#his suit is tragic to draw because there’s so many details but it’s so so beautiful and so worth it

[petitemelusine]

Pav!!

#my absolute favorite #his suit is tragic to draw because there’s so many details but it’s so so beautiful and so worth it #I love him #I want to be him tbh #Spider-Man India #pavitr prabhakar #Pavitr my beloved #children’s illustration #editorial illustration #illustrator #children’s book illustration #lgbtq artist #digital art #procreate #illustration #across the spiderverse #spiderman #spider man atsv #fanart

[ghostflowerhotpotch]

Gwen's superhero identity, grief, and what her relationship with Miles means to her

GUESS WHO, ONCE AGAIN, WAS WRITING ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE, AND WROTE SO MUCH IT WARRANTED ITS OWN POST.

How I keep doing this I don't get it.

Regardless, this post will talk about Gwen using her hero identity instead of working on her emotional situation; and how she holds onto that identity until it makes her lose everything.

So, what is her situation at the beginning of the movie?

Pretty depressing.

Okay, I don't think it needs to be said how much losing Peter messed up Gwen. We don't really know the situation in full detail, however, we are aware that they had known each other for 12 years (As stated by George at the beginning of the movie during the interview,) and considering all the memories he has with the family, needless to say, Peter has been a part for most of Gwen's life.

No idea how was her situation before Peter's death, but I don't think is weird to believe she didn't have many friends besides Peter; maybe people she got along (like her bandmates,) were okay to hang out with, but Peter was the closest to her. Maybe this wouldn't be the case, if it wasn't for Spider-woman.

Here is the thing, did Gwen probably decide to put her distance after Peter's death? For sure, do I think Gwen probably leaned too much into the superhero lifestyle? Also yes.

I think the clue to that is in this part, where we see Gwen changing between her Spider-woman suit and her civilian self.

We could believe part of this is because of her grief, she learned more about her identity as a spider-woman, though I still think she may have focused a lot on it already.

I don't have a lot of proof, but I do have how her fear and her protectives of her hero cost her.

(And yes, I see Miles in the reflection, we will mention him later.)

Again, one image with many frames, because we need to make this quick.

All of this shows that Peter tries, in a way, to breach the gap between them. The only proof I have of this is 1) How Peter was getting pictures of Gwen as Spider-Woman, 2) How he was trying to defend her, believing in her despite what the police, news, and Gwen's dad say.

(Hey, is it just me, or do you think how Miles would end up drawing Gwen because he misses her, and Peter being afar from Gwen, taking pictures of both sides of her, just like Miles draws her both as Spider-Woman and her normal self?)

Guys, you don't want to know the number of times I cried during this scene of Gwen and Peter.

And is tragic on multiple levels, but something that really breaks me in this particular scene, is when Peter is calling her name, revealing how all of this was for how much he admires and looks up to her, and in his last moments, he tries to take out the mask, to see her face.

...And Gwen, in panic, trying to protect herself and her identity, refuses to let him take the mask. Meaning the last thing Peter saw, was the superhero version of Gwen, a version I don't doubt he admired and loved, but was a mask her best friend put to protect herself, and refused to let him see her for who she truly was one last time before he passed away.

I am not sure, what type of bond Peter and Gwen had, if they were crushing, just best friends, etc. For me, Peter at least had a crush on Gwen, and for Gwen well, what they were.

Because let me tell you something, what Peter and Gwen were was more than friendship, but doesn't necessarily need to be romantic; I think Gwen could have fallen for Peter, but for now he was him.

Why this is important? Because of all their history; Peter has known her since she was around 4 years (if we assume Gwen is 16 when George said they had known each other for 12 years, thought depending on the timeline Gwen maybe be 15 and know Peter since 3.) They had been close to each other for most of their lives, they had shared a table for what seemed almost daily, I wouldn't be surprised if part of the reason they were close, was because Gwen lost her mom, and Peter lost his parents, and they became friends while living in the same building with George, Ben and May supporting each other with the kids.

(Yes, that last part is a headcanon, until we have proof of the contrary I will roll with that. Feel free to have your own.)

And then Gwen keeps the secret, she tries to act dumb in front of Peter, refusing to let him. She probably is used to defending Peter, and depending on the scenario this can be weighted on him in different ways (aka if Ben died or not, if Peter has seen how much Gwen risks her life and is worried about her, if wants to be strong to help other and stand at her side.)

So this hits even harder because of how much Peter matters to her, and she didn't realize that this was driving a gap between them, a gap Peter try to close by all the means necessary until he died.

This is not to say Gwen is to blame for Peter's death, FUCK NO. Peter risking something like this means some type of doubt or insecurity that is a lot heavier than just a girl, maybe we could talk about how the school system failed Peter by allowing the bullying to continue to happen (After all, Gwen shouldn't need to defend him, this shouldn't need to happen.) Even if this hurt Peter, Gwen cannot be responsible for his well-being, close or not, this shouldn't be her job.

However, do I think Gwen could feel guilty about it, for how this identity drove them to this point? OH YES.

She said so in Into the Spiderverse "I couldn't save my best friend Peter, and I don't do friends anymore." She isolated herself for this.

Except that hey, remember how Miles was the exception? Time to talk about Miles!

I find the wording here important, "before Miles, there was Peter." She is putting Miles at the same level as Peter.

Now, I don't think Gwen means she had a crush on Peter (to be honest, I am not sure if at this point Gwen admitted to herself what Miles meant for her, seriously half of what this girl does is related to hiding her feelings even from herself.) But the role they play in her life.

While Miles didn't know Gwen as much as Peter, I think we need to remember what Miles and those ideas in 1610 could have meant for her.

At this point, Gwen doesn't have any friends, is grieving, and her dad is looking to capture her, her life sucks basically.

Then she ends up traveling to another dimension, while not exactly fun for the most part (or painless.) She had the chance to lay low, reset from her current drama; heck she even got to meet Miles a bit before he was officially bitten, and met him just how he is, and at least find him funny.

And I think while short-lived, she being around Miles as spider-woman helped her, because Miles represents the bridge between those worlds.

She met him when he was starting, and while she has been doing this for 2 years, that means she has been painfully enduring this alone for 2 years.

Miles is someone her age, someone who enjoys being around even if it isn't about being spiders, and also understands the pains of being a hero and the pressure that is on your shoulders, as well as the excitement and the desire to do the right thing.

Peter was a big part of her life, but Miles represents all of her being seen, for someone who likes her for who she is, and who she can be honest with.

For the most part.

Because she still clings to the mantle.

Look, feel free to call me crazy, but I believe this part, is sadly, related to this.

I just established how Gwen had put her identity as spider-woman over other people, including those close to her and those who could have been close to her, allowing Miles as an exception basically because they are both spiders, and being a big reason why Miles is important to her.

One way or another, this cost her, and what she does do when she loses someone? Concentrating on being a Spider-woman, of course!

While I don't doubt Gwen is genuinely excited about being part of the organization, something that I can't stop thinking about is how no Jessica Drew, Peter B, Hobie, or anyone in the organization, could feel the gap Gwen felt. The gap that drove her to spend an afternoon with Miles despite what was at stake.

And Jess's being Gwen's mentor is something that is the reason this post keep coming, (because George's parent skills, Gwen clinging to being a hero, are all connected to that.)

Ultimately, it doesn't matter how much she clings to being a Spider-Woman, it can't replace a bond with someone.

Also, as @ficsinhistory said in a reply to one of my post, you are right! Gwen is definitely Captain Stacy's daughter.

Because while he clings to being a cop, not just as a job, but also as his way of life and moral compass (Which gets in the way of his connection with his daughter,) Gwen also clings to being a hero, instead of dealing with her grief and her fears. She probably did the same because well that's what she learned from him right?

Hey does this mean generational traum- I'll See Myself Out.

This, is the face Gwen makes while Miguel tells Miles he needs to let Jeff die.

A lot of people wonder why so many spiders are doing this, and while that's another massive post I am working on (more investigation, why? Because why I would make things easy for myself.) Let's give the clip notes version here.

The surprise is not that Gwen is going along, is how absolutely heartwrenching is to see this when you put in context everything.

You see, for a while, Gwen cling to being spider-woman because it was a way to avoid her grief, now? She doesn't have anything.

While she puts emphasis on her hero work, let's remember what is probably going on in her universe: Gwen is supposed to be a student, to be in a band, to be a regular teen. Being Gwen Stacy is what she has known most of her life, and what should be her main focus, and now everything she ever knows? As far as she is aware, she lost it, she can't have her life back without risking having her own dad send her to jail.

I cannot call Gwen homeless because she has the organization, but that's not much better. Remember how she believes if she fucks this up, she could get sent back home, meaning going to prison and having her dad try to persecute her?

Forget she using this to not deal with her trauma, she was forced to pick up this life because it was this or still lose everything, but everyone may hate her.

The question is now why Gwen did it, is how anyone can see this situation, and can the question ethical when Gwen is having her risk her life, and not in the life and death kind of way, but the type that is the reason life is worth it.

And she clings to this until the bitter end, until-

She got her own band.

We don't know, what will happen in the third movie; but I don't think would be crazy to believe they would try to keep in contact if that's possible.

Here is the thing, regardless of any previous friendship Gwen had with any of them, the fact is this: Gwen said it herself, she is mostly a solo act, and even with thousands of spiders, she can't bring herself to be vulnerable and open up from the most part. Not having people wasn't the problem anymore, was her being unsure to do the first step.

And she has this band, because she wants to save Miles, because regardless of any mistakes she may had done, he is worth the risk, he is worth fighting for, and if she needs to get help to do right by him, so be it.

So who knows, perhaps Gwen gets to stick with this band, all because she decided to think less about what is the right thing to do and to fight for the people who are worth fighting for.

Because Miles became that first friend after Peter, she had the chance to open up and make more, as well as recover those she thought she lost (like her dad.)

Wouldn't that be a beautiful way to end her arc?

#atsv files #ghostflower files #gwen stacy #miles morales #peter parker earth 65 #peter earth 65 #atsv #across the spiderverse #sorry if it got too corny at the end #couldn't help myself

[marshmallowprotection]

Birthday Title Screen

Saeran’s title screen underneath the cut alongside my thoughts and feelings on the matter. Under the cut simply because if you don’t want to see it, you can go and wait until it’s officially released by Cheritz in your time zone. Anyways, we know why we’re here.

It’s that time again and boy, aren’t we happy to be able to talk about it? Now, this title was advertised as Unknown so I expected Unknown. I didn’t expect my boy Suit Saeran to be on the title. The game tends to imply that Unknown is the just Suit Saeran, and vice versa, but I don’t agree with that notion but I’ve explained that one many times before but the game never confirms outright one way or the other so, you know how that goes. 

I’ll spare you that, I’ve got plenty of posts talking about that opinion for you to find if you want, lol. 

Either way, this is the first time that Suit Saeran’s gotten the pointed limelight like this. He’s usually meant to surprise the player because they may not see him in their minds as their trying to uncover the mystery and everything. But, we’ve got to say, Cheritz has thrown all spoiler fears out of the window. I mean, they just plastered Seven’s true name on a boat. 

I laughed about that but I digress, you’re here for the photo and you want to see me shriek like a banshee.

So, yeah, let’s just our obligatory scream out of the way presently. When I saw this one, I could think was: Oh my God, it’s BE2. The only reason my brain just decided BE2 was because of the framing of all the presents. In that ending, he gives you gifts, he gives you food, but “you’re not good enough to open them or touch them, toy.” He’ll give you all kinds of things but you know, you get what he wants when he decides. 

And crumbs, if you’re lucky on a good day, you know? 

That being said, it doesn’t have to be framed as BE2, but the presents and gifts just lead me to believe that this is the theme or the idea that it’s taking from to show the audience because what else am I going to be thinking when you’ve gone and thrust that idea into my face like that? Mmm, and I’ve been talking about that ending a lot lately. 

Here’s that post if you want to read more about BE2. It’s a tragic ending that is bad for both Saeran and MC. He’s trying to get you back like Humpty Dumpty but he can’t put you back together again. He realized too little, too late, that he liked you the way that Ray did, that he genuinely liked you for you. He can’t say that aloud, so he... tries cruel ways to bring you back, but it will never work and he’s doomed to despair. 

No hope for Suit Saeran if the kindness heart can be destroyed in hell. It means it’s only natural that he lose everything. 

I appreciate that he’s sticking to his goth theme, though, that party hat is just red and black.

Suit Saeran’s very... minimalist in the sense that he just picks things that are truly intense and sharp. That’s why he wears a suit. That’s because it’s the thing that he knows that can radiate power. Business men are supposed to be strong and forthcoming with their ability, that’s why he leans that way. 

His father is like that, the idea of what power and monster is feeds into how he chooses to dress himself. 

That’s why he just says, “Suit time.” If anyone was curious about that, anyway, I never seen people talk about that. Ray was given his clothes by Rika, he never got a say in how he dressed. The boys always pick something dark because it’s going to match their mood... their mood is how they pick colors and clothes if given the ability. 

That’s why GE Saeran is bright and cottagecore. It reflects the positive shift in his thoughts and perspective on the world. But, with Suit Saeran, he’s trying to emulate what he’s scared of and what he thinks that power is and this is the only way he knows how and it hurts to think about when you frame it that way, I do know that. 

Is that meant to be a stamp and playbook? Did Suit Saeran really make a whole illustrated guide for his puppet show? Is he really making acts and stories for all of this? He had to make those puppets himself. We know that Saeran is creative and can make anything, but those things are clearly handmade, hand-painted, I have a strong feeling that he made those clothes himself, too... 

You know, I like to imagine him drawing his emojis before he comes to you because he wants to make a good impression, but he’s a very specific artist and he gets angry when he can’t get things right, so I’m really thinking about him being out here in his workroom, painting fine details with a determined look in his eyes like—

“This’ll show that toy. This’ll show them how powerful I am.” 

Suit Saeran, honey, this is a gift within itself, you are a dork and I love you so much, oh my God.

TLDR; Suit Saeran makes puppets and makes their own playbook like this is going to a musical or the opera. 

He actually brought you the exact outfit. This means that he either made you that outfit, or he got himself, and then he made a smaller version. 

I like to think he’s crafty with sewing so I pretend he does things like this, but honestly, if you’ve made it this far, are you also thinking about the fact that he made a doll versions of the both of you to show you something? 

Because I can’t stop thinking about that. He really said, “Look at this, I made us, toy!” Like, I wrote a whole imagine once where MC and GE Saeran made each other plush dolls of the other person to sleep with. He just went out here and made puppets simply because he wanted to put on a show. He made y’all and I’m gonna cry what a fucking dork.

This is canon.

My God, I’m canon. 

Once again, I’m out here living my best life and nobody’s going to stop me on that front. Saeran wants to impress you and astound you so badly that he does not even realize that the handmade things that he’s making actually would be something that flatter someone. 

Like, he could use those to patronize me and berate me for control, but—

I’d really be sitting there compliment his fine eye and craftsmanship. It’s just that great. 

“Wow, Saeran. You did this all by yourself? These details are so realistic and finely tuned. This must have taken you hours... no, days, it must have taken you days to paint everything and stitch all of this together, even the little fine details are perfect. You’re amazing! When did you have the time to learn all of this?” 

He would scoff, “Of course, I am, you blubbering toy! Don’t suck up to me and think that you’re going to be treated nicely. I won’t tell you anything about me. You don’t deserve that. I didn’t do this to impress you, I did this to show you what I want from you. Now, be a good little toy, sit there, and do as I ask. I won’t repeat myself.” 

I find it interesting that he framed himself in the Savior’s seat here. Is that just a tie back to BE3, or is it simply his power play? I think it’s a comment on the fact that he struggles to know how much power that he truly has in his hands. That is to say, he says he’s the strongest, but the reality is, Rika is stronger then him and he bows his head to her. 

Even in his fantasy, she holds all of the cards and he has no choice but to bend.

But, with MC, he is trying to use them to control his idea of power... because it’s a fragile thing. It could break at any second. He screams and shouts all that he wants but he knows, deep down, he may be strong, but he’s not the strongest in this place. How could he be? That’s why Rika even says to you during those late hours—

“Mmm, you noticed? He’s using you to stabilize himself because otherwise, he would crumble. Thanks for your sacrifice to helping me win my goals. It wasn’t a pleasure knowing someone as bright as you, getting in my way and trying to turn them against me.” 

He only feels strong when something placates the idea in his chest. It hurts, even in his numb and confused heart, he’s hurting and he can’t figure out a way to get out of the dark labyrinth. Did he make the Mint Eye playhouse? Did he? I am saying he did. None of you are going to stop me. Saeran is a creative artist and I will not be contained any longer.

Cheritz confirmed. 

You’re a doll on a string in this for him. He wants to say that he bends and controls you to his whims, but... he’s also there. This isn’t just you being a toy, it’s Saeran realizing that he’s a toy, too. Why else would he make a doll of his person, then? This is about him not entirely getting it, though. He would make himself but not realize what he’s implying to know deep down, underneath all of his yelling.

When I saw him in the chair, I thought... this is him in relation to being the marionette king. That’s why they’re doing this, oh my God. It makes sense to frame the MC as a puppet or toy, they’re always “his eyes” and “his toy” and more and more and more. But, he’s also being played for a toy by Rika to get what she wants.

Who is really the puppet here?

Who is really on the strings? 

Look at that cocky bastard. Look at him. Look at him forever and deal with me screaming about him, oh my God. In conclusion, I’m having a lot of feelings at the moment presently and I think I’m going to go and lay back down because I am going to need a minute to unpack everything that I’m feeling and dealing with because Suit Saeran.

SUIT SAERAN!

#mod kait #character analysis #mm #mysme #mystic messenger #mysticmessenger #suit saeran #saeran #saeran choi #choi saeran #mm saeran #mysme saeran #mystic messenger saeran #saeran mysme #saeran mm #saeran mystic messenger #long post #spoiler

[beomglocks]

unlikely allies ; txt x reader

part: four.1 ,,,, next chapter / previous chapter

plot: when a zombie apocalypse breaks out in your town, you’re forced to team up with a group of boys from very different social standards in your school.

genre: fluff, angst, horror i guess?, not really that scary but alright, some funny moments

w/c: 2.1k

warnings: blood, gruesome scenes (kind of really detailed), cursing, everyone hates each other, definitely some major injuries, zombies duh, everyone kinda pining for mc

︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵

"we are going to find more people y/n. we need to make up for beomgyu," taehyun spits. beomgyu walks up to him with anger taking over his features. "im still here you know! and i'd just hate for the kang taehyun to get bit because wouldn't that just be soooo fucking tragic! news flash, everyone's dead! you're not famous!"

"stop arguing!" you pull them apart but yeonjun shoves you away from them. "why? why should stop arguing?"

"we're all gonna die anyways," soobin says casually from his spot on the ground.

taehyun rolls eyes, walking straight into the library without any hesitation. "wait-" before you can warn him you all see something that makes you freeze.

you swear you remember that kid from somewhere. his fluffy hair is covering his eyes and instead of his baggy sweater covering his frame, it has ridden up to showcase his nonexistent abdomen. the zombies have absolutely ravaged the kid's body, leaving nothing but a lone carcass. there are still zombies lurking around his body, trying to feast on whatever part of him is left.

something beside the boy's body catches your eye and you realize who he is.

"ah shit," they mumble. you snap out of glaring at yeonjun to see a boy on the floor with books scattered around him. "shit im sorry! i should've been looking at where i was going," you apologize kneeling down to help the boy pick up his books.

"oh don't worry i shouldn't have taken up carrying so many books to the point where i couldn't see!" the boy's voice is so cheerful it makes you smile. you're glad he's not mad at you.

the boy is really cute too. his boyish features suit his face well and his hair is messy but looks like he stylized it that way. he's dressed comfortably in a huge sweater and baggy jeans with a molang keychain attached to one of the belt loops.

"where are you even going with all these books?" you ask. "i offered to take these back to the library for my english teacher, in hindsight i really should've just taken two or three not the whole stack." he chuckles sheepishly. he gets back up, picking up as many as he can.

you cover your mouth, trying not to let out an audible sob. even though you didn't know the freshman too well, this boy had left an impression on you with his cheeriness. that and the fact that this is the second time you've seen someone get eaten alive.

"hueningkai?" taehyun whispers. he takes several steps forward as if he's in a trance. "taehyun wait-"

"kai??" he raises his voice more but it cracks. the zombies in close proximity of you all snap their heads up at the sound of taehyun's voice. "tae we need to get out of here right n-"

"y/n!" you hear soobin call. you turn around to see beomgyu convulsing on the floor wildly. "w-what happened?" soobin shakes his head frantically. "he might be turning." you want to cry at the sight of your friend curled up in pain. you can tell he's trying to hold back his screams as to not draw attention to the group and get you all killed.

it's too late though because the zombies that were eating kai alive are now running towards you all. "what do we do?" yeonjun cries. you don't know what to do at this point. there's absolutely no saving beomgyu, who is currently turning. you go to grab taehyun's arm to at least try to save one person from your party but the zombie at the front of the group has already pounced on him. "NO!" you yell.

even though the zombie has sunk it's teeth into taehyun's ankle, you still try to drag him away in hopes of saving him. he's kicking at its face with the tiny sliver of strength he has left after being thrown to the floor. "don't worry taehyun im not leaving you," you huff.

you don't think you've ever had this much determination for anything ever. all you know is that someone's life is on the line and if you just try hard enough they might survive.

you're suddenly pulled back by your shirt when the entire group of zombies get to taehyun's idle body. "wait!" you reach out to him but it's too late. they've already began gnawing away at him. taehyun puts up a good fight but it's no use. there are too many of them.

he lets out a string of pained screams and all you can do is close your eyes.

"we have to go! we have to go," yeonjun screams. he shakes you to get you to get up but you have already given up. not one but three of the people who you've met have died. it hurts to know that they were once alive, smiling brightly with hope and life shining in their eyes.

it's not even the fact that prior to a zombie apocalypse happening you most likely gave no shits about these people but the stakes and circumstances have changed. of course now you care because you hoped they would love to see another day.

yeonjun sucks his teeth and picks you up. it takes a bit of extra strength on his part and he knows it'll slow him down tremendously but he doesn't care. "it's gonna be ok!" he reassures. you get a better view of soobin and beomgyu when he lifts you up and it makes you want to look away.

beomgyu's arm now has discolored veins that scale all the way up to him face. his eyes are glazed over and now white colored. you can see trances of dyed tears on his face but he's too far gone. he's dead and he's a threat to you all now.

"soobin r-!" yeonjun slaps his hand over you mouth so that you don't attract the zombies on taehyun to start going after you both.

soobin tries to hold his own against the now undead beomgyu and you can't exactly tell what's going on. yeonjun leads you away from the library and you can only hear a scream from who you assume is soobin.

"where are we going we can't just leave soobin behind like that!" you try to stand and halt the both of you but yeonjun harshly pulls you along. "yes we can and we will!" he barks. "there isn't a chance in hell that we could've saved him. it's us or him!"

he shoves you into the electrical room of the school. the door was thankfully unhinged otherwise the door would've remained locked.

there's nothing but silence minus the rapid breathing coming from you both. you go through what just happened and start to burst into tears, haphazardly wiping at your face but failing when more tears come down. yeonjun sighs, letting himself fall on the floor.

he doesn't even have time to rest before he hears a pounding coming from outside the door. "y/n? y-yeonjun? l-let me in!" you look over to yeonjun who's already looking at you wide eyed. "soobin?" you mumble. you go to stand but yeonjun launches himself at you. "hell no! soobin go away!" he yells.

"please open the door! they're coming! please!" soobin pleads. you shake your head, "yeonjun we have to help him please!"

yeonjun contemplates for a little bit longer than you'd like but he suddenly stands up. he gets to the door however he doesn't open it all the way. "are you bit? there's no way you came out of that unbitten."

soobin looks around unsure of himself. he grips onto his arm tighter from what you can see and you silently hope and pray he's not bit. however yeonjun also notices his suspicious behavior. "you're not coming in," he says. he starts closing the door again but soobin shoves past him.

yeonjun runs after him and tackles him to the ground. you look back at the door and you can hear the zombies that were following soobin approaching. you make a run for it to shut the door but yeonjun yells at you. "we have to leave it open for when i throw this asshole out of here!"

"but-" you wince when yeonjun punches soobin square in the face. it doesn't seem to phase the other boy as he growls and turns the tables on yeonjun. soobin has always been a bit stronger than yeonjun so it's no surprise that especially at this moment he's overpowering the other boy.

you rack your brain trying to come up with a logical plan. though you aren't being given many options. it's either wait until yeonjun manages to throw soobin out meaning you risk the group of zombies reaching you all or you lock yourself in the electrical room with an already bitten soobin.

you bite your lip watching soobin throw as many punches as he can with an unusable arm and yeonjun blocking them as best as he can. however, soobin was steadily getting weak and you could tell as well as yeonjun. with one swift push, soobin falls back onto the ground and yeonjun punches him again for good measure. 

you can't see them well in the dimly lit electrical room however with the sliver of light pouring in from the door being open you can somewhat make out yeonjun's face. soobin sure did a number on him. his nose is dripping blood and his lips are bruised and swollen. his eye is also bruised and swollen and you're not sure if he can even see from it. god, he looks miserable.

he looks up at you and spits some blood out from his mouth. "lets get him out of here," he mumbles. you watch him get off soobin but he stumbles a bit. "yeonjun please hurry i think the zombies are coming," you tell him. he groans but says nothing in response.

yeonjun picks soobin up but once he has soobin's arm around his shoulder soobin starts shuddering. "you're gonna turn soon," yeonjun mumbles. soobin chuckles in between his shaking, "you care about me all of a sudden. i thought we were sworn enemies?"

yeonjun rolls his eyes, "whatever." if this were happening at any other time you might have smiled at them. you smile sadly when the two boys reach you at the door. you lean down to soobin's hunched over state and hold his face in your hands. "im sorry," you say. he shakes his head but says nothing to you. 

"t-the gun," he mumbles in pain. you can see the veins starting to crawl up his shoulder and onto his neck now. "if we shoot you then the zombies that were after you are sure to start running towards here," yeonjun frowns. "soobin i don't think any of us are willing to k-kill you," you say as a tear rolls down your face. 

his head snaps backwards violently then he slumps forward. "please," he manages to croak out.

you shut the door, closing your eyes. "y/n..." yeonjun says. "we can't let him die as one of those- those things!" you shout. yeonjun sighs, putting soobin down onto the floor. "think about this, you're about to kill another living being!" 

"WHAT OTHER OPTION IS THERE?" you lash out. yeonjun stands there shocked at your outburst and the expression on his face makes you cry even harder than before. "what other option is there?" you cry softly.

you both look over to soobin who's now started convulsing on the floor. unlike beomgyu, this time he doesn't hold in his blood curling screams of pain. there isn't much time left before he turns.

you tentatively take the gun from his person and hold it up to his head. his eyes open momentarily and you see the fear in them flash through. he closes them tightly once again to brace himself and a tear rolls down his face. "i-im s-sorry," you cry. even as you hold the gun to his head, you hesitate. killing someone wasn't as easy as you thought. yeonjun walks up but not before wiping a tear from his face. "cmon."

he helps you hold the gun steady but removes your finger from the trigger. "close your eyes ok?" he whispers close to your ear. you sniffle, watching soobin struggle to keep his humanity. he opens and closes his eyes and keeps flinching and convulsing in different ways. you can tell he’s really in pain and not just because of his screams.

“im sorry soobin,” you cry. “im sorry!” you close your eyes tightly, waiting for yeonjun to pull the trigger.

you hold your breath and you can feel yeonjuns on the back of your head. his is nowhere near steady and you can’t imagine how he’s feeling having to kill another human being. his breathing is shaky and unsteady.

he tightens his grip on the gun and you feel his breath stop completely.

“three,” he mutters.

you’re sobbing uncontrollably at this point, unable to say the next number so he does it for you. “two.”

“one.”

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

taglist: @fxd-skz @jinniehyunjin @bluemoonnightmare @srcasticking-main @shuichi-sama @hyunjinsicedamerican0 @groovybiscuitdiplomatpeach @cutiegyu @gyyuniverse @strykiss @minari-iii @minheesmini @cha-raena @yuto-darling​ @hyunjinhasmyheart​ @whateveryouwant90 @peachy-maia @strawberryaourt @binniebutter​

#txt #txt fic #tomorrow x together #choi yeonjun #choi soobin #choi beomgyu #txt x reader #kang taehyun #hueningkai #huening kai #yeonjun fic #txt imagines #txt scenarios #soobin fic #beomgyu fic #taehyun fic #hueningkai fic #txt fluff #yeonjun imagines #soobin imagines #beomgyu imagines #taehyun imagines #hueningkai imagines

[evarcana]

Taking it out on you

Ev attends the court meeting only to learn that sometimes the second impressions are just as bad as the first ones.

characters: Ev Panopolis, consul Valerius and brief appearance of Volta

words: ~3k

warnings: alcohol (as expected)

notes: On some point I gave up on the idea of Ev being the apprentice, as she just does not have this "MC energy". So this is an introduction to her story, because there is no better way to celebrate the 1 year anniversary of this blog than to remember that a very long time ago I used to write fanfiction.

It has been almost a month already. Almost a month since she came to Vesuvia, almost a month since she was told that her services were not required here. The thought makes Ev frown, but she keeps a quick pace, the sound of her impatient steps on the marble floor echoing through the palace corridor.

It is just before eleven o’clock, and the last of crisp morning sun pours over the rich mauve of lustrous silk drapes and the gold leaf of intricately carved murals, drawing out the warm scent of orange blossom and beeswax from the polished panels of precious wood. Vesuvian palace is exactly what she was promised - a great wonder, and yet Ev doubts it could give any lesser impression while the backdrop to its striking opulence is the city torn apart by disease and grief.

There are no servants or visitors in sight, and Ev’s only company in this seemingly endless corridor are paintings on the walls, depicting what she can only guess are some of the proud moments of Vesuvian history - people and places so foreign to her.

She does simple math in her head: two months and two days ago she was marching down the corridor of a very different palace, eager to be on time for the meeting with Crown Princess Nafizah despite the quite literal last minute notice, and not knowing yet that she was about to hear details of this so-called diplomatic mission.

Back then it sounded straightforward enough. Prakra couldn’t ignore the news of Count Lucio's tragic death, not least because that meant Princess Nadia, the youngest daughter of the Prakran royal family, was left widowed and with the daunting task of handling the red plague epidemic in Vesuvia all on her own. Any ruler could do with an extra pair of hands and any country could benefit from the alliance with Prakra, especially in times of crisis like this. And it would have stayed straightforward if only the discovery of Countess Nadia’s mysterious illness and the unexpected, unreasonable, outrageous hostility of Vesuvian court did not bring this crisis to the whole new, now personal, level.

In theory, Ev did not have to deal with any of that. She could use the excuse that it was only appropriate to deliver such unsettling news about Nadia in person, go back and forget everything that happened in this palace like one of those unpleasantly bizarre dreams you get after a night of drinking. But Vesuvia was still the city Prakra cared about, Nadia’s city, and as far as Ev knew none of the people who came to be in charge of it were appointed by her. Prakran diplomatic presence was perhaps the only way to look after Nadia’s interests until she woke up. Even if Ev had no actual power over the court, returning to Prakra without accomplishing at least something felt like a failure, and failure has never been an option for Ev. With that in mind, she pressed the seal with enough force to imprint Prakran royal crest on the desk and not just on the drop of red wax marking the envelope, and stayed.

Now, after a month of living in the city, she has learned to see that there is more to her new role than just misfortunes. Her relocation allowance is generous, her new place is nicer than what she had in Prakra and she is getting rather used to the convenience of the wine shop next door. Even if parts of it are foreign and unwelcoming, Ev feels at ease in Vesuvia. The tension in her body relaxes, and she thinks maybe this palace can eventually get used to her too, but the thought faints away as soon as she sees the salon door. Ev presses a pile of papers closer to her chest and tells herself that she can think about everything else another time - the court meeting is about to start.

She pushes the door open but immediately freezes on the spot stricken by the gagging wave of nausea - nails dirty with soil and blood, sickly sweet buttercream pastries and rustle of feathers covered in mud. It is no more than a faint impression but even through the fogged mind Ev recognises the feeling - it is vestige, the afterimage of magic. She has felt it before, many times and in many different forms but never has it made her feel physically sick. What is even more unusual is that such a revolting sensation is coming from the palace quarters. One would expect tingles of bubbles from the charmed fountains of never ending sparkling wine or at least the impression of whispers, premium tea, treacle and bitter ambition from the walls which have been magically given ears, and not... whatever this is. Ev draws a deep breath, pushing down into her diaphragm and looks around the room. The salon is not set up for the court meeting, instead there is a tray of food and stacks of empty plates towering on almost every flat surface. Her eyes stop on greasy remains looking terribly out of place on the delicate porcelain plate and she unconsciously covers her mouth. Maybe she is mistaken after all - it is the strange smell of food and not some kind of creepy magic, and, more importantly, maybe this is not the salon she was looking for.

Before Ev gets a chance to mentally blame the chamberlain for giving her the wrong directions, a tiny figure appears from behind the chair. The white cornette is instantly recognisable and Ev is about to ask procurator Volta whether she is here for the court meeting too when she sees that behind the commotion of dark robes Volta is frantically trying to push the whole roast rack of lamb down her mouth. Dear gods. Somewhat unsurprisingly, one of the bones appears to be stuck. Clearly having not expected to have an audience, the procurator widens her eyes at Ev in a mixture of terror and shame. Unable to speak, after a few incoherent squeaks, she throws her tiny hands in the air helplessly, spattering herself with gravy and gestures to the open French doors leading to the balcony. Without giving it too much thought, Ev gives Volta a quick nod and takes an opportunity to escape the awkwardness of the scene.

Wrapped in the soft shade of the balcony, consul Valerius is casually leaning back in the chair, with the usual glass of wine in his hand. Even before she reaches the doors, Ev sets her eyes on his face. The consul is looking away, his face carved and unmovable, the tight knot of dark eyebrows making him look ireful and disgruntled, like one of those statues of stern gods she saw growing up in Zadith. Her next step lands much quieter and then, there steps in, Ev stops and stands very still wondering what thoughts could possibly bring this storm to Valerius’s face. Sun would suit him much more, she thinks, her eyes curiously trailing down the golden glints of his hair.

A loud snort catches Ev off guard and she realises that Valerius is now facing her, looking considerably more displeased than before, no doubt because of her. That’s more like it. How could she forget that this man is the very cause of her problems.

“Could I please have some of your time, consul?” she asks, heading straight towards him. Greetings seem excessive, they didn’t necessarily part on friendly terms last time.

“I didn't expect to see you here again.”

Ev allows herself a smirk. “I know.” I am not here to do what you expect from me. She stops inches away from his chair looking down at him, apparently enjoying the close proximity which, considering their formal relationship and the consul’s well known bad temper, could be regarded as both highly inappropriate and potentially reckless. But Valerius only turns away, more interested in his drink than in her.

“I have been studying the treasury records,” she continues, searching his face for any kind of reaction. His lips curl up in a sneer as he takes a sip of wine, but his eyes are still firmly fixed on the horizon. Ev follows his gaze expecting to see some radical change to the surrounding landscape, but there is only faint outline of the city roofs behind the lush green of the palace's vast grounds, - no columns of smoke, no ominous looking storm clouds gathering in the distance, nothing that could possibly be more interesting than her. Whatever. “Your tax system - ,” she hands Valerius neatly arranged papers, which he completely ignores,“- it is not working.”

“Vesuvian tax system remained largely unchanged for the last two generations, this is how these matters are handled traditionally,” says Valerius, once again denying Ev courtesy of eye contact.

Ev’s mouth twists at the sound of the last words. Too worried the conservative mindset might be contagious, she quickly withdraws her hand and takes a step back.

“I trust you understand that sometimes one should focus on what works, and not what is traditional,” she says, doing her best to disguise the growing irritation. “You don’t attract nearly as much foreign trade as you used to.”

What comes next is a very profound, uncomfortable silence. Ev sighs.

“Consul, you had plague in the city, people died,” her voice is louder now, “lots of people died”, and the irritation is obvious. “And Vesuvia cannot exist without its people. Somebody needs to bring food from the farmlands, make clothes, teach children, attend to the sick. Yes, in the past you could always import whatever you did not have but now people are scared to come because of the plague. You -”, she pauses in anticipation noticing Valerius shifting in his seat, but he only reaches for the bottle to top up his glass, “- you need to do something to make it attractive for them again. Lower the customs, lift the taxes for people whose skills you need, sell empty real estate cheap. There is plenty all around the city!”

Deep down Ev knows that none of these is going to work long term, but she doesn't care - she wants to do something and she wants to do it now.

Yet, nothing changes. She is still standing there, and he is still looking away. Ev would prefer him to disagree, start arguing with her - anything really, as long as it breaks this silence.

“Fine! If you don’t feel like changing this traditional system of yours, even temporarily, at least fix your mistakes.” Ev starts chaotically flipping through the papers searching for the one she needs, which would be a much easier task, if she was less flurried and if Valerius offered her a seat. She wonders whether he is now watching her, sneering at her struggle. “Your approved accounts, here,” this time she brusquely puts the paper in front of Valerius’s face blocking his view, “your numbers do not even add up! ”

For a split second she sees something on his face - a twitch, a flick of rage, and thinks that she has gone too far. But his question comes out in a calm, almost disinterested tone: “What makes you think that somebody like you is even qualified to check the city’s budget approved by the esteemed procurator Volta?”

A moment passes before Ev is able to break from staring at Valerius in disbelief. She glances to the salon where, judging by the sound, Volta has freed her mouth only to move to the next dish. Seriously? Perhaps she should be impressed that he managed to say it with the straight face.

And then there is a chilling sensation at the pit of Ev’s stomach. She asks herself what is going on here? What is this city under the reign of a person who questions everything and everyone except the obvious mistake in the accounts? And what is she - ? Angry, she reminds herself, is what she is, and throws a look at Valerius, who is taking another sip from his glass as in triumph. You don’t need to be qualified, you just need to have common sense. And you, Valerius, either don’t have it or you were not even bothered to look at what your court approves.

She pictures him lazily drinking wine, legs on the desk, his shirt unbuttoned, while completely ignoring his state duties. The image is irritating and yet not entirely unpleasant.

“We both know that I come from a family of alchemists and merchants. Trust me, I know how to count,” she says with a smile. It sounded right in her head, a ridiculous answer to the ridiculous question.

“I thought that during our last meeting you said that you had nothing to do with your witchcraft family.” A perfectly raised eyebrow, and that infuriating smirk.

Ev opens her mouth in protest but gives up quickly. Those were her exact words after all, save for the witchcraft part.

She begins to pace around the balcony avoiding looking at Valerius as much as possible. The consul clearly has a way of getting on her nerves, and she needs all her concentration if she wants to explain what exactly will happen to this goddamn city if they carry on with this approved budget.

“Think about the consequences for the people if this mistake is not corrected!” she shouts, her voice much louder than she would like it to be, and quickly turns to Valerius expecting a blowback. But the pale eyes are looking down, studying something on the floor, or on the edge of the fabric of her long sleeve, she really can’t tell. Oh gods, he is not even paying attention.

***

Valerius has firmly decided that he is not going to pay any attention.

The time of plague was exhausting: the palace suddenly full of people of all kinds and intentions promising to find a cure, pleas for help on the streets which he could not escape even behind the doors of the most expensive carriages, the count who was growing more desperate everyday and the white smoke of the Lazaret carried by the sea breeze towards the city, the memory of which still haunts him. And now there is the Satrinavas’ new pet here having an audacity to talk about his city’s problems - the problems which, out of all people, he should know the most about, he is the consul after all, and a Vesuvian.

Vesuvia he inherited is haggard and sad, and on top of that an enormous responsibility. The last thing he needs is a stranger questioning his authority, as if the incompetent court and the city demanding their beloved countess back have not been tiresome enough. Valerius lets out a short, barely audible sigh. He just wants this farce to be over so he can go back to thinking.

But the witch is not planning to stop, if anything she seems to be enjoying it. Look at her. Absorbed by herself and her ludicrous ideas, she is loud and talks too much with her hands. Her dress keeps slipping down the shoulder draping around the soft curve of a half barred breast every time she does one of these unnecessary, overconfident gestures. Valerius has absolutely no idea whether this is deliberate or she is simply unaware of the indecency which keeps drawing his eyes.

He tries to distract himself by taking a drink of wine only to discover that his glass, just like the air around him, is full of this loud perfume of hers. Harsh cinnamon, incense and patchouli, very much alike their owner, have no concept of the personal space ruining the perfect balance of his red. The wine is not helping. He catches himself looking at the shoulder again. In fact, absolutely useless. He sets his unfinished glass aside on the small table. Valerius has had enough.

***

“Enough!” Valerius shouts. His voice is suddenly deep and rather forceful and Ev hates that it has the desired effect on her. She stops and looks at him. “You were not invited to the court meeting.” The consul’s face looks awfully angry now.

Ev narrows her eyes. “And what exactly are you doing at your court meeting?”

“That should not be a concern of the Prakran subject”, Valerius says, his words dripping with poison, “or whoever you are.”

“I am a diplomatic emissary -,” she does not get a chance to finish.

“Leave!”

Ev wants to scream and protest, but even she knows better than to yell at somebody who outranked her. She draws a breath. One, two, three. All right.

“I only came to give you the papers”, she says coldly, her eyes still locked on his, and leans forward to place the documents on the table. “But I am taking this away, one should work without the distraction of wine.”

With these words Ev snatches the glass from the table, turns away and heads toward the exit as fast as she can without breaking into running. She does not want to look like she is scared that Valerius will grab her by the arm. If anything she is slightly disappointed that he doesn’t.

“My regards to the court,” she raises her hand and waves the glass in the air without looking back. Behind her there is a sound of paper being torn apart.

***

Ev only slows down when she reaches the main staircase.

Suddenly feeling very tired, she leans against the handrail. Again, what is she doing here? Why did she need to turn up in person when she could send a letter? Ev closes her eyes and rubs her fingers together as if feeling for answers in the whorls of her own skin, and remembers about the glass in her hand. Another bad decision. It would have been wiser to take the bottle.

She raises the glass to her lips and breathes in the wine. It’s pleasant. Perhaps she would prefer its company to the boring palace affairs too. Ev twists the glass in her hand, eying the smooth rim before drawing one long sip. It leaves a blush mark of her lips firmly planted on the surface which she studies for a few seconds. “You better be as angry as I am now”, she says to the dark liquid at the bottom of the glass.

#no i didnt read the whole thing myself #the arcana #consul valerius #the arcana fic #the arcana fanfic #evpanopolis #valerius x mc #ev x valerius

[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

(image description: eight sketchbook drawings of characters holding a variety of pride flags, all nude and posed in ways that match some old fine art pieces. The nudity has been censored with cute digital flower stickers. end description.)

Characters:

Dalmar, intersex man. Kouto, nonbinary. Chacha, agender. Parva, nonbinary. Xulic and Kidron, genderqueer. Obeli (or Abuela) Moruga, genderqeer. Olli, demiguy. Sajak, genderqueer.

Genderqueer is kind of my default for "well, biologically and culturally, they already don't have binary sex or gender, so they kinda default to genderqueer." And I know maybe some people will be bothered by that, but it's just part of the worldbuilding I've written around all these non-human and frequently non-mammalian species of people.

The uncensored version is on my Patreon page. I do have one more drawing to add to this series, but since it's four child characters I will not need to worry about adding any censors and keeping the original image only on my patreon, as they will simply be wearing their pride flags as whole outfits.

The previous part of this, my binary trans characters, can be found over here.

detailed character descriptions and explanations of the pose references under the cut

Dalmar Ubora, a black intersex elf man with short black hair. He is holding his arms up as he holds the intersex flag, mimicking the pose of Virgin Mary from Titian's painting "The Assumption of the Virgin". The shading was washed out by the photo, but his belly is still clearly round from pregnancy. Dalmar is an interesting case, in that he was assigned male at birth based on his outward appearance, continues to identify as male throughout his life, but finds during puberty that what was believed to be an undeveloped penis was actually just a non functional body part. Instead, what actually developed to full functionality was his uterus. He still identifies as a straight cis man, and has come to terms with his body. He is married to a medically transitioned trans woman, and he could undergo operations to change his body if he wanted to. Instead, he has embraced his body and even birthed some children who were conceived via sperm donations. This is why I wanted a Mary pose for him, and this painting in particular is about Mary being welcomed into heaven as a blessed holy woman. Dalmar may not be a miraculous holy figure, but there is a reverence in the way he has come to love his body and chosen to bear children, including the surrogate birth of his brother's child.

Kouto Hayashi-Loryck, a slender nonbinary elf with black hair tied into a bun. They are holding the nonbinary flag and standing in the pose of a statue known as "Apollo Belvedere", which is so old no one knows the artist's name. One arm raised, one lowered, legs in the relaxed contrapposto pose. Kouto is an artist and an art model. Apollo is a god of the arts, and regarded as a beautiful and sexual figure. Kouto is bisexual and admittedly a very sexual and flirtatious person. They did settle into a happy marriage though (actually they are Dalmar's in-law and the sperm donor for the aforementioned surrogate birth.) Marriage has not stopped Kouto's flirtations, merely limited their targets to a singular person. It felt right to give him this pose, from a pretty well known portrayal of Apollo. Beauty, art, and sex, all defining traits of Apollo and Kouto alike, all present in a pose where the figure seems to be reaching for something above them.

Chacha Faraji, an agender black elf with short hair. They are facing away from the viewer, seated on a stool that is covered by the draped agender flag. No physical traits that could betray their agab are visible. Chacha is sitting in the pose of Reubens' painting "Venus at the Mirror". The arm closest to the viewer ends at the elbow, while they hold a mirror in front of their face with their one whole arm. Their face is seen reflected, smiling, little wrinkles visible by their eyes. I chose this painting in part because it did allow me to obscure Chacha's agab. They were my first nonbinary character, and I never really settled on an agab. But also, I enjoy putting characters who have unconventional bodies into poses associated with Venus or Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty. Chacha is missing half an arm, they are getting older and it shows in the wrinkles on their face. Chacha is also Aromantic and Asexual, the full queer triple A battery. The mirror pose has become an independence of beauty. "Look but don't touch." Chacha is beautiful, and they do not need to be beautiful for anyone but themself.

Parva Turbatus, a white nonbinary elf with shoulder length curly hair that has been shaved down on the far side of their head. They are holding the nonbinary flag, standing in the slightly closed off pose found in Paul Gariot's painting "Pandora's Box". One hand on their chest, one hand held out to hold the flag. They have top surgery scars on their chest and a c-section scar on their navel, though all of these have unfortunately been hidden by the flower censors. I chose a pandora pose for Parva because they have one of the most intense tragic backstories of any of my characters. Like Pandora opening the box, they have suffered through many things but came out the other side with Hope, and healing.

Xulic Vos and Kidron Engedi, a drow and a lizard person. They are sharing the genderqueer flag. Xulic has long ears and white hair in a braid, with a white monkey-like tail barely visible behind their legs. Kidron looks like a leopard gecko, and their tail is acting as a visual block in fron of Xulic's groin. They are standing together in the central pose of Raphael's "School of Athens" fresco. Xulic is pointing one hand up to the sky, while Kidron holds one hand palm down towards the earth. Xulic's chest is visibly flat, however I have rewritten the drow as a eusocial people, who's biology has made most of the common population infertile and visibly near identical above the waist. Xulic's agab is unknown to anyone but them, and perhaps their reptilian lover Kidron. Both drow and lizard folk have biology and cultures that do not really support a gender binary, so genderqueer suits them both quite well. I chose the School of Athens pose because these characters are scientists in fields that overlap, and they often get into deep discussions on the matter. Xulic is a paleontologist while Kidron is a geologist, and they have another friend (my protagonist) who studies archaeology.

Obeli (or Abuela) Moruga, an elderly goblin with sagging skin and axolotl-like frills on the sides of her head. She grins as she holds the gender queer flag, partly draped over the tall stool she is seated on. Her pose matches that of John Collier's "Priestess of Delphi" painting, which depicts a woman hunched over herself on a stool. Old Obeli Moruga, whose title best translates to "grandmother" is a significant figure in her community, both because of her more practical role as a leader and wise woman, but also because she has gained immortality and become an incarnation of Life Itself, after she was given the offer of such power when she nearly died in the goblin revolution. There are many figures that would suit her. Poses from statues of goddesses, like Athena or Gaia. Perhaps turning away from the theme of greek and roman figures I ended up with for my nonbinary group (dalmar is his own thing) and using the famous painting of Liberty on a battlefield. But now in her old age, all those poses of figures in more active poses, tall and imposing, simply didn't feel right. A wise old woman, hunched on a stool in a pose associated with the idea of an oracle, a priestess, a prophetess, felt much more fitting. (goblin culture does have specific pronouns for leadership, and in the common speech they have decided this translates best to the feminine "she/her")

Olli Moruga, also a goblin with axolotl-like frills, standing with the demiguy flag in his hands. He is in the pose of Michaelangelo's statue of Bacchus, god of wine, merriment, and madness. One hand up as if to salute with a cup, body leaning and perhaps a little unstable. Olli is a gay demiguy, stepping away from the naturally ungendered state of his people to embrace masculinity instead. He is extroverted, loves a good party, and has definitely been a little over his depth with alcohol on many occasions. He knows this is a problem. He used to act rebellious because of it, trying to be cool and aloof, but he has since admitted the truth to himself and now openly seeks help. His trans lover, Zaire (seen in a previous post) has become a great support to him. Even though it may seem odd to use the pose of a god of wine for a character that is trying to overcome an alcohol issue, I still feel like the vibe of Bacchus or Dionysus fits Olli well. He is not only a god of wine, but also of pleasure in general, a concept Olli embraces. Wild joy, perhaps to the point of becoming a little feral, abandoning tradition for personal fulfillment. It is unusual for goblins to embrace a binary gender, even partially. Gendered pronouns do not exist in their tongue, only being used in cases where common speech needs to be used to refer to certain significant figures, such as a leader. It is also unusual for a goblin to take a lover outside their species, since most goblins live in fairly isolated places and all mate together seasonally, depositing their eggs in a communal nursery pool. Olli stands out on purpose.

Lastly, Sajak, an amphibious person with some fish-like features such as their finned ears and a barely visible dorsal fin. They are holding the genderqueer flag as they stand in a commanding pose, one foot on a rock, one arm held out as if pointing to something below them. This pose is taken from the central Poseidon statue in the fountain of Trevi. Their head, arms, and torso are covered in dark tattoos in abstract designs, and they also have a few natural dark stripes along their arms and legs. The obvious connection between Sajak and this statue of Poseidon is that Sajak is a fish person and Poseidon is an ocean god. If I could have thought of a more medical figure, I may have made a different choice in the art reference. Sajak is primarily a doctor, a healer. They are fairly well known and they were an important figure on their home island, though they did leave eventually. Even so, there is a certain vibe to Sajak that suits the image of a powerful and unpredictable oceanic god. They are steady, intelligent, and careful, but they can become fierce when their loved ones are under threat, and the intense focus they show in their work as a doctor can be intimidating to see. There is a feeling of hidden power within Sajak, just as there is in the ocean when it seems calm. Fish folk, whether bipedal and amphibious or fully aquatic, also fit under my category of "non-mammalian people who are just kind of genderqueer by default due to their biology not fitting into a binary".

#figure art #figure drawing #nonbinary #intersex #genderqueer #queer ocs #winks ocs #image description #accessible art #my designs #drow #lizard folk #elves #goblins #merfolk

[saplingdraws]

1, 2, 10, 11 for the ask meme! :3c

ooo thank you for sending these!! c: <3

1. what is your favourite colour to work with?

right now it's different shades of purple, typically more red-hued than blue! but i'm also just biased because underhill is half drow and his skin palette is purples <3 i do also love gold right now too!! so many of my dnd characters love their fancy jewelry and i've been trying to get better at rendering metals!

2. who is your favourite character to draw?

would it be too predictable of me to say underhill? skhgb;fl LISTEN! he's my character in my longest running campaign so far! but i have a terrible tendency to redesign him a bit every time i draw him!! probably because consistency isn't my strong suit lmao. i will say that i probably had the most fun drawing avarice and currently most of my dnd art concepts involve ava! they're just tragic and haunted (literally) and i'm excited for some upcoming ideas

10. are you right or left handed?

right handed! there are some things that i can do really well with my left hand, but drawing definitely isn't one of them. maybe i'll do a right hand vs. left hand drawing.... :o

11. warm or cool colours?

warm!!! i feel the most comfortable working with warm colour palettes when it comes to adding texture and detail and highlight. i find it easier to make my art look more lively and vibrant with warm colours. cool colours are beautiful and i have two beloved dnd characters who are blue lmao so i wish i was better at working with cool palettes! i just have a tough time making those pieces not look flat or dead :c

#ask #friend tag #this got me so motivated to work on stuff!!

[emptygoldstudio]

PSYCHONAUTS 2 THEORIES ABOUT PSI CADETS

!ATTENTION!

All theories can be far-fetched due to the small amount of information. All the pictures (except for Lizzie's drawing) are taken from the Internet and I DO NOT own them (except, again, Lizzie's drawing) The post is not trying to offend anyone. These are just the thoughts of a dedicated psi fan. And of course beware of spoilers)

Post where i explained cadets named

Let's start

Norma

Name meaning

Norma is a female name. A single instance of the name Norma is recorded 1203, where it perhaps derives from the Latin word norma, meaning "precept".

More recently Norma has been used as a female equivalent of the name Norman, meaning "Norseman".

<...> the name of the Germanic mythological Norns.

As you go deeper, you can see the mention of Norns:

The Norns in Norse mythology are female beings who rule the destiny of gods and men.

<...> there are many others who appear at a person's birth in order to determine his or her future. In the pre-Christian Norse societies, Norns were thought to have visited newborn children.There were both malevolent and benevolent Norns: the former caused all the malevolent and tragic events in the world while the latter were kind and protective goddesses.

Perhaps this is the essence of Norma as a character: her own destiny will be in her own hands, but until a certain moment she will not believe in it ... Or it's just female equivalent of the name Norman. Who knows how hard Double Fine Productions tried to lay down a secret meaning and did it try at all?

Appearance

Norma looks quite fashionable - in a floral blouse and a brown skirt with a wide belt. Perhaps she will become the "black sheep" character type and be a little bitchy. At least that's how I see her now.

Lil’ funny thing - for me Norma looks like a Frisk from Undertale

Sam

Name meaning

Short for Samuel, from the Biblical name Shemu'el, which means "God has heard", from the Hebrew shama, meaning "heard" and el, meaning "God".

Hebrew is the state language of Israel.

Appearance

Sam has some pretty unique clothes. If we attribute it to religious clothing, then we can say that he can be either a Jew or a Muslim.

Personally, I am more inclined to think that his clothes are similar to Jewish, if you take several outfits and mix them together. The only detail that seems odd to me is the hat. It's not black, it's brown. Therefore, there is a small chance that this is Muslim clothing with an ordinary black jacket and hat on top.

Lizzie

Name meaning

Lizzie is a short form of the name Elizabeth... That’s it. This is all I’ve got.

Appearance

Many punks dye their hair in bright, unnatural colors, comb and fix it with varnish, brilliantine or gel so that it stands up.

Punks also wear various attributes of rocker subcultures: wristbands, bracelets (mostly leather, with spikes, rivets and chains, etc.), and often make them themselves. Many punks get tattoos.

Okay, listen to me. I'm not a professional when it comes to punk culture, but just look at it. Tattoos, badges, the general dark blue color scheme is maintained in clothes, various bracelets and belts, a huge earring, a jacket made of raven feathers(?). If it's not punk, then I don't know who (write your opinion in the comments).

There is one detail that has always confused me about Lizzie. Her hair. They always seem to stretch up. And while I was looking for information about punks, it dawned on me.

Iroquois!

Lizzie has a mohawk, but she pulled on a hat to hide it? Or it's just her style. I do not know. But what I know for sure is that now I will not be able to discern the fact that she has a mohawk.

Morris

Name meaning

Origin from British, Irish or Germanic

Appearance

He is dressed in a neat suit. He may have a wealthy background, which would explain his appearance. But the most interesting thing is his ability. Morris sits in what I would call a wheelchair that is levitated. I will assume that Morris is disabled and cannot walk, which makes levitation the only way to his comfortable existence (Or he is simply too lazy to walk, which is unlikely). From the light bounced off the Gisu, it can be assumed that the color of his levitation ball is yellow or some other light color.

He also has a small notch on his nose. I don't know what it is.

An interesting thing was shown in one of the latest video updates, where Raz and Morris are on the same mission and are chasing something that looks like an octopus. Raz is currently jumping on platforms floating in the air. They are translucent and I will just assume that they are one of Morris's main abilities. In that case, considering how the colors are arranged in the Raz Levitation Ball, I would say that Morris has a yellow levitation ball with a blue border.

Gisu

Name meaning

A submission from California, U.S. says the name Gisu means "Tress, curl, or long hair of a woman" and is of Persian / Iranian origin.

A submission from Virginia, U.S. says the name Gisu means "Gift of god" and is of Indian (Sanskrit) origin.

Appearance

As a result, we have leads for three countries. If you look at the modern clothes of each country and compare them with what Gisu is wearing, it turns out that Iranian clothes look very similar.

I studied the issue as much as I could. Indeed, what covers her shoulders and head looks like a shawl or rusari. Therefore, I declare with full confidence that Gisu is from Iran.

Also, her hair matches the description of one of the meanings of the name:

"Tress, curl, or long hair of a woman"

In her hands you can see something like a skateboard. Maybe it's just a board that she uses like a hoverboard by using levitation.

Cassie

Name meaning

Cassandra means “to excel”, “to shine” and "prophetess".

In Greek Baby Names the meaning of the name Cassie is: Purity; unheeded prophetess.

Appearance

At the moment, Cassie is my favorite character, but also quite mysterious. In case you haven't noticed, in the last updates we were shown exactly her, and not other psi-cadets. And as you know, a regular character will not get as much attention as a key character. It is Cassie who comes out ahead of all the cadets in the scene from the trailer, and she is the focus of the scene.

Many have already guessed that the level made from the books is Cassie's consciousness. It is quite obvious - an abstruse looking girl with glasses, probably likes to read. And there are no other candidates for the role of the owner of the book consciousness yet. But it is about this level that the creators in one of the videos will say that everything was going to this, it is here that the words will sound:

But here's what put me on my guard, these words:

This means that they wanted at least one character to have purple skin. Now let's remember a key character with purple skin, almond-shaped eyes, dark hair, a triangular head, whose cheeks could become sunken over a long life; a character strong enough for his descendants to become some of the best and strongest to be able to become cadets at the Psychonauts' headquarters...

The answer is one

Maligula

Even without considering the weirdness of the game's style, you can see that Cassie and Maligula are quite similar. Just paint Maligula cheeks and you're done. And this gives more room for thought. If Cassie is a descendant of Maligula, what can she do at headquarters? She went there of her own free will, wanting to advance beyond the fortuneteller, which her family never did, or she is part of Galochio's conspiracy, because who will suspect a cadet teenage girl. Is she the mole that Raz is looking for? If that's the case, it's brilliant to hide out in the open.

Therefore, I believe that her ability is hydrokinesis, which is inherited. But because of the beanie and scarf, I'll assume that her ability could have evolved into cryokinesis - the ability to manipulate ice (at least I want to belive in this)

What do you think about all these theories about psi cadets? I would be interested to read.

#psychonauts #psychonauts 2 #psychonauts 2 theory #pn2 spoilers #Psychonauts Theory #psychonauts 2 spoilers #psi cadets #emptygoldstudio #i lost 9 hours on this #please!!! #read this #i really tried #and i am really tired #<;^/

[150289city]

ILLUSION - SURREALISM

Analyse creative manipulation images.

1. Zdzislaw Beksinski

The canvas, known as "Creeping Death", evokes a lot of emotions and remains relevant all the time. The leitmotif is death, which creeps silently like a spider. This is how he appeared in the eyes of the painter - death comes unexpectedly and destroys everything on its way.

Beksiński's paintings were about loneliness and the inevitability of death. The painter also often presented a vision of Armageddon. This is also the case of "Creeping Death". The end of the world appears in dark, brown and bloody colors. And death takes its toll and disappears unnoticed from the battlefield. The city burning in the background means that death has won again. Nobody survived. Death can take many shapes, it can resemble a human, an animal or a spider. In the painting by Zdzisław Beksiński, he is a terrifying creature that leaves the ruined area on its cramped limbs. Instead of the face, you can see a bandage through which a blood stain pierces. Instead of a torso, there is a hairy abdomen, similar to that of deadly spiders, and they will always flee from impending danger. Just like death, which also has time to hide from fire.

Beksiński's painting is one of the most terrifying contemporary works of Polish painting. Suffering, anger and resignation permeate them. The artist knows that he is unable to change his fate. He only has pain and the awareness that death will come for him. "Creeping Death" can be a universal picture, presenting the world after war, apocalypse or catastrophe. They can also be the darkest thoughts of every human being that circulate through the mind looking for an outlet. Because everyone is struggling with their own demons, which may appear completely different. It is certain that they cause fear, but they are essential in the fight against the suffering that is part of human life.

2. SALVADOR DALI

There are four clocks in the picture. One hangs from a dry tree, the other, with a blue shield and golden edging, flows down from a brown plinth. There is a fly on it, which can symbolize the "flying" and passing time. The orange watch lying next to it seems to be less soft and melting than the others. Ants crawled over him. The orange clock looks like it's about to be eaten by insects. Ants are here a symbol of rotting, decay. The fourth clock is in the center of the painting. It flows down from a deformed, beige-colored form. Only after looking closely you can see something like a nose, eyelid, long eyelashes. The distorted form resembles skin pulled from the face. According to some, it is a self-portrait of Salvador himself.

"Soft clocks" is nothing but a delicate, extravagant and lonely, paranoid-critical camembert of time and space.’’ Salvador Dali

Persistence of memory is perhaps one of the artist's most recognizable works. It was established in 1931. The idea was born when Dali, eating a melting French Camembert cheese, saw clock faces in it.

Dali created works that were supposed to amaze or shock. He did not represent anything directly, but through a vision. Therefore, he is included in the group of surrealists. Obraz Persistence of memory is a dream about time deformed by memories and dreams. Gala - Dali's muse and wife - said about this painting that the viewer's memory would only be the "softness" of the watches, because anyone who saw this work at least once would never forget it. The rocks of Cape Creus are an element of the landscape that appears in many of Dali's works. They have become an example of "hard" forms. The artist, who has a well-prepared drawing and knows the perspective, creates in a surprising way. An example is theoretically correctly painted clocks, but why is one of them hung over a branch, and the other running off the counter? It was this astonishment that the artist wanted to combine various objects in any way. The elements of the painting are arranged on the canvas in such a way that we have the impression of a large space and emptiness. Thanks to vivid imagination, all details have been divided into soft and hard. Clocks are among the soft ones.

3.  RENÉ MAGRITTE

With my popular sympathy for the Belgian painter René Magritte, I have allowed myself to be introduced to you by opening the whole series "Art for Tuesday" with his "Lovers". Together with the blog returning to the expanses of the Internet, let Magritte be the patron of the reactivation of this cycle, this time with her "Son of Man".

The very title "Son of Man" (French: "Le fils de l'homme") is a bit puzzling when confronted with this picture presents itself.

After all, we see an elegant man in a suit and a bowler hat against the background of the wall separating him from the sea, above him there are clouds that announce a storm or storm. And what is very important - it is a self-portrait.

Oh yes, I would ... Before the face of forgotten people (levitating?) A green apple that makes his face invisible, revealing part of the eye and eyebrow in fact. We have to remind ourselves that the Belgian was definitely a surrealist who grew out of the impressionist school. However, he used his symbolic linguistic voice, which was shaped by such tragic experiences as the mother's suicide - hence the motive of the shroud. The motif of a veiled face, or the lack of it, is constantly present in Magritte's painting. Maybe it allows you to stay safe? For both the "covered" and those looking at him? Or maybe these masks and covers allow for proper perception of things (I refer to the author's painting "Rape")?

As for the "Son of Man", a stretched (as always), original interpretation appeared in my head.

The apple ripens with its apple tree represented by the man. He is well dressed, which can mean high social status. Or maybe an apple covering a man's face makes him anonymous? is it just a tree from which society grows? And when he dies, will someone eat the forbidden fruit that he has grown, and will continue this process? Another "Son of Man" ..?

4. Max Ernst

"Day and Night" is a work that Max Ernst painted in the years 1941-1942. It presents a gloomy rocky landscape in dark colors. The image of the night is dominant here - the dark blue sky and the outlines of boulders. On the dark background, however, there are traces of the day, resembling daytime photographs of the same space. In these pictures these places appear completely different - they are sunny and full of bright colors. They do not resemble a barren night landscape.

Ernst's work follows surrealist poetics. Its meaning becomes understandable above all in the historical context in which it was created. It is about the tragedy of World War II, which left its mark on the artist's own biography. He miraculously managed to escape from the hands of the Gestapo and emigrate from France to the United States.

The night landscape is a barren land devoid of color and optimism. One gets the impression that we are dealing with a world completely destroyed by some cataclysm. His memories are only optimistic photographs from the past, which show the old face of the landscape. These optimistic incrustations in combination with the dominant gray and sterility not only do not cheer up the whole, but make it even more repulsive. We are dealing here with a world that will never return to its former glory.

The colorful pictures bring to mind illustrations from children's books. Thus, the artist refers to the myth of childhood as a lost paradise. Children's dreams are triggered here, in which reality seems to be a magical and wonderful being. At the same time, the juxtaposition of colored fragments with a gloomy background is also associated with the biblical Eden, where innocence and beauty are destroyed by sin and evil.

You can also understand "Night and Day" as a kind of puzzle. The picture resembles a puzzle that needs to be matched in an appropriate way so that they form a whole together. In this sense, one should see in Ernst's work traces of hope for rebuilding what was destroyed during the war. It is, in a way, a proposal to organize the world once again so that it becomes a place where a person feels safe again.

5. Pablo Picasso

"Guernica" is a famous painting by Pablo Picasso, painted in 1937 in reaction to the Spanish Civil War. The work is an act of protest against violence and at the same time a great manifestation of pacifism.

The title of the painting comes from the name of a Spanish city bombed by the German Luftwaffe air force in response to resistance to General Franco's group.

"Guernica" shows deformed human and animal figures, forming a chaotic swirl. You can see the bodies in pieces, especially the heads and limbs. The severed hands tighten tightly on the objects they hold: a candle or a sword. The mouths of the characters are usually open in a silent scream, and terror is visible in their eyes. People seem to squirm in deathly groans. Human figures blend with animals.

The whole thing looks like a huge, dynamic swirl. The depressing impression is deepened by the colors of the painting, in shades of black and gray. The central part of the painting is lit by a light bulb in the upper edge of the work. It seems that the situation depicted in the picture takes place in a narrow room, intensifying the impression of being surrounded and threatened.

The painting was painted in cubist aesthetics, which in the case of such a dramatic topic emphasizes the cruelty and tragedy of war. The fragmentation of the solid is here not only an act of artistic deformation, but also emphasizes the essence of any armed conflict, which is the total destruction of the world.

The war appears on Picasso's canvas as unbridled chaos and suffering. People dehumanize, they are reduced to the level of terrified animals, driven by the survival instinct. Human remains are clearly deformed, they resemble meat. Human and animal bodies are fragmented as if after a bomb had exploded.

The symbol of destruction is the Spanish bull emerging from the gloom, which covers the unfolding events with an unshakable gaze. Broken hands clutch at useless objects, among which stand out a candle and a broken sword. The former may symbolize the desire to illuminate the escape route, but it is also a sign of mourning for those who died. A broken sword and a torn horse indicate the uselessness of conventional weapons in a modern war that brings mass death and destruction.

Picasso's painting exudes an atmosphere of fear and terror, the image of a mother lamenting over a child's corpse is particularly poignant. The claustrophobic narrowness of the room in which the characters find themselves emphasizes the non-exit character of their situation.

#preproduction #illusion

[ramsayboltonsmuse]

Yin & Yang

Part 1: Memories

Pairings: Ledger Joker x Reader

Warnings: Violence, Smut, Angst

Summary: Just a tension/smut/angst ridden piece about J x The reader. J goes looking for the reader after losing her years ago, and surprise surprise there is some smut. This is what I did with my Tuesday night y’all. Hope someone out there enjoys this.

Other Parts: Part 2, Part 3 (preview); Ao3 link

You were having that dream again. The one where you’re 10 years old and it’s almost Christmas. The one where you find your family dead. 

It’s in an estate, a massive manor house you don’t know well, somewhere outside the Gotham city walls. You’re walking down the grand staircase barefoot, the elegant deep teak wood cold to the touch. Your eyes are caught by the two gigantic floor to ceiling windows framing the doorway at the bottom of the steps and the blizzard of white snow falling heavily on the great front lawn. 

But it’s not the snow that grabs your attention, not really. It’s the red that’s interspersed in its banks that grow heavier and heavier by the second. It’s like a painting, like mutilated polka dots, and you can see that the red is spilling out from bodies. From the bodies of the guards on patrol. 

And then it’s the staircase that draws your attention back in. A trickle of something wet in the corner of your eye. A tingle at the back of your neck when you’re suddenly aware of how quiet it is. And all at once you’re aware of what’s on the staircase, your snow-captive eyes having missed it before: dead people. 

Three bodies stretched out along the stairs, reaching, straining desperately toward the next step, their eyes open and in brutal anguish. You recognize one as a maid, another as a butler and the third as your great aunt, hideous, her mouth forming a post-mortem howl of terror. 

And the bodies continue, at the bottom of the steps. An older cousin, another maid, and you cry out as you see your beloved German Shepherd stabbed and lifeless beside the door, a small knife lodged deeply in his side. Adrenaline coursing through you, you run down the rest of the steps and throw your arms over his body, weeping. You lift your head up, tears blurring your vision to see more bodies to the right and left of you. 

You stand up and start running through the rooms, seeing aunts and uncles and cousins and even your grandparents, dead, dead, dead. You start calling out, your voice rasping and hopeless for your parents. You run faster and faster through the rooms past dead scullery maids and cooks and guards and your little cousin Timmy, who you just built a snowman with that afternoon. All of them, dead.

Finally you see them, and you start sobbing as the hope is stamped out of your heart violently. Your father is cradling your mother, as if to shelter her from whatever blows were coming. Their blood is wet and spilling out in a circle around them and as you kneel and crawl over to them, your hands and knees become coated with it. You reach out a hand to touch your mother’s face, a small bloody handprint left on her as you collapse next to them.

You jolt awake in bed, your heart rate racing. It always takes a moment to come out of these nightmares, and you try to steady your breathing, making note of where you are and grounding yourself in reality. It helps that Copper must have heard you call out in your sleep, and he jumps onto the bed and nuzzles you with his wet nose. You take a deep breath and run your fingers through his soft black and gold fur. 

“Hi boy. Don’t worry, I just had a bad dream.” Copper isn’t convinced and curls up close to you, warmth radiating off of him. 

It’s okay. It was just a dream. You say to yourself. You look at the clock on your bedside table. 5:00am. You throw yourself back onto your pillow groaning, debating whether or not to try to fall back asleep, but you think better of it and get up. 

You clap your hands and your bedroom is immediately illuminated in a warm glow. You look around you at the familiar objects, stacks of books and notebooks strew across the room, further reassuring yourself that it was just a dream and you are perfectly safe. Your large bed, overflowing with countless pillows, an unfortunate obsession of yours, is empty of course except for a very comfortable looking German Shepherd snuggling into the covers. 

“Come on Copper.” You say with a gentle smile, and he hops down and trots out after you as you walk down the hall to the kitchen. Your parents had left you the family estate in the country after their tragic passing, but you couldn’t bear to live out alone in the middle of nowhere. Especially considering the last time you had been out in the country. 

You elected to buy a small but elegant apartment in the city, preferring the constant noise and knowledge that you were never alone to the emptiness of the family estate, which was carefully kept in mint condition by a caretaker and his family, though you never went out to visit it. You have no need for large spaces, tending not to have many friends or really let anyone in at all. It’s just Copper and you, and that’s fine.

You scratch him behind his ears before turning the coffee maker on. As you wait for your morning dose of caffeine, you sit at the kitchen island and look out through the massive windows overlooking Gotham, watching countless lights from other apartment buildings wink on one by one. You shiver in the cold, a light snow starting to fall outside. You’re really surprised you had the dream again, you can’t remember the last time you had it. Your thoughts start wandering back to that day.

It was so long ago now, that you imagine the details in it are probably not reality. Goodness knows, you couldn’t describe it to the Gotham City police when they finally showed up nearly a day later, having waited for the heavy blizzard to pass to get out to the house. You’re grateful that part of your memory is missing too, not wanting to remember what it must have been like, alone for a full day in a mansion of dead bodies.

When the police had reached you they asked a million questions, not understanding how you survived the slaughter. At first they assumed you had hidden yourself well, but the one part of that horrific incident you did remember proved otherwise. And it left the cops dumbfounded. You remember being in your room alone, lying on the ground and drawing something with such intense concentration, you nearly didn’t hear the door to your room open. 

All you remembered was that he was tall, and seemed young, couldn’t have been more than five or six years older than you. You couldn’t recall a single physical feature, only that he smelled of something very strong, like some sort of paint and gunpowder. You had slowly gotten to your knees and looked up at him. You remember being fascinated, though you didn’t know about what, and that he had knelt down and roughly grabbed the picture you had been drawing, staring at it intensely. You didn’t remember being afraid, but you could feel the terrible dark depth and breadth of evil wafting off of him. 

Needless to say, that didn’t help the police very much. They started looking for carpenters when you mentioned paint. They had been almost angry with you, the fact that you were the only survivor of a 40 person massacre and had even seen one of the killers (they assumed it must have been a gang to murder that many people) and you couldn’t remember a single useful detail. There had been a kinder, older cop who had hushed them away, yelling at them that you were clearly traumatized. He had given you a blanket, and at least everyone left you alone for a while after that.

Your coffee’s ready. As you pour yourself a cup, you suddenly feel nauseous, without the faintest idea why. It’s like an odd unsettling twisting in your stomach, something like dread. The ominous foreboding seems to spread through you like waves, swirling and crashing inside you until it consumes you entirely. You shiver.

“Okay Copper, now I’m certain I’m going insane. First thing on the to-do list today is find a friend. Any person will do. I need to talk to someone who isn’t a dog.” Copper barks and wags his tail as though in agreement, and you manage a half smile, though the sinking feeling in your gut doesn’t go away. 

So no coffee. Maybe a shower then to cool off. You think, walking to your bathroom. The dream must have gotten me worse than usual. You shake your head, again trying to remind yourself of realities. You’re in your twenties, you have a great job at a top tier financial firm (as a side note your stilettos do sound pretty fucking awesome on the marble floors in the office), you’re a badass independent woman who basically raised herself from age 10, your only friend is a dog… okay stop listing realities. You smirk to yourself as you get in the shower.

Minutes later you’re out and quickly combing through your hair before throwing on a pair of black lace panties and an oversized Black Sabbath tee shirt, because fuck it, it’s Sunday, and you don’t need to impress anyone. The sun is coming through the big glass windows and lighting your apartment up in a warm, early morning glow. You start humming to yourself already feeling better after the shower, when you round the corner into the kitchen and notice the coffee is gone. 

Fuck.

You freeze. There is no doubt in your mind that someone is in your apartment. You curse yourself for ignoring the feeling before. You’re still debating where to run to, when one of the white swivel chairs where you like to read swivels around to face you. 

Who, or what more accurately, that is grinning at you through a malicious smirk that chills you to the bone is someone you’ve seen any number of times on the television.

The Joker is here, in your apartment.

Wearing his quintessential purple trench coat, suit and green vest, his hair a dyed green mess, he is an absolute enigma. His face is covered in white grease paint, making the black cavernous circles around his dark eyes even more terrifying. The color of his eyes are something blacker than black, the color at once pitch darkness and emitting a kaleidoscope of obsidian shadow and variation capable of portraying a vast array of sadistic emotion. 

He’s leaning forward in the chair that’s clearly much too small for his domineering broad-shouldered and tall body. From the look of him seated he must be at least 6’3. He’s holding the coffee cup in one hand haphazardly while the other dons a gun, lax in his hand. His smile is painted a viscerally bloody red, a color you have ingrained in your own memory all too well, and it sweeps up his defined cheekbones along his notorious scars to create a cheshire grin. 

The Joker casually swirls the gun in his hand, a clear warning for you not to do anything stupid, and throws his legs up onto the coffee table in front of him, crossing them comfortably and leaning back in the chair. 

“Nice of you to, uh, pour me a coffee sweetheart-ah.” He enunciates the word and flicks his tongue out over the wishbone scar splitting his lip. “Could have done with some eggs too, but-t we can’t have everything, now can we?” 

Compelled by lord only knows what force, you find your legs suddenly walking towards him. You want to scream at yourself to stop moving, but your feet pad toward the chair opposite of him. He watches you as you move with a near predatory glare that would make any sane person pick up and run the other direction. 

You reach the chair and sit down, crossing your legs. You have no idea where the confidence comes from, but your voice comes out strong.

“What are you doing in my apartment?”

The Joker eyes you with amusement. Uncrossing his legs from the table, he sits forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. You can almost feel the heat radiating off of his body.

“You, uh, invited me.” He looks you dead in your eyes and you feel unexpectedly exposed. You’ve been successful at keeping people at a distance, but the way The Joker is looking into your eyes it’s like he’s reading every tiny emotion, fear, and desire, some you may not even know yourself. 

You feel vulnerable, and you blink away, unable to hold the eye contact. You try to shake off the way he seemed to peel back your protective layers and look into what was underneath it all. 

“I most certainly did not.” 

You think you see a different emotion cross over his face, something like anger, but more sensitive, almost like heartbreak, but it moves so quickly that you don’t have a chance to catch what it is. The Joker takes a large swallow of the coffee before throwing the ceramic mug onto the ground, breaking it instantly and causing you to jump from the sudden noise. 

“Don’t argue with me doll.” His voice is cold and dangerous, and looking at the gun swinging lazily from his hand, you’re reminded of the reality of your current predicament. 

You steady yourself from his sudden outburst, taking a small breath, and it dawns on you that you haven’t heard Copper all this time. Your words come out biting and vicious, surprising even yourself. 

“What have you done with my dog?” You nearly snarl at him. 

The Joker raises an eyebrow and smirks at you, doing nothing to calm the fears that start swirling inside of you, flashes of your lost childhood pet invading your mind.

“Oh, you’re a feisty little thing aren’t ya, bunny.” You bristle as he uses the pet name. “I was hoping you, uh, wouldn’t disappoint-ah.”

“Where’s my dog?” You say again, adamant. “What have you done with my dog!” Your voice raises, bordering on a yell, and the barrel of the gun is against your forehead faster than you can blink. 

“Okay, sweetheart-ah, let’s get some things straight-ah. You’re not-t in control here, so let’s get that into your little head nice and clear.” He drawls the last couple of words out in a voice that is deeply dark and makes you think of the big bad wolf, a shiver moving down your spine. 

“You get to keep being alive by the sheer grace of, well, me. So you’d better start speaking with some respect-ah. And I mean let’s really use your manners, doll, let’s remember to say ‘yes sir’ and ‘please sir’ and ‘thank you sir’.” The Joker is smiling wickedly at you, his purple gloved hand pressing the barrel of the gun into your skull.

Your lips curl into a defiant scowl, your eyes glaring at him.

“No.” 

The blow across your face shocks you, knocking you out of your chair and onto the floor and leaving your head ringing. Without a moment to recover, he’s on top of you, the force of his powerful build crushing you as his free hand encircles your neck, squeezing. 

“Bad girl.” He tsks. “And after I’ve been so patient with you.” You start gasping for air, your hands reaching up to wrap around his forearm, trying in vain to pull him off of you. He’s so close now that you feel scorched by the heat radiating off of him, his muscles flexing as he all too easily overpowers you. 

Your senses are invaded by the smell of him, like...paint...and...gunpowder. Your hands release his forearm and you stop struggling, memories flooding back like a sink that has been sealed shut for years suddenly turned onto full intensity. The images come flashing back so erratically and powerfully, you can’t even process them.

The manor house your family had rented out for the holidays, large enough to host your entire family, staff and guards for a whole week. How you had staked out in your bedroom when none of your cousins wanted to play with you, not after you had suggested they make anatomically correct snowmen, and they wouldn’t stop calling you ‘weird girl’. 

That’s where he had found you, in your bedroom, with a rather unnatural assortment of items around you. Several barbie dolls you had stolen from a younger cousin were stripped naked and tied up in intricate knots hanging from furniture, while others were simply cut up into pieces and scattered around the room. 

There was a large history book on medieval torture open to your right and A Clockwork Orange to your left. And there you were, wearing a pretty blue and white flowered dress, tucking a strand of your long hair behind your ear and drawing a picture of a mass murder with colored pencils. 

The Joker releases the hold on your neck as he watches the series of memories flash across your eyes, his gaze trained on you intensely. He stands up and watches you as you slowly pull yourself to a seated position, the gaps in your memories filling in all at once. It’s all clear then. 

A young Joker standing in your doorway, face painted and smelling like greasepaint and gunpowder, smiling wickedly and brandishing a blood soaked knife as he kicked open the door. 

Your eyes narrow and you throw yourself onto your feet, running at him full force as you feel the weight of realization that your family’s murderer is standing in front of you. You don’t know what you expected to do when you reached him, your hands balling into fists, but The Joker easily catches your wrists with a pressure you can't break, backing you up against the glass windows. 

“Memories coming back doll?” His voice is gravely and dominant, but there’s a softer edge buried somewhere deeper in it. Your eyes fill with tears and your voice comes out in choked sobs.

“You killed my family!” 

His voice is hard as steel when he answers you, leaning closer into you. “Yes.” 

“Why!” You don’t know what to think, the memories and emotions overloading you to the point where nothing makes sense anymore. 

The Joker smiles at you, and you’re reminded that the person in front of you is a psychopath, incapable of empathy, who kills people just because he wants to. 

“Why? Why!” The Joker lets out a hyena cackling laugh, throwing his head back before wrapping his hand around your neck, his thumb pressing into your jaw. “The same reason anyone does anything sweetheart. I did it for fun-ah.”

“You’re sick.” You blurt out, your tears drying up and replacing with anger.

“Well if I’m sick,” The Joker raises his eyebrows at you knowingly, “then you’re, uh, sick too.” He laughs loudly and maniacally, causing you to jump. “Why so serious-ah?” He says brandishing the word. “It’s much too heavy in this room, doll. Whadya say we have a laugh-ah?”

You look at him disgustingly, and you’re made aware of a knife pressing gently into your side, sliding up over your t-shirt until it reaches your mouth, the steel cold against your lips, pressing lightly. 

“What is there to laugh about?” You breathe out, heart rate increasing at the knife that could so easily cut into you. 

“Well, uh” The Joker leans into your neck and you feel goosebumps break out over your skin. His lips ghost your neck, and you’re aghast that you feel a little ball of warmth move through you as the corded knots of his scars tickle your neck. “I think it’s funny, bunny, that you despise me at the same time you desperately need me.”

“What are you talking about?” You struggle against him, but the hand around your neck only presses harder while his other moves to grab your hip bone hard enough to leave a bruise, caging you in place against the windowed wall. 

Fear courses through you as you glance sideways through the glass and remember just how high above the city you are. If he pushed hard enough, he could easily break the window and send you falling to your death.

“Oh, please, babygirl. I knew it the second I saw you. You’re just a little masochist, ain’t-cha?” 

You thrash your body against him, but the more he asserts his power over you, the more you can’t help the tingling feeling spreading through you. You should feel disgusted, sickened, that the man who killed your entire family is touching you this way. 

But you don’t. The horrid truth is, he’s right. You want him to take you. You need it. All at once, you stop struggling against him, defeated. 

He releases you and pats your cheek none too gently. 

“That’s my good girl.” 

The Joker walks behind the counter and picks something up, carrying over the large bundle and depositing it on one of the chairs. You realize it’s Copper and run over to him, crouching down and running your hands through his fur until you feel a heartbeat. 

“He’s alive.” You breathe out a sigh of relief. 

“Just knocked out dollface.” 

You stand and walk toward The Joker, needing to ask him the question that’s been on your mind for years now. 

“Why didn’t you kill me that day?” 

The Joker grins and saunters over to you, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he reaches you.

“Because-ah,” He grabs your arms, pressing into your skin roughly with a force that’s sure to leave bruises. “You’re special. And you’re mine.” The word is definitive, unquestionable, and you’re left wondering if you’re the only one of The Joker’s victims he’s let live. 

“It took me a long time to find you. But now that I have, bunny, you won’t be going anywhere.” 

Your face softens at that, and you realize it’s because no one has ever looked at you the way he is looking at you now. Like they see you. Not even your parents, who you are remembering more and more clearly as cold and almost fearful of you, desperate for you to ‘just be normal’. 

No one has looked at you the way he is now, and you find yourself wanting to be closer to him, nevermind all the warning bells going off in your head that this is likely the most stupid idea you’ve ever had, that this is The Joker. 

But you can’t help it, you’re smiling up at him, letting all the overthinking go and basking in this momentary truth that someone wants the actual you. He’s staring into your eyes with a delightful possessiveness as he pulls you to him and plants a row of kisses and bites on your neck, exposed for him in a little show of submission, causing him to growl hungrily against you. 

“And dollface,” he whispers in your ear, “You can call me J.”

Your body jolts as he lands a much harsher bite closer to your collarbone, causing you to emit a sound somewhere between a gasp and a mewl. 

“J?” 

He hums against your skin, sending warm vibrations through you.

“What are you going to call me?”

You feel him break into a smile against your skin, drawing away from his attack on your neck to stare at you, his jet black eyes a myriad of sadistic carnal desires. 

You feel the warmth spread through your core as he devours you with his gaze alone. His answer is simple.

“Mine.”

---

Next Part: Part 2

Tag List (if you want to be added just let me know!): @anyatheladyclown​

#Heath Ledger Joker #ledger!joker fanfic #ledger!joker imagine #ledger!joker #ledger!joker/reader #ledger!joker fanfiction #ledger!joker x you #ledger!joker x reader #ledger!joker smut

[sisterofiris]

In your opinion, what should be the main lesson from love-tragedy between Artemis and Orion? I am mostly asking because the character of Orion is very vague. I also wanted to find out what was the special interest or appeal of Orion, due to him being the only person, that I at least know of, to have been a romantic interest to Artemis. Thank you again for your time.

Brace yourself, because I have Feelings about this and they’re about to get intense.

Let’s start with what ancient texts tell us. The first thing to be aware of is that the myth of Artemis loving Orion is only attested in a single text, Pseudo-Hyginus’ De Astronomica (likely dating from the first couple of centuries of our era). Pseudo-Hyginus is himself quoting Istros, a poet whose work is unfortunately lost. It’s impossible to know exactly why Istros told the myth in this way, nor what traditions he himself was drawing from. The most we can say is that, in the context of Pseudo-Hyginus’ work, the myth serves as an explanation for the Orion constellation. More generally, all myths about Orion’s death seem to serve the same purpose - to explain how he came to be in the sky. The circumstances surrounding his death are mostly just details.

But that doesn’t stop us from delving a bit into them, especially the question of Artemis and Orion’s love. To answer your question as to what Orion’s appeal was, it seems clear that it was his skill as a hunter. (I might even argue that this is the origin of his character, since the constellation Orion looks like a man holding a weapon. The early Greeks must have wondered who he was, and all the stories would have developed from there.) In some texts, Orion is only depicted as a hunting companion of Artemis; in others, he is her lover, and that is where it gets interesting. One explanation for this might be that some Ancient Greeks didn’t like the idea of a virgin Goddess who never loved a man - so they gave her a dead lover, a hunter like her, if only to show that she had loved once. If so, then the meaning would be akin to a retelling I once wrote of this story:

Apollon, who wanted to preserve what he thought to be his sister’s honour, reached his goal: Artemis would never let herself be seduced again. But the night sky bears witness to a different moral. The forest and mountains may well seem harsh, still they hide thousands of beating hearts; like them, Artemis may well be wild, still she can love.

Since writing this, however, I’ve come to view the myth in a slightly different light. Artemis, in essence, is Lady of the Wild and Deserted Places, that is, a Goddess who cannot be “tamed” by love (note that in Ancient Greece, marriage was viewed as a civilising force for women) - and it would be a shame to discount such an important aspect to her for the sake of a tragic romance. Instead, I choose to view her affection for Orion as an expression of a different kind of love.

It’s all too easy to forget that, just like there are many Gods, there are many ways to exist. No, Artemis’ wilderness will never be host to civilised cities; but that doesn’t mean her forests and mountaintops are devoid of life. Quite the opposite - each has its ecosystem, holding itself together in its own way. This makes Artemis not Lady of the Deserted Places, with no life or love whatsoever, but Lady of Places that don’t fit our understanding of “civilised”. Following on this, she is not incapable of love - she just loves in a way that us civilised mortals, in our built cities, don’t understand.

In short, we call Artemis’ feelings for Orion romantic (and admittedly, Pseudo-Hyginus does say she almost married him, although the word he uses for her affection, dilectus, doesn’t necessarily denote romance) - but they don’t have to be. I choose to view the story, instead, as a reminder that love doesn’t have to manifest in a “traditional” way. Despite what Apollon may have thought, Artemis does not betray her nature by loving; she just happens to love by her own definition, whatever that may be.

I have to say that this reading is very much influenced by the fact I identify as asexual, and the stereotype that people like me “don’t experience love” because we don’t fit society’s idea of it - or that our experience isn’t real and it will be “fixed” by someone someday. I find comfort in Artemis’ relationship with Orion by interpreting it as non-romantic but still deeply loving. However, this is entirely my personal interpretation, with little in the actual text to support it, and if it doesn’t suit you, you’re free to disagree. All in all, it seems there are many different ways to understand Artemis’ relationship with Orion; it all comes down to which you resonate with most.

#artemis* #orion #ancient greece #greek mythology #hellenic polytheism #Hellenismos #asexuality #i don't discuss it much but this here is a topic close to my heart and i didn't want to duck out of it

[migleefulmoments]

This is not about being a “hater”. This is about helping you understand that Crisscolfer is based on faulty logic and lies. It’s about caring about the truth.

Abby wrote what I call a “masterpost” of the most recent proof she has that cc is still together. It’s the information she’s using right now to reassure herself that she’s right. The problem is that the conclusions she draws for why each social media post was made are illogical and erroneous conclusions. They aren’t logical, methodical, reasonable conclusion...period. 

Social media posts can be misleading and people certainly do make posts that portray a certain storyline. But it isn’t reasonable to conclude that Darren or Chris are using Instagram to tell their deepest darkest secrets to complete strangers. Neither man divulges much about their personal life on social media. In fact, the cc fandom mentions that often. Chris has a quote they love to repeat about not living on social media and Darren has said many times that he takes a lot of photos but he doesn’t post it online because he’s too busy living the moment. 

Let’s look at the post and analyze why Abby’s conclusions are wrong (my comments are italicized in parenthesis). 

Anonymous asked: why do you think they're still going strong? all evidence points to an amicable split a couple years ago

@ajw720 answered: not at all nonnie, not at all.  First, have you read ATOM?  I beg of you to read it if you have not. (I am reading it and it isn’t at all about Darren and Chris. It’s a story about children who are ostracized for being magical. It’s an allegory for being gay or being different in ways that society doesn’t accept. The children are sent to conversion therapy. It’s irrational and unreasonable to conclude it is a cc bible. The facts are: It’s a children’s book series, Chris isn’t interested in sharing his personal life at all with fans let alone, his deepest darkest secrets. Chris didn’t write an “It gets better” book for LGBTQ children only to use it to out Darren. Gay men don’t out other gay men by writing children's books. Chris has never said -or even hinted- it is an autobiography, he’s never suggested it is a love story based on his life. He started the series when he was 8 or 9 which included the character Froggy. Chris has several messages he likes to tell in his stories and he isn’t subtle in his lessons. He isn’t a subtle writer, yet Abby claims that at least 5 or 6 characters in TLOS are Darren and just as many are Chris. Instead of reading the book and hearing Chris’s message, she uses it for confirmation bias in a variety of characters and storylines. She finds the parts that FIT her PRECONCEIVED  idea of the cc storyline. It’s a fantasy-not realty. 

Second, have you seen the excessive use of the PA since october 25?  i believe a pic and/or video has been posted of him about 23 times in just about 4 weeks.  That is up from 0 in the 5  months that preceded it.  w is only required to be held out as the fake bf if cc is on. (This theory is predicated on the theory that Will is important to “cc is real”. This is another erroneous assumption that Abby concluded long ago as a way to explain why Will is around Chris so often. WIll is around because he is Chris’s boyfriend. Chris has said so with both his words and actions. Using Will’s presence on Chris’s social media as proof that cc is going strong- that Will is “mac and cheese” to the fandom is illogical-for one, out gay men do not have beards. There is no reason that Will showing up in Chris’s posts would prove cc is still together. That is another erroneous conclusion Abby reached long ago when she needed to explain away why Chris is posting pics of Will. The fact is that Will is always in Chris’s Halloween pics, their annual Disney trip, and Will’s birthday post. This year Chris also happened to post some other events they attended together so that he posted 10 pics of Will in the last 2 months.. Coming to the conclusion that Chris posting more pics of Will is proof of anything related to cc is like arguing that 1+1=322. Will being on Chris’s Instagram has nothing to do with Darren. The “23 videos and photos” include posts made by fans, friends and other people. It’s preposterous to claim that fan pics of Will or a friend posting his pic are because of the cc storyline).  

Did you watch the recent interview c did?  first it is brilliant so you should watch it.  and then he said this;

It is unfortunate that for some people you want to apply that phrase “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” to the mental side of things too.  But sometimes what doesn’t kill you, makes you suicidal. And it is really up to you “am i going to let this kill me or am i going to let this motivate me.” and sometimes when I hear people say this, i want to throw things at them, so I am going to say this very tongue and cheek, sometimes it really is a a choice, not a choice, sometimes I don’t think your point of view or interpretation  of things you are going through can be a choice.  Sometimes things are just so tragic that you just have to feel what you are feeling so it can work itself out.

(There is nothing in that quote that suggests he’s speaking about the last 5-6 years of his life or Darren Criss or a secret love or TPTB forcing Darren in the closet. He said that “sometimes the shit of life gets you down and how you respond matters”. He could be speaking about a lot of things that are very difficult for young adults. Claiming he said anything else is an irrational conclusion based on confirmation bias. She hears him speak about Darren because that is the storyline she already believes is true but Chris isn’t saying anything that suggests he’s speaking about Darren). 

C made sure to have an alibi the night of the fraud in NOLA. (Why would he need an alibi? The logical conclusion to why he posted about going to a friend’s show on Darren’s wedding night is they aren’t close friends and his post had nothing to do with Darren at all. But I’ll play along for a minute and imagine cc is real: If the love of his life was marrying someone they both “despise”, Chris would have been devastated, not out enjoying a night of entertainment-and walking a red carpet/photo op.  He barely does that ever- he certainly isn’t going to do it on his worst day.  He was with Will and he didn’t post the pic himself. If he was pushing a narrative then he would have posted the pic. It’s very unfair to claim that things that other people post are messages he is sending-it’s putting words into his mouth. Chris had no reason to prove he wasn’t in NOLA, he clearly wasn’t in the wedding photos. Claiming he went out to a show with his long-term boyfriend to prove he wasn’t with Darren at his wedding is a silly argument.)  

They walked around NYC dressed like twins on October 1, 2019.  And the hickey. (Concluding that two people who were wearing jeans, glasses and dark shirts are “dressed alike” is wrong enough but concluding that similarities in their lives prove they are a couple is preposterous. We all know that wasn’t a hickey for so many reasons from the shape to the fact it was gone in photos taken later that day to Darren wouldn’t walk around on a press day with a huge hickey on his neck. You can see from photos taken that day, they hardly looked like twins. There is nothing rationale about looking for similarities in their lives to prove they are in a secret relationship. They are nothing more than coincidences. Claiming it is a hickey after she was told by so many people that it wasn’t- including ccer is a great example of how Abby doubles down on lies if it suits her needs.  She isn’t interested in the truth- only proving she’s right.) 

C’s SM.  He just recently posted his second pic of him in a tinhat, the 1st right after the encage.  You know, the day he wore the shirt that says “everything you know is a lie.”  He really has had some blatant posts.  also, sometimes  reflection is a really interesting thing. (Again,  unreasonable conclusions are made: Chris’s “second tinhat” photo was a pic of him getting his hair highlighted with foils-a very common technique for highlighting hair. He posted it to garner publicity for his book tour.  It’s irrational to conclude that he was sending a secret message to a small group of fans to reassure them that he supports “tinhats” when Chris has actually said several times that he isn’t in a relationship with Darren and has expressed anger over fans’ comments about them as a couple. He also wrote a book that included the main character with Chris’s initials expressing his anger with fans shipping him with his costar. The first photo was not a support of Crisscolfer tinhatting but a reference to Chris’s own belief in aliens- he’s holding an alien stuffed toy and wearing a shirt that has aliens on it.)

halloween when they set up the perfect SM riot. They started with the release of pics with CC in the background, proving to the haters that they in fact our friends and then 2 weeks later, AF posted a pic that included C and PBB but no D. (Here we have an example of how Abby’s conclusions are based on several erroneous assumptions leading up to one big faulty conclusion. The tops of Chris and Darren’s heads were photographed at a busy, crowded party proving they were speaking and nothing more. Abby’s claim that they purposefully caused the riot assumes 1. that they planned the photograph, 2. they distributed the photograph or knew the right people would see it and get their message, 3.that either Chris or Darren- or both- are very interested and motivated to make sure that complete strangers know intimate details of their personal lives and that they both want to spread this information via very impersonal and public social media. Claiming that Ashley posted a pic of Mia to prove “cc is real” is another unreasonable conclusion.  Let’s address the assumptions: 1. There is no way they could tell the tops of their heads were in the camera frame. Even in an uncrowded room, it would be difficult but with several people between them and the camera, it just isn’t possible to know that the tops of their heads were within the frame. 2. They had no way of ensuring fans would get the message.  They couldn’t be sure that fans would stalk the party photos and find the tops of their heads in the background. If they wanted a photo of them talking seen by fans, they had several avenues of making that happen- they both have PR teams and their own social media accounts, and Darren’s team was there. 3. The theory that they intentionally caused a “cc riot” by doing nothing more than standing and chatting at a party isn’t logical. There is no reason for them to even want to share something like “Darren is closeted” or “Chris and Darren are in a relationship” with complete strangers and they would have no control of the messaging. Smart celebs don’t release info about themselves using a method that takes all control away from themselves.  It’s the same reason that I know Darren would never stand on a car and scream “I’m gay” to a bunch of strangers-it’s not smart. Claiming they intentionally wanted the world to know they were together at the party and therefore “still going strong”  means they purposefully put a deeply personal part of their private lives into the world in a way that gives something valuable to the cc fandom-reassurance- but gives Chris and Darren nothing in return. They lose control of their personal info-something important to both men- but they get nothing back. Neither Chris nor Darren share much information about their private lives and they certainly don’t do it on social media. When they do share personal stories, it is during interviews. Rationalizing that Ashley posted a photo of Mia to prove cc is real is another erroneous assumption. Nothing about that photo proves Chris and Darren are in a relationship-it proves that Ashley felt that photo was a good one to post for reasons she didn’t indicate but there is nothing to suggest she posted it on behalf of Chris to shade Mia)   

they are absolutely still going strong and I would say pay attention to the details, but at this point, you don’t even really need to look that close, it is incredibly blatant. (The confirmation bias in the cc fandom is all-encompassing. Abby simply cannot be wrong and she analyzes everything to find the “cc still going strong” storyline. She doesn’t look at the situation and learn from it, she twists reality to FIT HER storyline. “Pay attention to the details” is a euphemism for “twist the truth to make it cc positive”. It’s deeply disrespectful to both Chris and Darren to refuse to HEAR what either man is saying-or SEE how they are living- and instead, spend all of your time and effort rewriting their life stories. Basing your conclusions on faulty logic leads to misdirections-it’s how you find yourself believing untrue stories for a decade and counting. The question isn’t whether Chris and Darren’s private lives are different from how they present them- it is their prerogative to keep their personal lives private from the public. The question is why can’t you respect that their personal lives are theirs and only theirs and that fans have no right to debunk their truths? Why can’t you understand that going on their social media and posting about Crisscolfer is the most disrespectful and cruel thing you can do. Believing you know the truth about a stranger’s life because you are “paying attention”  while simultaneously ignoring everything that proves you are wrong is hurtful to Chris and Darren but it’s more hurtful to you. You are teaching yourself how to draw illogical conclusions and to make erroneous assumptions.You are literally grooming yourself to believe lies and it cannot be contained to the cc fandom, it is something that will sneak into the other parts of your life until you have no ability to make assessments and draw accurate conclusions about important things in your life.You will never understand when you are being conned because you’ve spent some -or all -of the last 10 years methodically teaching yourself how to disregard the truth, ignore facts, and draw illogical conclusions. 

I don’t know if Christian Bale actually said this, I can’t find it on his feed, but the sentiment is still 100% accurate-other celebs have expressed the same feeling 

  #crisscolfer

#crisscolfer tag take back

#cc #ccer #cc fandom #crisscolfer #darren criss #Chris colfer #debunking CC lies #debunking cc nonsense #faulty logic #erroneous assumptions #convincing herself that cc is still going strong #still going strong #lies lies lies lies

[master-sass-blast]

Planning Pains

Whoooo boy. Gonna have to slap a big ol’ trigger warning on this one.

Summary: You attempt to start planning your upcoming wedding with Piotr --and run into a major emotional wall instead.

Rating: T for adult language, past child abuse, mentions of abuse, trauma from said abuse, and just a lot of anger, angst, and emotional pain.

Set after ‘Questions and Answers’ and before ‘The Literal Crack Fic.’

Also

TRIGGER WARNING: If you’ve got any hang ups on your ability to be loved or be in a relationship (which I absolutely understand and am not judging anyone for because I went through the same stuff as a teenager), this may not be the fic for you! This fic deals extensively with being led to believe that you (as the character of the Reader, not you irl obvs) weren’t worthy of being loved and the trauma that extended from that, and even if you haven’t suffered the abuse and gaslighting that I’ve detailed for the CHC, it’s heavy.

Obviously, y’all are fully capable of making your own grown-ass decisions, but I wanted to put it out there. Just in case.

Taglist:  @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @starman-thorsus-canos-jock

(Want to be added to the taglist? Send me a DM! Seriously, DM me, I don’t trust Tumblr’s ask box system or reblog notification system to catch everything lol.)

You should be able to do this. You’re smart. You’re capable. You help herd around a bunch of malcontent mutant teenagers and take down various groups of mutant criminals or groups planning to enact crimes against mutants –and the former is arguably more dangerous than either of the latter. You can make pancakes without burning down the kitchen –and have an edible product by the end of it (though the overall “pancake” appearance is largely questionable)!

You can fucking fly, for fuck’s sake. Know how many people can do that? A significantly small number, and they need planes or fancy equipment to do it, the chumps.

(Alright, that last point may be a little moot due to your mutation set, but still.)

Point stands: you are a confident, competent, capable adult, who is capable of accomplishing many different things with varying but usually large amounts of success.

So, why is it you can’t plan your own wedding?

You’re staring down at one of the tables in the library; you’d opted to set up in there for the sake of space, so you could spread everything out and get a good look at all of it, but now you’re thinking that was a mistake because the sheer amount of everything only makes it that much clearer that you don’t know what you’re doing.

Venues. Catering options. Invitations. Cake. Flowers. Wedding dress. Bridesmaids dresses. More cake. Music. Groom’s suit and groomsmen’s suits. Cake again. Rings, vows, honeymoon reservations, wedding party details, finding a minister, finding a house, or maybe an apartment, legal name changes—

It’s all too much. Even something simple, like picking what flowers you like, is impossible because…

Because you never even thought someone would want to marry you. For nearly your entire life, you were told that you were a monster, whole-heartedly undesirable, and because of that you never even dreamed about what a wedding for you might look like. Not even once.

And, as a result, you’ve got absolutely nothing in mind for what you might even want.

And it’s making you furious.

Because you should’ve been able to dream about your wedding –or even if in some alternate timeline, you never wanted one, you shouldn’t have been so beaten down that you couldn’t even fathom someone finding you desirable, let alone worthy of committing to.

You’re shaking in your seat, hands trembling as rage courses through you. The longer you stare at everything in front of you, the more helpless you feel, and the angrier you get.

Fuck your parents. Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them, fuck them fuck them fuck themfuckthemfuckthem—

“Hey, Y/N.” Russell grabs your shoulder gently. “Are you okay?”

You realize that you’re basically angry-sobbing in your seat, glaring at all the wedding planning materials while you tremble all over.

Yukio materializes on your other side and hugs you gently. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t!” Russell protests. “She’s crying over a picture of shoes!”

“A lot of women do that.”

“Should we get Piotr?” Ellie asks, ever the voice of reason.

You nod, largely beyond words at this point as you try to wipe off your face and reign yourself in a little now that there are people in the room with you.

Ellie and Yukio head off to track down your fiancé, but Russell stays behind, sitting next to you and gently holding your hand while you –unsuccessfully—try to calm down.

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “It’s gonna be okay. Colossus’ll be here soon.”

You nod, trying to soothe him more than you are yourself at this point, because –honestly—you’re just so angry. It’s like a wound you never realized you had is now ripping open, deeper and deeper, tearing through you until you can’t breathe and all you can do is bleed and rage—

How dare they.

Betrayal. Pure and simple. Betrayed by your parents, betrayed by the town you grew up in, betrayed by the members of the church you were dragged to every Sunday and Wednesday…

Week after week, a community of adults bore witness –to the anti-mutant sermons you were forced to listen to, to the times were the kids in the middle school and high school youth groups would bully you even though you were barely out of first grade yet, to the growing fear with which you reacted to your parents, to the times where you were dragged back to your home by men toting rifles after you’d tried to run away, to the bruises that covered your arms from your father’s abuse, to the bags under your eyes from constantly being afraid and upset, to how you retreated further and further inside yourself as your parents bore down harder and harder on you…

And they did nothing. No one, not once, ever looked at you and decided that you deserved protecting because you were just a kid and couldn’t control your genetic make-up.

How fucking dare they.

You didn’t deserve to hate yourself, you didn’t deserve to feel worthless, you didn’t deserve to believe that you were so unlovable that you’re completely lost at sea in the face of planning your own fucking wedding—

And then Piotr’s kneeling next to you and drawing you into his arms. He’s in his uniform and armored up –he must’ve been overseeing training sessions, and now you feel bad for having inadvertently interrupted him.

“Tische, myshka.” He gently lifts you into his arms, then says something to Ellie before carrying you out of the library.

You wind your arms around his neck and bury your face in the shoulder piece of his uniform. You’re still shaking, borderline hyperventilating as you try to cope with the sheer level of wrath coursing through you. How dare they, how fucking dare they; I was a kid!

And then you’re in the bedroom you share with Piotr.

You’re vaguely aware that the teens have followed you and that they’re setting the wedding stuff on the desks, and then they’re leaving and closing the door behind them—

And then it’s just you and Piotr.

“What’s wrong, myshka?” Piotr murmurs. He armors down before sitting on the bed, carefully settling you in his lap so he can nestle you in his arms. “What has you upset?”

What you want to say is that you’re upset and enraged over the mistreatment you suffered as a child, and that it still extends so far into your life that you’re finding yourself unable to help plan your own wedding because you literally have zero ideas on what you want due to being abused for so long.

What comes out, however…

“I hate them,” you seethe as you sit back. “I hate them so fucking much. I was just a kid, I didn’t fucking deserve to be their punching bag—”

Fortunately, Piotr knows you well enough –and the tragic story of your upbringing—that he can decipher from your rambling that you’re upset about your family. He frowns, sad and concerned, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I am so sorry, moya dusha.”

“I didn’t deserve it,” you insist, almost frantically, as tears sting your eyes. “I didn’t deserve it, I didn’t deserve it, I didn’t fucking deserve it—”

“Konecho net. Never.” He draws you back into his arms, kissing the top of your head and rubbing your back and generally doing whatever he can to soothe you. “You never deserved how they treated you. You never could, and you never will.”

You sob brokenly against your fiancé’s chest. “I can’t even plan my own wedding, Piotr! I don’t even know what I want it to look like!”

And then it all comes pouring out –the panic you’d felt in the library, how it’d morphed into fury as you realized what was causing your utter lack of ideas for your upcoming wedding, how the teens had found you in there, borderline hyperventilating as you’d stared at all the wedding stuff.

Piotr, for his part, just holds you and kisses the top of your head over and over again. “I am so sorry, moya lyubov’. Had I known you would have felt this kind of distress, I would have not left you to work on our wedding details alone.”

“But aren’t most brides supposed to plan the wedding?” you ask as you sniff inelegantly.

“I do not think ‘supposed to’ is right word. I think most brides wind up planning weddings because they have more aesthetic preferences,” Piotr explains. “However, I think it might be better if we work together for most of it. If only so you do not have to deal with your pain alone.”

“But you’ve got job stuff to do,” you whine. “And X-Men stuff, and teacher stuff, and this is gonna take a lot of time—”

“And you are my fiancée and love of my life and future wife and we will find way to make this work,” he insists as he presses his lips against your forehead. “Your well-being is more important than easy schedule.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I just don’t want you to wind up hating me by all the end of this.”

Piotr just holds you tighter and kisses your temple. “Impossible.”

It’s not going to be easy. Even the thought of trying to work on wedding stuff makes your stomach churn with anxiety and unreleased rage.

Nothing in life comes easy, though. And with Piotr by your side –and your friends and newfound family—you know you’ll get through it just fine.

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #so much angst #tw: abuse #tw: trauma #tw: gaslighting #x men fanfiction #deadpool fanfiction

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [813]

“Ellana, may I ask you something?”

“You know, Cullen, that’s very formal of you to do,” Ellana replies.

“You know I’m a somewhat formal person sometimes.”

“That’s fair. It’s just very unusual for you to be formal with me,” Ellana points out. “You’re making me nervous. Are you going to ask me to be best man at your wedding? Highly unusual but I’d accept because of how closely I value you and Evelyn’s good favor of me.”

“That’s rather pragmatic of you.”

“And that’s me.”

Cullen’s lip quirks up momentarily. “That’s fair,” he mimics. “May I ask you the question?”

“You can, and the tension just keeps building from here. What’s the question?”

“Sera and I get called country because we’re from Ferelden. But you and Mahanon are ten times more country than either of us and neither of you ever get called out on it. How did you get that to work out?”

“Oh, that? Way to give me half a stomach ache, Cullen. I was worried it was going to be a very serious question. And now I’m also disappointed that you aren’t asking me to take part in your wedding.”

“In order for me to ask that, there has to be a wedding, Ellana.”

“That was a hint, Cullen. A hint that sailed straight over your pretty blonde curls.”

“It was a hint that I dodged rather expertly, I should think. Is this you deflecting the answer?”

“No, that was me expressing my disappointment at why your question wasn’t the other thing. In answer to your real question, it’s because Mahanon and I don’t act country.”

“I agree that sometimes I might let some country slip out, but Sera is as city born as they come,” Cullen says. “And she gets called country now and again.”

“Yes, yes, but when the two of you act country you act country. It’s like how we all know Bull’s from the Qun and sometimes he does weird stuff that has to deal with the Qun but we never connect the two because he does it in a way that doesn’t seem like Qun at all.”

“You just said a lot of words, Ellana. I’m not sure if very many of them made particular sense.”

“Alright. Well. Here’s an example for you. Bull wears Vitaar sometimes but no one notices or points it out because he wears it so it blends in with the rest of his tattoos.”

“Bull wears Vitaar?”

“See? There you go. Qun but not Qun. Similarly sometimes Mahanon wears plaid but people don’t think country they think typical gay man because Mahanon usually pairs this with doing something different with his hair or yoga pants. Whenever I talk about some good old fashioned farm wisdom it’s mixed in with something not farm wisdom. Like that time we were talking about how to best get chickens into the coop in a timely manner and I slipped in some details about best warehouse stocking practices. It’s gotta be a mix, Cullen. That’s why no one ever associates Mahanon and me with country even though, I do admit, we are very country. Like. Super country. Our mom wins pie competitions and our uncles grow giant vegetables for county fair. Pretty sure that some of our cousins have gotten in trouble with the police for cow tipping. And then got in trouble with their parents for the cow tipping and then being caught cow tipping. I think on of my dad’s uncles has a corn maze.”

“And somehow I’m still country. I’ve never tipped a cow in my life.”

“It’s because you look country.”

“I wear a uniform.”

“It’s the blonde curls, Cullen,” Ellana says. “Sometimes one can’t help the way they look. If it makes you feel any better Mahanon and I were teased as country folk for like, three years in high school.”

“And then what happened?”

“And then our braces came off. Tragic high school transformation story. Literally nothing else changed, though.” Ellana hums speculatively. “Besides, it’s not even a bad thing, you know. When people think you’re country. They generally think you’re slow and behind the times. Excellent for getting them to say things that they wouldn’t say around someone they considered an intellectual equal.”

“That’s very Ellana of you.”

“Please. As if you don’t play it up sometimes,” Ellana rolls her eyes, “I’ve seen you lay on that Honnleath drawl extra thick when it suits you.”

Cullen’s ears turn a touch pink. “I might get a little — petty.”

“That’s Leliana and Josephine drawing it out of you from wherever you buried it,” Ellana nods approvingly. “It’s a good thing. If you want tips you can ask Bull. He’s very good at getting people to think whatever he wants them to think about him. Except for me, of course.”

“Of course,” Cullen agrees dutifully. “Do you think anyone’s going to consider anyone more country than me?”

“There’s Alistair Theirin. Pretty sure he’s way more country than you and he’s embraced that whole heartedly.”

“Sadly he isn’t around for people to poke fun of. And people usually hesitate to mock a king in casual conversation.”

“Damn shame, Leliana says he gets a kick out of it. Grew up to have a very thick skin, she says. Say, did you ever — ?”

“Yes, and no, I’d rather not talk about it,” Cullen replies. “We didn’t exactly meet under the best of circumstances. I imagine I left an incredibly sour first impression.”

“Well. I left a very sour impression on Bull the first time we met.”

“Is that so?”

“So it is.” Ellana nods sagely. “I was throwing up and I thought he was my brother so I told him to hold my hair back. He did hold my hair back but I said some truly embarrassing things to him while dry heaving. It’s a miracle he’s never brought it up again, to be honest. It’s kind of like waiting for the other shoe to drop? But he hasn’t said anything so I’m not going to and I’ll count that as a small blessing.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

[williamsnowdon]

an alternate reality of one night on the reeperbahn, twenty-odd years ago. a possibility of what could have been.

[content warnings: child prostitution, child neglect, trauma]

It was a damnably cold night.

William Pinke Snowdon blew on his fingertips, mildly cursing his penchant for fingerless gloves before sticking his hands fruitlessly back into the pockets of his peacoat; even with the collar turned up, it didn't do much against the chill. He'd been in Hamburg before, a few years ago on some wild chase for a set of vegetable ivory buttons with pewter-worked raspberries on them -- a coup for the British Button Society, indeed -- but that hadn't brought him anywhere near what he was looking at now. Smack dab in the middle of Talstrasse, watching the boys of varying ages sell themselves to whoever came looking.

Varying ages, the nymph repeated mentally in shuddering horror. Too young, was the truth, all of them. And particularly the one boy he was looking for, although all he had to go by was a small photograph of the child at eight years old. It was a horrible thought. Will didn't like to connect the memory of that small, rosy-cheeked, excitable child (or his nanny) to the dark sordidness of where he was stood now, with the wet damp creeping up through the soft soles of his Hush Puppies.

But, he reminded himself with a sigh as he gave a weak smile and shake of the head to a boy who was approaching him, angling himself awkwardly away to move down the pavement, that was exactly why he was in the Reeperbahn. Was to find that boy.

And as Will watched one of the young prostitutes step back from the window of a Mercedes that kept gliding smoothly down the street, he realized with a sharp catch of breath that, after six useless nights out searching, he might have finally found his quarry.

One who was fairly popular among the customers, it might seem.

Hurrying over, Will cut in front of a jittery man who seemed to be heading straight for Freddie -- he cursed floridly but directed himself elsewhere, thank goodness -- and came up short in front of the boy himself. Barely dressed, in his ripped-up clothes, but Will forced down the pang of sadness and asked in a rush of warm breath, "I can't believe I've found you -- do you remember me?"

It wasn’t that Freddie wasn’t used to eager punters jumping the queue, so to speak, to get to him - he was one of the busiest boys on the street, and had been since he’d first set up shop on this corner - but it was the way this man looked at him that threw him. The sorrowful relief in this man’s eyes as he looked him over, that made Freddie somehow, inexplicably, feel as though he wanted to cover up a bit. Nevermind the vaguely delusional claim that Freddie should remember him, which was just icing on the cake. So the fairy pushed down his uncharacteristic swell of self-consciousness, and smiled his best most seductive smile, coquettish and bold all at once.

“I should do, shouldn’t I?” he murmured, “Considering your accent - but somehow, darling, your name escapes me.” Freddie stepped closer into the older man’s personal space and laid a cold hand on his chest. “So why don’t you take me somewhere and remind me, yeah? I’m sure my memory just needs a bit of refreshing.”

He leaned in closer, plump lips teasing at this nutter’s earlobe. “Have you got a room close by, love?” he asked, “Or shall we get a kabin up at Erotixx? Either suits me, and then you can teach me not to forget your name again, hm?” The teenager insinuated himself closer, hoping to leach a bit of warmth from the older man in the meantime. “How much are you willing to spend, darling, eh? Because for the right price, we can be old friends, you and I…”

The hand on his chest brought a startled sound popping from Will's lips before he could stop himself, and it was only with another gust of self-control that he kept from pulling back entirely. Even with Freddie's warm mouth at his ear, proposing prospective locales for them to do … whatever it was that men his age did with boys that age, and Will, dizzy, set his palm gently against Freddie's hip in some instinctive effort to keep him close. Now that he'd found Freddie Watts, he wasn't about to lose him again, not through something as clumsy as open rejection of the boy's sole locus of control. 

Steady on, old boy. He's managed to survive this life, you can manage to put on an act for however long it takes to get him safe.

Drawing in a breath, Will nodded -- although he didn't give up the idea that Freddie's childhood memories might be jogged, with just a little more jostling. "My name's Will," he said, and then tried, "--Uncle Will?"

A titter from one of the nearby boys who Freddie'd been huddled with made Will acutely aware of how that sounded (like some old pervert with a family fetish! Good God), and he stuttered for a moment as he scrambled for a way to recover. "Do you remember? Freddie? I know who you are, you see, we have met before. I'm not … it's not a line." Will patted Freddie's arm, his hip, tutting despite himself at the chill of the boy's skin even through his denim jacket and his insubstantial jeans. 

That Freddie had given the old boy a start coming closer was obvious enough, but he settled a hand shortly thereafter on Freddie’s hip which seemed like encouragement enough to the teenage prostitute, and the fairy made a low rumble of approval in the back of his throat, hoping to set this skittish punter at ease. This one seemed the type to have deep pockets - and, truth be told, Freddie was a bit desperate to get in where it was warm, his denim jacket and shredded jeans pitifully unable to guard against the chill of the German winter. “Will then,” Freddie repeated, his voice thick and velvety as the name passed his lips, a knowing smile curling them when ‘Will’ was amended to ‘Uncle’.

So that was what he was into, Freddie thought with satisfaction; alright then. It didn’t jog his memory any unfortunately, but it was certainly a place to start. God knew he’d pleasured a small army of uncles and daddies and grandfathers since he’d taken to the streets. Old Will here was just one of the many.

Mads couldn’t help but laugh though, and Freddie shot the other boy a poisonous look - he’d murder that bloody tit if he cost him such obvious cash in hand - before freezing where he stood at the use of his real name, hating being wrongfooted this way. Hating the little flash of recognition that sparked deep within the recesses of his memory. 

The teenager took a step back again, eyes hard and slightly fearful. “Don’t call me that,” he snapped, “Just… just tell me what you want then. Do you want to fuck me? Because that’s what I’m out here for - so if you don’t, then bloody well move on, yeah? There’s still money to be made tonight, and whoever you are, I don’t care enough to forego my night’s take for it.”

"Oh," Will said, foolishly, feeling plunged entirely out of his element in the brief space of time it took for Freddie's lips to form the word fuck. "Oh, my poor little lad."

But that was teetering on the brink of too far, and Will marshaled all of his efforts to get it back together. He was a grown nymph! A solicitor, for heaven's sake, he wasn't completely unaware of the more tragic circumstances that could befall people in this world! This was Freddie's reality, and unless Will met him on his tarmac -- and quickly -- then Freddie would be up in the air within a matter of minutes, searching out greener pastures. And palms.

So, swallowing any hope of fond recognition and an almost-family reunion here on the wretchedly cold street, Will forced a smile of what he hoped was suitable leering approval. "Yes, yes of course," he said, with a small nod, playing into the dirty uncle part of the equation. "My apologies, it was rude of me to catch you unawares like that, I won't do it again. I've got--" he dug into his pocket for his billfold, cursing himself for a bloody nitwit again when he saw the eyes of the boys around them instantly turn silvery and canny at the sight of money. Hunching into his coat to try and amend for his gaffe, Will let Freddie see the money (hoping the boy hadn't fallen so far into ignominy that he would mug an old fool for his wallet) and said, "I've only got pounds on me, I'm afraid, will that do? I've got a room, at the Budapester Hof, not far. We could walk it, if you like."

And perhaps that would offer a chance to ease Freddie into this, Will thought, optimism springing anew. "We could get something to eat, first. Do you fancy a currywurst, er … son?"

The word sat clumsily in Will's mouth. But, he thought with a spur of angry bitterness, it wasn't as if Freddie would have been accustomed to hearing it from Reginald Watts, either.

Something like relief flooded Freddie when Uncle Will seemed to get on board with the task at hand, and the sight of the money was enough to bring a smile to the boy’s face again - though clearly, getting his doddering ‘uncle’ in off the street and away from the vultures was his number one priority. After all, Uncle Will was his for the fleecing; the rest of the lads could bugger off and find their own long lost cash cows. 

“I take pounds,” Freddie said smoothly, helping the older man to tuck his wallet away again, his smile only brightening at the mention of the hotel and the meal. However they knew each other - school maybe? Uncle Will had the air of a teacher about him - Freddie wouldn’t turn down a meal and a fuck in a decent bed with clean sheets for much of anything, so he took his ‘uncle’s’ arm gracefully, leading him off down the street away from his throng of fellow rentboys. 

“I’d love a currywurst,” Freddie said with a gracious smile, “We can work out the details of what you’d like me to do while we eat, yeah?”

The fairy boy chuckled. “My menu’s worth perusing at your leisure, I promise.”

For all his advanced years, Will couldn't help but feel a pulse of gratitude for Freddie's street smarts when the boy tucked himself in next to the nymph and started to lead them down the road and away from the evaluations of his comrades-in-arms. "Yes, capital," he chuckled with a grin that was a little on the desperate side. But then that would hardly be out of the range of the ordinary for Freddie, stumble-footed men picking up a bit of trade and not really knowing what they were doing. He was disconcertingly good at it, Will thought, looking at the boy's ruffled brown hair and catching the faint whiff of a soapy scent off him, and below that an undercurrent of sex now that they were close and Freddie was warming up from the heat of Will's body. 

He wanted very much to offer Freddie his peacoat. But that might just engender more suspicion on the young fairy's part, and now that Will had him agreeing to come along for the night, he needed to take it slow. Approach as though Freddie was a skittish rabbit. 

Fortunately, it wasn't long before they happened upon an Edelcurry, and Will held the door open for them both as they entered the steamy restaurant. The place was bustling, which was something of a relief; with more people around, Freddie might deem him less likely to try anything untoward. 

"Order what you like," he said, taking off his ineptly fingerless gloves as they joined the short line at the counter. "I've … we've got all night. I'd like to spend the night with you." 

It was a testament to the part of town they were in that not a single eyelash flickered in their direction at this statement, made by an obviously older gentleman to a teenage boy, and Will barely held back a wince. He took off his glasses, wiping them ineffectually on his scarf before putting them back on to squint through the fog at the menu. "Ah, they've got Schöfferhofer. I'll get the grapefruit sort, then." He smiled at Freddie, encouragingly putting a gentle hand at the small of the boy's back to indicate it was his turn to order, the woman at the register blinking flatly at them.

Freddie beamed at those magic words, order what you like, and pushed up on his toes to press a kiss to his Uncle Will’s cheek. “It’ll cost you,” he said teasingly, “-but I’d like that too, Uncle. In fact, I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”

They were far from the only dubious couple in the place, and Freddie, now that he was in where it was warm, quickly settled into a loose-limbed easy sort of sexuality, bold as brass about what he was - and when he felt the older man’s hand prod gently at the small of his back at his turn to order, he grinned and did exactly that. 

Ordering a currywurst and chips with three separate dips, and a cherry Fritz-limo, Freddie snaked an arm around his Uncle Will’s middle, cuddling close as they waited for their food, effectively warning any other boys that might come sniffing around that this trick was well and truly taken for the night.

“So tell me, Uncle Will,” Freddie said looking up, his eyes sparkling, “-what brings you to Hamburg, business or pleasure?”

Currywurst and radler acquired (as well as a salad, not a terribly welcome side order on such a cold night with the smell of deep-fried chips all around, but Will's embodied form was prone to a thickened waistline), the nymph paid up, enjoying the cuddle from Freddie despite himself. It was easy, in a fast-food establishment, to tell himself that it was his overly-affectionate semi-nephew demonstrating his fondness for his uncle and nothing more prurient than that. 

...until they headed for their table, and the young pair seated next to them -- the girl obviously with her own trick of the night -- gave a sidelong and somehow knowledgeable look before returning to their own conversation. Resigned to it, Will set down his food and then himself, letting his legs stretch a bit under the table so that warmth could ease back into his toes. There was no real need for him to feel the weather quite so much, many nymphs chose to be inured to it, but Will Snowdon liked being embodied, and what was the point if you weren't in your body?

He salted and peppered his salad before starting to munch away, letting Freddie make a comfortable inroad before he said, "I'm, er, here on business, if you're putting a nib on it. A long-standing matter that I haven't been able to resolve until now, for an old client of mine. I'm a solicitor, you see, and I've been trying to search for a … loose end to a very important question." He took a swallow of beer, setting his can down and rubbing his hands together, gazing at Freddie for a moment. Eyes soft with concern, as he scanned the fairy boy for bruises, cuts, signs of abuse, signs of being ill-used. 

"Have you been out here long?" That could be interpreted in a panoply of ways, Will realized, and narrowed it down a little: "The Reeperbahn, I mean? The other, um, boys -- they seem to respect your claim on the trade, as it were."

“A solicitor,” Freddie repeated after politely chewing and swallowing a mouthful of chips and sausage, still trying to remember where he knew this man from - he was fae, but not fairy; familiar but not known, and Freddie wished that Ollie was there to help, the little Chin having a very good memory for faces. “Well, that answers one question, at least.”

“I’d thought maybe you were a teacher of mine, once upon a time - but a solicitor sounds ever so much more interesting.” The teenager continued to eat, washing his meal down with long swallows of cherry-red soda. “So have you found it?” he asked, “Your loose end? What will you do when you have?”

Freddie dipped a chip in his curry and brushed a hand through his hair, pushing that soft mop of brown out of his blue eyes, and meeting Uncle Will’s again as he answered the older man’s questions. “I’ve been out here long enough,” he said, “Just a little shy of two months, I suppose. I actually came from Prague - have you been? It’s lovely there.” He popped the chip into his mouth, murmuring, “Hard to make a wage though. The Reeperbahn’s worlds better for that.”

The fairy smirked. “And the other boys respect me because I’m an earner,” he said, “I attract a certain clientele, and we all make a bit of extra dosh because of it. They couldn’t give a toss about me otherwise.”

Will found himself smiling, of all things, laughing even when Freddie declared his profession more interesting than if he'd been a teacher. "Pull the other one, lad, it's got bells on," he chuckled, reaching over to steal one of Freddie's chips. He couldn't help but give a little hum of pleasure once the hot grease hit his tongue, making his mouth water, his shoulders slumping with the deliciousness before he returned to his tepid salad. "Being a solicitor's no more interesting than being an accountant or a census-taker. But that's very kind of you."

And clever, of course; stroking his old punters' egos no doubt was a built-in part of Freddie's profession. One at which he sounded tip-top, from the way he reeled off his answers to Will's question. The nymph flexed his fingers around his fork, itching to tuck Freddie's hair away behind what he knew was an ear more pointed than the slightly-tipped one peeking out, and finally abandoned the salad altogether in favour of his sausage, salting and peppering that as well. 

"I've been to Prague, yes." Will nodded, smoothing out his paper napkin for something to do while he arranged his thoughts. Freddie was making short work of his meal, and they'd be out of the Edelcurry and headed to the Budapester Hof very soon, and he'd have to come clean about how he knew the boy. Which might make things easier, or might send him running; Freddie was as sweet and cheerful as Will remembered him -- which made his belly ache for many, many reasons -- but there was also something watchful around his eyes, now. Something greyer than the blue. "Many years ago. It's likely changed more than I could recognize it."

He drank some more, the astringency of the grapefruit cutting through his muddled emotional fug somewhat, and patted his chest to work the sausage down. "You seem a very enterprising lad," Will said, painfully aware of how it sounded, his congratulating Freddie on being excellent at peddling his youthful flesh and favours. "My loose end, I'm afraid, is proving a slightly more delicate situation than I'd hoped for. But it's near and dear to my heart, so abandoning it isn't an option." Will slid Freddie over one of his napkins, a rueful smile twitching at a corner of his lips.

Freddie pulled a face at the notion of being an accountant or a census-taker, wrinkling his pretty nose and shaking his head. “But a solicitor just sounds good, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s got gravitas; it’s posh. Being a teacher just means you like the sound of your own voice and the feel of a cane in your hand.”

“I’m much happier you’re a solicitor, Uncle Will,” he confided, “I’ve had my fill of teachers.” 

And he watched with a small smile as the man sat across from him helped himself to a chip, liking the old boy more and more as time wore on; finding him vaguely charming in a fuddy-duddy sort of way. “Where are you from?” Freddie asked suddenly, after hearing that Will too had been to Prague, and liking him all the better for it. “I mean, where will you be going back to when your business is done and your loose end is all tied up?”

The teenager smiled at the compliment paid to his resourcefulness, and took the proffered napkin, wiping delicately at his mouth. “Oh, I do alright for myself,” he said, “I know how to make ends meet.”

Freddie grinned again, back to playing the coquette. “In fact, I know how to do all sorts of things.”

"When it comes to being caned," Will said, "I'm with you there on not being terribly fond of teachers as a species, my boy. I had my share of schoolmasters who didn't spare the rod." It didn't occur to Will to number those teachers of Freddie's among the men who'd sampled the boy's wares, so he bestowed an easy smile upon his nephew, the topic innocently categorized as mere commiseration between two products of the more corporal aspect of the British educational system. 

The question about where he was from wasn't entirely unexpected -- Freddie was clearly a bright lad, Will and Bahraman had known that since he was much much smaller than this -- and so Will was able to answer smoothly, "Luton. I'm in no hurry to get back, there's not much waiting for me there. A bachelor flat and a fish who I'm afraid rather resents my existence if I'm not currently in the action of feeding it." He shrugged, pleased with himself for having this constructed cover story already at hand, pushing up his glasses with the ball of his thumb. "And a landlady who's over-eager for company."

He'd dithered over that part, concerned that it made him sound too braggadocious, but in the end slipped it in. A little common ground over being chased after might go down well with the boy.

Finishing his beer and patting at his own mouth with his remaining napkin, Will slapped his hands against his thighs, surveying the mown-through remains of their meal. "Yes, I'm certain you don't disappoint," he said politely, aiming again for the smarmy smile he'd employed earlier. "Shall we get to my hotel, then?" He stood, extricating his gloves and slipping them on, and as they were heading out the door asked, "Oh, and -- what should I call you? What would you prefer, that is."

Freddie couldn’t help but smile at Uncle Will’s life back in Luton, with his haughty fish and his grabby landlady, more than able to relate to liberties taken by those in positions of power; and when it was time to go, he turned his collar up against the cold and followed his trick out onto the darkened street, once again taking Uncle Will’s arm and cuddling close, assuming that close was precisely what the older man wanted. “Yeah,” Freddie nodded, giving Will a genuine smile, “Let’s get back to your hotel, love. I mean, you’re paying for a full night, so you deserve value for money.”

“And you can call me Freddie,” the teenager conceded with an almost embarrassed grin. “You can call me whatever you like, really,” he amended, “That’s part of the service. But I don’t mind Freddie. I don’t really have a professional name to speak of - you just caught me by surprise before, already knowing mine. I mean, most punters don’t care what my name is, let alone remember it later.” The wind blew and Freddie shivered in his thin denim walking just a little bit faster.

“So is there anything special you’d like tonight, Uncle Will?” The fairy boy grinned, leaning on the title just a little harder than necessary, “Anything particular you’d like me to do? Or that you’d like to do to me? There’s not much I’ll say no to, so don’t be shy, yeah?”

"Freddie, then." Will let the boy curl in as closely as he wanted, as close as he could get, feeling slightly pitiful himself for how much comfort he drew from the touch. It had been … a long time, since Will had been close to anybody. Since he'd lost connection with Bahraman. Out of the people Will knew, she'd been his constant; his best friend travelled for a living, and although they shared a physically affectionate relationship, Torbjorn being on the road for work made this sort of thing -- casual touching -- a rarity, these days.

So he quelled the spur of guilt he felt and paused, detaching himself from Freddie for as long as it took to shrug off his peacoat and pull the boy in close, draping the coat around them both for the rest of the walk. "You mentioned a … a menu, earlier? Of what could be bought." Will frowned slightly, assuring Freddie, "--I didn't think you meant it literally, of course, but I think it's become clear to you at this point, my boy, that this isn't something I do. Normally. Perhaps if you wouldn't mind, you could give me an idea of your services?" 

Will steeled himself for the information he'd soon be provided as they covered the last couple of blocks to the hotel, knowing that it would upset him more. But he needed to know, the sorts of things that Reginald's boy had been driven to in order to survive. "And the prices, of course," he added belatedly, trying to maintain the ruse of wanting a shopping list.

Freddie accepted the extra protection of Will’s lovely smelling peacoat against the chill, and the bit of additional body heat, gratefully, snuggling closer still, and smiled at his ‘uncle’s’ needless admission that picking up rentboys was a touch outside his comfort zone, happy to offer up the details of his wares now that the older man had asked for them.

“Well,” the teenager said, matter-of-factly, “-you can have my hands, my mouth, my cock, my arse - or any combination thereof - however often you like, over the course of the night. But because you’ve asked for the entire night, love, it seems a bit silly to break the price down into individual acts, seeing as you may want more than one go at any particular service.”

“I mean, normally,” Freddie went on, in a businesslike tone that only unfortunately served to emphasise his youth, “-any sort of penetration will run you thirty more than having me suck you off, and a full-on fuck will run fifty more than that - whether you’re the one doing the fucking or not. But tonight, I think, Uncle Will, we’ll just call it a flat two hundred quid for the evening, yeah? With the proviso that your tastes don’t run to the exotic, and that I’ll be able to walk home under my own steam in the morning.” 

Freddie kissed Will on the cheek again as they neared the hotel, giving him a grin. “Now how does that sound to you?”

"Lovely," Will said, completely at a loss for anything else as the doorman-cum-security guard of the modest hotel opened the door for them, his face carefully schooled into neutrality (even though, Will realized as he unconsciously pulled Freddie closer, the man did give the teenage boy a slimy sort of once-over). "That, um, shouldn't be any problem. The sum for the evening, that is, not the exotic -- which is to say, I don't want any sort of -- ahh, here we are."

This declaration was somewhat premature, as once they reached to top of the first flight of stairs there were still four doors to go past down the hall, but Will needed the time to digest what Freddie had told him. Any combination. Penetration, suck you off, full-on fuck. Able to walk home. 

The nymph suddenly felt every year of his nearing-a-century embodiment, and he let Freddie have the coat entirely as he dug in his pocket for the room key. "What I want won't approach anywhere near what you're capable of, I'm certain," he said with a watery smile, key turning the tumblers, and then Will was ushering Freddie into the little room and locking up behind them. "Sorry," he said, gesturing limply at the locked door, feeling somehow in the wrong for it, that it must be frightening for Freddie to be shut into a room with a strange man. 

Never mind how many times the boy had done this before. Will had never done this before.

"I, ah … ah!" Will tossed the key on the battered dresser where the cheap television was perched, taking out his wallet and extracting two hundred pounds from it -- thank God he'd thought to bring that much, anticipating that he'd need to have ready cash for this enterprise -- and setting the money next to the key.

"There you are," he declared, before an old-fashioned discomfort over the subject of payment had him saying, "There's glasses in the loo, I'll go get us some water, then, shall I?"

Uncle Will was so charmingly on the back foot about everything they were about to do, that Freddie felt a swell of fondness for the older man as they entered the hotel, only offering the leering doorman a bit of a wink as they passed, and devoting the bulk of his attention to the man himself, allowing himself to be pulled closer and led up the stairs to Uncle Will’s room - which, when they finally got there, was every bit as tidy and unassuming as he was. A fact that pleased Freddie to no end, allowing him to feel as though he’d read his Uncle Will correctly. 

That there would be no unhappy surprises here tonight, and Freddie might just be able to enjoy himself.

The locked door behind them gave him no pause at all - his life was full of locked doors and close quarters with strange men - and when Will apologised for it, Freddie felt that same swell of affection that he’d felt coming in, and he smiled and shook his head, murmuring, “Don’t be sorry, love. I’m not sorry,” his smile only widening when Uncle Will extracted the agreed upon amount for the night from his wallet, laying it on the dresser next to the door key. Freddie took it quickly - in his line of work, you squared away the money first, in case of emergency - tucking the bills into the pocket of his very revealing jeans, then slipped both Will’s peacoat and his own denim jacket off, tossing them into a nearby chair, his hand hovering at the hem of his vest, ready to drag it off too, but getting the sense that Uncle Will likely shouldn’t be rushed, lest he panic and call the whole thing off. So Freddie smiled again, tugging his vest up just enough to expose a ribbon of toned flesh and the promise of abs. “Water sounds lovely,” he said, “But how would you like me, Uncle?” A playful smile danced on his lips. “Shall I get my kit off and get into bed, or would you like to take things just a little bit slower? The night is yours now, love. I’m here for whatever you want.”

"Slower," Will gulped as he made his quick escape to the bathroom, "--please, my lad, go easy on me. Slower. If you don't mind." He didn't shut the door all the way, turning on the tap but taking a moment to just stare at his reflection in the mirror, not really seeing himself. His mind was on the boy in the bedroom, ready to take off his clothes and be fucked by a complete stranger, in as many ways and as many times as that stranger liked, for the paltry sum of two hundred quid. Will was far from a spendthrift but he owned two wristwatches that had cost more than that and he found the notion of it dogging his mind, the mental image of those two foolish timepieces that he'd paid that amount for because he vainly liked the way they rather butched up his wrist. He could have Freddie's body entirely for two nights, for the cost of those silly things.

Letting out a long, tight breath, Will filled up the water glasses and turned off the tap. He couldn't postpone this for much longer. After a moment's hesitation, he drank half of one glass and refilled it before coming back out, setting both glasses down on the nightstand next to the bed crammed into a tight corner of the room. It was certainly not a hotel that prided itself on much in the way of aesthetics, but Will felt that was only appropriate for this venture. It wasn't, after all, a pleasure trip, and some part of him was grimly satisfied to be reminded of that.

"I'd like you to look at a photograph for me," Will said. He took off his glasses and cleaned them, then left them on the nightstand, blinking at Freddie; his nymph body didn't have poor eyesight, exactly, but without the specs there was still a soft blurring that happened in dim lighting. And there, he could see it, heartbreakingly clear: all the soft curves and gentle plushness of the child's face, here in the teenager's, as Freddie watched him and waited to see what his trick of the night would request.

Taking out his wallet again, Will extracted the little snapshot. It had been developed in the square format, with the white border (he and Bahraman were both fond of that look, when it had been popular), taken a few months before Freddie was shipped off to boarding school. Bahraman and the eight-year-old, Ollie balanced between them, Freddie distracted by the glint of some helium balloon another child had lost to the stratosphere. A day in the park, and they'd had ices and sandwiches and Will had pushed Freddie madly high on the swings while Bahraman swung sedately with Ollie on her lap. A lovely day, one that Will himself thought of with a fond, wistful pang.

"Please," he said again, softly, handing the photograph over. "Freddie."

Freddie sat on the bed whilst Will dithered, the older man retreating to the loo to fetch them some water; and when he returned, setting the full tumblers down on the nightstand, asking that Freddie look at a photo for him, the fairy boy thought, Ah, here we go, and held out his hand, expecting to have a well-thumbed bit of pornography turned over to him. Something for him to emulate and strive toward. Something naughty that Uncle Will had been fantasising about for longer than he cared to admit.

But what he got was so far removed from that, that for a moment, Freddie felt as though breathing were something he no longer knew how to do. Immediately, unbidden, his eyes filled with tears, and he stared down at the photo in his hand completely at a loss for something to say; the lump in his throat too large to be got round anyway. And a tear spilled from the corner of his eye and ran down his cheek as he sat, staring at himself and Ollie and the woman he’d loved like a mother. The only mother he’d ever known. 

He touched her face gently, suddenly able to hear her voice in his ear - Freddie joon, she’d called him for as long as he could remember, as though it was all one word, all his name - and finally he tore his red-rimmed eyes away from the photo long enough to look back up at the man before him. “Where did you get this?” he asked thickly, brokenly, “Where did you-”

But then the penny dropped and he fell silent again, gaping up at the older man in bewilderment and recollection. “You were there,” he whispered, “Uncle Will. You pushed me on the swings. You…. you were there.” More tears slipped down Freddie’s cheeks, and he held out his arm, desperately trying to give the photo back. 

“Why are you here now?” he asked, utterly at sea. “What do you want from me?”

The moment of realization swept from Freddie through the stagnant air to Will and he felt it go through his chest like an arctic gust, hand going to his stomach as he watched the expressions on the boy's face. "Yes," he said eagerly, unable to help himself from that much, "yes, Uncle Will, your Uncle Will, your proper uncle, it's not a falsehood or a trick or a … a put-on, Freddie, it's nothing like that."

But what followed sliced Will's heart clean in two. That Freddie tried to hand him back the photograph was bearable, even through its clear and obvious rejection of the innocent little fairy it pictured, but the questions that came on the heels of the action, oh -- 

Will took a step forward, towards the bed, and then crashed heavily to his knees. They creaked in protest, but he didn't care; the only thing of importance was the confused, wounded child sat in front of him, wondering if he'd been bought by somebody intent on mind games as well as sexual ones.

"Freddie," he gasped, taking Freddie's cold hands in his own and folding them up, bringing their joined hands to his lips to press an urgent kiss there, against the edge of the photo, "I'm here to take you home, son. Back home, away from all this, so you don't have to do this anymore. I'm -- I'm so sorry it's taken me this long, dear boy, it's -- will you ever forgive me?"

Will pressed his forehead against Freddie's knees, skin and shredded denim, as he held Freddie's hands tight and choked back his despair. "I'm so dreadfully sorry," he gulped, voice tearful, warbling.

Suddenly Uncle Will was down on his knees in front of him, taking his hands and kissing them chastely - like a parent would do, like a father would do - telling him inexplicably that he was there to take him home, begging forgiveness as though somehow he had something to apologise for, unable or unwilling to look at him; and Freddie, still crying, though he held the photo tight now, just shook his head incredulously. “Why are you sorry?” he asked, his voice overwrought and pitched with a fraught sort of confusion, “You haven’t anything to be sorry for. But I… I don’t have a home to go to, Uncle Will. Bahraman’s gone - she’s been gone for ages - you both left at once. And Dad-”

Freddie paused and took a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself down, to be the grown-up, the professional, he fancied himself to be. “Reg put me out. Just before my birthday. And he won’t have changed his mind - he never changes his mind - so what are you doing here, Uncle Will? Why have you come? Dad doesn’t want me and he never has. This is all there is. This is what I have.”

“I’m sorry,” Freddie was crying in earnest again, “-but he doesn’t want me. Nobody wants me. You’ve got to know that… or you and Bahraman would never have left me to begin with.”

“She never even said goodbye…”

The sound of Freddie's voice and the way he wrested hold of himself struck another clang of shame into Will's chest, and he sat back on the heels of his feet awkwardly, looking at Freddie with eyes made pale from the tears he couldn't hold back. That neither of them could, from the look of it. "She didn't," he agreed roughly, "but I don't think … it's my belief that her leaving, that was your father's doing as well. I haven't any proof, since I haven't heard from Bahraman all this time either, but knowing Reginald Watts as closely as I do--"

Will stopped, his face hardening as he thought of Freddie's father. He delivered one more kiss to the boy's thumbs and then dug in his pocket as he got to his feet, a little unsteadily, and sat next to Freddie on the bed, handing him a handkerchief. "The less said about Reginald Watts right at this moment, the better. I suspect we've neither of us anything good to say, and seeing what he's brought about for you, his own child, I'd …" Will knotted his hands into fists against his thighs, face closed off and thunderous for a moment before he put Reginald from his mind.

"Freddie," he said, putting one arm gingerly around the teenager's shoulders and starting to rub at his bare arm, the skin still retaining some of outside's chill, "I want to take you to my home, of course. He's got nothing to do with this. It was … I've been trying to find you ever since I found out that he'd thrown you out but you've proven entirely too swift for me, lad. Always like quicksilver, you were, weren't you? The only little winged minnow in existence."

The nymph smiled, but it was through a heavy sigh. "I'm afraid I won't be easy to shake off, when it comes to this. I'll understand if you're hesitant to come with me, you can't remember much of me -- it was so long ago! And you were so young! -- but I do, Freddie, I want you to live with me. If you would. Back in England, away from this dreadful place." He patted Freddie's soft hair, tucking it behind that ear (pointed now, with Freddie in too much emotional turmoil to glamour small details like that in front of somebody who knew he was fae) like he'd wanted to in the restaurant. "You and Oliver. I want you, my dear boy, I do, despite however much to the contrary everything has seemed."

It seemed like a dream. Like it was too good to be true; some imagined fantasy of rescue and love that Freddie tried never to allow himself anymore. And Uncle Will had things to answer for, too. Like where had he gone when Bahraman had disappeared? Why had he abandoned Freddie at the same time? But rather than demand answers, rather than point fingers, all the fairy boy said as he wiped at his eyes and nose with Uncle Will’s handkerchief was a shaky, “Do you mean it?”

“I can go home… with you… and you don’t want- you don’t want anything from me? You just want Ollie and me to be there? That’s all?” Freddie took another wobbling breath, his nose running, eyes red and puffy, wings visible under his vest; all his glamours gone now. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking up to meet his Uncle Will’s eyes, voice soft enough that it was barely audible, “I mean… now that you know what I’ve done… What I am. You still want to bring me back?”

“I… I’m not good,” Freddie said, flushing with shame, “Even before all this. I just- I wasn’t. I got chucked out of all sorts of schools, I never behaved myself, I broke all the rules that there were…”

“Are you really sure you want me?” the teenager asked quietly, “I won’t blame you if you’re not.”

"You're a fairy." Will kept on smoothing and tucking Freddie's hair, seeing and feeling the unmistakable presence of fae magic as the boy's wings shimmered back into view beneath his clothes. "I've never known a fairy who was entirely good, but then again, we faefolk aren't subject to the rules and regulations like the rest of them, are we, eh?" Will smiled a little, drawing Freddie's head against his shoulder. "What you've done, Freddie, isn't anything that would keep me from wanting you to live with me. You're the same sweet little boy I knew. You've had more than enough opportunity to make off with my money, my room key, with anything you want, and you've not done it."

Reaching over, Will took Freddie's free hand and pet his fingers, one after the other, in a soothing rhythm. "I don't want anything from you other than for you to say you'll come," he said, gently. "I'm not looking for anything that other men have wanted from you. I could never." Apart from the repugnance of the act of sexualizing a child in and of itself, Will knew there was also Baharaman -- or at least the memory of her, between them -- to take into account. Even in her absence, all the nymph wanted was to do what she would have approved of. And taking care of this boy fell squarely in that purview. 

As well as being what Will, himself, dearly longed to do.

"We don't need to rush," Will promised, although he wasn't sure what there was here that Freddie would be slow in moving on from. "In fact, we can -- you can go back home and talk about it with Oliver. You know where I am, and I won't be leaving without you, and you need some time to think about it, don't you. I've dropped a lot on you all at once, poor little mite." He squeezed Freddie's hand.

Freddie smiled in spite of himself at Uncle Will’s absolution and his certainty that the fae were beyond the rules of such black and white concepts as good and bad, and he allowed his head to rest on the older man’s shoulder, giving himself permission to be cuddled and soothed in a way that he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. 

Not since he looked like the boy in Uncle Will’s photo, as a matter of fact.

And he took comfort in the nymph’s reassurances that he wanted only Freddie as he was, with no creeping quid pro quo to come. He allowed himself to believe in that; to remember Uncle Will (and Bahraman; there was no escaping her shadow), and to cling to him, grateful for the older man’s offer to take things slowly, but knowing he needed to do no such thing. That he already knew what Ollie would say.

The little Chin would have them on the first plane back to England, happy to leave what they had survived in Hamburg behind them. He would say they had nothing to lose trusting in Uncle Will; that they’d made it on their own once and could do it again if they had to - but that this was a risk worth taking. A gamble that had every hope of paying off.

And, well... Oliver was right. As was his wont.

So Freddie squeezed Uncle Will’s hand in return. “We’ll fetch Ollie tomorrow,” he said, “-but…if it’s alright…. could I still stay the night tonight?”

 "My dear boy!" Will pulled away, but only enough so that Freddie could get a good look at his expression, and the joy and relief there. "Of course you can stay, of course. I can call down and see if they've a cot that they can give us, and I'm afraid I'd take the bed in that case because I'm older than you and I claim infirmity, but yes, yes, you can stay. I'd love it if you did. We could talk, and you could tell me -- tell me what you've been up to, and I promise I won't make a peep about it, I'll only listen." 

He shook their linked hands in a little show of triumph on both their behalfs. "If you'd rather just share the bed, we can do that too. I just don't want to make you uncomfortable, lad, if I do or say anything that comes across awkward, please know that's the reason. I'm terribly out of my depth when it comes to the things you've endured, my brave Freddie. We can do whatever you like. Absolutely whatever."

With a little reluctance, Will got up from the bed and went over to the folding luggage stand, opening his valise and taking out an argyle jumper, bringing it over to Freddie. "Here you are," he said. "We can't have you shivering in only your vest, can we? I want you warm and safe, as much as you can be, from now on."

And with that, Will wrapped Freddie up in a hug, rubbing and patting those folded-up wings, closing his swollen-feeling eyes to drink in the feeling of his nephew found, in his arms. Never to walk these streets again.

#written will #freddiewatts #ar:intercession

[mariocki]

I was recently at an Oxfam bookshop, which is always a dangerous thing. I don't get to them often, but whenever I do I leave with far too much stuff. This time was no different, and I walked away with a bag full of books and records. Most exciting among my purchases, though, was a collected edition of the poems of William McGonagall.

I have long been after such a tome. For the uninitiated, McGonagall was a 19th century Scots poet and (by his own description) tragedian. This is him:

He is also often described as perhaps the worst poet who ever lived.

I've been a fan of McGonagall's work ever since I first came across The Famous Tay Whale, perhaps the best known of his poems. Like all of his work, it displays a total disregard for scansion; a rigid adherence to end-rhyme, no matter how strained; and a tendency toward utter literalism, forsaking metaphor or imagery in favour of simply describing what is in front of his eyes. An excerpt:

So the monster whale did sport and play

Among the innocent little fishes in the beautiful Tay,

Until he was seen by some men one day,

And they resolved to catch them without delay.

Taken by itself this might not seem so bad - it certainly isn't good - but McGonagall's poems all have a habit of going on slightly too long as well, so that he ultimately begins to repeat himself, and the more painful of the lines only get worse. I will say, though, that The Famous Tay Whale does contain perhaps my favourite of all McGonagall's stanzas:

Then the water did descend on the men in their boats,

Which wet their trousers and also their coats;

But it only made them the more determined to catch the whale,

But the whale shook at them his tail.

I mean, that's a triple whammy. You've got the horrible, awful lack of scanning between the third and fourth lines, the crazed reliance on rhyme, and the utterly extraneous detail of the wet coats. In a twisted way, this is art.

It feels sort of cruel to celebrate someone for being bad at something. But McGonagall really was very, very bad. Actually, there is some debate about whether or not he was 'in' on the joke - that he may have been a skilled music hall entertainer, who had created the character of The Great McGonagall in order to draw a crowd - and at the height of his fame, he was certainly very successful. There is enough oddness, however, and general eccentricity in his private life to convince me that McGonagall was entirely sincere in his belief of his artistic talents.

A greater reading of his work reveals some particular obsessions held by the poet. There are numerous poems dedicated to new buildings or elements of industry. The best known of these, I suppose, is the triptych of poems about the Tay Railway Bridge (the Tay itself figures in an alarming number of the poems). Some brief excerpts:

The Railway Bridge Of The Silvery Tay

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!

And prosperity to Messrs Bouche and Grothe,

The famous engineers of the present day,

Who have succeeded in erecting the Railway

Bridge of the Silvery Tay,

Which stands unequalled to be seen

Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

The singling out of individuals for praise towards the end of the poem is another recurring motif in McGonagall's work. A little over a year after writing the above poem, the Tay Rail Bridge collapsed during a storm, whilst a train was crossing. The disaster moved the poet to write again:

The Tay Bridge Disaster

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!

Alas! I am very sorry to say

That ninety lives have been taken away

On the last Sabbath day of 1879,

Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

Remember'd is a particularly frustrating word because the removal of that e does nothing to shorten the word or number of syllables when read aloud. Honestly, I can only assume McGonagall was doing it for the aesthetic. Regardless, when a replacement bridge was unveiled the poet once more put pen to paper:

An Address To The New Tay Bridge

Beautiful new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay,

With your strong brick piers and buttresses in so grand array,

And your thirteen central girders, which seem to my eye

Strong enough all windy storms to defy.

And as I gaze upon thee my heart feels gay,

Because thou are the greatest railway bridge of the present day,

And can be seen for miles away

As well as the Tay Rail Bridge, McGonagall captured numerous towns and cities with his pen; there are poems dedicated to Edinburgh, Glasgow, New York, Balmoral, Torquay, Perth, and several about his home town of Dundee. The poet also wrote on topical events, particularly disasters and battles (presumably where his title of Tragedian came from). Then there are addresses to particular people - to Queen Victoria, to Shakespeare, Tennyson, an unknown poet who poked fun at him, and to someone called J. Graham Henderson, presumably a tailor:

Lines In Praise Of Mr. J. Graham Henderson, Hawick

Success to Mr. J. Graham Henderson, who is a good man,

And to gainsay it there's few people can,

I say so from my own experience,

And experience is a great defence.

He is a good man, I venture to say,

Which I declare to the world without dismay,

Because he's given me a suit of Tweeds, magnificent to see,

So good that it cannot be surpassed in Dundee.

An excerpt from one of McGonagall's tragic tales:

The Disastrous Fire At Scarborough

Oh! It was horrible to see the flames leaping up all around,

While among the spectators the silence was profound,

As they saw a man climb out to the parapet high,

Resolved to save his life, or in the attempt to die!

And he gave one half frantic leap, with his heart full of woe,

And came down upon the roof of a public-house 20 feet below;

But, alas! He slipped and fell through the skylight,

And received cuts and bruises: oh, what a horrible sight!

It is lines such as the above that have undoubtedly caused people to question whether the writer was some kind of elaborate hoaxer; those are also the sort of lines that have won him diehard fans (J. K. Rowling and Terry Pratchett among them - both have made references to McGonagall in their work). Some have speculated that the poet may have been on the autism spectrum, and it's entirely possible. After writing to Queen Victoria to try and secure her patronage, and receiving an official rejection written by a royal functionary, McGonagall seems to have mistaken it for some form of validation from the Queen and would often describe her as an admirer of his work for the rest of her life.

It might seem cruel to draw attention to the work of an artist so clearly lacking in technical ability, but I am, like many others, genuinely fond of McGonagall and his work. A large part of the study of poetry is an attempt to get inside the mind, to understand the very soul of the poet. William McGonagall had a fascinating mind, and a unique soul.

I'll finish with a fragment, all that remains of an otherwise lost McGonagall poem, written to celebrate the unveiling of a statue of Robert Burns in Dundee in 1880:

The Burns Statue

This Statue, I must confess, is magnificent to see,

And I hope will long be appreciated by the people of Dundee;

It has been beautifully made by Sir John Steell,

And I hope the pangs of hunger he will never feel.

-

This statue is most elegant in its design,

And I hope will defy all weathers for a very long time;

And I hope strangers from afar with admiration will stare

On this beautiful statue of thee, Immortal Bard of Ayr.

-

Fellow-citizens, this Statue seems most beautiful to the eye,

Which would cause Kings and Queens for such a one to sigh,

And make them feel envious while passing by

In fear of not getting such a beautiful Statue after they die.

-

See where he sits on the stump of that tree

His eyes tuned to heaven his Mary to see,

A scroll at his feet, a pen in his hand

Writing to his Mary in the Better Land

#long post #William McGonagall #William Topaz McGonagall #poetry #Poets #Poems #Literature #Tay rail bridge disaster #queen victoria #Robert burns #Sorry about the long post #I don't know how to do read mores