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killing-all-joy · 3 years

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The World Is Ugly

I went “screw it” and decided to hop on the songfic train because this idea has been in my head for a looooong time. Finally finished it! This is a bit of a style divergence but I think it turned out nice so I hope you like it!

Pairing: Prinxiety

Word count: 7,127

Warnings: anxiety, mentions of murder

Virgil chewed on his thumbnail, staring at his phone in thought. He knew he had to tell Roman somehow, he just didn't know how. He had never been good at expressing intimate emotions.

Normally, Virgil would be incredibly anxious about telling his crush he liked him or he would ignore the feelings altogether, but this was different. Roman was different.

Why? Many reasons.

Virgil had known Roman for many years. They met in college and hated each other. However, they were friends with some of the same people and were forced to be around each other. They both had refused to sacrifice their friendships in the name of hating someone.

Over time, they stopped hating each other. Roman apologized for the names and the insults and Virgil apologized for his insults and cynicism towards Roman's creations.

Virgil eventually fell in love with Roman. When he realized it, it was like someone had yanked back a curtain over his feelings, but looking back, he found that the falling-in-love part was slow and gradual.

Now, it haunted his every waking minute.

Roman wasn't just like every other crush. Virgil had been in love with Roman for three years at this point and the feelings didn't seem to be fading in any sense. Roman had been Virgil's light and love for three years and Virgil had yet to find something about him that made him disappointed.

Patton was nice. Kind, sweet, enthusiastic; he was Virgil's best friend. But he could also be overwhelming, overbearing, strict, and too parental. Virgil loved Patton an incredible amount, but Virgil was sometimes too fragile to be fully comfortable in his presence.

Logan was smart. He was reliable, logical, honest, and gave very good advice. He was grounding, down-to-earth, and highly intelligent. However, Logan's wonderful qualities came with a side dish of coldness, occasional detachment and insensitivity, and bluntness. While this was often fine and sometimes even refreshing, it could sometimes be hard to deal with when Virgil wasn’t prepared for it. Logan and Virgil's friendship was very close and healthy, but Virgil couldn’t often deal with him for an extended period of time when Virgil wasn’t at his best.

But Roman...

Roman was perfect.

Yes, he could be arrogant and insensitive and harsh, but none of this deterred Virgil from extended interactions with him. To him, it just completed the puzzle that was Roman.

Roman was always perfect to Virgil. No part of his personality made Virgil not want to be around him. Virgil never had to twist the image of his princely friend to make him his ideal partner in his mind. No part of Roman's personality ever made Virgil wish he wasn't in his presence. At least, not after they became friends. His "flaws" just made him a better person in Virgil's eyes.

Virgil was mean. He was sarcastic, rude, blunt, pretty dumb, and constantly anxious. He was dark and brooding and incredibly pessimistic.

Virgil was a mess.

So, he obviously wasn't telling Roman because he thought the flawless man would like him back. But if it wasn't that, what was the point?

Because there were too many sleepless nights.

Too many evenings spent drying each other's tears.

Roman was sensitive, insecure; too sensitive of the opinions of others, too dependent on their approval. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and not everyone was wary of this, causing Roman frequent pain. Virgil had spent many evenings either on his or Roman's bed, hands on his talented friend's face as his thumbs cleaned away an endless stream of tears caused by events and people that would never be worth a second of Roman's time.

Virgil was almost certain he had more shirts that had been stained by Roman's snot and wasted saltwater than he had shirts that never had been cried on.

These nights, they made Virgil want to scoop up the princelike actor and hold him closer than the boundaries of their friendship would ever permit them to and whisper sweet nothings in his ear that would mainly just remind him of how loved he was. How loved he was by Virgil.

Virgil also wanted to apologize.

A week before, he, a singer-songwriter, returned from a particularly angering meeting with his manager. Roman tried to help him and cheer him up, but instead Virgil pushed him away by saying harsh things he didn't mean.

Of course, their friendship was too important to be on hold for a whole week, so Virgil had apologized the following day, but the musician could still tell that Roman was confused and not fully over it. He was no longer angry, but the pain hadn't left completely.

But Virgil couldn't explain his anger without also explaining that he was in love with him.

Roman had just been too nice, looking too pretty, and with brown irises that somehow seemed more entrancing than normal on that night. Virgil had wanted nothing more than to drown in the stage actor's arms. Roman had suggested ice cream, a movie (at home or at the cinema), or pizza if he hadn't already had dinner. Virgil had looked at his outstretched arms with want and longing. But he knew he couldn't play, tempt, or tease his heart like so and had declined rudely, faking irritation and anger. However, now he was faced with regret.

Virgil couldn't be fully honest with Roman if he didn't tell him about his feelings for him. It had been three years, but this dance could go on no longer. It made sense that if Virgil couldn't get over the theatric man in three years, he should face rejection in the eyes so that the romantic feelings would pass quicker. He should have told him long ago, but this was a good opportunity.

Yes, it was possible for him to wait for Roman's hurt and confusion to go away, but Virgil didn't want Roman to take any more actions (like not seeking Virgil's comfort when he required it, which had happened the night before this one) that would hurt him. It wasn't like telling Roman was a new concept for Virgil to mull over. A part of him had known for a long while now that telling Roman would eventually make getting over him easier. However, the possibility of Roman being disgusted and ending their friendship wasn't low. That was the driving force of Virgil’s hesitancy to enlighten Roman of the romantic inclinations he had for him. Virgil valued Roman's friendship, and would choose his platonic presence over his absence at any second.

But he couldn't lie any longer.

Roman had gone to Patton instead of Virgil last night when he learned that his ex-boyfriend (who ended their relationship five months before) had been cheating when they were together. Roman didn't still have romantic feelings for his former flame, but knowing that he cheated hurt him. He was lied to, betrayed; there was no way to tell if his ex ever loved him. That hurts even if there's no longer romance there.

Of course, Virgil learned this from a concerned Patton and not the actor himself.

All three involved in this event were troubled. Patton, for his friends' happiness (since Virgil and Roman made each other happy), Roman because he was confused and hurt, and Virgil, who wished Roman was comfortable with him again.

Virgil figured he only had one thing to do. Confess, and end the confusion.

Confess, and possibly end their friendship forever.

Virgil wished there was another way out.

But Roman was confused, hurt, and in a bad place. Virgil had tried everything in an effort to get over Roman, but nothing worked in the slightest. The singer knew it was past time that he confess.

So he stared at Roman's contact, the handsome face of his profile picture staring back. Roman was simply 'Roman' in Virgil's phone; he didn't put any cute nicknames in case Roman saw.

He brainstormed as hard as he could for a way to tell Roman he loved him romantically.

He didn't want to be too straightforward. Saying a blunt "I am romantically in love with you" was too scary to type out and send. And, he also had a shred of decency to not say something so important through text.

What did Virgil know best? Music.

He pulled up Spotify.

He went to his music, thinking through all the love songs he'd written about and for Roman (Roman didn't know of course). Virgil had his thumb over a particularly emotional and descriptive song, but paused.

If Virgil just sent him his song, Roman would think that he wanted an opinion on it, or that Virgil was reminiscing on works past. If Virgil sent a caption saying "this was about you", then the moment would be ruined, the text would feel too real and to-the-point, and he would be undermining his efforts to not say something monumental through text. No, he had to choose a song that would leave no room for confusion and no need for clarification.

What did Roman associate Virgil with, musically?

Emo music. Panic! At The Disco. Fall Out Boy.

My Chemical Romance.

Virgil would call the last his native tongue if he were able. It felt like such, each song seeming like it came from home or somewhere similar. It made sense for Virgil to communicate with something so dear to his heart. His friends were well acquainted with his love for the band. All his close friends, at one time or another, had been interrupted by Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge when they wanted to talk to Virgil. It told them he wasn't doing too well and needed time away from people and worldly responsibilities.

Which song, was the question.

MCR didn't have too many love songs; at least, they had a much lower percentage than many other bands. Also, a lot of those songs that you thought might be romantic could easily be interpreted differently. This made it a bit difficult for Virgil to find a song by them that encompassed his emotions, announced a repeat of his apology, and was clearly romantic.

He ran through the romantic MCR songs on speed-run in his head, paying close attention to the lyrics. His mind stopped when his brain fluttered to Conventional Weapons; more specifically, The World Is Ugly. He ran through the lyrics in his head, the tone, how clear the romance was.

He couldn't help but think no song described what he was feeling more.

The love, the apologeticness, the hatred of the world. Virgil knew how evil and ugly the world was. Is. But Roman...Roman was a star, shining in complete darkness without pause. Even when day came to hide the star's light and the two weren't in the other's presence, Virgil knew he was still there. Roman’s light wasn't like the sun which could blind or burn you, but like the stars in the sky that were bright, in a place far away, and at heights Virgil could only dream of reaching.

The lyrics made it clear that Virgil was using this song to communicate something—that something being love.

His finger shakily tapped his phone, pressing the share button and clicking on Roman's contact. He bit his lip, every brain cell except the one controlling his present actions screaming at him to reconsider, to protect their friendship and his heart. But this time, he ignored his anxiety.

He pressed send.

That was it. The text was sent. All he could do now was wait or regret.

A drop of blood slid down his chin from the lip he was biting too hard.

Roman opened his text messages reflexively. Virgil had a special text tone and Roman was conditioned to get excited when he heard it. He was almost always happy when Virgil sought out his company. Virgil's communication in any form was something he saw as a treat.

Virgil's feelings were no longer a secret.

---

Now, this was where the 'almost' came in. His argument with Virgil the week before made him anxious about what the text held. Was it a confession of hatred? Worse?

The app loaded to show a link to Spotify. He raised an eyebrow, plugging in his earbuds and shifting his position on his bed. He clicked the link and put in the earbuds as the song loaded and started.

Roman, an acquaintance of the emo for over five years at this point, and a friend for four of those years, knew his fair share of MCR. No, he did not know every song they ever created, but he knew a lot. This seemed to be one of the many he'd never heard. It was titled 'The World Is Ugly', a title he found unfamiliar and unsurprising for Virgil's music taste.

It wasn't nearly as intense as the ones that prompted him to lack interest in the band. He could hear the lyrics clearly.

As he started listening to the song that was sent without a caption, he realized that Virgil must have meant this as a way to communicate something. He decided to pay close attention to the lyrics for this reason alone.

The first verse seemed to have reassuring and protective elements, and a theme of unity between two people.

The chorus came, and he couldn't help but be taken aback by "but you're beautiful to me". At first, he thought it must be something Virgil didn't mean to convey, a lyric that didn't quite fit with everything else he was trying to tell Roman.

But the second chorus came after the second verse and Roman concluded that the song was a love song. It couldn't be anything else. To Roman, "but I wanted you to know” gave off the idea that if there was anything the singer wanted the audience to know, it was the next sentence (which included the line he was so confused about earlier). His mind almost came to the conclusion Virgil was trying to tell Roman that exact sentence...when he finally noticed that the chorus contained an apology.

Virgil already apologized.

Roman considered this, but a voice in his head told him that Roman hadn't accepted his apology—and acted like he hadn't.

Patton must have told him about last night.

He almost cursed Patton in his head, but concluded that Patton was worried because Roman often went to Virgil for the kind of thing he had gone to Patton for. Patton was concerned and probably wanted to make sure the two of them were okay.

By the end of the song, Roman knew what Virgil was trying to tell him. It threw him into a trance. He knew why Virgil sent this to him, and why he was so off-putting that night.

Virgil was in love with him.

Or so it seemed.

To be honest, Roman didn't want to believe it. Virgil being in love with him changed his whole world view.

To Roman, Virgil was the moon. Roman could always reach Virgil if he so chose, but he wasn't always present in person. He shone brightly to Roman, so bright. Not a light that made Roman shy away from and curse at, but a welcomed, beautiful light that made everything better when it was the dead of night and nothing else made sense. Virgil, for all of their friendship, was so close. He was who he was closest with. But, despite this, he was just out of reach. He couldn't hold him, touch him, speak to him in all the ways he wanted to. There was a boundary between them that made it so all that Roman wanted with Virgil was more than all that he got. He had gotten used to that. The moment he realized he wanted Virgil closer than he would ever be able to have him, he knew it would never be able to happen. Virgil didn't feel the same way.

Or, he thought that, at least.

But now, Virgil was telling him through My Chemical Romance that he did, in fact, feel the same. That he didn't mean to hurt him and he was so terribly sorry. That to Virgil, Roman was the only beauty in the ugliness of the world.

How long had Virgil felt this way? He’d had many boyfriends in the time they'd known each other. Many times where Virgil saw a man and couldn't help but be gay.

Then again, so had Roman.

Roman, despite having feelings for Virgil for a long time, dated. He'd had a few boyfriends throughout the time they'd been friends, all of them mainly in an effort to get over Virgil and because Roman thought they were cute. Maybe Virgil had done the same. Or, he could have been confused.

But the song didn't sound confused.

No, Virgil likely knew very well that he was head over heels for Roman. He had sent a single song with no caption or warning beforehand. It was clear that this was something that had been coming for a long time. Virgil was likely guilty about the fight and decided to enlighten Roman of his feelings for him.

Virgil loved him. Him.

Roman couldn't help but be surprised.

If Virgil liked anyone in their friend group, he'd think it would be Patton. He and Virgil were extremely close; best friends, if you will. (Roman was occasionally jealous of this because his closest friend was Virgil, but that was a topic for another time.) Patton was kind and sweet and cute and talented. He was a fantastic person who complimented Virgil in beautiful ways.

Virgil was also one to respect a great mind. Logan seemed more likely a love interest than Roman in the actor's eyes. Smart, interesting, logical, good with Virgil's panic attacks. The two of them would make sense. But it wasn't Logan. Or Patton.

It was Roman.

If he weren’t so emotionally drained and tired, he would squeal. Virgil was in love with him. Roman, the dramatic stage actor, the man who acted almost too much like a real-life prince.

Virgil was in love with him.

How would he respond?

Roman's eyes widened and he looked back at his phone, screen now dark. He unlocked his phone and stared at his conversation with Virgil. The text had been marked as read so Virgil must have known he'd seen it. He had to figure out how to reply.

Did Virgil want something to happen between them?

Roman didn't know.

Virgil sent the message as a text and didn’t include a caption. That could have been a way to say "I'm in love with you but I don't want anything to happen", since he wasn’t actually including anything that spoke of a desire to be with Roman romantically. However, it could just be that Virgil was an extremely anxious person and didn’t think he would be able to admit his feelings during an in-person interaction. If Virgil had been harboring feelings for an extended period, then it could be hard for him to say something directly to Roman after such a long time of keeping his feelings hidden.

A part of Roman figured that Virgil wasn't thinking ahead of this moment.

Virgil, as previously described, was anxious. He didn't seem like the type to expect or have intentions for their relationship after an admission like this. Virgil was the type of person to admit to romantic feelings and then spend every second following worrying over ruined friendships, offending someone, being mocked, getting insulted, and/or his feelings not being returned.

So, Roman concluded that Virgil wasn't conveying his intentions in this text. All he was saying was that he had feelings for him. Nothing more, nothing less.

'Nothing more'. 'Nothing more'?

Roman couldn't imagine what 'more' could possibly mean.

Virgil was in love with him.

'Love'. Something that seems so simple and sweet when you first hear it described as a young child, but something that grows to be meaningful, confusing, and complicated as you start to get older. And this love...this love was life-changing.

This was a love that had been burning for who knows how long, but that could have changed anything and everything had it been revealed sooner.

How many occasions were there where could Roman have said everything on his mind and Virgil would accept it, welcoming all his feelings? How many people did Roman date to get over Virgil that he didn't have to? How many nights in front of Virgil's door did he spend considering telling Virgil everything he felt before deciding against doing so were there? How many sleepless nights spent dreaming about what it would be like to be with him romantically did he entertain? All those things he might not have experienced at the extent he did if he'd gathered and exercised the courage Virgil currently seemed to possess...

Virgil watched as the text was marked as read. No response.

He supposed it was time for some courage of his own.

---

Virgil couldn't say with honesty that he expected anything different.

Roman was this marvelous, talented actor and Virgil was so not his type...

They were friends, though, and that mattered to Virgil. Their friendship meant the world and more to him. Maybe Virgil couldn't have his heart, hand, or lips—but he felt like he was the luckiest of people to be able to say Roman held him in positive regards. Their friendship was...

...their friendship.

Something Virgil was realizing with wide eyes and a sweater-pawed hand over his open mouth was ruined.

Sure, he considered this happening earlier, but he couldn't say he fully comprehended what it meant.

Roman, the light of his life...

...gone.

Or, at least, out of his life.

Sure, it was a friendship built on the ruins of malice, originally fueled not by each other but by mutual friends, and sustained by lies and obscurances of the truth committed by Virgil in an attempt to hide his true feelings. But it was still friendship. A friendship that meant more than anything else he had. A friendship he wasn’t sure he could deal with losing.

And he’d thrown it all away in one fell swoop. No more watching Roman’s plays at the theater, no more Disney marathons to fill the days off, no more meals of Roman’s signature chicken risotto made for his or one of their friend’s birthdays. The special comfort (whether it be after a series of panic attacks or a few angering minor inconveniences), the unique understanding Roman held and the techniques he used to make Virgil feel better during those terrifyingly vulnerable nights they shared was something that Virgil treasured beyond all else but still couldn’t fully comprehend the sacrality of. Those such nights would never again come to fruition.

Virgil wanted to yell. He wanted to scream, cry, throw the empty mug sitting three feet away on his nightstand at the wall. He didn’t, though, and he knew why. He didn’t...couldn’t regret sending Roman the text. Virgil knew he had to get over him, and that he had lied for too long. Roman deserved to know, no matter the consequences. Virgil loved Roman with all his heart, so it overwhelmed him with guilt to know he lied for such a long time. Virgil had been cruel to Roman that night the week before and he deserved to know why, even if it hurt their friendship. Maybe if he didn’t send the text things would eventually return to how they were and their relationship would continue as it always had with limited emotional complications, but Virgil would have to live day-in and day-out knowing that he was keeping information from Roman that after all these years of omitting information, his friend deserved to know.

Because there were so many nights of intimacy: of sobbing into the other’s chest with the lights out, or hands of varying temperatures drying tears, or screaming about a failed romantic relationship or the tragedy of infidelity in the aforementioned—ones that were too sacred to bring up during the day, too fragile that the moments would be shattered if they were approached with the attitude the two carried during a day of normalcy. Those nights meant more to Virgil than he let on. But the days after, he couldn’t help but feel guilty—like he’d taken something he didn’t pay for. He felt romantically for someone who didn’t return the feelings, and still allowing those moments of closeness to come to be felt like he was engaging in manipulation. He couldn’t help but entertain the nagging voice in the back of his mind that was convinced he was somehow violating Roman.

At least, with things the way they were now, Virgil would no longer have to deal with the guilt.

That didn't deter his ruthless anxiety, though. His thoughts were screaming about how everything with Roman was ruined, that all his other friends would leave him too, that Virgil would be miserable forever because he had lost the light in his life who was sometimes his sole reason for going. His hands were sweating and shaking violently. His phone almost fell from his hands at the instability. It was only fair for Roman to know, but gosh, did it hurt.

He steadied the phone in his hands and stared at the screen. His conversation with Roman was on his screen, staring back at him almost teasingly, torturously. It was like the phone or the app itself knew that this would be the last time he’d look at this texting conversation as someone who was still a friend of Roman. Soon, Roman would finally reply, and sever all ties. While Virgil was usually thankful he was someone who thought of all possible outcomes to a situation so that it was rare that an event caught him by surprise, in this situation, it only made it worse. He was sure it would probably be like suffering through heartbreak twice. The prediction beforehand, and then the real thing sometime later. He was experiencing the first right now, and the second had yet to come.

He knew that Heartbreak Number Two would feel worse.

Sure, he was feeling horrible presently, but he knew that the prediction wouldn’t be like the rejection. This heartbreak started with courage, then denial, then a realization that started to make Virgil’s hands shake and his heart beat uncontrollably. However, this was also a waiting game. When would he get rejected?

If Roman did end up waiting for a long time before delivering his rejection to Virgil, the pain would stretch out over a long time. If he waited for an extremely long time, the pain would slowly start to dull into a passive dread, with occasional spikes of anxiety. If Roman told him soon, Virgil would have less time to prepare for the rejection, so the pain would be much worse in the moment. Ultimately, the first was the worst. Extended emotional pain was not something Virgil needed, to say the least.

The text could come at any time, when it would send was not up to him. Virgil's fate and feelings were now in Roman's hands.

All Virgil wanted to do at this point was put his phone away, drench his face in ice water, and sleep for a thousand years. Neither of those things seemed to be possible, however, since Virgil could rarely seem to sleep for longer than seven hours and he currently couldn’t bring himself to put his phone down. His hands refused to let go of the instrument of his demise.

There were two warring thoughts of ‘is losing Roman really worth losing the ache in your heart?’ and ‘he deserves to know the truth’ circling in his mind. He tried to attach himself to the second thought in hopes of rationalizing losing the greatest person in his life. It was hard, though. What would Virgil do after this? Would he leave the friendship group? Or would things just be an awkward form of normal?

He was startled out of his thoughts by a quiet but concerning sound. When Virgil replayed the sound in his mind, it sounded like the clicking of a lock. The door to Virgil’s bedroom was ajar, so the door getting locked or unlocked was obviously the door to his apartment. Virgil distinctly remembered locking his front door.

Someone was breaking in.

Only four people had the keys to Virgil’s house. Virgil himself, for obvious reasons. Patton, Virgil’s best friend. That was a no-brainer; Patton and Virgil had keys to the other’s apartment because they often hung out in each other’s apartments without any warning or planning beforehand. Roman, after many instances of banging on the door at eleven at night because he had a terrible day and needed comfort but was also waking the neighbors with his loud knocking. Finally, Logan—the most recent person to receive a key (about six months back) after a harrowing experience of Virgil needing Logan’s specific comfort during a panic attack and Logan being unable to enter the apartment. Right now, it was late. Very, very late. Patton and Logan would be asleep. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t go to Virgil. He knew this. It wouldn’t be—could it be Roman?

No, no. Roman was too mad or disgusted or annoyed with him to seek his company at this late hour. Someone must have been breaking in.

The door opened. Virgil heard it; the loud creak he made sure to keep in the door’s design so he’d always be privy to an unplanned entry into his apartment. However, he soon realized he wouldn’t need that auditory warning of someone else’s presence.

He heard the footsteps.

They were fast, loud, and terrifying. What kind of burglar walks that quickly and obviously? A terrible one. Or, one confident in their ability to overpower whatever opposing forces they may meet in the home of their victim.

Virgil wanted to run to his closet and grab his broom. Truly, he did. But he was frozen in fear on his bed, phone tight in his hands, knuckles white, and eyes unblinking. He couldn’t move.

Virgil’s door was ajar. Opened enough for any unwelcome visitor to see that there was someone inside. If it was a robbery, the intruder could easily be armed and dangerous. Would Virgil die tonight?

The footsteps were approaching his room. Quickly, and without going anywhere else in the apartment. Virgil was suddenly worried that the intruder wasn’t a robber or a burglar, and instead, someone out to get him instead of his possessions. Virgil wasn’t sure if the change in his assessment of the situation scared him as much as it should have. The rapid change in train of thought from ‘Roman’ to ‘intruder’ wasn’t allowing the subsequent panic accompanying both of those thoughts to do much catching up.

The door to his room slammed open. Virgil was thrown back an inch from the force the intruder had placed on the door. This person was not concerned about noise. Virgil’s door was already ajar, why would they…

Virgil’s thoughts stopped when his eyes focused on the person now in his bedroom. His phone slipped from his fingers and onto the bed, not that Virgil cared to divert any attention to it.

Roman.

Not normal Roman, either. His eyes were wide, his hair was mussed, he was out of breath, and he was still holding the keys to Virgil’s apartment (which were on the same keyring as his car and house keys). Virgil, for all that he knew about his good friend, could not decipher the look on Roman’s face. It seemed a bit stressed, but not in a bad way. He had been running his hands through his hair, so a lot was obviously on his mind. Virgil almost wanted to say he was shocked, but it wasn’t quite like that. Almost like...he had been shocked a few minutes back and was coming to terms with what shocked him...which made sense. Virgil had told him he loved him. That must have been shocking. The lack of any other emotions like disgust or anger was what confused Virgil.

Virgil couldn’t help but be shocked too. What was Roman doing here? Virgil had confessed. Now it was time for him to hate Virgil for his feelings and ban him from the friend group.

Wait…

The keys were still in Roman’s hand. Maybe...maybe Roman was here to return Virgil’s keys. Maybe he was here to sever all ties with him. Return Virgil’s keys, take the keys to his apartment from Virgil, tell him their friendship was over…

Roman could be here to yell at him. Virgil had kept this from him for too long. Roman might have been here to scream that he deserved to know earlier. He’d be in the right, too, since Virgil agreed. One final scolding of his actions before Roman was out of his life forever.

But did those assumptions match the look on Roman’s face? Severing ties with someone you hate should have no lingering shock, and yelling should show more obvious negative emotions than Roman was currently displaying. Roman should look disgusted, irate, and probably betrayed as well. While Roman was a fantastic actor who could pull off hiding such things, Virgil didn’t think he’d try to hide emotions like that in the present situation.

Virgil was shocked too. He thought Roman would at least let some time pass before ending all pleasant connections with Virgil. He thought he’d take time to think and mull over what Virgil’s confession meant.

He hadn’t. This terrified Virgil. Had he come to a conclusion of hatred that quickly? Was Virgil that in the wrong? Virgil was mortified...what did that mean for Roman’s next actions?

But, again, Roman didn’t look angry. He had to be, Virgil knew it, but it wasn’t obvious on his features. So, that assumption couldn’t be taken as reality.

Virgil sat in awe at his current situation. Roman was here, probably to yell or scold him, but was silent so far. None of the conclusions Virgil had come to seemed to so far seemed to have enough evidential basis to be taken as truth. So, Virgil pressed pause on the speculation and let the only expression of his thoughts and emotions be surprise.

The love of his life was in his bedroom. For what? Virgil was uncertain.

They stared into each other’s eyes. Both were full of shock, just different kinds of it. Virgil was surprised Roman was in his room—not exactly a positive kind of surprise either. Roman’s shock, while clearly something that was at its climax minutes back, was still showing on his features. A type of shock that, unlike Virgil’s, was indecipherable when it came to whether it was a good shock or a bad shock.

Virgil didn’t know how long they were still and staring. It could have been fifteen seconds; it also could have been fifteen minutes. While it was probably around two minutes, time passed differently when Virgil’s green and purple eyes were locked with Roman’s brown eyes.

Virgil knew he wasn’t just showing surprise. There was no way the fear wasn’t seeping into his expression as well. He didn’t try to stop it because he knew that if he did try, he would fail. Virgil wished he knew what Roman was thinking—wished he knew whether he should be scared or not. Roman didn’t look scared, not like Virgil did. Maybe Roman hadn’t noticed. Virgil was able to tell with bitter realization that he was more scared now than when he thought there was someone in his house trying to kill him. Sure, he’d been relieved at first, but that didn’t last for more than a second. Whatever Roman was here to do seemed worse than anything a malicious stranger could potentially have in mind.

Roman finally moved. He took a step and a half towards the bed, towards Virgil.

Virgil flinched back, right arm darting behind him and holding him up in a position that made it easy for him to leap off the bed. Roman stopped his approach.

Virgil didn’t mean to flinch, but he was too deep in his surprise and fear to do anything else. When he noticed his own movement, he was overwhelmed with regret. He wanted to get this interaction over with. Creating drama by showing his current fear of Roman wasn’t going to help with that.

Roman suddenly showed emotion other than shock on his face. His eyes started to burn with sympathy and guilt, something that confused Virgil to no end. If anything, Roman should have become angrier. Why was he showing guilt at someone he should be hating?

Roman dropped his keys. The clinking that sounded as they fell on the hardwood floor didn’t elicit any reaction from either of them. They continued to keep eye contact.

After a moment free of any movement, Roman started to approach Virgil again, this time slower and much more careful, like one approaches a terrified animal in the forest. Roman was clearly a bit hurt by Virgil’s flinching, but his present focus seemed to be on the fear that Virgil would do it again—or worse, run away. His steps were slow and quiet. His posture was a bit crouched, probably as an effort to seem less threatening.

Virgil’s teeth clenched. He didn’t want to flinch again since Roman hadn’t actually done anything to imply that he would hurt Virgil, and also because flinching would only complicate things further. Nonetheless, Virgil was scared of what Roman was preparing to do. While Virgil rarely addressed it, he’d always found Roman to be scarier than the average person. He was tall, fairly muscular, and had a temper that could do some damage when Roman wanted it to. His strength was scary and his words were scarier; he reminded Virgil of Janus in that he was good at knowing precisely what to say to bring someone emotional agony. Any preparation for being hurt by Roman was useless; he knew Virgil better than Virgil would like to admit, making it that much easier for Roman to hurt him.

Roman’s left hand reached towards him. Virgil would have flinched if his hand was in a position to strike. It wasn’t, though—it was mirroring the scared animal in the forest analogy; the extended arm was almost serving as a gesture of peace, a white flag. Virgil thought that Roman was offering Virgil his hand to take and he intended to move away, but he didn’t need to. Instead, Roman’s hand gently rested on his upper right side. His eyes looked like he was asking for permission, if his touch was okay, but Virgil could not respond. His eyes stayed on him with surprise and fear.

This touch was too gentle to be malicious. That fact was clear to Virgil, so he couldn’t jump off the bed and escape without feeling guilty. Virgil didn’t necessarily want the touch either; he didn’t dislike Roman’s hand being there, but it felt wrong, like it shouldn’t be happening. And with all the common sense Virgil had, it shouldn’t. Virgil didn’t expect Roman to touch him, even after he unexpectedly broke in. But if he did, Virgil wouldn’t expect the touch to be anything but hostile. Virgil almost hoped his confusion showed in his eyes.

Roman’s right hand reached out as well. Faster than the left had, but still moving at a careful pace. This arm went around Virgil’s waist. Then, Roman started to almost pick him up and lead him to the edge of the bed. Virgil was simultaneously terrified and embarrassed at being carried, so before Roman could properly pick him up, Virgil moved himself to the edge of the bed.

Roman’s lips twisted into what looked like one of Roman’s subtle but encouraging smiles, which again bewildered Virgil. The arm around his waist retreated and rested just above Virgil’s hip. Roman guided Virgil to his feet.

Roman clearly wanted Virgil at the same level as him—standing up. Out of context, that made sense. Virgil had shown fear of Roman, so if Roman didn’t want Virgil to feel inferior at the moment, leaving him sitting wasn’t exactly a good idea. What perplexed Virgil was that in this situation, it made sense for Roman to keep a high ground and a dominating stance. He must’ve been (he had to be) mad at Virgil. Even though that conclusion was growing less and less probable through Roman’s every action, it was the only thought keeping Virgil sane.

Roman’s left hand moved from Virgil’s side to rest on his cheek. Virgil froze, thinking he was about to be hit for a split second but was again proven wrong. Roman’s thumb brushed under Virgil’s eye—Virgil would say it was loving but that was preposterous. Virgil wanted to close his eyes, to bask in the feeling of being touched like this (no one was ever this sweet and gentle with him in a manner that would be considered romantic out of context), but he was too preoccupied and scared and surprised and confused and-

“Virgil,” said Roman. It was quiet, tender, and held more love than Virgil believed to be possible. “Virgil, mi luna.”

Virgil had no idea what that meant. He didn’t think he wanted to know.

“I love you too.”

Virgil inhaled sharply. Not too loud (he didn’t want to ruin the delicacy of the moment), but it was still audible.

Roman loved him too. Roman returned his feelings.

That didn’t make sense. Not in the slightest. Roman had shown no interest; Virgil was positive there was no reciprocation of his feelings…

But that didn’t matter now. He had to reply.

He saw Roman start to move in closer, slowly, allowing Virgil time to object. Virgil didn’t, letting the gravitational pull of Roman’s lips allow Virgil to reciprocate Roman’s intentions to kiss.

“May I kiss you, moonlight?” Roman murmured.

“Yes,” whispered Virgil, voice practically silent.

Roman’s lips met his—first, a gentle and unsure brush of lips, but then a firmer and more intent kiss. It was gentle, caring, but most of all, it was full of love.

He smiled against Roman’s lips. Roman smiled too and kissed him deeper.

Virgil couldn’t say he wasn’t still baffled by everything going on in the present. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t happy about the way things turned out.

~~~ ☪ ~~~

“Earth is ugly,” said the stars to the moon. “It does not deserve your light.”

“Maybe so,” replied the moon. “But have you considered that you are too far away to see its beauty?”

Taglist: @somehow-i-got-an-account @justanotherhumanstuff @neo-neo-neo @fander-fic-recs

I know that little bit at the end is a bit extra and unnecessary, but I thought it up one time and it has some ‘deeper’ meaning I liked as well as relation to the metaphors in the story. I deeply considered not posting this one because of how different it is to the usual and the minimal dialogue, but I sent it to a beta who loved it! I’ve been stirring in the idea of Virgil confessing with this song for probably 6+ months and only decided to start writing it in October. It might be bad but I hope you enjoyed! I’ve been working on this on and off for months so I really hope it’s good.

#prinxiety #sanders sides fanfiction #virgil sanders #roman sanders #ts fanfic #tell me if there's any more warnings I forgot to include!#or if you see a typo lol call me out on it #romantic prinxiety #fic #murder mention tw #songfic #kill writes

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nurloxx · 3 years

Text

tale as old as time

summary: it’s bedtime, and kam’lu is in charge of telling the story

a/n: MAY’LU SHIPPERS COME GET Y’ALL JUICE

"What story do you think papa is going to tell this time?" Brea asked from where she sat on her mother's lap as the older Vapra diligently combed her long pale locks.

"It better not be the one where he got sun frenzy and thought a Hooyim was trying to speak to him." Seladon sighed, running a silver brush through her own hair. She was curled up on a mountain of plush velvet pillows beside her sister Tavra, who was fidgeting impatiently.

"I just hope it's not boring." she said simply.

Mayrin chuckled as she finished up, pecking Brea on the forehead and placing her back down so she could rejoin her sisters on the bed.

"I'm sure whatever your father has planned won't dissapoint." She then discreetly added under her breath. "I hope...."

"Do my ears deceive me or are there four fair gelfling maidens in dire need of a story?"

Four heads simultaneously turned in the direction of a playful voice that boomed from down the hall. The girls squealed in unison as the door swung open to reveal the form of their father, and they abandoned the bed in favor of crowding around his legs enthusiastically.

Kam'lu laughed heartily, scooping his two youngest daughters into his arms, then bending down so that his eldest could climb up on his back.

Mayrin rolled her eyes. "Love, you know they're not supposed to get too excited. It is their bedtime after all."

The Sifa captain gave her a lopsided grin. "Oh but bedtime is the most exciting time of the day, didn't you know? Especially tonights!" He dug his fingers into Tavra and Brea's sides, making them squeal and shriek with laughter.

"Papa, do you have a story for us?" Brea asked, her characteristic curious pools of gold twinkling.

"He better!" Tavra jabbed her tiny finger into her father's chest. "Otherwise I stayed awake for nothing!"

"Fear not my beauties. Tonight's story is a very special one." He gently placed them all down on the pile of cushions, claiming his spot on the biggest one. "One I think your mother will be quite familiar with."

Mayrin almost wanted to ask what Kam'lu was getting at, but the knowing look he threw over his shoulder gave her all the clarification she needed. Smiling, she stood from the vanity chair and got comfortable next to her mate. Their hands interlaced in clear view of their daughters, both not even needing to think about the action. It was practically second nature at that point.

"So, first things first. I have a question for you all." Mayrin gestured between her and Kam'lu. "Do you believe our initial meeting was love at first sight?"

Brea nodded enthusiastically, while Tavra and Seladon shared a look of doubt.

"I'd be surprised if it was..." Seladon muttered.

Mayrin tittered, putting her fingers to her lips. "You'd be correct, my dear. When I first encountered your father, we couldn't have been more different from each other. In the back of my mind I couldn't even begin to fathom how I'd be able to get along with someone so oafish, and thick skulled, and brash-"

"Really feeling the love here...." Kam'lu deflated, ears pinning to the sides of his head. He was actually pouting, and it caused his mate to let out a proper laugh.

"You didn't let me finish." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I truly did believe you to be all those things. However, I'd be proven wrong later on. You were so much more, my love."

The smile slowly returned to Kam'lus face. He kissed her cheek, nuzzling it tenderly. "And to think, all it took was being swallowed up by a sea monster and fighting for our lives trying to escape."

"Wait, you got swallowed by a what?!" Brea exclaimed in disbelief, bouncing around in her seat.

"Sea monster?!" Tavra balked.

"How did you get out?!" Seladon placed a hand to her chest, eyes wide in shock.

The questions continued to pour in at a steady rate.

"Was it a big monster?"

"Did you fight it?!"

"Did you have to light a fire inside it's belly and have it sneeze you out?!"

All eyes in the room fell on Brea with varying levels of puzzlement.

She merely shrugged. "It was in one of my books."

Kam'lu and Mayrin bursted out laughing at that, the older Sifa having to wipe away a tear or two. Such differing personalities their daughters had, but it made them all the more lovable in their eyes.

"That is where our story begins, my young ones. You see, it was a rather dreary and stormy night. The waves had become quite restless..." Kam'lu started his tale, motioning with his hands for the girls to come in closer. They did so without question.

Despite her mate's rather.... eccentric style of storytelling, Mayrin found herself being oddly soothed by it. She studied her daughter's faces with a serene expression. Brea and Tavra seemed the most enraptured, while Seladon appeared more concerned than anything else.

A larger pale hand subtly reached out to grasp hers, and she unconsciously squeezed back.

"..... when we were suddenly face to face with Bobling King himself! Oh he was as helpful as he was fearsome!" Kam'lu made large theatric gestures with his arms, and Mayrin wasn't sure if it was solely for the girls amusement or if he genuinely remembered the King Bobling in that way.

"Pfft, he doesn't sound so scary." Tavra scoffed, crossing her arms.

"That's because he wasn't, dear." Mayrin interjected. She turned to Kam'lu and raised a brow at him. "Love, he barely reached your knee."

"I'm sorry, who is the one telling the story here?"

She pinched the tip of his ear, eliciting a slight yelp from him. "I was there too, you fool." When before the word rolled off her tongue with scorn and exasperation, now there was only fondness present in the Vapra's tone.

This time it was Seladon's turn to laugh. She doubled over on the pillow, clutching her stomach. "Father, you were scared by something so small?" Her sisters soon followed suite, and even Mayrin couldn't resist letting out a chuckle at Kam'lus expense.

The older Sifa's cheeks flared red, and he huffed indignantly. "Well, if that's how you're all going to act, then I think we should cut this story short."

He was only joking of course, but they didn't know that. At least, his daughters didn't. Only Mayrin seemed to catch on to the slight mischievous glint in his eye that told her he didn't really take it to heart.

"No!!!!" Three pairs of arms shot out and latched onto Kam'lu before he could even think about getting up.

"We're sorry Papa!"

"Yeah, really really sorry!"

"You gotta finish the story!"

He looked down at the pleading faces of his little ones, and feigned a look of pensiveness.

"Well, I suppose I can't stay mad at my beauties for long, can I?"

"No, no you can't." Mayrin smirked, playing with a lock of russet colored hair. "We all have you wrapped around our fingers. Forever."

"There's no other fate on Thra I'd rather resign myself to. Now then," He pulled his mate, along with his daughters onto his lap, much to their amusement. It was a tight fit, but they managed. "As I was saying, we had begun our treacherous journey into the belly of the beast..."

Kam'lu smoothly picked up where he had left off, progressing through the rest of the story with little to no interruptions. Though he had to pause multiple times to chuckle at Tavra's starstruck expression when the subject of the flying Zoa and the final battle aboard skekSa's ship came up.

"From that day on, I swore I'd stay by your mother's side through thick and thin. No matter what unholy terrors Thra tossed our way, I'd be right there with her." Kam'lu smiled lovingly, kissing the head of his mate, who hummed in acknowledgement.

"And not long after, we had our first daughter. Our little Seladon." Mayrin cooed, cupping her eldest's cheek and stroking it with her thumb. "Do you remember where your name comes from, dearest?"

"It was the name of a famous Vapran general, right? The one who saved her village from an avalanche?"

Mayrin nodded, tapping her nose. "That's exactly right. I sensed a very stalwart spirit when I was pregnant with you, and I wanted your name to reflect that."

"Can we hear that story next?" Brea asked, yawning.

Kam'lu chuckled. "I'm afraid we'll have to save that particular tale for another night. For now, I think it's time for my beauties to get some sleep."

A low whine of protest sounded from each girl, and Mayrin gently shushed them. "Your father's right. It's already past your bedtime, and you have a big day tomorrow."

"We do?" They all tilted their heads curiously.

Kam'lu grinned. "Yes! It'll be a nice sunny day tomorrow, and I figured what better way to spend it than to take all of you out on the ship for the afternoon."

"So the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner morning will come, and we can ready ourselves accordingly." Mayrin collected her daughters into her arms as she spoke, tucking them each into their respective beds and kissing them goodnight. Kam'lu went around to do the same, saying quiet Sifan prayers under his breath as he did so.

When they were finally laid to rest, Mayrin quietly stepped out of the room, holding the door open for her mate to join her in the hallway.

"Well, let it never be said that I didn't marry a halfway decent storyteller." She jested, elbowing Kam'lu in the side. "Better than I could have told it anyway."

"Ah, so you finally admit I'm better than you at something. Never thought I'd live to see the day." He grinned smugly.

Mayrin popped him on the shoulder. "Don't let it go to your head now. You're a better storyteller than you are a captain, let's put it that way." She ribbed him teasingly. Then she began to saunter ahead of him towards their bed chambers.

"Come, the hour is late and I could use some shut-eye myself."

Kam'lu watched her go at first, making sure her back was completely turned to him before responding.

"Right away, my All Maudra."

In one fluid motion Kam'lu came up behind Mayrin and swept her up into a bridal carry, walking her the rest of the way with a big smile on his face.

She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter lest she wake the children.

He couldn't see it, but she was wearing a grin big enough to rival his.

#the dark crystal #the dark crytsal: age of resistance #prequel comics #all maudra mayrin #kam'lu #i write stuff

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parksseonghwas · 4 years

Text

espresso martinis and red hair.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

part one!

a/n: there is some wording that, now that i read it, implies???? seonghwa drugged the reader.

i promise he did not!!! for those who aren’t very knowledgable in drink/alcoholic beverages, vodka is a really strong alcohol no matter what it’s mixed with (oftentimes it’s >=30% alcohol) so if the reader has a particularly weak alcohol tolerance it won’t take much vodka to make them very drunk!

that’s how i’ve intended for it to be written! this kinda turned into seongsang x reader sorry :\

another point is that the alcohol names? they’re from irish pubs or bars haha, i’m irish and yeah,,, please don’t joke about the stereotypes

i’m so sorry to the requests i put off to write this

ೃ❅,. ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ ┊͙ w/c: 2,316

—

park seonghwa was skilled at his job. he grabbed the bottle of kahlua—topped by a speed pourer, of course—with his index and middle finger, flipped it to pour the intoxicating liquid into a metal, double-sided cocktail measure, which would soon flip into a shaker made from the same material. alongside other ingredients, he threw in vodka, espresso, and a handful of ice. the top was shoved onto the container, slapped, and there was a rough shaking sound emitting from the metal as he wasted no time with theatrics or shoddy cocktail shaking. his movements were oddly poetic though.

once he was satisfied with the amount of condensation gathering on the metal, he slowed his rigorous motions and his hand smacked the side of the cups, loosening the top and setting it aside to be washed. he disappeared for a moment to grab glasses that steamed and were surrounded by cold smoke, having been in the refrigerator. a strainer came into view, and the deceivingly shallow glasses were filled with what was known to many as an espresso martini. seonghwa delicately placed two coffee beans in the centre of the drink, and the display was complete.

you didn’t order this. you were about to order, but your ever-so-knowledgable friend told you that “seonghwa makes a drink that he knows you won’t be able to resist”, but... an espresso martini? one of the most basic cocktails? there would have to be a fucking bunny rabbit appearing from the glass for you to be impressed or found to be unable to resist it.

your mouth opened to make a snarky comment, but the bartender’s eyebrow raised in a “you dare to challenge my intuition?” manner, and you found yourself sheepishly accepting the drink. the knowledge that he made you weak would later make seonghwa’s ego inflate like a damn balloon.

the man was all chains, piercings, and cockiness. the bar was a small joint, cosy, but not too comfortable. dimly lit, not dark. it felt shady, but homely. he was free of customers after he made your drink so he danced to the beat of the music pulsating through the speakers, hips swaying and his body completely under his command. his dyed red hair fell over his eye as he watched you take the first sip. a smirk grew on his face as he saw the look of surprise, confusion, and awe overtake your features.

another point to hwa, he laughed internally. really, he’d lost score of how many customers he pleased.

“okay, what the fuck did you do to this drink? why does the martini taste so good?” the snappy words were in the open before you had a chance to filter them, and the previous cheeky smirk was replaced with a laugh and a warm smile. he guessed the reaction, he’s used to it.

the last thing you remember him saying is, “a magician never reveals his secrets.”

NIGHT TWO

the next morning you woke up alone, thankfully. nonetheless, his words echoed in your head, no matter how loud your music blared and wrecked your head. the crimson red colour of his hair would come to your memory every so often, and you hated that he had such a magnetic presence. if you weren’t so hungover, you would have considered going for a second round of drinks with your friend. you guessed he used a higher quality vodka, or a better coffee liqueur because damn just a couple of those martinis made you paralytic.

to your dismay, a magician would never reveal his secrets.

the sound of ice and alcohol mixing in the shaker. the almost kaleidoscopic vision of his hands gripping the metal. the scent of intoxication with a faint coffee undertone in the air. the taste of pure heaven on your tongue as a new style of a basic drink flowed from the opening of your lips right down the back of your throat.

fuck seonghwa.

fuck seonghwa!

his cocky attitude, the smile on his lips once he noticed that his prediction was correct. you could kill him, really. you could kill your dear friend too, she probably told him about the drink, the fucker.

your mind was made up. when the bastard hangover shifted, you made your way to your wardrobe. not long afterwards you were dressed up, not to the nines or anything fancy. it was a bar, not a nightclub or an upscale restaurant. you were trying to prove a point to a skilled bartender who just happened to put a satisfying spin on a drink you hadn’t tasted in months.

high heels emitted a muted clack against a sticky floor, a constant reminder that the owner of the bar probably didn’t give a fuck who dropped their drinks. similar music blurred into the background, the bass vibrating below the soles of your feet as you made your way to the remaining empty barstool.

a cloth squeaked and twisted against a glass as seonghwa cleaned the remnants of beer from it. he wore a white and red patterned shirt, the sleeves rolled and crunched at his elbows. his forearms tensed and flexed as he cleaned, his voice low and smooth as he converses with his fellow bartender, who you knew—or rather... your friend knew—as hongjoong.

the pair discussed whatever topic came to mind, and they seemed comfortable with each other. the elder of the two lifted his head as though he sensed your presence, and swivelled on his heels to face you with a devilish smile. hongjoong simply went to serve another over-eager customer who was practically begging to be slapped.

“espresso martini girl. i’ll assume you’re wanting the same drink again?” a barely there glint in his eye meant that he was enjoying this, revelling in the thrill he got from knowing you were getting more and more flustered.

“i’ll have you know i do have a name.” the words came out sharp, snappy, snarky. you hated that he brought out this nature in you, but you really couldn’t help it. his playful attitude combined with his stunning looks was an equation that equalled you being an internal mess.

a mirthless laugh filled the short space of air between you and the mixologist. either he was impressed by the balls you thought you had to speak to him in such a manner, or he was pissed off. the second option sounded rather terrifying, though.

“i know your name. you were wasted last night and shouting it at the top of your lungs while you ordered rounds for the whole bar.“ the sharp clunky against the bar signalled that seonghwa was satisfied with how clean the glass was.

a flash of a memory came at his description of the night previous.

a loud cheer resounded from your lips as your friend tried to quieten you down, and you mimicked her shushing action overdramatically. “a round of shots for everyone in the bar!” you cried out, brandishing your empty shot glass in the air. seonghwa himself suggested that shots may be a better option since the martinis were loaded with vodka.

“really, i think you were lucky i knew you were fucking wasted and didn’t mean a word of it.” he pulled out a footed pilsner glass, tilted it, and pulled the lever on the coors light tap, then poured the drink with an expert hand. with little foam gathering at the top, seonghwa gave the drink to an older man who seemed knowledgeable in his alcohol taste; judging from the cold glass of coors light sitting in front of him, you knew different.

your eyes rolled instinctively, and your blood boiled with the knowledge that he was right. or... was your blood boiling because you were too hot in the small bar? you weren’t wearing heavy layers or large coats, so what was the explanation for the amount of heat rushing through every inch of your skin?

“fuck you, i wasn’t wasted!” you retorted weakly. both of you knew it was false though.

“wasted or not, did i get your order right last night?“ he leaned over, arms crossed and propping him up just mere centimetres from

you. the scent of various drinks cling to him like a newfound lifeline, and inhaling felt like taking a new drug.

“no, i drink cosmopolitans. but it was a nice shake-up, if you’ll excuse the pun.” cheeky smiles warped your features, knowing you had outsmarted the apparently all-knowing bartender. you watched his own expression contort into one of confusion.

how did he get it wrong? how did he manage to fuck up the one thing he thought set him apart from other mixologists and bartenders? he’ll admit that the pun was mildly amusing. however, if it was to be paired with the fact that he messed up that badly? he was never going to forget it.

you were never going to let him live it down either, and the hours of relentless teasing made the minutes slip away into nothing. you didn’t even feel the time pass, or maybe that’s because he made you a couple more martinis, and you were tipsy once again.

though... you couldn’t really tell if it was the alcohol or his presence that was intoxicating you. maybe it was a mixture of both.

before long, hongjoong was gone and replaced with a completely different presence. the new worker was threatening, yet he seemed comforting. sharply contrasted hair, large numbers of piercings, dark makeup and outfits made him seem... too scary. he smiled at his coworker, seonghwa, and his lips curled to reveal a smiley piercing, almost complementary to the bar that ran through seonghwas bottom lip.

“yeosang, you look like a fucking ghoul mask with that makeup.” seonghwa laughed, a smooth sound you had become all too accustomed to.

imagine hearing it when he’s teasing you relentlessly in bed.

woah. where did that thought come from? you screwed your eyes shut and your hand came too sharp to your forehead with an unflattering smack. maybe it triggered more lewd thoughts, but you’d never tell them to the stranger across from the bar, especially when you weren’t totally sober.

pulled by an invisible thread, yeosang took seonghwa’s place in your line of sight. he got to be centimetres away from your face, and he was almost mocking you. you were tipsy from little to nothing. hell, you even asked seonghwa to “slow it down!” when he was pouring the cîroc. you knew your shit, that was 40% alcohol and 100% a bad decision if you weren’t intending on getting wasted.

he picked up a glass and poured water into it, pushing it back across the bar to you, “i think we can safely cut you off there, hm?” he teased, knowing full well he had no control over how much a customer can drink. still, the gesture sent a fluttering feeling to your chest. he was all piercings and hard exterior, but god he seemed soft.

the aftercare must be godly if he’s like this when you’re sober.

maybe you need to get away from the bar. the bartenders being pretty and your mind being intoxicated was doing nothing to stop any new thoughts from flooding in unwarned and unannounced. yet, the horror on your face after four futile attempts at turning on your phone alerted yeosang that something wasn’t right.

“what’s happened? you look worried.” his features warped and his previously stone cold expression changed into one of pure concern. you laughed mirthlessly, and you watched as the mixologist tilted his head in confusion. what was so funny to you?

“my phones dead. i was about to call a taxi and get out of here but my phone battery clearly had other plans.” your elbows came to rest on the surface of the bar, your chin in your palms and your head shaking in pure disbelief. this night was fantastic, you were bantering with the pretty bartender who blew your mind, and now there’s another equally pretty bartender pitying you as you lamented the loss of your one connection to a way home.

“what phone do you have? one of us might have a charger we can lend you.” after he finished speaking, one of your hands went into your jacket pocket and feebly threw the phone on the bar. yeosang inspected it under the lights—or lack thereof—and huffed out a breath of air in exasperation, “fuck. not the same charger we have, sorry.”

you raised your eyebrows with a flat expression, unfazed by the unfortunate news.

“we don’t have a freephone yet, so is there anything i can do?”

“unless you can personally drive me home, there’s not much you can do.”

maybe yeosang would regret his next words, maybe he wouldn’t. he didn’t really know because he was so used to being teasing and relentless in his mocking ways. if he was to wreck his image over a cute bar-goer, so be it!

“well... where do you live?”

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popculturebuffet · 3 years

Text

Animaniacs: King Yakko Review (Comission by BlahDiddy)

Hello my beautiful technicolor rainbow! It’s time for Animaniacs, and while there is no balonga in my slacks there is one last christmas review for my friend to finish up, and after two visits to Acme Lab for the spinoff we’re finishing up with a look at Animaniacs proper. Suprisingly for a show that stands so easily on it’s own it’s existance is entirely thanks to another show: Tiny Toon Adventures, which had largely the same staff, including ep and co-creator stephen speilberg and Todd Ruegger, who was brought aboard from A Pup Named Scooby Doo. Since TIny Toon was a colossal hit with tons of awards and merch, including some very good video games I wish Warner would find a way to re-release, I mean.. come on if disney can rerelease the disney afternoon games (If...not..for..switch), and LIon King and Aladdin games (If somehow FOR switch), then Warner, which has it’s own game stuido no less, can put together a collection of the good Tiny Toons games when the new show comes out soon.

Point is it was a mass sucess and Warner Bros likes money, so they had Speilberg try to get Rutger to come up with another show for the two of them to do, something with name value. Rutger found his inpsiration when seeing the iconic warner water tower and taking some platypus characters, came up with our heroes and the rest is history.. well okay he retooled them from plataups’ to early looney tunes and other toons style characters minus the racisim of say bosko the tall ink kid but still, the rest after that is history. And the rest of this review is after the cut

The show was, and KINDA still is, a variety show: taking a page from looney tunes, as well as tex avery’s other work, the crew decided rather than just focus on the warners, to instead create a whole cast with various ensembles to work with so we got Pinky and the Brain, The Goodfeathers, Rita and Runt, the Hip HIppos, Katie Kaboom, Chicken Boo, and my personal faviorite Slappy Squirrel.. and the bane of my existance, Buttons and Mindy.. or rather Mindy’s Mom. The kid did nothing wrong. So naturally the first thing Animaniacs related I cover.. is an episode entirely breaking from format for one 20 something minute Warners cartoon. I do intend to do more animanics stuff in the future, so i’ll hopefully get a chance to talk about everyone, I just feel unlike with say house of mouse most people reading this probably know who they all are, and I can save any deep dives for if I cover the characters specifically. Spoilers: there’s probably never going to be a buttons and mindy deep dive unless someone tourtues me by paying for it.

So with that out of the way, we can dive into the episode.. which I won’t be covering in my usual recap it point by point because the writers have freely admitted that’s not what Animaniacs is about. While some of i’ts SEGMENTS are more story based like Pinky and the Brain, Goodfeathers and Rita and Runt, most are just based on simple set ups to reams and reams of gags. And I love it. I grew up with this stuff not just Tiny Tunes and Animaniacs but the classic Looney Tunes, Tom and Jerry and Droopy shorts.

Their well timed, well executed feats of comedy and most have aged pretty well.. emphasis on MOST. I’m keenly aware why there are several gaps in the shorts for both Tom and Jerry and The Looney Tunes on HBO Max, including all of the Pepe LePew and Speedy Gonzalez shorts. Also all of Droopy is missing.

My grumblin aside though, it is VERY NICE to have all the classic Warner and Tom and Jerry shorts at my fingertips and it was one of the biggest selling points of Max for me. Last year I gained an intrest in the old disney theatrical shorts, hence my various birthday specials, so I BADLY wanted to revisit the theatrical shorts I grew up with. And honestly.. Max is the best way to do that: their in crisp hd, in neat season collections (Though the Looney Tunes one is better sorted, tom and jerry’s seasons are just.. random smatterings of shorts across various eras), and most importantly EVERY SHORT they felt comfortable with putting up there is on there. Every. Single. One. I make a big deal about this because Disney.. has only maybe 30-40 of their hundreds of shorts on there. Now lucky for me the vast majority are still on youtube and I get why some really arne’t suitable.. we probably don’t need the donald duck short where he prepares to shoot a penguin in the face or the Goofy short where his own reflection, the goofy equilvent of tyler durden I guess?, keeps saying “Hey Fat” to him. And yes BOTH of these actually happened. But.. there’s MANY shorts with no clear excuse why their absent like the triplets first apperance, gus’ only apperance, and one a friend told me about.. that time mickey built a robot to box a gorillia. Again not making this up, just wondering why you can’t restore the rest of these for plus. They’ve ADDED shorts ocasionally, but it still dosen’t make a whole lot of sense to just.. not have them all up there. and to not put them in some sorta collection for easier consumption but hey it’s Disney. They either full ass things or half ass it. There is no middle ground. Point is Warner.. actually cares about their heritage in shorts and honors it and thus has everything avaliable in the best quality, so tha’ts nice.

My point after that detour is I really love this kind of humor, and now as an adult I can see the effort the timing, pacing and character chemistry these shorts had takes. And Rugger and co.. they got it. They got it down perfect. And this episode is a great show of that and just how they barely updated this format for the 90′s. But as I said it’s more about the jokes and basic setup, our heroes are slotted into x scenario and just left to run wild. It’s been the basic seutp for looney tunes, tom and jerry and all the gag based greats, and it works perfectly here. Sure there’s some setting and continuity with the warner lot, scratch n sniff, ralph, plotz and in the reboot Rita, but it’s mostly just our heroes go up against “X asshole” and it just works.

And that’s.. entirley what this episode is. The short is an homage to the graucho marx film Duck Soup, which given the warners were based on the marx brothers that isn’t a huge suprise, a film like brian’s song I have not seen, but genuinely want to. The basic setup is the same: An underqualified womanizer, though since htis is Yakko it dosen’t get past hitting on his chancelor, played by hello nurse, constantly, which is still.. ewwwww... but clearly not the same thing, becomes king of a small nation and ends up at war with another country. There were spies and other stuff in the original short but that was left out to streamline things. But this homage stands on it’s own fine: The basic plot is this: Yakko, due to being a distant relative and the last one alive, becomes king of the small happy and very musical, as the wonderful opening number shows, country of Anvilania, which makes anvils and why yes there is one MASSIVE anvil gag as a result at the end. Yakko says he’ll try his best and geninely tries to with the shenanigans you’d expect, including Dot not gettnig Polka Dot’s are a thing and instead taknig any mention of it as a sign to polka, Yakko again hitting on his colleague and wanting ot get a new anthem because the current one by “Perry Coma’ puts people to sleep. Honeslty that gag didn’t do it for me: Partly because I genuinely know next to nothing about Como and he’s far past my generation.. and because despite this, SCTV did a MUCH better Perry Como gag over a decade before this episode that while still left me baffled as to why anyone cared about mocking him, was 80 times funnier and felt far less like you needed to know who he was to be funny.

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That being said it’s one of only three running gags, and jokes period that didn’t land for me. The other ones being the hello nurse bits, because it’s aged really badly to have Yakko harass one of his employees and his age is hte only thing that keeps it from scuttling the episode as he’s just 13 or 14. Maybe 15.

So SO glad I now have that on hand whenever i need it. The other being the “Your highness” joke as it just.. dosen’t make much sense and isn’t very funny. But that’s it: a refrence i specfically don’t get and I doubt most of you will, and if you do fine we all have our frames of refrences, a joke that’s dated very poorly, and one that just.. didn’t land. And even then the Perry Coma thing’s third use to knock out the opposing army DID work for me as did the VERY clever joke of “Sire” “Maybe later”, so even the weaker bits still had some legs. But getting back to what little plot there is the king of the rival country, upon hearing this, assumes he can easily intimidate a child into giving him the throne and goes to a royal reception. Instead, as you’d expect, the Warners mistake him for a party clown, show him no respect and fail to take his delcration of war seriously, and while in a REALLY great gag, and the reason i’m not doing a strict summary is 90% of the review would be me saying something to that effect, Yakkos’ call to action for his troops ends up having them all run off in fear, the Warners take out the army as noted above and then in one of the most GLORIOUS climaxes in the series history...

In which the Warners give the bad guy “all the anvils” as he requested. I sadly coulnd’t find a clip of it but seek it out if you got hulu, my words can’t do it justice as they hit him with anvil after anvil in increasingly clever and insane ways till the guy finally gives up and it .. is glorious. Other highlights not already mentioned include: The opening song, the bad guy dictator from the other nation not being able to hear because of his helmet and his attendee having to lift it, leading to Yakko taking off his helmet just to end the “what’ running gag, Yakko’s bit explaning his distant relation and more. So yeah not a ton to say on this one. It’s a very good, very funny episode but also very typical of a warner cartoon in structure, just stretched over 22 or so minutes. As I said with few exceptions the jokes work, the anmation is crisp as always, and the climax is one of the series best. A crisp, quick watch and a nice quick review after a week of with some really tough ones behind me and ahead of me and a month of rather large ones a few weeks out. So yeah if you like animaniacs, even ifyou’ve seen this one worth a watch, if you have any more animaniacs you’d like me to take a look at feel free to comment or comission and until the next rainbow..

#animaniacs #yakko warner #dot warner #wakko warner #anvilania #hello nurse #king yakko #duck soup #goodnight everybody #hulu #warner bros #kids wb

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moon-riverandme · 3 years

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And in the Beginning There was... Light, Film Rolls, and Controversy.

Watching old movies has always been one of my favorite pastimes. I love the cracks in the film, the oddly tinted placements of color, the quick, scattered movements of the actors, and the slice of an intertitle. It all just makes sense when I think of those first filmmakers who were trying to make sense of their new medium. In my journey through film, I will start at the beginning. Well, sort of the beginning. Our main topic of discussion takes place in 1903. So we’ve skipped over a few years… 15 to be exact. I’ll sum them up now because if I miss a beat I’ll ruin the scene.

Let's start in October of 1888 when Louis Le Prince has just recorded the very first film. It’s short yet scenic; his family gathers in a garden and for the first time ever - they move. A man walks across the screen, the rigid bustles and day dress of two women sway as they turn away from the camera - ergo we have a moving image years before Edison would invent the kinetoscope. Of course, most don’t know of Le Prince and in school I never heard his name mentioned. In fact, I only heard of him through a Buzzfeed Unsolved video. So what happened? Why did history remember the names Edison and Lumière but not Le Prince?

There were many entries in the race to create the first film. And of course, there are arguments as to what cinema is in comparison to a bunch of still photographs played one after another. Strange, I think is this argument. For film is a series of stills or frames played one right after the other. Nevertheless, in 1878, we have the famous images of a galloping horse caught by twelve cameras set up by Muybridge to capture motion and to study animal locomotion. Motion but not a movie. What we needed was a camera that had a single lens capable of capturing a point of view. That’s what Le Prince did. Unfortunately, as history would see it, he mysteriously disappeared on a train to Paris in September 1890 right before his first public screening in New York carrying luggage that contained all of his work. Neither Le Prince or the luggage has ever been found. Quite the coincidence.

There are a few theories: Le Prince committing suicide, Le Prince’s own brother killing him, Le Prince fleeing due to his sexuality being outed but none have stuck... except one. Le Prince’s widow, Lizzie, believed Edison, his biggest competitor in the race, had him assassinated. The evidence? The discovery of Edison’s journal containing the following entry, which has been proven authentic. It read:

“Eric called me today from Dijon. It has been done. Prince is no more. This is good news but I flinched when he told me. Murder is not my thing. I'm an inventor and my inventions for moving images can now move forward.”

Take of that what you will.

Today, we are taught that Edison’s kinetoscope launched the novel medium of moving pictures into our familiar. When it was invented in 1891 by Edison and Dickson, the kinetoscope was a peepshow-like device with a "sight opening" on top that one viewer at a time could look into and watch a moving picture. Think about it like looking into a microscope - very different from how we view films now both in method and price, it was 50 cents for access to all films at a given venue.

In 1897, an improvement on Edison's device arose. Invented by the Lumière brothers, the cinematograph contained both a camera, projector, and hand crank. Now, audiences could sit and screen films. I'll circle back to Edison as he connects to our 1903 topic. But first, let's take a stop with the Lumière brothers.

Auguste and Louis Lumière are credited as the first filmmakers. Their documentary-esque films Workers Leaving The Lumière Factory and Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat are milestones in cinema. Known as travelogues or actualités, they showed the casual and working life of people in the mid to late 1890's. These shorts were even screened to audiences who jumped out of their seats at a train onscreen because they thought it would actually hit them. The Lumière Brothers took their screening all over the world, from Paris, to India, and China.

Watching these films, it's hard not to put yourself in the shoes of a passerby, a random person whose name we don't know, who exists in a few frames before disappearing to time. Like a fossil, it's interesting to examine what life was like back then. I love seeing the clothing. Everyone is so formal, at least compared to the laid back air of today. Even so, in the 1890’s people were moving away from the Victorian Era and into the “New Woman” Era. High necklines and longer sleeves were replaced by the open neck and short sleeves as morning turned to dusk. High chiffons under feathered hats were popular as was the shirtwaist style for work. All of these visible in the Lumière films.

Where we jump from reportage to fiction is where we jump from Lumière to Porter. And back to Edison, who had Porter working for him. Projectionist and electrician turned director, Edwin S. Porter was the brains behind many of the mechanics and techniques that have become so highly engrained in the making of films that the idea of them being novel seems almost impossible. In 1899, Porter became head of moving picture production at the Edison Manufacturing Company and throughout his career, which spanned about 15 years, he made more than 70 short films. So lets look at a few of them in detail.

Jack and the Beanstalk (1902)

You'll see that a lot of the narrative ideas for these early films spun directly out of fairytales. For an audience, fairytales were a familiarity. Thus, they were able to stitch together what they already knew about the characters and stories and better understand these new moving pictures. And Porter knew this from his work as a projectionist. He knew what engaged the audience most. And that wasn't just story, it was technique. Porter's films were revolutionary for what would become known as editing, at that time just cutting film. Simplistic and impactful, he knew how to compact time and create magic. Objects and people appear and disappear in a single cut. The camera remains still, a wide shot, and on a tripod but what's in front of it changes slightly, making for magical realism. For example, once Jack makes it back down to earth after descending the beanstalk, he grabs an ax and starts chopping it down. He's got to do this or the giant chasing him will make it down too. So he swings the ax a few times with all his might. From a large beanstalk, ripe with leaves, reaching up to the sky, we immediately cut to a destroyed one. The fact that we end one cut with Jack in the same position as we start the next, keeps from disrupting the audience even though everything else onscreen has changed. We've condensed time, Jack has saved the day, and the Giant has fallen to his death. Porter would expand on this editing style, perfecting it, discovering cross-cutting.

Life of an American Fireman (1903)

Cross-cutting or parallel action is so integral to editing that it happens in just about every film. Simply, two separate events are occurring - say, a woman trying to escape a fire inside of her house and firefighters rushing in a horse carriage to save her. These two events, perceived to be happening at the same time, are stitched together through editing so that the audience experiences both. Cut to the woman in her house as the fire inches closer to her. Cut to the firefighters rushing up the stairs. Will they get there? Will they save her? Cross-cutting serves to create tension and set the rhythm of a scene. Eventually, the two spatial points of view merge and the conflict should be resolved. This originates in Porter's films and Life of An American Fireman is the first one that shows it off.

Let's cut back to the first shot of this film, it's a trick shot. A sleepy fireman dreams of a mother putting her daughter to bed. Abruptly, the fire alarm is set off and he wakes up. Instead of cutting from the fireman dozing off in his chair to a separate shot of the mother, which would create confusion on whether the fireman was dreaming, Porter uses double exposure to frame the dream above the fireman shoulder. Double exposure had been employed by photographers since the 1860's to produce dreamy situations in otherwise ordinary places but in film, it first appears in Georges Méliès Four Heads are Better Than One. When we see the house aflame for the first time in Life of an American Fireman, the same mother and daughter from the dream pair reappear. The fireman's premonition connects back to the main drama of the story.

The Great Train Robbery (1903)

In this film we take the leap from a theatrical approach to cinematography, where the camera simply watches the action at a long-shot or observing eye, to being involved in the action. One way that Porter does this is by integrating the pan.

Panning is a technique that moves a camera side to side in a fixed location. We haven't taken the camera off of a tripod or stepped forward in anyway, we are simply turning left or right on the horizontal axis. If we took a step forward and followed a character or action we'd have a tracking shot. But we aren't there yet so plant your feet in the ground for now. Porter uses pans to reveal. The first pan is executed about six minutes into the film. The robbers jump off the caboose with their stolen goods and make a run for it. But where are they going? Queue the pan and we find out it's down some steep hills and into a forest. The subsequent shot is them in the thicket of a forest. Running passed the camera until all but one have exited camera left. But how will they get out? Queue the second pan to reveal horses - their getaway plan. This pan is masterfully done. I love the way Porter keeps his camera static and just observes the tumbling, running robbers until only one is left onscreen. Then and only then does he pan left to reveal the horses. By leaving only one person onscreen, not only does the audience have less to track but so does the camera. Simplifying the frame down to only the necessities of the action, one robber running away in a forest, amplifies the pan and makes the reveal feel complete - we reunite with the group of robbers and horses.

Depending on which version of the film you watch, you might be surprised by waves of color among a sea of black and white. Tinting whole films blue, amber, or sepia has been around since the origins of moving pictures, but in The Great Train Robbery, Porter selects specific actions or objects to tint. This was all done by hand.

Color is one big manipulator. Think of light blue and you'll likely picture endless summer skies; an air of calm. How about Green? I picture the tangled tree webs of a jungle - adventure, growth, the smell of dew on fresh leaves, nature. Now red. Explosions, fire, burst of emotion. Yellow? A bright, morning sun, a blooming sunflower, happiness, positivity, a new start. Early filmmakers used color to bring attention to specific objects, people, and actions. They used it to draw out an emotion from the viewer. They used it to connect themes of violence, love, and happiness. And they used it to spice up their frame.

Porter hand paints the explosion of a train lockbox bright orange and a deep red. The smokey pops from gunshots are also a fiery red. The dress of a dancing woman is bright yellow. The coat of another girl is a rich purple. The addition of color cultivates realism but also gives the film a flair of the imaginary.

So, we have the creative process of tinting to enhance the visual characteristics of a story and we have panning to push forward the important aspects of a narrative. Let's add a few more ingredients to our recipe.

Because the story cuts back and forth between the robbers, the operator, and the posse of men who will eventually hunt down the robbers, it has parallel action. Three separate storylines, integrated through the edit, that coverage at the end. Now that we have the way in which the story is cut and delivered, how about some specific effects?

In shots where the action occurs inside the prop train, which is not moving but the audience is meant to believe it is, Porter uses double exposure to ground his location in reality. He filmed exterior, moving shots and layered them onto the static train shots. In the '30s this would become known as "rear projection".

Additionally, Porter creatively placed his camera in new ways to produce frames that diverged from the typical wide shot; bringing the viewer closer into the action. For example, at about 2 minutes and 50 seconds in, the camera is propped on top of the engine car roof while a sneaking robber crawls passed and kills a fireman.

At last we arrive at the final shot. Diverging from the narrative, Porter set this up to look like a wanted poster. It is filmed in a medium close-up, which serves to focus all attention on the subject by filming them waist-up, having them fill up most of the frame, and blocking out the surrounding environment. The robber points his revolver right at the camera and shoots six times. If you've ever seen Goodfellas, Martin Scorsese recreates this at the end with Joe Pesci. Seemingly, the purpose was to shoot the audience. To tell them even though all of these robbers were killed in the end, their spirit doesn't die. It says "I'm warning you- it's still dangerous out there." Funny enough, this wasn't even the original intention. The shot was promotional and where it ended up in the film was entirely up to the projectionist. It could've just as well been placed at the beginning if they wanted. Even so, the break in the fourth wall and punch of dramatics that ended the film still prevail through cinema history today. Completing the recipe for one the first Westerns, ripe with shootouts, chase sequences, bandits, and suspense.

The Kleptomaniac (1905)

When moving pictures are void of sound and spoken dialogue it's a bit difficult to understand what characters are doing onscreen. Heightened emotional and physicalized acting made up for this. Through facial expressions and over the top, exaggerated body movements, audiences could connect the dots to figure out what was going on in a scene. But in 1903, Porter directed Uncle Tom's Cabin and introduced intertitles, words that would appear printed onscreen. Early iterations of intertitles read like book chapters. They described the main action that was about to take place in the scene. In Uncle Tom's Cabin some examples include: "The Escape of Eliza", "Rescue of Eva", and "Tom and Eva in the Garden. In The Kleptomaniac, intertitles state location and give context to where we are, which is helpful because without them, I don't think I could follow what was going on - at all.

Location is such a main element in this film that intertitles are practically non negotiable. "Leaving Home", "Arriving at the Store", "Home of Thief", and "Court Room Scene", prepare us with the information that is necessary to fully understand the purpose of each scene. The department store shot isn't clear-cut. It could've been a mail room or an office. If we miss that it's a department store that our main character is visiting (and stealing from), we miss the connection to the thief stealing food later on in the film and thus miss the whole theme of class disparities. The intertitles supplement for lack of onscreen information and sound. They would be used regularly in the silent era, branching into dialogue intertitles and expositionary intertitles before dying out with the advent of sound.

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morethanaprincess-a · 3 years

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As they’ve started to become relevant in a few verses and threads, I wanted to write a little bit about some of Sonia’s extended family. Thus, here is some information about His Royal Highness Prince Arthur, Duke of Neuchatel (King Alexandre’s brother and only sibling, and Sonia’s uncle) and his family.

Note: Each member of this family is referred to as “His/Her Royal Highness” or “Your Highness,” despite Arthur and Olivia being the Duke and Duchess of Neuchatel. Because they are the sole Royal Duke and Duchess (with their titles granted to them upon marriage by the former King), they are addressed as Royal Highnesses as opposed to “Your Grace,” which is how other Dukes and Duchesses within Novoselic would be spoken of and to, if a servant or commoner is addressing them (at parties, or among those in the aristocracy, they are referred to as ‘Duke’ or ‘Duchess.’ No, it makes little sense and yes, it’s a lot to learn if your muse ends up working for/with Sonia in the Royal Family or your muse plans to marry her).

Everything is under the cut, as it’s pretty long!

His Royal Highness, the Duke of Neuchatel - Also known as Arthur, Duke of Neuchatel or informally as Arthur Nevermind (his last name, like his brother King Alexandre and his niece Princess Sonia, comes from their Royal House), he is King Alexandre’s only sibling. Born two years after his brother, Arthur proved himself to be charming and charismatic at a young age. Where Alexandre was thoughtful, introspective, and considerate, Arthur was bold and captivating. He loves a healthy competition no matter where it’s found, but he still grumbles that his brother still bests him in chess. His hobbies included shooting, skiing, and, to his mother’s dismay, gambling.

Despite being ‘the spare,’ Arthur relishes in being in charge, delivering orders and having his plans executed perfectly. It made him an ideal football captain in school as well as a member of the In Utero Student Council during his final two years of high school (he chose which events he wished to engage with. They were few and far-between). He consistently received the fastest training times throughout his military training, from obstacle courses to rope climbs to assembling firearms to driving tanks. His eagerness to guide others to victory made him an asset in the Novoselic Royal Army, where he completed his obligatory two years. He married Lady Olivia, daughter of the Duke of Vaud, two years after the Royal Wedding of-then Prince Alexandre, heir to the throne, and Lady Valentina, daughter of the Duke of Ticino.

Now, he is a full-time working royal for the Novoselic Royal Family with charitable interests in war veterans and science/technology. He’s an avid fan of the national football team, luxury fashion, wine, and his collection of rare watches and sportscars. He attends every Monaco Grand Prix and keeps a yacht on the French Riviera (which, on occasion, he’ll invite his wife along. This is not a frequent occurrence).

Before Sonia comes of age and graduates university, he is the one fulfilling many of King Alexandre’s international obligations, so he is often away from home. He prefers to travel in style (or rather, he prefers to have his entire life to be lived ‘in style.’).

Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Neuchatel - Also known as Olivia, Duchess of Neuchatel or informally as Olivia Nevermind, is the wife of the Duke of Neuchatel and Sonia’s aunt. A bit shorter and fuller in the bust than her sister-in-law Queen Valentina, Olivia could be best described as ‘meek and mousy.’ While the King and Duke have golden hair and blue eyes, and the Queen with her platinum hair and green eyes, Olivia still retains the expected (if not requisite) blonde hair of the Royal Family, though hers is a mix of dirty and ash blonde. She has round brown eyes that can make her look permanently surprised if she’s not in control of her emotions.

Olivia is a gentle, soft-spoken woman whom, since birth, has been raised to take her place in Novoselic’s aristocracy. As a child, she loved embroidery, piano, and ballet, but was forced to give up the sport after her teachers insisted she was ‘too chubby’ to continue. From then on, she took up tennis and gardening as hobbies, with the latter carrying on well into her adult life. After marrying Prince Arthur and becoming the Duchess of Neuchatel, Olivia’s interests are, first and foremost, their two children and raising them to be the future Duke of Neuchatel and members of the Novoselic aristocracy.

She spends far more time at home than her husband, though she participates in every official engagement and function the Royal Family asks of her. She is a popular choice to be featured in documentaries and interviews, such as recorded tours around various Royal estates. Her philanthropic efforts are focused mainly around agriculture, animal conservation, horticulture, and children’s charities, and when she becomes of age, Princess Sonia and her aunt often share the duties for animal conservatory and children’s charity efforts.

While she does eat meat, she eats very little of it and tends to choose more fish and plant-based meals. She supports organic farming and hydroponics, and is the host of the annual Novosonian flower show. When she is able to go and invited, she loves to attend Wimbledon.

His Royal Highness, Prince Liam of Neuchatel - Also known as Liam, Prince of Neuchatel or Liam Nevermind, he is Sonia’s eldest cousin on her father’s side and four years younger than she is. A bit taller than his cousin and far more muscular (if not stocky), Liam is brash, loud, and generally unafraid to speak his mind in most matters. If there’s quips being slung in the Royal Family, he’s one of three possible suspects (the others are Queen Valentina and Prince Arthur).

Liam likes to be active and to have a good time, or a good laugh. During Princess Sonia’s first year attending the annual Masquerade Ball, he and some school friends from In Utero Primary School let loose a flock of makango into the ballroom, causing a great uproar when the animals took a dip in the champagne and chocolate fountains and scurried up skirts and trouser legs. Since then, Queen Valentina tends to frown whenever he’s discussed.

He’s not the biggest fan of school, though he has some talent for mathematics and statistics. Languages, literature, and history tend to put him to sleep. What he does like is physical fitness and sports, and won’t hesitate to try most athletics (ballroom dancing, and most types of dancing, are exempt. He hates these). He is primarily a polo and rugby player, but he enjoys football as well and likes to watch boxing and racing. Like his father, he enjoys being part of a sports team, though not necessarily leading it.

Upon graduation, he elects to attend university (or rather, his father tells him he’ll be going) and fulfill his obligatory military service during the school holidays (mostly so he doesn’t become mixed up in his usual partying crowd). While he wanted to be properly deployed, most of his military responsibilities involve defense, particularly at the Novoselic border. He’s frustrated by this and finds it difficult to focus, so during his holidays he’s often found in Spain or Greece, wherever the it-crowd has designated the coolest spot to see and be seen. And like his father, he quite likes luxury goods, expensive liquor, and sports cars. He’s also known to be quite handsome, with his mother’s ash blonde hair and his father’s blue eyes (otherwise known as the ‘Nevermind Blue.’ Sonia’s father, uncle, and Sonia herself all have them, as well as Liam).

Generally, if anyone’s going to appear in the tabloids, it’s usually Liam, and the Royal Family’s PR team has quite a job making sure anything incriminating never sees the light of day (or the light of a screen). His parents wish he’d settle down and actually have a real, meaningful relationship (that looks good in the eyes of the press and the people), but there’s no one special in his life. His charitable interests involve fitness and sports organizations, and he’s present at as many matches as he can. He loves when he’s sent to the Olympic Games to represent his country in the audience and in interviews.

His Royal Highness, Prince Samuel of Neuchatel - Also known as Samuel, Prince of Neuchatel or Samuel Nevermind, is the brother of Liam and Sonia’s cousin. He is two years younger than his brother and six years younger than Sonia. Where Liam is muscular, Samuel is not: however, he’s a good four inches taller than his brother, with long, golden hair (which he usually keeps tied back) and brown eyes (his mother’s). Samuel was one of the earliest targets of Liam’s jokes and jabs, and therefore he’s a bit quieter and considerate when it comes to his comments. Thoughtful and polite, he’s the ‘spare’ of the family and his parents worried he would grow up with a very thin skin. He didn’t take to athletics or military training nearly as easily as his brother Liam (though he took to video games: they bond over Mario Kart and Smash. It was a harrowing moment in Liam’s life the first time Samuel beat him at both).

Samuel is also an excellent student: history and art are his favorite subjects, though he gets exemplary grades in everything at In Utero. His hobbies and passions include visual art (he likes to sketch and paint) and playing the violin, and during the summer months he enjoys fishing. He’s very well-read and enjoys attending theatrical and musical productions as part of the Royal Family. Several of his drawings have been framed by his mother or King Alexandre and displayed in various Royal homes. He’d love to have something hung (besides a portrait of himself) in the National Gallery one day.

Upon graduation, he both chooses to attend University (seriously, he couldn’t get there fast enough) and to serve in the armed forces by joining the Novoselic Royal Air Force. Thus, he learned to both drive a tank and fly a plane before he could drive a car. Samuel loves flying for both work and fun, deeming the air to be the only place his family can’t chide or tease him. After his obligatory service, the Royal Family keeps a small, private plane for his singular use.

As he will not inherit the Dukedom (that will go to Liam), Samuel is both career-minded and a full-time working Royal. His charity work and proposed policies revolve around the arts, from new museums to theaters and productions to educational and grant opportunities. He is always working to add more cultural exhibits to every city and town in Novoselic.

It is often said by the press and public alike that Samuel acts more like they’d expect from the future Duke than Liam, a comment that never fails to upset the entire family.

#more-than-a-princess headcanons #(I have so. many. drafts. to write right now)#(But before I got to a few of them I thought this was necessary)#(Their historical AUs are altered depending on available technology of course)

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yaboymercury · 5 years

Text

Gassy Lessons - Second class: Maths

It had been about a week since Jay's incident with Mr Stevens and he'd trying to avoid him since but everytime he would see the teacher he would get a little smirk which quite honestly scared the student at what it could mean.

While Jay was usually average at most of his subjects, Maths was a struggle for him and because of that he was usually part of a catch up tutor group, and since he was redoing the year, he would have to redo the group again.

As he walked to the classroom where the class was housed over the lunch break he remembered that there was one positive. The horrible teacher who usually ran the group had retired so there would be a new one, Jay thought a little on what the teacher would be like, but he didn't want to think about teachers too much ever since his smelly experience with Mr Stevens.

Jay seemed to be the last to enter the classroom except the teacher, he didn't know any of the students since he was stuck with the year group usually below him. There were only three others, two friends sitting at the back and another guy looking out a window seat. Attempting to avoid both he sat at the front middle.

When the door eventually opened again Jay was in shock at the man who walked in. Jay tended to avoid using the word since he found it a little bit of a cliché but as soon as he saw him all he could think was "daddy". The man fit the bill perfectly with styled up dark grey hair and a bushy but styled beard to match. A fuller figure than usual but as he walked past Jay noticed that a lot went to his gargantuan ass as well barely being held back by the trousers held up by suspenders.

As the man sunk into his chair he scanned the room with a kind but authoritarian glance.

"Some of you may not know me yet, but I am Mr. Johnson and as well as starting work here this year I've also been assigned with your group."

He began logging into the computer, but despite being such a boring activity, Jay couldn't take his eyes off the older man. After a while he stood up to turn on the projector which was right next to Jay's desk. Standing away from Jay, he got a perfect view at his ass, and despite his recent traumatic experiences he couldn't look away even getting a hint at his natural musky smell. As he heard the whirr of the projector firing up Jay looked up and noticed that Johnson was looking down at him, he had obviously noticed Jay staring but instead of saying anything he just smirked. Jay blushed as the man walked back to his desk and tried to forget about it.

"Now since you're all so behind with maths I've been given permission by the board to use whatever methods I please which I'm very pleased about," he said this with a smirk which confused Jay leaving him wondering what he meant "but for a while I'm just going to ask you some questions from this slideshow."

And for about ten minutes it went as so, him clicking through slides with his remote going through the questions and each time asking a different person. Despite the questions being quite normal for the students at their level since they all struggled they only got about a quarter of them right on average. And each time they failed Mr Johnson sighed or said something along the lines of "think about it harder" or "come on lads at least try". This went on until he stood up in front of the board sliding the remote into his blazer pocket.

"Alright then lads it seems this method isn't working so I think I'll have to supply some more motivation, so when you fail a question there will be punishment." And as if on queue:

FFRRRRRRRRRAP

The teacher smiled at his outburst, it had not been an accident obviously. He smiled at the students and sitting near the front Jay got a whiff of an odorous cheesy smell, he wasn't ready for this again. The other students obviously didn't know what to think, Jay looked back and saw the friends laughing a little with eachother obviously thinking it was a mistake while the other boy just looked shocked.

"Okay then, let's begin."

He started with the students in the back, the first friend was lucky to get the first question right but as Johnson strolled over to the back to ask the second the next question he admitted he couldn't answer it.

"Well then I guess you're lucky..."

Mr Johnson turned around theatrically pointing his ass clearly at its target and then.

PRRRRRARP

It was quick but loud and clear. Both boys started coughing immediately and wretching while Johnson only chuckled.

"Dude what the hell was that." The victim of the gas out complained.

"I warned you didn't I?" Johnson replied mockingly.

"I thought you were joking?" He was still in shock as were the other three students.

"You think I joke about gas like that??" the teacher shook his ass with one of his hands.

Leaving them in disbelief he began walking to the boy at the window. As he did so the second boy was still coughing mumbling something along the lines of 'fuck it stinks' while his friend got up and moved to a different seat "Man I'm not sitting in that stink cloud especially if you're gonna be shit." His friend couldn't even complain.

Johnson sat down on the windowsill in front of the other student. And unluckily for him he couldn't answer the question either. Johnson laughed at what was coming and patted his stomach. He leaned over on the sill and grimaced.

Pfffffffffffffff

The audible stream of gas could be heard. It took a moment but the boy who was obviously waiting for it to hit him went pale.

"Sir I think I'm going to be sick" and gagging he got scampered out of the class.

"Obviously some can't handle it, I'm sure you all won't blame him when you get a whiff."

Johnson wasn't wrong, when it reaches the other two they started trying to wave the smell away but it obviously didn't work as they complained and when the dirty shitty scent hit Jay his eyes got wet almost stinging at the smell.

He came up to Jay and the boy gulped. The man loomed over him looking down. But luckily for Jay he knew the answer, only just though.

"Seems like I'll have to wait to ruin that virgin nose of yours huh?" He accentuated the statement smacking his ass. Jay knew this man had some serious gaspower but he worried that soon his math ability would let him down.

Johnson got back to the first student who had now moved from his friend. And this time he wasn't so lucky.

"Ah sweet vengeance, but I think you might find it more stinky!"

Looking back in horror Jay saw the man cock up his leg in the direction of the boy like loading a gun.

FRAAAAAAAAAAAARP

It was the worst so far and Jay bet he saw his hair get blown back in what must have been a wave of stench. It was obviously too much for him as Jay saw the spirit leave his body as he slumped forward head landing in the teachers ass then sliding off it into the desk. While Jay pitied him, seeing him so close to the teachers ass made him slightly envious.

His friend obviously horrified at what happened stood up.

"Come on man we're going!" He tugged at his friend but he was out. He gave up and headed for the door but he was blocked by Johnson lifting his foot up onto the desk making a barrier of his body while also giving Jay a perfect look at his spread out ass.

"I assume you don't trust yourself to be able to get the next question right?" All the student could do was shiver in fear shaking his head slightly. "Well how about I trust you with this?" The man cupped his ass around his ass and Jay heard a light hiss as well as the other boy as he tried to splutter out an excuse, but before he could Johnson had one hand holding back the boys head while he brought the other from his ass to flat over his mouth and nose. After that all Johnson had to do was step out of the way as his students body fell limp to the floor.

And it was at that point with a scared realisation that Jay noticed he was the only one left. And what deepened his fear more was the sound of Johnson locking the door before he walked over to standing in front of him. All Jay could do was look up at the stinking intimidating man above him in the wake of him making two people pass out with his smell.

"Now boy what's your name?" He obviously wanted to get well acquainted with his victim Jay thought. He mumbled his name back promptly. "Ah well then Jay since this session is now just the two of us I thought we'd ramp it up to something a bit harder especially for my best student." Jay was terrified.

Mr Johnson stood to the side and pressed a button on the remote, when the screen changed Jay's heart sunk. He couldn't even tell what it was, a graph? an equation? a diagram? He knew he could never solve it. While he was staring at it Johnson pulled up a chair in front of the board.

"Now Jay I'm giving you two choices, you either try the question and if you get it right that's great and I'll let you out early but if you fail..." he patted the chair "you'll be my cushion for the 40 minutes left of lunch..." The idea terrified Jay, this man obviously could let out monstrous fart as much as he wanted and to think how bad they would smell straight from the source "or you can give up now and only spend a minute as my chair." As scary as it was he knew that was the only option.

"Fine just one minute." Jay stood up and stumbled towards the chair begining to lie down.

"I think you might enjoy it Jay..." He smacked his ass again, Jay bet he knew how much Jay loved a nice man's ass but this was tortuous. As the ass lingered above him Jay's sense of worry grew stronger especially when the teacher held him down with just one hand on his chest. Jay had no idea how his ass was being held back by those trousers it was so damn plump that it was filling them to the brim.

"Now Jay let me show off a quick party trick before I start the show, an unknown variable if you will." The mischief in his voice made Jay whimper. He heard the man strain a little and as he looked up from the seat of the chair he saw the seam in his ass crack start to tear, when Jay realised that this mad teacher was destroying trousers just for this torture that he knew how bad it would be. As the seat of his trousers continued ripping open Jay saw the hairy abyss underneath and could smell the unwashed musk of this man's bare ass crack. Had he gone commando today all for this?! Jay tried to squirm free but the man above was too strong. Once enough of a gap was made for Jay's face the massive daddy of a man sat down on the students face forcing the boys nose all the way up to his puckering hole.

Jay was screaming into the hole his face emgulfed in the crack, but his voice was muffled so the teacher couldn't hear shit. But the smell was burning his nose and the gas hadn't even begun. He could barely hear above him:

"Now Jay even though you've only given me a minute, I guess you didn't know that that's all the time I need..."

Jake could feel the man's stomach rumble and he could feel his bare hole moving, he knew what was coming.

PRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPTTTssssssssss

It rumbled under Johnson's ass covering Jay's face in a bath of strong rotting cheesy stench burning the boy's sinuses and filling his lungs. Jay could feel the rancid sensation filling and covering him so much that he swore it was beginning to come out his own ass. As he felt Johnson laughing maniacally and rubbing his stinky taint over Jay's face the fart lost some volume but in its place the heat became unbearable like being in a sewer on a hot day. Jay knew he wasn't going to last the minute, the fart of the man above him made him his bitch.

When the minute was up Johnson lifted up his bare ass a little to look below to confirm that his victim had blacked out, and as he peeled his ass off even the teacher wretched a little but more in satisfaction at his own sick gassy skill. And as the gassy hulk considered maybe living up to his word, he was more pleased with the idea of having a seat to soak up the rest of his lunch farts.

So as the rest of the school was out enjoying fresh air, Jay was in the crack of a big farty teacher who was eating a meal he was sure would give get him ripping stink bombs in no time.

#eproctophilia #fart #fart story #fartfiction #gay fart #gay #male fart #stink #flatulence #man fart #fart teacher

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kalluun-patangaroa · 5 years

Text

Suede

SKY magazine, December 1993

written by Simon Witter

"HELLO! WHAT HAVE WE GOT HERE?!" asks Brett Anderson rhetorically, staring at the fluff he has just removed from his ear. "I haven't taken these earrings off for about nine years."

It may seem an incongruous moment to ask the 27-year-old indie pin-up about his personal style, but hey, that's the kind of guy I am. "Tatty," replies Brett with a wry smile. "I haven't been able to get out and go shopping."

Brett Anderson, frontman of Suede – the British pop sensation of 93 – is hotly rumoured to have a great dress sense. Today however, perched uncomfortably behind an executive desk at the central London HQ of his record company, his head inadvertently framed by a halo of Right Said Fred promotional balloons, he is sporting a navy blue jeans'n'top ensemble he accurately describes as "just anything". Brett has been telling me how he spends most of his time with people who work in shops or are unemployed – "real people, not in the business" – so I presume this boutique bonding provides a clue to his supposed, though temporarily non-evident, style savvy.

"Oh no," he gasps. "Not clothes shops! Most of my friends are in food shops. So I know a good bit of brie when I see it."

The thought of Brett Anderson having, at any point in his life, ever eaten food, conjures images of pigs flapping their trotters as they sail past this second floor window. But we press on with the personal style enquiry.

"I want to change it at the moment," he says. "I'm sick of wearing second-hand things. I used to have a grudge against new clothes because I don't like wearing things that another thousand people are wearing. It's nothing to do with being into clothes from years ago, or tatty clothes at all. I'm quite keen to toy around with my style until I eventually find something, to have clothes made for me. There's never anything, when I go out and look for clothes, that I really love. I've got quite a strong vision of what I want, which would be very, very well fitted things. I don't like baggy things. I like lots of ethnic looks. I really like the Spanish look, that sort of matador thing." By way of explanation, Brett strikes a pose, clicking imaginary castanets above his head. "I like that shape. Prince wears a really brilliant little thing sometimes. When I kept getting my bellybutton out, it was really a desire to achieve that shape more than anything, nothing to do with flaunting my navel."

It's well worth flashing your bellybutton while you still can, I assure him, a rueful hand on my own expanding waistline.

"Yep," he smiles. "Well I can't anymore. Not after that chinese last night."

In May of 1992 Suede released their first single, 'The Drowners'. They had already been on the cover of Melody Maker – before they had a record out – and would grace 18 other British magazine covers over the next year, including the cover of Q on just their second single. Their eponymous debut album, released last March, went straight to No. One in the charts and went on to win the Mercury Prize, and last autumn they released a full-length concert video Love & Poison. At this rate, it will be time for their memoirs by easter.

Within the bizarre, incestuous fishbowl of the British music media, Suede have become almost self-damagingly important. After a couple of wilderness years spent faffing about, finding their feet and being universally loathed, their overnight transformation into the most hyped band in the world was nothing short of miraculous. Yet it created impossibly high expectations of their music. A German friend told me how surprised he was, after long distance exposure to their media glare, to discover how average Suede sounded – a judgment that casual discovery of the first album would hardly have elicited. And while touring America, their support act the Cranberries famously outshone them by an enormous factor when it came to album sales. Yet phase one of Suede's career has been – or appeared to be – so extraordinary, that they are going to be hard-pressed to follow it up with anything similarly momentous.

For now, we have 'Stay Together', a new, epically long single. As a measure of Suede's magnitude in the reality-starved world of British indie pop, I am treated to an absurd preview of the track the day before meeting Brett. Before entering the listening room I am subjected to a bag search to check – I kid you not! – that I'm not carrying a concealed tape recorder.

In LA, the world capital of muso control freakism, I was played U2's Desire, the immediate-follow up to their 15-million selling Joshua Tree album, eons before its release without anyone thinking twice. Yet now, without a hint of humour or irony, I am being treated as if I not only know anyone who cares what the next Suede single sounds like, but would be willing to pay for a tape of it recorded through a leather bag.

After regaining consciousness, I join in the fiasco, insist on a full body search (well, at less reputable establishments you'd have to pay good money for this touchy-feely experience) and am seated. The label boss places two speakers on each side of my head, facing my ears from about 20" away, turns it up LOUD, and begins to do that embarrassing, pseudo appreciative in-chair grooving that only people who work in record companies and recording studios have the gall to indulge in. "It's not pompous," he assures me, "even though it's eight minutes long."

Of course any pop song – as opposed to dance record – that lasts eight minutes is by definition pompous. 'Bohemian Rhapsody' was gloriously, defiantly pompous with a side order of pomposity to go. But, despite the circumstances, 'Stay Together' sounds like a fine, many-hued song, liberally doused with Bernard Butler's life-saving guitar, that is destined neither to win many new fans nor shock the devotees.

"It's about a sense of unrest I feel about the world," Brett tells me the following day, in an ill-advised shot at an explanation. "An attempt to make some sense when everything seems to be going slightly insane. I do get a real sense of impending doom, but not in a depressing way, not like we're all gonna die, let's go and rape people. I feel quite content with it. We're living under some shadow, and I'm not quite sure what it is. It's a bit like the fears I felt when I was growing up, when things were unstable and there was the threat of nuclear war, or the fear that your parents could die of aerosol poisoning."

Brett grew up, together with Suede drummer Mat Osman, in the soulless satellite town of Haywards Heath, between London and Brighton. According to Osman, if they'd been the tea party fops people make them out to be, they would've formed a grunge band. They only wanted to be really glamorous because of their stultifyingly dull working class backgrounds. Some might say that that would lead to the three-Es-a-night, dance-and-forget syndrome, rather than the formation of a glam rock band.

"Hopefully we're not a glam rock band," Brett shudders defensively. "You can escape those surroundings by taking a load of Es and ignoring it. Another way is to create your own myth, to try and become romantic in your own eyes, to create something beautiful out of the rubbish and the shit. It all sounds very Oscar Wilde, but that's the way we did it. None of us were brought up in workhouses, but we haven't had easy lives at all."

Suede claim to be obsessed with fame because they were excluded from it. Yet surely fame is the one classless thing people aren't born into?

"Lots of people are constantly privileged," says Brett, who has clearly spent an unhealthy amount of time pondering the abstract qualities of fame. "If you're born in Soho to rich professional parents, and you've got Jonathan Wotsisname coming round to your house every night to see your father, then you've got this world that you slip easily into. When you're excluded from it there's a desperation, you're desperate to have it. It doesn't come as second nature to you, like professionally famous people who hang out in Beverly Hills. It's not something you're comfortable with, but that mutates it into something far more interesting, a bit prickly and far more creative, because you're not just sitting there lapping it up."

Suede's appearance coincided not unfortunately with the post-Madchester 70s revival. But was their styling something more than just the result of being unable to afford new clothes? Personally, I had thought the emergence of Gary Numan had killed off the idea of anyone ever again wanting to be David Bowie (not to mention Bowie's recent records). Then along came Suede, with their rough guitars, their androgyny and their theatrical singer.

"I never thought of ourselves as '70s," Brett insists. "David Bowie is a genius, but the rest of all that rubbish I always found laughable. As for the clothes, I always thought we looked more 60s than 70s. It's all tied up with this whole kitsch thing, this Magpie and Porridge and rediscovering the culture of British music journalists' youths. Kids of 14 didn't know what anyone was talking about, it was just that the people in power had reached a certain age where they were getting sentimental about their youth and started remembering Magpie. That's all it was, all a complete load of rubbish. As soon as we were aware that this scene was going on, we wanted nothing to do with it."

Brett's voice is a highly variable instrument, perfect and beautiful on slow numbers like 'The Next Life', but occasionally, when he affects that archly operatic Bowie yodel, a whiney, sneering sound like Rik Mayall on speed boring into your brain – absolutely maddening. It goes without saying that his delivery owes much to the most overrated British pop star of the last decade, Morrissey.

"I forced my voice in that way because of how we were born, musically, playing shitholes. It was the only way I could make myself heard. I didn't want to sing in the murmuring way that was the style of the time. I wanted to project my voice, because I was writing songs that I wanted people to hear the words of. I wasn't just writing about fluffy little clouds, which is what everyone was doing at the time. People read into my intonations a theatrical seventiesness, but it was a complete accident."

Overworked as the subject is, it's hard to avoid asking why Brett thinks his androgyny caused such a fuss. It's not the first time it has been done; it's not even the tenth time. Genderless, mincing fops are to classic British pop what hairspray is to American rock, a staple ingredient. Brett, by comparison to most, is pretty tame.

"I don't know," he sighs. "We certainly weren't thinking 'oh let's be androgynous', it's just the way we are. I'm naturally quite an effeminate person – not all the time, I do play on things. I think it was because, at the time, people were so incredibly boring. We had been through five years of the cult of non-personality, and we never wanted to go with the flow. When everyone had their heads down, chugging away, we wanted to twist things a little bit. It's like at school, when you find that something annoys someone, you keep on doing it more and more. And that's what happened really."

A female psychologist wrote recently about the overt sexual expression of pre-pubertal girls at pop concerts, the way in which, amidst the non-contact hysteria of the pop experience, they could sometimes experience their first orgasm. She was, admittedly, talking about a Take That show, but I can't help wondering if it looks like that from the stage to Brett Anderson?

"No, nothing like that," he purrs, "nothing sexual. I always feel like people are putting it on."

Having their first fake orgasm?

"It's a bizarre thing in my head. I know they really like me, but I can't really take it seriously. When I'm onstage, and it's working, I feel like I can do absolutely anything. I feel as though there's no limit, even in the sense that I could fall asleep if I felt like it, because I'm that relaxed. I feel much more comfortable on stage than walking down the street. I could go off into a corner and do a crossword or shave my head. I feel ridiculously relaxed. I really enjoy the power of being onstage. It's to do with the circuit of the flow between the audience and you, when it's an audience willing you to be good. Your own power is an expression of how the audience is feeling, but I can't say I ever feel sexual, even if it looks that way. I think that to call the power purely sexual is to belittle it. When I've been to incredible gigs, it hasn't been a sexual thing, it has been something far more magical than that. "

Brett and Osman came to London in the mid 80s to study, respectively, architecture and politics at UCL and LSE. Suede began after they placed an ad in the NME in 1989, but initial concerts had audiences shouting "Fuck off!", critics calling them effete wankers and record companies running for the hills - a three-pronged invitation to eat shit and die that would have spelt the end for most bands.

"That X factor that made people despise us," muses Brett, "was something we managed to turn around in our favour. It's like being in love with someone, and exactly the same things you adore about them, completely horrify you when you've fallen out of love. We went away and learnt how to write songs, and came back transformed. And those qualities that originally pissed people off, we transformed into something provocative. I think the fact that we went through all that rubbish was a fucking good thing for us. People forget that the Beatles spent five years in Hamburg. No one would touch them in England, cos everyone thought they were an utter load of shit. They spent five years getting it together, suffering a bit and fighting for it."

A typical lyric from those hard years was Brett's line about "shitting paracetomol on the escalator". When they were recently described as chemically saturated, I had assumed more interesting chemicals were involved.

"That's about pure mundanity, being off your face every night and your staple diet coming from your bathroom cabinet. It's a metaphor for a humdrum life, going up and down the London underground, which I spent five years of my life doing."

In many ways this – Suede's poignant soundtracking of new depression Britain – is their strength. But if they are Her Majesty's equivalent of slackers, it hasn't made America any more amenable to their cause. Indeed, despite Brett's avowed loathing of the British character – "negativity, small-mindedness, lack of faith" – there may well be a Britishness about Suede which prevents America from getting the point.

Brett makes the mistake of quoting a Smiths song to me – something about innocence, fragility and trust – forcing me to point out that American audiences don't want to be trusted with something precious, they want to rock out with their cocks out. Evan Dando may wear a dress and pigtails, but the wider American market is notoriously unkeen on sexual ambiguity. Queen were big in America until the early 80s, when Freddie Mercury started appearing in full clone gear. They never toured America again, and didn't have a single hit until after his death (and then only thanks to Wayne's World). In fact, America's association of guitars and manliness make Suede fundamentally unsuited.

"No!" storms Brett. "I don't think we're fundamentally unmanly. All you have to do is come and watch us live. We're about sexuality, power and emotion, things that everybody feels."

Whether or not America is destined to fall for his Morrissey-meets-Larry Grayson stage persona, Brett's much-aired desire to move to America (and less well-known plan to live in Paris) has, for now, been replaced by a much smaller act of bedouinism.

"I've moved from Notting Hill to Highgate," he announces proudly, "from a fashionable place to a place where you're living in the last century pretty much. I was living in a very small flat in Notting Hill and it was driving me insane, I couldn't write and was being bombarded with nonsense all day long. I needed the peace and quiet, and now I have a bigger flat with a studio room in it and I'm writing quite prolifically. It's more serene, there's more space to think. It's quite a beautiful place, but you do feel like you're living in the last century, like you're some sort of oddity, or in a play. You keep going into these odd characters. But it's a great place."

In person, and despite the affectation of much of his thought processes, Brett Anderson is quite charming. An endearing smile – which seems to hibernate when cameras are around – plays constantly around his face, suggesting shared confidences which, to some extent, he delivers. Like so many people cocooned by over-protective minions, he is refreshingly open and approachable. I like him. But he is deeply shocked and incredulous when I paint a picture of the special treatment afforded him by those he works with.

"They treat me with the respect I deserve," he jokes defensively. "I don't have tea with Lenny Kravitz. My best friend works in a chip shop, and that's why I like it, it's a complete escape. One of the beautiful things about being successful is that it can rub off onto your friends as well. Not fame and all that bullshit – the really brilliant thing about being successful is the self-confidence, the sense of life having a purpose, that life is a wonderful thing. You open the shutters in the morning and the sunshine pours through. That sense of vitality about life can completely rub off on your friends. Sometimes it doesn't, it can go the other way, with friends ignoring you cos they think you don't have time for them, but that never happens with your proper friends."

And yet, engulfed in the sweltering perversity of his peer group, Brett has come to hold some pretty crap views, views that seem utterly irrelevant beyond the borders of saddo indie land. He worries about being thought a sell-out, thinks Suede are radically honest because they admit to having ambition – as if people didn't get over all that bollocks a decade ago – and, worst of all, that people don't talk enough about music in interviews. Oh dear!

But, despite all this, Brett's public image remains unshatterably cool. He exudes waves of sultry, sulky hipness. I feel an urge to know what naff items lurk in the corners of Chateau Anderson, his ownership of which will shock Suede devotees to the core. Brett tells me he's been to see Aladdin, listens to jazz music, likes The Orb and Verve and has just bought the new Shamen single. To prove it, he even does his Mr C impression - "Comin' on like a vibe, y'know!". This won't do at all.

"I like Terence Trent D'Arby," he admits, trying harder. "I think he's really good."

It's good, but it's not right.

"I bought Billy Joel's River Of Dreams album. I like that one."

Aha – as Inspector Clouseau used to say – now we are getting somewhere! What about films?

"No, I've got impeccable taste when it comes to films."

No feature length On The Buses video stashed chez Brett?

"No. I have got Crocodile Dundee."

Bingo and Bullseye! So much for impeccable taste.

"Well, my perennial favourite is Performance," he flusters wildly. "I can virtually quote the whole film from start to finish. And there's a brilliant film which I've just discovered called The Shout, with John Hurt, Alan Bates and Susanna York. It's about a man who has spent years in the Australian bush learning the secrets of the bush doctors coming to this ridiculously reserved Cornish village and turning two people's lives upside down. It's like an animal alive within this village, and when he shouts, everyone within a mile radius dies. If Alan Bates' part had been played by Vincent Price, it would've been laughable, but it's incredibly powerful, one of those great lost films."

It's a nice try, but nothing can erase the impression created by Billy Joel and Crocodile Dundee.

#suede #brett anderson #press #interview #sky #1993

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darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts · 5 years

Text

Echo pt1

A very happy birthday to Kat @kthomas325 I hope you enjoy this little Modern/fantasy tale.

Warning: This is a little dark. There is blood, death, Strong Language and yeah ... please read with caution. **Still not sure what direction this is taking so I should add a warning for Author with no plot **

Masterlist

---

Echo part 1

The move had been hectic. Boxes everywhere stacked high in her office like some sort of interactive Tetris game. When they got the word that they were to relocate and join forces with another team she had hoped for a bit more time. Still, missions to be undertaken at a moment’s notice with frustratingly tight time frames that had required superhuman capabilities to accomplish were nothing new to her. Thank god she could handle high levels of stress in the workplace because otherwise, she was a likely candidate to be sent off to the looney farm.

Pretty much all of her team had already managed to settle in, she was the last. The trouble with being a partly freelance brain for hire was you tended to get sent tasks on the side that took up valuable time. This is exactly what happened the day she received the orders to move.

It had been a normal boring day pouring over the latest data from some tests on the guys that had just come back from overseas and her internal email pinged.

Notice for the attention of Dr K response required ASAP

If she hadn’t been bored out of her proverbial tree, she might have groaned a little more when she saw the familiar sender’s address. It wouldn’t be the first time her friend in the Met had abused his powers of friendship in calling for her help, but these little cases of his had a way of snowballing.

Clicking the attachment on the email her eyes scanned the words like a barcode. It was meticulous and read exactly as she was expecting it too, except for one little detail.

Undetectable traces of blood.

She reread it to make sure she hadn’t missed something before reaching for her Cell phone and searching her contacts. Fingers gliding over the screen she dialled the number for her friend. The line didn’t even manage to ring two times before it was answered a bright voice on the other end speaking.

“That was faster than I thought. Slow news day or were you just that desperate to speak to me?” There was the sound of rustling papers in the background which told her she wasn’t the only one burning the midnight oil.

“Right the first time. You sent me the complete report, right?” She asked in a way that sounded like she was accusing him of trying to pull a bad practical joke on her. Her brow creased as she looked again at the text illuminated on her monitor.

“After the lecture you gave me last time where you chewed me out over lack of information? Course I sent it all.” His adamant reply just seemed to add to the rising tension she felt.

“What does it mean where you wrote the bodies had no traces of blood? You mean at the scene or…”

“Scene and autopsy. I mean there was nothing. Not a damn drop. Bodies were fresh as far as the guys in the coroner’s office could tell. They weren’t marked in any way and yet they were as empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.” He chuckled at his own bad joke.

“And that was seriously it? Nothing else?” She clicked at the attachments but they were only the basic preliminary photos the police took of the scene.

“Why are you asking like it’s obvious there should be?”

“Because this is all like a bad dream.” It was strange, she was logical and rational to the point of being accused of being almost robotic at times. And here she was looking at something that probably has a totally scientific explanation for it, feeling like she was being targeted. Something that was lying in the back of her mind dormant was setting off alarms.

“… Hey. Are you ok there? You know I hate it when you go quiet.” She had zoned out and the concern in the man’s voice as he spoke reminded her of the fact he was still on the line.

“Yeah. Let me know the minute you find anything else. And I want to see the full report from the medical examiner, toxicology and photos.” She knew he was making a note on something because she heard him cuss under his breath about how he could never find a pen when he needed one.

“So, you’re taking the case?”

“What do you think?”

Hanging up the phone the silence that was once comforting in her office was suddenly oppressive. The shadows felt like they were cold and creeping, prowling around her. It had been a long time since she had felt this. Getting up from behind her desk she went in search of coffee to try to distract herself with a warm drink.

There was a ringing in her ears that was low like a buzz from a hive. Her head started to pound behind her eyes at the contrast between the soft lighting in her office and the phosphorescent lighting in the building’s corridors that was harsh and bright. She rubbed her eyes in an attempt to acclimatise herself as she walked to the break room.

Time had no place here, at least not the kind of time that other realms had. The twin suns had set long ago allowing the triple moons to rise high into the indigo velvet sky. The crimson rock gleamed deep and dark with a foreboding subliminal idea that it was rich with blood. The rocks here always looked fluid; the veins of magical deposits threaded their way through them giving the land underfoot a pulse.

Moving swiftly with soundless ease a single figure clad in a white cloak slipped out of a dense tree line and continued forward to a crossroads. The marker there pointed them in the direction of tonight’s meeting place, a symbol visible only to those who carried the sigil to reveal it. After following its direction for a time, a fracture in the bedrock of the Mesa that ran along the border.

The veins in the deep red rock glowed as the figure entered illuminating their journey into the flat-topped hill better than any lantern. Voices began to bounce around them, the glow becoming brighter before the walls of the narrow pathway disappeared.

A void in the rock created a natural cathedral. The stone couldn’t have followed a more structured path if it had been carved by hand. The ceiling was vaulted and appeared almost black as it was so far away from them. In the centre of this space sat the heads of some of the largest households in the known lands. With the arrival of the figure in white that made six.

“You kept us waiting.” A strong imperial voice from a black-haired man carried over the group setting a heavy silence in the air. His red-trimmed robes wrapped around his figure as it sat on a rock by the fire in the same way he would perch on his own throne.

“My apologies. It took slightly longer than planned to leave the castle.” The cloaked figure made a theatrical bow after speaking.

“You weren’t followed?” The man sitting to the left of the regal one had a slightly less polished appearance. His sandy brown hair looked a little frazzled, no doubt a result of running their fingers through it in moments of agitation as was their habit.

The cloaked figure was more than aware of the eyes of the gathering being focused on them but they showed no sign of reacting to it.

“Naturally. If I hadn’t, I would have been disappointed. But I was able to give them the slip, otherwise I would not be here at all.”

“What is the news?” A rather impatient man sporting a different style of dress and an eye patch interjected. The loose-fitting clothing was clearly easier to move around in which allowed for a better range of motion in a fight. Something the man was renowned for in the realms. The wild chestnut brown hair on his head seemed to reflect the spark of energy in his singular blue eye.

“The throne remains unchallenged. In fact, it would appear that the dear Queen is in possession of new strength.”

“What?” Their collective outcry reverberated for a moment before falling flat again.

“How could she get that?” One of the younger men gathered grumbled his question. His emerald eyes flashed for a moment with worry.

“I can only think of one way in which she might find such a thing now. With supplies into the land limited from each of ours…” The silver-haired Lord produced a ledger from inside one of his pockets and began talking as he flicked through the pages checking details of something written in an almost indecipherable font.

“She’s found a fault line.” The black-haired Lord leaned back elegantly, an amused wicked smile on his face and his crimson eyes flashed. He looked entertained but the atmosphere around him told a different tale.

“But there were no fault lines. She searched before and turned up empty it was why she arranged for trade negotiations to start with.” The concerned Lord to his left dragged his hand through his hair leaving it to settle on his neck. He had every right to be worried as they all were but it was his land that bordered closer to the Queen.

“What we gain from our harvesting in our own territory is always greater than what we would gain by trade. We are attuned to the land after all.” The young lord with emerald eyes tossed out his words factually with a sigh.

“Yes, but for her to gain such a noticeable increase that is should be sensed by others…” a crystal tipped quill scratched over a page on the notebook the ink appeared magically on the paper filling the space quickly making it appear almost completely black.

“She isn’t just feeding.”

“Keep a close eye on her. Depending on what you find our plans may change.”

“Of course.” The figure in the white cloak bowed once more before turning on heel and leaving as they had come.

No one said this was going to be easy. They had all known what they were signing up for, but the development of the Queen’s new hunting ground after the loss of the King was not one they could have foreseen.

---

After unlocking her front door, she pushed it open with her hip before entering with a large box in her arms and closed it with her foot. The box made a heavy thud sound on the coffee table the files, documents and other office records had a layer of dust on top of them that she failed to remove before tossing them in and bringing them back with her.

The dates on the files were all from around nearly 30 years ago. It had been a little shocking how many there were given the few cases there had been but that is what happens when several governing bodies investigate at once. Each department has its own methods and documents them eventually you have them accumulated together by one department into a file that could be used in court if you were at a point of prosecution for the offence.

She wasn’t interested in combined facts abbreviated for a jury and judge she wanted complete records, which was how she came to raid the archives on-site before leaving work. Dumping her bag next to the box she went straight into the kitchen and rummaged around in the cupboards there looking for the ground coffee.

The kitchen was a room every house had but here it seemed a little bit of a waste. She wasn’t home enough to cook meals so there was typically next to no food in the place. There was a microwave and coffeemaker on the countertop and that was all. The rest of the property suffered the same neglected fate. There were enough furnishings to be comfortable but it was not what you could call a warm environment.

This was what happens when you spend more time at work than you do at home. She sighed a little as she listened to the water boil in the coffee maker. The buzzing in her head hadn’t gone away and had brought with it a tingling sensation she could feel in her bones.

She glanced up and caught sight of herself in the reflection of the window. Something about it looked different but she couldn’t place it. A nagging feeling of something she had missed was gnawing at the back of her mind. Abandoning the coffee maker, she went over and grabbed a file hoping that the answer she wanted was somewhere in all this mess.

---

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leopardfang15 · 5 years

Text

My Charlastor Child Bio

Alright so, I can’t draw, so I’m gonna have to use the art of words to describe my boy. Kinda sucks cuz I always see these cool reference sheets and I’m sitting over here like “aww... I wish I could make those.” But hey, if anyone is interested in drawing one for me as a commission, I’d be interested in talking and working some prices out. Nothing too crazy, just a simple thing. Fair warning though, I’ve never commissioned anything before so... there’s that.

Now, to business.

Name: Dominic

Nickname: Dom. He is well aware of all the sexual jokes that can be made from his nickname, he’s heard them all and to be honest the lack of originality is the most annoying thing at this point.

Appearance: Physically, he’s inherited the blonde hair and pale skin from his mother. In his early teen years he wore it long enough to be in a braid but after awhile he was like ‘fuck it, too much work’ and wears it short as an adult. Dom’s very athletic and is actually a knight in Hell so he has a more muscular build. He’s a tall and red eyed boi like his dad and he gets the dial in his eyes that his dad has when he gets pissed off.

Another thing Dom inherited from his dad was his sense of style. While maybe not as flashy he is dressed formally when he’s not working out. (He’s not about to do push-ups or go at it with a punching bag in a suit you maniacs). Dom typically wears a long coat and works out by himself because he also inherited a fluffy deer tail from his father. Also like his Radio Dad, he does not like having his tail touched by random people.

His most notable feature would be the black, feathered wings on his back. That angel DNA from Charlie’s side has finally appeared. Dom’s got a wingspan of 12 feet and he knows how to use them.

Personality: He’s a fairly laid back joker. Whereas his parents are theatrical as fuck, he’s more of an observer than a performer. Of course his parents have taught him to sing and dance he usually does that alone to entertain himself or with other family members. Dom also enjoys playing small pranks around the hotel. He’s not one for outlandish ‘pretending to be dead’ or tripping someone down the stairs type pranks but more like sticking a deer crossing sign to his dad’s door.

He’s really family oriented and cares a lot about them. I do imagine him having siblings but I don’t have plans to make anymore but there are plenty already out there. #bestbigbrother. Dom is definitely a Mama’s boy. He will run errands for her and allow himself to be pulled into a dance or a song in public for her. Another fact about Dom is he is in fact an adrenaline junkie. His favorite activity is flying and he does things like jump from a 300 foot building for the sake of the rush.

Background

Childhood: Little Dominic was a tiny ball of energy, following both parents around like a puppy. Always asking what they were doing and wanting to help, if he could sit still long enough that is. Some of his favorite memories of his parents was his mother teaching him to dance and roughhousing with his dad. (Hard to imagine the Radio Demon wrestling with a child but he’d let him win and then play dead to see if he’d get an amusing reaction out of Dom. Dom would usually try to get his dad to ‘come back to life’ before he’d smile and say “I guess I get your stuff now” and grab one of his dad’s bow ties or something)

One of his favorite things to do was give his parents a heart attack climb up high places and try to teach himself to fly. Eventually Charlie gets Husk to teach Dom how to fly. He’s not able to do much until his wings fledge because before then he just has these two limbs full of fluffy and useless down. Fledging was a nightmare because because when his feathers came in he was super itchy but couldn’t scratch them without possibly breaking his feathers. He was absolutely miserable for a week before they finally came in. Dom eventually grew in Husk and he started looking forward to the little ankle biter to come running up to him saying, “can we practice flying now, Uncle Husk?”

Teenager: Ah, teenage rebellion. Dom went through that. In an effort to help him deal with all his energy (and keep him from sneaking out) Charlie got Vaggie to teach him to use a sword. But a teenage boy that likes to explore cannot be kenneled. He liked exploring Pentagram City, especially by air and seeing what knew place he could discover.

He eventually found places he could go to if he wanted to avoid his parents. If he wanted to avoid Charlie he’d go to some of the sketchy fight clubs in town and he actually learned how to fight there. If he wanted to avoid Alastor he’d go to some of the clubs that played heavier rock or metal. He typically wanted to avoid his dad more. While Charlie typically scolded him for doing dangerous aerial stunts but Dom could tell that was more about a worry for his safety. With Alastor, Dom felt like he just didn’t quite fit the mold his father expected of him. He saw a lot of differences between his father and himself personality wise. He eventually, more or less convinced himself that he was a disappointment to his dad and distanced himself from him. Alastor, figuring it was mostly just teenaged angst, just let Dom have his space and figured he’d come to him when he was ready.

Adult: Dom has mellowed out by now. He’s calmed down and is more comfortable in his own skin and with himself. He has carried a love of rock and roll and martial arts from his teenaged years into adulthood. Though I’m not sure how exactly yet, he has been knighted by his grandfather Lucifer. If a demon is avoiding a meeting with the Devil himself, Lucifer will pay Dom to find said demon and bring them to him. He’s kind of like his grandfather’s personal bounty hunter but does not take requests from anyone else. When he’s not chasing down demons for Grandpa Luci he works security at his mother’s hotel.

Dom’s relationship with his father is tense and very awkward at this point. He doesn’t hate his dad it just feels like the years of practical separation makes him feel like he has no way to relate to his dad. Interacting with him is usually short conversations like “How was your day?” “Good, how about you?” “Good.” (I got pleanty of ideas for attempts at rekindling their relationship)

Random Facts

His choice of transportation is obviously flying. Not only is it faster than driving but to comfortably fit in a car he has to retract his wings which isn’t very comfortable.

People seem to always want to touch him. His wings, his tail, his biceps and he does not like it. He’s a bit like his dad with his aversion to touch though that only applies to non-family members. If he doesn’t know you, please don’t touch him.

He doesn’t like overly crowded places because of people touching his wings. If he ever decides to go to a bar, or he has some kind of royal gathering he has to go to he has to think about what he’s willing to put up with; strangers touching his wings or the discomfort of hiding them away?

He has a one-handed sword that he can summon in a fight. It’s one of the few bits of more advanced magic he knows. Whereas some demons, like his parents will use magic in a fight, he’ll just punch a guy through a wall.

He can sing, though he doesn’t do it in public. By himself or around his family is fine. He typically sings rock and my Headcanon for his singing voice is Ivan Moody from Five Finger Death Punch.

His wings are a great indicator of his emotions. If he’s feeling anxious or scared he’ll pull them in close to his body and if he’s happy or excited his wings will flap a little. His feathers also change themselves. If he gets angry or he’s ready to fight his feathers will actually harden and sharpen.

He can launch his feathers like projectiles and he can also slice through plates of steel when the feathers on his wings turn to blades.

He has taken up smoking in his later teen years. Per his mother’s request, he doesn’t do it inside the hotel.

When he was eleven his father taught him how to shoot a rifle. As an adult, he sometimes goes down to a shooting range to practice.

He likes to show affection with his wings. Ex: putting a wing around someone for comfort, wrapping his wings around someone when he hugs them or if he’s taking a nap with a sibling he’ll wrap them up in a feathery cacoon.

He usually sleeps on his stomach. If he lays on his back for too long his wings cramp up. He’ll take short naps on a couch in the lobby but if he’s going to be for the night he’ll lay on his stomach.

He knows how to braid hair. His mother taught him because he liked to play with her hair. It’s something he does when they’re just relaxing and he’ll braid his siblings hair if they ask.

He can take passengers when he’s flying. He flies targets to his grandparent’s castle and he’s flown his mother places. It obviously depends on the demon but on average he can take two to three adult demons on a flight with him.

Well, let me know what you think. I’d be willing to role play with Dominic if anyone is interested. If enough people want it, I’ll make a side blog for Dominic and Hazbin Hotel roleplaying specifically.

Also, @the-radio-princess I have two Charlastor fics in the works. One I was working on before you ripped out my heart so it will be in the EverythingsOkay!AU where Charlie ran off to New Orleans with Jaimie. The other one is from one of my ideas from my Charlastor Headcanons post.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel oc #hazbin charlie #hazbin alastor #charlie x alastor #charlastor #charlastor child #charlastor oc #hazbin husk #hazbin vaggie

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polar-stars · 5 years

Note

6, 7, 22, 25, 26 for Shigeo?

Of course! Thanks for asking ! I always love talking about my evil snake-son !

6. What were they like at school? Did they enjoy it? Did they finish? What level of higher education did they reach? What subjects did they enjoy? Which did they hate?

Shigeo is a fairly intelligent kid and it does show in his grades for the most part. Putting all of Totsuki’s Cooking-Classes aside for a sec, he actually does have the best grades out of his brothers and also out of Suzume, Akio and Hiraku. He will reach his graduation and he will go onto studying business (like moi) abroad (unlike moi).

He’s not all too excited about school but does not necessarily hate either. There are quite some things he considers a waste of his valuable time, but there’s also stuff he does kind off actually enjoy.

His favorite subjects are math and chemistry, because this is were he has to try the least in a sense. He’s a logical dude and understands math fairly well and has also been making use of much, much math throughout consulting. Concerning chemistry, given that Shigeo’s cooking style relies heavily on knowing the chemistry of his ingredients, this is also just a piece of cake for him. He also finds enjoyment in politics and history.

Least favorite subjects would be philosophy and anything artsy. He’s actually good at philosophy but just because philosophy, at least what you get taught in school, is not insanely hard. (Maybe that’s just me though, but I always thought of philosophy as a fairly easy subject ovo;;) But he finds everything discussed in this subject so insanely boring and a waste of time (and sometimes even downright moronic). I mean you really think Shigeo Eizan wants to learn about what Old Greeks considered to be moral? Artsy subjects are also considered a waste of time for him and he sees no point in them (also he’s not good at most of them, except for....theatrics maybe because he’s a great actor actually)

7. Did they have lots of friends as a child? Did they keep any of their childhood friends into adulthood?

No.

At a earlier, happier stage of his life he would occasionally chat and maybe play a little with other rich kids he’d met at parties but there was never much grand contact there afterwards meep. He was always kind off much of a Lonely Rich Kid TM. Though he did have Masashi, and later also Kei of course, around and they found plenty of things to do and to entertain each other.

Over time, he got rather incapable of making friends actually.

His first, true friend was Moe who he also remains best friends with to this day as we know. He was also able to befriend Kiyoko and Yoshiko, though this is pretty much were it ends.

22. What are their favourite insults to use? What do they insult people for? Or do they prefer to bitch behind someone’s back?

Ohoho~ An excellent question ! Gosh, were to even begin...

Overall and generally speaking, his main favorite way to go is attacking other people’s intellect. You see, Shigeo is smart and knows that he is. And he’s absolutely obnoxious about it. Shigeo is basically the TV-Trope “Insufferable Genius” and more than often makes himself out to be the most intellectual in a bunch, which in his mind gives him the right to dub everyone else surrounding him stupid. He therefore uses words like “moron”, “idiot”, “fool”, “nitwit” and such a lot. As well as describing people as “senseless”, “mindless” and “asinine” and such.

Shigeo also has to make sure that everyone knows that he feels threatened by no one. No matter how heart-wrenching your speech to challenge him was, he won’t blink an eye. You do not matter for him. Therefore, he also makes usage of words like “pathetic” or “ludicrous” or “ridiculous” or, when feeling exceptionally devilish, “pitiful”.

Given that he also views himself as very fashionable, Shigeo insulting other male people’s looks can happen as well but not that much.

Further than that, Shigeo is one to pick up people’s insecurities and what upsets them the most and such. And he will keep it in mind. He does often attack people through things he knows they’re sensitive about. Examples would be his constant commentary on Takayuki’s height (in form of “midget”, “shrimp or “runt”) or Hiraku’s commoner-background.

He’s also pretty sarcastic and I don’t know if that truly counts but he’s also very known for a blunt “Die” or alternatives to such (like “Choke”) and sometimes even more brutal editions of such.

And welp, he’s most defiantly able to confront and insult people directly. In fact, he lives for it.

25. What do they find funny? Do they have a good sense of humour? Are they funny themselves?

Suffering.

He does take actual entertainment of watching people desperately trying to wriggle themselves out of a hopeless situation he drove them into. But also just smaller things, like Akio being exhausted from a day full of maniacal Hiraku-antics. Shigeo is the worst.

As you can maybe see, Shigeo’s overall sense of humor is pitch-black-dark. And when he does truly attempt to be funny, his jokes never land because everyone hates them ahsdhd. I think unintentionally he can say a few funny things though time to time.

For one possibly a bit more nicer thing, he finds Chieko greatly amusing sometimes. Though not in a bad way at all but in a charmed, pretty much adoring way.

26. How do they act when they’re happy? Do they sing? Dance? Hum? Or do they hide their emotions?

When just content how one of his plan’s went or so, he usually becomes evermore cockier and smug for the time being and also brags a ton more. Maybe he will even begin to hum.

True, wholesome happiness is something he wouldn’t want anyone on Totsuki to see on his face and so this is something he rather attempts to hide unless he’s with people he trusts (which would be his family or the Saitos).

#Gofer answering to stuffz #Shigeo Eizan

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stresspasser · 5 years

Text

Roaring 20s

A Sally’s Face fanfiction

Word count: 1500 aprox Rating: Green Pairing: None (maybe a little Larry/Sal) Notes: Hi everyone! The text that follows is a one-shot I’ve been writing in the past few days. Please note that english isn’t my main language and this is my first attempt at translating something I have written! I hope it to be at least understandable AHAH I think this shot is pretty decent in italian but in english… I don’t know. Oh, another thing! I was inspired by the song “Roaring 20s” by Panic! At the Disco. I know that this can’t be played at Sal’s last prom considering the story is set in the 90s but I suggest you to listen to it while reading. A part of the events is strictly based on the song! I’d be glad to hear your opinions but just if it’s constructive please ;v; Hope you like it!

* * * *

Pressed against the wall, his hands behind his back while the palms were tickled by the rough wall, Sal was standing in the gymnasium of his school. It hadn’t ever been as noisy as that night. The last school year was over. The last exams were done. He and his friends were free, at least from the prison called Nockfell High School. And him, Sal, wasn’t enjoying that prom at all. That year’s graduating class looked so disposed to spree like Sal had never seen one before. But he wasn’t feeling like it. The lights were reflecting on the dance floor, the discs succeeded one another in a vortex of notes that were pumped by the stereo’s speakers after they were mixed by a student’s unskilled fingers. «He hasn’t any rythm sense at all, huh?» In that dark corner of the improvised ballroom, Larry’s voice reached Sal’s ears without the need for him to scream. Larry had an amazing tone-deaf for music, even if he ended up listening just to “that angry metal he loves a lot” – like Ashley called it. Listening to that inconclusive remixes of a genre he didn’t even like must have been a painful torture for him. «Yup.» Sal hadn’t moved his eyes from the dance floor neither a second, neither to reply to Larry’s question. Todd was unleashing on the dance floor with Neil. He said that dancing was something beyond his abilities, that if he had put just a sigle foot on the dance floor he would have probably be so in dissonance with the situation that he could provoke a cataclism. Neil usually let Todd fascinate him with his scientific-like speeches but that time he chose to take his hand and drag him to the dance floor ending his silly jabbering. Now Todd was dancing something that reminded somehow a latin dance, maybe a Salsa. Pratically his movements and Neil’s ones looked so confused but also beautiful just because they were the two ones dancing it. They seemed so happy. Sal would have liked to feel as happy as them. He’d liked to feel in his place with the brick red jacket he had bought months earlier on. He had thought that the prom’s night he would have been crazy enthusiast to wear it like when he was waiting for it. In that moment being that gaudy made him just feel sick. It wasn’t because everything was about to end. He knew that he and all his friends would have gone on with their studies even if in different places. He knew that they would have stayed the same. But sometimes Sal simply wasn’t ok. He wasn’t able to. Sometimes his brain didn’t work, sometimes he had more nightmares than he was used to. He literally had dragged himself along to end the of classes and with so much pressure and fadigue on his shoulder he burned the last spark of energy he had inside him just to get himself to that prom. There wasn’t anything verve left to party. He wasn’t in the mood but a voice in the back of his head shouted him that he couldn’t lose that chance. The song switched and Sal felt that shiver. The shiver you feel when the right song plays in the right moment while you’re the only element out of frequency because you don’t feel in the right place. Sal was so desperatly trying to enjoy his prom night staring at Todd and his fiance he didn’t even notice the small sigh that escaped from his lips and Larry’s gaze. It looked like Sal was trying to say himself something like «why, Sal, huh? Why can’t you just enjoy something?» «It’s not your first prom but it definitely looks like that.» Sal turned his head. «What do you mean?» «You’re a nerve wreack», he said. «I think we should be on the floor, not here.» «Go, I’ll catch up with you later.» A small laugh from Larry. He was smiling like he knew everything without saying a word. «What?» «I won’t leave you behind, my dear Sally Face!» Larry knew. He knew everything even though Sal didn’t say a word about his condition for the past weeks. He knew that Sal wasn’t feeling well and he tried his best to make him feel a bit more comfortable. He made him listen to a new Sanity’s Fall’s song, they played together with a new videogame. Sal let him near but didn’t open up like he always did. There was no need for him to explain. He just needed to distract himself, knock off his mind from that thoughts and uneasiness that made him feel just more uneasy. «I don’t want to dance, you…» Larry glanced at the floor. Sal’s foot was moving following music’s rythm as his legs did. «You don’t want to dance. Really?» His usual dancing was just headbanging – with ominous consequences, sometimes – in the basement where Larry lived. He hadn’t ever danced in front of all that people and even though he was so good at saying that he wanted to be himself and telling other to be, he didn’t sound convincing enough to himself. He went to a prom for the first time the year before, and he spent it in front of the school because Todd was drunk. Luckily. «Go», Sal said again. «I’ll wait for Ash.» «I won’t go dancing if you don’t come with me.» «Larry…» Sal sighed exasperated. «Listen, I suck at dancing.» «That’s not true. I have never seen someone headbanging as good as you do!» Those words made Sal smile a little. «That’s not dancing…» He did it when he met Larry just because he was surprisingly feeling very comfortable. «Plus.» It seemed like Larry wanted to talk about something else. «The problem isn’t just you don’t know how to dance. Right?» Yes, he was right. Sal just wanted to disappear and he knew for sure that dancing would have made him feel even worse. Or maybe not. But then the song he liked became slower, the rythm firm, and Sal understood that the moment was perfect for him to reach the dance floor, letting everyone look at him if they wanted to. He saw Larry walking away. His white shirt and the loosen necktie looked so strange on him considering his usual style. Lisa wasn’t able to make him wear a jacket, though. Sal looked at him in the eyes while he was drawing back to the dance floor. Larry stopped and theatrically held out his hand towards him. «Come on, Sally Face! Let’s go show the world and even yourself your dancing skills!» Larry encouraged him. «You will soon reach your roaring twnties, do you want to waste them like that?» Sal stared at that hand. He didn’t want to. Were they just talking about a simple dance, at that point? He held his hand, hesitant, and felt Larry’s fingers holding his. Sal walked past the dance floor’s threshold without breathing like he was trespassing an invisible barrier beyond which an unknown world could have swallowed him. After that dash, Larry attracted Sal to himself. Sal knew what he wanted to do. He moved his feet away, still holding his hand. They looked like a folding fan at the center of the dance floor. Everyone was beginning to stop so they could watch them and just for once Sal didn’t care. He didn’t care if he wasn’t good enough, he didn’t care about the prosthetic some people still looked with disgust in their eyes everyday. He didn’t care about the thoughts that made getting out of bed so difficult and not even about anguish. He didn’t feel anything except for Larry’s hand. Larry looked so concentrated, even more than necessary, but Sal found it funny. He made two steps back, three forward. A twirl. That dance didn’t make any sense but it was liberating. It looked like it was screaming how little he cared about everything, except for the good things, the one that counted. Suddenly he felt his ponytails caressing the floor. «Larry!» he exclaimed, laughing. That casquè was totally unexcpected but his body responded without thinking and one of his legs was up in the air past Larry’s back. «I knew you wanted to dance!» Everyone was shocked. Maybe it was because Sally Face was dancing or maybe because Larry was reacting to a music that wasn’t metal. Truth be told everyone, Todd, Neil and even Travis Phelps were totally amazed by their coordination. Someone even asked if they were training to dance like that at the prom’s night. Still seeing the world uspide down, his head far away even from the fear that his prosthetic could fall – Larry was holding it from the back of his head –, Sal saw Ashley staring at them, surprised. She was in a pretty lilac dress, a circlet in her long hair and two full glasses in the hands. How did they end at the border of the dance floor after they had conquered its center? «What’s going on?» she shouted. «Sal wanted to dance!» Larry replied. Ashley quickly abandoned the glasses and reached the two of them. Sal didn’t know why, but holding Ashley’s and Larry’s hands seemed logic. They formed a circle and soon Todd and Neil were with them. They swirled among the confused students that couldn’t do anything except for letting them the space to dance in that odd way. Maybe they were criticizing but it didn’t matter. Sal begun to laugh without being able to control himself. There wasn’t a reason. He was just so happy to be there, with them. His friends. Soon Larry, Ashley, Todd and Neil were doing the same. He glanced at Larry. He couldn’t see his lips moving, but he knew Sal was thanking him. He just shooked his head. Damn, that last prom. It was definitely Sal’s best prom ever.

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raendown · 5 years

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Pairing: Madara Tobirama Chapter: 2/7 Word count: 1991 Summary: Now attending the university here in their hometown as he begins his Master’s, Tobirama develops a problem with falling asleep in the strangest of places. Madara, poor innocent never-deserved-any-of-this Madara, gets mistaken for a mattress one too many times. All he wanted to do was focus on his career but instead he finds himself forcibly tasked with herding his secret crush towards better sleep habits. It’s driving him up the wall.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI in the blog header!

Chapter 2: Vagrancy With Style

Right up until ten minutes after his lunch break ended, Madara’s day was going fairly well. He’d made two arrests and one of those was a man whom he had stopped from becoming a murderer, talking him down from stabbing someone who had offered him insults after too many beers. On top of that he’d been able to take his lunch break on time and managed to finish his entire sandwich before a fight erupted in the cells that he had to split up.

He and his partner were milling around the station doing some routine paperwork when one of his fellow officers called him over and waved the desk phone at him.

“Call for you, Uchiha.”

“From who?”

“Dunno. Asked for ‘that idiot Uchiha’ and no one calls your cousin that. Shisui’s too nice to people.” The man grinned until Madara sneered and grabbed the phone away from him.

Then he stopped laughing when Madara’s foot connected with his chair and rolled him halfway across the bullpen.

“Officer Uchiha speaking.”

“Where are you?” A familiar voice demanded. Madara took the phone away from his ear to give it a funny look, wondering if he was hearing things.

“I’m…at work?”

“Ugh.” Even through the phone no one was quite able to express disgust the way Tobirama did. “Useless. I need to sleep.”

With that he hung up and Madara was left staring the receiver again as though it might provide some answers as to what the hell that was all about. He hadn’t seen the other man for a week, not since that very weird incident at Hashirama’s place that he was still half certain had all been a dream. Nothing in that phone call had made sense but he didn’t have Tobirama’s number to call back and demand clarification.

Shisui gave him a questioning look but Madara waved him off. He didn’t know what the hell was going on either and he didn’t feel like fielding questions he had no answers for.

He gave some thought to sending Hashirama a quick text over the next couple of hours but he wasn’t even sure what to ask or how to put in to words the strange phone call he had received. It had undoubtedly been Tobirama on the other end of the line, there was no mistaking that delicious growl of a voice, but beyond identification he was stumped. If Madara could think of a single reason the man might need to call him then perhaps he might have a frame of reference for guessing what the hell he wanted.

Ultimately he ended up forcing the issue out of his mind because it was much too distracting and he wasn’t getting any of his paperwork done. There were arrest reports to be filled out, case files to be updated, endless paper to waste, and he only had so many hours in each day to do it all. Shisui was drooped over the desk facing his and watching his partner undergo the same punishment was just enough motivation to keep himself going whenever his fingers began to cramp from all the writing.

With only twenty minutes left to go before sweet, sweet freedom the doors to the bullpen opened and Madara was forced to rub his eyes just to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. A questioning look at the rookie heading towards him leading another man in cuffs earned him a shrug.

“Picked him up for vagrancy,” Asuma explained. “Told him a week ago that was the last time I’d look the other way if I found him sleeping on a park bench.”

Madara gurgled, prompted Tobirama to raise his head at the familiar sound.

“Oh. There you are.”

“Tobirama,” he growled. “You were sleeping on a park bench!?”

“You know the guy?” Asuma asked. Madara pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Unfortunately. Can you just let me handle this one, Sarutobi?”

The rookie gave him a disapproving look but released custody all the same. Madara sneered at him thankfully – an expression only he seemed to be able to master – then took Tobirama by the arm and dragged him over to the desk where they had at least a modicum of privacy.

“What the fuck?”

“It isn’t my fault you weren’t available,” Tobirama insisted. “I need to sleep, Uchiha. Now take me home.”

“You are hardly in a position to be making demands here.”

“We both know you’re not going to actually charge me with anything so let’s just go and not bore ourselves with any unnecessary theatrics.” He looked perfectly calm and unaware of how utterly frustrating he was being as he lifted one eyebrow and swanned off back towards where he was led in. Madara could feel his face twitching, confirmed by the way his partner was laughing at him without bothering to hide it.

Stomping his feet on the way passed, he snapped out, “I’m leaving early.”

Then he rushed to follow after the escaping Senju, rightfully wary of what might happen should he let the man out of his sight for more than half a minute.

He had assumed by ‘home’ Tobirama was demanding to be given a ride back to his apartment but they were halfway there when he was casually informed that Hashirama’s house was in the opposite direction and asked – in a very insulting manner – if he still needed directions after all these years. Sometimes he questioned his own taste in men. Why did he have to develop a lingering crush on the one person who pressed all of his buttons so frequently?

Probably because he actually sort of liked the rhythm of their bickering relationship. Not that he would ever admit to that.

No one was home when they trooped inside Hashirama’s house but they’d both been given keys to the place years ago so neither of them wasted time wondering if they were unwelcome or not. Madara had every intention of heading in to the kitchen to make himself a pot of coffee but instead he found two hands planted behind his shoulder blades to steer him towards the living room.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he asked. Just to be contrary he dug his heels in and leaned back against the one pushing him. Tobirama blew on his ear in retaliation, trilling in satisfaction when he jumped and accidentally made it easier to push him around again.

“I have told you more than once: I need sleep. Your brainless officer interrupted me while I was trying to do so.”

“Asuma isn’t ‘my officer’,” he protested. “And I still have no idea what any of this has to do with me.”

“Take responsibility for the beast you created!”

One final shove toppled him over and Madara landed face down on the couch. He had enough time to wriggle over on to his back before Tobirama was crawling over top of him and flopping down, face buried in his rapidly heating neck and arms dangling loosely around his chest.

“Senju, WHAT THE HELL!?”

“Do be quiet, mattress.”

“I am not a mattress! What is the meaning of this?”

Tobirama patted him softly. “Hush. It is sleep time now.” It was just startling enough that Madara spent a good three minutes simply lying still and wondering what he had done in a previous life to deserve such torture. Surely he couldn’t have done something terrible enough for this. Or if he had then he really thought serving the public as a police officer in this life should have made up for it.

“You have three seconds to explain what is going on or I am throwing you on the floor and telling Hashirama to have you checked in for a psych eval.”

“Rude,” Tobirama mumbled against his neck. “I haven’t slept so well in months as I did when I mistook you for a part of the couch.” He ruthlessly ignored Madara’s offended squeaking. “Now you’re just going to have to take responsibility. I need more sleep. You’re going to lie still and let me do so.” The ‘or else’ was not spoken but it was heavily implied in his tone.

Madara chewed on that for a few moments. Then he finally allowed the muscles in his body to relax, signaling defeat, and his unwanted blush kicked it up a few notches when Tobirama snuggled in that little bit closer, making himself as comfortable as possible.

“Such a warm mattress.”

“Oh shut up.”

It felt like only an instant later that Tobirama was asleep and breathing softly against the nape of his neck where he was embarrassingly sensitive. No matter how he tried to shift or twist it didn’t move the lump on top of him, only earned him a handful of fingers clawing at his chest to keep him still. Since he didn’t want to have all his precious hair shaved off the next time he fell asleep without locking his doors, Madara did eventually give in to his fate and lie still, hoping he would at least doze off again himself to pass the time.

He contemplated spontaneous combustion when Hashirama came home from work.

The sheer amount of heat gathered in his own face could probably be labeled a fire hazard but Hashirama wasn’t looking at his face. No, the man was looking at where his little brother’s face was mashed against his best friend’s neck, mouth buried in a spot that usually only lovers paid attention to and one hand fisted in the front of his shirt to prevent him from escaping. Madara counted his own breaths just in case these were his last.

“Accidentally fall over on top of you again, did he?” Hashirama asked, tone perfectly innocent but for the edge of threatening steel hiding underneath.

“No. He pushed me.”

“Hmm. Is that so?”

“It’s true!” Madara did his best to convey the urgency he felt while constrained to whisper yelling yet again. “One of the rookies picked him up for vagrancy. He was sleeping on park benches again. So I was going to take him home but he made me take him here instead and then he pushed me down and I swear I had no part it this, alright!?”

Hashirama twisted his mouth to one side. “Are we sure he even still has his apartment? It’s like he never goes home.”

“Well where the hell would all his clothes and shit be if he didn’t?”

“Oh…right.”

“Can you just help me please? I didn’t really plan on spending my off hours stuck on this stupid couch again!” Madara tried to imitate the other man’s signature pleading puppy look but he was frustrated to be denied with no hesitation.

“Nope, sorry. It still isn’t worth risking my good looks. You could probably use more sleep yourself anyway so just enjoy it, right? I’ll bring you some dinner if he still hasn’t woken up when it’s done!”

“Wait! No – get back here!”

Hashirama waved without sympathy and trailed off in to the kitchen, presumably to make sure he had dinner ready by the time his wife got home. As much as Madara wanted to be angry at him for being a big fat abandoner he had to admit that he probably would have done the exact same thing in this situation. All he could do now was lie still and hope Tobirama didn’t sleep for too long because if he took a long nap now then it would throw his entire body clock out of order and he’d be yawning all through tomorrow’s shift.

Five minutes later he realized that Hashirama hadn’t turned the television on for him and he couldn’t yell out to get the man’s attention. He managed to remain still for the hour it took until someone brought him dinner but he spent the entirety of it planning revenge against all of them, one way or another.

#rae writes #madatobi #madara #tobirama #fanfiction

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willthoughtout-blog · 6 years

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Hamilton

[Play] • Lin-Manuel Miranda •

This was probably the best play I’ve seen: the hype is well justified. The songs are so good and so varied, from the ballad-style Wait for It, to the melancholy One Last Time, to the comedic You’ll Be Back, and loads more. The acting was superb. It’s just so good.

It’s also really interesting. I could praise the songs, acting and direction for ages, but I can’t be bothered. Instead I’m going to write about it as a piece of art, and a political one at that. Here are my thoughts on a few topics that it covers:

Race

The Hamilton case is famously diverse. It’s a retelling of the story of the founding of the modern USA, with a cast of different ethnicities. This has obvious upsides - opportunities for actors, role models for ethnic minority children, etc. For me though, it’s interesting as an attempt to reclaim American patriotism for non-whites. The play is unashamedly patriotic - celebrating freedom, celebrating the American Revolution, talking about a nation ‘we built’, etc. It does this by retelling the white nationalist foundation of the USA as a story of ethnic minorities and immigrants. It is pro-immigration, celebrating the French native Lafayette and his centrality in the war against Britain, with the pointed line “Immigrants, we get the job done”, and most obviously by telling the story of Alexander Hamilton, an immigrant from the West Indies. This makes sense, and it does it well. However, this is complex, and raises the question of whether this history should be reclaimed. These ‘Founding Fathers’ were white, and they had to be white. They owned slaves. They drafted a Constitution in which a black person legally counted as 3/5ths of a white person for the census. When George Washington is portrayed as a black man, it makes the idea of him owning slaves seem absurd. The whitewashing of this history is complex, and by promoting this positive take on the USA’s origins, it might make it easier for ethnic minorities to feel a part of their nation, but it also might limit claims for contemporary retribution for historical crimes. The play barely mentions slavery - it doesn’t fit into its narrative. And for all the positive racial elements of the play, this reclaiming vs. acknowledging conflict at the core of American racial history has not been won simply by the superb writing and acting that underpins Hamilton.

Nation building and politics

For me, I like to interpret Hamilton in part as a celebration of a certain style of politics. This is a style that focuses less on personalities and elections and exciting things, but on boring stuff like good institution building. (This is of course not wholly true - personalities are critical, the play focuses on the life of one man after all). But nonetheless, Alexander Hamilton was never President, and not especially popular with the people and his political contemporaries. As a result, his story has, until now, not been told with the same fervour as others who made it to be President. But he has a remarkable list of achievements: defending the US Constitution, setting up America’s financial system, setting up the US Coast Guard. All of these have outlived him significantly. By telling Hamilton’s story, this is a celebration of a political style that puts long-term national interests and good institution-building first, and makes petty partisan feuding (from the likes of Thomas Jefferson, James Madison and Aaron Burr) seem comparatively unworthy of history’s attention. It is Presidents, Kings and Queens who normally get plays about them, not Treasury Secretaries. But this Treasury Secretary shaped America’s future by institution building, not by winning an election, and I’m glad this is celebrated.

The other politician to come out well from Hamilton is George Washington, and with this another strand of politics is celebrated: the upholding of democratic norms. In One Last Time, Washington steps down before he is politically compelled to do so, making the point of teaching the nation about democratic transition in the aim that “the nation we built ... outlives me when I’m gone”. I thought the celebration of this stance was a subtle but strong critique of contemporary politics (especially in America), with its undermining of institutions and democratic norms. This was only a small part of the play, but it was done well.

Women

I had conflicting views on Hamilton’s approach to women as I watched it. The story itself isn’t rife with opportunities to tell a strong female narrative - this is politics in the 1700s, a story of the ‘Founding Fathers’ after all. But it makes an effort to include women, with a couple of interesting characters in Eliza and Angelica Schulyer. But they are still both depicted as helplessly in love with Hamilton - Eliza’s first song is, in fact, ‘Helpless’, covering this very topic - while Hamilton is preoccupied with his work. Contrastingly, but similarly reductively, Hamilton’s affair with Maria Reynolds is also depicted in a stereotypical manner. He is barely blamed, while she is a seductress in a red dress, with dark music and dimmed lighting. The simplistic narrative of a near-blameless man and a tempting seductress is a little disappointing.

Eliza does assert more control over the story as time passes, and isn’t wholly pathetic. She gets the final word, with a powerful last song. But nonetheless, the play’s radicalism on race is not matched in its approach to gender.

Historical look at politics

I enjoyed the insight into a past era of politics. Political debate is primarily conducted through writing - Hamilton writes endless essays and opinion articles to promote his positions. This is notably different to the modern style of TV interviews, Facebook adverts and so on. I don’t have much to add on this topic, but it was an interesting different style of politics which appealed to me, with debate more extensive and intellectual than modern politics. It’s hard to imagine political elites nowadays having the intellectual capacity to set up something as complex as the US financial system, never mind being able to justify it in writing to unconvinced peers who belonged to diffferent parties.

Men

However, just because much debate takes place through essays, it doesn’t mean this is a spectacle of well thought-out, reasoned political debate. Masculine desire for violence (and establishing one’s dominance over other men) pervades the play. First, with Hamilton’s raging desire to prove himself in war, and later with duels as way of settling debate and matters of ‘honour’. Two deaths (including Hamilton’s - belated spoiler alert) result from these duels. The importance of essays may make me a little nostalgic for an era of politics I never experienced. The duels, not so much.

So, to sum up, the play is pretty interesting on a number of fronts. And for me, what makes it remarkable is how good it is, while also being interesting. Some shows attempt to be radical on race, and in the process sacrifice quality (see: the messages in Master of None vs. the acting). Hamilton is a play that has taken popular audiences by storm - it is the most significant theatrical event of the 21st Century - with phenomenal acting, amazing songs, and much more. But at the same time, it also pushes boundaries on race, and makes interesting timely commentaries on the conduct of politics. This is impressive. It is also a nice sign of where we are at as a society, that something so radical can also be so popular - in large part because it is so radical. 10/10 for Hamilton.

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i-llbedammned · 3 years

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A little bit late updating here, but I recently worked on a collaboration with @zadalamia who made this lovely art: https://imgur.com/a/nz9SUpz for Do It With Styles’ Reverse Bang. Title:Angels Fandom: Good Omens/Doctor Who Summary: Everything is going just swimmingly for the Tenth Doctor when he notices something going terribly wrong in early 2000s London. He decides to land in a place where a past version of himself is lurking :Crowley. Taking place after the Apoca-wasn't, the Tenth Doctor has to work with Aziraphale and Crowley to rectify a problem in the space-time continuum that has caused a surplus of weeping angels to start invading. Read more at Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052786 Or below There was gentle hum as the TARDIS coasted to a stop on what would normally be a pleasant side-street in London. Would be a pleasant street save for the fact that it was about to get turned completely on its head in a matter of a few moments by two bodies of the same person. It’s very hard to predict such things, you understand, unless you have an understanding of Gallifreyan time and even then things get a little wibbly wobbly. A man with a dashing fluff of brown hair strode confidently into the crowded street, pausing to straighten the knot on his tie that had gotten knocked akimbo in the landing. He looked both ways before crossing the street when a voice called out to him, “Are you the Doctor?” He shook his head, “No, but you’d be surprised by how often I get that.” The woman slunk away, looking disappointed. Later on she would realize the deception and be both amazed and insulted, but for now the Tenth Doctor had higher priorities than dealing with the hustle of tourists. Much higher. Like world ending, could be the end of all things higher. Confidently, he strode into a pub in the “foodie” area of the city. The building was full of stone walls and steel tables, a look which was very much in style even though it made it look like an apartment that had not yet been fully renovated. Bits of global memorabilia were pinned to the walls like relics in a Victorian manor and the smell of delicious crepes drifted over the entrance. “Sir, might I have your name?” a dry waiter with slicked back hair asked, stepping in front of the man on a mission with all the bravery of a bodyguard about to take a bullet for the person they were hired to protect. “Neil. Sir Neil, if you must have the title.” The Tenth Doctor answered, not looking the man in the eyes and instead scanning the room. Where was he? He knew that the two of them would be at this restaurant at this time and there was only a narrow window to catch them before they would leave. He knew this because he had lived this scene before, albeit from a different angle. “I’m afraid we don’t have any reservation for a Sir Neil.” “Ah, well that’s because it wouldn’t be under Sir Neil.” The Tenth Doctor tried to put on his best indignant tone, like a man used to getting his way and was annoyed at not getting it immediately, “It would be under A. Fell.” “Ah yes, we have that reservation but it was only for two.” “Only for two? Only for two?!” The Tenth Doctor began to raise his voice, “Of course that old codger would only reserve a table for two and forget to include his brother in the numbers!” He paced back and forth looking annoyed that he even had to be having this conversation, “This won’t be the end of it. I’ll call my mother and father and let them know what happened. They’ll talk to your manager and we can have this sorted out within the week, but I swear heads will roll for this insult.” The waiter began to look frightened, “Now, now sir. Please calm down. I will see if we can pull up another table.” His eyes looked the Doctor up and down, before moving deeper into the resteraunt, “Given the family resemblance, there’s no doubt that you are indeed his brother and we wouldn’t want your family to be upset.” “Yes, well get on it then.” The Tenth Doctor said, his tone greatly mollified. Inwardly he was grateful that the waiter hadn’t waited to see what his mother and father would say. He had no reasonable clue who he would be able to get to pose as his mother and father to intimidate the waiter. A moment later the waiter returned with a dozen apologies and said they had explained the whole situation to the two at the table and was able to get the whole thing straightened out. By some miracle there had been a vacancy at the table right next to them and there was an extra chair just for him, how felicitous. “Thank you, you’ve been a great help.” The Doctor nodded his thanks as they found his fancy steel table. He took a seat and immediately began to shift around as soon as they left, “Modern fashion leaves no room for comfort, I see.” “Can I help you?” Came a gritty growl from the other table. There before him was a curly-haired ginger dressed all in black with a silver haired man dressed all in tweed sitting across from him. Both looked awfully cross as they looked at him, unaware that the Doctor was only here to stop their entire timeline from unravelling. “Ah! Yes. Crowley, Crowley. Only time I’ve ever been a ginger. Can’t believe I almost forgot about you but in my defense you were one of the first incarnations I had.” The Tenth Doctor seemed amused, watching his grim other face behind his theatrically appropriate mirrored sunglasses. “You know this man?” queried Aziraphale, who seemed transfixed by looking back and forth between the two of them with his mouth slightly agape. “Never heard of him,” Crowley growled, taking a dismissive sip of his wine that he had previously been enjoying. “Not yet,” added in the Doctor in quick succession. “What’s that mean?” Crowley turned his head, his interest slightly piqued.

“Not yet. You will know me. Very well in fact. You see I am you.” The Doctor said, “Just you very, very far in the future.” “You are me? Likely story. There’s only one of me.” He gave a small chuckle, looking uneasily at Aziraphale who seemed to not be able to make heads or tails of the whole situation. “More or less you are right.” The Doctor admitted, tilting his head side to side, “But that doesn’t mean you don’t get regenerated.” The word, the word regenerated, positively sent a jolt of electricity through Crowley. He sat bolt upright and climbed to his feet, “Listen, I don’t know who you are, but you are ruining a perfectly acceptable dinner of savory crepes for me and my companion.” “They’re a bit more than acceptable.” Aziraphale muttered, trying not to attract the ire of the situation to himself. Crowley nodded towards the door and spoke to The Doctor, “I’m going to need to ask you to leave.” The Doctor climbed to his feet, meeting the other man eye to eye, “I know you. I am you. I know you once went by The Doctor before you ended up on this little rocky island and the Moment happened. I know you have two hearts. And I need you to believe me before we can move forward because something very bad is about to happen and we need to work together to be able to stop it.” There was little change on the demon’s face, but the color positively drained out of his face. “If you know me, then we’ll say together how many children were lost during the Moment. You know that number out of all the numbers in the world and I will believe you.” “Alright then, one, two, three.” The Doctor counted off, waggling his fingers.“2.47 billion.” They both said in unison. In that moment a dozen small conversations were had as the tension seeped out of Crowley’s body and The Doctor waited with baited breath to see if his other self had accepted the truth of the matter at hand. The moment melted away as Crowley sat down with a heavy thump once more, “I see.” He muttered, “I had hoped it would not come to this.”

“So it’s true then? There are two of you?” Aziraphale asked, looking at Crowley for reassurance. The demon nodded, putting his hands over his mouth as he took in the full gravity of the situation.

“Oh. Two of them,” Aziraphale looked down, a small smile gracing his cherubim face before he moved on, “Nice to meet, erm, remeet you sir-“ “The Doctor.” “Right, Sir The Doctor. I am-“ Aziraphale proudly stuck out his chest with a grand flourish of his hands. “Aziraphale.” The Doctor returned, his eyes looking distant and sad. There was something heavy in that memory, heavier than many of his companions had been in the past. This was the one, this was the one he thought would have been able to last. “I see. Right. That makes sense. Especially if you were Crowley. You would know me,” Aziraphale deflated a bit, looking a tad defeated that his grand introduction was thwarted. “Well what brings you around these parts? Were you also looking to get crepes?” The Doctor shrugged his shoulders, reaching over and taking a bite of the ones on Crowley’s plate before exclaiming, “Oh wow. These really are stellar. Better than most of the ones out there in the galaxy if I do say so.” “It is.” Aziraphale noted, “I particularly like how they blended in bits of goat cheese with basil in them. It created a nice balance of flavors.” “I’ll say. Before I leave I’ll have to get the recipie.” “Oh cut the crap.” Crowley barked, “You aren’t here for crepes. If you are here, something must’ve gone terribly wrong.” “Several things have gone terribly wrong in fact.” The Doctor said cheerily, “To start with there are the angels.” “Angels?” Aziraphale asked, “Like Michael, Gabriel and me?”

“No not like you. Never like you,” Crowley halfway mumbled, “He means a different sort of angels. These ones are..” The demon paused, looking for the right words, “Not worse. Hard to be worse than that lot. But these ones. They are monsters of a whole different sort. Like the ones before Eden was made, pure chaos of the universe.” Aziraphale face got grim, “I don’t know how I can be of help then. I gave away my sword and that was the only way I was able to beat them the first time around.” “Well there’s good news and bad news.” The Tenth Doctor stated, “Which would you like first?” “Good news.” Aziraphale cheerily requested.

“Bad news,” Crowley dourly stated simultaneously. “It’s no wonder we never got anything done with him around,” The Tenth Doctor muttered, mostly to himself, “So, good news first then: we won’t need a flaming sword to defeat them and I already know where most of them are located.” “Oh, that sounds doable then.” “What’s the bad news?” Crowley asked, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Right. Well bad news is that we will need to fix the reason that they are here and that you already know their leader far too well.” “Weeping angels have a leader? I didn’t even think they had a hierarchy.” Crowley quipped. “They don’t. At least they usually don’t. But Uriel just seized control as of two days ago and that all changed.” The Tenth Doctor winced as Aziraphale let out an indignant yelp. “Uriel? Uriel is the heading weeping angel? I don’t ever think I’ve seen them weep in their life!” Aziraphale scoffed. “That would be awfully human of them.”Crowley thought for a moment and nodded, “That tracks. That prick is one of the ones that chased me out of heaven the most earnestly. Makes sense that if there is an army of life gobbling monstrosities, they’d be at the head of it.” The Tenth Doctor continued, “They don’t cry. At least I’ve never seen them cry. But they, that is everyone but Uriel since they’re a newcomer on to the scene of time manipulation.” “But they only happen if there’s something wrong with the timeline. As far as I know everything involving the Apocawasn’t was approved by the big girl upstairs.” “It’s not that. That was all above the board as far as time and space are concerned. No, no this is about children of a much more mundane sort being moved to places they shouldn’t be by people that shouldn’t have moved them and throwing the balance off the kilter.” “I haven’t touched any children. I do my best not to touch any mortals if possible.” Crowley corrected, trying to wrack his brain to think of any children that he might have accidentally killed or maimed in his work with Hell. He tried his best to not actually harm anyone, just annoy them, but there had been the occasional death that had happened because of him. It was one of the reasons he was so glad of his retirement from that whole Hellish lifestyle now that the Apocalypse was an Apocawasn’t. “No not you, him.” The Tenth Doctor jerked his chin at Aziraphale who shrunk back as if struck. “Me? Oh no, no. Not me. I have no children.” “Warlock.” The Tenth Doctor let the word fall like a weight upon the table. Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, “You didn’t.” “I, well. Well what was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to just let him sit there and be raised by those positively dreadful people for the rest of his life? I saw his record Crowley, up in Heaven! He goes on to commit no more than 37 war crimes and died a very messy death at a very young age. How could I just let that happen to a child just because someone on high decided he would be a pawn in one of their games?” “Aziraphale, angel,” Crowley began The Tenth Doctor leaned over, “I know how hard this is for you to hear but you can’t save everyone.” “No, but I can save this one.” “Wasn’t the world enough?” The Tenth Doctor gently prodded, “He needs to go back to his family. His mortal family.” Aziraphale shook his head, “No, no. You’re asking the unthinkable! You’re asking me to send him back.” He looked over with pleading eyes at Crowley who shook his head sadly. Fixed points in time, there was no helping it. “Well I simply won’t have it!” He barked and with that the angel disappeared in a glow of light. “Well, shit.” Crowley swore, standing up and beginning to walk towards the door. “Indeed.” The Tenth Doctor followed him, “We’re gonna need to find him and the child he stole. And then stop Uriel from using the weeping angels to kill all of us and then the world.” “Oh sure. When you put it like that it’s easy as pie.” Crowley cast a glare over at the Tenth Doctor, “And I suppose I’m stuck with you til this mess is over with?” “Come on then. It’s going to be a treat! We can share the secrets of the universe with each other.” The Tenth Doctor slung an arm around Crowley’s neck. “Great, I’m a comedian.” Crowley complained, shrugging out of the half hug. “Well you’re no treat yourself.” The Tenth Doctor indignantly. “Can’t believe I lost my sense of style as I got older.” Crowley grumbled. “Oh yes, black on black is such a bold fashion choice. Completely unique, that is.” The Tenth Doctor got out his screwdriver as they both stepped into the light. ------------------------------

It was no secret to Crowley where Aziraphale would be. It was the safest place in the world to him, somewhere that he could go and hide from everybody else: his bookshop. When they pulled up in Corvette that the Doctor had insisted they get, even though he didn’t exactly know how to drive it, the store’s lights were all out. It wasn’t particularly late but the giant closed sign was swung around on the front door. “Let me handle this one,” Crowley growled. “Please, it’s urgent, let me come with-“ The Doctor began. “Listen, I know you’re me or whatever, but to him I’m the only me that matters here.” Crowley looked down, giving a heavy sigh as he looked at the door to the shop. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored shades, but there was something undeniably sad when he next spoke. “I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me for this.” “He will. This time at least.” The Doctor said gently. The scars of losing that one companion had made him not want to get attached to any since then. Of all the non-Time Lords, Aziraphale had been one of the few who had understood time and the burdens of responsibility that came with it. Then to have him so cruelly snatched away- No! He shook his head, moving his thoughts away from the mess and the blood that had been involved with that tragedy. There had been so many damages, so many losses. He wasn’t going to ruin the short amount of time he could re-see Aziraphale with thoughts of his death or so he told himself. “This time?” Crowley laughed bitterly, “So there’s a time he doesn’t then?” The Doctor gave a shrug, though words weighed heavily with the deaths of eons upon it’s sat upon its tones, “He doesn’t follow us into the Tardis. When she comes back, he doesn’t follow.” Crowley’s look was inscrutable for a few moments as he paused, his hand still resting on the door to the call. “Right. Let’s get to it then.” The door to the car swung open and Crowley turned around with one terse statement, “Where is she then? She nearby?” “Yeah, uh, just a little bit up the way.” The Doctor noted, speaking aloud the place where the Tardis was parked. Crowley nodded, “Take good care of her. Don’t lose her again.” “Wasn’t planning on it.” The Tenth Doctor said grimly. The air inside the bookshop was deadly silent. This was worse than any time during the Apocawasn’t. Even then, facing down oblivion, there had been a life about it as they had gotten besotted and mourned the life they had spent together. Perhaps because then it hadn’t felt real, it had felt like eventually they would be able to get through it as long as they were together. And now….who knew what the future would hold. “Aziraphale?” Crowley called, his words echoing off the shelves. There was silence that met his ears but a soft rustling was heard coming from Aziraphale’s office. Following it, the heavy wooden door was opened and the sunlight poured out. Standing in front of what was normally a thick wooden shelf in a carefully lit room where the rarest of books were kept was Aziraphale; his wings outstretched behind him. From those pearly white wings a great light poured forth and the beauty of it was so great that Crowley winced and recoiled around the corner. “Warn me next time, angel!” He yelped, holding at his sensitive eyes. When you couldn’t blink it got very hard to block out unwanted sources of light. “Don’t you “angel” me!” Aziraphale sounded positively furious and for once Crowley was powerfully aware that once he had been a warrior with a flaming sword, “You lied to me.” “Lied?” Crowley searched his mind, looking for a lie, “I may be a demon, but I don’t lie to you. Maybe to everyone else, but not to you.” “You said you were the same as me, two sides of a coin, and now I find out after millennia that you are a whole other person.” The angel’s wings flapped, sending a soft breeze through the hall where Crowley crouched. “Ang-Aziraphale. I didn’t lie. I am like you. Older than time. Torn by duty to a world that will likely not appreciate the sacrifices that it takes to save them. The last of my kind that seems to have any kind of heart.” Words poured desperately out of him, his heart in his throat, “Please. Don’t do something we will both regret. Not now. Not after all we have been through.” The light faded away and the book shop once more started to smell like aged paper rather than ozone, “Maybe you’re right. It would be a shame to have defeated one end of the world together only to have it end here.” It was safe, that was it. Aziraphale was never one to hang on to grudges, once the initial anger faded he was back to his marshmallow self. Crowley unfolded him limbs and stood up, dusting his black suit off like nothing unusual happened before heading over the threshold into the office.“Glad we came to an understanding.” Crowley threw himself in the only other chair next to the desk, a black leather one he had placed here years ago for when they got drunk in his office, with his legs akimbo. “So what’s this about a child?” “Oh” Aziraphale’s voice was now delicate, his wings folding behind him as he practically melted into his own high-backed chair, “It’s awful.” “Angel, are you aware of what a fixed point of time is?” “Of course I am aware of the basics of temporal physics!” Aziraphale admonished, looking offended at the very notion that he might not be aware of such a base fact. “The child.” Crowley paused, suddenly aware that he was unaware, “Which child is it again? The Anti-Christ?” “Yes. I mean no. I mean, the one we thought was the Anti-Christ til we found the actual Anti-Christ who ended up being rather nice.” “Ah, war-lock” Crowley divided up the name into two separate sounding words, rolling it over with a distaste in his mouth, “What a prick.” “Yes, he was but Crowley he was just a child. He was raised by those awful people.” The angel wrung his hands, “Anybody would be horrid if they were raised by such –such stultori!” He was so frustrated he reverted to Latin. “Fools though they may be, they are necessary. He needs to do those horrible things.” Crowley sighed, “I know how hard that is to hear, but his actions ripple outwards into thousands of lives. By changing his future you have changed the future of the planet.” “Isn’t that what we just did? How is this any different?” Aziraphale looked miserable. This wasn’t right, they should be celebrating saving the world not mourning. Crowley shook his head, “Under normal circumstances, I’d say this was the same but apparently the universe disagrees with me on this one.” His fingers drummed on his knees nervously, “We should just run away and go see the stars, but even so the boy needs to go back.” “Save one world, sacrifice a child.” Aziraphale spat the words out bitterly. “Turns out you were right angel, just got the child wrong.” Crowley stood up, walking to stand next to Aziraphale. Being so close to him was almost too much, smelling the laundry off his clothes and feeling the feathers of his wings brush against him. “It’s not right. It’s downright cruel for all of us.” Aziraphale turned to face the demon, his white-blonde hair making a halo around him. “No, it’s not.” Crowley reached down and grabbed one soft hand in his wiry ones, “And I swear that once all this is done, we can go. See the stars. Get away from all of this once and for all. But I need you to do this with me. One more time.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley and for a moment it seemed like he would cry or back down. But instead what came out was, “I’ll need someone to watch my books.” His hands clasped tighter around Crowley’s and for a moment nothing mattered but his wings and the softness of his hands and the look of utter trust in his eyes. If the world ended at that moment, it would have been enough for one red-headed demon to die happy. “I won’t let you down, angel. Not again. Not ever.” Crowley met Aziraphale’s eyes with his own, unmasked. The trust was so much that he could feel his pulse shaking with nervousness at having to bear that burden. “I know.” Aziraphale let go, tearing his eyes away, “Give me a moment to gather the materials for the magic.” Crowley nodded, turning away and replacing his glasses. “I’ll go get second me. Something tells me he’ll want to be here for this.” “I must say, future me’s sense of hospitality is utterly awful. I mean I was in the car for an eternity.” “It was less than an hour!” “And on some planets that is an eternity!” The voices floated over the shop before the two of them were even through the doors. They entered into the shop and immediately were shushed by Aziraphale. “Both of you, please. This is a book shop, not a sporting arena!” Crowley sneered at the Tenth Doctor, who quickly became more fascinated with the array of candles and markings upon the ground. “Is this a transposing array?” “Some have called it that. It will get us to the safe house where I stowed him.” “Oh! I haven’t seen one of these since back before there were continents on this planet. It’s an older form of manipulation and it uses these lovely crystals! I could use these crystal, you know. Could give the old girl a real boost reach some places that I haven’t been to in a couple centuries. Maybe take a joy cruise to this lovely gas giant that glows green and makes these delightful pastries on a moon-” The Tenth Doctor bubbled around, looking at each candle and scratch upon the ground as Aziraphale tried to focus his energies upon bringing the circle into light. The irritation upon Aziraphale’s face was palpable.Crowley took a book and began to help Aziraphale. It wasn’t often that he got a chance to flex his magic muscles, so to speak, and the words came out clumsy. The look of gratitude on Aziraphale’s face was rewarding on its own, but the fact that the Tenth Doctor ceased tittering about and just watched him as he joined in was the true help.“Ah, right. Forgot about this bit.” The Tenth Doctor pulled out a screwdriver, “Brace for the landing, this a rough one.” They didn’t have time to respond. The circle was aglow and they were off. Aziraphale and Crowley could have ported here all on their own, but they didn’t want to leave their new talkative companion behind to muddle with things in the shop. However since the magic was not that often practiced the coordinates were a bit off. Rather than landing gracefully they plummeted into a deep snow drift, landing in it up to their waists. The Tenth Doctor activated the Sonic Screwdriver and a nearby snow mobile came to fish them out.“Where am I?” Asked Crowley. “Alps. Remote location. Cleverly hidden!” The Tenth Doctor said, climbing on board the machine and helping his two companions up. “Well I needed somewhere where he would not be found. A tall dark mountain seemed to be a very chic place to be."Aziraphale smiled a little, proud of himself. Upon the summit there was a lovely monastery, built thick and strong with grey stone and heavy wooden doors. Outside chickens hid from the snow in a coop. It was a quiet place, a place of peaceful mediation. Almost a retreat of sort, if one were the kind who wanted to get away from civilization. “I don’t want this slop!” came the sound of a loud screaming tween boy echoing off the stone walls as they approached followed by the sound of something wet hitting a wall. “Oh dear,” Aziraphale muttered, “That doesn’t sound good.” The three of them strode into the halls of the monastery, ready for battle. The two incarnations of the Doctor flanked Aziraphale, their long coats all flapping in the flurries. Before them were two very harried monks, one of whom was covered in oatmeal. Warlock was in front of them at a table, his head shaved bald and brown robes on his body but the behavior gave him away. Well that and the fact that he was the only child residing at this mountain house of the holy. “You left him to live with monks?” The Tenth Doctor looked at the angel incredulously, his eyes wide with surprise. “Well, yes. It seemed like a good way to correct the damages that had been done to him by his previous parents.” Aziraphale looked put off by the fact that it didn’t seem to make much of a difference, despite the fact that it had been six months. “You! You kidnapped me! You twit!” yelled Warlock in a rage, “You took my phone! I want it! I want a meal that doesn’t taste like shit and warm clothes!” “A drop on his head would have solved the problem quicker.” Muttered Crowley. “Good news! We’ve come to take you home!” The Tenth Doctor turned towards Warlock, beaming. “Who are you? You’re not a cop. Cops don’t dress in a closet.” Warlock looked the Doctor up and down, laughing at his fashion sense. “Well! Some people have no taste for fashion!” The Tenth Doctor puffed up. Crowley looked over at The Doctor “Sure we can’t just leave him here? Little oblivion might do him good.” “No we can’t. It’s not worth-“ Suddenly the Doctor froze, his eyes wide and transfixed. Crowley followed his gaze. There, in the distance, was an angel statue with its face covered.“We have to go now.” Crowley grabbed for Warlock’s arm and started pulling him along. “Get your grubby paws off me!” Warlock snapped and with a wave of his hand, Crowley made his voice go silent. Miracles were needed now if ever there was a time. “Crowley, what’s going on?” Aziraphale asked quietly. “Please angel, take the brat back to his original parents and don’t look back.” Crowley roughly shoved Warlock towards Aziraphale, knocking the boy off balance as the demon whirled around, trying to look at as many angels as he could. There were two more in the hall in front of them.“But what are they?” Aziraphale turned to go, dragging an unwilling Warlock.Before them there were now five angel statues, all covering their faces. The monks left the room, oblivious as to how close to danger they were as they passed them.“How did they get here?” Aziraphale felt his blood going cold and began to unfurl his wings, readying them for flight. “The statues. They can make other statues like them.” The Tenth Doctor hissed. “I thought I’d find you here.” Came a loud, booming voice echoing over everything. Striding towards them was a figure with dark skin and golden scales on their face. White wings flowed out behind them and a horrid smirk was upon their face. Aziraphale smiled, “Uriel! So glad that you’re here. You see I was just in the middle of-“ “Silence!” Uriel’s voice rang out like a church bell, clarion and cold, as they made their commands known. The wind blew and more angels were gathering as the trio, and Warlock, backed up, moving out of the monastery doors and towards the snow mobile.“It is not enough that you spited Gabriel and stopped the ordained Apocalypse. Now you meddle in time as well.” Uriel stared daggers at Aziraphale who seemed quite taken aback by how strong the rage was. In all his years of working with them they had never been the raging one. “Well to be fair, we’re all meddling in time now, aren’t we?” The Tenth Doctor chimed in, drawing Uriel’s rage towards him. “Am I supposed to know you?” Uriel looked at him like he was an insect, below notice. “No, dearie, but I know you. You are the poseur.” The Tenth Doctor threw the admonition out. “The what?!” Uriel was aghast that this “mortal” talked so blatantly about things that were beyond him. “The poseur! The charlatan! The fake!” The Tenth Doctor slowly began circling, pulling attention away from Crowley and Aziraphale, “You pretend like you are this grand and domineering regent over all the weeping angels when you know as well as I do that you are nothing but a pawn for them.” “I have never been a pawn for anything less than God.” Uriel fired back. “You don’t even notice how deep you are do you? Do you feel it yet? The hunger? The need to feed on time as it slips away?” “Crowley, I feel…funny.” Aziraphale lifted his hand, tinges of grey were creeping over it as they forced Warlock, who was clawing at his throat and trying to get sound to come out, on to the back of the red snow mobile. “Just keep running Aziraphale. Never look back. I will find you.” Crowley talked calmly but honestly he didn’t know what would happen. “But what about you?” Aziraphale was ready to steer. “I’ll survive. Always do.” Crowley turned around where one version of him was distracting the king of weeping angels. He needed help if he was to survive. “Now go!” The sharp sound of a motor went off as they zipped unevenly over the snow banks and away. The Tenth Doctor blinked and five angels rushed forward. Almost before he opened his eyes, they were at his throat. An engine. Good, they succeeded then. “Get them!” Commanded Uriel and the angels turned away from the Doctor upon his next blink. Two crested the hill of the mountain when they blinked out existence. Coming up from the hill was Crowley, his mirrored shades glimmering in the light. He smirked.“Mirrors. Oldest trick in the book.” The Tenth Doctor complimented, just noticing the glasses. “What can I say? I’ve got style when it counts.” Crowley tossed the Doctor his glasses, “Think I’d rather solve this with my own eyes though.” They stood there for time immemorial or so it seemed. Crowley, his eyes unblinking, laughed wildly as surrounded them in a circle of flames. One by one as the mistake was corrected, the angels winked out to go search for food. Or perhaps they starved to death waiting for the snake demon to blind when he didn’t have eyelids. Either way, they disappeared. All but Uriel.“What? Where am I going?” Uriel cried, their skin hardening like a rock. “Power like that. It always comes with a price.” The Doctor looked almost sad as he watched the fear on Uriel’s face, “Best go find something to feed on before you wither or get stuck here.” “See you in Hell, Uriel.” Crowley cackled as they blinked away, now part of the horde. “Well that went smashingly! I swear we make quite the pair you and –“ The Tenth Doctor turned toward where Crowley used to be and only found air. How very like that personality of him, to leave suddenly and without fanfare. “Oh blast it.” He waved the Screwdriver and another snow mobile came to him from the shed. After completing the long journey back to the Tardis and meeting quite a few interesting souls, the Doctor stopped by Aziraphale’s bookshop. The place was locked down tight and a few smaller imps looked to be guarding the bookshelves with spears, shields, and fire extinguishers.“But we have a note for you, sir.” Said a small lizard-like one wearing a horned helmet. “For me? Well let’s have it then.”They handed over the black paper with crimson ink and it read: I’m sure you’ve found your way back. If you’re anything like me you’re crafty and hard to kill. I’ve gone to see the stars with my angel. I’ve no clue how long we’ve got, but I intend to make the most of it. Be back in a couple hundred years. Pleasure working with you. Hope to never do it again. Gone? Last time he checked, Aziraphale had been too scared to go out into the stars. Then again, the last time he checked was before he had visited himself and stared down so many weeping angels. The Tenth Doctor smiled to himself, a sort of sad smile. He knew how that story ended, it ended like how every companion of his ended – in tears- but he could hardly begrudge himself a touch more happiness than he expected to have.

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