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even-disco-baby · 1 year

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SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hello again, gendarme.” He smiles at you— not from his usual post, but from one of the cafeteria tables. A small sketchbook is laid out in front of him, along with some odd gray sticks.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Compressed graphite. Not quite as bold or blendable as charcoal, but certainly less messy.

EMPATHY — Garte will appreciate it.

“I’d like to talk about the case again.”

“You moved! I didn’t know you could do that.”

“What are you drawing?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “That’s the question, isn’t it?” His smile turns a little rueful. “I found one of my old sketchbooks and thought I’d like to fill the last few empty pages, but I’m finding myself a little… uninspired.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION — The accursed artist’s block. Staring down an empty page only for it to stare back, mocking you.

EMPATHY — He is unsure of himself. He said this was an old sketchbook. Maybe he’s afraid of drawing something new beside his old work and seeing that nothing has changed.

“Ah, yes. Artist’s block. I know it well. In fact, I don’t know when the last time that I actually *made* any art was.”

“You could draw the cafeteria.”

“You could draw one of the other diners.”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “A life drawing exercise, huh? And who would you pick as a subject, gendarme?”

“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”

“Maybe Garte? The skua could be a fun challenge.”

“You should draw the guy with the wig and sunglasses over there. He looks pretty funny.”

“Lena! She’d probably love to model for you. It would take her mind off things.”

“Kim, how about you pose for him?”

[Suggestion - Medium 10] “Why not me?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No.”

He has nothing more to say on the matter.

“Aw, why not? You’d make a great model!”

Let it go.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I do not get paid to model for portraits. I get paid to solve murders. Such as the one we came here to investigate. Several days ago. Which has not been solved yet, for some mysterious reason.”

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — In case you couldn’t tell, that was sarcasm.

“Come on, Kim. You’re the perfect subject! A true man of the people. And there’s this sort of radiance about you… I can see the portrait already, just looking at you. Really clearly, actually.”

Maybe don’t say that. He’s just not gonna get it.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He shrugs. “Sorry, gendarme. It’s not right to use someone’s image without permission, you know? Maybe some other time.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No.” And then, a little awkwardly, “But thank you.”

“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”

“How about Garte? Though, you’d have to draw the skua, too…”

“You should draw the guy with the wig and sunglasses over there. He looks pretty funny.”

“Lena! She’d probably love to model for you. It would take her mind off things.”

“Kim, how about you pose for him?”

[Suggestion - Medium 10] “Why not me?”

CHECK SUCCESS

YOU — “Why not me?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He considers you with some amusement, but still, he does consider. “You’re not too busy?”

“On second thought, you’re right, I have some work to do right now. Another time, maybe?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant sighs audibly.

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — What did I *just* say?

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He chuckles to himself, apparently quite tickled by the little comedy act you two are making of yourselves. “Beautiful. Why not? Have a seat. I’ll try not to keep you too long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Much appreciated,” he says drily.

YOU — [Take a seat.]

SAVOIR FAIRE — Time to strike a pose. Let’s go with something cool. Something that really captures what you’re all about.

ENDURANCE — But make sure it’s something that you’ll be able to hold comfortably.

Wink and shoot him your signature finger guns.

Look at him with big sad eyes like a shamed puppy.

Look thoughtfully into the middle distance, as if contemplating your own future masterpiece.

Stare straight at him with eyes that have seen how this world will end.

Hold your head up high. With *honor.*

Just sit and act natural. No need to put on airs.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He looks you up and down, thumbing his bottom lip. His eyes look brighter and more alert than you have ever seen them. And then, he picks up his graphite and begins to work.

His eyes dart between you and the page, his hand sweeping across the page in bold, practiced strokes. All traces of his earlier hesitation have vanished.

VOLITION — Sometimes, a little push is all we need.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — Every now and then, he pauses to look up at you, and it’s almost unnerving to be the subject of whatever calculations are going on behind his eyes. He holds out his graphite, squinting just slightly.

VISUAL CALCULUS — This is called sighting. He’s roughly measuring the relative proportions of your figure and checking them against his sketch.

KIM KITSURAGI — Even the lieutenant is watching now, interested in spite of himself.

“Are portraits your specialty?”

“Have you been drawing anything for school lately?”

Better not distract him.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hmm…” He ponders this for a moment, not looking up from his work. “Not exactly. I’m more interested in the graphic arts than this sort of thing. But it’s best to build a strong foundation before branching out, you know?”

YOU — “Graphic arts? Like what?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Printmaking.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he speaks, seemingly without him even noticing. “Monotype, especially.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Monotype is a printmaking technique that is singular from other techniques, in that it produces only *one* unique print, rather than an edition of multiple prints.

YOU — What, really? What’s the point of printing it, then?

ENCYCLOPEDIA — I don’t know. I didn’t invent it.

“Why monotype? Wouldn’t a different technique be more… practical?”

“I see.” [Drop the subject.]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He shrugs slightly, smudging a bit of graphite with a bare finger. “Depends on how you define practical, I suppose. If I had my own studio, and I was selling my prints, then maybe. But we make do with what we have, gendarme.”

EMPATHY — And what he has is very little.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Besides, I think monotype has its charms.”

The young man does not elaborate, instead focusing on the work at hand. He picks up an eraser that has been shaved down to a point for fine detail work, and begins on what are likely the finishing touches.

EMPATHY — He has already talked at uncharacteristic length about this. It’s making him a little uncomfortable.

SAVOIR FAIRE — He doesn’t like to share too much about himself because it makes him feel *uncool.* He prefers to maintain an air of mystery.

RHETORIC — It’s safer, too, that way. He’s learned that passion exists to be exploited. False promises and admiration are the offerings of Sunday friends.

“If you say so.” [Back off.]

“What kind of charms?” [Press on.]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — His eyes flit back to you, sizing you up now in a different way. And then he looks back down at the page with a quiet bre ath.

“Well, it doesn’t take as much time or labor as other methods. Or expensive tools, or dangerous chemicals. Just paper, a plate, ink, and something to apply it with. And I can use the same plate over and over again, even use it to create different layers for the same print.”

RHETORIC — In other words, it’s cheap and can be done from home. An attractive option.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “And with monotype, it’s not so hard to go back and change your mind. You can start over as many times as you’d like, right up until the moment you lay the page on the plate.”

INLAND EMPIRE — That really does sound attractive. To be able to wipe the slate clean, over and over again…

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “There aren’t as many limits on what kind of textures you can create, too. Brushstrokes and fingerprints… They can really come out beautiful.”

His brow creases a little, and he picks his graphite back up to rework a particular area.

DRAMA — He’s still holding out on you, sire. Too self-conscious to admit what he really likes about the medium.

YOU — Which is what?

EMPATHY — Fragility.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — An image which is only complete after being mirrored and translated, never to be recreated except as a ghostly afterimage. An exercise in surrendering to chance. What will be, will be. And then the moment will pass, and it will be time to start the next piece.

VOLITION — This man knows disappointment intimately. It is his closest companion. He has learned to make peace with it. He passes the time with his Sunday friends, lays his paper on the plate and hopes, despite himself, for the best.

YOU — Is that… a good thing?

VOLITION — …It’s hard to say. But we make do with what we have.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “There.” The young man sits up straight, and it’s only now that you realize just how close he brought himself to his work.

DRAMA — His face may not betray him, but the body does not lie. He was having *fun,* my liege.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “All done.” He tears the page from his book and holds it out to you with a small smile.

ITEM GAINED: Portrait of a Disco Holdover

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hope I didn’t keep you too long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Don’t worry about it,” Kim says, rather resignedly.

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — If you’d declined, the lieutenant thinks, my partner would have just found some other way to get sidetracked.

KIM KITSURAGI — Still, he cannot stop himself from glancing at the portrait over your shoulder.

PORTRAIT OF A DISCO HOLDOVER — It’s you! Unfortunately. Not even the most masterful hand could make the Expression less unsettling to look at. Your posture is poor, your face is swollen and blotchy, your hair is thinning, your clothes are shabby and out of place… I could go on.

Oh god, you could?

Please don’t.

PORTRAIT OF A DISCO HOLDOVER — But, you know… it’s nice. The smoker’s technique is bold and rather lovely, broad strokes of graphite intersecting in just the right places to create surprising depths. Somehow, even though it’s you… it’s not hideous.

EMPATHY — Because you’re seeing yourself through another person’s eyes.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — There is an odd tenderness to the portrait. Something amusing in your grimace, a touch of sympathy in your hunched shoulders. With the eraser, he has lifted small spots of pigment from your face, as if it were illuminated by flecks of light from the karaoke disco ball.

There are no disco lights tonight, but still, he sees them when he looks at you. Your moment has passed, but it left quite the impression. A ghost print, superimposed over you.

“Not bad, but the bicep girth is off. Right, Kim?”

“Oh god, is that really what I look like?”

“Hmm. It’s okay, but you should consider a backup career plan.”

“Whoa, you’re amazing! Can you draw me again, but this time in the costume from the cover of Man from Hjelmdall and the Devil Woman? And like, with a really cool warhammer? And Queen Lydiaana standing in the background, all like, ‘boohoo, where will I ever find another man like Ha— I mean, the Man from Hjelmdall?’”

“Beautiful.”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — His smile climbs up into the corners of his eyes, warming his entire countenance.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — If you were to capture a portrait of him in this moment, it would be beautiful, too.

#disco elysium #harry du bois #the smoker on the balcony #kim kitsuragi #this one is. so self indulgent. i like the smoker i like to think abt him #and assign him my art student interests #anyway. oh the joy of making art and showing ppl what they rlly look like in your eyes #and oh the beauty of monotypes and printmaking and hoping for the best #GODDAMMIT I FUCKED UP THE FORMATTING AGAIN AND DIDNT CATCH IT UNTIL LIKE 12 HOURS LATER.#if you saw that. no you didn’t.

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carnivalcarriondiscarded · 10 months

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when you mentioned in your tags that there was hardly any laughingstock i didn't believe you at first, but holy shit ur right. YOU AND @krasytoonz MADE ME INTO A LAUGHINGSTOCK BELIEVER. I WILL PAY TRIBUTE TO THESE SKRUNGLY FUCKERS SOON, MARK MY WORDS *shakes fist into the void*

no yeah Seriously though its just us out here, fighting for our lives in the fucking Trenches. in ten years someone is gonna use the word 'laughingstock' casually in conversation and im gonna have War Flashbacks

#no please get out while you still can #once you let them in all the way They Will Not Fucking Leave they are There Forever #the inside of my brain is just me huddled in a corner while they make out in the middle of my skull #BUT YEAH THERES BARELY ANYTHING #trust me whenever krasytoonz posts them i am instantly there to ravenously devour the crumbs like a rabid pigeon #they are my only outside source of barnaby/howdy #them and the side plot in Stamps by Indigopoptart on ao3 #oh the side plot my beloved.... im still starving but sometimes they trick me into feeling like im Feasting....#and that one tidbit in Beautiful Boy Its Only Love by ImaginatorOf Things - also on ao3 ofc #and thats IT thats ALL I HAVE. all We have #shoving my entire fist into my mouth and biting it off while sobbing. screaming. etc.#oh the pain and joy of rarepairs... its been a while since ive been so taken with one...#who knows? with the power of friendship and this gun i found maybe one day it wont just be viewed as a crackship by the masses #rambles from the bog #gotta be honest. krasytoonz also converted me all the way #like i was tenuous about it at first...#it was just a Thought yk yk #i was like 'oh thats cute but like. as a side thing. a background thing. they dont have much going for them'#i think that was because i had nothing to enjoy outside of my own brain #i liked the very rare very jokey crumbs from a couple of clownsuu's posts #but it wasnt enough to make me go Theyre Mine Now #then i stumbled upon krasytoonz and one scrolling session later! i was fully hooked! just like that!#laughingstock went from a nebulous interest to a Permanent Fixture In My Braincase!#but yeah uhhhhh glad i could contribute to passing on the Illness #if you ever get free i will envy you #and to future me: if youre free i envy you as well. but i also pity you bc theyre so so good theyre so cute whats wrong with you-#i hate them & i love them & theyre nothing & theyre everything & they wont leave & ive locked the door

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soupinaboot · 3 months

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Fuck it. Every Steve Harrington headcannon I have because I've been rotating that boy in my head like a pig on a stick Part 2 this is a little more in depth than the first one but only by a smug

- Epileptic, either since he was young or developed it over time due to all those concussions he keeps getting

- Favorite fruit is blackberries I have no reason

- Kinda sad but he never really had friends, yeah he hung out with Tommy and Carol but that was about it. Like after the fall out with them he was by himself, alone. I feel like if he was as popular as we think he is, he would have at least one other friend right?

- Does not have a filter at all. That one scene where he just casually says, "Oh yeah my parents are out of town because my mom doesn't trust him to not cheat on her any who!" and I feel like he just kinda does that

- Star Trek fan but he just does not comprehend that it's supposed to be nerdy (this is not my own I saw someone else headcannon this please tell me if you find them I can not)

- Absolutely sucked at ELA, could be cause of dyslexia or not whatever you want buttercup

- But on the topic of dyslexia, this headcannon is one of the main reasons why I love math nerd Stevie so much. Like, ELA test and History test are mostly long paragraphs that he needs more time to read through and his teachers don't care enough to give him extra time like he needs. But math tests tend to have a small paragraph that he can read faster or just focus on the numbers and finish on time, so he just got really good at math so he would have at least one class he passed

- Survives off of coffee, lord knows he needs it

- My most random headcannon is that since his parents were never really around or cared much for his safety, he used to hang out outside a lot and explore the wildlife around, got really into nature and animals, bought nature books etc. But his dad told him nature and animals were girly and forced him to stop even though he really loved it

- If he does ever go to college (which he doesn't have to, though if Robin went he would probably go with her), he would either get in education major and become a math teacher or some form of environmental degree

- His love language is quality time

- Among the three of them, Steve and Carol were the closest. Yes, Steve and Tommy met first, and yes they tend to call each other their best friends, but in actuality Carol and Steve were best friends. They have mean girl energy.

- He used to also play hockey when he was younger but stopped playing due to scheduling and shit. But he really liked it cause whenever he would practice there were these older figure skaters who would teach him figure skating (he kinda liked it more than hockey but he never told anyone)

- Speaking of scheduling, he is always tired due to his packed schedule. Since he was young, his dad forced him into a lot of sports and didn't really give him a break. Add that to his piano lessons, his jobs, studying that his dad forced him to do, friends, etc... he is just perpetually tired. And it fucked up his sleep schedule developing into insomnia as he got older

- Most of his and Eddie's dates are just them taking naps

- Once he meets Corroded Coffin they all become best friends. Like best fucking friends

- Specifically Steve and Jeff

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see-arcane · 9 months

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Cannot stop thinking about how perfectly juxtaposed Jonathan and Mina's happy wedding day could be to Lucy's returning nightmares with Dracula in a well-done adaptation.

Here we see our romantic protagonists reunited at last, wedded and in love and so, so happy despite the strife. A blessed and beautiful scene. We depart from them as they kiss, with Jonathan's strengthless hands still more than enough to cup Mina to him in an ecstatic embrace.

Cut back to England. Another grim night for Lucy as she tries and fails to cheer Arthur against his increasing worry. As she attempts to stay awake. As she gives in to sleep. As she rises and wanders to the window.

A bat flies up to meet her and take his fill--the closest thing he has to a kiss. And as we zoom in on Lucy's paling face, we see the bat's gripping wings about her neck and shoulder, changing to hands. Long and white and implacable.

#me: 'Oh boy what a joyous and beautiful occasion in the story!' :)#also me: 'Now To Make It Painful' :)#mina harker #jonathan harker #lucy westenra #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily

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yourmomxx · 1 year

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summary: sleepless nights admiring jason

(also yes, I gave him tattoos in this, don’t blame me I’m a whore)

Gotham City Nights were always busy. Always. It was like an unspoken rule, floating heavily above the residents of the city, reminding them that this was, indeed, the place of all worst crime - and that it lived well up to its name.

Nothing easy to digest for someone who had - for whatever idiotic and suicidal reason - decided to move here from somewhere else, somewhere more quiet, or just spend a few days. In the beginning, the never ending howls of dogs and clattering of garbage bins brought anxiety and stole sleep.

It was like the city was doing its own form of natural selection - only the ones with the strongest will and mind would be allowed to stay.

You were one of the people that had not always lived in Gotham, but over time you had gotten used to the city’s cries and tantrums. Similar to right now.

The muffled noise of the Gotham night was heard outside the window.

Busy noises of driving cars, honking, and the one or other siren howling in the distance, all shielded off by solid walls of stone and thick glass.

Not much light usually managed its way up to the apartment and through the curtains, but today it was a full moon and the low white flooded half the room.

You were laying in bed with your boyfriend, Jason Todd. The one and only Red Hood.

He was dressed only in his boxers, considering he was short on his sleeping shirt that you were wearing right now - and had stolen from him.

There was a blanket tangled somewhere between the two of you, but it didn’t really matter. The heat was up, and the landlord never really knew how to manage the right temperature.

You put your chin on his chest and observed the man in front of you. The moonlight made its way through the window and caught on Jason’s face, making the one half light up in cold white and dipping the other in almost utter darkness.

His eyes were closed, pretending to be asleep when he really wasn’t. He knew you knew. But you assumed it was more comfortable for him to rest his eyelids than to force them apart.

You didn’t have a problem with that. You greeted it with happiness, even.

Your body completely draped over his, one leg on each side of his hip, you were absentmindedly tracing the lines that the black ink had left on his arm. Warmth radiated off Jason’s body and into your stomach, where your skin was connected with his, and the broad, marked-up chest lifted and fell in composed breaths.

The lines were thin, then thick, some entangled and the older ones even sometimes blurry.

You traced them feather-lightly with your fingertips, from his lower arm up to his biceps and to his shoulder. The higher you got, the less skin and more ink was visible.

When your finger reached his collarbone, the tattoos began to stray apart again, and you felt his skin make a slight bump under your fingertip. The beginning of the giant y-shaped scar on Jason’s chest. The autopsy scar.

Slowly, carefully, your ran your finger down the healed skin, already turned white after all those years.

There was a time where Jason had been so self-conscious about his wounds, his scars. He rarely took his shirts off whenever he was around you, not even when the two of you had sex. But now, after years of living, and being together, Jason had slowly but surely revealed himself to you. You knew him inside and out, and yet, everytime he let you see him like this, so openly vulnerable, you couldn’t help but feel absolutely fascinated by this man.

Your man.

“What are you doing?” The low rumble of Jason’s sudden voice almost made you jump.

You lifted up your gaze, your finger staying resting where it was on the scar, and came to meet Jason’s, who had apparently opened his eyes and looked at you with an attentive stare.

The moonlight refracting off the edges of his pupils gave his eyes a glimmer of dark sapphires. It fell through his lashes and drew long, slender shadows down his cheek.

As if in trance, your hand reached up to him, pushing back a few strands of loose hair out of his forehead, and caressing his cheek, resting there. The entire time, his eyes didn’t leave you.

“You are so beautiful,” you muttered to him. Jason just kept staring at you, lips slightly parted, eyes stuck with that adoring look of love, and his eyebrows ever so slightly scrunched up as if he was confused.

Jason had very long lashes. You had often been jealous of him because of it. Long, many and thick, shielding his eyes if he wanted them to. But never from you. His eyes could tell you so many stories if you looked into them, stories and thoughts and feelings without ever speaking as much as one word.

You didn’t verbally elaborate to the silent question he was asking, just slowly lowered your head again and placed featherlight, but genuine kisses on the Y-shaped scar on his broad chest.

And when you looked back up, the full moon was still shining through the curtains, still spending his light to kiss Jason’s beautiful face, getting caught in the lashes, dripping from his hair, swirling into his eyes.

‘Beautiful,’ you thought. ‘So, so beautiful.’ No other word came to mind to describe what you were seeing, and yet it was not enough to properly describe the feeling that spread its way through your chest.

The ache and the longing you felt for him, even though he was right there in front of you.

Promptly, you pushed yourself forward and laid your lips onto his. Whatever you felt and couldn’t put into words, you managed to say it through the kiss that you shared with him. How you loved him, and how perfect he was, and how much you wanted him every time of every day, and how you managed to miss him even when he was just. right. there.

Beautiful, beautiful Jason Todd.

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