#i have so many more penits to draw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maniculum · 1 month

Text

Bestiaryposting Results: Slagzogg

This is, interestingly, our third consecutive Beaſt that's actually a common everyday animal pretty much all over Europe, including the area where this manuscript was produced. This is interesting to me because the three are handled very differently. First we had the salamander, which I'm pretty sure got mentally separated from the actual animal somewhere, probably because people use different terms for the real-life amphibian in different regions and languages, and not everybody is going to recognize that it's just the Greek word for the same animal. Second we had the deer, which it seemed like the manuscript producers did recognize, because the illustration is clearly a deer... but elements of the entry are just nuts (As @sweetlyfez said, "How do you make up this many wild myths about a guy you live with"). And now we have the [redacted until end of post], which is just given a completely mundane, if engaging, description with the only weird part being the symbolism attached to it.

I think it might also be our first domestic animal -- the entry even talks about the difference between wild and domestic varieties -- which seems like it's worth noting.

Anyway, as usual people who don't know what I'm talking about should check https://maniculum.tumblr.com/bestiaryposting. The entry this week's artists are working from can be found here:

This is another one where I almost didn't put it in because it seemed super obvious what it was, but the artists have done a superb job not drawing that. Excellent work on everyone's part, and it can be found below the cut:

@silverhart-makes-art (link to post here) shows us both a domestic and a wild Slagzogg; the design of the domestic one makes me think of fancy pigeons, which I think is a pretty good direction to take here. The vulture-like faces really improve the design also. Very good birds, and you should go check out the linked post to hear about the design decisions and real-life inspirations behind this one; I think it's pretty interesting.

@pomrania (link to post here) observed that, though the entry mentions beaks and flight, it doesn't actually say "bird", so they can draw a pet dragon and have it fit the description. Fair call, and I think it turned out well. I like the contrast between the fairly dignified-looking creature on the left -- this is a Slagzogg who is on its way to win Best in Show -- and the sketch on the right of someone forcibly preventing it from getting into a fight. If you check out the linked post, you can see Pomrania's progress thread for this design.

@coolest-capybara (link to post here) has made the eminently-understandable decision that if they're going to draw a bird with no specific anatomical details given, it's going to be a potoo. On the left we have three domestic Slagzoggs socializing, and on the right we have a wild one perching alone. I like how this incorporates the symbolism of the entry: we're told that the wild type is meant to signify people who choose a religious life ("those who keep apart from this world wear the modest garb of penitence"), and this wild Slagzogg does look a bit more serious and... monastic? Like, that bird is a nun. (Also, thank you for including alt text.)

@cheapsweets (link to post here) also went with the direction of "well, it doesn't say 'bird'," and so we have this really charming image of a medieval person feeding their domestic... pterosaurs. Love it. Honestly, these alternate visions of the Middle Ages where people have entirely different domestic animals than our timeline are really appealing to me. Too much Dinotopia as a child, perhaps. Anyway, check out the linked post for substantially more detail, it's worth it. In fact, everyone reading this should just go ahead and follow all of the bestiaryposting participants. (Also, thank you for the alt text.)

@strixcattus (link to post here) is clearly thinking of the modern day's feral pigeons, formerly the result of selective breeding by pigeon fanciers. We can see the "fancy" domestic version on the left contrasted with the wild version on the right. (I think it's interesting that everyone who's drawn both has put the domestic Slagzogg on the left and the wild Slagzogg on the right.) Anyway, as is usually the case with Strixcattus, the writing included in the post is absolutely worth your time and you should read it. And again, follow them, as well as everyone who has ever contributed to bestiaryposting. Go do it; you won't regret it.

Now, to the Aberdeen Bestiary.

Beak shape aside, these are clearly geese.

I think the degree to which people guessed that varies somewhat; Strixcattus made a post suggesting they were leaning "pigeon", but Pomrania probably clocked it, because they described two Slagzoggs fighting as a "hissing match" despite hissing not being mentioned in the entry. I have no idea where everyone else landed.

Honestly, what I find interesting about this entry is that it's pulling symbolism while remaining pretty much entirely grounded in reality. Check this out:

The goose marks the watches of the night by its constant cry.

Okay, I don't know to what degree it's useful in marking time, but I don't doubt that geese make noise at night.

No other creature picks up the scent of man as it does.

That one I'm not sure about.

This next bit I cut because if anyone knows Roman history they'd nail it right out of the gate:

It was because of its noise, that the Gauls were detected when they ascended the Capitol. Rabanus says in this context: 'The goose can signify men who are prudent and look out for their own safety.'

Okay, that might be less history and more legend, but still, people know it, I think.

There are two kinds of geese, domestic and wild. Wild geese fly high, in a an orderly fashion, signifying those who, far away from earthly things, preserve a rule of virtuous conduct.

I can absolutely see medieval people looking up at geese flying in that V formation and going, "look how orderly these birds are; clearly they are virtuous creatures."

Domestic geese live together in villages, they cackle together all the time and rend each other with their beaks...

Yeah, that sounds like what geese would do in a village.

All wild geese are grey in colour; I have not seen any that were of mixed colour or white. But among domestic geese, there are not only grey but variegated and white ones. Wild geese are the colour of ashes, that is to say, those who keep apart from this world wear the modest garb of penitence.

This bit falls into the category of "I believe it, but it does not accord with my personal experience." Because if you told me that in Europe they had a variety of different aesthetically-pleasing domestic goose breeds, I'd have no problem believing that. And I'm sure some wild geese are gray. But I live in North America, so to me wild geese look like this:

And domestic geese look like this:

But again, I have no difficulty believing that the experience of the medieval Europeans was different from mine.

What really sticks out to me here is the fact that the characteristic behavior of domestic geese is to make noise and get in fights -- I think the Untitled Goose Game would have made perfect sense to a medieval audience.

(After the Smithfield Decretals)

#maniculum bestiaryposting #slagzogg

53 notes · View notes

merrinla · 22 days

Text

Trying to piece together the dialogue between Nightsong and Shadowheart from the old plot where Nightsong was an unwilling avatar of Shar; she looked into your past with a kiss and used it to draw out emotions and life force. One of the last trials of Shar was to kiss the statue, which then turned into a Nightsong. Shadowheart origin had her own dialogue with her.

synopsis: "Shadowheart confronts Nightsong, who senses Shadowheart's fears about failing in her duties to Shar."

Nightsong: "Many followers of the Nightsinger have stood before me. But you... you are different..." "No one has ever resisted my kiss. But you are not merely one, are you?" "Forces battle for your mind and spirit." a) "You claim devotion to the Nightsinger, but I taste another upon your lips." b) "You claim devotion to the Nightsinger, but I sense another whispering in your ear." "Caution, young priestess. Shar breaks those who disappoint her..." "...just look upon me." Player (Origin Shadowheart): *I said I was on a holy mission for Shar. I would not disappoint her.* Nightsong: "You've already disappointed her. You fear the Nightsinger's judgement." "And you are wise to do so, unless you desire a fate like mine." Player (Origin Shadowheart):*I said I was nothing like her - I would be rewarded by Shar.* Nightsong: "For your sake, I hope she does. But we are very alike - I felt it. I felt your loss." Player (Origin Shadowheart): *I demanded to know who she truly was.* Nightsong: "I am Nightsong, Shar's penitent. Cursed to bear the loss of all those who worship her." Player (Origin Shadowheart): *I said it wasn't a curse. Shar had blessed her.* Nightsong: "You think this a blessing? Perhaps you'd like to take my place." Player (Origin Shadowheart): *She must have wronged Shar greatly to deserve this fate.* Nightsong: "Must I? I cannot remember. And neither can you..." a) "They stole your memories, didn't they? They stole you." "But you're remembering. Old thoughts. Old pains. Perhaps you will remember too much." b) "They stole your memories, didn't they? They transformed you." "I will always be Nightsong, but you can be something more. You're remembering." "Perhaps you will remember too much." Player (Origin Shadowheart): *I shook my head. Shar would restore my true memories in time.* Nightsong: "To what end? You are being used." Player (Origin Shadowheart): *I said I'd willingly surrendered my memories to Shar. Why were they returning now?* Nightsong: "The creature inside you. It exposes what Shar's faithful sought to hide." Player (Origin Shadowheart): *She was right. I said didn't understand what was happening. I was afraid.* Nightsong: "If you're afraid, then you do understand." "Keep remembering, child. Find yourself, and your place will be revealed." "Whether at Shar's side, or against her." Player (Origin Shadowheart): *I agreed. I was afraid of failing Shar - and her punishment.* Nightsong: "Child, you are already being punished. I can feel it." Player (Origin Shadowheart): *I admitted that I didn't feel Shar's favour, as hard as I tried to serve her.* Nightsong: "Pray that she is just testing you. If you earn her wrath, I might be a glimpse of your future."

The third-person dialogue is shorter, but the meaning is the same.

Shadowheart: "Who are you?" Nightsong: "I am Nightsong, Shar's penitent. Cursed to bear the loss of all those who worship her." a) "And you, you serve her also... but you fear her wrath. I felt it, through your kiss." b) "And you, you serve her also... but you fear her wrath. I can feel it in your spirit." "You think you are failing Shar." Shadowheart: "You're wrong. I'm carrying our a holy mission in her name - I will be embraced." a) "Your kiss betrays your fears, even if you won't admit them." b) "Your spirit betrays your fears, even if you won't admit them." "Shar will judge you all the same. Pray for her mercy, or you'll share my fate." Shadowheart: "You serve Shar. You are blessed." Nightsong: "No, there is only torment. This is my fate." "But you have more. You're starting to remember. Perhaps you will remember too much."

The player can also intervene in the conversation to deal with Nightsong. Shadowheart asked them let her do the talking.

Shadowheart: "No! Shar's presence flows through her - I need to speak to her."

You could have agreed or refused.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 early access #bg3 datamine #shadowheart #nightsong

20 notes · View notes

cor-lapis-candy · 1 year

Text

Mmm who else wants to think about perhaps a demon playing priest in a church, mayyybe even with Pantalone being said demon?? And playing said role, instead of joining the harbingers he takes to the church and enjoys the benefits of luring people under his control and wasting them away...

Haa, I just wanna think about him with like a long thin tail and swooping horns okay? And what better place then in a church to put a demon!

This is fully GN or I am pretty sure it is (feel free to correct me, and very obviously religious themed so if you're not down to clown in the priests gown this may not be for you!

He was the preacher, a man on the most holy soapbox calling to save the many that would listen, a true Reverand so the people whispered, the last person you would have thought to be a liar, a sinner, a soul burned in damnation and a thing with fingers dipped black in corruption. Yet here you are, pressed to the central altar, his human glamour cast aside and forgotten as his whip-thin tail curls around your wrists, a once soothing voice rumbling with menace as you try to tug it away, anything to give you room away from this thing.

But that's not how this starts, no. This starts with an offer, a suggestion, it starts with bait.

Your family, oh so new in the capital, called into his halls, offered into listening to the voices of his congregation and how they sing praises to the Tsaritsa, and hymns for the cryo archon, and yet there is one voice that carries the whole crowd. The preacher, a man of smiles and softly falling curled black hair, his robes pressed perfectly and a rosary hanging from his gloved fingers as he walks the rows, voices raising as he passes each pew, each line of people, true devotion made into form and yet when he passes your family, the silent ones amongst so many eager parish members.

"You are always welcome here, I am one of the few always on the grounds. I have nothing but time to spare for my dear lambs, we'll have you singing with us yet..."

He had been swift in pulling you from your family, offering an ear to voice what must be troubling you as you had been so quiet, almost silent in the songs he knew you would know, and offering teaching you how to sing the if you lacked the knowledge.

Always with gentle hands too warm for the chill of the eternal winter.

Those words should have been enough to keep you just cautious enough to stay away from the private lessons, but something in how he spoke made the offer too good to pass over. Thus you were always there, after services, helping, cleaning, singing, ignoring how Pantalone's hands felt pressed against your shoulders as he stood behind you, 'to keep you standing straight' was the reason you had been given.

But each lesson was bleeding further and further away from holy worship, where they had once started as help to light the candles now were spent on your knees before the central altar, hands clasped together, bound in Pantalone's rosary as he wanders the pews tending to those that linger, casting off curiosity with whispers of seeking penitence, emptying the hall before his own hands come to rest over your own, broad chest pressed to your back.

A position you would never think a preacher to take, not so casually.

You could feel the warmth of him seep into you, and yet you still shiver, voice silenced as he hums, a familiar song the same one he had been making you sing day in day out, words woven together in the old tongue, the meaning lost to you, never explained even as you had once begged for in the beginning. You had learned that day, when you had whined for the meaning and his hands had come to cup your face, drawing you close and smiling as you flushed, cooing about sins and attending a confession for the sheer greed for knowledge you had shown.

You would wait till the humming became more pronounced before you joined in, everything so learned and perfected, not a single move out of time, not a single thought of how the candles that had been lit were now so dimmed, no flickering light to cast shadows against the walls, only the feeling of the beads weaving around your fingers and the warmth of Pantalone at your back, or they had been.

Soon the beads are being unwound, placed on the altar as wide palms encircle your waist.

"You are so devoted, so easy to lead and so eager to follow, aren't you? But I wonder if the lamb at my alter is as pure as they seem, unfaltering in the face of sin, ready and strong against all that could damn them..."

"I-"

"Shhh, shh, no words little one, just shh. We will test your voice, your faith, and your dedication to me and our archon divine."

"Reverand?"

You catch it out of the corner of your eye, the shift but it is too late, the once gloved hands were now digging into your waist tipped in black nails, no black claws, fingers just as dark as the gloves he had once worn, they flex and tear into the clothes you had worn to the service.

"Oh no little lamb, you know what comes now, what you must do... But once I'm done, there will be no holy man, nor Acrchon strong enough to save you."

The weight of the man, no, the thing behind you keeps you pinned, knees boxed in by its own, chest pressed to the lip of the altar as it further bends into your space. From the corner of your eye, you can see it, the once welcoming face of the Reverand now morphed, soft black curls hiding the flick and curl of horns, once warm eyes nothing more than ash grey things staring you down.

"Now, now that's no way to look at your Shepard, all I wished for is to guide you and you were so eager for it. Now lest your voice fail you, there is singing to be done, hmm"

No matter the strength you may have had, there was no getting away from this thing that wore the face of the Reverand, mind denying the very idea of it being the same person, but when you push away his thin black tail wraps tighter around your wrists, keeping you pinned with only its tight coil. One of the clawed hands that were still at your waist is quick to move upwards, wrapping around your throat, pressing lightly and making the world spin, your head tipping back against the broad chest behind you.

"That's it, relax little one, I know, I know it's all so scary, but you sing so sweetly for me, now let me guide you once more. After all, I still have so much yet to teach you..."

Even as his grip eases, the hand around your throat holds steady, keeping you bent in an awkward position before the world tilts again and your pressed face down on the altar. Body pinned by strong hands, one on your neck and the other your hip, the tail that had held your wrist slipping away, somewhere unseen.

A voice in the back of your head whispers of dreams, and falsehoods, yet that voice still sounds so much like the thing behind you, so much like him, Pantalone. Who would begrudge you if you listened? If you gave in and let the thing, the man that had lead you so far lead you further?

Even if he was leading you down into the abyss with him and his honeyed words, who could ever think to condemn you if they could not see you, not a single witness to the way you shudder and whine as sharp teeth dig into you neck, as bruises bloom an clothes are shed, as the purity of this churches alter is stained with tears and cum.

Not a single member of the parish would ever see who you bend and buck into the press of their beloved preachers cock, you were his lamb, his lost soul to guide, and if anyone ever thought to ask him of you it would be nothing but a soft smile and penitent words on the sins you were working to repent for. Who would ever come to look behind his stand to the small room tucked away just for him to look for little old you, his dear sweet lamb...

#genshin impact smut #genshin smut #genshin impact x reader #pantalone smut #pantalone x reader #corcrafting

120 notes · View notes

cheapsweets · 1 month

Text

The garrulous Slagzogg

My response to this week’s BestiaryPosting challenge from @maniculum

A little rough this week, but wanted to get it out there (perfect is the enemy of good :p).

Jinhao shark fountain pen with fine, hooded nib, with Monteverde Raven Noir ink, over initial 5.6mm HB pencil sketch.

Process and resoning notes below the cut...

"The Slagzogg marks the watches of the night by its constant cry. No other creature picks up the scent of man as it does. There are two kinds of Slagzoggs, domestic and wild. Wild Slagzoggs fly high, in a an orderly fashion, signifying those who, far away from earthly things, preserve a rule of virtuous conduct. Domestic Slagzoggs live together in villages, they cackle together all the time and rend each other with their beaks; they signify those who, although they like conventual life, nevertheless find time to gossip and slander. All wild Slagzoggs are grey in colour; I have not seen any that were of mixed colour or white. But among domestic Slagzoggs, there are not only grey but variegated and white ones. Wild Slagzoggs are the colour of ashes, that is to say, those who keep apart from this world wear the modest garb of penitence."

Okay, we know they fly. We know they have beaks. Hence, it's pretty obvious what kind of creature this is...

A pterosaur! Er... Well, there's no mention of feathers (which is probably reasonable...), perhaps I'm just tickled by the thought of medieval domesticated pterosaurs? I probably spent way too much time trying to draw a wattle fence, too. We have a farmer feeding her flock of domesticated miniature azhdarchid pterosaurs, while a few wild slagzoggs fly high overhead, looking down on their cousins below.

I went with azhdarchid pterosaurs since I felt that would be more visually distictive, and fit better in the picture given their more upright and distinctive method of locomotion on the ground. I also love the idea of a slagzogg 'village' cackling (like the one spreading its wings on top of the fence), clacking beaks, preening themselves, and generally making noise!

We also know that 'no other creature picks up the scent of man' as well as the slagzogg... We do know at this point that the bestiary authors love their superlatives almost as much as Pokedex descriptions, but we have no reason to doubt it. So, looking at modern archosaurs with a great sense of smell... Apparently, crocodiles actually have a fairly good sense of smell, but we're looking at birds to work out how best to represent this in a creature with a beak. Now kiwis have nostrils at the end of the beak, vultures also have a great sense of smell (though they completely slipped my mind until I was most of the way through), which left me with petrels... Petrels are diving seabirds with a distinctive 'tubenose' (their nostrils form a tubular nasal passage atop the beak), and use their sense of smell to detect prey (and their colonies) at sea. It's definitely a distinctive look!

What do they use their great sense of smell for (apart from identifying their keepers, one assumes)? Maybe these are truffle hunting pterosaurs? ;)

Actually, my first thought on reading the description was the dog vultures from the Judge Dredd comics (unfortunately I can't find any pictures online), until I re-read the description and noticed the reference to beaks!

This all raises an interesting question about how I (we? I don't want to assume too much) approach these challenges.

I feel like most of the time, I'm trying very hard to approach the prompts with a completely open mind; in many ways, a lot of the fun of these challenges is seeing what designs we come up with compared to the bestiary illustrators, given the same prompts.

Occasionally I'll have a pretty good idea what the creature is meant to be, in which case I will sometimes exercise a form of 'malicious compliance' where I'm either sticking as closely as possible to the description, or more rarely pursuing a parallel direction that I know is not the 'correct' one, in order to avoid drawing anything too close to the animal I believe the prompt is referencing.

Most rarely, I just have a cool idea from the prompt (like the Blisheag) and head off in that direction instead.

Guess which one this is :D

So what I'm also learning here is that I need more practice drawing humans, and drawing pterosaurs!

As an aside, this week I discovered this site;

It's basically a giant repository of links to various images and sites relating to medieval life and culture (so for example, I looked up the links for straw hats to get some medieval straw hat references this week...). There's so many links in here that some of them will inevitably have moved or expired, but it's potentially a really good source of references! I was able to find this image (partway through drafting the drawing) that I ended up taking heavy influence from;

#maniculum bestiaryposting #bestiaryposting #my art #pterosaur #azhdarchid #art challenge #slagzogg #Slagzogg

10 notes · View notes

hiswordsarekisses · 3 months

Text

This has been a great blessing in my life. I love to pull it out and read it for encouragement.

“Others May, You Cannot”

By G. D. Watson

If God has called you to be really like Jesus, He will draw you into a life of crucifixion and humility, and put upon you such demands of obedience, that you will not be able to follow other people, or measure yourself by other Christians, and in many ways He will seem to let other good people do things which He will not let you do.

Other Christians and ministers who seem very religious and useful, may push themselves, pull wires, and work schemes to carry out their plans, but you cannot do it; and if you attempt it, you will meet with such failure and rebuke from the Lord as to make you sorely penitent.

Others may boast of themselves, of their work, of their success, of their writings, but the Holy Spirit will not allow you to do any such thing, and if you begin it, He will lead you into some deep mortification that will make you despise yourself and all your good works.

Others may be allowed to succeed in making money, or may have a legacy left to them, but it is likely God will keep you poor, because He wants you to have something far better than gold, namely, a helpless dependence on Him, that He may have the privilege of supplying your needs day by day out of an unseen treasury.

The Lord may let others be honored and put forward, and keep you hidden in obscurity, because He wants you to produce some choice, fragrant fruit for His coming glory, which can only be produced in the shade. He may let others be great, but keep you small. He may let others do a work for Him and get the credit for it, but He will make you work and toil on without knowing how much you are doing; and then to make your work still more precious, He may let others get the credit for the work which you have done, and thus make your reward ten times greater then Jesus comes.

The Holy Spirit will put a strict watch over you, with a jealous love, and will rebuke you for little words and feelings, or for wasting your time, which other Christians never seem distressed over. So make up your mind that God is an infinite Sovereign, and has a right to do as He pleases with His own. He may not explain to you a thousand things which puzzle your reason in His dealings with you, but if you absolutely sell yourself to be His love slave, He will wrap you up in a jealous love, and bestow upon you many blessings which come only to those who are in the inner circle.

Settle it forever, then, that you are to deal directly with the Holy Spirit, and that He is to have the privilege of tying your tongue, or chaining your hand, or closing your eyes, in ways that He does not seem to use with others. Now when you are so possessed with the loving God that you are, in your secret heart, pleased and delighted over this peculiar, personal, private, jealous guardianship and management of the Holy Spirit over your life, you will have found the vestibule of Heaven.

5 notes · View notes

lesmislettersdaily · 1 year

Text

Who Guarded His House For Him

Volume 1: Fantine; Book 1: A Just Man; Chapter 6: Who Guarded His House For Him

The house in which he lived consisted, as we have said, of a ground floor, and one story above; three rooms on the ground floor, three chambers on the first, and an attic above. Behind the house was a garden, a quarter of an acre in extent. The two women occupied the first floor; the Bishop was lodged below. The first room, opening on the street, served him as dining-room, the second was his bedroom, and the third his oratory. There was no exit possible from this oratory, except by passing through the bedroom, nor from the bedroom, without passing through the dining-room. At the end of the suite, in the oratory, there was a detached alcove with a bed, for use in cases of hospitality. The Bishop offered this bed to country curates whom business or the requirements of their parishes brought to Digne.

The pharmacy of the hospital, a small building which had been added to the house, and abutted on the garden, had been transformed into a kitchen and cellar. In addition to this, there was in the garden a stable, which had formerly been the kitchen of the hospital, and in which the Bishop kept two cows. No matter what the quantity of milk they gave, he invariably sent half of it every morning to the sick people in the hospital.

“I am paying my tithes,” he said.

His bedroom was tolerably large, and rather difficult to warm in bad weather. As wood is extremely dear at Digne, he hit upon the idea of having a compartment of boards constructed in the cow-shed. Here he passed his evenings during seasons of severe cold: he called it his winter salon.

In this winter salon, as in the dining-room, there was no other furniture than a square table in white wood, and four straw-seated chairs. In addition to this the dining-room was ornamented with an antique sideboard, painted pink, in water colors. Out of a similar sideboard, properly draped with white napery and imitation lace, the Bishop had constructed the altar which decorated his oratory.

His wealthy penitents and the sainted women of Digne had more than once assessed themselves to raise the money for a new altar for Monseigneur’s oratory; on each occasion he had taken the money and had given it to the poor. “The most beautiful of altars,” he said, “is the soul of an unhappy creature consoled and thanking God.”

In his oratory there were two straw prie-Dieu, and there was an armchair, also in straw, in his bedroom. When, by chance, he received seven or eight persons at one time, the prefect, or the general, or the staff of the regiment in garrison, or several pupils from the little seminary, the chairs had to be fetched from the winter salon in the stable, the prie-Dieu from the oratory, and the armchair from the bedroom: in this way as many as eleven chairs could be collected for the visitors. A room was dismantled for each new guest.

It sometimes happened that there were twelve in the party; the Bishop then relieved the embarrassment of the situation by standing in front of the chimney if it was winter, or by strolling in the garden if it was summer.

There was still another chair in the detached alcove, but the straw was half gone from it, and it had but three legs, so that it was of service only when propped against the wall. Mademoiselle Baptistine had also in her own room a very large easy-chair of wood, which had formerly been gilded, and which was covered with flowered pekin; but they had been obliged to hoist this bergère up to the first story through the window, as the staircase was too narrow; it could not, therefore, be reckoned among the possibilities in the way of furniture.

Mademoiselle Baptistine’s ambition had been to be able to purchase a set of drawing-room furniture in yellow Utrecht velvet, stamped with a rose pattern, and with mahogany in swan’s neck style, with a sofa. But this would have cost five hundred francs at least, and in view of the fact that she had only been able to lay by forty-two francs and ten sous for this purpose in the course of five years, she had ended by renouncing the idea. However, who is there who has attained his ideal?

Nothing is more easy to present to the imagination than the Bishop’s bedchamber. A glazed door opened on the garden; opposite this was the bed,—a hospital bed of iron, with a canopy of green serge; in the shadow of the bed, behind a curtain, were the utensils of the toilet, which still betrayed the elegant habits of the man of the world: there were two doors, one near the chimney, opening into the oratory; the other near the bookcase, opening into the dining-room. The bookcase was a large cupboard with glass doors filled with books; the chimney was of wood painted to represent marble, and habitually without fire. In the chimney stood a pair of firedogs of iron, ornamented above with two garlanded vases, and flutings which had formerly been silvered with silver leaf, which was a sort of episcopal luxury; above the chimney-piece hung a crucifix of copper, with the silver worn off, fixed on a background of threadbare velvet in a wooden frame from which the gilding had fallen; near the glass door a large table with an inkstand, loaded with a confusion of papers and with huge volumes; before the table an armchair of straw; in front of the bed a prie-Dieu, borrowed from the oratory.

Two portraits in oval frames were fastened to the wall on each side of the bed. Small gilt inscriptions on the plain surface of the cloth at the side of these figures indicated that the portraits represented, one the Abbé of Chaliot, bishop of Saint Claude; the other, the Abbé Tourteau, vicar-general of Agde, abbé of Grand-Champ, order of Cîteaux, diocese of Chartres. When the Bishop succeeded to this apartment, after the hospital patients, he had found these portraits there, and had left them. They were priests, and probably donors—two reasons for respecting them. All that he knew about these two persons was, that they had been appointed by the king, the one to his bishopric, the other to his benefice, on the same day, the 27th of April, 1785. Madame Magloire having taken the pictures down to dust, the Bishop had discovered these particulars written in whitish ink on a little square of paper, yellowed by time, and attached to the back of the portrait of the Abbé of Grand-Champ with four wafers.

At his window he had an antique curtain of a coarse woollen stuff, which finally became so old, that, in order to avoid the expense of a new one, Madame Magloire was forced to take a large seam in the very middle of it. This seam took the form of a cross. The Bishop often called attention to it: “How delightful that is!” he said.

All the rooms in the house, without exception, those on the ground floor as well as those on the first floor, were white-washed, which is a fashion in barracks and hospitals.

However, in their latter years, Madame Magloire discovered beneath the paper which had been washed over, paintings, ornamenting the apartment of Mademoiselle Baptistine, as we shall see further on. Before becoming a hospital, this house had been the ancient parliament house of the Bourgeois. Hence this decoration. The chambers were paved in red bricks, which were washed every week, with straw mats in front of all the beds. Altogether, this dwelling, which was attended to by the two women, was exquisitely clean from top to bottom. This was the sole luxury which the Bishop permitted. He said, “That takes nothing from the poor.”

It must be confessed, however, that he still retained from his former possessions six silver knives and forks and a soup-ladle, which Madame Magloire contemplated every day with delight, as they glistened splendidly upon the coarse linen cloth. And since we are now painting the Bishop of Digne as he was in reality, we must add that he had said more than once, “I find it difficult to renounce eating from silver dishes.”

To this silverware must be added two large candlesticks of massive silver, which he had inherited from a great-aunt. These candlesticks held two wax candles, and usually figured on the Bishop’s chimney-piece. When he had any one to dinner, Madame Magloire lighted the two candles and set the candlesticks on the table.

In the Bishop’s own chamber, at the head of his bed, there was a small cupboard, in which Madame Magloire locked up the six silver knives and forks and the big spoon every night. But it is necessary to add, that the key was never removed.

The garden, which had been rather spoiled by the ugly buildings which we have mentioned, was composed of four alleys in cross-form, radiating from a tank. Another walk made the circuit of the garden, and skirted the white wall which enclosed it. These alleys left behind them four square plots rimmed with box. In three of these, Madame Magloire cultivated vegetables; in the fourth, the Bishop had planted some flowers; here and there stood a few fruit-trees. Madame Magloire had once remarked, with a sort of gentle malice: “Monseigneur, you who turn everything to account, have, nevertheless, one useless plot. It would be better to grow salads there than bouquets.” “Madame Magloire,” retorted the Bishop, “you are mistaken. The beautiful is as useful as the useful.” He added after a pause, “More so, perhaps.”

This plot, consisting of three or four beds, occupied the Bishop almost as much as did his books. He liked to pass an hour or two there, trimming, hoeing, and making holes here and there in the earth, into which he dropped seeds. He was not as hostile to insects as a gardener could have wished to see him. Moreover, he made no pretensions to botany; he ignored groups and consistency; he made not the slightest effort to decide between Tournefort and the natural method; he took part neither with the buds against the cotyledons, nor with Jussieu against Linnæus. He did not study plants; he loved flowers. He respected learned men greatly; he respected the ignorant still more; and, without ever failing in these two respects, he watered his flower-beds every summer evening with a tin watering-pot painted green.

The house had not a single door which could be locked. The door of the dining-room, which, as we have said, opened directly on the cathedral square, had formerly been ornamented with locks and bolts like the door of a prison. The Bishop had had all this ironwork removed, and this door was never fastened, either by night or by day, with anything except the latch. All that the first passer-by had to do at any hour, was to give it a push. At first, the two women had been very much tried by this door, which was never fastened, but Monsieur de Digne had said to them, “Have bolts put on your rooms, if that will please you.” They had ended by sharing his confidence, or by at least acting as though they shared it. Madame Magloire alone had frights from time to time. As for the Bishop, his thought can be found explained, or at least indicated, in the three lines which he wrote on the margin of a Bible, “This is the shade of difference: the door of the physician should never be shut, the door of the priest should always be open.”

On another book, entitled Philosophy of the Medical Science, he had written this other note: “Am not I a physician like them? I also have my patients, and then, too, I have some whom I call my unfortunates.”

Again he wrote: “Do not inquire the name of him who asks a shelter of you. The very man who is embarrassed by his name is the one who needs shelter.”

It chanced that a worthy curé, I know not whether it was the curé of Couloubroux or the curé of Pompierry, took it into his head to ask him one day, probably at the instigation of Madame Magloire, whether Monsieur was sure that he was not committing an indiscretion, to a certain extent, in leaving his door unfastened day and night, at the mercy of any one who should choose to enter, and whether, in short, he did not fear lest some misfortune might occur in a house so little guarded. The Bishop touched his shoulder, with gentle gravity, and said to him, “Nisi Dominus custodierit domum, in vanum vigilant qui custodiunt eam,” Unless the Lord guard the house, in vain do they watch who guard it.

Then he spoke of something else.

He was fond of saying, “There is a bravery of the priest as well as the bravery of a colonel of dragoons,—only,” he added, “ours must be tranquil.”

#les mis #les mis letters #volume 1: fantine #book 1: a just man #chapter 6

12 notes · View notes

tentakrool · 1 year

Text

Introduction to From Whence Came She: An Exploration of Pharasma and the Windsong Testaments

Edelgarde Midwyck, professor of theology and cosmology Lepistadt University, Lepistadt, Ustalav

Before the birth of everything, there came an ending, to which only one survivor bore witness.

In an ancient time inscrutable to us who now live, a universe unknown met its end. Whether this realm exploded in an unquenchable fire, or found itself snuffed quietly out like a candle, none can say. All that remained scattered amidst the blackness of space, speckling the void with the dying embers. Nothing remained but she: The Survivor, the Lady of Graves, the Mother of Souls. She, who threads the weft and warp of fate across the centuries; who holds life and death in her hands, gathered the remnants of existence and began anew.

Her name is Pharasma, the First and the Last.

Pharasma’s role as mother to our universe may seem strange to those who do not know her. After all, is she not the goddess of death? Does she not author the final pages of our soul’s journey? Those more familiar with her worship know better; after all, she also safeguards the passage into life. Midwives invoke her name and bless their knives with water drawn from her holy fonts. A goddess of cycles, she sharpened her skills on the greatest birthing of all: that of reality itself.

What her role might have been in those days before, none can guess. After all, we have nothing to draw from, save the groundless assumption that this previous incarnation must have resembled the current. I have my own suspicions, as do dozens of my contemporaries, the scholars and ascetics who dedicate their intellects to untangling the riddle of what could have been. Personally, I wonder if the Pharasma we know and the one that traversed an all-consuming apocalypse eons ago were much alike at all.

Consider Nocticula: once a demon lord, she murdered her contemporaries and assumed their roles, stole their devotees and quite literally built her kingdom upon their backs. Now, she has transformed herself into something new – a goddess of freedom and redemption. Perhaps, like Nocticula, Pharasma transformed herself upon the death of what came before, changed into a deity to suit the season of creation and destruction. Perhaps, Pharasma once knew a time when life and death did not hang in the balance of her every word and gesture.

Of course, if we further explore my theory, one must then wonder what sort of deity Pharasma could have been, back in those unfathomable days. I can envision her as a young deity bursting with vigor and life, ushering the fragile souls of the unborn into the light, guiding the hands of those wise, skilled women without whose ministry so many would meet an untimely end. Perhaps she walked among the people, with bare feet and ruddy cheeks warmed by the sun of an ancient world. Perhaps then, her face was not haunted by millennia of shadows.

Regardless of what form she took then, I cannot help but imagine how devastating that moment must have been – the moment when Pharasma looked around herself and saw that she truly existed alone, swaddled in void, with no one but the vast, unknowable Outer Gods watching from beyond with hungry eyes trained on our little empty scrap. How brave of her to take that solitude and wrap it around herself like a mantle, mold it into a shape that we could call home, breathing life into the ash and embers of the things she’d loved and lost. As a mortal, it may not be my place to do so, but I cannot help but pity her.

Some of my contemporaries take it upon themselves to criticize my work. They feel that speculation of this sort leads to nothing but confoundment and consternation; I cannot help but disagree. What are they gods, if not reflections of ourselves? What does it hurt for us to imagine Pharasma not as an impersonal arbiter of our fates, but as a servant to our souls, and as keeper of the loneliest duties of all? How can we not grow closer to her, knowing that our penitent souls are the only brief company she keeps?

#pathfinder #pathfinder 2e #pathfinder lore #ttrpg writing #pathfinder meta #ttrpg lore #my writing

18 notes · View notes

sexypinkon · 9 months

Text

Eden's Apple - Interpretation and ire in the works of Stuart Hahn

Medulla Art Gallery featured a talk with the Artist Stuart Hahn on Wednesday eight August twenty twenty-three. It started tentatively and ended boisterously with interviewer Natasha Ramnauth steering the conversation into territory raised by a guest about the carnivalesque. That was provoking enough, but there was a much more niggling issue that caught my attention as Mr Hahn spoke about his work.

As an avid admirer of his prolific collections over the decades I was alerted when yet again I heard him mention that he could not show nudity in public. At prior shows he had said those exact words to the audience.

Stuart Hahn - The Fall of Man

In Jamaica,the Laura Facey bronze sculpture Redemption Song is met with all the respect it deserves in a declared homophonic island. No one is deeming the public work indecent or homocentric. I found myself wondering why and how Mr Hahn has been dealing with this no man’s land quite literally for so many decades?

What does Mr Hahn have to be apologizing and hiding for? Is Stuart Hahn a maverick where nudity and male at that is concerned?

The short answer is no.

Stuart Hahn - The Fall of Man

He is preceded by the likes of Boscoe Holder and Hugh Stollmeyer. It is curious, but not fully necessary to know that those names represent men who were homosexual or bisexual. This is to be included only because of the fact that sexual history has been hard fought particularly in ultra religious spaces like Trinidad and Tobago.

Is Mr Hahn exploiting the form by showing explicit sexual acts? No.

In fact Mr Hahn only uses naked imagery in contexts where they are called for.

But instead of being caught up with his exceptional skills as a draftsman of the anatomy it is easy for the media to continue to hound his use of drawing what I can only call the subversive penis. Vaginas and breasts hold neutral ground.

Meanwhile it seems that the erect, semi-erect and inert penis causes great consternation.

We all reel daily as we read and hear of barbarically cruel murders. Yet, the penis in art is being ‘held’ as too unpalatable for sensitive constitutions.

Is there a connection between crime and the male body?

This may be an absurd question, but Mr Hahn’s work and legacy might hinge on the fact that a sense of being out of touch with the body is an important marker for all of us. An automatic fear or distaste to observe classical art in a caribbeanesque context narrows the lens.

Mr Hahn was born in Nevis of a St. Kittitian mother and Trinbagonian father. Of Caucasian heritage in a mostly brown land, a child of colonialism in San Fernando and a gay man in the Caribbean space during Black Power and Oil Money is dizzying enough. It makes one want to tear off one’s skin.

Nudity and the drawing of skin titillates. It is peeling back layers and finding oneself in private territory. Art has lauded nakedness for centuries, so, to now grapple on an island with what it means - is curious to me particularly when a few years ago Trinidad and Tobago was given the dubious honor of being in the top ten of users of porn sites in the world.

Stuart Hahn - The Murder of Abel

Mr Hahn’s Biblical, Classical Literature, Indian Mythology and local Folkloric pieces do far more than occasionally dabble in nudity. By focusing on the trite, everything that his work demonstrates gets shunted to the side. Mr Hahn’s work connects the complex past with the continuously confusing present. He shows great discipline when drawing and rendering the form with prisma color pencils and pen and ink when paint is so much faster - his almost religious penitence in lauding his characters with wings, togas and ropes of hair - yes there is homo eroticism in the work.

However, homo simply means man. I will not go down the prickly path of Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve. I also will not convince anyone of changing their sensitivities or sensibilities. I write to place Mr Hahn’s work where it needs to be. He is neither a pornographer nor a sensationalist.

That is so clear in societies great love of Derek Walcott's TiJean and his Brothers the children’s book and his innovative approach to the Black Madonna and Child way before it was fashionable to do so. As a white, Caribbean gay man making Art in Trinidad and Tobago and causing debate makes Stuart Hahn’s career an important marker in Art history - one that we all take for granted. We speak fluidly about Impressionism or Abstraction. But what of Stuart Hahn’s drawings? I suggest that as we look at Art in Trinidad and Tobago, we begin to observe what is before our very own eyes:that we respect and honor ours in the same way that we have finally given Pan the attention deserved.

#sexypink/Stuart Hahn #sexypink/Medulla Gallery #sexypink/Eden #sexypinkn/shows on now in Trinidad and Tobago #sexypink/sexypink writing on Art #tumblr/writing on Art #tumblr/Stuart Hahn #tumblr/Medulla Art Gallery #tumblr/drawing and illustration in Art #art drawing and illustration #stuart hahn #medulla art gallery #trinidad and tobago #eden #biblical subject matter in Art #Art in the Caribbean

2 notes · View notes

catboymitosis · 9 months

Text

99% of the time I'm like "oh I'm so glad I quit drawing we just weren't good for each other no matter how many times I crawled back to it it always made me feel like garbage well now I have a new love me and writing are happy together :)"

And then 1% of the time I'm compelled to dig out my shitty old drawing tablet to draw something cute as penitence for my thought crimes to restore my karmic balance back to something more neutral

#i dont believe in karma except from when its bad then i need to fix it #i need to make the universe forgive me as soon as possible before it lashes out at me

4 notes · View notes

modx-reborn · 3 years

Text

Let us Sing our praise

Hmmm, Demon Wilbur hidden as a Preist.

HALLOWEEN FIC! SEE I DIDN'T FORGET! I'M JUST A GOOF! SMUT UNDERCUT! MINORS DNI!

He was the preacher, the man on the soapbox calling to save the many that would listen, Reverand Wilbur, the last person you would have thought to be a liar, a sinner, a soul burned in damnation and a thing with fingers dipped black in corruption. Yet here you are, pressed to the central altar, human glamour cast aside and forgotten as the whip-thin tail curls around one of your wrists, a once soothing voice rumbling with menace as you try to tug it away, anything to give you room away from this thing.

But that's not how this starts, no. This starts with an offer, a suggestion.

Your house called into his halls, listening to the voices of his congregation and how they sing praises, and hymns for the lord, and yet there is one voice that carries the whole crowd. The preacher, a man of smiles and softly falling curled brown hair, his robes pressed perfectly and a rosary hanging from his fingers as he walks the rows, voices raising as he passes each line of people, true devotion beginning to form and yet when he passes you, the silent one amongst so many eager parish members.

Your silence had been your damning cry.

He had been swift in pulling you from your group, offering an ear to voice what must be troubling you as you had been so quiet, almost silent in the songs, and an offer of teaching you how to sing for him given with gentle hands too warm for the chill of the coming winter.

"You are always welcome here, I am one of the few always around. I have nothing but time to spare, we'll have you singing with us yet!"

Those words should have been enough to keep you just cautious enough to stay away from the private lessons, but something in how he spoke made the offer too good to pass over. Thus you were always there, after services, helping, cleaning, singing, ignoring how the preacher's hands felt pressed against your shoulders as he stood behind you, 'to keep you standing straight' was the only reason you had been given as to the touch.

But each lesson was bleeding further and further away from where they started when you would help light the candles was now spent on your knees before the central altar, hands clasped together, bound in the priest's rosary as he wanders the pews tending to those that linger, casting off curiosity with whispers of seeking penitence, emptying the hall before his own hands come to rest over your own, his chest pressed to your back.

A position you would never think a preacher to take.

You could feel the warmth of his body seep into you, and yet you still shiver, your voice silenced as he hums, a familiar song the same one he had been making you sing day in day out, words woven together in Latin, the meaning lost to you, never explained even as you had once begged for the meaning in the beginning. You had learned after that day, when you had whines for the meaning his hands had come to cup your face, drawing you close and smiling as you flushed, cooing about sins and attending a confession for the reaction.

You would wait till the humming became more to join in, everything so learned and perfected, not a single move out of time, not a single thought of how the candles that had been lit were now dimmed, no flickering light to cast shadows against the walls, only the feeling of the beads around your hands and the warmth of Wilbur at your back, or they had been.

Soon the beads are being unwound, placed on the altar as wide palms encircle your waist.

"I-"

"Shhh, shh, no words my dear, just shh. We will test your voice, your faith, and your dedication to me and mine."

"Reverand?"

You catch it out of the corner of your eye, the shift and the shimmer but it is too late, the once pale hands were digging into your waist tipped in black nails, fingers just as dark as they flex and tear into the clothes you had worn to the service.

"Oh no little lamb, you know my name, and I suggest you call it. Once I'm done, there will be no holy man strong enough to save you."

The weight of the man, no, the thing behind you keeps you pinned, knees boxed in by its own, chest pressed to the lip of the altar as it further bends into your space. From the corner of your eye, you can see it, the once welcoming face of the Reverand now morphed, soft brown curls hiding the flick and curl of horns, warm brown eyes nothing more than ash grey things staring you down.

"Now that's no way to look at your Shepard, all I wish is to guide you and you were so eager for it. Now lest your voice fails you, there is singing to be done, hmm"

No matter the strength you may have had, there was no getting away from this thing that wore the face of the Reverand, mind denying the very idea of it being the same person, but when you make to push away a thin black tail wraps around a wrist, keeping you pinned with only its grip. One of the clawed hands that were still at your waist is quick to move upwards, wrapping around your neck, pressing down and making the world spin, your head tipping back against the broad chest behind you.

"That's it, relax little one, I know, I know it's all so scary, but you sing so sweetly for me, now let me guide you once more. After all, I still have so much yet to teach you..."

Even as his grip eases, the hand around your throat hold steady, keeping your bent in an awkward position before the world tilts and your pressed face down on the altar you had prayed at countless times before. Body pinned by the strong hands, one on your neck and the other your hip, the tail that had held your wrist slipping away, somewhere unseen.

A voice in the back of your head whispers of dreams, and falsehoods, yet that voice still sounds so much like the thing behind you, I mean who would begrudge you if you listened to it if you gave in and let the thing, the man that had lead you so far lead you further?

Even if he was leading you down to hell with him and his honeyed words of sin.

#c: wilbur #dsmp smut #mcyt smut #k: religion #k: choking #k: binding #k: teasing #k: dubcon #mxad #halloween 2021

274 notes · View notes

lovelybarnes · 3 years

Text

dog tags- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader warnings: breaking laws and doing crimes, mentions of cracking heads open and murder but it’s humor i swear (at least meant to be) about: PF12 "committing crimes" + DH8 "how dumb can you be?" a/n: reuploaded because posting from my computer is apparently different lol

“we’re going to get caught,” bucky taunts, and you frown, not looking at him as you concentrate on not falling and cracking your head open. “we are not going to get caught,” you respond once you’re on the ground, not sticking the landing and toppling over. cursing, you get up, and bucky shakes his head, jumping over the gate and landing gracefully. you scowl at him and he ignores you, “we’re going to go to jail,” he says negatively. you smack his shoulder in response, which does nothing to his super soldier self but makes you feel better. “we are not going to jail, god-”

bucky’s hand is suddenly over your mouth, muffling your words, and you flail as he practically manhandles you to behind a shrub. he shushes you as a woman walks out of the house, car keys dangling from her fingers as her other hand pulls open her car door, phone shoved between the crook of her neck. she’s muttering angry words into the phone, too distracted to note the build of bucky’s six foot one self and you, pressed up against bucky.

bucky waits until she’s gone for a minute to let you go, and you wipe at your mouth, “when was the last time you washed your hands, that’s disgusti-”

he cuts you off with a frustrated whisper, “you said she’d be gone by now. if it had been just you, you’d be arrested by now!” you shrug, peeking above the leaves before standing fully. bucky pulls you back down again, making you yelp. “ow-”

“shut up, if anything else goes wrong or contradicts your information, i’m leaving,” he promises, and you shrug, rolling your shoulders. “i don’t need your help, anyways. you’re the one who just followed me.”

bucky’s eyes thin, “to make sure you didn’t die- do you know how many times i’ve had to pull you out of some near death situation?”

you shrug, “i was handling it.” bucky breathes in and counts to three, shutting his eyes for a second- a second- and when he opens them, you’re at the house’s front porch, tiptoeing like an idiot into the house and leaving the door open. how the hell are you an avenger?

he huffs angrily as he goes inside the house, thankful for the privacy gate surrounding the house. shutting the door, his eyes nearly pop out of his head. you’re snooping in a cabinet, a huge dog you don’t seem to notice growling at you.

he stops, trying to look at you as loudly as possible. it’s only when you drop a file and he wonders for the eighth time today how he can possibly be in love with you that you notice him. “oh, bucky, you finally came in-”

“there’s a dog,” he cuts you off, trying to calculate his moves so that the drooling thing won’t attack either of you and ruin this idiotic mission you seem to be set on. “really?! i didn’t-” you stop yourself, remembering his past words. “i knew that. i have a plan for that,” you lie. you’re moving your hands, and the dog only seems to get more agitated, and all bucky wants to do is make you stop moving so your arm doesn’t get bitten off, but an actual idea seems to come to you and you turn, crouching down to the dog.

bucky eyes widen as you make the incredibly sudden movement of spinning and he feels like attacking you. in all of your years of being careless have you ever been so stupid. he’s frozen for a second, and he expects to be drawn out by growls and penitent shrieks, not your voice, higher pitched than usual, babbling about good boys. he blinks, startled to see your hands scratching behind the dog’s ears, baby talking to it, “who’s a good boy, huh? protecting the house from evil intruders, you are, yes!” the dog seems to be enjoying your attention, head nuzzling into your hand.

what the fuck.

you hum quietly, ignoring bucky when he pushes you with his foot, and he squints at the dog when it growls the moment he comes in contact with you. “fellow evil intruder, she’s gonna be back at some point. leave the thing alone.”

you glare at him, petting the dog’s head one more time. “brutus is not a thing, bucky. and she’s not going to be back for at least another hour. i made sure emily had her boyfriend wrapped around her finger,” bucky’s eyes narrow, “how do you know she won’t come back?” he tested.

“i told her to casually mention a new hotel opening for when they make up,” you shrug, but stand anyways as his face contorts. “what are we looking for, anyways?” bucky asks as you look in between books and couch cushions, humming distractedly. “don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, buck.”

bucky’s cheeks heat up without his permission, and he shakes it off, following you as you head into another room, the dog trailing after you as well, curious.

“y/n, you kind of need to tell me so i can help you find it,” bucky reminds. you ignore him, throwing random items over your shoulder. he catches all of them amidst his frustration, “how dumb are you?- you’re going to break these and they’ll know we were in here and we’ll-”

“go to jail, yes i know, yada yada yada,” you say distractedly, grumbling as you kick a chair. “i’m going to look in the other room,” you say and take off, leaving a grumpy bucky to organize the objects you’d left him.

bucky still hasn’t finished when you get to the next room, and after a quick scan, you can tell it’ll be your last. you ha, immediately recognizing the safe covered by a hideous painting. you pull it off easily, leaning it carefully against the wall. you count silently while you unlock the safe, laughing in triumph when you beat natasha’s record, and remind yourself to tell her when you get back. rifling around in the safe, you find what you’re looking for quickly, a small smile settling on your face as you tuck it away. your hands are in the safe again, fingers searching for something shiny to throw in sam’s face when bucky bursts in, “they’re here.”

you curse, taking your hands out and beginning to close the safe, bucky shoving you aside to do it himself, much quicker. he’s walking out the door, pausing when he notices you crouching down. “y/n, we have a minute to get out of here.”

you nod, “i know, just-” you hang the painting where it had resided before, standing back to squint at it and straightening it. “there,” you whisper, and then bucky’s pulling you by the hand, eventually throwing you over his shoulder when you decide to give up trying to run with him.

bucky manages to squeeze both of you through the barely open gate without being seen, and he’s huffing when he puts you down. “i thought you had extremely high stamina or something,” you tease, and bucky glares at you. you shrug innocently, grabbing his hand, “c’mon, let’s go home.”

bucky peers at you, “what?”

“we’re going home, i’m tired and hungry. do you think we can stop by mcdonalds or something?” you ask, tugging his hand as you walk in the compound’s direction. “breaking and entering really wears me out.”

“and that’s not even including how stressed you seemed to be,” bucky remarks sarcastically, and you nod, “exactly.” bucky pauses his movements, and you groan, pulling at him. “bucky,” you drag out, but he quiets you. “what was it you needed so badly?” he asks.

your eyes slant, biting your lip in contemplation. “i’ll tell you if you give me a piggyback ride,” you bribe after a moment, and bucky rolls his eyes but crouches down, back to you. before getting on, you reach into the pouch on your suit, taking out the chain and wrapping it around your fingers delicately. you jump on bucky’s back right after, making sure to be careful with the item in your hand.

bucky’s walking now, and you lean your head on his, drawing letters with your free fingers on bucky’s chest. “so, what is it?” bucky asks, and you trace the tags in your hand with your thumb. “you remember how disappointed you were when you came back and your dog tags had been auctioned off?” you query quietly, and feel bucky nod beneath you. “well, i found out who bought them a month ago and asked them if i could buy it back from them. they said no, because of stupid reasons and called you things that i could’ve murdered them right then and there for-”

bucky can tell what you’re talking about and looks down, “y/n,” he mutters, and you cut yourself off, “right- anyways, so i tracked them down and since they rejected the first offer, i did the obvious thing: break into their house to get it back,” you say like it’s obvious, “it’s not like it’s theirs, anyways.”

“wait, you- you did all this to get my dog tags?” bucky asks, stopping to put you down. you whine, “yes, why’d you put me down-”

bucky’s arms are around you and pulling you to him before you can finish. you’re taken aback before hugging him back, kissing his shoulder. “thank you,” he mumbles, “i’m sorry you didn’t get it back after you went through all that trouble.”

you pull away, “you think i didn’t get it?” you show him your hand, dog tags dangling, “your faith in me is shocking.” bucky grabs the tags, his fingers skimming over the words. “i can’t believe you did this for me.”

“i love you, doll,” bucky replies, pressing a kiss to your lips and remembering this. this is why i’m in love with you.

“of course,” you say softly, “i love you, buck.”

890 notes · View notes

unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

Text

Don’t I Get a Dream for Myself ? – Bernadette Peters and the 'Gypsy' Saga

Gypsy. It’s perhaps the most daunting of all of the projects related to Bernadette Peters to try to grapple with and discuss. It’s also perhaps the most significant.

For someone notoriously guarded of her privacy and personal life, careful with her words, and selective of the questions she answers, the narrative around this show provides some of the most meaningful insights it is possible to derive in relation to Bernadette herself. The show’s ability to do this is unique, through the way it eerily parallels her own life and spans a large range in time from both Bernadette Peters the Broadway Legend, right back to where it all began with Bernadette Lazzara, the young Italian girl put into showbusiness by her mother.

The most logical place to start is at the very beginning – it is a very good place to start, after all.

(Though no one tell Gypsy this, if the fierce two-way battle with The Sound of Music at the 1960 Tony Awards is anything to be remembered. Anyway, I digress…)

Gypsy: A Musical Fable with music by Jule Styne, lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, and book by Arthur Laurents, burst into the world and onto the New York stage in May of 1959. After closing on Broadway in March 1961, Ethel Merman as the world’s original Mama Rose herself led the first national tour off almost immediately around the country. Just a few months later, a second national touring company was formed, starring Mitzi Green and then Mary McCarty as Rose, to cover more cities than the original. It is here that Bernadette comes in.

A 13-year-old Bernadette Peters found herself part of this show in her “first professional” on-the-road production, travelling across the country with her older sister, “Donna (who was also in the show), and their mother (who wasn’t)”.

The tour played through cities like Philadelphia, Chicago, New Haven, Baltimore and Las Vegas before closing in Ohio in 1962. Somewhat uncannily, its September 1961 opening night in Detroit’s Schubert Theatre even returns matters full circle to the 2003 revival and New York’s own Schubert Theatre.

Indeed this bus-and-truck tour was somewhat of a turning point for Bernadette. She’d later remember, “I mostly thought of performing as a hobby until I went on the road with Gypsy”.

But while this production seminally marked a notable moment for the young actress as well as the point where her long and consequential involvement with Gypsy begins, it’s important to recognise she was very much not yet the star of the show and then only a small part of a larger whole.

Bernadette was with the troupe as a member of the ensemble. She took on different positions in the company through the period of nearly a year that the show ran for, including billing as ‘Thelma’ (one of the Hollywood Blondes), ‘Hawaiian Girl’, and additional understudy credits for Agnes and Dainty June.

The above photo shows Bernadette (left) with another member of the ensemble (Sharon McCartin) backstage at the Chicago Opera House as one of the stops along the tour. Her comment on the stage of the Chicago theatre – “I’d never seen anything so big in my life!” – undeniably conveys how her experiences were new and appreciably daunting.

Along the tour, she assumed centre-stage once or twice as the understudy for Dainty June, but playing the young star was not her main role. Unlike what more dominant memory of the story seems to purport.

Main credits of June went instead to Susie Martin – a name and a tale of truth-bending that’s now well-known from Bernadette’s concert anecdotes. While performing her solo shows as an adult and singing from Gypsy, Bernadette has often been known to take a moment to penitently atone for historical indiscretions of identity theft or erasure where her mother long ago conveniently left out the “understudy” descriptive when putting down Dainty June on her resumé, in an effort to add weight to the teenager’s list of credits.

Whatever happened to Susie Martin? – many have wondered. Well, she soon left the theatre. But not before appearing in two more regional productions of Gypsy and a 1963 Off-Broadway revival of Best Foot Forward with Liza Minnelli and Christopher Walken.

Bernadette too went on to other regional productions of Gypsy. She spent the summer of 1962 in various summer stock stagings with The Kenley Players, like in Pennsylvania and Ohio, and this time she did indeed get to play June.

Above shows photos from different programmes for these productions. While some may have featured odd forms of photo editing, they at least also bring to attention Rose here being played by none other than Betty Hutton.

The two women couldn’t have been in more different positions when they coalesced in these rough-around-the-edges, small-scale productions. A young Bernadette was broaching summer stock in starting to take on bigger roles in the ascendency to her bright and long career. Meanwhile, Betty found herself there while navigating the descent that followed her sharp but fickle rise to Hollywood fame in the ‘40s and early ‘50s. Top billing Monday, Tuesday you really are touring in stock after all.

While details aren’t plentiful for these productions, it was recounted Betty apparently struggled in performing the role. And understandably so. Following the recent traumatic death of her mother in a house fire, and the birth of her third child shortly before the shows began, it’s not hard to see why her mind might have been elsewhere. Still, she was apparently impressed enough by the younger actress who turned in one of the show’s “creditable performances” to make comment that she would’ve liked Bernadette to play her if a movie were made about her life.

Bernadette might not have done this exactly, but she did go on to revitalise Betty’s best-known movie role, when stepping into Annie Oakley’s shoes in the 1999 Annie Get Your Gun revival. With Bernadette’s first Ethel Merman show under her belt, the ball was soon rolling on her second.

The 2003 production of Gypsy was imminently beckoning as her next successive Broadway musical and it was Arthur Laurents who lit the match to spark Bernadette’s involvement. Laurents, as the show’s original librettist, drove the revival by saying he “didn’t want to see the same Rose” he’d seen before. Going back to June Havoc’s description of her mother as “small” and a “mankiller”, and Arthur’s take that Bernadette sung the part “with more nuance for the lyrics and the character than the others”, the choice of Bernadette was justified. Moreover, “Laurents – whose idea it was to hire her – [said] going against type is exactly the point,” and Sam Mendes, as director, qualified “the tradition of battle axes in that role has been explored”.

So Bernadette also had her own baseline of innate physical similarity to the original Rose Hovick, in addition to her own first-hand memories of the women she’d acted alongside as Rose in her youth to bring into her characterisation of the infamous stage mother.

But there was a third factor beyond those as well to be considered in the personal material she had access to draw from for her characterisation. Namely, her own real life stage mother.

Marguerite Lazzara did share traits with the character of Rose. She too helped herself to silverware from restaurants, and put her daughters in showbusiness for the vicarious thrill. Marguerite had “always wanted to become an actress herself”, but had long been denied her desire by her own mother, who likened actresses to being as “close to a whore as you could be without, you know, getting on your back”.

In that case, to “escape a housewife’s dreary fate in Ozone Park”, Marguerite channelled her latent dream through her pair of young daughters instead, shepherding them out along the road. Thus was produced a trio of the two children ushered around the theatre circuit by the driven mother, forming an undeniable parallelism and a mirror image of both Bernadette’s reality and Gypsy’s core itself. Bernadette didn’t see some of these familial parallels at the time when she was a child, considering “maybe I didn’t want to see” – “didn’t want to see a mother doing that to her daughter”.

It was coming back to the show as an adult that helped Bernadette resolve who her mother was and some of the motivations that had propelled her when Bernadette was still a child. She realised, “I think she thought she was going to die very young”, as her own father died young. So “she was rushing around to get as much of her life as she could in there”.

When she herself returned to the production in playing Rose, Bernadette conceded to sometimes bringing elements of her mother and her driven energy into her portrayal, and admitted too she looked “like her a lot in the role”. You can assess any familial resemblances for yourself, from the images below that show a young Marguerite next to Bernadette in costume as Rose, and then with the pair backstage in 1961 in a dressing room on the tour.

Marguerite was ambitious. From her own personal position and with the restrictions imposed upon her, it was ambition that materialised through her children. Irrevocably, she altered them. She placed Bernadette on TV as a very young child (“I was four when my mother put me in the business”); changed her daughter’s surname (“She told me my real name was too long for the marquees,” or really – “too Italian”); doctored her resumé (“Somehow the word ‘understudy’ vanished. ‘No one will know,’ said Marguerite”); and lightened her hair (“She’d say, ‘Oh, I’m just putting a little conditioner on it.’ But slowly my hair got blonder and blonder!”). All in the hope of giving her child a more favourable chance at the life she’d always wanted for herself.

On paper, a classic stage mother. “When I was a kid, she fulfilled herself through me,” Bernadette would say. “She put me into show business so she could get a taste of the life herself.”

But it’s important to consider Bernadette often qualifies that her mother wasn’t as brutal as Rose, nor was she herself as traumatised as June.

Bernadette didn’t begrudge her mother for her choices – at least by the time she was an adult, she’d rationalised them, explaining “naturally it was more exciting [for her] to go on the road with me than staying home and keeping house”.

As a child, Bernadette hadn’t necessarily wanted to be on stage, but there was a sense of ambivalence – not resentful belligerence – as she “didn’t care one way or the other” when she found herself there.

Like June, Bernadette may have been entered into and coaxed around a path she hadn’t voluntarily chosen. But unlike June, Bernadette had a deal with her mother that “she had only to say the word”, and she could leave.

Most crucially, she never did.

But that’s not to say Bernadette was enamoured with acting from the beginning.

She seemed to feel ‘outside’ of that world and those in it. And others saw it too.

It was in 1961 in Gypsy that Bernadette first met Marvin Laird – her long-time accompanist, conductor and arranger. The way he put it, he “noticed this one young girl, very close with her mother” who, during breaks, “didn’t mix much with the other girls”.

Beneath the effervescent stage persona, there’s a quieter and more reserved reality, and a sense of separation and solitary division.

When asked by Jesse Green in 2003 for the extensive profile in The New York Times if she thought her experiences on the road in Gypsy were good for her at that age, she gives a curious, somewhat abstract, predominantly dark, potentially macabre, response. He wrote:

She doesn’t answer at first but seems to scan an image bank just behind her eyes for something to lock onto. Eventually she comes out with a seeming non sequitur. “I didn’t know how to swim. I remember, in Las Vegas, I fell in, once, and they thought I was flailing, but I felt like: ‘It’s pretty down here!’ I might have been dying and I was thinking: ‘Look at the pretty color!’ And suddenly my fear of water was gone, and I could have stayed in forever.” After a while, I realize she’s answered my question. Then she dismisses the image: “But I had to get my hair dry for the show that day, so up I came.”

I’m still not entirely sure I know what she’s trying to convey here. My interpretation of this anecdote changes as I have re-visited and re-examined it on multiple occasions at different time points. It’s arguably multiply polysemic.

Was she simply swept up in a moment of childlike distraction, lost in the temporary respite alone away from the usual noise and clamour? Was she indicating comprehension that her feelings and perspectives came secondary to any practical necessities and inevitable responsibilities? Was she using the water to depict a muffling and fishbowl-like detachment from others her age who got to live more ‘ordinary’ lives in the ‘normal’ world above that she felt separate from? Was she referencing the pretty colours she saw as a metaphor for show business and how she became bewitched by them even despite potential dangers? Was she trying to legitimately drown herself, or at least exhibiting an ambivalence again as to whether she lived or died, because of what the highly pressurised demands on her felt like?

The underlying sentiment through her response in answer to Green’s primary question was that, in essence – no. Being a child actor was not “over all, a good experience for a youngster”.

Acting might have been something she fell in love with over time, but not all at once, not right from the beginning, and not without noting its perils.

It was a matter of accidental circumstance that landed Bernadette in the show business world to begin with at such a young age in the first place – “I just found myself here,” she would offer.

Her mother, who was “always crazy about the stage”, “insisted” that her sister, Donna take lessons in singing, dancing and acting.

A further point of interest to note is that, although it was Bernadette with her new surname who would grow up to be the famous actress, look to the cast lists from the 1961 touring production of Gypsy that featured both sisters in the company (see photo below) and you’ll find no ‘Lazzara’ in sight. Donna too, appearing under the novel moniker of “Donna Forbes”, had also already become stagified (nay, ethnically neutralised?) by her mother. As such it is clearly demonstrated that Marguerite’s intention at that point was to make stars of both her daughters. Correspondingly so, when her sister returned from her performance lessons some years before, “Donna would come home and teach me what she had learned,” Bernadette remembered. She may have gotten her “training second hand”, but the key element was that she got it.

For Bernadette, it was a short jump from emulating magpied tricks from her sister as well as routines from Golden Age Busby Berkeley musicals on the ‘Million Dollar Movie’ in front of the TV screen, to her mother getting her on the other side of the screen and actually performing on TV itself – belting out Sophie Tucker impressions aged five for all the nation to see.

The photos below show Bernadette in performative situations at a young age (look for criss-crossed laces in the second for identification).

“At first, as a toddler, Bernadette enjoyed performing; it came naturally, a form of play that people inexplicably liked to watch.” It was “just a hobby” and she “wanted to do it”.

But while she may not have detested it, she didn’t entirely comprehend what was going on either. “I didn’t even know I was on TV,” she said. “I didn’t know that those big gadgets pointed at me were cameras and that they had anything to do with what people saw on the television set.”

When she started gaining more of an awareness of how “such play [was being] co-opted for commercial purposes”, she grew less enthralled. “She didn’t care for the bizarre children, accompanied by desperate mothers, she began to see at auditions: ‘They spent their whole time smiling for no reason, you know?’”

Being a child who had become sentient of being a child performer began to grow wearisome and grating to the young girl who had her equity card, a professional (and strange, new) stage name, and an increasingly long list of expectations by the time she was nine. There’s a keen sense she did not enjoy being in such a position: “I wouldn’t want to be a child again. When you’re a child, you have thoughts, but nobody listens to you. Nobody has any respect for you”.

Gypsy did indeed mark a turning point for Bernadette as mentioned above – but not just in the way that seems obvious. Looking back at it now, it does appear the monumental turning point at which she started appearing in significant and reputable productions, beginning what would be the foundation to her ‘professional’ career. However it was also the turning point after which she nearly quit the business altogether.

When she returned from performing in Gypsy, Bernadette felt like she’d had enough. One way of putting it was that she “then retired from the business to attend high school”, wanting to have some semblance of a normal scholastic experience “without the interruptions”. But whatever dissatisfaction she was feeling as an early adolescent on stage, she didn’t resolve at school – going as far as saying that while at Quintano’s School for Young Professionals, “she was in pain”.

“When you’re a teenager you’re too aware of yourself,” she recalled. Being a teen and trying to come to terms with of the expectation of the ‘60s that “you are supposed to look like Twiggy, and you don’t, you feel everything is wrong about you”. Everything “was all about tall, skinny, no chest…[and] hair straight”. Little Bernadette with her “mass of [curly] hair and distracting bosom”, as Alex Witchel put it, was never going to fit that mould. “That was not me,” she stated. “At all.”

Her self-consciousness grew to the point that it became overwhelming and asphyxiating. “I was trying desperately to blend in and be normal, but that doesn’t allow creativity to come out,” Bernadette said. “I knew I was acting terrible. The words were sticking in my mouth and all I could think about was how I looked”. It was hard enough just to look at herself (“I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror”), let alone to have other people gawk at her on stage. So she stopped trying. She “didn’t work much from age 13 to 17” in the slightest. Bernadette would later reflect in 1981 in an atypically open and vulnerable interview, “I was very insecure. Insecurity is poison. It’s like wearing chains”.

It was a combination of factors that helped her overcome these feelings of such toxic and weighty burden to draw her back into the public world of performing and the stage. “The two people who helped her most, she says, were David LeGrant, her first acting teacher, and her vocal coach, Jim Gregory.” Jim helped with “[opening] a whole creative world for [her] with singing”; and it was David who’d give her the now infamous and often (mis)quoted line about individuality and being yourself.

Having these kinds of lessons, she reasoned, was “really a wonderful emotional outlet for a kid of 17”. The process of it all was beneficial for her therapeutically – “you have a lot of emotions at that time in your life, and it was great to go to an acting class and use them up”. And Bernadette felt freer on stage than she did out on her own in the ‘real world’, saying “[up there] I don’t have to worry about what I’m doing or saying because I’m doing and saying what I’m supposed to be doing and saying”.

Finally then and with considerable bolstering and support, she grew comfortable with the notion of being visible on stage and in public, and realised she was never going to blend in as part of the chorus so it was simply better to let go of such a futile pursuit.

David LeGrant’s guiding advice to Bernadette (“You’ve got to be original, because if you’re like everyone else, what do they need you for?”) wasn’t just a trite aphorism. For her, it was a life raft. It was the key mental framing device that allowed her to comprehend for the first time that she might actually have intrinsic value as herself. And that it was imperative she let herself use it.

She had always stuck out, yes, but she had to learn how to want to be seen – talking of it as a conscious “choice” she had to make when realising she did “have something to offer”.

Thus soon after Bernadette graduated, she stepped back into productions like in summer stock and then Off-Broadway as she made her debut at that next theatrical level at 18. It wasn’t long before she was discovered in what’s seen as her big break in the unexpected smash hit, Dames at Sea. And so Bernadette Peters, the actress, was back. And she was back with impact and force.

Besides, as she’s also said, she couldn’t do anything else – “if I ever had to do something else to earn a living, I’d be at a total loss”. An aptitude test as a teenager told her so apparently, when she “got minus zero in everything except Theater Arts”. So that was that. Her answer for what she would’ve done if she’d never found acting is both paradoxically exultant and macabre – “I don’t know, probably shot myself!”

Flippant? Maybe. Trivial? No.

Acting is thus undoubtedly related highly to Bernadette’s sense of purpose and self-worth. This is what makes it even more apparent that a show with such personal and historical connections for her, as in Gypsy, was going to be so consequential and impactful to be a part of again as an adult and perform on a public stage.

She’s called inhabiting the role of Rose in the 2003 revival many things: “deeply personal”, “life changing”, “like going through therapy” – to name a few.

In interviews regarding Gypsy and playing the main character, when asked what she had learnt, Bernadette would frequently say something like, “It taught me a lot”. Pressed further about specifics, her answers often hem close to vague platitudes as she maintains her normal tendency of endeavouring to keep her privacy close to her chest.

On one occasion, she actually elaborated somewhat on what she’d learnt, giving a fuller answer than the question is normally afforded anyhow. Beyond all it revealed to her about her mother, she extended to admitting “my capacity for love and my capacity for anger” as aspects in her that the show had permanently altered. Moreover, Rose to her was undoubtedly the “most rewarding and fulfilling acting experience” she had ever had.

But while such deep, personal and emotional depths and memories were being stirred up beneath the surface in private, she was getting vilified in public singularly and repeatedly by New York Post columnist, Michael Riedel.

Even before she’d set foot on stage, Riedel set forth in motion early in the 2003 season a campaign of vocal and opinionated defamation against Bernadette as Rose that she was miscast, insufficiently talented, and would be incapable of executing the role.

Too small, too delicate, too weak, too many curves (and too much knowledge of how to use them). Not bold enough, not loud enough – not Merman enough. Chatter and speculative dissent begun to grow in and around the Broadway theatres.

For such a prestigious and historic musical theatre role, it was always going to be hard to erase the large shadow of an original Merman mould. Ethel was woven into the very fabric of the show, with the rights to Gypsy Rose Lee’s memoirs being obtained at her behest in the first place, and the idiosyncrasies of her voice having been written into the songs themselves by their very authors.

To step out from such a domineering legacy would be a marked challenge at the best of times. Let alone when battling a respiratory infection.

Matters of public perception were certainly not helped when Bernadette then got ill as the show started its preview period and she started missing early performances.

Nor did it help with critical perception that the Tony voting period coincided so synchronously with Gypsy’s first opening months – giving Bernadette no time to recover, find her feet, and settle more healthily into the show for the rest of the run before the all important decisions were made by that omnipotent committee.

The tale of her illness is actually undercut by a more innocent and unsuspecting origin than you’d expect from all the drama and trouble it engendered. Bernadette decided nearing the show’s opening to treat herself to a manicure. In the salon, she was next to a woman very close to her with a frightful sounding cough. Who could’ve known then that this anonymous and inconspicuous lady through a fateful cause-and-event chain would go on to play such a part in what is among the biggest and most enduring Tony Awards “She was robbed!” discourses? Or even more broadly – in also arguably playing a hand in the closure and financial failure of an $8.5 million Broadway show after its disappointing performance at the Tony Awards that ominously “[spelled] trouble at the box office” and led to its premature demise?

Bernadette did not win the Best Actress in a Musical Tony that night on June 6th 2004. The award went instead (not un-controversially) to newcomer Marissa Jaret Winokur for Hairspray.

She did however give one of the most indelibly resonant and frequently re-referenced solo performances at the awards show just before she lost – defying detractors to comprehend how she could be unworthy of the accolade with a rendition of ‘Rose’s Turn’ that has apocryphally earned one of the longest standing ovations seen after such a performance even to date.

Even further and even more apocryphally, she reportedly did so while still under the weather as legend as circulated by musical theatre fans goes – performing “against doctor’s orders” with stories that have her being “afflicted with anything from a 103-degree fever, to pneumonia, to a collapsed lung”.

Seeing then as unfortunately there is no Tony Award speech to draw on here, matter shall be retrieved fittingly from that which she gave just a few years earlier in 1999 for her first win and previous Ethel Merman role in Annie Get Your Gun to wrap all of this together.

As has been illustrated, there are many arguably scary or alarming aspects in Bernadette’s Gypsy narrative. There’s undeniably much darkness and an ardent clamouring for meaning and self-realisation along the road that tracks her journey parallel to the show. But unlike Rose’s hopeless decries of “Why did I do it?” and “What did it get me?”, there was a point for Bernadette.

As her emotional tribute in 1999 went: “I want to thank my mother, who 48 years ago put me in showbusiness. And I want to finally, officially, say to her – thank you. For giving me this wonderful experience and this journey.”

Whatever all of this was, maybe it was worth it after all.

72 notes · View notes

writethelifeyouwant · 3 years

Text

Come On

Pairing: Cordell x Reader

Rating: 18+

Tags: Daddy kink, dom/sub, punishment scene, age difference, secret relationship

Word Count: 3.2k

Created for: @walker-bingo - Spanking | @anyfandomgoesbingo - Lingerie

Dividers: @firefly-graphics

Your phone vibrates on your desk, the sudden noise nearly making you stab yourself in the eye with your mascara wand. You glance down and see Cordell’s face flashing on the screen, and you smile, accepting the call and hitting ‘speaker’.

“Hey there,” you chirp as you return to doing your makeup.

“Hi,” the smile in Cordell’s voice is audible. “So, I just heard from Stella that you’re coming over soon? Why didn’t you tell me I’d get to see you today?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” you giggle. Of course, you hadn’t told Stella that you were trying to surprise her dad by showing up unannounced, so it’s not her fault that she ruined your plan. You felt bad sometimes, keeping your relationship with Cordell secret from your best friend, but how are you supposed to tell someone that you slept with their dad – and that you plan to keep doing it? Plus, Cordell had been very insistent that no one could know about your relationship, so you couldn’t betray his trust by telling his daughter what you two had been up to for the past few months. The secrecy just made it hotter most of the time anyways, so you didn’t mind the sneaking around.

“Well, I’m glad I get to see you tonight, baby girl.” The register of Cordell’s voice drops when he says your nickname, and you shiver pleasantly.

“I can’t wait to see you either, Daddy,” you smile, smacking your lips together as you put the finishing touches on your lipstick and smile at your reflection in the mirror.

“Do I get a sneak peek at your dress?” Cordell asks. You’d sent him an excited text from the store when you’d finally found the perfect outfit for your graduation dance at school, but you hadn’t let him see it yet. You pick your phone up and carry it to the closet where your dress is hanging on the back of the door, and you snap a quick photo of the corner of the bodice, so he can get a look at the deep, jewel tone colour of the lace.

“Sent you a pic,” you call down the receiver of the phone as you set it down to pull on your stockings. You fasten the stockings to your suspender belt as you wait for Cordell’s reaction, and you tug the bustier you’re wearing back into place once you have everything on and clipped together.

“You know how much I like lace on you, baby girl.” You smirk in satisfaction-- that’s precisely why you’d chosen this dress. “I bet it will look beautiful on you.”

“Do you want to see what else I’m wearing tonight, Daddy?” You keep your voice innocent and coy, knowing he’ll take the bait.

“Of course I do, darlin’. You know the rules, I always get a picture if you wear one of the things I picked out for you.” You smile wickedly as you arrange yourself in the mirror to show off the new lingerie that you’d bought especially for this night. Cordell is going to love it, but he isn’t going to be pleased with you when he sees it. The two of you have rules. He gets to pick out all of the lingerie you buy, and any time you wear it you have to send him a photo of you in it. Cordell didn’t pick out the set you’re wearing now, so you know you’re going to be in trouble with him later when you get to Stella’s house – and you can’t wait.

You pose yourself in the mirror to highlight your curves, which are wrapped in glittering lace and ribbon details, and push your hand into your hair to muss it up for the picture. You take a few and pick one you’re happy with, sending it to Cordell with the caption ‘can’t wait until you get your hands on me in this 😉’. Then you sit back on your bed and wait for Cordell to receive the text.

“Did you get it, Daddy?” You ask when he’s silent for a few moments.

“Is that some new underwear, baby girl?” Cordell asks measuredly.

“Uh-huh,” you giggle.

“I don’t remember picking that out for you, angel,” Cordell’s voice drops in pitch, growing threatening, and you smile widely.

“It was another surprise for you, Daddy,” you answer innocently, acting like you didn’t notice the change in Cordell’s tone just then.

“I hope you were about ready to leave, baby girl, because I expect you here in 20 minutes. If you’re late, there will be an extra punishment, do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy,” your voice has climbed higher in excitement.

“Good.” Cordell ends the call without a goodbye, and you know you’re in for it now.

You ring the old iron bell on the porch by their front door when you arrive, with just a minute and a half to spare. Cordell opens the door with a friendly smile and ushers you into the kitchen with a call behind his back of – “Stella! Y/N is here!” – before turning back to you and giving you a quick hug.

“Hey Mr. Walker,” you smirk, knowing it drives him crazy when you call him that. He rolls his eyes at you but smiles – from how he’s acting now you’d never know that he’s about to punish you for breaking his rules.

“Come on, do a little twirl for me darlin’,” Cordell spins his finger through the air and you whirl around on your toes, demonstrating the movement of your dress. The hem flips up as you spin, showing off the slightest hint of lace and the tops of the stockings that you’d teased him with earlier in your photos. “You look beautiful, Y/N,” his eyes soften as he looks you up and down, admiring the dress, and you in it.

“Thanks,” you blush, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. It astonishes you that he can still make you feel butterflies like this, just by saying something so simple. The sound of a door from the hall draws your attention and you look up to see Stella running into the kitchen, still in her bathrobe.

“Y/N, you look so awesome!” Stella squeals and gives you a big hug. “You’re early, I wasn’t expecting you for another hour,” she laughs exasperatedly.

“Well you know me,” you shrug, “I got impatient,” you giggle, your eyes flashing to Cordell, who smirks at you behind Stella’s back. He knows just how impatient you can be sometimes.

“I’m still doing my hair, come hang out in my room,” Stella pulls you along behind her.

“Yeah of course, but can I use your bathroom first?”

“August is taking a shower, but he should be done soon,” Stella says.

“You can use the one in my room,” Cordell offers, like you knew he would. “Here, I’ll show ya.” He moves in front of you and Stella, and beckons you down the hall after him.

“Thanks, Mr. Walker,” you smile, and follow him to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. Once inside, he shuts the door quietly behind you and his demeanor instantly changes.

“So,” Cordell gives you a tight lipped smile, his eyes darkening as they once again rake up and down your body, but this time he lets the hunger seep through.

“Sooo,” you draw out the word, moving closer to him and swirling your skirt around your legs as you go.

“Someone decided to break one of our rules, hmm?” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at you stonily.

“I just thought you’d like it Daddy,” you pout up at him. “I know how much you like me in lace, and I wanted to look pretty for you.” You press your hands against his chest and flutter your lashes, but you know this innocent act isn’t going to get you any mercy.

“You look very pretty in it, but that’s not the point baby girl. We have rules for a reason.” Cordell smiles at you sympathetically and reaches out to rub his hands up and down your arms in a comforting gesture. The heat of his skin against yours makes you shudder, and you let him draw you closer to him. “So you know I’m gonna have to punish you now, yeah?”

“I know, Daddy,” you nod meekly.

“But you’re gonna have to stay real quiet, so Stels and August don’t hear us. Can you do that for me?” he checks.

“I can be quiet, Daddy.”

“Okay, good girl,” Cordell smiles and lets you go, moving to sit on the edge of his bed. “Come on,” he twirls his finger in the air and pats his knee, and you go willingly, acting penitent but secretly loving this inside. You drape yourself over his lap, your ass in the air right over his groin, and you can feel the stirrings of his arousal beneath you. He flips the hem of your dress up, revealing the offending lace panties that had gotten you into trouble in the first place. His hands run over your thighs, pinging the suspenders against your skin and making you jump a little against him. “Easy, baby,” he soothes, chuckling. “So, how many do you think you deserve for breaking the rules this time?”

“I don’t know, Daddy,” you squirm. As much as you love to provoke Cordell, and get him to punish you, you’re never good at this part. You hate how he essentially makes you ask for what you want done to you, which is exactly why he does it.

“Well, it is your graduation dance tonight, so maybe I can go a little easy on you. Should we say ten, baby girl?”

“Okay, Daddy,” you nod into your arms, which are holding you up on the mattress.

“Alright then, count them off for me baby.” And without any more preamble Cordell brings his palm down firmly against your right asscheek. You gasp at the sting, wriggling on his lap.

“One,” you say quietly, pressing your head against your arms and bracing for the next hit. It comes swiftly, his hand smacking your left side. “Two.” You can feel yourself getting wet now, and you know Cordell must be able to see the moisture seeping through the lace between your legs. The embarrassment at that thought makes you squirm even more, turned on by the humiliation that you like your punishments this much.

Hits three and four come hard and fast, not even giving you time to count between them. Cordell’s big hand rubs across your skin to soothe you, and he gives you a moment to breathe before he doles out hits five and six – each harder than the last. Now you can feel the slick starting to drip down the crease of your thigh, and Cordell notices too, because he reaches out and draws a finger through the trail that’s winding its way across your skin.

“What’s this, baby girl?” he coos from above you.

“N-nothing, Daddy,” you stutter.

“What a little slut, getting all wet for Daddy while he’s spanking you. You really are a bad girl, aren’t you baby?”

“No,” you protest quickly. “No, Daddy, I’m good, I promise.” You have to be good during your punishments, or else you won’t get your reward after.

“Yeah? You’re a good girl?” Cordell teases his finger below the lace between your legs, brushing his fingertip through your folds, and pushing lightly against your entrance.

“Yes, I’m a good girl, Daddy,” you whine, pushing your hips back against his finger. “Your good girl Daddy, please.”

“Please what, baby?”

“Please keep punishing me, Daddy,” you push your ass towards his hand, moaning when he digs his fingers into your flesh.

“Alright baby, just four more for me, you’re doing really good.” You smile to yourself as you count seven and eight, pushing your hips back into the harsh contact each time, relishing in the heat that blooms in the wake of each slap.

“Spread your legs a little for me baby girl,” Cordell pushes at your thighs, moving them apart himself. You let him position you how he wants, following the pressure he puts on your lower back and sticking your hips farther back, exposing the visible wet spot between your legs to the open air. A harsh strike lands directly over your pussy and you cry out briefly before you remember to muffle your voice against your skin.

“N-nine,” you gasp, your pussy throbbing beneath Cordell’s hand, which is rubbing between your legs to soothe the burn it had just caused.

“Keep quiet f’me, baby,” Cordell breathes, and you can hear how worked up he’s getting just from punishing you. You’re glad that at least you’re not the only one.

He lands one more cruel spank over your pussy and you bite on your forearm to keep from crying out, whimpering a quiet “ten” into your skin as you squirm in is his lap, trying to press your hips into his fingers, which are brushing lightly over the sopping lace covering your core. He lets you press into him, rewarding you by dragging his fingers up to your clit and running a few teasing circles over the little bundle of nerves.

“Did so good for me, baby girl,” Cordell whispers gruffly, stroking more earnestly as he teases you through your underwear.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whimper softly, thrusting needily against his fingers, trying to get more friction against your aching core. “Please Daddy, please,” you beg, not even able to conjure the words for what you need, you’re too desperate. All your brain can think is please, need something, need more.

“Okay baby, c’mere,” Cordell manoeuvres you off of his lap and you stand on shaky legs before you lean against the nearby dresser for support. Cordell stands and follows you, undoing his belt and zipper, and pulling his hard cock out of his boxers. Your mouth always waters when you see it, and right now is no different. If you had more time you’d drop to your knees and suck him down – you love the ache you get in your jaw every time he fucks your mouth – but right now you both have a different goal in mind.

Cordell lifts you and sets you on top of his dresser, so he can reach your mouth easier, and kisses you deeply. You moan against his lips, letting your tongues tangle together and reaching up to run your fingers through his hair, tugging on it gently and giggling when he lets out a groan and bites at your lip. He runs his hands down your back and scooches you to the edge of the dresser, grabbing his dick to rub the tip against your centre, pushing your panties to the side as he does, so he can press into your entrance.

When he pushes in, oh so slowly, you have to bite into his shoulder to keep from moaning too loudly. He fills you so completely, it feels like every nerve between your legs is on fire, and you would happily burn in the flames. Cordell gives a few shallow thrusts, probably not wanting to move too quickly and accidentally hurt you, but the dresser thumps against the wall with each movement, and he stills again, needing to keep quiet. In a flash, he’s hooked his arms around your back and lifted you up in the air. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking him inside you as he moves the pair of you to the wall, pressing you against it for support and shifting his hands to grip your ass and hold you up.

Slowly, he pulls out and pistons back in, testing how quiet your new position is. Satisfied that you can be sufficiently sneaky this way, he starts to pick up the pace of his thrusting, and this position has his hips dragging across your clit with every press forward. You bury your head against his shoulder and bunch your hands in his shirt. You’re just along for the ride at this point, letting him use your body to chase his own release, and you can tell he’s close when his thrusts get quicker, messier. He bends his knees a little to change angles and get a better grip on you, and on the next thrust in his cock drags right over that sweet spot inside you and you can’t hold in the whimper of “Daddy” against his neck.

“Yeah, that’s it baby girl,” Cordell breathes against your ear, bucking his hips into you faster and faster, and you can feel your pussy start to twitch around his length, desperate to reach your peak. “I can feel how close you are baby, your little pussy feels so good squeezing around Daddy’s cock like that. C’mon and come for me baby girl, come for Daddy.” He ducks in to swallow your whines in a bruising kiss, and you let yourself come undone around him as he kisses you through it, drinking in your moans and letting them spur him on.

As you come down, and feel yourself start to loosen around him, losing the strength in your limbs to keep yourself locked in place, you feel Cordell’s movements quicken, becoming jerky and erratic, and then they still as he holds himself inside you, grunting through his own release as he buries his head into the crook of your neck. When he’s finished, he slowly drags his head away from your shoulder and pulls out of you. Immediately, you feel his release start to drip from your entrance but Cordell pulls your panties back into place to catch the cum that’s leaking out of you now. The thought of going to this dance with his cum pooling in your new panties is deliciously wrong, and you love how dirty it makes you feel.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you smile up at him, and pull him down for another kiss. “I promise I’ll be good from now on.” Cordell scoffs, good naturedly but completely disbelieving.

“Now, we both know that’s not true, don’t we?” he smirks down at you.

“Well…” you muse with a teasing smile.

“Yeah,” Cordell laughs derisively and places a short kiss against your forehead. “That’s what I thought.” He swats at your ass and pushes you towards the door to the bathroom in the corner of his bedroom. “Now, go clean yourself up and get out of here. Have a good time at your dance tonight.” You smile and nod, heading for the bathroom. “And, Y/N?” You turn and look back at Cordell, leaning against the dresser and watching you with a smirk. “You know the rules – I better get a few more pictures of you in those panties while you’re out later. I wanna see what a mess I made of my baby girl.”

You grin, squeezing your legs together and feeling his slick pressing against your core. “Of course Daddy,” you smile. “You know me, I always follow the rules.”

Tag List: @vulgar-library @tintentrinkerin @negans-lucille-tblr @fandomfic-galore @petitgateau911 @whoreforackles @schaefchenherde @kickingitwithkirk @little-diable @laxe-chester67 @kassyscarlett @sonofslaanesh69 @lovealways-j @delightfullykrispypeach @stoneyggirl @walkersbabygirl @austin-winchester67 @sams-sass

#walker-bingo #anyfandomgoesbingo #cordell walker x reader #cordell x reader #walker x reader #cordell walker smut #walkerbingo #walkerbingo2021 #afgbingo

273 notes · View notes

whump-a-la-mode · 3 years

Text

Villainsicle | Part 13

I know it’s been a while, and if I’m being completely honest, I really ran out of steam on this story for a while. But, we’re back! If you’re new to my blog and are interested in this story, all of the parts up to this one can be found linked in my pinned info post.

Thank you guys so much for all your support of this series so far! I hope you enjoy this part, too!

Taglist:

@whatwhumpcomments

@sola-whumping

@professional-idiocy

@trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room

@literally-just-kirby

@the-polari-person

@teachunks

@daydreamed-snippets-2nd-blog

@sunflower1000

@lightdrinker-blog

@regalwritten

CW//Mentions of bathing, restraints, drugs, dehumanization, conspiracies, collars, talk of diseases, talk of falling, Stockholm syndrome, affectionate caretaker, conditioned whumpee

After their bath, Villain rested.

It wasn’t exactly how Counselor had imagined the whole affair going. Villain had already spent so many days resting, laid up in that same bed, but once they were clean and settled into fresh clothes, they had requested nothing except to be able to return to sleep.

They supposed it wasn’t entirely unexpected. While the bath hadn’t exactly been physically exerting, there had been several instances during it that Villain had nearly burst out in tears. Whatever was going through their mind, it was undeniably intense-- and that wasn’t even mentioning the heavy dose of sedatives coursing through their system.

And, thus, Villain slept. They were unconscious almost immediately upon hitting the mattress.

This time, however, there was no nervous twitching to accompany their unconsciousness. Instead, for the first time, their face showed a perfectly placid expression.

Taking care not to wake the sleeping patient, Counselor draped a fleece blanket overtop of them, tucking its edges in around their shoulders. They twitched, but did not awake. A moment later, they buried their face in the fabric.

Counselor had never before imagined that Villain was even capable of existing in such a calm state. Yet, here they were, looking for all the world as though not even an earthquake could wake them up.

Their gaze flicked to the bedrails. Upon returning to their bed, Villain had not so much as seemed to note the leather-and-foam restraints hanging there.

Yet, Counselor could not draw their gaze away from them.

Villain had been staying in the base for weeks, phasing through various states of aggression and fear and sickness and, on rare occasions, hesitant happiness. But, even after all that time, no one truly knew anything about them.

At least, Counselor knew nothing about them. Based on the way Leader and Medic’s expressions twisted when the prisoner was mentioned, it was clear that the both of them knew more than they were letting on-- but neither was keen to admit as to such.

Maybe Hero had had more luck on this information gathering mission.

But how much information was there really to gather? Officially, Villain had simply appeared on stage a few months ago, alongside two unknowns. More or less, they had acted just as any other villain did.

The other villains, however, had motives. Backstories. They were following orders.

Villain... If anyone on the outside cared about them, they had yet to risk any sort of jailbreak.

There was more to this than the official story, Counselor knew that full well. How much more... as to that, they had no idea.

But they had no need to rely on second hand accounts and official reports to know what Villain was. That much was obvious. They were a villain. Whatever their backstory, whatever their past, they were dangerous.

Right?

Counselor’s gaze drifted back to those restraints. Those simple straps, dangling from a metal bedframe.

At some point, Villain may have been dangerous. But not right now. Right now, they needed help, and that was exactly what Counselor was going to give them.

And, if they wanted that plan to go anywhere, they would have to start with the doctor who harmed their own patient.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

This time, when Medic answered the knocking on their door, their glasses were on the right way around. They blinked a few times, rubbing their eyes, hardly noting as the piping hot cup of coffee was pushed into their hands.

The doctor glanced down at the beverage before looking back up to meet their visitor’s gaze.

“I thought you wanted me to sleep.”

“Well, that was before. For now, we need to talk.”

“If this is decaf again, I swear I’m going to strangle you.”

“It’s not. Though the same threat applies to you if you try to go back to the med bay.”

“I’m a doctor. In fact, I’m our only doctor.”

“I’m a doctor, too.”

“Psychology doesn’t count.”

“Fair enough.”

“If we’re done threatening each other, then, would you care to, I don’t know, tell me why you’re bothering me?”

“As I said, we need to talk.”

“Do I even need to ask what about?”

“I think you already know that. Come on. You have your coffee, so there’s no excuses.”

“You really think I’m going to be that penitent about this?”

“Maybe.”

Medic rolled their eyes, but did not protest any further as Counselor turned and walked off. The two moved to a rather isolated table, tucked away in the corner of a hallway. The cafeteria was far too crowded at the moment to host such a discussion.

On opposite sides of the table, the opposites sat. Two cups of coffee clinked down on the wooden surface.

Counselor took a sip of their drink, placing the cup back down and raising their gaze. Medic frowned, lips turning downwards even further than usual.

“What, are we planning on talking through telepathy or- Come on, Counselor, stop looking at me like that. I hate that.”

“Then are you going to say anything?”

“I can’t read your mind.”

“You said you knew what this was about.”

“Maybe.” Medic shrugged dismissively. The doctor had been horribly standoffish, ever since Villain had been captured. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to start trying to guess your thoughts.”

Counselor took another sip.

“Fine, then. I can start.” Sip. Clink. “Villain told me something very interesting, earlier.”

“You really believe them?”

“I haven’t even said it yet.”

“Then stop wasting time, maybe.”

“Villain says that you’re making them sick.”

Medic’s brows furrowed.

“That’s what they said?”

“Pretty much verbatim, yes.”

“Well.” Medic took a hesitant drink of their coffee. “I don’t know why you’re even wasting your time on a notion like that. What they are is paranoid. I don’t doubt that they think I’m making them sick. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“You’re saying that your patient is lying.”

“Maybe not lying. That would imply that they know what they’re saying is not true. They are sick, I will not deny that. And they are not responding to treatment. I can’t say that anything I’ve tried so far has made it any better, but it certainly hasn’t made it worse.”

“Why would they believe such a thing without reason?”

Medic exhaled.

“Because, in Villain’s mind, they do have reason. They have a child’s understanding of medicine. They are sick, and they are under my care and taking my medicines, and thus, in their mind, one of these things has caused the other.”

Counselor cast their gaze downwards, focusing on the way their milk danced its way through the black beverage before them. It was a reasonable explanation. Maybe. They may not have trusted Medic, but they trusted Medic’s abilities as a doctor.

Could Villain really be wrong?

“If they’re wrong...” Counselor began again. “Then what is making them sick? Their incident with hypothermia was weeks ago, now. It can’t still be that?”

“I doubt the two are connected. If this was all a matter of post-hypothermic reactions, then we wouldn’t be seeing these kinds of symptoms.”

“What is it, then?”

Medic bit their bottom lip.

“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? They’ve been in your care for... well over a week, now.”

“You think I don’t know that? If you haven’t noticed, I’m the world’s leading expert on Enhanced biology. Not to mention, y’know, an experienced doctor for normal humans. Whatever this is, it’s not a normal sickness. I’ve done every test I can think of.”

“And... it’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“Not as badly as you might be fearing. Their weakness is worsening, yes, as is their general mental state. But their vitals are fine. They’re not in serious danger of anything, so long as they don’t hurt themself.”

“You think they’d do that?”

“Given just how bad their confusion has been getting? I’m already putting preventative measures in place.”

“Oh.”

Medic raised a brow.

“You thought I restrained them for no reason? I’m not Leader. There are medical regulations about this sort of thing.”

“They’ve been hurting themself?”

“Not what you may be thinking of. But with how bad their weakness has grown, they can’t exactly stand up without aid, at the current moment. Forget walking. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to have realized this.”

“They’ve fallen?”

“A few times, yes. If that is all, I was really just starting to enjoy my day off, so-”

“Wait.” Counselor shook their head. “People don’t get sick for no reason.”

“Congrats, you know a basic medical fact.”

“You know what I mean. You’re the smartest person I know. You must have, I don’t know, a theory? A hypothesis? Anything?”

Medic blinked, placing down their cup.

“I do. Though right now, I have no way of proving it.”

“What is it?”

“Villain has what we call... psionic powers. Powers that affect only a person’s brain, but not their physical body. It’s the rarest type of power, oftentimes because something you can’t see is often something you can’t detect. Thus, this group of powers is poorly understood, to say the least. But I’m sure you know what power fatigue looks like for other Enhanced.”

“Like when Hero broke their leg?” Counselor guessed.

“Yes. The simple act of overexerting ones powers, even without outside injury, can cause physical injuries like that to develop.”

“You think Villain’s having power fatigue?”

“It’s my best guess. It would check all the boxes. An undetectable illness affecting the brain, but nothing else. A never before seen condition.”

“But... is it something you can cure?”

“I can’t cure tiredness.” Medic shook their head. “That’s really not how it works. I can do my best to counteract the symptoms, but so long as the source is still there, I’d be fighting uphill.”

“Then what can you do?”

“I can remove the source.” The tiniest smirk crept onto the doctor’s countenance. “Power fatigue is caused not by using ones powers, but using them in a way that the body cannot handle. At least, as far as we can tell. If Villain can control their powers enough, their symptoms should go away.”

“You really think so?”

“I hesitate to guarantee anything. Not with how poorly understood the condition is.” That smirk fell, replaced by Medic’s resting expression of annoyance. “But training them to use their powers properly is the only way I can see them getting any better.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m also sure that I would really like to go back to my quarters. If you’re done bothering me?”

Counselor bit their tongue.

“Fine.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Counselor had momentarily considered returning to their own quarters, but had quickly decided against it, instead turning to the kitchen. They had yet to eat that morning, as had Villain. They figured that a warm meal might help them shake off the sedatives.

And, maybe, some food would make Counselor’s own stomach stop twisting.

They only made it halfway to the kitchen, however, when in the hallway, they nearly slammed into Hero. The two both yelped, and a slosh of Counselor’s coffee slopped to the floor.

“Shit, sorry, are you okay?” Hero asked. There was considerable nerve in their voice.

Counselor nodded. “You just started me, ‘s all.” They glanced down at the spilling coffee now sitting on the tile floor. “I’ll, uh, get that later. I was just heading to the kitchen.”

“Oh. Um, could it wait?”

“I need to bring Villain something to eat.”

“Can it wait?”

“What-”

Counselor’s gaze drifted to Hero’s twitching hand.

“You have something?”

“Mhm. I don’t think it’s going to take very long.”

“Can I see?”

“Not here. Not with everyone else around.”

Counselor raised their brows quizzically, but nodded.

“To your quarters, then?”

“I guess that’s as good of a place as any.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

As soon as Counselor was out of sight, Medic changed their trajectory.

The musty air that filled their lab acted on them like a drug, sending a calm shiver down their spine. If they had the day off (or if they were being forced to take it off), there was no way they were going to spend that precious little free time moping in their quarters. Not when they could be here.

They sat, the memory foam of their desk chair still molded to their form. The laptop before them booted up with a familiar chirp and bright pink screensaver, written upon in white text:

“Property of Organization. Unauthorized Use Is Unlawful.”

The grainy selection of videos blinked before them, and they selected the next one in the series. Even if they didn’t have access to their Asset at the current moment, they could at the very least work ahead.

The screen fizzled to life in all its low-definition glory, displaying a familiar room, its walls plastered with protective black rubber, and its tile floor made of the same material.

The presenter wore a bandage on their face, covering the side of their jaw. The gauze warped as they smiled, but they seemed to make no note of it.

Beside them, the presenter’s own Asset stood. The muzzle around their face had been modified, its metal warped as to compress its wearer’s jaw, to the point that even breathing was an impossibility.

Extreme, perhaps, but based on the Asset’s behavior, it was warranted.

Though their movements were weak and unbalanced, they were persistent, not ceasing yanking against their leash for the slightest moment. This time, unlike before, the presenter seemed to be paying attention to them, though they did not seem worried.

“It has been some time since we last spoke.” They began. “I apologize for the delay, but, hopefully, it will not happen again. After all, training our Assets is a full time job.”

A smile. Cheerful, stretching their cheeks.

“Unfortunately, I must report that the recent delay we experienced was as a result of my own Asset lashing out. This was unfortunate, but it made me realize that there is a flaw in my training methods. A flaw I seek to instruct you, today, on how to remedy.

One advantage we trainers have is that we have 24/7 access to our Assets. As we take care of them, we can choose to meet their needs in whatever way we see fit.

Deprivation has always been a part of Asset training, since we pioneered our methods. But it was something I, unfortunately and unwisely, neglected. And I have done you all a disservice by not mentioning it to you.

In order for training to truly take effect, there must be room in an Asset’s mind for it to fit. A reason for them to follow. Fear, certainly, is this reason, but there are other aspects to control.

Following my Asset’s incident, we have been working using these methods of deprivation. Depriving your Asset of things such as nutrients, water, and sleep can significantly speed up and solidify your training. In this lesson, we will go over this, and how it can help you improve your training methods.”

The presenter’s smile was matched by their Asset’s wicked snarl. From the corners of their mouth, licks of flame emerged, just for the slightest moment.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hero handled the flash drive as though it were a bomb.

Perhaps it was, if the writing on the device was at all to be believed. Scrawled on in sharpie, a hastily written yet well received warning.

“Property of Organization. Unauthorized Use Is Unlawful.”

As if Organization cared about the law.

Hero seated themself in their office chair, leaving Counselor to sit a few feet back, on their bed. They almost flinched, plugging the flashdrive into their laptop.

For a moment, the computer hummed, before it reported chipperly that new files had been added.

“Uh, Hero?”

“Yeah?”

“Where did you get this thing?”

“Leader gave it to me.”

“Did they say what it was.”

Hero shook their head. “That’s what we’re about to find out.”

Still moving terribly nervously, Hero opened the folder that the computer had created for these ‘new files.’

“It’s... videos.”

“Videos?”

“A couple of them, yeah.”

“Should we... play them?”

“I don’t- I don’t know. I mean, if Organization is involved, I’m not sure I want to know what’s on them.”

“It could help Villain.”

Hero sighed, dipping their head.

“I hate when you’re right.”

With deft fingers, they selected the first video.

It had been so long, since any of them had seen Traitor. More than that, it had been so long since any of them had seen Traitor smile.

And yet, that was what they were doing. Grinning, ear to ear, eyes locked upon the camera.

“Hello, everyone, and welcome to the second edition of the Asset Training Video Course. If you are confused, the first edition of this series was, unfortunately, cut short due to... an incident. We will all miss our last presenter, but that does not mean that our duties can be shirked.”

Traitor turned, looking offscreen, calling:

“Veni huc.”

The language the words were in was clearly not English, but the person who moved on-screen did not seem concerned by that fact.

Villain smiled as well, though their warm gaze had an inquisitive quality to it as they regarded the camera. A chain-link collar was arranged about their neck, but it was attached to nothing, and seemed to more or less hang limply.

“For this series, I will be demonstrating all you need to know about Asset training. This, here, is my own Asset, Cadet. As you can tell, they are very well trained, if I do say so myself. They will be helping me show you how to train your own assigned Asset.”

Traitor’s hand reached for Villain, who did not flinch a moment. Their hand ruffled Villain’s hair affectionately.

Villain smiled, and leaned into the touch.

#whump #whumpee #whumpblr #whump community #villainsicle #powered whumpee #conditioned whumpee

74 notes · View notes