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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

the arrangement

summary: it is all clear and simple—until it isn’t.

word count: 6.6k+

warnings: sugar daddy relationship, age gap (john is ~35, reader is ~23), angst, language, innuendo, suggestive themes & moments (not 18+ but be mindful—probably more so than with anything i’ve written!)

a/n: for the sake of this fic, veronica et al. don’t exist. i refuse to write infidelity. okay i hope you enjoy because i am very upset about the cottagecore!brian fic that i wrote which was eaten unceremoniously by the monster living in this website. xoxo!

1986.

he doesn’t kiss you; you won’t let him.

it’s all a part of the minutiae of your arrangement. he has his rules: a shower before and after—sometimes together, but mostly alone; meetings out of the public eye, normally his london flat; no contact with his colleagues. you have your rules: no outside arrangements with other women (or men, for all you care); no spur-of-the-moment visits; and above all, no kissing.

he can—and does—have a field day with the curves and contours of your body whenever he gets the chance. his mouth knows your skin well, and you’d like to think you know his in a similar fashion. you know what it feels like to be touched and held and loved by him, but his lips have never so much as brushed yours, and you intend to keep it that way. it’s just a quirk, a bothersome little thing you carry with you to all of your arrangements. kissing is too intimate and, though you’ve been more than intimate with john, there’s a line in the concrete you are unwilling to cross. he respects that, so the arrangement works.

you like him. he’s charming and intelligent, thoughtful when it matters. he never forgets a date despite his busy schedule, and he seems to anticipate your moods, knowing just when to spoil you a little extra to ease the pain of a ruined portrait or sour customer. he supports your art endeavors, though you are firm about him staying away from your studio apartment. like kissing, it’s too intimate, too personal. he pays the rent, though, and is admittedly happy when you confess he has inspired a piece or two.

still, he’s confounding. there’s a pervading sadness about his person, even when he’s laughing. it runs deep—that sadness—and you can’t pinpoint the origin. you suspect he must be lonely even though he’s one of the world’s foremost musicians. why else would he dote on you endlessly? why else would he throw his hard-earned money at the feet of a girl too young to be his proper lover and too guarded to ever give him the chance at something real?

not that he’s tried to move the arrangement to something deeper. he hasn’t. for that alone, you’re more than content to stay with him. you’ve had strings of other arrangements before, but never one that’s lasted this long. it always falls apart eventually—unmet expectations, dangerous feelings, the unfortunate death. a year and a half with john is a long time, and you’re surprised he’s not bored with you yet. you’re surprised you aren’t bored with him.

but truly, he is kind and well-off—physically and monetarily—and so long as he’s keen to have you around, you’ll stick around. you aren’t complaining.

of all your arrangements, you like john richard deacon the most.

he’s been gone for some time, consumed by the magic tour and promoting the latest queen album. he’s tired, ready for a break, and when he calls you a week before his return, you can hear the shoulder-crushing weariness in his tone.

“i’m getting too old for this, [y/n],” he says.

his sigh is heavy, and it gives you pause. you hold still, the paintbrush between your fingers suspended in midair. you twist on your stool in discomfort. though you know your role—and you play it splendidly—there’s always a flare of uncertainty in the back of your mind when john muses personal.

you shift, cradling the telephone between your shoulder and your ear. “you’re only thirty-five, john,” you say after a moment. “hardly an old fart.”

“well, i feel one.” something crinkles over the line. “i think we’ll be on break for a good while after this. freddie is—” he sighs again. “when can i see you?”

you can’t help but smile. you dip your head to the side as you study the foot of the angel in your painting. there’s something not quite right, so you lift the corner of your smock and wipe away the top of her big toe.

you like it when your men are eager; it means they still intend on supplementing your income and leaving you fine gifts. as soon as the eagerness begins to fade, as soon as the meetings are less and less frequent, you know it’s time to look elsewhere. nearly two years later and john is more eager for an evening with you now than he was at the start. you have nothing to worry about.

“when do you get back?”

“thursday.”

“then you can see me thursday.”

he exhales in something that sounds a lot like relief. you bite your lip to keep from smiling wider. he’s wrapped so tight around your pinky; neither of you seem to care.

“good, good. i’ll bring you something from barcelona. what do you want?”

"hmm. surprise me.”

“you don’t like surprises.”

“you’re right. how about some of those fun little tiles? the colorful ones, y’know?” he hums in agreement. “i can put those in my kitchen.”

“tiles? my baby wants tiles?” he laughs, and you’re thankful for the thousands of miles between you. the affectionate term, spoken normally in jest, sends your thoughts straight to the gutter every time, loathe as you are to admit such a thing. “fine. tiles it is. see you thursday.”

“it’s a date, mr. deacon.” you pause then add, “get some rest, john. you sound knackered.”

“i am.”

“i’ll see you thursday, handsome.”

he says goodnight, wishes you sweet dreams, and hangs up. you drop the phone to its base and sit back, stretching your arms over your head.

the canvas before you is taller than it is wide—twenty-four by thirty-six. the customer, a repeater, requested something angelic and bright, a new addition to their marble villa in the south of greece. you’re happy to oblige, but you’re stuck on the bottom portion. should the angel be in flight? poised on a cliffside? in a garden? you know it doesn’t matter, that the buyer will be happy regardless, but it matters to you. each painting needs to tell a coherent story, and you like for that story to fit well with the piece’s ultimate home.

your mother says you are blessed with a gift by god. john says you have natural talent. you think you’re just good at copying. it’s not forgery; all of your paintings are as unique as they are original. still, you’re excellent at replicating dead-and-gone styles: renaissance, rococo, romantic, hell even the odd modern piece. whatever the customer wants, you can reproduce it for a fraction of the cost. your work pays handsomely, but averaging only one painting a year doesn’t pay all the bills that pile up on your kitchen island over the months. that’s where john comes in. it evens out in the end, with more than enough on the side to play with.

rising from your stool for a much needed break, you cross the concrete floor, the stone cool beneath your bare feet. the evening has gone drafty, so you shut one of the tall windows looking onto the side garden. you pick up your mail from beneath the flap on the front door and rifle through. nothing urgent, though there’s a letter from your mother. you tuck it to the side.

john would detest your studio if he ever saw it. it’s unfeeling, bare bones and vaulted ceilings and exposed beams. most of the open floor plan is used for your painting endeavors. there’s discarded portraits along the wall, a few untarnished canvases tucked in a corner. there’s a worktable that doubles as a kitchen table, and a cramped kitchen shoved beneath the loft which houses your bed and wardrobe. you don’t mind the gray walls and gray floors and metal and lack of personal touches. if anything, the simplicity allows your creativity to explode.

after a piece of jam and toast for supper, you return to your painting. the angel should be on a cliffside overlooking the sea, you decide; after all, her home will soon be greece. dipping your brush to the mixture of tan and dark brown you’ve been using for her skintone, you curl a leg beneath you and set to work. only this time, you struggle to keep the excited smile from your face.

john’s coming home. you missed the bastard—him and his money.

thursday evening you find yourself on john’s front stoop, fist poised to knock on the door. the dress beneath your coat is silky, like water against your skin. you feel underdressed for the turn of the season but you’re likely to be without clothing entirely within the hour so you grit your teeth against the chill on your legs. you clear your throat, adjust the curled ends of your hair, and knock on the door. the bottle of champagne in your hand grows heavy as you wait, and you finger the small string of diamonds around your neck.

john inhales through his nose sharply when he opens the door. “[y/n],” he breathes before sweeping you into a tight embrace.

you laugh, crushed against his chest, your arms snug around his shoulder. he smells clean, like soap and fresh tea. you lift your legs, giggling further as he spins you about the rowhouse foyer.

“okay, okay!” you squeal. “put me down!”

he drops you to the floor, your heels clicking against the hardwood. “let me take your coat,” he says, sliding behind you to remove your outer layer. you shimmy out of the garment and bite you lip on a smirk when he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“like it?” you ask, twirling on the ball of your foot in a slow circle. your dress—pale pink, short and open in the back—leaves little to the imagination.

“you’re a sight for sore eyes, angel.”

he steps away from the coatrack to circle his arms around your waist. he settles his hands in the curve of your spine and drinks you in, his pupils expanding with appreciation. you preen under his gaze and rest your palms on his brightly patterned shirt. you never tire of this—no matter who your benefactor is. the glazed look in their eye when they see you wearing a necklace newly bought or sporting a handbag of your choice or simply pushed against their strength is intoxicating. you feel powerful and desirable and unstoppable all at once.

“missed you.” john lifts a hand to brush a lock of hair away from your face, and the gesture is decidedly intimate. it sends a chill down your spine, your mouth tightening. you know if this were any other relationship he would bend forward and capture your lips, marking you as his and erasing the weeks apart with a single touch. you know he’s fighting the urge to do so now; you can see it in the way his eyes flick to your mouth and hold there.

to ease his yearning, you wind your arms around his neck and squeeze him tight, curling your fingers in the base of his recently trimmed perm. you like the fluff; it’s quirky—like him. “missed you, john.” you kiss the corner of his jaw and pull away, trailing to the kitchen.

he’s hot on your heels.

lifting your rump onto the kitchen island, you cross your ankles and grin as he enters the room. “did you bring me my tiles?”

john blinks, as if he’s not sure what you’re talking about, but then recognition lights his eyes, and he snaps in remembrance. “ah yes, the tiles! hold on.” he slips into an adjoining room before returning with a brown box tied with a white ribbon. “here.”

you take the box, smile at him where he leans against the counter opposite you, and tear off the string. within the box there’s a small index card covered in john’s neat script. you lift it and meet his eyes again; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks as you read aloud.

“[y/n], i thought you deserved something better than a few titles. love, john.” lowering the card to your side, you push back the tissue paper to see a framed pencil sketch of a woman mid-gown fitting. the seamstress is crouched against the floor, her back to the viewer. the woman being fitted is twisted, glancing over her shoulder as the seamstress works, her reflection visible in an invisible mirror. you squint and push your nose to the corner then nearly drop the frame to the floor.

your head snaps up so fast it cracks. “john, you didn’t.”

he just beams, nodding.

tucked in the right hand corner of the sketch is the artist’s signature, a signature you know well. mary cassatt.

“got it in paris,” he explains. “thought you could use an original from your favorite.”

you brush your fingertip along the signature and feel the sting of tears beneath your eyelids. of all the gifts you been handed—holidays in rome, designer bags and jewelry, luxury rides to and from the city—this, this, is the best. part of you hates the sudden rush of emotion that spreads through your chest, but you allow the feeling to take hold, opening your arms to him. he steps between your legs, and you curl yourself around his body.

“thank you, john,” you whisper. your voice is muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but the way he presses his hand against your shoulder blade tells you he heard you loud and clear.

he hums against the crook of your neck. the vibrations tickle your throat, and you flush. you draw back, far enough to meet his gaze, but close enough to feel his breath against your face.

god, you could kiss him.

the thought strikes you like a bolt of lightning, and you resist the urge to gasp. you’ve never thought it before; the rule of no kissing is ingrained in you so deep the mere idea of breaking it sends you for a loop. but there he is—generous and gorgeous and yours. he knows you well, spoils you well, and all he asks is you entertain him in return.

how did you get to be so lucky?

clearing your throat, you brush past him to hop off the counter. you tug the hem of your dress down a smidgen and touch his shoulder. “want me to go shower?” you ask, cocking your head toward the bathroom.

he turns to face you and shakes his head. “no.” his arms are around you again, as if it pains him to keep his distance for a moment too long. you can feel it in the thrum of his heart against your ribcage. you swallow hard.

your brow pinches in a frown. “but you—”

his mouth is already tracing the lines of your neck, warm and wet and dizzying. he grips your hip, his fingertips pressing through the satin of your dress. “forget it, [y/n]. i’ve missed you,” he whispers, a tattoo on your skin. “come to bed.”

“but the sho—”

he pulls back and lifts a hand to grasp your chin. the touch is not angry, not possessive; it’s just firm. the words in your mouth dry up, and you meet his gaze with wide eyes. “i said forget it.”

you nod, mute.

his eyes lower to your mouth. his tongue darts out to swipe his lower lip.

he steps away, his fingers trailing down your arm until they circle your wrist. he leads you through the house, silent, until you reach the foot of his bed. moonlight washes through the open terrace doors. a misty rain drifts into the room, bringing with it a chill and a whisper of autumn.

you toe off your heels, run your finger down his grecian nose, over his straight jaw. there’s this feeling in your stomach, one you can’t quite place. it’s a mixture of contentment and nerves, joy and apprehension, all at once. it’s a foreign feeling, and there’s no time to dissect it as john leans close.

his nose nudges yours. “i missed you.”

you sigh, wistful, and pull him onto the bed.

come morning you are sated and sore. you groan through a stretch, curling your back like a cat as you adjust to the morning light. you slept well, better than you have in several weeks. you can’t be sure if the dreamless slumber was due to exertion from your evening activities or pure tranquility. you missed sleeping beside john; he has a comforting way about him, even in the throes of pleasure or sleep.

you turn your face to see john already wake, propped up against a pile of pillows. you grin and reach for him.

“morning,” you mumble on a yawn.

he blinks contentedly at you, a half-smile on his mouth, a lit cigarette between his fingers. “morning.”

“sleep well?”

he nods. “that was the most sleep i’ve gotten in weeks.”

with a chuckle, you pinch his bicep. “funny—i thought the same for myself.”

he pats the space beside him, and you shuffle to lie perpendicular to his body, your head on his bare chest. he drapes an arm across your torso, and you lift his hand to fiddle with his long fingers.

the terrace door is still open, allowing mid-morning warmth and the gentle hum of the street below to fill the room. you sigh and smile when john takes a drag of his cigarette and tilts his head to exhale in the opposite direction. he knows you hate the smoke, thoughtful boy.

when he turns back, he catches your eye, furrowing his brow as he studies the look on your face. “what?”

you shake your head. “nothing.”

he grunts, shifts a little lower along the pillows. “tell me about the paintings you’ve got going in that pretty head of yours.”

“just one for the moment—an angel near the sea. it’s for the olsons and their villa in greece.”

“olson? wasn’t he the one who bought that nudie fashioned after his wife?”

“precisely the one!”

john smirks. “how’d you feel if i had you paint something like that for me?”

you guffaw, flipping over onto your stomach to slap his breastbone. “john!”

he holds up his hands in surrender, though there’s a mischievous twinkle in his gray eyes. “oy! it’s just a thought!”

you huff. “continue like that and i won’t finish the painting i’ve started for you.”

he leans back against the pillows in surprise. his neck is contorted in the effort it takes to properly meet your eyes as he sits, and you poke the double-chin that’s popped up beneath his jaw. he swats your hand away, though his fingers wrap tight around your wrist. he presses his pointer finger against your pulse point.

“you’ve started a painting for me?”

“course i have. don’t sound so surprised.”

“what’s it of?”

you narrow your gaze. “don’t know if i should tell you. it’s supposed to be a birthday gift.”

“my birthday’s not for a while, [y/n].”

“my paintings take a while, john.”

he sighs, squeezes your wrist, lifts it to kiss the bone on the side of your hand. “tell me,” he mumbles, his mouth against your skin, eyes locked on yours.

on an inhale, you give in. “it’s victoria park. well, victoria park seventy-five years ago.”

his eyebrows rise, and his fingers tighten around your hand. “victoria park? my victoria park? from leicester?”

“where else, silly?”

he goes quiet.

the air in your lungs stills, and that funny feeling you had the night before flares in your stomach. you feel your jaw slacken as he rakes his gaze over you in such unabashed adoration it makes your gut twist. there’s an overwhelming desire to be near him, to feel him as you’ve never felt him before, rising like the tide, and you are pulled to it like a baby sea turtle searching for the safety of the ocean. it’s a natural pull, but you are determined to ignore it.

you sit up, brush a lock of hair behind your ear, and turn your back to him.

he runs his finger along the curve of your shoulderblades. you shiver.

sensing your discomfort, john sits straight in bed, the covers around his lap rustling with the movement. “you know,” he says, pulling on his cigarette again. “freddie would like one of your paintings.”

“what?” you look over your shoulder with a frown. “you told him about me?”

he shakes his head. “no, i just mean what you do is his style. he’d be thrilled to have something so… romantic.” he pauses and lifts a brow in question. “i could mention it to him, ask if he’d be interested?”

your frown deepens. this is not the john you know. john rarely speaks about his bandmates, preferring to keep his exploits with queen separate from your arrangement. when he does talk about his job, it’s normally a complaint here, a silly little story there. though you’ve been with him more than a year, you know more about his life before queen than his life during. he’s private, like you, and you respect that. it’s why your arrangement works: mutual respect for the other’s boundaries.

but there’s something different about him. you noted it the night before. first no shower. now suggesting he introduce you to freddie. it doesn’t make sense.

or maybe it does. maybe this is his way of shifting the relationship, subtly, under your nose, done before you realize what’s happened.

a thread of panic weaves itself around your spine.

“what’s this about? you’ve never wanted me to meet freddie before.”

he shrugs, playing innocent. “just an idea. we’re on break now, will be for some time. i figured meeting you would give freddie something to fuss over.”

“you know how i feel about my studio, john.”

“i know, i know. you like your privacy.”

john stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table then scoots closer, drawing you close with an arm around your waist. his mouth works idle patterns along your shoulder, the spot where your neck meets your back, the ticklish spot behind your ear.

you tighten your hold on his arm, your nails biting his skin. when you speak, your voice is but a whisper.

“i don’t want things to change.”

he stills, lifting his head from your skin. “sorry?”

“i said i don’t want things to change.” turning, you meet his eyes, nearly losing your breath in the process. he’s close; you can practically taste him on your lips. “what we have works. don’t you think?”

“’s just an idea, [y/n].”

ducking your head, you play with the hair on his arm. your heart squeezes tight. “i know. but i say yes now and tomorrow you’ll be…” you lift your face.

he seems to understand without needing you to finish the thought.

he untangles himself and swings his legs over the side of the bed. you watch his movements, stiff and irritated. he pulls on a pair of ratty joggers, rising from the bed to shut the terrace doors. you startle at the sound of glass rattling in the windowpanes.

“john, i—”

he cuts you off. there’s another cigarette between his fingers now. “better take a shower,” he quips. his eyes remain planted on the cigarette packet in his hands. he taps the thin stick against the cardboard several times before jamming it between his teeth. “you didn’t take one last night, and we wouldn’t want things to change, now would we?”

the door slams shut, the blast echoing in your empty stomach.

you don’t hear from john for a week and a half. it’s not uncommon, the length between visits. he’s busy, you’re busy. sometimes you can barely find time for yourself, let alone him. still, there’s no box of chocolates delivered to your doorstep, no flowers dropped off at an inopportune time.

there’s just silence.

it worries you at first, and you wonder if he’s dropped you like a hot potato. it wouldn’t be unheard of. one arrangement ended in a similar fashion, and you nearly lost your studio in the process. but john is better than that. he wouldn’t leave you on the verge of homelessness, would he? he cares about you too much to do such a thing.

your fears are assuaged when a bouquet of flowers does arrive one afternoon. you have paint smeared along your forehead, and your neck cracks as you stand to answer the doorbell, but the sight of sunflowers in a pretty blue vase erases all your uncertainties. the note tucked in the ramble of flowers makes you smile—sorry for being a dick. give me a call if you forgive me – j—and you tape it to your refrigerator.

john is still yours; you are still his.

you call him that night, and after reaffirming your boundaries, the phone call devolves into a mess of heavy breathing and whispered encouragements and sinful sorts of pleasure.

as you fall asleep, you’re struck by something he said in the hazy cloud of post-bliss: even if this is all you give me, i’m happy.

even if this is all you give me…

he wants more. how much you aren’t sure, but enough that you can’t fall asleep as readily as you normally do. frustrated, you slip from bed and finagle your way down the stairs to the kitchen. you warm a glass of milk and lean against the counter, sipping slowly. your eyes fall along the mary cassatt print, now housed on the kitchen wall above the vase of sunflowers. the milk in your stomach curdles.

john deacon loves you; and if you tarry any longer, you’ll be close to loving him, too.

the decision to call the arrangement off does not come lightly. you mull over it for days on end, even as a sliver of your heart warms to the idea of allowing john to love you as he pleases, of letting yourself love him back.

it’s all you can think about the next time you see him face-to-face. as he pours you a glass of wine and lays you out on the living room floor, your thoughts are elsewhere. when he takes you shopping for canvas frames, you let him hold your hand, but you can’t focus on what he’s saying about the best fit. even when he mentions your studio and you find yourself willing to invite him inside, you cannot shake the feeling that you are losing a part of yourself you will never regain.

but would it be so bad? giving in?

you’re interested in john, that much you will concede. he’s good and kind and generous and a hell of a good romp and you enjoy your time with him. but the stubborn part of you refuses to let go of your own autonomy. you will not become his plaything, his arm candy at all the queen functions he so dreads. you value your independence too much—the safety of your well-crafted walls—to be anything other than his dirty little secret.

you’re prepared to shove your concerns aside and continue on until john makes the decision for you. he gives freddie your studio address, and freddie shows up one morning unannounced. you invite him in, sketch out a painting over the worktable, smile when necessary, and ignore his wonderings about your connection to john but on the inside you’re reeling. you’re livid and you’re hurt.

you’ve never been hurt by one of your arrangements before.

after freddie leaves, john answers the telephone on the third ring. “hello?”

“we can’t see each other anymore,” you say, your voice firm.

he’s quiet for a moment. “i’m sorry—what?”

“you heard me, john. i’m calling it all off.”

“why on earth would you do that?”

unbidden, an answer rises to your mouth: because i think i like you as much as you like me and i’m scared.

with a harsh clearing of your throat, you instead say, “you sent freddie here. i told you not to do that.”

“he did what? no, [y/n], i didn’t send freddie to you.”

“then how else would he know who i am? my clients don’t run in his circles.”

panic laces the edge of john’s voice as he rushes to explain, but you grit your teeth against the sound. “i swear, angel, i didn’t tell him where you live. i might have told him about you, yeah, but he’s my best friend, and i needed some advice.” he hesitates, sucks in shaky breath. “don’t do this. don’t call it off.”

you swallow hard. for the first time in a long time, you feel a wash of tears over your eyes. “you want too much from me, john. i can’t give you what you want. i’m not the girl for that sort of life.”

“oh, baby, i—i’m sorry. i know i’ve been pushy lately but i—” he sighs. “god, i love you so dearly. i’d give you the world if you let me.”

at this you choke on a sob. surprised by the sound, you press a hand to your mouth.

oh god, you love him too. the feeling crashes over you like a wave, and you’re the sea turtle who has found the safety of the sea. john is your sea. he envelops you, carries you to safety and uncertainty all at once. but you know him—he will protect you, guide you, with everything he is and all that he has.

you love him, you love him, you love him.

but it’s not enough. it’s not supposed to go like this, and you both know it.

“i’m sorry, john,” you whisper. you didn’t remember that tears taste salty. “please don’t call me, okay?”

you hang up before you can hear his protests any further then you crawl into bed and weep.

several months pass. autumn fades into winter, and you grow colder by the day.

you’re stressed. you cut john off entirely, opening a separate bank account and shuffling your monies and generally working to disentangle him from your life. but no john means no stable income. you’re fine for the time being, your painting for the olsons paid for and gone; but you’ve taken to rushing your artwork now, allowing customers to sit for hastily and poorly arranged portraits with their dogs and children. the paintings are lovely, yes, but they’re not you. it pays the bills, though, so you can’t complain.

you continue on freddie’s painting. he paid you upfront, so you owe him that much. in the evenings, after shooing the last snot-nosed kid and yippy dog out of your home, you turn on the lamp above the canvas and return to the sort of art you yearn for day and night. the painting screams freddie mercury all over.

there’s a man, mustached and tan, draped against a purple chaise in the center of the canvas. he’s flanked by a tall gentleman with wiry hair who is focused on a globe in the corner. to the far right, two other men—one blond, one brunette—whisper amongst themselves. you realize, belatedly, that you are painting queen in some sort of ridiculous nineteenth century daydream. it makes you snort every time you sit down to work.

you struggle to capture john in the painting. you know his face better than you know your own. you dream of it every night and wake to an image of it every morning.

you love him. you miss him.

you’re not certain when you started loving him. maybe six months in when he took you to new york and the moma and the empire state building. maybe nine months in—your first christmas together—when he gifted you a song. maybe a year in when he confessed his deepest fears—fears of loneliness and isolation and an empty old age—and made you promise to stay by his side. maybe when he came back this last tour and you wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt to hold back.

you’ve never been in love. you don’t quite understand the way it works, but you know enough to know that you love him. perhaps you always will, your disco deaky, the thoughtful boy.

you finish freddie’s painting come the first of the year. it’s been four months without john, four months entirely on your own. you have no compunction to find another arrangement. no one could fill the shoes of john deacon even if they tried, and the idea doesn’t appeal to you like it once did. you’ll go it alone for a while and revel in the autonomy you so desire.

freddie invites you to dinner when you call and say the painting is ready, and you reluctantly go. you’re half afraid he’ll pull some trick and invite john as well, but he swears he’ll be on his best behavior. the night of the dinner, you dress warm and gently arrange the framed canvas in the boot of your car. after losing your way twice, you eventually find his house and park outside. jim helps you carry the painting through the tight gate and into the front parlor where freddie waits, hands clasped in excitement.

“oh, i could just piss myself i’m so thrilled!” freddie squeezes your shoulders when you unveil the completed work. “i look so divine, like bloody oscar wilde!”

the edges of a smile lift your mouth. “yes, divine indeed.”

“you are more talented than you know, [y/n],” freddie says. he boops the end of your nose. “you shouldn’t hide your talent.”

“i don’t! i sell my work.”

“yes, but you could be a star, darling. i could make you a star.”

“i don’t want to be a star, freddie.”

“then what do you want?”

you sigh, shrug, and curl your lips in a wry grin. “not sure anymore.”

“perhaps dinner will help you figure it out. come on, it’s ready and we don’t want it getting cold.”

you follow freddie to the dining room. what awaits you sends your blood running cold as the frost outside. john richard deacon, handsome as ever, sits at the table, a smoke in hand. he looks up when you enter, surprise painting his face at the sight of you bundled in a winter coat in his friend’s dining room.

you twist in the doorway. your fists tremble with rage. “fuck you, freddie!”

he cringes. “okay, i can explain. you just have to hear me out before you slit my throat.”

john rises to his feet. “[y/n]…”

you ignore him and keep your gaze on freddie. “you promised!”

freddie nods. “yes, i know, but you see it was my fault that this whole thing fell apart.”

at this, john turns his head. “what are you on about, fred?”

“well, when you told me about your relationship with [y/n]”–-he lowers his voice to a stage whisper, looking at you from the corner of his eye—“when you told me you loved her”—he returns to his normal voice—“i got very distracted by the idea of a painting of the four of us. so i ignored your issue and looked her up and then it all fell apart.”

john sucks in a deep breath, shaking his head. he runs a hand down his face, and you note the weariness etched along his eyes. “fuck, fred.”

“so, you see, it’s my fault. if i had just left well enough alone, you two might still be shagging like rabbits and spending all that hard-earned money instead of moping like a pair of silly-pants!” he sobers, his nose twitching. “i really am sorry. it was selfish of me.”

“freddie—” you start.

he shakes his head. “no! i won’t hear any excuses—not until you’ve made up.” a timer somewhere in the kitchen dings, and he snaps. “now… if you’ll excuse me…” he slips from the dining room, shutting the door behind him with a tell-tale click.

you look to the floor. you should get your winter boots polished. they’re horribly scuffed.

john speaks first. “you look good, [y/n].”

lifting your head, you scoff. “you always were a flatterer.”

“no, i mean it.”

you run your eyes over him and feel your heart trip. god, you missed him. “you look good, too.”

“what have you been doing?”

“oh, this and that. mostly painting portraits.”

“you hate portraits.”

“i know.”

outside, the cricks chirp loudly, but you wonder if john can heart the beating of your heart over the chorus of insects.

“[y/n], i—”

“john—”

he smirks. you look to your toes again.

“you go first,” he says.

lifting your head, you dare to step further into the room. you steel yourself, biting the inside of your tongue to keep from spilling your guts at his feet. “i was wrong, too.”

he cocks his head to the side in confusion. “what do you mean?”

it’s time, isn’t it? seeing him now... how could you ever live without him?

“i was foolish and stubborn and willful. i knew what i wanted, but ignored it for the sake of my own stupid ideals.” you step closer and catch a whiff of his cologne. it sends a thrill straight to your belly. “turns out i need people just as much as you do.”

“what are you saying?”

“i’m saying i was wrong to turn you away. i was scared. i’ve only ever known love with a price tag on it, never real love. not until you anyway. as complicated as it is, you have loved me better than anyone else, and i was blind to it for so long. and even when i wasn’t blind to it, i pushed you away. i’m sorry.”

he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. “what—what are you saying?” he asks again.

“i’m saying i miss you and i’m a right git and i love you and i’m sorry.”

he reaches for you, his touch like fire on your wrist. “i shouldn’t have pushed you.”

you shake your head in disagreement. “i needed a good pushing. i didn’t realize how much i needed you until you were gone. and fuck all about the money. i don’t care about that. i needed you. i need you.”

john moves his hands to cup your face, his palms warm on your cool cheeks. he leans downs and presses his forehead to yours. you exhale, sure that if you open your eyes, if you move an inch, you will wake from whatever dream you inhabit. you don’t want this moment to end—him and you and no one else, all the possibility in the world stretching out before you.

“you don’t know what it means to hear you say that,” he whispers. “i would be content to love you silently, but, god, i love you.”

you laugh and open your eyes, blinking back tears. you pull away to meet his gaze. “even though i’m a stubborn fool?”

“i’m more stubborn and more foolish than you ever could be.” his thumbs work over the apple of your cheeks. “i love you,” he breathes.

“i love you.”

you grin. he matches your smile.

“kiss me,” you whisper.

his eyes widen, his mouth parting. “but—”

“it’s part of our new arrangement. you can kiss me whenever you like so long as you promise not to smoke in bed.”

“fuck. i—” he shakes his head, eyes fluttering shut. you lift a hand to his cheek, and his eyes open.

“i know. me too.”

he captures your mouth, the touch soft and everything you have waited to find, everything you have searched for in all the wrong places. he kisses you, holds you against his body, weaves his hand in your hair. he moves his lips in tandem with yours, and you feel like you’re floating.

he kisses you, and you are home.

#john deacon #john deacon x reader #queen #queen fic #j writes #the arrangement

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stygiantarot · 4 years

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Unusual Divination Methods

A long ass list of methods of divination, just in case you’re curious ~~~~~~

Divination is the method of discerning answers beyond a direct interaction. It can be used for foreseeing future outcomes or problems, but that isn’t inherent. It can also be used to commune with entities like deities or spirits, or even for delving deeper into the self (like shadow work).

There are many forms of divination. So many. There are even many forms of what would be considered “unusual” beyond the more commonly practices like cartomancy, runes, or stichomancy. Today I shall be focusing on ones I’m familiar with so I can better elaborate and answer questions.

The methods I will be exploring today:

 Aleuromancy: divination using flour (or a flour substitute!) 

Catoptromancy: a form of scrying using a mirror (my method uses a cast iron pan actually!) 

Osteomancy: divination using bones

~~~~~~

Aleuromancy

A form of divination using flour that’s mentioned in some Mesopotamian cunefiorms, as well as being practiced in Greece and Rome. There are a couple ways this can be done. Firstly is when you pour out the dry flour and look at the way it falls into a bowl or on a plate or surface. Much like tea leaf reading (tasseography), you seek out shapes in the flour and interpret based on that. Another variation is doing the same but after you’ve mixed the flour with the liquids you’re baking with and kneaded it/mixed it and then taken it away to be baked. You examine the remaining streaks of wet dough on your surfaces for shapes and patterns.

The third method is to actually put slips of paper into the items you’re baking to be taken at random and broken open to answers questions after they’re cooked (akin to fortune cookies). This can be a tricky process depending on what sort of paper or ink you’ve used (speaking from experience :-X). The historical Greek version of this used excerpts of famous philosophy and mixed the balls of doughs nine times (a significant number in Ancient Greece)

It can take a lot of patience to try and find shapes and patterns in flour and admittedly it’s much easier with tea leaves. No wonder that became the standard. Don’t get disheartened if it isn’t something you have success with. You might have more fun and results experimenting with the baking slips of paper into dough methods. Great for ritual cookies!

The kind of divining using this method is very simple, more “omen-like” than detailed q&as like in Tarot or runes. Expect to see simple images that may give insight to something coming your way (a boat or bird showing a trip) or warn of a specific type of trouble that may be on the horizon (a money sign showing finances) rather than getting a formulated question clearly answered. However, you can dabble in that methodology when using the slips of paper instead. That way is more akin to stichomancy where you get a general idea or snapshot of the emotion or proverb-like metaphor to your question.

The type of flour can be tailored to help “fine tune” the reading as well- much like a certain flavor or tea or a certain deck of cards. Keep in mind that all types of grains/flours have a baseline association with prosperity and material gain/finances so this method of divination is especially good for those type of questions!  

Flour Correspondences: 

Acorn: An uncommon one in stores of course, but has deep wildcrafting results if you have the time and patience to grind some yourself. Associated with protection, health, money, healing, potency, fertility, luck, wealth, wisdom, and personal power. 

Almond: creativity, luck, wisdom, spiritual understanding, nostalgia

Buckwheat: Money, protection, dreams and sleep 

Flaxseed: health, finances, prosperity, beauty, psychic powers

Oat: family, home, hearth, money

Potato: protection, banishing, soothing/healing 

Rice: prosperity, career/job, travel, romantic relationships/sex

Wheat: general prosperity, rebirth/renewal, solar energy

~~~~~~

Catoptromancy

From the Greek word katoptron, meaning mirror, this is a form of scrying that specifically uses a mirror rather than flame, water, or crystal ball. However, my version is a bit of a kitchen witch twist on it. We’ll get to that in a moment!   The Wikipedia article on it refers to a Greek temple that used this method but it was also practiced in many other countries in history. There’s references to the “true seeing” of Hathor/Het-Hert/ḥwt-ḥr mirrors as well, despite them being mainly for practical purposes. The divination is practiced most commonly by placing a mirror near water, outside in moonlight, or near a candle flame. Then the reader looks into the mirror and interprets the images seen. They can be direct appearance-based (how you look) or seeing other images. The mirror can be a standard one, a painted one, or one made of a more opaque substance like obsidian or metal.

I will say personally, I practice catoptromancy in an “inner eye” scrying way rather than a pattern/tasseography way. That means that I am the conduit and the mirror/surface is to help me get into a trance state and what I “see” will be from my mind’s eye or may likely be added to what little I see on the surface through intuition and that sixth sense. But either method is absolutely fine.

I also don’t use a mirror. I use a well loved, well seasoned cast iron skillet for my catoptromancy, with a lighted candle usually. The glossy surface is mostly black iron but is just mirrored enough from being soaked in fat over the past decades of seasoning that it performs quite well for scrying. And the sentimental value helps it’s power. You may want to select an object in a similar fashion. You can choose an important mirror (the size doesn’t matter) or pick something that is mirror-like. The reflective ability is all that matters.

Get settled down in a comfortable spot without too much light. Get your one light source ready; a candle, the moon, a small table lamp or booklight even. You’ll want to be grounded, centered, and calm and then let yourself “zone out” in order to get into the mindset for scrying. Then examine your own reflection for certain aspects that stand out or look past yourself (or angle the mirror to not be looking right at you) to see other shapes or patterns that you expand upon with your trance state. Keeping a journal for this method is especially important. There’s an emotional and internal reflection aspect that can be helpful to refer back to and examine how things went in your life after certain sessions. It can also pair well with dream magic. What you were seeking might manifest after the trance mirror session in your dreams. This method of divination is especially good for shadow work as well.

~~~~~~

Osteomancy

Bones, bones bones! Throwing the bones! Examining the bones! Reading the bones! This is a divination method that obviously uses bones in order to determine associations and messages. It was prevalent in so many cultures throughout ancient and more recent history that it’s hard to pin down a single source. However, there are definitely methods that have particular cultural ties and those should be respected when it comes to closed ones.   Much like runes or staves, the most common method counts upon both the appearance of the bones themselves as well as their placement in a “casting” (when you gently toss them onto a flat surface). Casting sets also frequently include items that aren’t just bones like small stones, coins, shells, pieces of jewelry, etc.

You can carve, mark, paint or stain the bones in ways that have personal associations to you to help in reading them. You can obtain these bones in any ethical way you are comfortable with. I don’t believe they have to be remains you have processed yourself; though that can add a different spiritual component. You should be considerate in collecting your set though. There is no set number of objects to have (even a single piece can answer yes/no questions) but I don’t recommend starting out of the gate with a pile. You should get comfortable with each piece and determine its associations before moving on to a new one.

Unlike Tarot, they don’t come with set meanings. Though there are sometimes obvious ones: a coin for finances, a seedpod or nut for fertility/prosperity, a sharp tooth for protection, etc. Think about what creature the bone is from, what part of the body, what shape it has when helping determine your personal associations. Treat it like a correspondence for herbs or crystals and that way you can have a more organic “sliding scale” type meaning for when you cast rather than a rigidly detailed one like with Tarot. For example: a meaning like “luck” or “prosperity” is better than “success in work”. It’s also common to have objects touch and then their meanings are joined. In the previous example you could get promotion/raise at work from having a work piece crossing with a prosperity or luck piece.

It is also up to you on what level of ritualized dedication and/or care you would like to give your set. Many people like to do a special dedication ritual to almost “welcome” the item to its new job as a divination tool (my own is what I call “Massaging the Bones”). You can also regularly cleanse and “feed” the casting set (energy that is- not literal food, though you could give it energy from something you’ve cooked in a non-literal way!). I do recommend a special bag or box to keep everything in as well as a soft thicker cloth to cast on. Just so the items don’t get damaged. Be careful in your casting. Practice a lot to know your strength level to throw while still keeping the objects safe. There may be a couple pieces (like baculums or thinner bird bones) that you need to wrap in a square of cloth before storing with the rest of your set for extra protection. This is especially true if you plan to take your set anywhere where it’ll be traveling in a bag or purse.

You can have a ritual circle of string or another material (embroidery hoop!) you lay out to help organize your cast if you like too. This is usually treated one of two ways. Like the face of a clock and items “closer” to certain times are more immediate and further away items around the imaginary numerals are more in the future. Or it’s concentric and the closer to the center of the circle are more important/relevant and then less relevant or immediate as you get closer to the edge. Those that fall outside the circle aren’t relevant to the reading.

This is a divination method you need an large amount of patience for as it is basically creating a tool yourself from scratch, even if you buy the supplies from elsewhere. The framework is laid by you. And just like someone designing a Tarot deck from scratch; be gentle with yourself and allow yourself the room to practice, change, grow, have fallow periods, return, get bored, become fanatic, etc. It’s a process sort of divination that grows like a living thing. This makes it a bittersweet one- rewarding and frustrating but mostly immensely satisfying.

~~~~~~

Divination is something that can be tailored to your desires, needs, and supplies. It can be made personal. You can create a whole new type if you like! Use what inspires you, what works for you. Use the marks on toast, the recommendations of Netflix, steam in a bathroom mirror after a shower. The world is your oyster!

#divination #TAA #stygian original #aleuromancy #catoptromancy #scrying #osteomancy #bone casting #fortune telling #mirror scrying #flour correspondences #witchcraft #witchy #witchblr #unusual divination

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samatheia229 · 4 years

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PJO Mortal AU (Solangelo-centric)

The Olympia Family

(AKA the family with so much chaos and drama, they would have made an even more popular reality TV show than Keeping Up with the Kardashians)

Thalia Grace - 24

An ambassador of the Artemis Foundation

Badass

Won't hesitate to throw hands at anyone who messes with her family.

Very protective of her little brother and cousins.

Not afraid to speak her mind and fight for what she thinks is right.

Has a kind of love-hate relationship with her stepmother Hera. While Thalia respects and acknowledges Hera as her stepmother, she is a free spirit, and hates being chained down by the old-fashioned rules Hera imposes.

Briefly dated Luke Castellan for 2 years, but broke up due to reasons. The break up was mutual and Luke still remains as one of Thalia's closest friends.

Deadly with a bow and arrow (she'd be hunting down hunters like they hunt animals for living if it weren't for the fact that murder is unfortunately illegal).

Jason Grace - 19

Sophomore at Uni (double majors in Management and Aerodynamic Engineering)

Flight school graduate

Heir to Jupiter Airlines (given that his father doesn't plan to retire anytime soon, Jason is considering becoming a pilot in the meantime)

Hera's favourite child since he actually follows her rules (He bends them slightly every now and then, but she doesn't need to know that).

Regular at the Manhattan Chess Club

Has an intense rivalry with his older cousin Percy that's been going on for like 10 years now... (his life goal is to beat Percy. They're currently at a stalemate of 3795 wins each.)

Very protective of Nico. He almost had an aneurysm when he heard that grumpy, little stay-away-or-I’ll-death-glare-you Nico had a boyfriend. A boyfriend.

Has a best friend Leo Valdez who is an engineer student with an eccentric personality and is a mischievous menace. His childhood friend, Reyna Avila Ramirez-Arellano, is an athlete in javelin-throwing and currently resides in her hometown in San Juan, Puerto Rico, but they still keep in touch.

Dating Piper McLean, the 19-year-old founder of the Beautifully Imperfect Foundation

Zeus Olympia

CEO of Jupiter Airlines

Drama Queen TM

Favours Thalia more despite Jason being his heir and enables most of her rebellious antics, much to Hera's chagrin.

Can be rather childish and petty ("It's been 43 years, and I've long since given up on expecting him to change," Hades deadpanned.)

As the youngest child of the Olympia family and with his father on Death's doorstep, Zeus was given a lot of free reign, hence his playboy tendencies. He eventually did settle down with Hera Junos, the single daughter of one of the oldest families in Greece. Hera was fond of children but was unable to sire her own due to medical issues, which led to Zeus getting a mistress (with Hera's begrudged consent), Beryl Grace, the daughter of Hera's family chef. Beryl has always had a rather strange personality and an unhealthy obsession with alcohol. A few years after giving birth to Thalia and Jason Grace respectively, her liver gave way and she died before they could find a solution.

Hera Olympia (formerly Junos)

Zeus' wife

The kids call her ‘Aunt Ra’

Jason is her favourite child because he actually listens to her

Coming from both a high-class and old family, Hera was raised to be a perfect lady (a lady should not wear pants or speak out of turn etc. etc.) and has a rather old-fashioned way of thinking, enforcing strict rules in her household.

She still loves Thalia, but because the way Thalia acts goes against everything Hera was taught, her relationship with her stepdaughter is a bit strained. Hera now mostly lets Thalia do her own thing, but every now and then might still be a bit controlling. She's trying, okay?

Bianca di Angelo - 19

Sophomore at Uni (majors in Journalism and English Literature)

Works part-time at the Artemis Foundation

Generally quiet and shy, but has a tendency to fuss over small details.

Very responsible and possibly the only one with a brain cell among the cousins. (Proteus and Triton don’t even live in the same continent half of the time; Kym doesn't give a damn; Thesi is too nice to reprimand them; Ro‘s too busy fawning over her fiancé; Hero is more likely to fan the flames than quell them; Thalia, Jason, Percy and Nico are always either competing against each other or breaking the Internet with their antics again; Hazel is pretty innocent but has a slight vindictive streak so caution must be exercised; and Tyson and Estelle are innocent beans of sunshine that must be protected).

She can be bold when she wants to be, as well as reckless.

Has her father's habit of gesturing with her hands while talking and when she is on edge.

Ace

Nico di Angelo - 17

High school Senior

Heir to Pluto Corp.

Resident Emo in the family (“I'm not emo!” “Your only-dark-clothing phase says otherwise.” “It's not a phase, Persephone!” “Like father, like son.”)

Stubborn AF

Can't deal with all his overprotective sisters and cousins

Currently pining over William Solace ("Shut up!")

Avid gamer, plays digital games, card games (his childhood and to-this-day favourite is Myth-o-magic, which is one of the reasons he approves of Hazel's boyfriend, Frank) and all games in general (he visits the arcade monthly to make sure he's still 1st place in every game there)

Has a tendency to hold grudges and gestures with his hands while talking or when on edge, a habit he shares with his father and older sister.

Plays the violin (Persephone had introduced him to it, and he'd taken a liking to it)

Hazel Olympia (formerly Levesque) - 14

High school Freshman

Aspiring artist (she’s won thirty different art competitions locally in the span of three years and placed silver last year in the Chelsea International Fine Art Competition under an anonymous name because she wanted to win by her own merit rather than rely on the Olympia name. Hades plans to surprise her by giving her own exhibition hall for her next birthday.)

Regular at the Manhattan Riding Club

Has a bit of a vindictive streak in her that was probably born out of spite due to her upbringing

Exudes a powerful aura of passive aggressiveness, but is also incredibly kind and magnanimous

Has the ability is summon, manipulate and detect precious minerals, as well as the ability to place curses on them. (This knowledge is confidential and hidden from the public)

Loves her family with all her heart, and literally no one is more protective of Nico than she is

She was the first but also last person to know about Nico's boyfriend (First because she goes to the same school and is not dense, thank you very much, but technically last because she was the last person that Nico officially told since Will is terrified of her for some reason, something about her being 'the FINAL BOSS'; this amuses Hazel to no end).

Has a very cute crush on Frank Zhang, a HS Junior who’s an archer and animal lover (it’s mutual, by the way).

Hades Olympia

CEO of Pluto Corp., one of the largest companies in the mining industry.

#DONE with life and all the people in it, particularly his crazy family

Functions solely on his children, Persephone and caffeine, usually caffeine because the other two are often the cause of his high blood pressure

Broods a lot (”I don’t brood.” “Yes, you do.”)

Deadpan 200% of the time and takes no shit

Loves all his children equally and definitely does not have a favourite (it’s Hazel, in case you’re wondering)

As the eldest son of the three brothers, Hades was betrothed and wed to his childhood best friend Persephone Terrafield by their fathers in an attempt at a business partnership (Spoiler Alert: It didn’t work out in end). Admittedly, Hades and Persephone did have a small infatuation with each other when they were younger, but it never grew into anything serious, and as they grew older he saw her as more of a sibling than a lover and vice versa. After the inevitable death of his father, Hades and Persephone divorced but literally nothing in their relationship changed since they’d never loved each other romantically in the first place. When Hades decided to court their mutual friend, Italian diplomat Maria di Angelo, Persephone supported both of them wholeheartedly. In the span of the seventeen years they were together, Maria gave Hades two beautiful children, Bianca and Nico. Unfortunately, Maria passed away after being on life support for two years in result of a plane crash when Nico was 6.

In the two years when Maria was hospitalized, Hades was so desperate to find his beloved a cure that he sought out a witch doctor that was rumoured to be in New Orleans. Marie Levesque, the aforementioned witch, was a greedy, manipulative person with a deluded and unstable mind, who drugged Hades and essentially raped him because she thought his spawn would have the perfect blood for experimenting magic on. She used magic to wipe his memory of the previous night’s events and handed him an ‘antidote’ that was actually just water dyed a milky white. After ten years, Marie finally revealed to Hades a 12-year-old Hazel, who looked miserable, was suffering from malnutrition, wounds, burns etc. and had a supernatural ability which Marie proudly said she had bestowed to her via dark magic. Hades was absolutely mortified, revolted and a bunch of other things. He filed a lawsuit against Marie, charging her for rape, child neglect, child abuse and human experimentation, as well as taking permanent custody over Hazel Levesque (now Hazel Olympia).

Persephone Terrafield

CEO of jewelry enterprise The Red Pomegranate which was a sub-branch of Pluto Corps. The enterprise has the highest production rate in the US.

Self-designated matchmaker for Hades (Hades always tells her she should focus on her own love life first, but he’s just an ungrateful brat)

Current life goal is to fulfill Maria di Angelo’s dying wish: help Hades find love again. (Mission status: still at Square 1 because Hades has some trust issues after the Levesque Incident)

The kids all call her ‘Aunt Seph’, but she loves the children as though they were her own

She and Hades often joke that they would totally still be married if they didn’t see each other as siblings and platonic soulmates and she hadn’t had her sexual awakening of being lesbian.

She lives with Hades and the children as she finds it too much of a hassle to move into her own place, not to mention lonely (with the kids at school and doing club activities, someone needs to make sure Hades gets exposure to the sun anyway).

Persephone is the daughter of an unnamed businessman and Demeter Terrafield, an agricultural revolutionist and healthy-cereal-obssessed woman.

Her mother and Hades have this sort of weird rivalry going on whenever Demeter visits; Demeter hates Hades because he hates healthy cereal, and apparently anyone who hates healthy cereal isn’t good enough to be hanging around her daughter, so she always replaces all his coffee with decaf and puts the healthiest cereal she can find on his bedside table every morning; in retaliation, Hades will deliberately eat the most sugary sweets he can find in front of her and locks her out of their personal greenhouse. (The glass walls are made of the strongest glass he could find and the door is locked by multiple manual and digital locks.)

Hestia Olympia

CEO of WarmHearth Interior Design Agency (WHIDA)

Everyone's favourite person, indefinitely

Has the infinite patience of a goddess

Gentle, kind, very wise, gives great advice

The kids call her ‘Aunt Tia’

Often fondly exasperated by her younger brothers' antics (because no, just because they’re grown men now does not mean they are going to stop their childhood feuds since despite their protests, they are all petty AF), but once she snaps, they all line up like toy soldiers and behave nicely.

Knits a lot. Most of her carpets, quilts, bags, scarves etc. are handmade.

She looks relatively innocent, but don't be fooled. There's a hidden arsonist in her that is always ready to come out when she's angry.

Hestia has a 'I'm not mad, just extremely disappointed and upset' Mom Look that has sent people bawling their eyes out and begging for her forgiveness with just one glance

She is the oldest of the Olympia siblings, but as a child had a frail and weak body. Kronos wanted to get rid of her since she was 'useless and couldn't be wed off', but Rhea, their mother, begged and pleaded Kronos to let her live. For some unknown reason, Kronos complied.

Her brothers are all very protective of her

YOU DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, MAKE HER ANGRY

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unironicduncanstan · 3 years

Text

the “Tangodeltaindia” blog explained,

aka my brain has cringe spots on it and needs to be inspected by the FDA

hi my names randi/uni and i created a total drama island themed ARG two months ago on a whim that almost no one interacted with bc i started off way too niche and difficult, so i kinda just went increasingly off the rails because i knew most likely no one was monitoring my posts and i could just make a real cursed hidden tomb that could one day be discovered by someone in a goonies esque unveiling. but then i got lice and now im sad and uncomfortable so i’m just gonna explain the entire damn thing in one shot. its absolutely batshit and theres a reason no one uncovered it ok here we go;;;

first of all the name. its so stupid but. ‘tango delta india’ = ‘tdi’ in the NATO phonetic alphabet. it just felt like a funny place to start that implies its gonna be a puzzle blog idk,

moving on to the actual content tho; some of the earlier posts mean p much nothing and were just an attempt to draw people in, such as the mr coconut ‘like if you agree’ or the ‘let him inside hes cold’ posts.

then theres the cipher (x). it was posted shortly after the height of the ‘using total drama reference pictures to make an alphabet’ meme. in case anybody didnt see that; for a while it was a joke in the fandom to take the transparent references of total drama characters, and line them up, using them like hieroglyphics to make translatable pictures. its supposed to correspond to the alphabet, based on the first letter of their first name. an example could be, alejandro = a, bridgette = b, and so on. there was no solidly set alphabet amongst the fandom though, it was self explanatory most of the time so i made my own solid personal cipher key for that blog to make the whole thing easier.

NOW ONTO THE FIRST PUZZLE POST,,,, (x). theres a scene, a string of text, the cipher key, and a link to a decoder. the way to decode it all is to plug the characters on screen into the tangodeltaindia cipher key, and then plug That translation into the decoder website, and then finally paste in the text under the photo.

the website linked is to a Caesar cipher decoder. the Caesar cipher is just a code where the alphabet is assigned to numbers (a=1, z=26), and to encode something with it you can move this pattern however you want as long as you keep the regular sequence of alphabet and numbers. so you could scootch over One letter, and “abc” would now say “bcd”. so on and so forth.

looking at the scene + my own total drama reference cipher, alejandro = A, and the beaver = 1, which gives A1. so you could now follow the link to the website, press ‘decode’, and paste in the text under the picture. the ‘shift’ in the middle is automatically set to ‘7′, or as it shows, a -> h, meaning ‘a’ has been moved over by 7 letters. so if you set the shift to just 1 over, or A1, now you can translate the text. it reads;

“lets start simple. after all, a trail of breadcrumbs begins with a loaf. whats the harm in another long winded fandom meme. another inside joke. and arent you curious whats truly lurking inside?”

edgy! simple! kinda just a test to see if people would do it or not. which they didnt so of course i tried to make it weirder-

puzzle 2; (x) using the exact same translation rules as above. we have alejandro and the snake, which with the tangodeltaindia cipher key means A6. going to the website, putting it in ‘decode’ mode, pasting in your text, and setting the shift to ‘6′ gives you this translation.

“in his eyes are an island. nothing but a dream, born out of going to bed angry. sink or swim.”

this was just hinting around at where the story was gonna go so it’ll make more sense later. something else to note; if you zoom all the way in and look into alejandros eye (’in his eyes’), you’ll see the word ‘Thera’. ~thats a surprise tool that will help us later~

so after this one, there are two non-puzzle posts that are also just hints (i was just tryna see if i could get people hyped), the first is a close up picture of chris with red eyes that simply says “those arent his eyes”, and then a post that says “his real names not chris :)”, they’re again referencing his eyes, and this time further implying theres something fake or wrong about them, or with chris as a person. again, it’ll be explained better later on.

moving on to puzzle 3 (x), another test to see if anyones keeping up (which also failed josdfjsdfkjs), using the same translation rules, dj = a dash or minus, and the snail = 5, “-5″, shift the letter ‘A’ BACK five instead of forward, and you get the simple translation of; “getting harder now.”

puzzle 4 and 5; at this point, there are two images posted within hours of each other that i’ll explain together as they line up. (x) (x)

These are some of the only ones that can be translated from just the tangodeltaindia key directly. They end up a string of numbers, which are latitude and longitude coordinates. The first post, labelled “the lie”, translates into “45.57394802102744, -81.46817207492494″. googling that will take you to maps and show you to a place called Lonely Island in Canada.

The second one, “the truth”, translates into “36.404663113177534, 25.39605673375295″, taking you to Santorini, Greece.

This is where the hints got really out there bc i realized nobody was following along but i still wanted to paint a picture. so this is the set up;;; the idea that the ‘island’ (camp wawanakwa) existing somewhere in canada, is a lie. the ‘true’ location being santorini isnt meant to be taken at face value though. the mythology behind santorini is that a man impregnated a goddess and to escape the wrath of her father (triton), she formed the island (santorini) by having her lover throw clay into the sea, and then she gave birth to her son, Theras, on this island, giving the island it’s Other nickname, Thera.

this is again just a vague implication that the island might not be real at all, or that it was formed through cosmic means.

the next two posts are more non-puzzle hints, the first showing the definition of the word ‘fresh’ (new), and the second being images of total drama backgrounds with no characters and the text reading “they were always empty.” more, admittedly very outlandish implications that the island is some kind of illusion, but again mostly just another try to drag people into the blog.

puzzle 6. (x) this one introduces a new concept to the regular translation rules, some of the characters are laying down. its kinda supposed to imply they’re “dead” and that you need to take their corresponding letters out of the alphabet given on the Caesar cipher page, below the shift. The upright characters translate to “-9″, so you shift ‘A’ back 9 letters. Then remove the letters; “TH-E-R-A-S”, and with those letters taken out, you can finally translate the text.

“he creates life solely to destroy it. to crush it in his hands. he births chaos so that he may have something to control. the power has given him madness. the isolation, arrogance. don't try to stop him, he's already chosen to be unstoppable. his mind is a perfectly crafted prison, one we will all soon be living in.”

this is where the story gets more on the nose. it’s talking about chris, and about him being an unstoppable cosmic force, a diety who can create worlds within his own mind, and he does so maliciously just for power. hes created the campers through mental energy just to torment them. it also hints that his plan is to expand the world of total drama island and engulf the whole universe.

puzzle 7. (x) same as the last puzzle. beaver and moose translate to ‘1-0′ or ten. the characters lying down to remove from the caesar cipher alphabet are “T-U-L-P-A”. this doesnt have anything to do with the modern way some ppl interact with tulpas but just the actual idea of creating thoughtforms, or willing your thoughts into real life creations, referencing how chris has created the entire island and everyone on it solely through his mind. with those letters removed and the shift set forward 10, you get this:

“his psychic power is unfathomable. the reality he bore was just a passing thought. an idea that became so dangerous. he predates the idea of a mind, the minds own ability to recognize itself, his synapses are paradoxically ancient. the island exists only within himself, to torment the souls hes created, and damned from the start. will they ever be free?”

it states that chris is more than a man or even just a diety, hes an all powerful god already, yet he craves more power. the final line, “will they ever be free” is in reference to the campers, which segways into the next arc;;; freeing the campers from chris’ psychic island imprisonment.

puzzle 8. (x) to solve this one you have to translate the top image with the tangodeltaindia cipher key, and add it to the text given, which creates a link. this leads to a PDF, a page from a book written by terence mckenna. he’s a famous ethnobotanist known best for his studies on DMT, the strongest hallucinogenic drug in the world, its also known as the spirit molecule. many people on this drug (without any prior knowledge of this phenomenon) will recount meeting strange fractal beings that can create things in the universe just by speaking them into existence, theyve come to be known as ‘machine elves’, a term coined by mckenna. ill show the most important excerpt from the page;

this is less about the psychedelic drug part and more about the words and ideas, like “punching a hole through a dimension so it pours through” and “if god didnt exist man would invent him”. its more worldbuilding towards chris’ power and cosmic abilities

then come 2 more clues. a picture of chris holding his own body captioned ‘ego death’, and the meaning behind the name ‘chris mcclean’. the latter is another “please look over here” post, but the first is another minor reference to the previous puzzles answer involving DMT and terence mckenna. ‘ego death’ is a term again used with strong psychedelic drugs, its the sensation that your spirit as you know it is literally Dying, and you are instead connected to and a part of everything around you. another reference to chris’ power and how he may look like a man but his body and spirit are connected to the world hes built in unfathomable ways. at this point im cementing the idea that chris mclean is not a mortal man and cannot be fought with mortal weapons

puzzle 9. (x) this one was an attempt to make easier to solve puzzles, and comes with a visual of chris looming over the island. the text is in wingdings, which can be translated through multiple websites found through google. it says;

“s︎o︎o︎n︎ h︎e︎ w︎i︎l︎l︎ s︎l︎e︎e︎p.︎ h︎e︎ w︎i︎l︎l︎ d︎r︎e︎a︎m︎ a︎ n︎e︎w︎ h︎e︎l︎l︎,︎ a︎n︎d︎ t︎h︎a︎t︎ w︎i︎l︎l︎ b︎e︎ o︎u︎r︎ o︎n︎l︎y︎ c︎h︎a︎n︎c︎e︎,︎ t︎o︎ s︎a︎v︎e︎ h︎i︎s︎ c︎r︎e︎a︎t︎i︎o︎n︎s︎,︎ a︎n︎d︎ f︎r︎e︎e︎ t︎h︎o︎s︎e︎ w︎h︎o︎ w︎e︎r︎e︎ n︎e︎v︎e︎r︎ d︎e︎s︎i︎g︎n︎e︎d︎ t︎o︎ b︎e︎ f︎r︎e︎e︎.︎ t︎h︎i︎s︎ m︎a︎y︎ c︎o︎m︎e︎ a︎t︎ a︎ c︎o︎s︎t︎.︎ t︎h︎e︎ n︎i︎g︎h︎t︎m︎a︎r︎e︎ m︎u︎s︎t︎ e︎n︎d︎,︎ t︎h︎e︎ o︎u︎r︎o︎b︎o︎r︎o︎s︎ o︎f︎ h︎i︎s︎ s︎y︎n︎c︎o︎pe︎ m︎u︎s︎t︎ c︎l︎o︎s︎e︎,︎ b︎u︎t︎ i︎t︎ m︎a︎y︎ t︎u︎r︎n︎ o︎u︎r︎ e︎f︎f︎o︎r︎t︎s︎ o︎f︎ s︎a︎l︎v︎a︎t︎i︎o︎n︎ t︎o︎ d︎u︎s︎t︎.︎ o︎u︎r︎ f︎i︎g︎h︎t︎ m︎i︎g︎h︎t︎ e︎n︎d︎ i︎n︎ s︎a︎c︎r︎i︎f︎i︎c︎e︎,︎ r︎e︎n︎d︎e︎r︎i︎n︎g︎ h︎i︎s︎ l︎a︎s︎t︎ i︎n︎v︎e︎n︎t︎i︎o︎n︎ b︎u︎t︎ a︎ c︎e︎a︎s︎e︎l︎e︎s︎s︎ v︎o︎i︎d︎.︎ w︎e︎ m︎a︎y︎ s︎e︎e︎ h︎o︎r︎r︎o︎r︎s︎ t︎h︎a︎t︎ c︎a︎u︎s︎e︎ t︎h︎e︎ s︎t︎a︎r︎s︎ t︎o︎ s︎h︎u︎d︎d︎e︎r︎,︎ b︎u︎t︎ w︎e︎ m︎u︎s︎t︎ t︎a︎ke︎ t︎h︎i︎s︎ c︎h︎a︎n︎c︎e︎.︎ w︎e︎ h︎a︎v︎e︎ n︎o︎t︎h︎i︎n︎g︎ t︎o︎ l︎o︎s︎e︎,︎ a︎n︎d︎ a︎ w︎o︎r︎l︎d︎ o︎f︎ n︎o︎t︎h︎i︎n︎g︎n︎e︎s︎s︎ t︎o︎ e︎n︎d︎.︎ m︎a︎y︎ t︎h︎e︎ s︎e︎a︎ s︎w︎a︎l︎l︎o︎w︎ u︎p h︎i︎s︎ i︎s︎l︎a︎n︎d︎ o︎f︎ l︎i︎e︎s︎.︎ g︎o︎d︎ pr︎o︎t︎e︎c︎t︎ y︎o︎u︎.︎”

this is essentially saying that the island, the campers, werent all just created from his mind, but from his dreams. this confirms that he Sleeps, and claims hes going to sleep again soon, and during that time period theres a chance to kill him before he can dream up another world (or season) to control and torment. its also saying that theres a chance killing him will destroy the island and campers, but that its the only choice we would have to end the cycle. hey guys i am so bored and over the years i have been on every stimulant and anti depressant doctors are legally allowed to prescribe and its still just not quite there yet huh

puzzle 10. (x) the video, the title translates to “the island of his eye”. its just meant to encapsulate everything ive already been hinting around at but with real footage and some audios taken from the show, and again, it was me tryna make some lore that was easy to digest and also terrifying to an audience with no other context. the final images are the only new clues, if you pause fast enough you can barely make out the characters that (paired with the tangodeltaindia cipher key) would say “set them free”, and you can also see an aerial view of what is actually called “the eye of argentina”. it is a real island that rotates atop a swamp, it is geometrically perfect and no one really knows for sure why it rotates the way it does or how it was formed. this clue is simply related back to the idea that the island of wawanakwa’s location is not in canada, and that it does not function like a normal island.

puzzle 11. (x) what td blog is complete without a uquiz? anyways, it doesnt matter how you answer the quiz, theres only one possible result. the title is a link to a mega file, which is protected with a decryption key. the image attached to the result, when deciphered, is the randomly generated key to the unlock the file. the image you see from the file is this; (TW for mentions of self harm and eye trauma)

in case this is too hard to read ill transcribe what it says;

“How to escape the dream - accept that there is no dream to escape, and no you to escape it. - believe in it anyways. - sleep on your back. - cover your eyes. - hide a nail under the pillow. - wait for the ringing. - when you first see him, dont call his name. dont speak. - keep your eyes shut. - on the second night, ask where the camp is. he wont respond verbally. - on the third night, you’ll see his eyes. - on the fourth night, you’ll enter them. - you can’t turn back after the fifth night. - don’t try to hide your fears. he knows them before you arrive. - don’t shut your eyes for too long when it becomes too much. you risk losing them. - find chris mclean. - don’t stop till the nail is through the socket. - repeat on the other side. - repeat on yourself. - congratulations. they are free”

this is, believe it or not, an idea that comes from my very own sleep paralysis experiences. ive dealt with it a lot, so why not make a weird ritual thing for an arg based off it ig. so whenever i’d fall asleep on my back, i’d eventually hear this ringing in my ears (or it’d happen upon waking up), and then the sleep paralysis would begin. i only ‘saw’ stuff a couple times but the fear for me was really more about the overwhelming sensation of pure dread that always came along with it even when i was aware what was happening, and i Always got this feeling too that if i opened my eyes in that moment, something was gonna stab them.

so moving on to how that applies to the arg, the first few lines are about how, obviously, the island is not real, even in the lore being given its a figment of chris’ imagination, but you have to enter it anyways, and the only way to do that is to believe its real. then it tells you how to ‘enter’ that world, (btw i didn’t expect anyone to actually follow these instructions if found, but even if they did, the whole ‘sleep paralysis being caused by sleeping on your back’ thing usually only happens if you’re predisposed to having it and only happens to Some people who have it, so the intent was like. never to bring that upon anybody. but if you are prone to sleep paralysis plz do not attempt even as a joke or anything thx)

the parts about hallucinating chris then are as follows, “ask about the camp / he wont respond verbally” , meaning he will show you through a dream instead, one that might look a lot like the video from before. “on the third night you will see his eyes”, meaning you will see the island but not be able to interact with it, or basically, how we see total drama on tv right now. “on the fourth night you’ll enter (his eyes)” references the island existing ‘within his eyes’, meaning you will enter the actual island. the next night chris will sleep and you will be able to enter the island again and find him. the idea with the nail is that, if you destroy his eyes you destroy the ‘island’ within them. wrapping back around to sleep paralysis, the idea of stabbing yourself with the nail afterwards is because sometimes, the only thing you can move during sleep paralysis is your fingertips and toes, and wiggling those can help bring you out of the paralysis. so at first how i used to wake myself up, but it didnt usually work fast enough so oftentimes id just pinch the shit out of my fingers and use pain to make my muscles start up faster.

the next post is a link to a countdown. again, i knew nobody was rly following at this point, but i wanted a little more build up before just dropping the ending. it was set up to end 5 days after the last post, aka the one that mentioned a 5 night dream ritual.

puzzle 12. (x) going all the way back to the normal multi step translation puzzles. the coloring of the cipher is a bit different, and its missing chris, but its meant to be used the same as it was before, these changes are only for dramatic effect. and chris is gone because well. we mentally offed him in the inception dream land last time. so anyways the snake = 6, shift A to 6, take out the letters “R-I-C-K” of the characters laying in their graves, and you get this translation;

“its almost time. we must now crack open our minds like a crowbar to a sealed chest. like an egg to a pan. to find our way into camp wawanakwa our ego cannot remain intact, and to traverse it we must stay strong. to escape it, we must glue the pieces back together. now we sleep. dream. end the nightmare.”

this is a final message before ‘entering the island’ to kill chris and free the campers from the island. it acts like a pep talk.

the next post is just the countdown ending.

puzzle 13 (the finale). (x)

this post sends you to a new blog entirely, called @awakenfromthenightmare. there is only one post on it. the post has another link to a mega file, and the link is attached onto a string of text. follow the link by clicking, then copy the text and paste it in as the decryption key. now you have another image to translate with the tangodeltaindia cipher;

when translated, the text is another link to a youtube video.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ

so there you have it, that video is the ending to the entire arg. it didnt really end the way i wanted at first, i got burnt out from no engagement about halfway through which isnt anybody elses fault, but i still felt this was a well crafted and fitting finale. thank you all for reading.

#tw self harm ment./ //#tw eye trauma / //#tw unreality// //#tw drug ment/ //#long post/ //#like a mile long just look at the tws its a rabbit hol e

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invisibleinorange · 3 years

Text

Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Bridgerton Rating: T Warnings: Presumed Character Death Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington(besties), Bridgerton Family Dynamics, Simon Hastings/Daphne Bridgerton Characters: Colin Bridgerton, Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony Featherington, Benedict Bridgerton, Portia Featherington Additional Tags: Bridgerton, Polin Summary: Unexpected bad news arrives for the Bridgerton Family (and friends) regarding Colin's travels. This will be a series that is set after "The Duke and I" or season one of the show. It is a companion piece to "Goodbyes". (#I’mHereToKillYouAllWithFeels)

Getting Eloise to leave her alone again had been quite the task, especially after she went catatonic upon being handed the letter. She’d had to promise that there would be no further rash actions.

Her brain simply ceased to function because Colin Bridgerton writing her any letter felt beyond the realm of possibility. She wasn’t the kind of girl that any guy wrote those kinds of things to much less someone as perfect as Colin.

That was precisely the way she thought of him. He had been so perfect.

She couldn’t recall the first moment he transitioned from Eloise’s brother to the object of her every waking desire but that was because she’d felt that was as long as she could remember.

Not once in all those years did she allow herself the indulgence of believing that he could ever feel the same. His cordiality was the most she thought to hope for.

The only place that more could existence was in her very vivid imagination.

It was disorienting to go from extreme sadness to near ecstasy and then back to sadness once the reality set back in. Had she had any inkling he was still alive, she would have run away from home and used her Whistledown earnings to find him.

It was those thoughts that comforted her once she was tucked in her bed and left to her own devices. It played out so easily imagining arriving in Greece, tracking him down at some beautiful seaside inn.

She could almost imagine him scandalously shirtless on some beach, body glistening with the water from the sea and his trousers damp from having just taking an unplanned swim. She could picture his handsome, charming smile and his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of her.

She would have started to run to him and finally said the words that she’d wanted to say before he left. The words that she knew now could have prevented his trip to begin with.

His response in her imagination was enough to leave her aching. She could almost feel the warmth of his hand pulling his closer, his mouth scandalously close to her own. She could hear the chuckle from his lips and some teasing remark.

Her imagination dared not let it go further though.

The dream was what made her turn in her sleep, cry when she woke up in the morning and the reality sunk back in. Whatever he felt for her, losing him had made her see the depth of her own feelings all the more. She truly had loved him.

“I promise I’ll give him up forever if you just let him come home,” she uttered to an invisible God, knowing as soon as it was from her lips that had it ever come to fruition, it would be beyond her abilities to do. She would never give him up, never stop loving him. She loved him so much that she’d sacrifice her own happiness a million times over just to know he was alive and well. “I promise I’ll do whatever you want. You can’t possibly be this cruel.”

After a particularly intense debate, it was Benedict who ended up winning the battle of who would be the one to sacrifice on behalf of the family this time. He and Anthony agreed that it was vital that they ensure that his brother’s last known wishes were addressed.

Gregory was far too young to be considered a vital prospect so it had been between the two of them. Anthony had to sacrifice enough for their family. As much as Benedict desired a different kind of life and he wasn’t quite certain marriage was a part of it. The only way to be assured that Penelope was cared for was for her to marry one of them.

He admittedly didn’t know the girl as well as some of his siblings. Eloise had always been his favorite though and as such, he knew that his sister wouldn’t have chosen an unworthy best friend. He also knew that Colin wouldn’t have been quite so worked up over a no one.

He’d shared a few dances with Penelope during the year mostly at his mother’s urging as a mercy. When he looked at her, he thought of her as the little girl she’d once been instead of the woman. There wasn’t attraction there but he found her congenial and kind.

While his parents had shared a great love story, his mother had never been shy to tell her children that not marriages were born of love. Sometimes, they were born of necessity. There was always room for companionship and friendship to grow into love.

He was uneasy about the whole ordeal but he was a man of his word. Once it was settled, it was simply a matter of approaching the discussion with Portia Featherington. If he were honest, such a conversation was far more frightening than the prospect of a marriage that wasn’t born of some unrelenting love.

He was almost grateful when Eloise brought news that she’d shared the letter because it had bought him more time. He had to let the dust settle before he could even think to approach such a thing. He nearly lost his nerve as he crossed the way to the Featheringtons and requested an audience with Lady Featherington.

It wasn’t the right season for callers, especially for her daughters. The assumption when the staff announced Benedict Bridgerton had come to speak with her was that this was a mourning visit. She couldn’t logically think of any other reason for such a visit.

She’d had her staff bring him to the drawing room, standing once she saw him in the doorway.

There was a quiet exchange of bows, her eyes appraising before gesturing where he might sit. He had flowers in hand.

“Can I offer you some tea, Mister Bridgerton?” she asked.

“It won’t be necessary.”

“Well then, I must admit I’m most curious for the reason for you visit,” she said, eyeing the flowers with curiosity. “As you know, the season has been over for some time now and our home is in mourning. As it yours from what I hear. We’ve all been so truly sorry to hear about Colin. It’s such a tragedy.”

Benedict wasn’t quite sure she was actually sorry about the loss of his brother. He remembered himself and presented the flowers though. The whole conversation so far reminded him why he tended to avoid any interaction with the women. He hoped Penelope wasn’t horribly attached to her mother because while he was perfectly fine accepting her as part of his life forever, he wasn’t quite willing to accept her mother.

“Well it’s quite indelicate but it is of the utmost importance that I seek your … permission,” he tried to explain, coughing into his hand to try and find words that felt unnatural. He’d always desired a different kind of life than this. “Both of our families have experienced loss lately and it is my … wish to ease some of the pain both our families are feeling. I would like to ask your daughter … Penelope to wed – clearly an extended engagement – respectful to our losses but a proposal none the less.”

If he could have grown a second head, Portia Featherington wouldn’t have looked at him any less bewildered and startled by this turn of events.

“It would be inappropriate to allow any wedding for the foreseeable future,” she started. She then began to try and manipulate the situation to better her situation. The money wasn’t there to pay for a dowry. She’d honestly not been prepared to have to pay a dowry for Penelope since she assumed she’d end up as a spinster. “I wouldn’t dream to deny you a dowry –“

“It won’t be necessary,” he said, trying to keep polite. The point was to assure Penelope got the happy ending Colin desired for her and frankly, he wasn’t sure someone else was going to come along and offer it. If that meant not receiving a dowry, so be it. “I really must have your blessing in the matter though.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have Prudence? – Or Felicity in a few years even?”

“No.”

“Well then,” she said with a hand gesture. “Help yourself to it then.”

The woman then proceeded to yell for her daughter so loud that it was any wonder that half the Ton didn’t hear her yelling.

Benedict hadn’t quite expected the whole thing to happen quite so… quickly. If he must do this, he’d hoped to at least given it a bit of finesse.

Penelope did enter the room as requested though.

The two exchanged looks.

Penelope looked particularly meek and perhaps a little sad from where he was sitting. He’d never quite spent more than a passing second looking at her. There was no time like the present to begin though. Penelope bowed slightly in greeting. Had it been outside the formality of her mother’s drawing room, she might have greeting him by name. Formality always seemed to slip away with Eloise’s siblings.

“Penelope, Mister Bridgerton and I just have the most peculiar conversation,” she said gesturing to the space next to herself so that her daughter would come sit down. The confusion on Penelope’s face became all the more clear.

“I wanted to seek your permission to court with the intention of marriage,” he said awkwardly. “I know that it’s off season and our families are in-”

Penelope was to her feet at once. Her face twisting in fury and confusion all at once.

“Are you drunk?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“Penelope?!” her mother bellowed, clearly not charmed by the outburst before she lowered her voice and murmured under grit teeth. “That is not way to talk to your only prospect of marriage.”

“It’s quite okay,” Benedict offered, excusing away the behavior. “I know that it’s sudden but I assure you that my proposal is sincere. It’ll be a strike upon my honor should you refuse.”

“I refuse,” she said sharply.

Benedict had never quite seen the normally meek girl quite so riled up. The red of her hair seemed to spread across her skin. He seemed to take that as a sign she was quite angry.

“I cannot accept that answer,” he told her, unsure whether to laugh or be afraid.

“And I cannot accept your proposal. If this is about your brother, he would think you an idiot.”

Portia Featherington looked unsure whether to tell her daughter to stop being insolent or enjoy the front row seat to the drama. While she preferred when the drama stayed away from her own family, she did very much love to see it. Clearly her daughter had forgotten the fact she was even there.

“My brother wanted you to be happy and cared for,” the Bridgerton countered. “I simply wish to ensure that happens.”

Portia let out a soft ‘oh’ as if it suddenly made sense why a perfectly decent eligible bachelor would choose Penelope over one of her better daughters. Though, she was also semi-impressed that Penelope had somehow convinced someone to look out for her.

“I can look after myself,” Penelope argued, rising to her feet. “I’ll never marry.”

Portia finally decided to interject. “Not on my watch,” she told her daughter. “You best accept this proposal or you’ll end up on the streets. I won’t have you rejecting a Bridgerton.”

“This isn’t for negotiation,” Penelope said looking murderous as she stormed her way out of the drawing room, slamming the door on her way out.

Benedict, despite being a bit shellshocked, could only laugh.

“Well, that went well.”

#⚜ writings — polin #bridgerton #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton

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blametheeditor · 4 years

Text

Anxi With A Side Of Ety | Part 3

The First Episode, Previously, and what’ s Next on ‘Anxi With A Side Of Ety’

Warnings: Cursing, dark thoughts. The storm cloud being called adorable, those monsters

In conclusion, the ‘what if’ scenario of Anxiety shrinking to about three inches in size when he first transferred over to the dubbed ‘light sides’.

Dun, dun, DUUUUUN!

__________________

That’s a terrified scream. One that Patton has no choice but to immediately heed as he scoops Anxiety from Logan’s grasp, placing the poor little thing safely on the kitchen floor, his hands pulled away in the promise to not grab at him again. Not with the fact he can see just how scared their fellow side is. Not to mention feeling those emotions hammering against him.

“Bed time!”

“Padre!”

“Nope!” the heart exclaims, a commanding finger pointed toward Roman to halt the creative side before he can even /think/ about hovering over Anxiety. “We’ve stayed up long enough, and we won’t be accomplishing anything like this. Bed time!”

Their prince’s clenched jaw and glare is met with a stern look. One of the few he gives that state he won’t be swayed. Finally the louder side stomps out of the kitchen. Leaving Logan who looks like he wants to stay.

Morality points his finger toward the stairs, however. “You too, Lo.”

“I think we should-”

Logic raises an eyebrow as the head is tilted up. The playful attempt of acting snobbish. “I will not be listening to kiddo’s out of bed when they should be asleep.”

There’s a glance down to where Anxiety stands, but the calmest member carefully leaves the kitchen as well.

Patton can’t help but slumping as everything officially calms down. Roman clearly doesn’t like how they left things. They hadn’t expected Anxiety leaving his room, though. Not to mention having been so panicked he passed out. He really does understand where the others are coming from, being unable to even talk to the newest light side at all, but it seems they’re all not ready. Especially the person their trying to interact with and understand just has too much anxiety.

A chuckle erupts at the mental pun. OH! Anxiety!

He looks down to properly say hello. He tried earlier, but it just got slightly chaotic. Actually he doesn’t think the shrunken side even said anything to them. But now it should be better!

Problem is, where is Anxiety?

“Kiddo?”

Patton freezes as the familiar fluff of hair always covering the darker side pops out from behind his shoe.

It’s so adorable.

The heart doesn’t voice his opinions. Keeping still with silent awe as minuscule limbs move to peer around the heel of his converse. As if something that’s so ordinary is something so different. A wall to protect the shaking figure staring after where the other two left. Finally those eyes look up, head tilted up in a near backbend, ending with Anxiety skirting back.

Fear slaps Morality in the face yet again. With only two of them in the room.

“Thank you,” has the worried question cut off. Mostly out of fear he nearly cut the smaller off. The little guy’s voice could be carried away by the wind.

“You’re welcome!” still has the former dark side backing up a few more steps. “How do you feel? Do you need water? Oh, I forgot about dinner!”

Patton grins brightly as he bounds away from Anxiety, happily grabbing the plate he set to the side earlier, fingers delicately pinching the glass Logan put down before he left. There’s a gasp as he comes back, admittedly moving quickly with excitement. But he offers the fellow side the two items balancing on his finger tips.

“Guess what. The French fries weren’t made in France.”

The wide grin is given a confused look, one that transforms into panic as the essential giant leans closer, whispering as if sharing a secret.

“They were cooked in Greece!”

He heard a muffled snort, giggling like a madman as Anxiety seems to snatch away his dinner. But they doll-sized kiddo doesn’t attempt to race away, simply glancing from side to side as he shuffles his feet.

“Thanks, for dinner. I hadn’t meant to...interrupt.”

“You weren’t interrupting anything,” Morality waves, quickly sitting crisscross, knuckles holding up his chin as he beams down at the person attempting to avoid eye-contact. That’s okay! They’re finally talking! “We actually just have been really wanting to meet you, kiddo! Even Roman! We get it, this is a really big change, but we wish you’d come out more often you cute little muffin!”

Uncertainty, but Anxiety gives an unreadable expression that could every much be the want to in fact spend a lot more time out of his room.

Speaking of rooms... “Sorry, kiddo, I better go to sleep as well. You better get some shut eye, too!”

Virgil finds himself staring as the living building stretches up into the sky, barely keeping himself from hauling ass far away. Not with how everything went...not as terrible as it could’ve been.

His heart is in his throat, he’s going to pass out again from terror looming over him, and his anxiety is through the roof with the fact the others know when he goes into the kitchen at night. But he’s alive, with dinner, and without any broken bones. He’s not being held anymore, either. He’s no someone’s pet or being cut into pieces. He’s okay.

Shivers darting up his arms from the fact two people held him. Eighty feet above the ground where he could’ve been dropped, crushed, placed on the ground to be stepped on, eat-

Anxiety nearly yelps as the ground suddenly shakes. Just like when Morality walked away.

Expect that’s not Morality glaring down at him from the doorway. See this is exactly why he never tries to be optimistic.

The shrunken side turns into a statue as Creativity glances around the kitchen, as if searching for something, an air of anger surrounding him that has Virgil’s breaths coming in short gasps again. But he can’t pass out again. Not with him being completely vulnerable with Roman.

“You and I need to have a little talk.”

That’s what Patton said.

Shit NOT NOW!

____________

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

I apologize for this being a shorter chapter, but I hope you enjoy! And again, thank you so much!

taglist: because it’s groooown you guys make my heart soar!

@walkingonsunshine

@soviet-speck

@liz-a-bell

@fangirlgeekandfreak

@nonasficcollection

@i-lov-them-beans

@alwaysalilhigh

and please let me know if I accidentally added you or if I missed you!

#g/t #giant #tiny #shrunken anxiety #Sander Sides #dun dun duuuuuun #Anxi With A Side Of Ety #Anxi With A Side Of Ety Part 3 #BTE writing

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brooklynislandgirl · 3 years

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what would you REALLY do to Billy Manderly if you could without consequence?

Honesty Hour || Accepting

Conspire not with the Enemies of Ascension.

Of the eight Protocols, this was the only one utterly inviolate. Magick without conscience is a terrible thing. And in order to sidestep the worst excesses of wizard-tyrants and the potential cataclysm of their hubris, not to mention the beginning of a war that no one then knew would last over five and a half centuries, from the first shots fired at Mistridge, to the betrayal of the First Cabal, to the mostly stale cold-war ongoing. When the Traditions signed them in 1466 near the end of the Grand Convocation that formalised the Council of Nine and all that would come after the Protocols have governed not just the inter-Tradition interaction, but also the relations of Mages and Sleeper. With the Technocrats and the Spirits and all that lies in the unseen world. Despite upheavals, vacant seats within the Council for long periods of time, and infighting, the Protocols have always managed to survive.

While younger mystics might snicker at their archaic verbiage, the principles of the laws are clear, as are the punishments for infractions. As with any set of laws, they are meant to apply to all and equally, though “equally” has turned out to be quite flexible over the years. Tradition magi who break minor Protocols might be brought before a formal Tribunal. In the absence of strong organisation and Masters, such Tribunals are rare, so serious offenders might simply be killed by their cabal-mates if they step too far out of line.

But considering her cabal are all ohana? That hasn’t happened. So while she sits here, in the face of Judgement by an Elder, Beth understandably knows fear like never before. Try as hard as she might, she cannot control the wild beating of her heart. The sheen of nervous sweat that is starting to cause her to glow in that specific way. Nor can she control the lines gathering at the corners of her mouth and eyes. All the while her mind screams and rails against the questioning because she is doing no harm. She has betrayed no secrets of Tradition or Council. She has not sacrificed any other Mage to the Technocrats. If anything, she is slowly, systematically reclaiming her younger brother from them. Not on purpose, of course, but by simply showing him the other side of the metaphysical argument.

If she is being asked about a more personal relationship, well, it’s none of the Tradition or the Council’s business, is it? She certainly doesn’t go into other people’s lives and tell them how to conduct themselves in those relationships. And there is still no harm being done. She and Billy are adults. They are separated by a few months, Beth being the older of the two, but well into their thirties. Billy did not use his greater size or strength to coerce her into anything, Beth did not set out to seduce him in any way, but especially NOT with her Arts. Everything that has happened between them has been rational, organic, and above all else, consensual.

It’s true that maybe Andy and Jay aren’t very hip on the situation. Baz and AJ have never weighed in and somehow she feels that so long as no one is physically or emotionally damaged that they really won’t. Luc merely shrugs and makes passing joked that what should he say, he’s from the deep bayous and he’s seen worse. Maybe the loudest voice of dissent if there is any at all is that of Vincent. And his objections are admittedly as archaic as the Protocols can be, as he’s both the cabal leader but also a Catholic priest, who happens to be Beth’s confessor. He has known her for a long time and has been worried for her soul since before Billy rejoined the family, because she is a witch and her beliefs are heretical to begin with. For a second that yawns into an aeon, Beth closes her eyes and breathes out a sigh. Nausea sits in her insides like a hungry vulture, shading itself with branches of vertigo and exhaustion. Any one of those could be handled well, but all at once ~particularly the dizziness~ it’s overwhelming. She digs deep to muster as much dignity as possible and then opens her eyes, levelling the Elder with a passive gaze. “Truth be told? We would renounce ties to both the Traditions and the Technocratic Union. We ~Billy and I~ are bound by blood and by soul. We sprang from the same seed, yes. But it is more than that. We have always been. Siblings, lovers, parent and child. We have been enemies and friends. We have been strangers drawn together for a purpose. There is no single definition of what we are and were, could be again if allowed. That means more to me than anything. It means more than the power of the Wyck themselves. And if needs must...” The formal language, every painful vowel and consonant pronounced deliberately, is difficult to maintain, necessitating the slight pause.

“The Protocols say we must not conspire with the enemies of Ascension. And you would deem him so because he was found and trained by the Technocrats. Worse as an affront is that he is Iteration X, those who believe there is ideal perfection in blending flesh with machine. And while that ideal is perfectly abhorrent to me, my brother has been kinder and gentler than some of our tradition Sisters. Than any half-dozen sleepers you care to name. He does not threaten me with indoctrination and rehab, does not try to make me see the errors of my way. He has never thrown me under the wheels of control. If anything he has betrayed his own tradition a thousand ways a thousand times. And I don’t really believe he gives a fig about controlling sleepers and reinforcing the stranglehold the Technocrats have on reality.

“So what would I do? I would take his hand, and step into the umbra. We would travel together just as the first man and woman did, learning the lay of the land, as it were, a new Eden spread out before us. I would love him as he would love me, whatever way that might be. And if we are speaking frankly, Priestess, we are supposed to, as Verbena, embrace life’s joys and pains. To experience nature and life the way it was meant to be. We are reflections of the divine mysteries, yes? Well, the same Goddesses and Gods we strive to understand? Are not so different than we. Egypt, Greece, Rome... almost every ancient religion, almost every first monarchy was built on blood. Love between siblings was nothing shameful then. I see no reason that it should be now, if we willingly choose one another. It’s not like I can befoul our lineage more than it already is, and it’s not like we would have to consider the potential for ruining all those children we can’t have with genetic disease. “I also find it very difficult that I ~insignificant as I am, in the grand scheme of things~ am the biggest evil to focus the Tradition’s eyes on, when disease runs rampant and is decimating humankind. When the Wyrm has so many of its coils crushing the earth that there is starvation, pollution, climate change, and wide-spread corruption everywhere you look. That no one can be bothered to help for fear of being demonised for it. The world is desperately crying out for salvation and we are letting Her die day by day locked in our own pride. So you’ll excuse me if I can’t take you or this inquisition seriously.”

#Mahalo!Nonnymouse #Cloak and Dagger|Billy Manderly {Riley}#The Ties that Bind|Billy and Beth #We all Have Our Secrets|Verse #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Brooklyn Stories|New York #Anonymous

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sisterofiris · 5 years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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daughterofhecata · 4 years

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1, 15, 23, 55, 65, 70, 92 und 98 von den weird asks? :D

Hey!

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?

I guess they technically coffee mugs, even if I drink tea from most of them. But i love (and kinda collect) this kind of (fandom/etc) merch mug!

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment?

Definitely Faust and As You Like It. I had read Faust before we read it in class (already loved it but only understood like 50% cause I was like thirteen), and I was kinda the reason we read As You Like It because we did the play i my first year in my schools theatre club so I knew it forwards and backwards and kinda campained for it.

23. strange habits?

I really don’t know. Does singing count? I kinda always sing even if I can hit a note right to save my life.

55. favorite fairy tale?

Either Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel or Der Hirsch mit dem Goldenen Geweih. My grandma had tons of video tapes with old russian/czech/eastern german fairy tale movies and I love all of them. Also, the old german/czech adaption of Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot has a special place in my heart.

65. any permanent scars?

I have a scar at my left knee from a surgery, because there was a fucking additional bone that had to be taken out. Also there’s still a faint scar on my left forefinger where I cut myself while carving wands for my sibling and me so we could play Harry Potter.

70. left or right handed?

Right handed. But I can fence with both hands.

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights?

Mostly sunlight and lamps, but fairy lights are also really nice.

98. favorite historical era?

Okay, if we’re talking about general aestethics and stuff definitely Ancient Greece. But if we’re talking about my own special interests I have to give the most dude bro answer and say Third Reich, because I’m just really interested in the resistance and, admittedly, in the way some of the nazis’ minds worked.

Thank you so much, this was fun 💕

#ask #crazy walls #kaj rambles #i was kinda hoping for 15 and 55 thank you :*

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chiropteran-hellfire · 4 years

Text

Memory Theorising

Despite my long term absence from this blog, I’m honestly quite astounded to see it still highly active with likes and reblogs pouring in. I’m extremely humbled to see my contributions resonate with just so many people, within the DL fandom, fictionkin and others.

To honour this I shall share some personal updates, along with sharing some possible memories. It is only of late I’ve been able to allow myself to fully feel able to talk of my life, so let us get right to it.

This is a long post, please click below to continue.

In regards to my recent questioning of Akaba Reiji in This Post, I have settled on the conclusion this brain has accepted it as a psychological past life. What on Earth is a psychological past life you ask? Well it’s rather what one might naturally assume from the name.

A psychological past life is the idea that one has lived a past life as something/someone while you also understand that this idea is psychologically originating rather than spiritual. It’s similar to psychological otherkin which involves imprinting etc, but rather than still identifying as such now, it is limited to the phrase, “I used to be X.” Memories are funny things aren’t they? They can become altered and forgotten sometimes scarily easily, and when one bases one’s entire sense of self on what one recalls, it always reminds of the fragility of one’s entire personality.

But let us move on to a far more interesting subject.

Recently I had what I would usually assume a ‘memory’ in regards to my childhood within the Demon World, though it was rather vague and foggy. I recalled exploring an abandoned hut in the forest near the castle, very small. The outside was coated in hardened clay, while the inside showed the bare stone blocks that made up the walls. The roof was thatched, and inside it was filled with clay pots, most already broken. There were also herbs hung up from the roof which had seemingly turned brown and started to rot from rain water damage. There was a single hole for a window on the right hand side from the entrance, which was rectangular. It had no glass, so the rain had got inside and damaged everything inside that it could come into contact with.

It was not till the next morning when I thought back on this vision I realised what I was likely recalling was an abandoned witch’s hut. At the time of remembering I was awfully confused as I knew vampires didn’t make such structures, nor tended to live in them.

Rather alarming to think I was exploring a structure belonging to those who would have happily murdered me if given the chance, but it was likely assumed to be long abandoned being so close to the castle. This also makes me wonder if the castle was relatively new in it’s location, as the alternative is that or a witch didn’t realise just how deep inside they were into Karlheinz’ territory and picked an awful spot to place their hut. The far more likely answer is that the witch was there first and forced to move when Karlheinz made the castle.

There is also one other ‘memory’, which I have not listed before. Mostly because I am lacking the emotional memory of the occasion, which is often what I use to determine if a memory is a memory, or just an over active imagination. However, this has repeatedly manifested in my mind on multiple occasions, which gives it slight more credibility. Regardless, I still take this ‘memory’ with a grain of salt as to it’s legitimacy of having happened.

I remember being inside of a stone coffin, within what I assume was a stone mausoleum. I do not know how long I was inside of it, nor why I didn’t seem to make any attempt to get out. I seemed to be acting rather resigned to being there, and I slept for a very long time. However on occasion I could hear voices outside, children’s voices. I quietly listened, and still didn’t make any attempt to get out. It may have been the next day, or many days later, but the voices came again, and the lid was slowly inched over to the side.

I had been in the dark for rather a long time by this point, the sudden light made me squint and admittedly I did hiss in surprise. This, in turn, made the people who were opening the lid also yell in equal shock, though I will say theirs was far more over dramatic. I was not one for staying in such a compromised position so I immediately darted out of the gap they had made and ran out of the area, far faster than they could react to, not that they likely had any desire to follow me judging from the fearful reaction earlier.

I remember there were at least three adults, all male. The one who opened the lid was fairly overweight, the others of more average build. They each held a burning torch for light. I did not hang around long enough to take in the entire structure but the entrance was crumbling, and it was already starting to be overgrown with greenery. I feel as if the building was barely even enclosed at all, with only one wall still remaining which my coffin was beside.

Something I’m still confused by is the fact that it seemed to have Ancient Greek style columns, one on each side of the entrance, though one of them had broken in half likely a long time ago.

I managed to make my way to the top of a hill that overlooked the village the humans supposedly came from and the style of the buildings makes me sure this is not the same village that Edgar lived in. Again, my recollection is foggy but they seemed to have flat coloured walls that is reminiscent of Greek architecture. Though they were not the white you’d expect in this modern era, but what I can recall they were mostly a bright terracotta.

Despite the obvious fact that this was hundreds of years ago judging by the humans holding torches, the house colour helps to date it to before 1974, as that’s when Greek housing was required to be painted white. Do look it up if you’re interested. However the mausoleum was already without colour, so already well after the times of the Ancient Greeks. (I’m not that old goodness.) A guess at the time frame is anywhere within the 18th century, which would actually make it at a time Greece was under Turkish rule as part of the Ottoman Empire, but that’s getting rather off topic now.

I do not know why I was in this position, the only possibility coming to mind is it highly resembles one of father’s punishments, I can’t fathom any other idea why I’d have ended up in Greece, if that’s where I was. There’s a number of other countries and islands that might fit what I recall, along with the possibility that it was not a culture even reflected in this Earth’s history, so it does leave it rather to the imagination.

All idea of what happened after is even more fragmented. I might have met another child up on that hill, two children, slightly older than I was. I couldn’t understand them, nor could they understand me, so I parted with insult and made my way to a forest to find a portal back to the Demon World. Unfortunately I seemed too focused on getting back home to really pay my surroundings much further mind.

Fun theorising aside, I do hope to continue updating this blog, so don’t be a stranger now, you’re free to ask me any questions you so desire. I do so enjoy reminiscing if given the opportunity.

#Memories #Personal #Text #Fictionkin

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jessicamdawn · 4 years

Text

juliawrites98: Happy WBW, what is the architecture like?

I had a lot of fun with architecture in The Paladin’s Path and it’s sequel, The King’s Course. I’ll put this under a cut because I’m apparently very excited about this.

The capital city of Kierwater is described in the introduction:

Immediately surrounding the train station were countless, multi-storied hotels and quaint inns. Some had flat roofs and some were sharply slanted, ending in points capped by round balls. Their walls were painted with intricate designs showing nature or animals or geometric shapes.

Different districts of the capital are separated by a winding river so clean it has to be manually manicured. The rich and noble families live further up hill, near the Prince’s Palace, or across the city near the Queen’s Palace. The city is surrounded by a huge, tall wall. The palaces are each two-stories tall and surrounded by two layered walls, with huge expanses of gardens and forests. This exaggerates the size of the city because the city was built around the palaces, so on a map Kierwater looks gargantuan.

The idea was to have a blend of East Asian architecture and something like Germany, Poland, or the Netherlands. This is an aesthetic I made for Kierwater, though admittedly most of it is the palace where a majority of the story takes place.

The backwater villages of Cabochon and Matul are described with muddy streets, shack houses with small rooms, people living in the same buildings where they sell their goods, all the buildings so close together that a fire in one easily spreads to its neighbors. Cabochon is surrounded by mines and buildings for cleaning and sorting the gems they’re mining. Matul has a lot of forges and metal refineries.

The town of Doverplem is only described as having “paved roads and street lights,” has little cafes, a stable, and a train station. It’s the first real town my MC had ever been to, though, so he thought of it as a magical place.

The city of Floraison, where Princess Me-Sai lives, is described:

Floraison the town was brightly colored. The houses all had pointy roofs and colorful walls. Sometimes the buildings looked like they stacked on top of each other, almost like they were playing a kid's game. Though much bigger than Doverplem, and in an entirely different league than Cabochon Village, Floraison was a lot smaller than Kierwater. Kierwater felt like four cities packed into one, like an overstuffed box that wouldn't shut right. Floraison had room to grow and was more welcoming and open, more carefree.

I tried to make Floraison sound welcoming, almost fairy-tale-esque, when having my characters interact with it. It’s a city to match it’s royal - innocently childish, still growing, still hopeful.

The city of Chanson, where Prince Sai-Jon lives, is described by it’s many bakeries, theaters, parks, banks, tea shops, hobby shops and specialty shops selling soft blankets, handmade clothing, pretty knickknacks, secondhand books, paintings by local artists, and more, and the way it butts up right at the foot of the Prism Peaks - a mountain range in rainbow colors.

This too matches it’s royal inhabitant - rich in possessions both physical and intellectual. A little bit spoiled.

The city of Kreka, where Princess Ru-haa lives, is huge and bordered on three sides by the ocean and a rising cliff, upon which sits the palace with it’s many balconies. The buildings are mostly white and shine in the sun. I took my inspiration for the way I described its buildings from Greece. The city is perhaps a direct opposite to it’s royal inhabitant - open where she is closed off; bright where she is dark; large where she feels trapped.

I feel a little bad about it, but I never actually describe the city of Trixton, where Princess Hyon-Jo lives. No big events happen there and my character’s never explore it. Poor Hyon-Jo.

The city of Dixit is first described:

The buildings of Dixit were eclectic. Their structures, heights, shapes, and designs were wide and varied. The guilds wanted everyone to know how talented they were, and the buildings apparently wanted in on that competition.

The artisan guilds all base in Dixit, so the city is alive with creative endeavors. Artists, sculptors, musicians, glass makers, those people who pretend to be statues. I based Dixit on my experiences as studying abroad in Italy, where people performed and made art on what felt like every corner. It’s probably my favorite city in the book duology.

My editor and beta readers tell me I have a knack for bringing the locales to life, so I suppose it only makes sense that I have a ton of notes and reference pictures (on my comp, not here) and mental images of all the cities in my book. Sorry if this was just waaay longer than you were looking for when you asked.

Thank you for asking!

#WBW #WBW asks #Writing with Jessica #Paladin Warrior Book

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ladyofpurple · 4 years

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answer all of the questions!!

holy SHIT ok bless you omg

(sorry it's a full day late i took this shit SERIOUSLY. don't ask me how many hours this took, i was in A Mood™️ last night. removed the ones already answered xoxo)

angel; have you ever been in love?

yeah. didn't end too well, but i loved him.

petal; favorite novel and author?

this is like asking me to pick a favorite child. i guess favorite author would be stephen king, if only based entirely on the sheer quantity of his books i own alone. favorite book would probably be special topics in calamity physics by marisha pessl, and i'm only saying that because it's been my go-to response for years. i have lots of favorite books. ask me again in five minutes and i'll give you another one.

honey perfume; favorite perfume/scent?

freshly made coffee. lilacs. jasmine. cut grass. the ground after it rains. chocolate chip cookies in the oven. cigarette smoke on skin. my mom's shampoo. my grandma. my dog when he's just had a bath. thanksgiving dinner. acrylic paint on canvas. sawdust. that one cologne i can't name but can smell on a guy from a mile away. mulled cranberry and apple juice. vanilla. coconut. fresh laundry. peppermint.

sweet pea; what’s your zodiac?

virgo sun, pisces moon, scorpio rising ✨

softie; talk about your sexuality.

i'm biromantic asexual, primarily attracted to men more than women (but have had too many crushes on girls to consider myself het), generally sex repulsed when it comes to the thought of having it myself. i prefer to call myself queer in passing conversation, it's easier than explaining asexuality and the differences between sexual and romantic attraction. if someone asks more specifically, i'll usually just call myself bi for simplicity's sake, even though the ace part is a much more important (to me) part of my identity. monogamous as fuck.

i'm still struggling with internalized homophobia and a lot of "am i even queer enough" thoughts, which is super fun. took me a long time to even consider the fact that i might like girls at all. i'll probably never come out to my parents. not that they'd, like, disown me or whatever, but they're juuuuust homophobic/transphobic enough that my few attempts to educate them when they say something A Little Yikes have shown me that i should probably just stay in the closet unless i absolutely have to come out. like i'm getting married to a woman or something.

sugarplum; what’s the color of your eyes and hair?

i usually say my eyes are green because it's easier, and they mostly are, but i have rings of greyish blue around the irises and sometimes they're more hazel in the middle. they always have a green tint to them though, even if the intensity of the green varies.

my natural hair is brown, a little on the darker and slightly ashy side of completely generic. currently a former blonde, although i'm hoping to bleach my fucking YEAR of growout soon, and then go some crazy color as a last hurrah before i have to go dark again. being broke fucking sucks.

wings; coffee or tea?

tea!! black tea. chai, to be specific, with an irresponsible amount of milk and sugar. chai lattes are a fucking drug okay? coffee makes me sick (not a judgement, a literal fact. last time i tried some i threw up).

fairytale; are you a cat or dog person?

cat!! but my family has a chihuahua named sonny and you can pry that little monster from my cold dead hands ok i will fight you.

snowflake; favorite time period?

okay, i wrote and rewrote my answer to this about 10 times. then i tried to divide it up into categories (aesthetics, history, fashion, vibes, geographical location, etc), but that didn't help. so basically: i don't have one, because i have too many.

i like the american 20s-60s for the aesthetic, music/movies, and the fashion. i also like the european 1600s-1800s for the interesting history and also vibe. i love the french and russian revolutions — the fashion! the art! the wars and political upheaval! I FUCKING LOVE HISTORY. then, of course, we can't forget the rennaisance. or the witch trials (pick your continent). and ancient greece? the roman empire? hello?? did i mention empires? how bout we mosy on over to south america — can i interest you in the mayans? incans? aztecs? what about china and japan? korea? vietnam? and don't even get me fucking STARTED on the black plague.

ancient egypt? sign me the FUCK UP. vikings? yes please. the celts? oh boy. the MYTHOLOGY. the ARCHITECTURE. the LANGUAGES and POLITICS and LITERATURE and REVOLUTIONS and GOD HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO CHOOSE BETWEEN ANY OF THESE

i uh. might have gotten a little excited. basically i like history a lot. and mythology. and linguistics. and cultural practices. and the politics and prejudices behind wars and stuff. and learning in general. moving on.

vanilla; do you believe in ghosts?

let's put it this way: i don't not believe in ghosts??

listen. we don't know jack shit. we don't know what happens after we die, there are constant scientific revelations that turn our understanding of the universe completely upside-down, and there is literally no way to know which religions or myths or urban legends could have some grain of truth to them. like, dude, i've literally thought i was haunted before. psychology is bananas and the universe is infinite.

demons could be real. ghosts could be real. what if we just haven't invented the necessary technology to prove it yet? what if we never do, and they just fuck around alongside us, moving furniture and making shadow puppets on the walls just for kicks until the earth explodes? what if that one tumblr post was right and ghosts are actually real people from alternate universes or timelines that we see accidentally bc some cosmic wires got crossed? who fucking knows.

i love horror movies and scary stories and ghost hunter shows just as much as the next gal. but listen. psychics? mediums? people who accept every single creepypasta retold third-hand from their neighbor's kid's classmate's second cousin who "totally knows a guy"? doubt.jpeg

i don't understand the sheer amount of assumptions made willy-nilly about the nature of ghosts and demons and things that go bump in the night. the assumption that "oh this machine that totally doesn't look like a coathanger taped to a walkman will work because ghosts have this temperature and can always communicate like this and are electromagnetic" or whatever just baffles me. to a certain degree, following a general consensus is one thing — some basic things everyone can agree on? that's cool. ghosts can walk through walls and are probably dead people or whatever. but oh my god, taking every single story as absolute, undeniable proof?? taking these stories and expanding on them to infer intentions and scientific facts to something that by it's very nature is unknowable and assuming, like, every spirit is created equal?? and yeah, ghost hunting shows are fun and campy and kinda creepy but like. you really, genuinely don't think any of them have ever faked anything at all??? even if ghosts are real, it's fucking reality tv, my dude. it's the entertainment industry. at least maintain the slightest ounce of critical thought before taking zak bagans' word as the goddamn gospel.

and sidenote, maybe it's just my limited exposure as a white woman in the western world, but of all the shows and podcasts and movies and documentaries and whatnot i've been able to find and consume, there's the constant use of christian ideology applied to every situation that just really burns my bacon. what, there's never been an atheist ghost? if you see a shadow person and you don't know the lord's prayer by heart, are you automatically fucked? why are there never stories about, i don't know, viking ghosts? does your religion in life preclude you from becoming a ghost in the first place? is that why people never mention buddhist ghosts? i don't get it, and that's why even though i'm self-admittedly the most superstitious person i've ever met, true believers make me roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out. makes me come across as more skeptical than i theoretically am. I HAVE VERY STRONG FEELINGS ABOUT THIS OK

but like, you couldn't pay me to fuck with a ouija board. i'm not stupid.

delicate; diamonds or pearls?

both have their appeal and their place, but diamonds, i guess. i like the sparkle. but fake ones!! or synthetic. diamonds are overpriced and artificial scarcity is a scam and i don't need a dumb rock that some poor person in a mine somewhere was exploited and possibly died for. no blood diamonds in this house, thank you very much.

if i ever get engaged, i don't want a diamond ring. i'd want something cool, a little unusual, like a ruby or a sapphire or some other sparkly gem that isn't literally shoved in your face every waking moment as the expected standard symbol of True Love. they're cheaper, they're cool-looking, as a ring they still hold the cultural symbolism of an engagement/wedding ring. and honestly, as long as it's well-made and durable, whatever hypothetical gem it is doesn't have to be real either. i'm a woman of simple needs and demonstrably low standards. no point in going into debt for a fucking piece of jewelry, regardless of ~tradition~.

lavender dream; favorite album?

oh lord. welcome to the black parade, i guess. or anything by panic! at the disco. there are dozens of possible options — my interests are mercurial and my memory is garbage. but i'll always be an emo little shit. black parade and vices and virtues were also the first two albums i ever listened to where i loved every single song on them, and i happened to listen to them for the first time at around the same point in my life (i got into mcr super late. like, 2012 late. rip).

silky; what’s your biggest dream?

it's cheesy but i guess i just want stability and, by extension, happiness. emotional stability, mental stability, financial stability, stable living situation, stable routines, stable relationships... you get the idea. i have ambitions and passions, of course, but my ultimate goal is happiness at this point in my life, and i'm pretty sure stabilizing all those things would go a pretty long way in achieving that goal.

a little apartment with walls i can paint because white walls make me angry. bookshelves and posters and fandom merch on every wall. a computer i can actually play games on again, and somewhere i can paint and draw and record my podcasts. someone who loves me, maybe. a cat, if i'm stable enough. space for people to come visit me, and a place for them to sleep if they need. a tiny balcony, if i really want to shoot for the stars. a job i don't hate. the spoons to hang out with my friends, and the money to not worry about buying little presents for the people i care about sometimes. i don't need much.

strawberry kiss; do you have a crush right now?

nope.

glitter; favorite fictional character?

another loaded question. like books, if you ask me again in five minutes i'll probably give you a different answer. but in this particular moment, caleb and jester from critical role (please don't make me choose between them). i won't go full shipping mode rn, but jester is so funny and silly and sweet, so much more complex than she seems, and she tries so hard to make everyone happy even when she's so sad inside. the healer who treats healing as an inconvenience in battle (she's so fucking valid and also mood), the glue that keeps the party together. and caleb learning to trust again, facing his trauma and coming out of his shell. he loves his friends so much he plays wizard as a support class and i love him so much.

i love the mighty nein in general, of course, and all the guests/honorary members they've had. pumat!! pls don't be evil reani!! keg!! shakäste and grand duchess anastasia!! cali!! kiri!!!! the brotps! empire siblings! chaos crew! nott the best detective agency! i still love molly and all his assholery to bits (fight me), and mourn his lost potential. i adore yasha, even when she's gone; fjord has grown so much; beau and nott and caduceus — i love all their flaws and disagreements and their character arcs and the excitement of watching them grow and learn. but if i had to choose, caleb, jester and molly have always been my top 3 since day 1 and, well, molly isn't really an option anymore.

but like i said, ask me again in a minute. i have a fucking list.

swan; share a quote or passage that means something to you.

a collection of things off the top of my head:

Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition. — Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen

a tired feminist Mood™️

"What I say is, a town isn't a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it's got a bookstore, it knows it's not foolin' a soul." — American Gods, Neil Gaiman

i got my love of books from my grandma — some of my favorites i got from her. sometimes, as a treat, she used to take my sister and i to bookstores and we'd stay there for ages, getting to pick one out, roaming the shelves, the mental torture of having to choose. the peace of being surrounded by thousands of potential worlds, so much information, so many stories just waiting to be told; being surrounded by strangers who share that same wonder. the anxious drive home so we could read them, being unable to wait that long so i inevitably start reading in the car and make myself sick. telling her in excited detail all my favorite parts. if we were lucky, maybe we got to split a bear claw, or she'd drive past starbucks and get us something there too (tall vanilla soy steamer with one pump of vanilla syrup, whipped cream on top that always melted too quickly and squirted out the hole in the lid, so hot it burned my tongue but so good i didn't care). i have never felt more at home than i do when i'm surrounded by books.

"There are a lot of different types of freedom. We talk about freedom the same way we talk about art, like it was a statement of quality rather than a description. “Art” doesn’t mean good or bad. Art just means art. It can be terrible and still be art. Freedom can be good or bad, too. There can be terrible freedom. You freed me, and I didn’t ask you to." — Alice Isn't Dead, season 1, chapter 2: Alice

as cringey as it is to admit it, this line made me cry a lot after my breakup.

"So you aren't American?" asked Shadow.

"Nobody's American," said Wednesday. "Not originally. That's my point." — American Gods, Neil Gaiman

[side-eyes white america real hard]

there's more, of course. there's always more. don't even get me started on song lyrics, we'll be here all day.

lace; what’s your favorite plant/flower?

lilacs and roses.

mermaid; do you prefer the forest or the ocean? why?

both, i guess. but in different ways, and in different circumstances.

the sea is wild. it is endless and deep and unknowable. it is beautiful and dangerous. i am terrified of the ocean, and yet my favorite place in the world is an empty beach on the oregon coast. i have picked sand from between my toes for days with hair crusted in salt, danced around bonfires and watched the stars while marshmallows burn, gotten pulled under the waves as a child and nearly swept out to sea. picked starfish and crabs from small pools in the rocks, and swum (accidentally) with wild sea lions. in a long skirt, too early in the year to be swimming, i once took off my shoes and waded fully clothed into the water to my waist and just... danced. splashed and kicked and laughed with a boy i barely knew until our throats were sore and our toes were numb, walking home hours later with our soaked clothes clinging to our legs, shoes squelching, dripping algae as we went. the ocean is freeing and overwhelming all at once. i love it and am petrified by it in equal measure.

the forest is beautiful in a different way. it is silent and dense and serene. you are surrounded by life and yet, somehow, completely alone. there is magic in the forest, and history, and even when all else dies, that will remain. the trees grow from the corpses of their ancestors, and some have lived dozens of our lifetimes — with luck, a few dozen more. it is quiet there, peaceful, even the tiniest wood in the middle of a city muffling the outside world through the trees. you can feel the ancient ways deep in your soul as you follow winding paths strewn with fallen leaves, the mystery and wonder and superstitions of your forefathers. you wonder what it would be like, to run your fingers over the moss, to take off your shoes and socks and just run, leaping and dancing over rocks and roots, hair wild and air filling your lungs in deep, pure gulps as you shed the responsibilities and struggles of modern life, for just a moment remembering what freedom tastes like. it is primal, this connection to nature, one we have nearly forgotten over time. and as the sky grows dark and the silence of night presses against you, shadows looming, every footfall deafening, perhaps you begin to understand why some believed in monsters.

honeymoon; do you keep a journal?

i used to. honestly, that's a good idea, i should start doing that again. lord knows i have enough empty journal-type books.

starlight; do you believe in love at first sight and soulmates? why/why not?

i want to. i want to believe there's someone out there for me, the love of my life, someone to whom i'll be the love of their life, and that when i meet them i'll just... know.

but when i met my ex, i didn't really look twice at him for a while — no love at first sight. and when we were together, when i loved him and he swore he loved me back, i thought he hung the stars in the sky and knew i would marry him someday. couldn't even consider the idea that that wouldn't happen. and then when he broke up with me, he ghosted me so suddenly and thoroughly that he even preemptively cut contact with every single one of our mutual friends he thought might side with me in the breakup, before anybody even knew we'd had a fight. so, not soulmates either.

i really want to believe that someday the perfect romance will just fall into place and i can have the happily ever after i've always dreamed of. but the reality is i might never even have another s.o. for the rest of my life. maybe i'll get hit by a car tomorrow, or my hypothetical soulmate moves to argentina to become an alpaca farmer on a mountain somewhere and we never even meet. maybe i'm so traumatized by the betrayal and lies that i'll never have the courage to even try again.

and even so, happily ever after doesn't have to include a fairytale romance, regardless of whether i want it or not. i still like to cling to that hope though, deep down.

princess; what do you value most in people?

i'm going to assume you mean "real people" as in people i have positive relationships with, and not random strangers on the street.

loyalty. kindness. support. humor. similar values. patience. being able to grow together and teach each other things, so we can make each other better. honesty. trust. compassion. confidence. emotional vulnerability. communication. intelligence, or at least a willingness to learn. strength.

#nobody asked me to go this hard and yet here we are #my favorite pasttimes: talking about myself and being pretentious on main #Lady answers stuff #anon good nurse #Lady of Purple's slice of life #ask meme

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