start out with a pit. He packed more raw energy into the opening set than some of the other bands at the festival did in twice the time. His sound was unique among the rest of the acts, too, mixing rap flow with heavy hardcore instrumentals. After ending the set with no less energy than he’d started with, Hyro was also kind enough to stop and sign merchandise for fans, including fans who didn’t expect the pit to be as big as it was and needed to support themselves on his shoulder for a few seconds while they collected their stuff. (You’re right, I absolutely should’ve known better.) I can think of no better way to kick off the rest of the long, awesome afternoon.

If Hyro brought the heat to the concert, second act Juliet Simms helped everyone chill out a little. With a country twang to her voice not necessarily unlike Dolly Parton and a tambourine at her hip, Juliet fit well into the outskirts of Noblesville, which, despite being maybe 45 minutes from Indianapolis, were essentially open country fields. By no means, however, is Simms a country act. Her music would be right at home in my friend’s favorite Spotify playlist, made up of “vaguely Southern gothic” songs. Her backing instrumentals were fantastic--I was especially interested in the drummer, who kept the tempo strong going while flipping around a curtain of blonde hair--and Simms hit all the right notes with songs about leaving demons behind you and the dubious joy of difficult relationships. As a pair of acts, she and Hyro had vastly different energies, but both brought something different onto the setlist and complemented each other as artists.

Trophy Eyes, like Juliet Simms, were a bit less of a moshing, thrashing act, and a bit calmer. Lead singer John Floreani had moments of energy, punching the air and jumping around, but largely swayed over his mic stand. Technical difficulties only a few minutes into the set briefly left the band standing on stage for five hot minutes with no sound but Floreani’s faintly-accented voice asking everyone if they were okay and giving progress reports. However, once things got underway again, the band drew the crowd right back in. Their songs felt like walking through a pop-punk hedge maze: meandering and familiar. It was easy to catch on to the words and sing along, getting caught up in swaying and clapping. As a big fan of longer songs (what can I say, I have a type), I hardly wanted to pull myself out of the music for long enough to take pictures. Despite their rocky start, Trophy Eyes brought a chillness to their set, and the crowd had fun as they did.

The energy levels picked back up with Memphis May Fire, a band that, knowing the kind of music I listen to, I definitely should have gotten into beforehand. In a return to mosh pits and horns up, Memphis came on stage to provide the hardcore sound that one might expect on the Disrupt bill, judging by their fellows in the lineup. They had quite a few long-time fans in the crowd (not surprising, given their thirteen-or-so-year long run) but gave the uninitiated a terrific show as well. The band mixed songs from their latest albums with older ones dedicated to long-term fans in the audience (singer Matty Mullins was impressed by the reactions of long-time listeners in the crowd when he asked who had been with the band for a while) and mixed slower, sweeter songs with ones that opened puts instantly. Within the first few chords of the set, I was struck by the band’s sound and knew I needed to look into them further going forward.

Andy Black is a name I've been faintly aware of in the emo/alternative universe for a while but hadn't listened to his music much before this show, but the chances of me getting into his work after this are way higher. One of the first things I noticed was Black's speaking voice, which has a tone to it that I haven't often heard, almost like if you took a sports announcer out of the Wild West (but also nothing like that at all.) This added to his music, and you could tell there was a little something extra in the songs. On stage, Black leaned against his bandmates, paced the whole stage, and talked through his set jovially. One thing that I remember specifically is a newer slow song of his, "Ghost of Ohio," because I could relate to it, because it explained why the backdrop of the stage was a huge picture of Ohio, and because the singing and instrumentation were stunning. Black put on a really interesting show, and I fully intend to look into his music more as I go forward.

And now I must, sadly, inform you of a great sin of mine: I spent most of Sleeping With Sirens' no doubt excellent set in the women's bathrooms, trying not to pass out from the heat. I saw them perform maybe one full song. This is a tragedy, not only because the crowd had clearly come out for them -- this was the largest crowd at the secondary stage, more than twice the people who had been there for the first three openers, and several people boasted signed shirts or meet and greet passes--but also because I could hear their music from the distance I was at, probably a quarter-mile away and inside a building, and it sounded like something I'd be into. For the moments when I was there, I could see singer Kellin Quinn ranging the stage and checking in with his sweaty, dehydrated fans, waving along to the music with them, and beaming while he watched them. The love between the artists and the crowd was more salient, even, because it was standing room only, so the average fan was closer to Sleeping with Sirens than they would be had the band performed on the main stage.

Atreyu were the first act on the main amphitheater stage (where, finally, mercifully, there was shade) and they started off with a bang. I had briefly dipped my toe into their discography before the show, so I was prepared for some of their songs, like obvious crowd favorite "Bleeding Mascara" and their cover of "You Give Love A Bad Name". The cover riled up the crowd and helped keep the flagging crowd engaged, even when the songs ranged into less familiar territory. I was more invested in this set than several of the others I’d seen so far that day simply because I was capable of singing along to some of their songs Guitarists Dan Jacobs and Travis Miguel got to be the focus regularly and pink-haired frontman Alex Varkatzas held focus as he ranged the stage. No matter how much they knew about Atreyu's music beforehand, the crowd seemed to be along for the ride.

Circa Survive was, unfortunately, the second set that I mostly missed. (I’ll explain why I missed it in a later article. It wasn’t the heat exhaustion this time.) Thankfully, I was able to slip in for the tail end of their performance and, while distracted, I got to enjoy a couple of songs. Circa Survive is a chiller band than Atreyu overall and you could tell it by the crowd, which, though a lot of people were standing up to watch, wasn’t moshing or headbanging very much. They had a genuinely beautiful stage setup, too, with a backdrop in the distinctive style of their album covers and light cans with three segments that could light up individually, making for an interesting effect even if it was not yet dark enough to make out the lights on stage very well. It felt like Circa Survive had set up an exquisite set and I am sorry that I missed so much of it.

Coming into the concert, I definitely did not have the right idea about Sum 41. I was aware of them as a band and, like everyone else, had heard “In Too Deep” before. If you asked me after their set if I expected that, I would say no. I had expected their pop-punk to lean more pop, but that was based on a very limited sample set. Singer Deryck Whibley walked out on stage with very 90s spiked hair and proceeded to easily control the crowd. He referred to the audience members as a “family” (usually with “bullshit” or “fucking” sprinkled in for good measure) and talked to us regularly. Every time he thanked us for coming out, he did so two or three times in succession. During the band’s cover of another song everyone knows, “We Will Rock You,” he stopped the song completely to make sure everyone poured their energy into a huge crescendo. Whibley made sure to leave his two guitarists time for solos, and actually introduced all of his bandmates by name, which most other acts did not do. As the only band with effects beyond lights and fog machines--huge pillars of smoke would occasionally erupt from the stage with a roar--Sum 41 drew eyes in. As of the publication of this article, their newest album has probably just come out, and if and when they tour it, I want tickets.

Now, we get into the part of the article where I’m biased in my reviews. I love Thrice and count them among my favorite bands, so far be it from me to say that they didn’t have a good set. They did. One thing that I noticed was that the crowd dwindled after Sum 41, and when Thrice came on, a lot of people stayed in their seats. When Thrice played “Artist in the Ambulance,” a song that is easy to mosh and scream along to, the audience was largely sedate. Thrice’s music overall is chiller than, say, The Used, but it seemed that the crowd wasn’t feeling even the heavier songs. For artists whose songs I know, I am not a good enough judge to determine if it was the artists’ stage presence that drew the audience out or if it was just that there were fewer people around to watch. The clump of people around me who were standing and screaming (myself, two girls behind me, and a guy in front of me) were into it. Thrice played a range of music from their early-2000s albums to their newest EP, dropped in April of this year, from calmer songs like “Only Us” to a headbanging rendition of “The Earth Will Shake”. They stood as a calm act between two high-power, big-name groups, and while the crowd was out getting more beer or merchandise, they missed out on a stellar set.

Even before the final set started, The Used put their own spin on it. They dropped a screen over the stage and projected an animated film with classical piano in the background and the audience watched as the blades of grass wavering in non-existent wind turned into the band's heart logo and the screen dropped in one quick motion. The Used probably gave the single strangest performance I've seen at a concert. The band didn't actually finish their second song, "The Bird and the Worm" because frontman Bert McCracken stopped the audience to tell them that he was really feeling the energy and was about to amp his own act up. At various points, he recited Shakespeare, embellished the soliloquies by opening a circle pit, hoisted a child out of the audience, and pretended to gag over his own band's cover of Oasis's "Wonderwall". The giant dangling beating heart over the stage added to the ambiance. The Used exclusively played songs from their first three albums (and "Wonderwall"), despite almost twenty years worth of songs to pick from, but every song was full of energy. The crowd was at its peak, singing along and presumably moshing (I couldn't see over all the people on their feet in front of me). It was hard to stop watching long enough to take pictures. For a short set, relative to many of the headlining bands I’ve seen who usually get an hour or more, plus encore, The Used packed a lot of work into their songs, and it was definitely a captivating performance. If you offered me a ticket to see them again tomorrow, I’d fight my way into the pit.

As someone who hasn’t been to many festivals, and, well, didn’t actually get to absorb the whole thing beginning to end as I should have, Disrupt was probably the best concert I’ve been to in years, if only because it was eleven concerts in one. I’ve found a few bands that I need to put into my regular rotation and had experiences I wouldn’t give up for love, money, or the ability to get rid of the painful heat rash that reminds me of the festival constantly, as if I wouldn’t be daydreaming about it anyway.

Ari Jindracek has been listening to The Used on an infinite loop for five days and counting. You can catch Ari on Twitter for more concert pix.

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