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harveyguilleniconodelamoda · 16 days

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Costume Spotlight: Andy Leonard from Cursed Friends

I am so excited about this one! I've been researching it since I started this blog, thinking it would be a relatively fun-and-easy post to make. Hoo boy, was that incorrect! Though the outfit looks deceptively simple, and the process of researching was certainly fun, it has some specific details that it took me forever to confirm from the few photos and production stills I had access to.

That being said, I did find the final piece just yesterday! I was so over the moon, I may have spiked my phone like a football in my excitement. So strap in as I break down and over-analyze ever piece of this outfit from a Comedy Central made-for-TV horror movie (and if you haven't seen it, warning: there will be some mild spoilers for Andy's arc).

The Outfit

The outfit Andy wears for the majority of the film is a oversized, millennial pink sweatshirt with a ribbed collar and sleeve cuffs over a pair of fitted black bike shorts. It's simple and comfy--which makes sense, because he first wears it while at his job as a personal trainer to one of his influencer clients. It's similar in style to this sweatshirt from Gymshark, but it's also the kind of thing you could find almost anywhere activewear is sold (style-wise; the color is not so easy to find, which is wild for reasons I'll get into in a moment). Key notable features are the thickness of that ribbed crewneck collar and sleeve cuffs, and the slight blouson shape of the sleeves themselves, a bit puffier than your average sweatshirt.

But it's the color that I find most interesting. Millennial pink--which is any of several shades of warm-to-neutral pale pink that were ubiquitous in fashion and design trends throughout the 2010s--is a color rife with sociopolitical implications. Which sounds like an insane thing to say, but hear me out.

When everyone in my generation was trying our hardest to navigate capitalism in our own ironic, detached, thoughtful ways (for the purpose of changing the system from the inside, of course!), millennial pink became the color emblematic of that mindset. It was softer, less threatening than the more saturated hot pink that ruled throughout the early 2000s. It was also, at least initially, a symbol of my generation's attempts to push back against the harsh expectations of society and "the real world."

See, for our entire childhood and adolescence, millennials heard our elders smugly declare that we'd see how right they were about everything once we encountered the real world. And then we did...and said "yeah, no, this sucks, I don't accept this!" And boy, they hated that. But I digress.

The color is also sometimes called tumblr pink, and what was tumblr in the mid-2010s if not a digitally-created "softer world" where "everything is gay and nothing hurts"...a world where aesthetics, earnestness, and attempts at social consciousness were married in a way that wasn't seen anywhere else within the social media landscape? Tumblr was where you came to be among like-minded people who may not agree with you on exactly how the world needed to be different and better, but at least agreed that it absolutely did need to be different and better. And the soft warmth of millennial pink was like carrying a bit of that into the real world, at least until corporations grabbed hold of it.

For your enjoyment: some of the most millennial selfies I've ever seen (affectionate, relatable) from Harvey's Instagram.

Millennial pink and its sisters--rose gold, rose quartz, dusty rose, and the like--formed the color pallet of my 20s. They were in everything, from home design to album art to magazines to technology. Girlbosses became the mainstream portrait of popular feminism, with millennial pink as their shade. Sparkling rosé became the official drink of the girlbosses and wine moms alike. It was in everything from fashion to makeup to hair to phones--the rose gold iPhone and hair trends come to mind--and could not be escaped. I did in fact dye my hair Millennial pink at one point (or try to--it came out more of an electric peach, unfortunately).

A moment of silence for my roots. Also sorry rose gold iPhone, you will never be the raspberry pink Motorola Razr.

These soft pinks were linked to coolness, chicness, realness, and even wellness--specifically the wellness rebranding of diet culture in the mid-2010s. "Clean girl" cosmetics companies like Glossier adopted the color as part of their branding. Pantone named it one of the colors of the year, and their VP explicitly linked it to "the rosy glow that comes along with good health." (Source)

It has also been described as a warmer, more "gender-neutral" shade that spoke to the more fluid and egalitarian approach Millennials have to gender roles and relationships (at least when compared to our parents and grandparents). Famous and famously desirable (at least at the time) men--such as Harry Styles and Drake--adopted it for their album covers. It was also ubiquitous in men's spring and summer fashions, with pink button-ups and shorts being all the rage. Given the warmth of the shade, it was almost like a greatly-desaturated Nantucket red, which fit it neatly into the overall preppy fashion repertoire. (Source)

The Guardian described this color as representing "a kind of ironic prettiness, or post-prettiness. It’s a way to be pretty while retaining your intellectual detachment. It’s a wish that prettiness could [be] de-problematised." (Source)

All of this to say, millennial pink is inextricable from the fashion of the 2010s, the ramped-up consumerism permeating society and culture at the time, and from Millennials' early 20s and the progression from optimism to exploitation to burnout and cynicism we all experienced to some degree. For Andy, who embodies the anxieties that created for our generation, it's both perfect and ironic that he's covered in this shade, given how hard he's trying to pretend he's not a Millennial for the majority of the film.

The Accessories

Andy's two accessories were the real reason this post took so long. They're so distinctive, which made settling for close enough impossible for my weird little brain. And yet by their very nature as accessories, they're small on the screen and hard to get great images of! But at last I managed it, and can confirm that Andy's bag is the Chanel 20A “Rainbow” Reissue wallet on chain in metallic goatskin.

The bag has a really interesting history as a variation on the Chanel 2.55, which was first released in 1955 and popularized the shoulder strap bag for women. It was considered revolutionary in part because it allowed women to keep their hands free while carrying it. The design was re-released in 2005 as the Chanel 2.55 Reissue, and has remained a popular Chanel mainstay since. (Source)

Bragmybag describes this style as an "addiction" and touts its popularity among the fashionistas of Instagram.

This particular color is from the Chanel Pre-Fall Metiers d’Art 2020 collection, and is considered a highly sought-after collector's item among Chanel enthusiasts. It originally retailed for $2,900, but is now priced at over $4,000 pre-owned on sites such as ThredUp, eBay, or Depop. It's a classic bag style in a quirky and gorgeous limited edition color. It reminds me of the foil wrappers on chocolate eggs at Easter, or the opal hair trend of 2017-2018. A bag like this definitely plays into the girlboss/influencer vibe. To the fad-beholden type of person Andy is trying to appeal to, it would project an air of effortless coolness and means, someone who is both up on the latest trends and able to drop several thousand dollars on a wallet.

After the Chanel bag, the platform sneakers were even harder to find. Their shape is so distinctive, but every search for "platform sneakers" came up short the first few times. Then I tried an image search on a zoomed-in, blurry version of the photo above, and that led me to Buffalo. Buffalo's platform boots and sneakers definitely approached the vibe of Andy's shoes, but weren't quite there.

Then, in the similar image search under a picture of the Buffalo Aspha NC Mid platform sneaker, I saw a photo that looked remarkably similar to the shoe Andy is wearing, including the plastic snap buckles...and I clicked...

And there they were:

The Demonia Slacker-50 platform sneakers in white holographic patent and baby pink multi glitter.

These shoes...listen. I love fashion, but I'm not a big shoe person. I live most of my life going back and forth between the same two pairs of Tevas. That being said, there is not a single era of my life so far in which I wouldn't have been dying to wear these.

The combination of the millennial shade of pink but with the early 2000s "new millennium" iridescence and multi-colored glitter, the totally 90s lace-up hi-top closure and side snap buckles, the platforms? It's like every era of my childhood, teen years, and young adulthood were somehow distilled into a single shoe design. Xenon Girl of the 21st Century would wear these shoes. Lizzie McGuire would get into some hilarious mishap trying to walk in them. Pepper Ann would have a whole storyline about coveting these shoes and trying to make enough money to buy them. I'm eyeing my bank account as we speak and trying to convince myself I don't need these shoes just to cosplay Andy (but also I do need these shoes, like, spiritually).

Demonia, is an alternative fashion and footwear brand based in Southern California and founded in 1999. Their footwear is sold at Dolls Kill and other popular alternative fashion retailers, but they also sell direct from their own website, DemoniaCult.com. They're not quite a nostalgia brand, but they're definitely nostalgic and a brand your average small-town, fashion-minded emo/goth kid in the early 2000s would have lusted after fruitlessly when it came time for back-to-school shoe shopping (not that I speak from experience or anything).

The Makeup

Though obviously actors are always wearing makeup on screen, it's often meant to be understated enough on men to pass as "no makeup they're just that pretty." But this is a role where we're really meant to notice the makeup.

The heavily filled in brows, the black eyeliner tight-lined all the way around the eye, matte foundation, black mascara on the top and bottom lashes...the wash of brown shadow above the crease, heavy-handed bronze contour, and pink lip. It all calls back to makeup trends that would have been popular at earlier points in Andy's life--the brows, matte base, and contour in particular screamed 2016 to me--the kind of thing you might keep wearing even though it's no longer on trend because it feels good and you think it makes your features pop (and to be fair, they do pop!). Ironically, this choice of makeup also makes Andy, who is chronically attempting to fit in with and pass as Gen Z, look his age more than Harvey ever does.

Andy's Characterization

Andy, like the other characters, really struggles with holding onto the past. For him specifically, however, there's a dimension of being terrified of aging out of his dreams and becoming irrelevant. He wants to be an influencer, he wants to be the person other people take their cues from, he wants to be seen and adored by millions...and that's a possibility he feels slipping away as he hears more and more from people like Candace Nicaragua about how his generation is no longer cool.

Every aspect of Andy's outfit seems meant to underscore the ways in which he lives in the past, whether it's the farther-off past of his childhood when he was still truly close with his besties, or the somewhat more recent past of his 20s, when he was part of the age group that sets trends and that consumerist culture seems to cater to.

In a way, he embodies the exact type of anxieties we're seeing every day from Millennials on Tiktok and other social media. We're not aging gracefully, y'all, at least not in an emotional sense! Where the intergenerational discourse between older generations and Millennials focused far more on our differences in approach to work and the economy, the discourse between Millennials and Gen Z seems fixated on who's cooler, who's more relevant, whose trends or music reign supreme. It seems entirely frivolous, but it hides a deep fear of being pushed aside and forgotten that has followed us since the 2008 housing crash made all our parents' "you can be anything" and "go to college and you'll have a good, comfortable life" talk into lies.

And while the movie definitely plays into that intergenerational conflict, it focuses more on the friends' inability to be honest with themselves and each other about the way they, their lives, and their friendships have evolved since they were kids. So it's great that Andy's big climactic character moment comes when he realizes that it's just silly for him to be seeking approval from these younger people who aren't actually any cooler than him, don't have anything more figured out, and most importantly, don't really know him. What use is coolness and youth when you pit it against friendship and authenticity?

When Andy embraces his age and boldly states that he will never apologize for his friends and that he likes what he likes regardless of how "cheugy" it is? I felt that, okay? Being unmoved by the negative opinions of others is a battle I've fought my entire life, and seeing Andy figure it out was cathartic, no matter how seemingly silly the context.

Affordable Options

You can get black bike shorts almost anywhere that sells activewear. These stretch cotton bike shorts from Jessica London are extremely comfy and come in sizes 12 to 38/40. They're originally $29.99, currently on sale for $17! REI also has a variety of similar styles in a wide range of prices and sizes, for both men and women.

The sweatshirt is a bit more challenging to find, but Jessica London has a few options, all under $55, in sizes up to 5X (women's US size 38/40):

Boxy Fleece Sweatshirt in Misty Rose

Hooded Sweatshirt Tunic in Dusty Pink

Sweatshirt Tunic with Shirttail Hem in Pretty Lilac - I have this one, and it's very comfy and looks much more screen accurate on my plus sized body than it does on the model in the product photos.

The closest to screen accurate I've found is actually from Amazon, though I'm trying to stay away from recommending Amazon products as much as possible on this blog. This option is only available up to size XXL, but it's made to be oversized and according to the listed measurements, an XL would fit me loosely (for reference, my bust measurement is 55 inches).

Uniqlo also has a pink crewneck sweatshirt that's a viable option, available up to size XXL.

The platform sneakers actually qualify for my "under $100" affordability threshold, retailing at $95.99 from Demonia. But if you want some slightly cheaper options with a similar vibe, here are a few I've found:

BCBGeneration Riso Platform Sneaker - $69.30 from Nordstrom (currently on sale)

Coconuts by Matisse Nelson Platform Sneaker - $85 from Nordstrom

Converse Women's Chuck Taylor All Star Hi Lift Platform Sneaker in pink - $74.99 from Famous Footwear

Guess Women's Miram Platform Lace-Up Court Sneaker in pink metallic - $41.40 from Macy's (currently on sale)

The bag is the hardest part to find an affordable dupe for. I've searched and searched, and there's just very little out there that feels close enough to screen accurate that's also under $100. Your best bet is to find a bag with a similar vibe and add a chain to it if you want to cosplay Andy. Some great options:

Quilted Clutch Handbag from BagsBySimplyShere on Etsy - $35

Rainbow Metallic Quilted Clutch-style Purse from WildwoodTreasureCo on Etsy - $40

For me, because I'm extra, I've actually decided to make my own from the ground up. If it goes well, I'll post some photos here!

#cursed friends #andy leonard #character costumes #chanel #demonia #demoniacult #millennial pink #fashion #plus size fashion #platform sneakers #harvey guillén

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thebibliosphere · 3 years

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Hi bibliomum! I was trying to find info on the hypoallergenic makeup you discussed in the past, but I'm shit at searching apparently. My roommate realized that her makeup was giving her a mild reaction so I wanted to gift her some new makeup for the holidays, specifically eye makeup. Thank you in advance!

It��s probably because tumblr removes anything with links from the search function. And aww, that’s really nice of you!

So I dunno how hypoallergenic they are, but I’ve been trialing the 100% Pure range of cosmetics with some success. They’re a really awesome company in that if you have an allergic reaction to something, they’ll offer a full refund. So if your friend uses them and has an issue with them, you can return it.

Burt’s Bees also have their own makeup line now that is meant to be good for sensitive skin. I’ve only used their blush. Burt’s Bees got bought by Johnson and Johnson and they changed their formulas so the quality people expect from Burt’s Bees is possibly also no longer there. I also just don’t support companies that knew for decades about asbestos being in their baby powders, so J&J can go fuck themselves.

Neutrogena also has some good options for sensitive skin as well. But there’s not a lot in it.

Pacifica seems to be tolerated well by people with sensitive skin, and they come out with a lot of cute color palletes too. Their cosmic hemp range has some really cute and vibrant sparkle in it.

Gabrielle’s Zuzuluxe range is also good for those of us with issues with wheat protein in cosmetics. I like their mascaras and eyeshadows. (They no longer list their stuff as Gluten Free, possibly due to a factory change, but their ingredient list hasn’t changed since I started using them.)

Mineral Fusion is another brand I’ve had good results with, and they specifically cite themselves as being hypoallergenic.

I’ve also heard good things about Besame Cosmetics from friends, though I’ve never used it myself. Clinique also apparently goes out of their way to use gentle/fragrance-free stuff as well, but I know I react to their lip stuff and haven’t tried anything else.

Anyway, those are all the ones I’m able to tolerate using from time to time, and I’m sure others will have more recommendations too :)

#personal #make up #cosmetics #links #chocolateal

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fleckcmscott · 4 years

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Bewitching Hour

Summary: October has been a blissfully busy month. With Halloween around the corner, Arthur and Y/N have some planning to do.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,665

A/N: Special thanks to @hhandley80 for this request! You've been so supportive and sweet. I truly appreciate you and hope you enjoy it!

On a side note, my oneshots will be more sporadic. I'm still writing but life has been life. Also, I've finished the first draft of another multi-chapter featuring Arthur and Y/N. It's going to take time to rewrite the subsequent drafts and edit, edit, edit. The chapters will go up once the story is ready. Thanks for your patience and support! 🙂 I heart you all!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask!

Arthur's suggestion that they make plans to celebrate Halloween should not have been a surprise. He loved starting traditions with Y/N, and she prized adopting them with him. "It's been awhile," he'd said as they'd walked arm-in-arm to the laundromat. "I think it'd be nice."

Holidays had been a source of merriment most of her life. The beauty of red and green decorations at Christmas. Turkey and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. An egg hunt and chocolate rabbit at Easter. The togetherness of family during them all.

Halloween, though, wasn't a favorite.

As a child, she'd had fun trick-or-treating, riding her bike from house to far-flung house. And she hadn't minded escorting her little sister as a teenager. Y/N's homemade witch costume had been passed down. She could still recall the sleekness of the ribbon between her fingers as she'd secured the pointed hat under Mabel's chin.

But the magic had fallen away. When married to Jeff, she'd had to attend his boss's annual party. After receiving an apologetic shrug and kiss, she'd be relegated to hanging out with the other wives. They'd included her in their recipe swaps, in their exchanges of mild gossip. Her natural friendliness made chit-chat easy, far easier than having a good time. Those evenings had been spent nursing a glass of wine and willing the clock to go faster.

During the period she'd cared for her father, she'd tried to hand out candy. She liked being a good neighbor and imparting kindness in the form of bite-sized sweets. As his health had declined, the porch light had gone dark. Random rings of the doorbell would result in shouting and swearing. Repeated attempts to explain the door's lock wasn't broken. Festivity would transform into drudgery. It hadn't been worth the trouble. Instead, she'd watched terrible TV specials while her thoughts wandered to a future far from Boonville. A future she'd doubted would ever be.

"I don't know if it's your thing," Arthur had continued, bringing her back to the present. "But you might enjoy it with me." The response he longed for was evident in the worrying of his pocket, outlines of his knuckles visible through the tan cloth.

Everything they'd experienced together had soothed the sting of those wasted years. The hesitancy lurking in her was silly. Unwelcome. Less than either of them deserved. She'd met his keen eyes and half-smile. The sudden mental image of him dressed as a cowboy or pirate, eyepatch and all, prompted a laugh. Convinced her as she dug out her dry-cleaning stub. "It isn't my thing," she'd said. "But you are."

Relief had relaxed his wrinkles, save for his crows feet, which had deepened as he'd returned her happy expression. A slender arm wrapped around her waist, drew her against his solid frame. Once the clerk disappeared through the swinging doors to retrieve their clothes, Arthur grasped her chin and kissed her. The tender explorations were soon sloppy, and she'd giggled, his enthusiasm becoming her own. Their noses had met, his lashes resting on his wide cheekbones. "I think you're the sweetest treat, Mrs. Fleck."

Currently, Donahue's Department Store, Gotham's number one retail emporium (if the ads were to be believed), was bustling with last-minute shoppers. Weary mothers escorted their babbling children through the aisles. Clerks swapped out displays for the changing blue light specials. Lines went for yards. Patricia and Y/N sought refuge at a corner table in the café on the top floor. The warm glow from the pendant lamps provided a relaxed ambience, one that matched the hot cider and pumpkin spice cake they were savoring.

"I've got my grandson on Sunday," Patricia said between bites. "My daughter's going to a party with a medical records tech from Gotham General. Met him when she missed the bus. They split a cab and hit it off." Chuckling, she lifted her mug. "Speaking of, how's married life been so far?"

Memories of the past week quickened Y/N's heart, until she thought it might stop. How Arthur had gripped her replacement Social Security card, just to read her new name. The way he'd grab her for a twirl whenever they were in the kitchen. The reverence in his gaze when they'd lay together after sex, a look that both thrilled and made her blush. "The bills for his medication and appointments will no longer make us cringe," she deadpanned. She lowered her fork. "When we met, I was kind of blindsided - I'm not the type to fall in love quickly." The corners of her lips tugged up. "Being married to Arthur feels like a habit. A habit I should have learned twenty years ago."

"I'm glad you found each other." Patricia reached across the light brown table and covered Y/N's hand, gave it a squeeze. Then she wiped frosting from her mouth and nodded in the direction of the escalator. "Now let's find a costume that'll drive him nuts."

Beyond the colorful cosmetics and pungent perfume counters, they sorted through racks of vinyl smocks and plastic masks. Pop culture icons and princesses. Vampires and spooks. Knockoffs of classic movie monsters. Most were poorly made and decidedly uninteresting. Y/N pawed through accessories in a nearby basket, a cigar here, a patched hat there. "How about a hobo? I could steal Arthur's tie."

"This was his idea. Give him something a little exciting." After a roll of Y/N's eyes, Patricia held out a plastic display bag. "Found it."

The white font on its blue label declared she should "Create a unique look!" A woman in a leopard-print leotard and bow-tie wore black cat ears and a tail, the only two items included in the set. Y/N's nose wrinkled. "I don't think so, Patricia." She rummaged through another bin and examined a hockey mask. "I don't show a lot of skin."

"You show Arthur." Patricia ignored Y/N's glare, continuing to shove it at her. "Every man loves a woman dressed as a cat. Our next lunch is on me if I'm wrong."

Patricia could be relentless, but Y/N had to admit she was usually right. She arched a brow as she eyed the costume. Maybe she could find a solid body suit instead of animal print. The kit was only $2.98. And her friend had made it a challenge. "You're on. But I'm not wearing a bow-tie." She crossed her arms across her chest and tapped her mouth. "Your turn. Would Robert like you as a French maid or a go-go dancer?"

~~~~~

It was a busy season for performers. Arthur remembered HaHa's talent agency being booked solid for October by the end of August. Myriad functions at nursing homes, parties, and children's organizations took place throughout the city. Amusement Mile had a series of special events, allowing Arthur to work extra hours before the slowness of winter dragged in. Once the holiday was over, he'd buy make-up and props on clearance.

He'd always assumed he would like Halloween - if he'd had the chance to celebrate it properly. It was about connection, something he'd never managed. The customs gave him a pretense, a template to meet people, rather than leaving him wondering how to go about it. Provided a hiding place for his seeming inability to act normal.

Recollections of the day were few but vivid. When he'd been around eight, there'd been a party at school. The teacher had made brownies and given the students a half-hour respite from lessons. (A welcome relief, since he wasn't very good at most of them.) But he hadn't had a costume. Hadn't known how to reply when the other kids asked where it was. Not wanting to be left out, he'd pocketed a watercolor pallet and sneaked to the bathroom.

The teacher (he wished he could remember her name) had walked in as he'd smeared green and blue on his face, a pathetic attempt at a turtle. Fear of punishment had caused his laughter. But her kindness as she knelt, wiped away tears and pigment with a scratchy, brown paper towel, had calmed him. "Wait here," she'd instructed. It had taken all his courage not to run home.

After some minutes, she'd returned, an old white sheet in one hand, black marker and pair of scissors in the other. "The nurse won't miss this." She'd traced eyeholes, helped him cut them out. She'd asked questions. About his mother and what it was like at home. Questions he was at a loss for how to answer. Finally, she'd draped the cloth over his head. "There," she'd declared. "Gotham Elementary has its own ghost."

Even as he'd gotten taller and the sheet no longer went beyond his knees, that costume had remained his go-to. He'd venture out to the rest of his building, knocking on paint-chipped doors and pushing broken buzzers. Having learned to stay away from doors that yelling or funny smells emanated from, he hadn't gotten a lot of candy. What he had collected he'd shared with Penny. The wax lips became a free toy. He wasn't sure his memory of startling his mother and being tickled until he couldn't breathe was real or imagined.

At twelve, he was told he was too old to go trick-or-treating. He'd starting scrounging for change to buy hard candies at Helm's Pharmacy. They weren't particularly appetizing, but they'd been what he could afford. Only a few kids rang, a number that dwindled further every year. Most neighbors kept their distance, likely aware he was troubled. Cinnamon discs and butterscotch drops had loitered around the apartment for months. He'd sucked on them in an attempt to cut down on his smoking, just to save money. It hadn't worked.

Y/N hadn't spoken about the holiday, not the way she had other special occasions. At first, he'd thought it had slipped her mind. Work, planning their honeymoon, completing the red tape required to meld all aspects of their lives had taken up much of their time. But, given her reluctance to talk in detail about her past heartache, he'd come to assume her Halloweens had been unpleasant. He was certain he could change that.

Sitting on the dingy, dark green plastic seat of the train car, he giggled to himself, chest puffing up as he straightened. They'd been man and wife for eight whole days. Movies and songs said love was supposed to be somewhere between serendipitous and fated. A happy accident that was meant to be. Lying awake at night, he would find himself wondering where they were on that scale. If the emotions swirling through him - the excitement of belonging, the fear of fucking up - were what every newlywed felt. Then Y/N would snuggle closer in her sleep, murmur nonsense into his skin, and for a few minutes he'd be at peace.

Years had been spent trying to figure out who he was. Trying to find an identity, his role within the world. While he was still searching, it had been far easier to become accustomed to the role of "husband" than he'd dreamed.

Teaching his wife about events across the city had been a delight. Gotham Village's Annual Costume Extravaganza was a parade that went all the way to Gotham Square. He'd participated a couple of times, never formally registering but slipping into the clown section. It had been exhilarating. Had allowed him to pretend, for a little while, that he was being seen. That the crowds lining the sidewalks were cheering for him. Signs for extravagant balls were plastered on billboards and lampposts throughout the streets; he'd have gladly attended and shown her off. A haunted house was being held in a building in his old neighborhood, a fundraiser for the orphanage. He hadn't brought that up.

In the end, once he'd explained trick-or-treaters went from apartment to apartment, they'd decided on a cozy evening at home. The details had been left to her. Whatever she'd plan, he'd love it. He wondered what she'd disguise herself as. Would she be a sexy devil or nurse, like he'd seen on a sit-com? The notion sparked a fire in his cheeks.

Given how busy he'd be, he'd stay dressed as plain, old Carnival. Part of him regretted accepting two gigs, especially on a Sunday. He would have preferred her company. But he wanted to put the money towards the wedding band he'd put on layaway. (Even though they had one account, he wasn't going to let her chip in for it.) He should already be wearing it for all of Gotham to see.

The lurch of the subway prompted him to rise and grasp the pole grip. His stance widened as it came to a halt, knees bending with the instinct of a man who'd ridden public transportation since he was a boy. As soon as the graffiti-covered doors parted, he stepped out onto the platform and ascended the stairs, eager to share his new insurance information with Dr. Ludlow.

~~~~~

Scratchy violins and the hum of a theremin. Shrill shrieks and cracks of thunder. A cackle resounded, then a pipe organ, playing a melody in a minor key.

There was no doubt about it. Halloween spirit had saturated 4A.

NCB's Movie Marathon Mayhem had begun at 10:00 AM. Y/N had had it on since getting out of the shower, hoping to catch a horror classic while she decorated the apartment and prepared Bloody Mary mix. As she hung cotton batting between the television's rabbit ears, creating a long, narrow spider-web, she realized they were only playing cheesy B-movies. Giant insects threatening buildings. Science experiments gone wrong. Alien invasions. Oh well. At least she wouldn't have to pay much attention to get the gist of the plots.

The orange plastic platter, black bats along its edges, had been an impulse buy. She thought its array of sugary skeletons, candy bracelets, and Jolly Jack chocolate bars would be well received. But having seen only one or two kids in the lobby, she had no idea how many children lived in their building. She hoped she'd bought enough.

The cardstock window decorations she'd found were festive and matched Arthur's sweet nature. One portrayed a warted, green witch flying on a broom past a full moon. On the other, a ghost and mouse shared a pillowcase of candy and wished a "Happy Halloween." She held the tape dispenser between her teeth as she stuck them to their white front door.

Just then, the elevator dinged. Glancing to her left, she saw Arthur stroll down the cheerfully lit hallway. Buoyant expression on him, despite his white, blue, and red make-up being streaked from sweat. Striped prop bag on his shoulder and carved pumpkin cradled in his arms. "The store owner was going to throw it out," he explained with a half hug. "But he let me have it as a tip."

Classic, triangular eyes evoked the annual carving contest her parents had taken part of back home. Her father had been well-known in the community, being the town's only doctor. Entering the competition had been expected. They'd never won but enjoyed it all the same. Y/N had picked out the patterns and scooped out the squash's slimy innards. Her mother had baked the seeds. Peals of their laughter echoed in her ears, and a lump formed in her throat.

She swallowed hard against it. Dammit, Y/N. Get it together. This was supposed to be a special night for Arthur and her. She needed to distract herself. One of his curls peeked out from under his bald-cap and green wig. She twirled a strand around her finger. "With that toothy grin, it just might be your twin," she said. He pecked her temple, the kiss sticky from greasepaint. She lit the half-melted candles using his red lighter and put the jack-o-lantern just outside their door.

While he freshened his paint in the bedroom, she slinked into the bathroom to change. Arthur's and her routines were closely aligned; keeping her costume hidden had not been easy. The headband holding the furry cat ears was quite stiff, its teeth a tad sharp on her scalp. Once it was in place, she hid it under her hair. The lint on her form-fitting stretch top and leggings reminded her why she rarely wore all black. She retrieved her brown eyeliner from the nearby shelf and started in on her whiskers.

Arthur's footsteps neared, heavy due to his clown shoes, and Y/N turned to lean back on the sink. His thin lips parted as he scanned her body, forehead furrowed in pleasant surprise. His reaction planted a seed of bliss in her belly, one that bloomed every second they regarded each other. The lunch she'd have to spring for was well worth the pink shells of his ears. Eventually, she held out the fluffy, wired tail and a safety pin. "Would you pin this just below my waistband?"

Fingers grazing hers, he took it and sat on the toilet lid. He cupped her hips and pulled her closer, positioned her until the dampness of his breath hit a bare sliver of her back. "Hold still," he murmured, his voice sending a tingle through her. At his gentle ministrations, the spandex of her leggings felt snugger. "Did you- Did you read my journal?"

A faint click of metal as the pin closed. "No." She colored the tip of her nose, frowned at how lackluster the shade was. "I'd never do that. Even if I'm dying for a preview of your material. Why?"

"No reason." A soft huff, his shy smile clear in his answer. "I have an idea." He handed her a washcloth and hurried out of the room. She was patting her face dry when he returned, a fine tipped brush and pot of black greasepaint in his hand. "This'll look better."

Her brow arched. She'd only had her make-up done once; Patricia had invited her when they'd first met. Such an outing was not her preference, but Y/N had accepted, being new in town and wanting to learn about her colleague. There'd been champagne at the counter, which she'd sipped until she'd spent too much on eyeshadow and apricot scrub. The next morning, she'd put the products and a note on Patricia's desk: "I'll never forgive you. Thanks!"

The heat radiating from Arthur prompted her to close the gap between them. She craned her neck towards him, slid her palms to his yellow vest until she held him just below his ribs. His forefinger curled under her chin, lifted it slightly and angled it to the right. The cool, wet brush met her fevered skin. The dusty smell of the greasepaint blended with a whiff of stale cigarette smoke and traces of his sweat. She licked her lips.

The vibration of his chuckle was felt before heard. "I really like your costume," he said lowly. Two more ticklish caresses of the bristles on the apple of her cheek. "If you're not careful, I might werewolf and go wild."

She stretched closer to him, the fervor in his tone going straight to her center. Though he'd been growing bolder, his cocky side wasn't often revealed. She wanted it, thirsted to see more of the wild horse kicking inside him. Her touch ran over his chest, until she dipped under his black suspenders and pulled. "Are you going to gobble me up?"

Teasing strokes on her nose. "Maybe." Then his thumb whispered along her jaw and guided her face upwards. His kiss was supple, slow, a drag of his mouth as his tongue sought entry. She yielded, the simmer of anticipation bringing her to her toes. He groaned deeply and palmed her thigh, then fondled the curve of her rear-

The ding-dong of the doorbell halted them. He lifted his head and laughed, gaze sparkling. "I got paint on you."

She twisted in his arms and looked in the mirror. The whiskers caught her eye, embellished at the ends with dainty curlicues - his skill never ceased to impress her. Red brightened her lips and streaks of white were on her cheek. "It's all right. They'll just know I've been necking with a clown."

~~~~~

The sound of the bell continued. Over and over and over. More than it ever had in Otisburg. There were mummies, ghosts, a couple of skeletons. A superhero proudly displayed his red cape and blue tights, and a kid in her karate robe went on about her yellow belt. A tiny clown, too young to walk, was brought by her sister. As Arthur made funny faces, the baby cooed and tried to take his red, foam nose. Arthur parted with it gladly.

Only one member of the Wayne family appeared, slicked back hair and pompous pout making the disguise complete. The man accompanying the boy introduced himself as their upstairs neighbor and shook their hands. After one look at Y/N, he nudged Arthur's bicep. "So, she's the one keeping half the building up at night. Good on you, pal." Arthur blinked in confusion as she ushered the guy away, red-faced and muttering about his nerve.

Arthur was overly generous, giving out fistfuls of sweets while taking a few extra seconds to gather his nerves and compliment the costumes he liked best. It felt good to interact with strangers without constantly second guessing himself. Y/N would rub his arm or kiss his shoulder and tell him what a great job he was doing. "Kids are easy," he said, refilling the candy dish. But he reveled in her praises, anyway. And the knowledge that meeting the neighbors was going well.

Clean-up required little effort. The jack-o-lantern sat on their kitchen table, flames flickering as the wicks burned away. The door decor was packed safely for use next year. His plaid blazer was slung over the back of a dining chair and his wig was off. Y/N's decision to leave her whiskers on pleased him - she made a damn sexy cat. He pocketed the last few pieces of candy to snack on during the remainder of the evening.

The Sunday Night Special Presentation she'd picked out, a made-for-TV horror movie, began at 9:00 PM on GBC. Most of its airtime was punctuated by her tipsy snickers and legal wisecracks, which was typical when they watched something stupid. Yet, as the show went on, she grew quieter, barely speaking between sips of her third cocktail. As they sat on the sofa, her posture stiffened. Forearms crossed over her breasts. Her nails dug into her upper arm.

The change started two-thirds of the way into the show, when the plot about a doll running amok twisted into a story about a professional woman trying to assert herself against the demands of her mother. Against the expectations of availability. To fight for the simplicity of having dinner and peace and quiet. It resonated with him, which felt weird. Especially when the film cut to black, the implication being the mother would meet a violent end at the hands of her possessed daughter.

A cheerful jingle came on. Puerto Rico was a direct flight from Gotham Airport, it advertised, a flight that lasted "two hours and fifteen tropical minutes." They should get out while the weather was still good. The juxtaposition of mood broke him out of his ponderings. He flicked off the blaring television with the remote. Then he heard Y/N sniffling.

She set her glass on the coffee table, a slight tremble in her hand. "I need some air," she whispered as she rose, then went out onto the fire escape.

Arthur rubbed his thigh and pressed his lips together. He wasn't used to seeing her cry. Not from sadness. Should he follow her? Give her time? Both had worked previously, depending on the situation. But he wasn't sure what had upset her, what situation they were in now.

Exhaling sharply, he grabbed her glass and dumped the rest of the drink down the kitchen sink. Rinsed their dinner plates and put the slow cooker in the fridge. When he'd finished making decaf coffee ten minutes later, she still hadn't returned. He ambled towards the ajar glass door and stepped out.

Moonlight outlined her shapely figure and reflected off her hair, the silver a contrast to the orange glow of the streetlamps illuminating her face. Her stare seemed fixated on the street below. He followed it to see a group of ghouls and goblins spraying shaving cream on a shop window. A couple, one he'd see occasionally when out for a cigarette, walked down the sidewalk. A woman was half-carrying a drunk man towards a bus stop.

Upon clearing her throat, Y/N spoke. "I may not look like it, but I had a great time with you tonight. The movie just got to me." Relieved, Arthur sidled next to her, wrapped his arm about her back. Her head fell to his shoulder and she smoothed her hand over his stomach. "I don't mean to hide from you. Someday you'll know the details of my earlier life." She scoffed. "When I'm ready to think about them." He entwined their fingers and kissed her hairline, avoiding the wired tips of her cat ears.

Shivering, she took a shaky breath. "There are no skeletons in my closet. Only disappointments." Her voice cracked as she beamed at him, cupped his cheek, and pressed her face to his. "Knowing I'd get to have you would have made those years so much easier."

He held her tightly, massaging between her shoulders. She'd been speaking about herself, but he couldn't help thinking it was about him, too. His years with Penny. His stints in Arkham. The loneliness, the isolation, the endless anger and yearning to be more than a speck of dirt no one cared for. His journal was full of questions about where the hell his one and only was. If he'd known she'd be real, tangible instead of a figment, would existence have hurt less?

Wincing, he tried to push through those thoughts. To focus on her instead of himself. What mattered was that Y/N needed him. Perhaps a joke would cheer her. "I was thinking the other night of how easy it is to smile around you," he said. "You tickle my funny bone." Amusement bubbled in her throat, music to his ears. She released a contented sigh and nuzzled the crook of his neck.

Peaceful stillness ensued as the minutes passed. Though the breeze was chill, goosebumps forming on his pale skin, her affection kept his heart warm. His fingertips rubbed circles into her lower back, and she offered a pleasured hum. Across the way, footsteps pounded. He glanced to see a kid darting up the street, plastic pumpkin pail in tow. The boy's scream was filled with boundless energy: "Happy Halloween, Gotham!"

Snorting, Y/N took Arthur's hand and led him inside. The cheap tail she wore bounced with every exaggerated swivel of her hips. "I've behaved all evening, which your werewolf comment made extraordinarily difficult." She looped her arms around him and flashed a come-hither stare. "May I have a goodie?"

The scrape of her nails on his scalp coiled a knot in his abdomen. "Aren't you supposed to say 'trick-or-treat?'" he asked huskily.

"Your pussycat needs a petting or two." She closed the bedroom door behind them. "Maybe even a mauling."

His brows shot up on a hitched giggle. Then he palmed her hip while she started in on his buttons. Before she got too far, he traced a whisker with the pad of his thumb. Let their foreheads meet and pecked her eyelids. "Only if you give me something good to eat." He pressed into her, his enjoyment relentless, not waiting for her reply before devouring her mouth.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve, @howdylilflower, @sweet-nothings04, @stephieraptorr, @rommies, @fallenstarsabyss, @gruffle1, @octopus-plasma, @tsukiakarinobara, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile, @another-day-in-chuckletown, @hhandley80, @jokerownsmysoul, @mrscarnival

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

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renovation-services · 3 years

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Renovation Services

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Divide and overcome

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research

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doors Create the first impression

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chiclet-go-boom · 4 years

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point of impact 8: and never

...continuation for poi7:always more quarantine goodness for @linguini17!

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If it wasn’t for the presence of the fireplace, she would have called the room a prison cell. Well, that and that the door wasn’t actually a door at all, or even a set of decent bars. Where a barrier would no doubt have hung at some point is now just an empty gap. A scavenged tapestry has been strung up, allowing her some privacy.

Still, sometimes it doesn’t matter what the details are. Prison cell or storage room or awkwardly shaped closet, it’s still much too small.

The room she’s been given is barely three paces from wall to wall, deep in the heart of Suledin Keep with no windows, no ornamentation and comprised entirely of pale gray stone without any redeeming features. She knows she is tall but even still it doesn’t seem right that her hair nearly brushes the ceiling. It’s an uncomfortable feeling and she tells herself over and over again not to hunch. It’s not as if she is magically going to grow three more inches and actually bump her head. But cramped as it is, it does have a small inset alcove that vents to the outside through some miracle of ancient engineering and the fire that has been built there does its work well each night, warming the space to the edge of uncomfortable. The raised stone shelf behind her that runs the length of one wall has no discernable purpose but now at least holds a deeply piled pallet for sleeping. There are no shortage of blankets in the keep at least. If the walls are blank and claustrophobic, well, she has certainly dealt with worse before.

Many times worse, she reminds herself. Still, it does somewhat feel as if she is occupying a mausoleum.

Cassandra is too old to let the comparison bother her, she is long past her girlhood where the Mortalitasi of her youth were frightening figures of power and mystery. And she is pretty sure if she keeps repeating that, eventually she’ll come to believe it. She sighs, sitting on the edge of the makeshift bed. It seems a petty thing to ask for a different room while they are here, recovering from their last… well, adventure is the wrong word, but march isn’t correct either, neither are they precisely advancing anywhere. Recovering from their latest trials, perhaps. That is close enough.

Suledin itself is only recently liberated and while the corps of Inquisition workers that have descended upon it have done themselves proud, there is still much of the place that is fit only for birds and weather. And asking for a room that faces outside when yet another blizzard could blow up out of nowhere would be the height of hubris.

No, it’s better that she remain where assigned. There is a bed and warmth and truly, she needs no more than that. They will only be here a few more days, she is sure. She can handle too-short ceilings for that long without complaint.

Cassandra leans down and starts to root in her pack for her carefully wrapped book, her singular vice. She will read until she is either too tired to make out the words or the fire dies enough to achieve the same end.

There is a odd sound outside in the passageway. It repeats again after a moment and she realises it is a knock, or a close approximation of one as someone taps something metal on the stonework. She frowns, halting her search. “Seeker? Can I come in?” Oh.

Varric. Of course it would be Varric.

Out of nowhere she is pricklingly aware that she is wearing things that she intended to sleep in; her oldest breeches, soft and thin and held to her hips by frayed leather ties. The rough undyed cotton of her shirt falls to her thighs, more than acceptable even if loose laced and wide at her throat. She has worn less in front of company before and thought nothing of it, yet at the mere sound of his voice outside she feels horribly exposed.

She needs a sword and breastplate, neither of which are here. At least her hair is still up and braided. Being caught completely unpinned would have been unconscionable.

“Seeker?”

“Varric,” she replies dryly. She casts around desperately but her mind is blank. She stands, not willing to be sitting for some reason and squares her chin. “Come in.” His hand brushes aside the heavy canvas covering the opening and Varric ducks inside.

His face is not a stranger to her and she should not feel this defensive. Yet, she does. Without willing it, her arms cross over her chest. The rough texture of her shirt rubs against her breasts and she regrets having removed her breastband for comfort. Let him think her annoyed, it is better that than anything else.

“What is it, dwarf?” “What, can’t I come visit my favorite Seeker?” “I am the only Seeker you know, Varric. Why are you here?” He’s been drinking, at least a little. His eyes are just that little bit too bright, his skin just that little bit too flushed. Somewhere along the way she has started to see the small things that belong to him and the things that are imposed from the outside. His voice is deeper than usual and he is already taking up too much room for all that he hasn’t taken but a single step inside. Perhaps he too thought her room would be bigger. She watches the play of muscle move along his jaw as his eyes flicker over the sleeping area. He appears to be finding and discarding things to say and she watches all of them move across his mobile face. Once he would have been unreadable to her and she is uncomfortably aware that somewhere that has changed. Does he see into her better as well? It’s a disturbing feeling.

“Do you really have to ask?”

“With you, yes.” Training keeps her voice and face impassive. For the first time tonight she is grateful for her height, that she towers over him in her bare feet as he stands before her. It is an illusion and they are both aware of it but still, it helps. The fact that the firelight is doing wonderful things to the color of his hair is not something that is worthy of her attention.

“Alright, we’ll just get down to it then. You didn’t tell her Inquisitorialness.” “No. I did not.” His broad face tilts and his voice remains mild. “Mind if I ask why?” Somewhere she knows she had hoped they could simply avoid this conversation. But trust Varric to push when he was least wanted, when she still hasn’t figured out what she intends to do. She opts for a blunt truth.

“You are needed here, now more than before. I am sure that you will not… that it will not happen again, now that you are… aware. Of the potential.” He snorts softly.

“So you didn’t tell her so she wouldn’t send me back.”

“Yes.”

His eyes narrow and then suddenly Varric leans a shoulder against the wall, crossing his own arms. Instead of looking defensive, he just claims space, lounging easily. She frowns at him but he just smiles broader like he knows something she doesn’t. Of all the things he does, she likes that one the least.

“Not good enough, Seeker. I’ll buy that at least halfway but that’s not the only reason.” She throws up her hands in agitation. “What are you looking for, Varric? Did you want me to tell her?”

“It’s not a bad idea. I mean, when your forward scout goes crazy and tries to join the other side of the war, don’t you think that’s something you maybe ought to mention at some point?” “You were not…” she protests hotly before she catches the expression in his eyes, at odds with the rest of his face. She puts a hand on the back of her neck and stares at the too-close ceiling for a long count. “You were not yourself,” she finishes more calmly. “That’s the definition of crazy, Seeker.” “You were… not yourself. The lyrium…” For a heartbeat she feels again the snow sliding under her knees, everything washed red. Blood on his face, on his hands, sparking in his eyes. The terror as she’d realized she was going to lose because it wasn't even a fight. She shoves it down. “You will not make that mistake again.” He’s silent for long enough that her eyes come back to him. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Sure about that?” “Varric?”

“No, Seeker. You’re right, I won’t make that mistake again. If the red stuff is going to get me again, it’s going to be because somebody held me down and shoved it down my throat. I’ll throw Andraste herself on the pyre again before I let it get to me a second time.”

She shifts, suddenly unsure what to make of the tone. “You got too close and you were weakened. I should have protected you better. It is as much my fault as yours.” He laughs at that and shoves himself away from the wall without warning. “Protect me? Excuse me, Seeker, but didn’t we already figure out that I’m stronger than you?” He takes an aggressive step forward and she can’t help it, can’t help it at all, stepping back to keep the distance between them. The back of her knees bump against the bed she’d half forgotten about and she sits abruptly.

She glares at him, flustered. The expression on his face has twisted, something knowing curling the corner of his mouth in a way she cannot stand.

“Do not look like that,” she says coldly. “You’re afraid of me now.” “I am not.” “You are. You won’t let me anywhere near you.” “I am not afraid of you, Varric. There are many people who are stronger than I am, it is not a contest.” “And how many of those people have nearly broken your arm just by grabbing you?”

He takes another deliberate step forward. The room is much, much too small to have him in it, the bulk of his body half cutting off the light from the fire now. He’s outlined in light, bright and gold and red, the color of corrupted lyrium but also his color, always how she thinks of him. Red for passion, for anger, for blood; red for everything worth having. She would stand again if she could but she can’t and maybe it wouldn’t help anyways.

But she still puts a hand up to ward him off. She misjudges and her fingertips brush his chest, bump against the gold chain at his throat.

He stops then, still as stone. She watches his throat move and there is no way she can interpret the expression on his face, hooded and dark.

“Okay, so you’re not afraid.” His voice is rough gravel. “Show me your arm, Seeker.”

“What?” He’s patient as if understanding her confusion, his voice gentling. “Show me your arm.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to, Seeker. Shit, I don’t understand myself half the time but I need you... I need you to show me what I did. I have to see.”

Is she afraid of him? She doesn’t know. Something has changed between them, yes, and it keeps changing and she is no longer sure of what she should do, what she should say. It was not his fault, not truly. And yet, it was.

But this is Varric here, now and if she has no hope of understanding anything else, she understands the pain in his eyes. If she is afraid, she will not let it rule her.

Cassandra watches herself press her palm against his chest with deliberate pressure, the warmth of his skin beating under her fingers. He is wonderful to the touch and she stands, suddenly calm. Varric takes a step back at that and the room expands just a little bit so that it’s easier to breathe.

“Very well.”

She could just remove her shirt and for a heartbeat, she actually considers it. The possibilities suddenly curling through the air like smoke are confusing and she wonders what he would do if she was so bold. Anything at all? Would he want to put his hand on her too? She reaches instead for the laces at her throat, widening the gap of the collar. Her night shirt is meant for comfort and it is simple enough slip her shoulder through the newly created space, sliding the loosened material down to her elbow. She pulls her arm free of the sleeve with effort, wincing at the strain on the healing flesh.

“Maker’s balls.”

Varric has stopped breathing. She doesn’t need to look herself to know what he’s seeing. The yellow fingers touch as high as her collarbone now, pool in the cup of her shoulder, sweetly outlined in blue as if painstakingly painted. Her bicep is still a weltered glory of darker color where the pressure had been longest and deepest.

The dwarf shifts on his feet, gaze locked in sudden agony. “Shit. I knew... Maker lose me on the Deep Roads. I knew when I saw you struggling with your shield.” “I have had worse in training.”

He reaches out with such a blank look on his face that she knows he’s barely aware of anything else.

“The hell you have.”

His hand wraps slowly around her arm, gentle as anything she has ever felt. She knows he’s matching himself precisely, fingertip by fingertip. She can feel it, hot little points of contact. “Varric.” He won’t look at her. “Varric,” she insists. “I have had worse in training. I would not lie.” “Fine, if you say so. But I bet nobody’s tried to feed you to red lyrium before while doing it. That was all me.” “Stop wallowing, dwarf.” She pitches her voice curt and sharp.

Varric growls at that, curling his lip, and something in it catches the breath in her throat. She makes an involuntary sound and his eyes fly to her face.

“You did that then, too,” she babbles. “Growled. It was frightening.” “So you are afraid.” “Yes. I mean, no. Varric, no. I am not afraid of… Maker, this is impossible. You snarled at me, at the last, just like that, when I tried to pull you away. There was nothing in your eyes that I knew anymore and you growled at me and yes, I could not break away and yes, I was frightened. Anyone would have been. But then you just... stopped. And you were... you again.”

She is sure he won’t answer the unspoken question. She can see it closing over his face, the shrug he will give, the words he will say that might, in some manner, even be true but will not be truth. She braces for it.

He hesitates though. Then his hand reaches up and he strokes her damaged arm, shoulder to wrist in a slow, unmistakable caress.

“You were crying.” “I… what?” “You were crying, Seeker.”

“I was crying.” “Real tears, Seeker, honest and truly. And you know what I was thinking? If you can even call it thought?” She shakes her head. His fingers encircle her wrist in a loose grip, nearly holding her hand. His hand is warm and it spreads through her body. “That if I could only get you to hear it like I could hear it, you wouldn’t be afraid anymore. I didn’t want you to be afraid. I just wanted you to be with me. Hear it with me. But you were crying and I just… you were crying because I was hurting you and I just. I just...”

Varric’s face spasms and he turns so that all she can see for a moment is his profile. His gaze drops and she is left to stare at the top of his head even as he turns her palm up. She feels his thumb moving slow across the sensitive flesh of her wrist. She has no memory if he’s ever touched her like this before, it feels so achingly fragile.

“You were crying, that’s all.”

She sits down because she really doesn’t think she can stand anymore.

He shrugs then and when his face lifts, his expression is mocking as it often is, a smile hovering over his lips. “I’ve done a lot of really shitty things in my life, Seeker, but hurting you because I have poor impulse control? Pretty much tops the list.” “You broke out of lyrium thrall because I cried.” It seems unbelievable. “Yeah, well. If you tell the Herald, which you should, let’s leave that part out, okay? It can be our little secret.” His lips move into a larger smile and she can see the story settling over his face, his body starting to shift away. “Give me a bit and I’ll think of something better.” “Varric.”

“Yes, Seeker?” She takes a deep breath. “I did not tell the Inquisitor because she would have sent you back to Skyhold. For your own good.” “You said that.” “She would have sent you away. I didn’t… I don’t want that. It is selfish, I know, do not think I am not aware of it, but I would worry if you were not… if you were not here. I promise, Varric, I will protect you better, now that I am aware of how strongly it calls to you.”

It’s nothing more than the truth but for some reason it’s impossible to look at him directly. She keeps her gaze on his necklace instead. His fingers are still light on her wrist and she wonders if he even realises he’s still holding her there. She doesn’t want to point it out in case he stops. She watches him swallow and when he speaks, his voice is slow. “So. You’re saying you want me with you too.” She opens her mouth to disagree, it’s not like he is implying. It’s simply important that she not fail in her duty, not now when she knows how vulnerable he is. Anything could happen if she can’t watch over him. He would spend all his time in the tavern, drinking and blaming himself and that would not be right. It really is as much her fault as anything. She should have known, reacted better and faster. “Don’t, Seeker.” He hasn’t moved but somehow the space between them has closed, she’s not sure how. She is conscious of the breadth of his shoulders, the warmth of his skin radiating so close to hers. His hand moves finally, stroking back up her exposed arm, a tickle of fingertips alone. She shivers and cannot disguise it. “I’ll tell you another secret though, just for you and me.” “What?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounds wrong, too thin, too light.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid. But mostly? I wanted you with me. I wasn’t going anywhere without you. Not even into madness apparently.” His hand curls over the top of her shoulder, warm and strong. His fingers slide over bare skin to the back of her neck, tangling in the short curls there and at that she has to look up. His face is so close to hers. “Messed up, I know.” “Varric.” “That’s my name.” The smile is deprecating but his eyes are somewhere else and she knows somewhere that once upon a time she would have heard the words and seen nothing else.

“Why do you never call me by mine?”

He shakes his head then. “No. No, that’s still my secret.” His thumb traces the soft skin under her ear and for one heart stopping moment, she wonders if he’s going to kiss her. What she will do about it. If she will do anything at all. Does she want him to? His fingers are paralyzing, that’s all she knows.

“That is unfair, dwarf.”

“Life’s like that.” She feels more than sees the deep tremor that runs through his body and then his hand smoothly drops away, breaking contact. She takes a deep breath, then another, unsure of when she’d stopped. “Tell the Inquisitor, Seeker. I want to finish this as much as you do, but sometimes it really doesn’t matter what I want."

He’s ducked out the not-exactly-a-door before she can think to ask what she’s supposed to tell, exactly, and what precisely it is that he wants to finish.

#cassarric #fanfiction #cassandra pentaghast #varric tethras #dragon age inquisition

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spookyspaghettisundae · 4 years

Text

Real Monsters

Two empty bottles of cheap shoddy beer stood on the bar counter, right next to a cup with a finger’s width of whiskey resting in it. Emily blew a strand of fire-red hair out of her face and, for no apparent reason, glared at the bartender as he collected and removed the empty glass containers from in front of her.

Over the course of the hour she had spent there, she slumped more and more over the bar counter where she sat. Every now and then, she glanced at the flat screen TV hanging over the bar, watching the news flashing across the screen with mild disinterest. The lights of cars on the city’s street outside the bar’s windows drearily passed by. The more she drank that night away, the more those lights outside turned into hazy blurs, contrasted by the soft illumination in this quaint pub.

Emily’s willowy frame and symmetrical features would lead to anybody describing her as an attractive woman in her late twenties—if you could stomach the strong stench of cigarette smoke clinging to her like a dark miasma—so it was nothing unusual for her to have some guy sidle up next to her with a warm and friendly smile. He even did a decent job at holding back from cringing, once he inhaled some of the air in Emily’s vicinity.

“Hey, I was just—”

“Fuck off,” she told him without looking up from the glass of whiskey she was nursing, swirling the liquid inside her glass in one hand. She trained her eyes on the TV screen even though the lines and text on it were getting blurry for her.

The young man’s face turned sour in an instant and he uttered a string of profanities at Emily while leaving her to herself, causing the bar stool next to him to scrape over the floor with a loud noise and prompt some other patrons to turn their heads.

The regular murmurs and conversations and clinking of glasses continued without incident though, as this sort of thing was a common scene in a bar like this.

Emily sighed when she saw a familiar segment rearing to come up on the TV. While some advertisements fired up with obnoxious lettering and white-washed imagery on the screen, she waved the bartender over.

“Can we change the channel? Isn’t there, like, a fucking game on, or something?” she asked him, clearing her throat in between the sentence fragments, taking her voice from raspy to gravelly. She pointed her index finger past the glass of whiskey she was holding.

The bartender, seemingly nice enough all evening, slung a small towel over his shoulder and leaned in over the counter to her. He seemed to register her request with a bit of a delay, then forced himself to smile. He nodded, then pointed to someone at the opposite end of the counter.

“I’ll get right on it after taking care of the gentleman over there,” he said.

She watched him saunter over yonder, taking his sweet time. Stifling a groan with a sigh, Emily muttered to herself, “Happy fuckin’ birthday to me, I guess.”

Right about when the bartender returned to her end of the counter, the ads ended and the segment started. Some shaky, grainy pictures flashed across the screen, commented on by a lady with one of those perms that looked like it was made of plastic. The graphics heralded an exposé about human trafficking discovered on the Canadian border between Vancouver and Seattle.

With a rosy color flushing her pale cheeks, Emily emptied the glass and covered half her face with a hand as if to bury it there, though all she wanted to do was hide.

The bartender leaned down and grabbed something from behind the counter, then froze mid motion of aiming the remote control at the TV set. He blinked as he saw a red-haired reporter with a mean green-eyed glare on the screen—one who happened to look a lot like Emily. Or rather—exactly like her, if you could tell the change in outfits apart. His head went on swivel between the Emily at the bar and the Emily on screen until he lowered the remote and casually leaned against the counter.

“Holy shit, is that you? You some kinda reporter, huh?”

“Fuck,” Emily hissed under her breath, managing to eke out a smile that refused to reach her eyes. She hunched even deeper over the counter towards the bartender and then hushed him with the words, “Yep, that’s me, Sherlock. Let’s not make a big deal out of it, ‘kay? I’m trying to unwind tonight.”

The bartender scanned her face with what was growing interest, but he turned to look back up at the screen again, giving her a curt nod in response.

“Gotcha,” he whispered. Watching the footage fly through, inter-cut with pieces of interviews and Emily being followed by a shaky camera switched into night mode, the bartender still couldn’t help but emit a short little whistle between his teeth.

“Damn, I’m not gonna turn the audio up, but that looks like some rough stuff,” he said.

His features softened as he could spot Emily’s mien darkening. He slid to lean over the counter and keep his voice down as he asked, “You okay? No offense, but you’ve been lookin’ down in the dumps all evenin’.”

“No offense, but whenever anybody starts anything with 'no offense’, it’s gonna offend, buddy,” she said, glaring at him.

“Jeeze, okay, I get it. You’re not here to talk. But I feel like I’d be an asshole for not asking,” he said, absentmindedly scratching the fashionable stubble on his chin.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Brian.”

Emily smirked and said, “Okay, Brian? You keep the drinks coming, we both mind our own business, and I’ll make like a tree soon enough.”

Something sparkled in Brian’s eyes and he shook his head with a strange slowness. Emily struggled to read what it meant or where it was coming from. A couple of drinks earlier and she would have had him figured out easily, but the meds mixing with the booze were doing her signature skills no favor. Her gut instinct swung wildly between him either feeling pity or genuine care for a fellow human being.

“I do have some responsibility here. I wouldn’t let you walk outta here knowing you had to drive after all the drinks you’ve been pounding down on, and I sure as hell am not gonna just pretend you can see that kinda—”

He cast a sidelong glance up at the TV screen, then continued, “That kinda shit doesn’t just bounce off o’ ya. Just seeing something like that on the news is enough to upset me. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be there, and talk to the monsters who do shit like that. Or, y'know, the victims of those monsters.”

The sparkle in his eyes turned wet, glistening with empathy. Brian was good, Emily thought.

“C'mon, humor me. I bet it’ll be a load off o’ your shoulders to talk about it. I hear plenty o’ sob stories and have to pretend that they’re oh-so-tragic, but even all that petty bullshit eventually gets to me.”

Emily said nothing. Continued studying his face.

“Costs you sleep, leads to drinking to sleep more, which leads to—eh, you know where I’m going with this.”

He shrugged and bit his lip, awaiting a response from her after all his rambling. The other people in the bar never turned silent, but the silence that welled up between Emily and Brian became so thick that you could have cut it with a knife.

“Okay,” she said. She put the glass down and repeated herself with another smirk, this one far less convincing and with far less confidence than any other expression she had brandished that night. “Okay. Brian? You might wanna buckle up, because this is a wild ride. Fuck, I don’t even know where to start. Much easier to write these things than to present them.”

She shot a glance up at the TV, conveniently presenting one of the monsters Brian had unwittingly mentioned.

“See that schmuck right there? Married, three children, successful business owner, respected in his community, loves walkin’ his dog in the park, probably tips generously, and also responsible for making twelve Vietnamese women live in a filthy fucking dungeon of a basement for ten years—forced into sex work, allowed out only to assemble and package counterfeit watches. Real piece o’ shit, sub-human, scum-sucking trash with a heart so fucking rotten that it might as well be a black hole. And he wasn’t even the mastermind or anything, he was basically middle management in this outfit of human-shaped turds.”

Emily kept getting more worked up as she swore up a storm and recounted the discoveries from her research. Brian visibly swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat and she could tell he was only moments away from breaking out into a cold sweat just from hearing the fury in her account.

“Her name was Tran. These dirt-bags trafficked her across the ocean to America, together with other girls, in containers that must have reeked to the high heavens of human shit and piss, subsisting on nothing but scraps of rotten fucking food. She was separated from her 5-year-old kid when they took her after promising her a better life for her family, and then these rat bastards on our side of the drink tried to ferry her over the border to Vancouver with some others by sticking her in a fucking refrigerator truck where she froze to death behind some pallets stacked with meat. With fucking meat,” she said with some spittle frothing on her lip. “Because that’s all she was to these monsters.”

Emily crammed a fist into her jacket pocket and produced a crumpled up pack of cheap cigarettes from it. She dumped it on the counter in front of her, together with a smartphone with a display so cracked that it would be close to impossible to read anything on it, and a plastic lighter clattering out onto the counter next to it.

“I don’t even know if they deserve to be called monsters. Because a monster at least acts upon instinct, like a fucking animal. Eat, fuck, shit, sleep, rinse repeat. But these motherfuckers, I swear,” she dug a cigarette out of the pack and swiftly lit it up.

Brian’s face had long fallen into a twisted visage of disgust and despair, paralyzed and incapable of escaping her cutting monologue, and his speechlessness extended into his inability to tell Emily she wasn’t allowed to smoke inside the pub. He feebly pointed at the cigarette she now took a long drag from and then rubbed his face instead.

With the force of frustration, she blew out some smoke before continuing her furious rant. She pointed at the TV screen with the burning cigarette clamped between her fingers. Some heads at the other end of the dive now turned to look at her again, the murmurs likely questioning what was going on there.

“They go home, they go shopping in a grocery store like you and me, they go to barbecue parties, they tuck their kids in at night, and they probably play poker or some shit. All the while they are quietly committing passionless murders; just cold calculated without any remorse. Enriching themselves with the suffering of the human beings they treat like fucking meat.”

More smoke billowed out of her nostrils like a dragon breathing fire when she picked up again, not missing a beat, “By the time Tran was twenty-seven and they recovered her body from the back of that truck, the autopsy showed that all the slave labor and all sex work had given her permanent spine damage. So, she was in constant crippling pain for the final fuckin’ years of her life before she died an undignified death without a single fucking soul to mourn her passing. And don’t you fucking give me that bunch of rotten, disingenuous politicians farcically conveying their condolences while scampering around to cover up for anybody in the police or border control who were in on this whole operation before we popped the lid on the entire stinking cess pool. Allegedly,” she said, letting the final word ooze out with bitter contempt.

Emily stopped herself, arched her head back and released an almost satisfied groan. It did feel good, at least somewhat. Sweet, sweet release.

She looked at Brian the bartender, now staring at her with eyes as wide as saucers, rendered speechless by her outburst of pent-up rage and verbal diarrhea that came from a festering disease that was what Emily’s view of humanity had become.

Her heart raced, but the frayed ends of her nerves had stopped screaming. For now.

After taking a long drag from her cigarette and savoring the next cloud of smoke she exhaled, she dug around in her pocket to get out some cash, spilling it out onto the counter in form of crinkled dollar bills and coins and leaving a pathetic tip because that was all she had on her.

Her voice dropped in volume, “Thanks, Bri. Good talk.”

She patted the money she was leaving on the counter and stood up straight. Or as straight as she could manage, because she drunkenly swayed a bit—which she elegantly masked with her years of drinking experience by slinging her jacket on.

One of the other patrons whose stare lingered on her for too long drew another deadly glare from Emily.

“The fuck are you lookin’ at?” her words muffled as she kept the cigarette clamped in between her lips. His eyes widened and he lowered himself over his drink while the other people at his table went silent with him.

Brian stammered out something, but Emily was too wasted already to really make out the precise words, and too far gone for that night to give a damn. He was probably going to check in on her and see if she was alright, yet again. Bless his soul.

She pushed open the front door. The jingle of a bell overhead caused her to flinch when she staggered out into the drizzle of rain outside the bar and she let the door slam shut behind her. Emily popped the collar of her jacket and wandered off into the city’s night.

After taking a final angry drag from her cigarette, she tossed the butt into a gutter and buried her hands in her jacket pockets while she stumbled on her way home, in the rough direction of her dingy downtown apartment.

She came upon a homeless guy sitting on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign right next to him, but the letters written on it blurred into something incomprehensible to Emily’s drunken stare. He was wrapped up in layers of sweaters and jackets and had a hood up over his head, with some newspapers spread out on top to shield him from the rain. But the sheets of paper were turning dark quickly, soaking up the raindrops as they grew in size and frequency.

With the rustling of the newspapers, the homeless man looked up at her, but the darkness concealed most of his features beyond a gray beard and skin that looked like a roadmap of sunburnt wrinkles.

“You should get outta the rain, buddy, s'gonna be a downpour tonight,” she told him.

He just stared at her. Shadows cloaked his eyes and a pit formed in Emily’s stomach.

“I ain’t got any change. Just pissed it all away just now. Sorry, man.”

She tried to lock eyes with him, but found no eyes underneath that veil of darkness over his own. The lack of a reaction began to creep her out. She gave him a bowing nod and walked on with a clipped, “Night.”

A few steps further down the sidewalk, she figured she might regret it, but considered inviting him home. The poor bastard might freeze to death on a late autumn night like this.

“When the world is a prison, there are those who are the prisoners cursed with unknowing, and the jailers who hold the keys to their unseen cells. Which are you?”

Those words rolled out with a fluid clarity and a gravity to rival the weight of the world. There was something about them—a sense of finality—that lent them a sinister air. They came from behind Emily—from that homeless man.

She turned slowly. Her heart raced, this time not with anger, but a growing sense of dread. She feared to see what this homeless man had turned into. His voice was as voluminous as that of a giant, as imposing as a king.

But there was nobody there. Emily looked around in disbelief. There was nobody else in this narrow street. The drizzle intensified until it turned into full-blown rain.

A cold shudder ran down her spine and Emily shivered. She suddenly remembered the pictures of Tran from the autopsy report, pale and lifeless, with eyes closed. An innocence destroyed by the monsters of this world. A horrible truth that Emily had helped unearth.

Emily went home and locked all three locks of her apartment door, shooing her three cats off her bed and crashing onto the covers without undressing.

The dark void of a dreamless sleep enveloped her within seconds and the next day, nothing would be the same, ever again.

This was the final night before her awakening.

—Submitted by Wratts

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whetstonefires · 4 years

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"the top three of its forty floors are filled with brass telescopes of every size, pointing in every possible direction, including several that do not exist within the normal three dimensions of space." thats SUCH a cool image / "If any harvest will come." ooh i wonder whats going on / "The roofs are of red tile, the stucco of the houses painted in shades of blue. It stands empty, but has not had time to fall into disrepair." the little bits of detail getting added to the picture im LOVE (1/?)

I’m gonna do these all as one post but broken up for ease of reference, I think.

Thank you! 🥰 Deciding the theme for the Tower and giving it that visual anchor really helped to pull things together. If you consider the whole setup, it seems unlikely the Tower was originally built as an observatory, since those tend to benefit from height (especially if you’re looking around you rather than up, but for the up ones also) and the builders could easily have put it on top of a mountain or at least some hills, but instead put it by the river. It’s above sea level, and it’s away from light pollution, but there were better locations. Nearby.

So either it wasn’t an observatory, and it’s been refitted as one, or they had so many observatories they didn’t care about locating them optimally, there was some other factor making having the tower there important even if it was suboptimal in terms of observation capacity. Or, potentially, it’s been moved since it was built!

:} Yay thank for being interested by the foreshadowing. I tried to put just enough in without actively overshadowing the actual place-setting-up and making the reader impatient with the description.

"If you look through an enchanted telescope you may see trees without needles fail halfway up the nearest of the great peaks, and even these fail before the top, though there is a span of nearly barren stone past that line, before the snow begins." you: mentions different plants living in different climates me: :0 / there's so much good description!! its all so pretty!! (2/?)

sflka;l;jlk i mean yeah, that’s pretty straightforward isn’t it. But! It establishes How Much Mountain it is visually rather than by saying ‘it was a big fucking mountain’ or ‘it was tall enough for the thinness of atmosphere near the top to create a small tundra region.’

o(*￣▽￣*)ブ

<3 Thank you! I kinda cut loose lmao.

"blocks veined with every color, pale blues and purples, reds and greens and golden-duns all mottling toward white and grey and black" god i want to live there so badly!! this tower is meeting all my standards!! cool pretty magic tower with rad telescopes!!! / "make a remark no one present understands about a Doctor named Seuss. His guide, the dousing tracker Amnaphi, will assume this person to be a famous astronomer from his homeland." im love!! misunderstandings about references!! (?/?)

💗💖✨ Yay! That’s an important feeling to create in fantasy, imo. The wanting.

I really enjoyed playing with the standard forms for ‘thing made of marble’ here, because all these marbles really exist, but in spite of the existence of the word ‘marbled’ our narrative uses of it tend to be tied up with Neoclassical aesthetics. So very white and smooth, yeah?

Also idk if it’s obvious to the reader but this Tower is to some degree in dialogue with Orthanc, which made a great impression on my mind as a child as the iconic wizardly tower, and while I don’t disagree with any of Tolkien’s use of symbolism for the purposes he was deploying it, there’s so much potential in Isengard as a setting that LotR had no space to explore, even if Tolkien would have noticed those angles at all.

Like...the parkland around the Tower is shown being despoiled for the orcish war machine and then reconquered by the forest, but of course it wasn’t forest to begin with. What was it for before Saruman lost his shit? Ordered gardens, for peaceful contemplation? Who dedicated the space that way? Who maintained it?

Did Saruman employ a gardener? Did he design his own gardens, or did they come with the keep, which we’re informed was built not by him but by the Numenoreans?

(“I liked white better” is still one of the greatest lines in a fantasy novel, Tolkien does not get enough credit for his contextually hilarious one-liners that rely on pointed code-switching, but Saruman’s evil rainbow oil-slick robes also sounded really baller and it’s kind of a shame they were not attempted for the movie lol.)

The fact that this is a world designed around a kid getting portal-fantasied into it and staying for 30 years really gives me some options which are fun to deploy but also like. Risky lmao. Because it encourages the reader to surface from the setting-logic and apply their own perspective, which can really break up the magic.

Being able to zoom out on the Tower after all that detail and be like ‘it’s awesome but also it looks like something Doctor Seuss would draw’ was fun though.

"Within the even hexagon of its outer wall, the Tower encloses a great parkland, enough that if it was all put under cultivation it could easily feed as many people as could live in the Tower itself." the tower has PLANTS i love it so much / "Ten Years’ Winter" god PLEASE tell me this is going to get into the agriculture and society stuff game of thrones didn't about long winters that would be SO cool / "Watchers of the Stars" AND they have a cool name holy shit (?/?)

Plants are important! As is food supply. As everyone who’s been reading this blog for a while already knows I think lol.

I mean, it’s not about that, really? The Ten Years’ Winter is a historical event--the most recent meteor impact severe enough to have global climate fallout. The dust it kicked up took a while to settle, and the famines were pretty severe.

But the cultural consequences of something that happened a hundred and fifty years ago exist, and are important, including the relationship between governance and disaster preparedness, which varies a lot regionally as you may imagine.

Astronomy has a long history as a wizardly sort of activity in the real world, both because it’s had continual overlap with astrology and just because the process has always been mystical and abstruse. In this setting, with a history of both devastating meteor impacts and being invaded from the Moon, but also actual magic, it’s got more obvious practical importance. Although since neither of these are remotely everyday occurrences, the average person on the street might not agree lol.

So it’s on the one hand a purely descriptive title, and on the other hand a serious boast, suggesting as it does that they are primarily responsible for Watching The Sky For Stuff. While also having broader philosophical implications and just sounding nice lol.

You gotta have good marketing if you want to persist as a wizardly order, because if talented students aren’t motivated to come to you how will you gain new members? Natural replacement is not an ideal strategy to say the least. That’s how you turn into a cult instead of an intellectual powerhouse.

"The northern third of the Tower’s park contains neatly regimented orchards, apples, pears, plums, and a few rows of carefully tended peaches and apricots, all clipped flat against low brick walls angled south and slightly west." hhh t r e e s / "wizards, while enthusiastic about innovation in the abstract, hate change." me too, wizards. me too / "The Tower grounds are filled with refugees." ooh now we get to why everything was empty earlier (?/?)

Trees! Which are also food!

And technology lol. Greenhouses built against fruit walls with good insulation are so much more sensible than ones heated from inside. Obviously as a passive solar-powered technology these only work when the sun is available and not, for example, cut off by a giant dust cloud.

These people are fairly acutely aware of their dependence on the sun and it figures prominently in a majority of their religions and their magical theory, even more than in ours.

There seems to be a mild consensus that the wizards are relatable. In truth: we are all wizards. :D

Yup! At long last lol.

"This division corresponds imperfectly to the usual split of the town by the course of the Meroda." because people!! take comfort!! in what normalcy they can find!! / "Makeshift pallets line the spaces between every fruit wall—the injured are being laid out here, now that the Tower is full, to get the benefit at night of the warmth meant to mature fruit." the awesome magic tower people trying to do everything they can for the injured who come to them for help in case i thought i couldn't be (?)

more in love / "Half of them are making ready to turn south along the Meroda." oh nooooo / "but the Moon People are the successors of the ancient magics, and just because they could not break the walls the last time they came, according to legend, does not mean they have not worked out a method now." im so worried for the people oh no (?)

Yeah! It really seemed natural. But of course they also aren’t recreating it obsessively; lots of people are grouping up with relatives who normally live across the river, or with people in the same line of work on the river, because people also adapt to circumstances.

No institution is ever perfect, of course, but I’m glad the Watchers have come across this way so far. They’re broadly well-intentioned and mostly well-organized.

And they were not ready for this.

A significant fraction of the reason for the order of the Watchers to exist at all, particularly in this observatory with its great eye fixed ever on the face of the green moon, is to be able to warn the world if this ever happens again. But the Moon People knew they were being watched, this time, and they kept all the build-up to mobilization that might have given them away on the far side of the moon until the last minute.

What the Magister is doing, as I hope was made clear or at least successfully indicated--I wish your commentary on the ending had come through!--is summoning what turns out to be an actual child from another world to do hero stuff.

Even if he’d gotten an adult that would be kidnapping someone to help with your problems, a routine element of the portal fantasy whose ethics have been addressed in a variety of ways, most famously ‘is Lion Jesus and always right.’

The reason they need a hero from another world is that the Moon People build a lot of their wards and their offensive and disabling magical attacks around a targeting system based on what planet people are from, because even though they’re originally from the same stock--they’re the descendants of ancient moon colonists who evacuated ahead of a major meteor impact somewhere approaching four thousand years ago--on a magical level having been born and raised on the planet or the moon makes a pretty huge difference.

So no one can get into the place their magic space elevator is anchored and fuck it up so they can’t keep bringing troops and supply in and loot out. Their single supply line is their only strategic weakness, and they’ve taken appropriate precautions.

Getting someone in from a third location is the best idea anyone’s been able to come up with in the very limited time available. Since no one can figure out how to turn one of the Moon People against the cause they came here for, on short notice, when they aren’t even stopping to talk to anyone so far. Like, that’s clearly not going to happen.

Heron Yl Fanult isn’t unaware that it’s ethically questionable, but he’s doing it anyway.

So I’m glad the ominous imminent oncoming of the Moon People can really be felt, because that atmosphere is fairly essential context for the decisionmaking going on at the top of the Tower.

"Young wizards sit in their bunks, six each to rooms that were previously individual, and hold lighting cupped dancing in their palms." a quick break from being worried to point out that this is rad as hell / "some with their heads decorously covered..." cultural differences!! especially with regional purposes like the Hedro!!

Thank you! 😆💖 I thought so too lol.

It also establishes the parameters of the magic system a little more. Throwing lightning bolts is pretty iconicly high-powered, right? And here it’s what most of the student wizards are practicing in anticipation of a battle, because most of them aren’t specced into combat and this is actually one of the easier lethal spells to master, especially if you have an academic background.

‘Electrocute’ isn’t a very flexible spell and it’s easy to lose control of, but it’s actually easier than, say, ‘set on fire to a significant degree in a non-electrical manner’ because concentrating a lot of heat in a certain location takes a lot more brute force than encouraging ionization.

You can pull most of the actual destructive force for the palm lightning spell out of the physical air and/or earth if you grasp the principles, which is much easier than channeling a comparable amount of magic directly because it doesn’t have to go through you.

The limiting factors on magic in this setting are how much power you can tap into and how much of it you can actually use without hurting or killing yourself. It’s not usually a lot, though the amount can be increased by things like choosing your workspace, prepping your workspace, and a whole lot of practice and meditation and things like that.

Magical traditions that get bundled under the heading of wizardry tend to focus on force multiplication, obtaining enough contextual understanding of a subject to make whatever power is applied go further. This means a lot of studying theory and using magic to make observations (such as the existence of microorganisms and their connection to disease) and often results in making clever devices based on what you’ve learned that may not actually wind up being magical at all.

Which is why the solar greenhouse proposal is considered ‘more wizardly’ than the fruit walls, which are wizardly in the first place even though the technology is pretty widespread at this point--it’s carried the principle of minimizing the energy you have to invest to get the result you want to the logical conclusion, where you don’t have to do any magic at all, you just set up the situation and get out of the way and the sun will do the work for you.

Other schools of magic, particularly religious ones, are more likely to emphasize just getting better at handling energy for yourself, which tends to yield a lot more in the way of immediate practical dividends and in a lot of quarters wizards who don’t do something obviously practical like physic or smithcraft with their theoretical background are considered crackpots or dilettantes

An impression helped along by the fact that being taken on as a student of wizardry at a basic level tends to focus more on your reading comprehension than your ability to actually do any magic, so in places where religious and wizardly institutions coexist the most talented students have a tendency to gravitate toward the religious life. This is particularly marked in areas religiously dominated by the Compact of the Golden Circle, wherein full ordination is contingent on being able to pull off certain fairly hefty rituals, so if you aren’t physically or mentally up to that kind of magical heavy lifting your religious career will stall out in one of the lay fraternities. In some of the cities on Sutouchel, the landmass to the southeast where the Compact is based, a slang term for wizard is ‘sanctum washout.’

But of course force multiplication is something that can scale up pretty far, and studying theory doesn’t stop you from also putting work into your practical skills, and not having talent isn’t the only reason someone would choose not to seek out a clerical career, if it’s even an option. Religion along the Meroda is pretty localized; communities tend to have local deities who correspond to a natural feature like the nearest mountain or the river or something, and if that deity rates a fulltime shrine the keeper also tends to be the major local medical provider, and since the wizards got settled in at the Tower it’s become pretty popular for shrinekeeping families to send their kids there for a year or two to get some educational polish in addition to what their parent already emphasized.

So depending on where you live and what your personal experience has been you’re going to have very different ideas about what wizards are good for.

Hrm. I’ve gone on a tangent. But that wound up taking so long you came back! :D I love it when being turtle works out in my favor.

Or was this actually the meta I was supposed to be doing in the first place? Aaaaa who knows.

im fairly confident you said eight asks survived so this is number nine? anyways onwards! "The hale survivors of the First Battle of the Second Descent sit waiting in their leathers, jack-chains and helmets laughably inadequate armor against the coming danger, and yet the best hope now just as they were on Carun Tol once the wizard fell" i have a lot of emotions about how their best bet is also a terrible bet but its all they have (9/?)

Yes 8.

Woo, thank you! ^^ & I love that you described it that way because that also describes the ‘summon alien’ spell Yl Fanult is casting and echoing the same emotional theme throughout the scene was very much the goal here.

"Threads have escaped from the braids pinned across the top of her skull: she has not had the chance to take them down for two days." god just the continuation of how desperate everything is / "He leans forward to peer through the narrow glass that has been turned on its articulated base to face the middle of the room, and relaxes very slightly. At least there has been no catastrophic alteration there, either." what does that one do id assume theres no approching army in the middle of the room -

:D Yeah, the fact that one of the chief medics available is already overworked to the point of neglecting nonessential personal hygiene and the enemy isn’t even here yet I hoped would resonate.

Well, remember how some of the telescopes at the beginning point in directions not included in the normal three dimensions of space? :}

- "trained as it long has been upon the face of the moon" also forgot to mention their enemies being from the moon is Rad As Hell / "He snaps his fingers for a spark that falls into the deep circular groove full of distilled spirits, and steps through that as well. He is not burned." ooooh whats he doing / "At his feet lie a glittering piece of gold ore, a moonstone, and a carefully sanded round of pumice." i see the connection to the moonstone bc moon army but i wonder about the others -

Thank you! It took a fair amount of poking before I decided it was a solid approach; it provides just enough physical alienation that there’s no direct cultural relationship and you can have that ‘everyone in the entire world Disliked That’ vibe, without needing to create any complicated magical and cultural explanation for such a long run of isolationism. They were out of contact because they were On The Moon.

Also I really get a kick out of putting space invaders in a fantasy setting in a way that stops just short of turning into sci-fi.

I’m glad the ritual lead-up is exciting! Even if the foreshadowing wasn’t as obvious as I thought it was lol. That’s fixable.

Gold is for the sun, moonstone is yeah for the moon lol (although in other circumstances people also use jade, because it’s been a long time since the moon was uniformly silver on account of it having been terraformed a few thousand years ago) and pumice is for the world--it’s a stone full of air that floats on water, so it’s popular as an anchoring device for rituals that call on all three local celestial bodies.

"He cannot take much time. He has only until the ring of fire dies." whats he doingggggg / anyways i love this so much!! the descriptions are gorgeous and im so invested in all of everything!! i hope you write more im so curious about it all!!

XD Ok I covered this already, I would have saved it for down here or Been Mysterious if tumblr hadn’t eaten the last few asks the first time lol. Thank you so much again! For encouragement! Before and now! I’ll try! To keep it going!

Here’s hoping this successfully posts, tumblr just kicked me onto New Dashboard again and disabled the turn-it-off button, so now my alternate posting strategy is borked up too. 🤞😅😘

#hoc est meum #ask #worldbuilding #a nonny mouse #the tower of sight #people say nice things #long post #<3

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heroes-r-us · 5 years

Text

Ocean Eyes and Scarlet Skies

Warnings: A yandere reader pining after Dabi. Mentions of Stolkholm syndrome.

He was staring across the sea of flashing lights and the crashing waves of cars, civilians, and buildings with mild interest. Those over-saturated orbs of his reflecting and glinting the lights from the busy street and overused slogans. The noise of the bustling people below you turned to static when you found the flaming uncut turquoise observing you. His lips turned up in a sneering smirk, possibly in amusement at your unashamed staring.

“'Something catch your eye, baby?”

He had this way about him that drew you in, no, dragged you in, unrelenting. Always pulling, pulling, pulling, then when he noticed your futile attempts to get closer to him- he'd push, push, push you away. He was never easy to deal with but you couldn't stop. He was too entrancing for you.

You knew you were falling.

Down.

Once you hit those frigid waves...

You were drowning in love.

No one understood why you stayed with him-but they couldn't-they were blind. To both the state of your mind and heroes. If they couldn't see the flaws of society, then how could they see past their own superficial expectations? When he left you, you changed. No one else was allowed past your walls.

Your Diamond walls.

There they were, once more. He was leaning over you in all his glory. His unfiltered oceanic glory. Your pounding heart and frantic soul immediately took the plunge into his gorgeous depths. He was speaking to someone behind you, someone who turned the cold metal chair you were strapped into and took a step back to observe your actions. When you cautiously peeked upwards, you were assaulted with a new landscape of sky blue locks and fiercely cut ruby orbs.

The new jewels were hidden behind an aggressive hand clutching his face, but you didn't need to see anything else.

One look into that scarlet iris was all it took.

Your carefully constructed walls shattered.

Scarlet was such a pretty color, but the raven and turquoise pallet was your favorite. You missed the cold staples, dull threats, and weak promises. You also loved the dark leather and darker secrets. You liked your new ruby ruler. His touches were soft and hesitant.

You hoped ruby would turn to turquoise, hesitance would turn to confidence...

You wished blood would turn into an ocean.

_________________________________________________

In case anyone is confused, this is basically about how the reader is a yandere for Dabi. They were dating and she’d literally do anything for him. He temporarily breaks up with her so he can bring her to the league to help. She’s similar to Toga in the fact that she gets really obsessed with people, but this is part of the reader’s quirk.

The more obsessed she is with someone, the stronger that “someone’s” quirk becomes.

Dabi kidnaps and introduces the reader to Shigaraki. Basically telling Shigaraki to become her only source of interaction, and trying to force her into getting Stockholm syndrome for our beloved Handman.

This is where the reader starts to like Shigaraki, but not love him like Dabi. So, the reader is basically wishing that Dabi was with her instead of Shigaraki.

She’s okay with Shigaraki, but she wants Dabi.

#bnha shigaraki #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #bnha tomura #tomura #shigaraki tomura #shigaraki x reader #dabi bnha #mha dabi #dabi x reader #reader #bnha x reader #yandere mha x reader #yandere reader #mha x reader #dabi #yandere #x reader #x yandere reader

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prosebushpatch · 5 years

Text

Here’s a miraculous Ladybug theory because I overthink this show waaaay too much but spoilers for up to Season Two!

What if Natalie Sancoeur is Duusu, the peacock kwami? This is a reach but stick with me.

First I’m pulling from a lot of discussion around Natalie and how her name ends in “lie” which is also what Emelie’s name ends in. In French, “lie” means “linked” so already Natalie and Emelie are connected. Natalie’s last name, “Sancoeur” can be translated to “Without heart.” Duusu comes from a word that means “soul.” (Also Emelie means “rival” in case anyone was curious but I’ll refrain from touching on that at the moment).

Now, Heart and Soul could be the same thing depending on who you ask but I wonder if we can consider them separate in this. Natalie is mostly un-emotive throughout the show save for a few small moments where she seems to genuinely sympathize with Adrien or when she’s visibly pining over Gabriel. This can easily be where her last name comes into play but what if there’s more than that? What if Natalie has been separated from her heart? What if Emelie is her heart?

All we know about Emelie is that she is in a magical coma because the peacock miraculous is damaged. We have no idea what that entails yet but what if the damage caused her to split? Emelie still has her heart, her emotions, and Natalie is Emelie’s soul. That’s why they’re linked. It’s a kingdom hearts nobody vs heartless shenanigan but it’s a possible shenanigan nonetheless. If Natalie is the soul that explains why she can walk and talk and be conscious and if Emelie is the heart then that explains why Natalie is heartless and lacks some emotion.

Now, I get it. I opened this with talking about Natalie being Duusu and here I am saying she’s Emelie. What if she’s both?

Cannonly, in the show, we have never seen Duusu. Even though Natalie has transformed into Mayura, we have never seen Duusu. Granted, it took awhile to see Nooru with Gabe (end of season one I think) but there’s not much of a point to hide Duusu since we’re so far into the seasons. Also, once Natalie turns back she’s still wearing the miraculous when Gabe finds her but Duusu is nowhere to be seen. Unless Natalie already fed and let Duusu rest in her pocket or something before Gabe reached her (which seems unlikely considering how sickly Natalie was after using the miraculous), then Duusu should have been hovering around Natalie (or passed out in Natalie’s hand if she’s sick).

Further evidence suggests that Duusu the kwami is missing. When Plagg and Adrien find the book behind Emelie’s portrait, Plagg grabs the book but ignores the peacock miraculous. The creators have mentioned that the miraculous was actually a fake made by Gabe for a fashion line when the whole color pallet of the miraculous was seemingly changed, but honestly, that’s a horrid stretch and Astruc has mentioned that he’s lied in the past the cover up spoilers so I opt to ignore that. Plagg ignores the peacock miraculous which is strange because it seems the kwamis should be able to sense each other. Wayzz has been known to do that, but maybe Tikki and Plagg lack that ability as they never sensed eachother in school before. Yet, Plagg should still recognize the Peacock miraculous when he sees it. Because he doesn’t, could that indicate that the miraculous was missing what makes it a miraculous? Plagg didn’t recognize it because Duusu was not connected to it.

Imagine, the last time Emelie was conscious, was when she was transformed. I don’t know what damaged the miraculous or how but what if when she released the transformation and Duusu separated from Emelie, Duusu accidentally took Emelie’s soul? Emelie fell into a deep sleep and Duusu (potentially losing her memories or retaining some of her memories of Emelie being her close friend but not remembering being a kwami) woke up as Natalie. Gabe witnesses all of this and takes care of Natalie. Offers her a job and Natalie accepts. Natalie, being part Emelie, falls in love with Gabe and loves Adrien as her own son but she’s a soul without a heart and also a kwami so maybe the whole expressing herself comes up short sometimes.

And I know it’s a stretch, but consider Natalie’s design.

Natalie has a red streak in her hair. Yes, everyone who gets a miraculous tends to have a color pallet that matches it somehow. Yes, once transformed, hair color can change, like with Rena Rouge. But the mild manner alter-ego characters who have had miraculouses so far do not have unnatural colors. It seems a little extra for Natalie to have the red streak. Especially since the red streak in general seemed a little too expressive for Natalie’s character overall. But if this is still a little too mild to be a plot changer, let’s consider Mayura’s design.

Natalie as Mayura changes her skin color to a dark blue. When miraculous holders change they do not change skin color. It’s been speculated that the change in skin tone came from Natalie being akumatized as Catalyst at the time and akumatized forms do have the option of changing skin tone BUT this hinges on whether or not Mayura remains blue in the future or not. I’m hard-pressed to believe they would introduce what’s supposed to be a new villain as a different design than what she will be. So, if Mayura is blue in the future, consider how Plagg has confirmed that the superhero outfits are what the holders want deep down. Mayura is blue like Duusu. Mayura looks a lot like Duusu as a human instead of Natalie as a peacock. Mayura looks like Duusu because deep down, Natalie is Duusu. And Duusu is Emelie’s kwami--potentially cherished friend--who holds a piece of Emelie’s soul.

Well, that’s my two cents at least. Thanks for coming to my ted talk I’m going to bed.

#miraculous ladybug #natalie sancoeur #duusu #gabriel agreste #mayura #im sorry to everyone who followed me before miraculous ladybug #ive been avoiding tumblr save for ml and just trying to cut down on my social media intake in general #my bud and I were chatting and this is the result #i have a lot of feelings about this show #plenty of salt but this is mostly positive #I have a weakness for empathetic people and I find that the villains being the ones with empathetic powers incredibly interesting #Gabe is super manipulative but I really love the peacock's power of creating protectors out of emotions #I want to see how this goes down and how Mayura uses it more #because honestly #that's just a genuinely beautiful story mechanic

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northsideblaine-archive-blog · 5 years

Text

HOLY SHIT IS THAT [ DARREN CRISS ]?! Oh, wait it’s just [ BLAINE ANDERSON ]. Damn, [ HE ] looks good for [ 18 ], good thing that they’re [ GAY ], I might have a chance. I hear that they call them the [ PRETENDER/HOPELESS ROMANTIC ] of the [ SOUTHSIDE/NORTHSIDE ]. I guess that’s because they’re [ BRAVE ] and [ KIND-HEARTED ]. But I don’t think a lot of people know that they’re also [ INSECURE ] and [ DISHONEST ]. Can’t wait to see what kind of trouble [ M/25+/PST ] will bring.

01. BASICS

Full Name: Blaine Devon Anderson

Nickname: b, bee, bumblee, banderson, b-man, shrimp, hobbit

Sex/Gender: Cismale

Birthday: February 14th

Age: 18

Astrological Sign: Pisces

Occupation: Part-Time music teaching assistant (basically just plays the piano and organizes the sheet music for Riverdale’s choir/band)

Spoken Languages: English, High School Spanish, self-taught conversational Tagalong

Sexual Orientation: Homosexual

Romantic Orientation: Panromantic

Birthplace: Southside Riverdale

Relationship status: Single

02. PHYSICAL TRAITS

Hair Color/Style: Dark brown, well gelled down to tame unruly curls.

Eye Color: Hazel

Face Claim: Darren Criss

Height: 5′6

Weight: 152lbs

Tattoos: None

Piercings: A secret serpent tattoo that matches his Dare’s, he got long before transferring to Riverdale high and long before he expected to assimilate into the Northside. It’s always covered.

Unique Attributes: back dimples,

Defining Gestures/Movements: Very expressive face, enthusiastic hands. prone to jumping on tables/furniture when excited.

Posture: Generally very proper and upright as though he’s afraid one slouch might give away the fact that he doesn’t belong.

03. PERSONALITY TRAITS

Pet Peeves: Ignorance and people who are rude or cruel just for the sake of being edgy. Having to go to the Southside for any reason.

Hobbies/Interests: Music, acting, cooking and watching movies.

Special Skills/Abilities: taught by Darius to play various instruments, including violin, guitar, and piano. Singing and dancing, though his moves are often outdated.

Likes: Classic music and movies. Football, singing, cooking, a good cup of coffee, pasta, the scent of rain, autumn, the leaves changing colors, clouds. strawberries (though he hasn’t had one in over a decade due to Dare’s allergy), raspberry/cinnamon/warm vanilla scents. people who are kind especially people who are kind for no reason.

Dislikes: the smell of cigarettes or beer. seeing anyone he knows from the trailer park. his dad. his own hypocrisy.

Insecurities: Never truly fitting into the Northside or winning his mother’s approval. Being irrelevant or mediocre. People knowing he’s from the Southside.

Quirks/Eccentricities: very bad at flirting. get flustered easily.

Strengths: Kind. He’s always kind. Imaginative. Selfless and willing to do anything for a friend. Encouraging.

Weaknesses: Always looking so hard at the good in a person that he misses the knife. Falls in love with strangers 100 times a day. Unsure of who he is. People pleaser.

Speaking Style: Soft-spoken and rarely raised his voice in anger.

Temperament: Up-lifting and encouraging as though he’s afraid to upset anyone for any reason.

04. FAMILY & HOME

Immediate Family: Bruce Anderson [ father ], Pam [ mother ], Darius Anderson [ twin brother ]

How do they feel about their family? Nothing but dislike for his father -- due to his dad’s alcoholism, abuse and homophobia. Admiration and desperation for acknowledgment from his mother since she left him as a child. Mixed feelings for his brother because they used to be so close. When they were younger, Blaine looked up to Darius and felt safe/secure/protected by him, would have done anything for Dare but as they got older Blaine became more insecure being compared to his twin and that grew into mild resentment and guilt.

How does their family feel about them? His father was never a loving man or particularly parental but his anger got much worse after Blaine came out in junior high. He doesn’t have many memories of his mother, so most of how kind and loving she was is something Blaine built up in his head. Darius has always been very protective over Blaine and always the person who was on his side. He was always encouraging, though often stoic, he became the main caregiver in Blaine’s life.

Pets: None.

Where do they live? A very small apartment on the Northside, close enough to walk to work.

Description of their home: Just a step above a studio apartment, Blaine furnished most of his place by visiting yard sales and the second-hand store, trying to pass it off as a hipster/DIY style choice but it’s still a step up from the trailer he used to live in on the Southside.

Description of their bedroom: A platform bed sitting on up-cycled wooden pallets that he painted. A vanity that he repurposed into a desk and decor that he made himself by getting great deals on fabric or odds and ends.

05. THIS OR THAT

Introvert or Extrovert?

Optimist or Pessimist?

Leader or Follower?

Confident or Self-Conscious?

Cautious or Careless?

Religious or Secular?

Passionate or Apathetic?

Book Smarts or Street Smarts?

Compliments or Insults?

Pajamas or Lingerie?

06. FAVORITES

Favorite Color: pale yellow and powder blue

Favorite Clothing Style/Outfit: Blaine took a lot of his style inspiration from the 50′s. He likes things to be form-fitting and cheerful. The bolder and brighter, the better.

Favorite Bands/Songs/Type of Music: Being a music lover, it’s hard for him to pick a single favorite. Generally, anything that speaks to his soul, emotions, and heart tend to make their way into his libraries/playlists.

Favorite Movies: Classic generally but also a sucker for a Nicolas Sparks film or a good romance. Anything as long as it isn’t a horror film.

Favorite Books: Old detective books from the 20′s/30′s.

Favorite Foods/Drinks: Pasta, always pasta. Loves food in general, especially sweets and coffee.

Favorite Sports/Sports Teams: The Patriots.

Favorite Time of Day: the moment just as the sun is rising.

Favorite Weather/Season: chilly or rainy Autumn days

Favorite Animal: Dogs

07. MISCELLANEOUS

Fears/Superstitions: not wildly fond of bugs, especially spiders.

Political Views: Liberal

Addictions: Does hair gel count? Maybe coffee. Useless before coffee. Also self-sabotage.

Best School Subject: Music and English. But was good at every subject.

Worst School Subject: Didn’t have any subject he was particularly bad at.

School Clubs/Sports: All of them. Literally belonged to every club he could join.

How does he get money? Works as a teaching assistant which sort of pays the bills. He’s also sent money from his brother every month but promptly returns it every time.

How is he with technology? semi-decent. Not a tech genius but good enough to figure things out.

08. PAST & FUTURE

Fondest Memory: The Christmas that Dare brought home a tree and presents to surprise Blaine.

Deepest, Darkest Secret: He’s not nearly as perfect, innocent or put-together as he pretends to be. Blaine puts on a front of wanting to wait for the perfect partner or holding out for his soulmate but he has gone into the woods under the guise of running the trail but it was really to hook up with strangers.

Dream Vacation: Somewhere in the Italian countryside or anywhere outside of Riverdale to be honest.

Best thing that has ever happened to this character: Being born a twin.

Worst thing that has ever happened to this character: His mother leaving. In the 8th grade after Blaine came out, some Ghoulies started targeting him, bullying and eventually ganging up on him in the locker room.

What do they want to be when they grow up? Someone and something important.

Perfect Date: Staying up all night talking and effortlessly getting to really know each other deeper.

#gdhqintro #abuse mention tw #homophobia mention tw #abuse tw #bullying tw #homophobia tw #bullying mention tw #violence mention tw #violence tw #about

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cairis-in-the-field · 6 years

Text

That’s One Dead Unilu, My Friends

Written by: Me

Featuring: @falsecantus ‘s Valoren and Torvull; @nefariouslycrafted ‘s Commander Nakul; @galrannoodle ‘s Commander Throk; and my own OC, Cairis

Credit for title goes to @falsecantus

Warning: Thar be 12-legged alien spiders in them thar hills.

Cairis was exhausted – but that was hardly a surprise.

She’d been awake for a movement (if ten dobosh cat-naps here and there didn’t count) while she had been on assignment. The easy puff piece she’d been sent to take care of had turned into a sudden battle zone. She had taken a bad bruise to her right arm and the side of her face, as well as a concussion – but she’d escaped alive.

She’d made her way home, but aboard privately owned ships – non-Galra affiliated and operated, which meant she’d had to stay awake for the most part. Which led to now: aboard the maglev on the Tertiary Ring of Central Hub, heading towards Voice HQ, while she caught up on reading the latest Hub news and gossip on her datapad.

The automated voice announced her upcoming stop, so Cairis put away her tablet and got up. Hooking her pack over her shoulder, she went to stand by the doors; yawned and swayed as the maglev came to a stop.

She exited onto the platform; left the station and headed off down the hall towards HQ.

“Reporter!”

Surprised, Cairis stopped and turned. She smiled to find Commander Nakul and Commander Throk walking towards her.

“Commanders!” she hailed, and pressed a fist to her heart, bowing her head briefly. “You were on the maglev? I’m sorry; if I’d noticed you, I’d have given greetings.”

“We noticed you seemed preoccupied,” Nakul replied, her tone smugly amused. “You nodded off once or twice when you weren’t sitting in a stupor.”

Cairis grinned a little. It was true.

“What happened to you?” Throk asked, his tone and expression displaying mild curiosity.

She explained what had happened on that assignment and how, after the uprising had been quelled, she’d basically been tossed onto an outgoing ship and sent on her way.

Both officers frowned.

“You got out of there just in time,” Throk reported. “The uprising was not as quelled as thought. The entire garrison was blown apart in a massive explosion. There were only a handful of survivors.”

Cairis winced, but nodded. “I found out when I was dropped at a port to switch ships. The interview I conducted will now be a eulogy.”

Nakul scowled darkly and Cairis tensed against a flinch. She knew the commander wasn’t angry at her, but Nakul being that upset was still worrisome.

“Rebel scum,” Nakul spat. “They were put down – other squadrons called in to deal with them – but I do believe it should have been handled better. It is displeasing that the rebels managed to strike such a blow.”

Cairis nodded, and then changed the subject. “I admit to being surprised to see you here on Tertiary.”

“We spotted you when you processed through at the red planet; I decided to follow,” Nakul announced. “I was curious as to your situational awareness – which is terrible.”

“I’ve been awake for a movement,” Cairis argued, “and so far as I know: I’m safe here in Hub.”

That both officers exchanged looks and then smirked at her did nothing to make her feel assured.

“Allow us to escort you home, Lamb,” Throk suggested. “We’ll make sure you get where you’re going.”

Cairis made an amused sound. “I doubt I’m in any danger, but your company is – of course – appreciated.”

She turned again and the two very tall commanders fell into step around her. The three of them continued down the hall towards Voice HQ.

When they arrived at Voice HQ, Cairis put her hand on the sensor and it read her bio-metric signature to unlock and open the door, sliding aside. She led the way in to the public area where she found Torvull and Orirn seated in various spots.

“Oh, good, you’re back!” Torvull exclaimed, popping up. He pressed the fists of his two right hands over his heart area while bowing to the commanders. “We’re hungry.”

Cairis scowled. “Before I left, I prepped several meals. All you have to do is take one out, heat it up according to directions, and eat.”

Orirn snorted. “If there were any left – we’d do that.”

Frowning, Cairis went into the kitchen and paused at the sight of a pallet of air-tight cases sitting near the pantry. She went around it while the commanders and Torvull entered the kitchen, and went straight to the cold storage unit.

She let out a furious yell at finding it empty and turned to Torvull, who raised all four hands.

“Lufir struck again,” he muttered. “First, he ate a few of them all by himself. Then, he somehow triggered a shortage that defrosted the whole damn thing while most of us were out and about. The stuff melted or rotted; unsalvageable.”

He slapped two hands onto the air-tight cases.

“We ordered new foods, though! Got here a few vargas ago. So, um… could we have a meal, maybe?”

Nakul stared down at the little Unilu and asked, “What has prevented you from putting the food away? For that matter: from cooking it yourself?”

Torvull winced a grin up at her. “Uh… well, ma’am, I’m a really lousy cook. Only one worse at it is Valoren herself.”

“And putting the food away? As it seems you’ve left that for Cairis to do, also.”

“…Figured she’d be cutting up and prepping things anyway?”

Cairis let loose a growling sigh and Torvull’s shoulders hunched up.

“You have helped me prep things before,” she snapped. “You could have at least gotten the cutting and dicing done and put things away! You and Orirn both! He can do that while sitting down; no strain on his leg!”

“Ah…”

Cairis shook her head. “I’ve had little naps here and there for ten quintants, Torvull! Coming home to find more work waiting for me is just… this is rude of you!”

“Possibly more rude than you think,” Throk stated, and plucked something off the back of Torvull’s shirt. He held up scarlet and yellow hairs. “Unless I’m mistaken… this is the fur of a Vikrahtian spider.”

Cairis’ eyes widened even as the indigo coloring of her face paled significantly. “…Vikrahtian…?”

When Torvull tried to sidle away, she lunged forward and caught hold of him; wound his shirt into her fist and lifted him up off his feet.

“Did you put a Vikraht spider in my quarters?!” she yelled in his face.

“If he did, I’m slightly impressed,” Nakul commented, crossing her arms. “Those things are as big as he is, have twelve legs, and a near impenetrable exoskeleton covered in fine hairs. How did you manage to move such a beast, little Unilu?”

“Spi—spider?” Torvull laughed, trying to pry himself loose of Cairis. “That’s – that’s a coincidence!”

“Sure, so – and not just because I’ll smite you out of existence if you’ve pranked me with one of those damnable things!” Cairis snarled. “You know I’m terrified of them, Torvull! They can liquefy and consume someone of Warlord Ranveig’s size in two doboshes!”

Torvull yelped as she shook him. He struggled to get free and then went limp with a sigh.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered. “It’s dead.”

Cairis growled and set Torvull on his feet – and then, dragged him out of the kitchen. He stumbled along in her grasp as she towed him through the halls towards the residential section of the Voice HQ warren.

“I am mad at you, Torvull,” she declared. “Worse: I’m hurt. You surely heard the news reports of what happened out in the sector I was sent to.”

“Yeah, but—“

“So, you know what sort of danger I was in. You can see I got injured! I sent in updates to let everyone know when I was returning; you knew when I’d be back. And, instead of helping at all, you not only left work for me to do, but put a beast you know I’m deathly afraid of in my quarters!”

Torvull said nothing; he couldn’t defend against the charges.

They came to a halt in front of the door of her quarters.

“Let me guess,” Cairis grumbled: “you put it in my bunk?”

Torvull winced and nodded.

She heaved a disgusted sigh and put her hand on the sensor. The door unlocked with a beep and whooshed open.

There, directly in the middle of the floor, were some of the blankets she usually kept on her bunk.

She let out a furious yell and stomped her foot. She turned to glare down at him.

“You couldn’t even tidy up after yourself?” she demanded.

Torvull stared at the blankets. “Those weren’t there when I left. I used them to cover the…”

Cairis huffed angrily while he spoke. She pulled her carry-sack off of her shoulder – and paused as his words sank in.

She looked at him, looked at the blankets, and then leaned to be able to look at her bunk.

It was empty.

Swallowing hard, she released Torvull and said, “Get ready to run.”

She flung her carry-sack into the room.

Before it even hit the floor, a spider roughly Torvull’s size leaped out of hiding and pounced on it while hissing and stabbing with a stinger that emerged from its bulbous rear end. It took only a few ticks for the spider to realize it did not have living prey and tossed the sack away while turning to face the door.

Cairis and Torvull screamed in unison and ran just as the spider launched itself.

*~*~*

In the kitchen, Throk had opened some of the cases out of curiosity; was amusing himself by sticking brined and pickled small vegetables on his claws and making them ‘dance’.

Nakul looked on, both amused and disdainful – and then, twin screams of terror filled the halls.

At once, Nakul produced a short sword from her thigh armor while Throk shook the food off his claws and then pulled his blaster from its holster.

Cairis and Torvull raced into the kitchen and dove for cover with the Vikrahtian spider only a few steps behind them.

The shots from Throk’s blaster hit its carapace directly, knocking it aside and leaving scorch marks on the crimson shell. The twelve-legged beast reared up and postured, letting out a hissing scream, and then leaped upward to get away from the next round of shots.

“Stop!” Torvull shouted. “The sound booth is—!”

“Silence!” Nakul barked. “You should have thought of that before bringing this thing in here!”

To Throk, she said: “They’re impervious to blaster fire! You need a bladed weapon!”

Throk growled and flicked his ears back, but holstered his blaster and produced his own short sword.

The Vikraht spider coiled up in a corner of the ceiling and then launched – only to put itself in the path of a frying pan that Cairis flung at it. The spider hit the floor with a furious squeal and popped up again immediately.

Nakul and Throk spread out to either side of the spider, forcing it to split its attention. As they did so, Throk kicked the frying pan back towards Cairis, who caught hold of it and took up a defensive stance in front of Torvull.

“If we live through this, I’m gonna kick your ass!” she snarled at him.

“Fair,” he muttered, and curled up closer to the floor.

Fortunately for all of them: the Vikraht spider could not spray venom. In order to defeat them, it would have to sting them to paralyze them and then bite to inject the liquefying venom.

The terrible part would be that they would still be alive the entire time until their hearts and brains dissolved.

Twelve legs gave the beast plenty of speed and strength, but Nakul and Throk were formidable Galra.

It took several doboshes of teamwork – feinting and attacking – and even one solid strike from Cairis’ frying pan, but eventually they defeated the spider.

It was already critically injured when Throk stabbed his sword into the creature’s face, right between the fangs that were trying to perforate him. Then, while it gurgled and choked, Nakul came in from behind and drove her sword down into the connective bridge between the first and second segments of its body. She twisted the blade and severed the beast’s aorta. Orange blood welled up in an instant and poured from the wound around the blade, splashing Nakul with the ichor.

The Vikraht spider died within a dobosh. The feet that had grabbed hold of Throk went limp and slid off as the legs folded up.

Breathing hard, all four of them gathered together by one of the kitchen doorways and waited to see if the thing was actually dead.

Orange blood spattered Nakul and Throk both; smeared across the frying pan that Cairis held from that one good hit she’d got in.

“What the—?!”

Orirn’s upset sputtering startled them all badly. Only Torvull knocking Cairis’ arm off course spared Orirn from getting a frying pan upside his head.

Orirn glared at her, at the spider, and then used his cane to pivot so he could stare at Torvull.

Torvull tensed and lowered his gaze.

“I don’t know what Valoren is going to do to you,” Orirn declared, “but you’d better be prepared for the worst. She tolerates a lot of nonsense from the bunch of us, but endangering our lives is not one of them. Risking officer lives to defend ours is included in that. And she is absolutely terrified of arachnids, so that doesn’t help you at all.”

Torvull flinched. “I didn’t mean to endanger anyone! I thought it was dead!”

“Clearly: it wasn’t,” Throk muttered, and used a kitchen towel to clean off his sword.

“It’s a common trait among them,” Nakul explained, also using a towel to clean her sword. “They go dormant when they are in egg-laying mode.”

Cairis sucked in a sharp breath. “Eggs…”

She ran off to her room and forced herself to go inside. She spun around, gaze darting over every available surface, but saw nothing. She kicked aside her stinger-stabbed pack; the blankets on the floor. She tossed her bunk and then every possible space eggs could be hidden, but found nothing.

Her heart hammering, her breath gusting, she left the room and locked it behind her.

“No eggs in my room,” she growled as she returned; Orirn was gone. “And I really want to know how you got past the security lock, Torvull.”

“That is a good point,” Throk said, and flashed a cold, terrifying smile.

Nakul stepped closer to Torvull and he went rigid as he looked up to meet her icy glare.

“Where did you find the Vikraht spider?” she demanded.

“Storage room in Shipping and Receiving nearest to us here on Third,” he managed to say.

Nakul made an irritated noise. “I will let them know they have a possible infestation of Vikraht spiders about to emerge.”

She was about to open her communicator, but Orirn arrived just then, holding a scanner.

“Wait a tick,” he said gruffly. “This is a medical grade scanner I keep for personal use in case something goes wrong. We’ll know in a moment if it’s laid eggs or not.”

“Whether it has or not, a sweep should still be done,” Throk declared.

“Then get that started,” Orirn snipped, and set about scanning the spider.

Throk stared at him, coldly bemused by the shorter man’s impertinent attitude. When Nakul shifted, ready to take him to task, Throk shook his head silently.

He’d settle the matter himself – later.

A few ticks later, Orirn sighed and said, “The eggs are in the body; she didn’t have time to lay them.”

Cairis heaved a sigh of relief and finally set down the fry pan. She rubbed at her face, ignoring the shivers rattling through her – though, she flinched when a long appendage suddenly draped around her shoulders.

Opening her eyes and letting her hands drop, she found Throk standing beside her, giving her a condescending smile.

“There, Lamb,” he crooned. “The big bad bug has been killed! You’re safe, now.”

Cairis glared up at him. “Would it kill you to actually be nice to someone?”

“It might – and I’m not willing to test it.”

She rolled her eyes briefly.

“Listen, Lamb,” Throk murmured. “We did kill that wicked beast for you. We could have simply left you to it, after all, but that would not be becoming of us as officers and Galra.”

Cairis sighed. She knew full well neither of them would have left civilian Galrans undefended – nor even Torvull, despite everything. Still, she’d indulge him and play his game.

“What is it you’re after, Commander Throk?”

He grinned, showing off a mouthful of sharp and crooked teeth.

“Those are some rather large legs on that critter and the eggs are just going to waste if kept in there. You’re a cook and there’s a victor’s feast right there.”

Her stomach turned over. “You want to eat Vikraht spider…?”

“Great source of protein! The leg meat can be dipped in melted butter, I’m thinking.”

Nakul let loose a pleased sigh. “Oh, that does sound lovely. The eggs can be boiled or roasted, don’t you think?”

“There are several options available given there are hundreds of them in there,” Throk replied, gesturing at the dead spider. “Why not go for a sampler platter of variety?”

Nakul smiled. “I like the way you think, Commander.”

She focused on Cairis, then.

“This shouldn’t be too difficult for you, dear,” she said to the shorter woman. “Simply take the legs off and then open the abdominal cavity to acquire the eggs. Let us know when the food is ready and we’ll be along to enjoy.”

“I’ve never cooked spider before!” Cairis protested.

“It’s a good thing you’re used to looking up information, then,” Throk declared. He ruffled her mane playfully. “Quick, little Lamb! To the ultra-net!”

He patted her back and then joined Nakul as she turned and walked away.

Cairis covered her face with her hands again. “Oh, my gods.”

*~*~*~*

Several vargas later, Nakul and Throk came back to Voice HQ.

They were cleaned up and in casual clothing this time. Cairis eyed the curious mishmash of clothing pieces Throk was wrapped up in, but said nothing. He appeared to be comfortable and she wasn’t about to upset that mood – or have him upset with her, specifically.

Nakul’s ensemble was an elegant combination of a tunic jacket and trousers of comfortable material, with loose boots ending just below her knees. The fabric was all in black, with little pops of bright reds and yellow piping along the seams. Cairis couldn’t decide if it was a statement or not that Nakul wore the same colors of the beast she’d helped kill.

Doesn’t matter, she eventually decided. Nakul still looks amazing. Where did she even get that ensemble? She looks like she’s about to sit down at a meeting and decimate everyone while looking perfect.

Then again: that was Nakul on a daily basis, whether in casual clothing or not.

No one else had wanted to participate in The Great Spider Feast, so the officers had the dining area to themselves.

“The scents coming from the kitchen are fantastic,” Nakul opined as Throk seated her and then himself. “I’m looking forward to this.”

Cairis made a face as she placed a bottle of Zenebian wine on the table, followed by two glasses.

“I hope you like it,” she muttered. “The ultra-net gave me results, but… wow, getting it done was a mess.”

“I imagine so. What did you do with the carcass?”

“Gave it to animal sciences to play with,” she answered, “and they were the ones to disconnect legs and harvest the eggs for me in exchange for getting to keep a few.”

“Sensible,” Nakul approved, and held out her glass so Throk could pour for her.

“What became of the Unilu?” Throk asked, flicking a wicked smile at Cairis as he poured his own wine and sat back.

Cairis snorted. “Valoren is over talking with the Shipping and Receiving people to organize the scouring of the place. She’s even more terrified of Vikraht spiders than I am. She has Torvull with her and he’s back in a prisoner collar so he can’t run off. He’s going to be cleaning this place to perfect sterile conditions and I get to make him do all the food work and cooking – under my supervision. And I get new quarters. Valoren won’t make me sleep in the one the spider was in. But Torvull now has to.”

“Hmmmm… cleaning, cooking, and lying down in the mess he made,” Throk summarized. “I might mention that my armor still needs polishing.”

Nakul smiled. “As will I. The Unilu will be too tired for nonsense – but at least he still has a bed to sleep in. Not too terrible a deal for him.”

“Yet,” Throk murmured, and took a sip of wine.

Cairis left the two officers to talk while she went back to the kitchen to finish plating up the food. Before too long, she heard music and realized that one of them had figured out the sound system (which wasn’t terribly difficult).

To the sound of string instruments in a gentle melody, Cairis brought spider legs and spider eggs to the table.

Plates and utensils had already been laid out, so in the center of the table went a platter of enormous spider legs broken into their various parts and roasted. The otherwise crimson and yellow exoskeleton of the legs had been blackened by the roasting. Three more platters arrived containing roasted eggs, boiled eggs, and some that had been cooked just enough to leave the ‘yolks’ soft and runny; the sac opaque. Bowls of melted butter were brought out, and that was that.

“Enjoy,” Cairis muttered, avoiding looking at the food.

Throk selected a large, blackened femur after Nakul had taken her choice. “You aren’t joining us, Lamb?”

Even as he spoke, he snapped the shell of the leg in half and withdrew the slightly pink, steaming, fragrant meat from within.

“No, thank you!” she yelped, and fled the dining room.

The officers grinned, toasted each other with their spider legs, and settled in for a lovely meal.

The End

#fic written just for fun #starring: Cairis Nakul Throk Torvull Orirn and a not-so-itsy-bitsy spider

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eucjeanette75-blog · 5 years

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FRENCH SOCIETY Articles.

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jamesclarke99 · 2 years

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All About the Lips

Marilyn Monroe said, “A smile is the best makeup anyone can wear.” But what if you have a smile you don’t particularly like? You often find yourself using different techniques to hide your lips. Like smiling closed-lipped or covering your lip with your hands. Or trying to be serious to avoid smiling. Your smile should give you confidence, not be the cause of stress which can ultimately affect not only confidence, but the ability to socialize.

According to RealSelf’s reviews, at least 94% of those surveyed believe that lip augmentation is not only a confidence booster but is well worth the treatment. Your lips are the frame to your smile and give proportion to your face. And yet, everyone’s lips are different and require a unique approach to determine shape, proportion, and balance.

As you age, your lips that were once voluptuous and smooth become thin, develop vertical wrinkles, and as a result, your face may well appear aged. Perhaps you have lips that were damaged by an injury or by a cleft pallet. One non-invasive way of giving you the lips you want includes injectable dermal fillers. Lip fillers enhances the appearance of your lips by changing the appearance, size, and shape of your lips.

There are several dermal fillers that can be injected into your lips and around your mouth to give you the lips you want. What filler you use is the preference of your provider and you.

Dermal Fillers for Lips Enhancement

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One dermal filler often used by aestheticians is Juvéderm Ultra Plus. Juvéderm Ultra Plus is part of the Juvéderm family of dermal fillers and is formulated to create a sharp lip border and a smooth finish. Two treatments are usually required and spaced one to two weeks apart. Lips are “set” on the first appointment by injecting the filler in the corners and borders. When the swelling and bruising diminish, finishing up the body of the lips is the next step. Again, two sessions ensure symmetry and even results. 

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#gloaesthetics #aestheitcs #skin

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qisforqaos · 6 years

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QxPicard!!!!

Anonymously tell me who you ship my muse with and I’ll write a drabble of their first kiss. (Under a cut bc it got long)

Edit: Available on AO3 [x]

“This will be the last time we meet for a while, mon capitaine. I’m going away to tend to something. I wont be able to check on you for what will be, to you, a year.” The way Q said those words implied it would be much, much longer for the entity. Picard couldn’t say he was surprised. Q often alluded to the notion that he didn’t experience time in the same way a human would. Usually it came off condescending. Tonight it came out almost sad.

“What could possibly keep you away for any length of time, Q? Let alone a year.” Jean-luc made a sound of disbelief, another thing Q often alluded to, and flaunted, was his ability to control and manipulate time.

Q’s expression changed, before he had a look about him of determination but now it was something akin to morose. “Some things don’t translate well from the continuum to this universe of yours. Believe it or not there are some things even I can’t work around.” Try as he might. He loathed to be away for so long.

“You can’t?” Jean-luc prodded curiously, the sight of Q emoting was strangely captivating and it was rare Q admitted weakness or limitation. Bad as it may sound, the captain had some interest in knowing both of those things. He had a ship to protect and while Q was currently acting amiably he had a temper like the sea and he rarely had qualms with pulling someone under to their demise.

“Well of course I can’t. Otherwise I would.” Q puffed somewhat indignantly at the plainness of the question. “Honestly, Picard, don’t be so naive. Surely you’ve realized by now that there’s less difference between us than one might initially believe.” Q’s paused a moment to process what he’d just said and the look on Jean-luc’s face confirmed he’d been more telling than he’d intended.

Picard waffled between being offended by Q talking down to him and being curious about them not being too different. Most days Q was very tight lipped about his origins and his kind. He half expected the entity to accuse him of tricking the information out of him. Gently he modified his earlier question. “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere you couldn’t comprehend for longer than you can fathom.” Q remarked with something Picard felt was smugness usually but here Q’s expression told a story of someone trying to find the words and failing. Jean-luc felt as if Q would tell him if he could, believed it viscerally. Still the thinking, cautious part of him said that perhaps this creature was very, very good at imitating life. It was hard to tell with Q. He feared what the entity was capable of. Speaking of fear… Q looked a oddly scared, timid as he danced around leaving.

“Is there anything else?” Picard queried, not entirely sure he was making the right choice by trying to engage him. Still it was… hard to put down this thought. Q was scared of something.

The entity sat, dropping heavily onto the couch lining one wall of Picard’s office. “No.” He was a remarkably terrible liar. Something wanted to be said and Q was clearly fighting it like a child with a secret.

“Q,” Picard admonished, voice gentle. The entity fidgeted under the captain’s gaze. A flutter of anxiety started as Jean-luc recognized a frown of frustration forming.

“I’m trying to be good.” Q hissed in protest, nose turning up and his hands gesturing erratically. “If I tell you more you’ll accuse me of trying to gain pity or sympathy or something dreadful like that. Or something painfully obvious. ‘You’re being dramatic,Q’. Of course I’m dramatic.“ He hissed, mocking the criticism he was very used to receiving. “If I tell you my journey means my very existence is at stake and I could never come back then there a whole plethora of awful probabilities, each more likely than the last that you either wont believe more or– Or-… I’m trying to be good.” Q was absolutely red in the face and caught up in his own rant. He was blind to what was going on around him, immersed in puppetteering his physical effigy to just barely express the strange fear he felt being cornered trying to follow self imposed rules.

Picard had never thought of Q as someone who tried to improve or follow any kind of code of etiquette. He mostly thought of him as a very dangerous nuisance. But here Q was, sitting on his couch genuinely, at least very convincingly, panicking and ranting.He’d never seen a stronger glimmer of humanity in Q before now. It was almost comforting. “Q.” Picard raised his voice and came a little closer. “You might never come back?” The notion dawned on him that perhaps Q wasn’t nearly as immortal as he’d thought.

“I wasn’t going to tell you that.” Q protested. Mostly because he’d stopped looking into the actual immediate future to get a leg up and now worried about finding out things he didn’t want to. Like a note of relief that he could be killed or squashed out. Hope that some unknown danger would snuff him from existence. He didn’t like inconvenient truths.

“Why not?” he was very used to Q trying to buy or bribe favor.

“I just finished explaining, honestly. Keep up.” Q huffed and stood up. “I should be going.” Should be. Not though.

“You’ve only just arrived.” Picard took the cue that his guest was lingering for something. Though he wasn’t sure what. He watched Q’s smile as it evolved from tight and uncomfortable to sober and sentimental. Something in Jean-luc’s chest tightened and fluttered. An emotion he wasn’t used to associating with the man…. creature… in front of him.

“If I didn’t know you any better… I’d call that an invitation to stay.” Q teased, though his expression still read as sad and sweet. Q closed the gap between them, his hand upon his chin before he could say a word against it. “I wish I could.” His voice quivered, the tremble of imminent tears.

“Q?” Picard was frozen in place, a mixture of concern and fear swimming in his expression. Q was staring directly into his eyes in that unsettling shark-like way, his gaze dark and glassy; unreadable. “What are you doing?”

“Saying good-bye.” There was that great and terrible sadness again. He bowed his head, their noses brushing together. “I’d like to say it with a kiss.”

That sounded astoundingly like Q was asking for permission. Color the captain impressed. One wouldn’t stop at impressed; embarrassed, nervous and confused were also on the pallet. Right next a shade of attraction he didn’t remember bringing into the mix. “Then do it.” The words fell from his lips unthinkingly.

Q had no desire to let the opportunity slip by, his lips pressing against him with a little more gusto than was probably comfortable for his ‘partner’. It only lasted a brief moment before Q reminded himself he had to pull away. “I hope this isn’t our last encounter.” He muttered, pressing their foreheads together, wishing he could get away with remaining on the Enterprise. This was bigger than even himself, though, he couldn’t risk it.

Picard didn’t even have a chance to respond, the warm places where Q had once been making contact with him grew cold as he found himself alone once again, the only evidence he was ever there was the mild disarray of his personal items. He left them as is, returning to his desk, silently mulling over what he’d just done. The conversation he’d just had and the things he’d learned and bore witness to. “Until next time…” He breathed out to dead air, rubbing his chin. Suddenly a year seemed like a long time.

#anonymous #qcard

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adrenalineguide · 3 years

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2021 Subaru Ascent Limited: Reliability over Glamour

Words and Pics By Michael Hozjan

Hard to imagine that it’s already three years since Subaru launched their eight-passenger Ascent, even harder to believe is how the eight passenger SUV market has grown in the same time period. Take a look around any shopping mall or big box store and you’ll quickly notice that three row seat SUVs have quickly replaced the minivan as the proverbial soccer mom vehicle.

Ford Explorer, Nissan Pathfinder, Dodge Durango, Kia Telluride and Hyundai Pallisade are just a few of the names competing for a piece of the three row market.

New for 2021

In keeping up with the Joneses, Subaru has revised their flagship SUV with some mild upgrades, most notably is EyeSight with traffic jam assist and lane centering assist now added to their entire model range and not only the top tier models. Steering responsive LED projector headlamps are also standard for 2021.

Esthetically, Tungsten Metallic and Cinnamon Brown Pearl have been removed from the color pallet with Brilliant Bronze Metallic coming in. The Premier model adds another leather upholstery option: silver stitching on Slate Black.

The Second and third rows now get seatbelt reminders. I’m sorry Subaru you already have the most annoying seat belt chimes in the world that manage to send my blood pressure boiling each time I drive up my driveway to get to the mailbox.

The interior

Look, the Ascent has a fabulous interior, it’s plush, the dash is classier than most with the panoramic sunroof bringing in plenty of natural light, and fabulous for star gazing at night. It’s just the seat belt chimes. Second row captain’s chairs are now available in the Touring and Limited trim lines, and although Subaru claims seating for eight with the second row bench, I can not fathom three adults fitting into the third row, well, not in my family. On the positive side, thanks to a decent forward sliding second row, egress and ingress to the last seat in the house however, is far easier than some of its competitors, most notably the Explorer.

The 8-inch infotainment screen (the entry level Convenience model still has the 6.5inch unit) has large on-screen icons that respond quickly to your touch and are easily located. Regardless of size or trim, they feature Subaru’s Starlink smartphone integration, which feature stolen vehicle immobilization, stolen vehicle recovery and security alarm notices on your phone. Front and middle row occupants get two USB ports per row, but if you want the rug rats in the third row to have ports, heated rear seats, memory driver’s seat, power passenger seat, you’ll have to spring for the Limited and Premier. Illuminated steering wheel audio controls are had across the board. GPS is only available on the Premier.

There’s 20 inches of cargo room or 17.8 cu.ft of cargo room with the third row up, 47.5 cu.ft. with it folded away. Drop the second row and you get 82.5 inches between the front buckets and the tailgate, good for 86.5 cu.ft. The second row captain’s chairs almost fold flat, something to consider if you plan on hauling a lot of gear. While on the topic of hauling the Subie comes into its own with a towing capacity of 2,270 kilos, a couple more than the Kia and beats the Explorer by over a hundred kgs.

On the road

There’s no new news when it comes to the powertrain. It’s the same 2.4-liter turbocharged boxer four cylinder that I wrote about last year. Producing 260 horses sounds anemic in the category but what the Ascent lacks in ponies it makes up in turbocharged torque, 277 lb.-ft. to be exact. Traction to the four wheels is provided by the company’s tried and proven CVT transmission. My tester also came with X-Mode to help you get out of the sticky stuff.

The Ascent is a heavy vehicle and there’s a price to be paid for by relying on the four cylinder, that is not be the quickest out of the hole and it does get thirsty when pushed. Natural Resources Canada numbers place it at a decent 11.6 L/100 km city and 9.0 on the highway, with a 10.4 combined. My week-long drive with winter warm ups and mostly highway cruising returned a paltry reading of 12L/100 km.

Above: There ‘s 17.8 cu.ft. of cargo room even with the last row in place

There is a compromise, what the Subie lacks in acceleration against the competition it makes up for with its low center of gravity thanks to the low slung engine and so it handles better than you would expect from such a large vehicle.

That said, I find the Ascent more at home on the highway. Going home on the 40 and then the 401 the Subaru is composed and comfortable. If you’re not a speed demon and just looking for a ride that inspires confidence when the weather gets iffy, than you needn’t look further.

The verdict

Subaru’s ace in the hole has always been its consistently high ratings with the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS) and the 2021 Ascent has scored their Top Safety Pick+ award based on the previously mentioned additions to this model year not only for the EyeSight suite of safety aides but also the steering responsive LED headlamps.

Prices start at $39,180 for the Convenience and climb to $53,683 for the top of the line Premier which is the only trim available with a front-view camera. Unlike some builders, there was no surcharge for my Brilliant Bronze Metallic paint. With this year’s changes seen across the board, your choice of trim narrows down to just how much bling you want or need.

The Ascent may not be the trickest truck out of the box, it may not be the wildest looking, but what it is, is a reliable classy looking SUV that will get you from A to B with little fuss, and if the slew of Subaru loyalists is any indication of their quality…than ‘nuff said.

Price as tested: $50,783.00*

*Includes dealer prep and destination fees but does not include applicable taxes

#subaru #ascent #suv #7 passenger #mid-size suv #explorer #ford #kia #telleuride #hyundai #pallisade #nissan #pathfinder

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