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sobeautifullyobsessed · 29 days

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A Khan By Any Other Name

a prequel to Star Trek: Into Darkness

mystery, suspense, danger ~ romance & NSFW material to follow

summary: Seraphina DiPietro is wise in the ways of the world of world; she has to be, as she travels the California coast as a torch singer in pubs, bars, and nightclubs. She knows how to take care of herself and stay out of trouble--most of the time. When trouble comes, it's usually because she lets her kind heart overrule her common sense. Stopping to check on a handsome stranger stranded roadside in the Mojave Desert, her curiousity is piqued as much by his classic, mint-looking Mustang, as by its driver--a tall, dark, mysterious drink of water, whom she quickly learns is so much more than he appears.

characters: Khan Noonien Singh (aka: John Harrison), Seraphina DiPietro (OC)

word count: 2.4k

Chapter One

Her first mistake had been slowing down to have a second look. Three plus years with a vintage car enthusiast (her ex now, thank god; three months gone and good riddance to him, her mantra whenever he crossed her mind) had ingrained the habit in her. The habit, frankly, plus an appreciative eye for the sweetest of rides. Thanks to Simon (and his obsession), she could distinguish in seconds between the genuine article and that which easily fooled the masses, a cunningly detailed replica—and the sleek ragtop that looked to have skidded to the side of the road, leaving a spray a gravel and black, burnt rubber in its tracks, was absolutely the real thing.

So she’d slowed down, only half meaning to, cataloguing the fine details and quickly estimating its worth, while admiring its classic lines and the bright flash of its chrome detailings. Seraphina couldn’t keep from grinning, thinking about how instantly covetous Simon would be in the face of such a find, and how jealous he would feel to know that she had stumbled upon it with no effort whatsoever.

The man bending over the open hood

straightened as she passed, arresting her attention with a commanding, steely gaze that left her feeling like a marked woman. As though he not only saw her, in her every visible feature, but somehow inexplicably knew her—and needed her. Vitally, and immediately. Despite the lick of common sense apprehension that fluttered through her vitals, simple curiosity and a deeply embedded tendency to act the good Samaritan had Seraphina making her second, even bigger, mistake of the afternoon--pulling over to park her hovercraft several feet in front of his stalled vehicle.

She looked into her rearview mirror; he had turned to watch how she would proceed, holding his hands up with his fingers splayed wide, surely his way of expressing she could approach him safely. “Not so fast, buddy,” she murmured, “I wasn’t born yesterday…and I’ve seen your kind before.” Sera cut the engine, pulling the keys from the ignition and flicking the lock mechanism off the small can of mace dangling from her keyring. She wasn’t so foolhardy as to face the tall, well-built stranger unprepared; nearly a decade of travels up and down the coast of California, performing in seedy, small town dives, then upscale pubs and bars, and finally city nightclubs, had taught her well to be ever on her guard.

And she’d learned a few tricks in the course of her career, for if the mace should fail; she could—and had—flipped a drunk onto his back a time or two, who’d tried to cop a feel when she passed across a darkened dancefloor; and she knew all too well how much force was necessary, knee to groin, in order to incapacitate those pigheaded brutes who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer when they followed her out to the parking lot at the end of a gig. Handsome he might be (decidedly so, she mused, angular features, piercing eyes, thick, dark hair, an errant lock strayed upon his brow; such a striking combination!) but she was not fool enough to ever judge the book by it’s cover.

The stranger stood motionless a moment more, the light breeze ruffling that wayward lock until he brushed it back, a swift yet languid move that spoke of cat-like grace and an elegance that didn’t fit the setting or the way that he was clothed. He was straight-backed, slim-hipped, long-legged--and poised with a confidence befitting a prince, and not the work-a-day posture of a blue-collar joe or road-weary drifter. Yet the smile he gave her did not reach his eyes; Sera found it a little feral, and felt her pulse increase as a taste of adrenaline—that trusty “fight or flee” response—hit her system.

But she was already committed, having left the safety and cool comfort of her two-seater; if he was an actual threat, the worse that she could do was show the weakness of timidity now. Sera left her sunglasses in place, determined he would not read a bit of doubt in her eyes or bearing, the can of mace tucked neatly in the palm of her left hand, and walking forward into the dry, baking, Mojave Desert heat.

Sera gave a low but audible whistle, advancing as casually as she could, finally calling out to him, "She's a real beauty--and someone's taken serious loving care of her too." The 300-year-old Mustang appeared as close to mint as any vintage vehicle she had ever seen; given its obvious value, she had to wonder why the hell he would even have it on the road--especially in desert conditions. That instinctive voice of warning sounded an answer in her head: that's because it's not his.

Okay, Sera, she cautioned herself, give him the benefit of the doubt; he could have come by that automobile in any number of ways. She stopped a half-dozen steps from where the stranger stood, aiming to read his reaction as she asked, "Early 21st century, right?"

The man smiled--more sincerely this time--and nodded. "That she is," he replied, sparing a brief look at the stalled car, "Unfortunately, she's not going anywhere, anytime soon." His smooth, deep voice was as pleasant to the ears as his form was easy on his eyes, and his accent distinctly British, leaving Sera to ponder how and why he'd found his way into the midst of the Mojave. "I believe it's the transmission," he added.

In an instant, his eyes flicked downward, as though he registered that small, innocuous movement. She rushed to fill the vacuum of silence that hung between them, hoping to distract him from whatever suspicions her little move might have awakened. “I know collectors,” she told him, running her right hand through her hair, fluffing it a bit, hoping to draw his eyes upwards again “…fanatical ones, who would pay a small fortune to make such a treasure theirs.” She leaned toward him, adopting a confidential tone, honest in her curiosity, “However did you manage it?”

Sera could hear the tick of the internal combustion engine as it cooled, informing her he hadn't been stranded long. Surveying the area behind the Mustang, she spotted several telltale puddles of transmission fluid in the car's wake. "Looks like you might've blown a hose," she speculated, indicating the fluid spotting the back trail. "Those kind of parts are few and far between these days...but I bet we can find a mechanic who might be able to juryrig something enough to get you on the road again."

She turned back to find him watching her, his exotic-looking eyes narrowed. Appraising her in a way that made her feel...exposed. Unnerved. Vulnerable. Sera squeezed her hand against the reassuring weight of the small, defensive weapon cupped in her palm.

He inhaled sharply, a fleeting look of calculation crossing his face. “It was an unexpected…” he paused, studying her carefully, “…but well-timed acquisition of…convenience.” Such a reply was far too vague to answer her question—but didn’t surprise her in the least.

“Then you must be a man of remarkable luck, Mr…” Sera let her voice trail off with the question, fully expecting there would be little truth in his answer.

And then he was moving past the safe cushion of space between them, extending a large, powerful looking hand towards her, as way of introduction. “Harrison. I’m…John Harrison.” His grip was firm, not too tight, but Sera sensed—felt—a strength restrained that fit his bearing perfectly. Intimidating, but not frightening; confident—and intriguing her beyond her good sense should allow; and his eyes were locked on her, regarding her with such curiosity and healthy appraisal, that she slipped her sunglasses atop her head without a moment’s hesitation, meaning to meet his gaze directly.

Sera hadn’t realized she was staring until he cleared his throat. “And you are?” he asked, smiling warmly, surely feeling the advantage now of having gotten past her bravado. Her mouth felt dry—it had to be the arid atmosphere and not embarrassment over her awkward reaction to him--so that her tongue actually stuck a moment before she stammered out her name. “Seraphina.” She said it rather breathlessly, then bit her lip against revealing her surname.

Harrison had not released her hand, although his grip was gentle, and the warmth of his skin pleasant against her own. “Seraphina,” he repeated, the small smile creases bracketing his mouth deepening, and a hint of his true smile finally reaching his eyes. “Lovely name, Seraphina. Exotic in its way, and as rare and fetching as a desert rose.”

Ordinarily, Sera would laugh off such obvious flattery; she’d had enough of it--and insincere at that--throughout her years as a torch singer. This stranger—John Harrison—looked a better class of man than those who usually tried to ply her with compliments. That was no reason, of course, to take him more seriously than any of the others. And yet she felt a sort of…solemnity…about him; a dignity and self-assurance that spoke of a far more purposeful life than those of plain, ordinary men. He was damned attractive too, enough to have her a bit flummoxed at so dear a distance.

"Seraphina,” he reiterated, teasing the syllables along, the depth and richness of his voice making her shiver a little despite the desert heat. “A derivative of seraphim, the highest order of celestial beings in religious myth. Heavenly, fiery, winged immortals, tasked with surrounding and praising the throne of god.” He leaned nearer, well past that unspoken barrier of personal space, closing his eyes while inhaling deeply through his nose, seeming to seek her essence by scent alone.

Such unexpected intimacy left Seraphina speechless, every instinct she had telling her to give ground a step or two—yet she remained still, for when he opened his eyes, she found herself fascinated by their changing hue. Seraphina had never seen such striking eyes on a man before; and she’d have sworn that they were blue. Pale blue when she’d seen them from a distance, in the bright, unfiltered sun; then a surprising, piercing, azure when she met him face to face. Now they seem to shift unpredictably from purely blue to nearly green with however the light played upon them, with flecks of gold speckling around the pupils.

“I wonder,” he mused, almost to himself, while Sera remained entranced and silent, unable to look away despite knowing she must look utterly foolish, “Might you be the angel of mercy I’m in such desperate need of?”

Befuddled, Sera sputtered back, "I...um...what?", finally taking a step back and pulling her hand from his grasp.

"I mean to say how fortunate I am, you came along precisely as you did. " Harrison shrugged and took a step back as well, his manner self-effacing enough to lend sincerity to his words. "And that your nature is a kind one--I imagine most women would have cruised by without a care for my predicament, given this isolated location and the potential threat I could embody."

Regaining her composure, Sera lifted her chin proudly, "I've managed to look after myself for many years now, and in dodgier situations." Her usual insoucience restored, she asked the most vital of questions, looking him squarely in the eyes to read the truth before he even answered, "Do I have reason to fear for my safety, Mr. Harrison?"

His eyes widened and he grinned, and then he began to laugh. Heartfelt, and deep in his throat; the rich sound of melted, dark chocolate--the rare sort of sweet that was supposed to be healthy for one, but only if consumed in moderation. A woman could lose herself in such a laugh, she realized, and I'll bet he knows it too.

"If there was any reason at all, you've quite disarmed me already." Now it seemed he was sizing her up beyond first impressions--and liking what he saw, by the look of satisfaction on his face. "I promise you, Ms..."

"It's just Seraphina for now please, if it's all the same to you. " Sera pressed her lips thin against the smile that wanted to break forth, enjoying both his unspoken surprise at her overall boldness--and what she dared to believe was an appreciation for her physical charms.

Harrison acquiesced with a tilt of his head. "Then I promise you, pretty Seraphina, that I harbor no ill intent towards you. And I would be deeply indebted to you for the aid I am sure you intend to offer me."

She felt her cheeks flush at his easy compliment--not taken in, but happy to accept it nonetheless. "Well, it's a shame to have to abandon her here, but the closest hope you have for a spare part--and a mechanic with working knowledge of antique cars--is at least a hundred miles away."

"Alright then," he affirmed, moving past her to slam shut the Mustang's hood, "We should probably be on our way."

"Of course." Sera turned to follow him, wanting a closer look at the rare vehicle before they drove away. "You should put the top up too; you may not make it back here until tomorrow at least."

He nodded again, striding to the driver's side door to start the car and raise the top. Something not quite right here, she thought, frowning; I could swear that this model and the ones that followed, had a remote on the key fob to control the mechanism. It reminded her that she'd initially thought the car did not belong to him--and that somehow she had allowed his charm cause her to lower her guard.

She stepped to the passenger side, hoping for a peek inside to confirm her growing suspicion. "You ought to raise the windows, too," she told him, leaning close enough to peer inside the passenger side window, "No telling what might find its way inside here once darkness falls. It gets pretty cold here at night..." Sera swallowed hard when she got a look at the ignition cylinder; it had been removed from its place beneath the steering wheel and hung down by several wires. The wires themselves appeared to have been rearranged.

Her heart in her throat, Seraphina searched her memory for the word to describe exactly what she was seeing. Hotwired. That's what they called it; a quick and easy way to boost a car. Simon had educated her, marveling at the skill of those he'd read about who could do do in under a minute. She'd never dreamed of seeing something like it up close. Yet there it was, and the man who'd done it clearly hadn't wanted her to see it. Which meant...

He was faster than her by far; almost preternaturally fast. Harrison had grabbed her left arm ( --- damn, he had noted she was carrying something there! --- ) through the window opening, his iron grip digging into her flesh painfully. "Drop it," he ordered her, "Drop it now. I can explain everything if you just remain calm, Seraphina."

She didn't mean to, but she whimpered softly, not only at the discomfort he was inflicting, but also for the cold menace in his eyes. Had she thought them beautiful, compelling, alluring, just moments ago? Now it seemed to her they were the deadliest eyes she had seen in her life.

(to be continued)

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loadedberetta · 7 months

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5 Minute break // Ghost x Reader (fem no body desc)

cw mentions of smoking, guns and shooting

You planted your back against the tall brick wall just below the sign that proclaimed this very spot as a smoking area. A tall tree hung over the top of the wall, shading the whole parking lot. It filtered out most noises of the city, making the inner courtyard a cosy little space. From the other three sides, a tall, glassy apartment building encased the little asphalted eden. Smoke almost always rose from the spot you stood at, as all the people working in the multi-storey office building came down to have a break. As you did too. But the people close to you in the office knew you didn't smoke, and stopped offering you cigs long ago.

"You wan' one?" A new voice asked from moderately far away, as you just finished guessing the daily word in the game on your phone. As you registered someone coming closer to you, you looked up. He was a Brit, comfortably in his 40s. If you wouldn't have been an expert in men his age, you would have easily taken him to be a bit younger.

The thick but carefully trimmed locks of dirty blonde hair suited him, sometimes even falling towards his forehead, covering some of the gathering wrinkles below them. His browbone directed your gaze down to his eyes, brown pools of mature coyness. If dark chocolate, coffee, and brown leather had a lovechild, it would be that colour. His nose bent in a sharp line, that set a commanding effect to every small movement with his head, you imagined. Disappearing below a cloth mask that was pulled up to cover his ears halfway too, hid an angular and sharp face; that was all you could figure out before he pulled down the mask. His mouth angled downwards, pink lips contrasting the scars littered across his face, one particular one tearing into the supple flesh of his upper lip.

You noticed yourself staring when he disrupted the line of his mouth with the white, slim body of a cigarette. It stuck to his mouth as he spoke:

"Hey, I asked d'you wan' one? You look like you need it."

Shaking your head a little, you looked up embarrassed, to meet his inquisitive eyes. As soon as you saw he read your gaze, his crow's feet deepened, and he nudged your limp hand beside you with the box.

"Take one."

You finally found your voice again. Or so you thought. The words came out breathy and cracked.

"I don't smoke, thank--" You coughed into your elbow a few times, thanks to the small amount of saliva that you inhaled when trying to clear your throat. So much for first impressions. He didn't bat an eye, but his hands did stop mid-air.

"No, it's fine, light it." You told him after clearing your throat one last time. He lowered his hand, however.

"I'm fine actually. I'm… trying to quit."

Looking up at him with sorry eyes, you flashed a weak smile at him, not knowing what to say. He pulled out the box again and put the white stick away. You had just noticed how he was wearing all black. Boots, trousers, and shirt. All black. Something still showed through it all. A concealed bulletproof vest was comfortably hugging his frame. And to top it all off, the belt you mistakenly took for a utility belt until now, holstered a standard issue pistol, some cuffs, and other accessories of a security officer.

"…head security officer."

Dumbfounded yet again by him in the last two minutes, you looked up at him, meeting his eyes that harboured a strange darkness in them, as if they could tell a thousand stories.

"I'm the new head security officer. Simon Riley."

Finally coming to your senses, you managed to answer without swallowing saliva into your lungs. In the next moment, you had to realize though, that you have in fact swallowed nothing into your lungs. It felt as if he created the air unbreathable around you but in a good way. When you realized you were supposed to tell him what you were doing at the complex, his hand was already out to shake yours. You barely managed to blurt your own name back. He practiced it once, and a small smile settled on his face as he pronounced it back correctly.

"I'm… the sales director at John Rigby on…"

"…the third floor. I know."

Ah, he probably knows it from…

"…the safety briefings. I had to learn the place from the inside out, including all the people who work here. It's sort of… compulsory." For the safety company. A gun manufacturer's sales office is a bit conspicuous and would stand out for every trained eye. Just like his, as they were surely trained on you. From the first moment, he was surveying you. Breaking you down to sheer components, and putting you back together, without as much as saying a word. And you could deal with him, picking you apart. You wanted to remain composed and divert his attention from your features, so you commented snarkily on his appearance:

"Why have you got a safety vest then, and I don't?" You crossed your arms, coercing your delicate breasts upwards, forcing him to choose between talking while looking into your eyes or talking and staring at your tits. He chose the obvious third way, and darted his eyes with painful precision across your body, raking in every last drop of the sight.

"Because bodies like yours don't get shot at." When the compound higher-ups hired this new company, you had high expectations. Optically, they were in the clear so far, and you filed away that for later.

"And what if they do?"

"Then we did our job fucking poorly." He said with a hint of swagger, yet still sounding responsible and capable. After all, he was your new security officer.

After a moment of silence, you decided your break was up. If you spent any moment more out here, you were sure your clothes would have melted off of you, you were so hot. Despite the sun not being able to reach you through the high concrete walls around the spot, you felt hotter than ever, a damp patch growing in your panties with each passing moment prompting you to leave urgently.

For now... As you knew you hadn't seen the last of him yet.

my first long-ish work in a hot minute, I'm very insecure about it. have at it I have more thoughts on security guard Ghost. not betad by a long shot; it might contain some mistakes for which I apologize, this was like a year-old piece I renod

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caernys · 10 months

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i only dream (when i'm lying down)

relationship: spencer reid x reader, romantic pairing (part one)

summary: you're an agent of the violent crimes division of the fbi and you’ve fallen in love with spencer reid.

notes: part two! also posted on my AO3 account, kitkat_katsuki

warnings: vague mention of dead body (the shooter) and mild use of firearms

part one -> part two

you don’t shake hands. it’s a thing you’ve had since childhood— an aversion to touch and skin to skin contact. it’s stupid, you know, but everytime you go to peel off your gloves another statistic goes clicking through your head (a study conducted by researches at the institute of biological, environmental and rural sciences at aberystwyth university showed that a handshake passed about 124 million colony forming units of e-coli) and you’re pulling back your palm to wipe nervously on the hem of your shirt.

it’s been interpreted a lot of ways. a sense of superiority, some propose. others spit about a god complex, or just a plain old lack of basic etiquette. it doesn’t help that immediately after you’re proudly introduced as a “genius” by your ssa, left to stand there awkwardly while stevens brags about your iq (192), how fast you can read (30,000 words per minute), or your photographic memory (eidetic, you’re always itching to correct).

but you’re used to it. before your mother passed, she used to pull you tight at night and work her hands into your neck, whispering about how you were perfect just the way you were. it wasn’t your fault people got threatened when confronted with someone they perceived to be above them. it didn’t stop the harsh, barbed words that would always be hurled at you, but it did soften the blow.

your mother had always said you were meant for greater things than your dinged up apartment in la and your run down elementary school. she’d urged you time and time again to go where your brilliant mind was taking you, but you always turned her down. just because you could memorize a dictionary in seven minutes didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy the fifth grade.

when she got stabbed for refusing to give over her purse in a mugging (and subsequently bled out over the dirty pavement, screaming and alone) you cried for the first time in years. you’d never been one to cry— your father had beat it into you long ago before your mother had managed to whisk you away half across the country. you gave yourself forty eight hours. then you dried your cheeks and took a placement test.

the administrator had been shocked, at first. you knew you had aced it. it hadn’t been that hard. when she had told you with slightly shaking hands that she recommended skipping you all the way to highschool (college was on the table too, she said, but you just shook your head. that was a bit too far of a jump). she enrolled you into your senior year of highschool, and you had rocked back on your heels with a satisfied grin. it was a tribute to your mother, you told yourself. one day you were going to stand at the top of the world and you were going to be able to tell her that you had let your brilliant mind take you all the places she had told you about. (of course, she hadn’t mentioned some things.)

you got thrown into a locker the first day of school. they were seventeen, going on eighteen— you were eleven. as smart as you were, it wasn’t hard to put together the conclusion that harassment like this was always going to be inevitable. unavoidable.

you’d swing by the drug store on the way back from school, buy a tiny tube of concealer to dab on in the denny’s bathroom before heading back to the “flavor of the month” foster home. you got bounced around a lot. couldn’t blame them.

you were three months into your senior year when you met austin. she was pretty. long, auburn hair and natural make up. high cheekbones and sharp, angular lines that made up her face. she told you she had lost her parents young, and she fostered to give other kids the childhood she never had. you didn’t trust her. you never trusted anyone.

she was, surprisingly, the first one who finally got a clue. it doesn’t match your skin tone, she’d told you, rubbing the concealer off your face with a wet rag. you didn’t flinch away from her touch and she smiled all soft at you. she was alright, you guess.

austin offered to step in. she might not be your actual parent, she had vowed, but she could make hell in the school system until those kids were reprimanded. you had laughed, assured her it was fine. it wasn’t, but this was one of those things you had to deal with yourself.

she’d been frustrated, but understood. after a couple more days of you coming back a little rough around the edges, though, she had snapped— and offered to teach you how to fight. you had accepted. seemed like a valuable skill to have, didn't it?

austin owned a gym a twenty minute drive from your house. the mats in there quickly became a safe space for you, a shelter of training and quiet and peace. you took to taekwondo immediately, transitioning from there into hapkido and jiu-jitsu, muay thai and just about anything else you could get your hands on. your frame began to fill in with wiry muscle and you began to catch the punches before they hit you.

after you beat harry summers into a bloody pulp by the water fountain after he tried to reach a hand up your skirt, people began to back off. you’d been suspended for five weeks but austin had squeezed your shoulder proudly on the way to the car. you’d let her. she would adopt you five months, three days, four hours and thirty two seconds later. (an eidetic memory did have its perks.)

the fbi recruited you when you were fifteen and at mit, hacking their servers on a drunk dare. you had done it after eight shots, and they had never been more delighted to their code so mercilessly destroyed.

they couldn’t take you on as an agent until you were of age, so you stayed a shadowed consultant for the three years, sorting through case files between lectures and research papers.

you signed away your life to them when you were eighteen and got a badge and a gun in exchange. it was an even trade, you mused. (the first time you would fire that gun you were quivering and bloody, beaten and scratched, but your hands were steady when you pulled the trigger. grayson davids, a serial murderer, died that day. when you got to hug a mother and tell her the man who had taken her daughter would never hurt anyone again, you found that you didn’t regret it.)

austin would always force you home on weekends. she’d moved to dc to be closer to you, and you would spar for old times sake in the living room, tackling each other over pillows and chasing around the kitchen counter. you found that you loved her, one rainy saturday when you were 19. you called her mom for the first time a week later, and you both cried.

you met penelope garcia at a party and you were instantly enraptured. technology seemed to bow to her will and you’d spent the entire night together, drinking and laughing and dancing. you kissed her in the bathroom and she’d sighed all pretty, leaning forward to snake a hand around your neck.

you’d left the party happy and floating for the first time in years. (though you loved penelope to pieces, you two had parted as friends that night.)

she’d often call you with questions or invite you over with movie nights, though you’d always end up bent over a computer with her, nudging each other and laughing as your fingers flew over the keys. she never asked about your job. you never asked about hers. it was widely understood that penelope garcia’s house was a serial-killer free space.

at least, it had been until she’d gotten shot on the steps of her apartment. you’d gotten a call from her late the next day, and you had flown into a nervous panic. you couldn’t lose her– couldn’t bare to lose anyone ever again. at the hospital, she’d held your hands and cried into your arms, and assured you that there would be police outside of her house. you had dismissed that, offered to stay over, but apparently a member of the fbi had already beat you to it.

you’d asked her if she trusted him. she’d responded, “with my life.”

so you had relented. gone home, took your phone off of silent, set it right next to your bed. she didn’t call, so you assumed everything was alright. (it wasn’t).

the next day you swung by her office with a jar of peanut butter cookies to leave on her desk. she loved them, and you’d figured it was a nice thing to come back to.

instead you found a police officer with a gun pressed to the temple of an fbi agent, and two men from penelope’s team standing in front of him, hands raised. you recognized him from a sketch an artist had made penelope complete the other day at the hospital. you shot him in the back of the head, bullet shattering the glass.

the room was silent. the man was dead. your hands, as always, were steady.

(you would meet spencer reid exactly twenty five minutes and thirteen seconds later.)

#romance #fic #Spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #no yn #x reader #fem reader #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fandom #reader is super smart #smart reider #see what I did there #ok im making a lot of stuff up and its kind of obvious

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assortedseaglass · 8 months

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For The Seamstress & The Sailor, questions 2, 3, 4, 9, & 10, please 💜

Thank you most lovely person! Got carried away with the answers...

2: What scene did you first put down?

The opening scene! I wanted to write a Tom fic for a while. But wasn’t sure who to pair him against. I’d also had an inkling to write about three sisters, and eventually one day they came together.

Really, the story is about Bess more than Tom, and so I wanted her world to feel fully fleshed out before I launched people into their relationship with each other. Having the sisters sitting on the front step with their neighbours, I wanted to portray every key player in the story from the outset!

It’s no surprise to anyone that has read anything by me that I love world building and a huge part of that is the characters.

3: What's your favorite line of narration?

I really enjoy writing how Bess and Tom see each other. They’ve known each other so long there’s an existing intimacy that is fun to write. And that doesn’t always mean it is loving. I enjoyed Bess’ perspective here;

His head was leant against the brick of the house, exposing the lean muscle of his neck. The cigarette in his mouth was barely lit, and he pursed his lips to puff it into life. Bess watched the smoke unfurl in the air and caught site of his shadow against the wall. Sharp, harsh and angular. He looked like a Roman statue. Not one of a great emperor, mind. One of those spoilt man-childs that fucked their way around Rome before dying of syphilis. Bess snorted and sat on the bench beside him.

I also like writing Tom because I find him quite hard to read. I’ve said it before but even though Tom is a brash character, EM plays his emotions with such subtlety it's fantastic. I like this observation of Bess from his view;

Bess sat beside him and he passed her his cigarette. She placed it between her lips, Tom watching as she did. He didn’t comment on her dress, though admired it all the same. Her rosy face glowed in the low afternoon light and the smoke she exhaled cast a shadow around the plump lines of her face. Her long eyelashes were bare, as was the rest of her face. Youth exuded from every pore but, as always, her eyes were dark and focused. Bess seemed to have lived a million lives before she was given this one.

4: What's your favorite line of dialogue?

Basically anything Dot says! She is so open emotionally she just says whatever she’s thinking and I love that.

My all-time favourite bit of dialogue, though, goes to Claudette. I wanted Tom to have this realisation that he loves Bess, and for that to come when he meets this woman very similar to her seemed like the perfect time. And just as Bess always seems to floor Tom with what she says, Claudette does the exact same thing.

“You must love her very much. To see her faults and love her as you do,”

“You what?” Tom spluttered as he made to sip the flagon of water. “I-what? I mean, Christ-”

“Falling in love is easy,” Claudette continued. “People do it all the time. But staying in love, that’s a choice. The more we know someone, the more we see their faults. To want them despite that, that’s real love.”

It also seemed to resonate with people, and that is always lovely when we put writing out there.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

Were there! There were a few alternate ideas but mostly they went out the window pretty quickly because they didn’t make any sense!

The biggest change was that I was going to kill Fergal at the end of Volume I.

I made him an air raid siren with the intention that it would help his alcoholism, and that just as he had reformed himself he would be killed in the Manchester Blitz. However, the arc with Tom and Bess towards the end of Volume I is quite plot heavy, with Tom escaping occupied Europe, so I wanted to wait until Volume II.

My mum and I had a theory leading up to Word on Fire series 2 that Douglas would be killed in the blitz, then lo and behold Julia Brown revealed it was true! I grappled with killing both Douglas and Fergal, changing the story so that it was just Fergal who died, or keeping it in line with the canon of the show. I went with the canon because I think Douglas’ death is devastating to both Tom and Bess, and that is going to be interesting to explore.

I do miss him, though, and I really miss writing him. RIP Douglas <3

10: Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?

I’m cheating here and taking my answer from your amazing Interview with a Writer series which everyone should read!

My take on Tom is that he was a confident child, and took this confidence and started to act out after his mother died. He says what he thinks and doesn’t worry about the consequences. War wakes him up to is faults.

Bess, on the other hand, was not confident as a child, and only grew in confidence as an adult. She became sure of her place, whereas Tom started to question it. She rarely speaks her mind, only when she feels it is needed. War wakes her up to her strengths.

In that way they are different, but they have common ground too. Both are incredibly loyal, lost their mothers young and have things to prove. Tom, that’s he’s not just a petty criminal with no direction, Bess that she is worthy of a place despite her difference to her peers. Both of them also want to prove that there is more to the working class than what society expects of them.

I think those core elements that are similar, but the small differences that challenge each other, make them an ideal fit.

Fanfic Asks

#answered #tom bennett #moot moot

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iicarusflew · 2 years

Text

Fault Lines

Hermione holds her breath as they reach the precipice of the ever enfolding hill, the bridge burning in hungry, merciless orange flames, the fault lines dwindling between him and her, always rippling.and changing, always pulling them apart. His cheeks flood with colour. Suddenly, he looks much younger.

OR,

[Draco realises a gnawing truth about their year long search for the dark artifacts known as Horcruxes.]

The room feels cold when she apparates.

Colder , at least. After one week in a low-rent, non air-conditioned, objectively awful apartment by the coast in Markree, County Sligo , she is suspicious that her general sense of acceptable temperature has gone down at least three degrees.

Still.

Hermione’s fist involuntarily tightens around the handle of her wand as she shivers, the hairs of her arm rising, bristling with newfound electricity between her skin and the starchy, uncomfortable fibre of her cotton shirt. She can feel the stem of her wand trembling, glowering with her magic. She presses her lips in a thin line and lets the insidious trepidation—that has found a home in her, this trapped, grovelling monster, part of her life since the last three years—take control of the next few steps. Hermione is almost at home with it, the tension, the gut clenching sense of dissociation when she lands in a place not entirely safe, not entirely her scene, where a wrong foot means losing that foot.

This isn’t supposed to be one of those places, though.

With the tip of her wand gleaming a threatening red, she takes a careful step. There’s the familiar Rochester Lamp burning at the corner of the room, beside the dressing table. The golden flame flickers with the sporadic onslaught wind from the open window, making shadow and light dance inside the small, mediocre motel room. The bed is made, there’s a torn parchment on the writing table beside the window. Hermione dwindles between relief and distrust at the smells of cedarwood and vanilla—candles she remembers buying. Underneath it, like an afterthought, the sweet, sharp smell of parchment scribbled with fresh ink. He has a habit of making notes almost with religious desperation. In the early days of their… cooperation, she thought it was his incorrigible neatness.

Now, though.

There’s a sound of water running in the bathroom, muffled by the closed oak door. Hermione is afraid to call out his name. This is an unusual time for him to come here, more unusual, almost criminally uncharacteristic, is the cryptic note he sent her. Doubt simmers under her blood. Should she cast a stupefying charm? Strong enough to stun someone unsuspecting, but harmless... well, relatively harmless to recover from? An invasive image flashes through her head. A clipped off toenail. Hermione shakes her head determinedly. Better safe than sorry.

She raises her wand. The tip glowers with a bright scarlet light.

The door opens. A tall, rather angular figure comes out of the shower.

“You came,” Draco Malfoy says pointedly.

The relief leaves Hermione in a strangled breath. Her ears ring, blood rushing to her head as she takes a step back, then another, almost choking on the silent gasp. She hadn’t realised how tightly she had been holding onto her wand, hadn’t realised that her heart was pumping so ferociously, ready to combust, or fight.

Both, a nagging voice chimes in her head.

Draco, on the other hand, looks obscenely calm. He has wrapped a towel at his waist. The only piece of clothing on his slick, shiny body. The water dripping from his head makes the silvery blond hair a shade darker. Cool metal.

He cocks his eyes at her raised arm.

“I was going to hex you, you moron,” she hisses, dropping the wand instantly. A soft, harmless whistle splits out from the abandoned weapon as it hits the ground.

“You could’ve been hit.” The words would probably sound more menacing if she weren’t so busy trying to steady her breathing. Still, she glowers at him in anger.

He scoffs. “So I see.”

The unresponsive parts of her senses finally flood into her as she regains her composure. Her stomach is caught up in a bout of empty fists. She hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast. The one glass of glucose water she downed sourly now sloshes uncomfortably in her stomach as she watches Draco shrug, reaching out to the side of the dresser for another towel, calmly drying his hair.

Hermione blinks hard against the distraction, his calm demeanor, the light from the bathroom beaming lazily over his hair like a halo, and wrenches out the hair band to let the curls fall free. Her hairline prickles with sweat, it drips on her fingers as she feels the taut muscles of her shoulder. It’s been a terrible day , she tells herself. That’s why I’m so suspicious . She walks over to Draco. The light from the bathroom shadows him to her. She can’t read his expression without standing in her tiptoes.

“Is the water still warm?” She pulls out her dragonskin gloves—a gift from Draco for her twenty first birthday last year. When she takes off her shirt, a warm waft of damp sweat makes her cringe.

He hums.

The hairs on her arm pricks against the stale air. She shivers. The room is still cold, even after the adrenaline has done its course. An unnatural, insidious chill slithering on the slope of her curves. Like trepidation. Disturbingly invasive. The dried scratch of wound on her left wrist prickles uncomfortably.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Why did you call me at this—”

He tilts his head. The light glints on his cool grey eyes, and she finds him studying her with a blunt expression. “I found another one today.”

Her breath hitches. Her entire body turns rigid at the instant. It feels as if a cool sleet of ice has passed over her, crystallising her blood. Of course . It makes sense now, the time gap, the tightness, the marrow deep, senseless chill.

“Where is—?”

“It’s safe.” He raises his hand, twirls a strand of her hair away from her face. Instinctively, she leans up. “Perfectly safe.”

The last sleepy trail of her heartbeat picks up its pace again at his words. The slick velvety softness masking the bleak… disconcertion. Anger. His eyes flick over hers before he bends down. His lips are cool, and the kiss feels dry.

“What’s wrong?” she asks again, hating the ever constant timbre in her voice; something he is able to scratch out every time. Every useless emotion she feels through the day, every sparse, renegade bit of fear, anger, dread, anxiety, relief bulks up in a nauseating clot and hover at the back of her throat. Like a patchwork map of her psyche, a secret aching to bleed out. Most of the times she lets it out by fucking him, most of the time she cries until she can’t feel her eyes.

Most of the time, he lets it out by fucking her, other times it’s by breaking walls—the muggles here have exceptional rule of discretion for the depleting witches and wizards. Mostly due to obliviate .

Feeling gravity betray her when he drops his hand suddenly, Hermione gulps down the dread to make room for logic. Rationality. She tries to stand still as he walks away to the bed. He flicks his hand and the piece on the flies to her.

Hermione catches it with her heart in her throat. It’s her own handwriting, graciously juxtaposed by the slant, looped scribbles of his own. Numbers and code names and incantations pulsing off, linked together in a mess of briar-patched words around her own, interconnecting under the ubiquitous eye that could be found in every piece of paper he sends to inform The Order, to her.

The ink bleeds off when she touches the side of the eye. A lash smudges out.

She smells the sharp, kerosene-likesmell. She coughs before saying, “This is the coordinates to the place I—”

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts calmly, just like he always does, no matter the subject. It’s the result of a ruthless self remodeling routine, his demeanour. Hermione has only seen it slip in this room. “About what you said the other day.”

“About what?”

His voice drops lower, becomes silky, intent, “Horcuxes.”

____

She had been obsessing over the pieces of dark magic when he came along to the other side. She remembers the night. The ungodly storm bellowed hardest as ever when the knock came at the shell cottage. Six wands flew at once, aimed menacingly, meticulously at his chest. Hermione’s was not among them only because she was too weak to do so. A poisonous hiss, a call for blood and bruising before… Bill made them stop.

She forgot the topic of discussions and repercussions and what it was that made them finally come to a grudging compromise, but she could never forget his eyes when he stared at her for the first time in the homely cottage. It was almost dawn. The putty grey-blue light of the unborn sun shimmered into the kitchen. His lips trembled before he looked up and straight into her eyes. It was the first time she realised how grey his eyes were, how colourless. Ethereal. Something unspeakable passed through them. More than apology, more than shame. It was guttural, his regret. It had moved something in her. She agreed to give him the chance.

Sometimes she wonders if that was a mistake, for him and her. If the connection was a noose for either of them.

Both of them.

____

Horcruxes.

“What about them?” She tells him so much now, it’s hard to keep track. It’s an insidious mistake, she knows. Even though he’s risked his life for her—for them —more times than she could count, she knows they’re only on borrowed time, imbalanced resistance. One wrong word to the wrong person, and everything falls apart. She reminds herself of this truth fruitless when he tells her about his day, whatever dark spells he cast, how many pieces of his souls are forever tainted to its velveteen touch. How much he still hates his father.

His favourite sweet is sherbet lemon. So is hers.

“About their origin. How they’re made.”

“And?”

The initial theory of Dumbledore has long proved to have been wrong. Voldemort didn’t create just seven horcruxes, as they realised when Draco came to them carrying an archaic family ring dripping with dark, disturbingly familiar magic. Hermione has since been studying numbers to figure out exactly how many horcruxes might be out there. The number, as she is suspecting, has a disturbing chance of being among three figures.

“And how Nagini is one of them.”

She flicks her fingers to close the window. “Yes, I think—”

“So.” He drags his nail on the line of his jaw. “I was thinking about another live thing that could have been—”

Her breath stutters. She has to sit down by the side of the bed before she can process anything else. Oh she can tell where he’s going with this. The temperature in the room drops down a few more notches.

“He’s one of them, isn’t he?”

Hermione closes her eyes determinedly. The rapid, thumping beat of her heart picks its pace with a vengeance. It feels as if it actually wants to tear itself out of her. She doesn’t even have the energy to try and act coy, as who he is talking about. She clamps her hand on the soft, warm duvet. Silk fluttering on her skin.

Her wrist pricks .

“Yes,” she whispers, conjuring the image of the bright green eyes and a smile that leaves nothing a secret.

“Ingenious,” he says sourly. “What’s a more resilient weapon than a live —”

“Don’t talk like that,” she snaps. The image disappears into darkness.

“How else do you want me to talk? How else could I possibly talk about it?”

She blinks. His face is hidden inside his hand. She thinks it’s probably better that she can’t see the venom in his eyes. “Draco—”

“I have been risking everything to assist you in your quest for Horcruxes. Everything. ”

A broken bone, its white, dome shaped head jutting out of his knee. The healer said he won’t be able to play quidditch anymore. A blasted toe, deep, dark blood spraying over his ankles.

“I know—”

“And now I realise that no matter how much I suffer… how much you suffer, it’s worthless .”

“This is not worthless. What we do is—”

“I come back home.” It pierces her heart that home means the rented, squalid hotel room. “And my girlfriend is not even honest with me.”

Her lips curl involuntarily.

A terse silence.

“ Oh .” He sneers. “So you’re not even my girlfriend. Fuck buddy, then. A vessel to leak out your frustrations. That’s what I am to you people anyway, right?”

“No. You are more,” she bleats. “You know you are—”

More than just a vessel, more than a body. He is the bright bold freshness after a weary day. A splash of colour in the bleak reality. He is the boy waiting for her in this make-believe home.

Most of the time, he is all that she looks forward to.

“I get it, OK? I get why your people think I am… but I thought we had honesty between us, I thought you weren’t going to send me to my fucking death—”

Always the worst raids, always the more brutal tortures. Make that death eater blind. Take the hand. His nights are endless nightmares alternating between things he’s already done to things he would do, would have to do. The scar on her wrist lights up like a candle. Hermione notices all this with her one eye open. One hand clasped tight around her heart. She tells herself that this means more than them, more than any of them.

“It’s not like that, Draco,” she finds herself saying, almost begging. “I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. I wasn’t sure how to even think about it.”

“Does he know?”

“He suspects.” She takes a shaky breath. “I suspect, too, you know. There’s nothing indefinite to say that he is a… a—”

“Yes there is.” He snaps his head up, stares right at her. “It all fits. ”

That was their code word, wasn’t it? The both of them used to put the wretched world together like puzzle pieces, accepting bleak truths no one else was willing to accept. That was what drew them together, wasn’t it? It was not about lust or anger or resentment, at first. It was about understanding . The morbid, intelligible realisation passed over them across bread and butter. Recognising the tired animal in each, staring at it without blinking. Touch came later. Much later.

“Do you think,” he says now, across the bed, across an ocean, “when the time comes, you’ll be able to kill him? Will anyone ?”

“How can… how can you ask me that?”

“I’ve been bombarded with tough questions ever since I’ve joined the lighter side, Granger. Now I get to ask questions about dubious allegiances.”

Will you be able to kill your aunt, Malfoy, if it comes down to it? Or will you change sides again, craven? How about your father? What if we have to use your Manor for shelter of muggleborns, of mudbloods? Could your pureblood walls take that?

That was, of course, before both of his parents turned up dead at a suspicious fire that burned down half of the Malfoy estate.

“Will you be able to do that for the greater good?”

She is near hysteric as she fishes for a coherent answer. Heart beating in a mad, mad frenzy. The words are too fast and slippery for her to grasp. “It won’t be like that! I swear I… I’m trying to find an alternate way. There will be, there has to be —”

“You saw what happened to the diary. The locket and my ring . There is no way to destroy the horcrux without completely destroying the vessel. Beyond repair.”

“Harry is not a vessel,” she hisses, the words sound menacingly wrong even as she says them.

“Then what is he?”

“My friend.”

His entire face twists at this. As if it suddenly dawned on him what he had been asking. His lips press into a thin line, quivering. Hermione holds her breath as they reach on the precipice of the ever enfolding hill, the bridge burning in hungry, orange flames, the fault lines dwindling between him and her, always rippling, always pulling them apart. His cheeks flood with colour. Suddenly, he looks much younger.

Almost as young as his age.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He did.

“I know.” She does.

The moment swirls, shivers into something like a dream, not entirely real. They shouldn’t be talking of these stuffs, of lambs and slaughters, of sacrifice disguised as goodwill, of the greater good. This is a safe haven, this is a place where they are different people, not what the war spits out, broken and tired. Jagged. Suspicious. Wrong. Seeing enemies in strangers, blood in water. In this room, they are whatever they want to be. And what a glorious dream that is. What an enchanting person he becomes. Someone who belts out Latin when he’s righteously outraged, someone who has the Epic of Gilgamesh memorised like the back of his palm, someone funny, mischievous, with a mind as deep as it is wide. Hermione likes to speak in codes with him, she likes to melt in the warm, warm sheets and wonder about stardusts and evolution, not worry about him catching up to her thoughts. He is always there.

Draco offers his hand. In the flickering light, she can see his fingers trembling.

The room is still cold. But, Hermione imagines, his arms would be warm. “Come here.”

____

Late at night, as she tries to regain her breathing, he plays with her now fresh hair. The lamp has long been extinguished. What little light remains in the room stands as only the testament to the resistance of the moon. Hermione watches sheets of dust wrinkle in the silvery light breaking through the window, a soft, fresh smell of mint now invades her senses. An iridescent glow hovers above. She wraps her hand around the one he has draped over her stomach, taps lightly on the bend of his elbow. She can feel his eyes on her face, on the shallow dip of her collarbone. Careful. Contemplative. She can tell he’s still searching for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Hermione closes her eyes. Breathes in deep. “It’s alright. You… weren’t wrong about me holding back. I’m sorry about that.”

“I just… I want to be good. I want—” His voice breaks. He wants to be so many things, she’s afraid she won’t get a glimpse of most of them. She’s afraid, when the war is over— if, a terrible, gnawing voice in her mind says, if the war is over —they wouldn’t know where to pick up from the mess they’re making at this place. Every touch is an attempt at coping. Every promise seems like a rope to hold onto.

“I want to be good. But most days, I don’t see the point. Of hunting horcruxes, putting my life, your life out there… How does Potter do it, anyway? I feel I’d pitch myself off the astronomy tower if I had to…” He chuckles sourly. “But that’s a lie, isn’t it? I’m still here. Still living.”

“Not just living. You’re doing something good. Something that matters..”

“Yeah, sure.”

She tilts her head to stare. Her eyes linger on his nose, the hollow under his eyes, the sharp angle of his face, always standing out in challenge. The pale skin gleams in the shallow light. His eyes are calm, liquid silver. His sort of beauty always puts people off guard. Not entirely homely. Not easy to look away anyway.

“We all need to come to terms with difficult boundaries,” she says softly.

“Yes, but... you shouldn’t have to. Not you.”

Hermione tries to be innocent to his intentions. But she knows. He is protective of her. He tries to make her choices easy, every time they go on excursions. She remembers finding the sixty-fifth horcrux with him. The woman they had to kill to get away. She knows he tries to tackle her morality, how fragile it is in times like this. He treats it like the centre of his gravity; if someday she slips, she knows with a piercing certainty that he will fall right into her.

A briar patch pain slather in her chest. They should’ve been here sooner. They should’ve had this sooner. All the things that separated them, blood, name, houses sound so frivolous she wants to cry.

A plague on both your houses , she thinks grimly. Look what you made of us.

“We all have boundaries.”

Faulty lines crackling under the weight of reality. Somehow she has landed herself in a world where nothing is constant. The lines keep shifting, shrivelling, changing with foreign, nefarious interferences. Once Draco Malfoy stood at the far end of the other line. She wonders how many of the lines will shift, new boundaries emerging, taking her—taking them —further and further away, before they turn into someone they don’t even recognise.

If she never met him— again, if she hadn’t met him again— the world would have looked easier to navigate. Every action and every resolution could be placed neatly into boxes of good and evil. But now…

“We do.” He brushes away her hair to kiss her neck.

“I can’t forsake... everything to this war.”

Not Harry. Not Ron or Ginny or... him.

“I know. I have boundaries too. I just… they’re so different from yours that I… forget. I slip.”

But are they? Different? Hermione remembers that stormy night in Cheshire. A flock of rouge dementors hounding over them. She fell flat on the ground, feeling the cloying stickiness of blood dribbling down her neck. Draco could’ve left. He could take the amulet on his hand that wasn’t injured and apparate. No one could blame him, not really. Hermione was hoping for the bleeding to quicken, deplete the oxygen level of her body so when the dementors finally came she would be far away in her mind.

When the bright silver warmth of his patronus broke in, it felt like the sun. It felt like being born. She swore that day, feeling his angry tears on her cheek as he was chiding her about her lack of protection and general sense of self-preservation, that she would return the favour. The warmth of the sun. Rebirth.

She knows he isn’t ready to hear of these promises; the world is too chaotic, too uncertain. Right now they can only find solace in an obscure room in a muggle motel.

“I can’t lose the people I love,” she whispers, praying that he knows it includes him, fearing that he doesn’t. “It’s selfish, I know. But I can’t be made to make these decisions.”

She’s too young. She’s given so much already. Not this not this not this too.

“I understand.” He does. Always did. That’s what drew them together. Something about the tar black parts of her soul, the one not strong enough, the one cursing at the universe with undignified tears, the one using sex to deflect from the ever encroaching void in her chest—the ones too ugly to look at, he places his fingers on them, brushes away the soot and dust and denial and looks right at the eye. He likes her eyes, she knows. He draws them on every piece of parchment like it’s a charm on its own.

Hermione takes a shaky breath. “Where do you draw the line?”

His eyes flick over her face. In the moonlight, the colour transforms. From something cold and unattainable to something soft. Almost melting.

“You,” he whispers, as if it’s a secret, as if she doesn’t already know . “Only you.”

____

my other dramione stories :)))

Serendipity

Soulmate

Magnolia

Catch-22

Astronomy

Spring, Autumn, Winter, Summer... and Spring Again

Trouble

#dramione short fic #dramione one shot #dramione fanfiction #dramione #one shot #draco malfoy #hermione granger #draco x hermione #angst #fanfiction #angst and comfort #harry potter #requited feelings #light angst #hurt/comfort #canon divergence #second wizarding war canon divergence #draco switchtes sides #horcrux

32 notes · View notes

whtwclf · 7 months

Text

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 , 𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 his deathbed if not for the keen medical savvy of Bones, it was wild to James how so many could presume Vulcans – or at the very least Spock specifically – were somehow emotionally bankrupt. Emotions hung on Spock like ornaments to a tree, they just didn’t come in the way people – very specifically humans – anticipated or even understood. James did have an edge in that arena; a coded part of spycraft is learning the language of emotions – how to suppress them, use them to lie, hide a truth, cause pain. The otherside of the coin was knowing how to read them on the opposition with equal accuracy and fluency. A subtle art for a specific kind of warfare conducted on an entirely subliminal, even meta, theater. This was an art James Buchanan Barnes was conditioned by the most barbarous of methods and extremes to understand to perfection. It was an art he still had to make use of in the current war. Conversely, in moments like these that bloomed inside the pocket existence he held with Spock; it served as a tool with which he would use to observe art. Because that was what Spock often exhibited to James; 𝐴𝑅𝑇 𝐼𝑁 𝐴𝐵𝑆𝑂𝐿𝑈𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁.

The angular lines of his face that undulated only imperceptibly so or the slight and slow twinge in his left under-eye, faint drops or lifts appearing at the points of his mouth – vanishing as quickly as they came, but above all else was the entire commotion of feeling anyone could find swirling around in dark, earthy eyes looking back at them. It all was there in clear and present sight – a beautifully threaded tapestry of complex emotions disciplined to a unique extreme.

It just required someone to know what they were looking for, possess the patience to wait for it, and a wisdom stoic enough to know what lay exposed when presented.

James wouldn’t have called himself a wise man, but he would call himself a man in love; and while he didn’t believe that love could replace wisdom – he did believe it was the rhythm for the brain to follow so it can keep a harmonious beat with the heart, so together they might allow James to intuit and understand the soft and subtle mysteries of the man before him.

Love also has a habit of eschewing pragmatic threads of thought away; instead allowing a person to simply feel their way through a thing as opposed to thinking.

That moment had James feeling the tips of fingers against his wrist and he did nothing in the way of thinking or thought when his only three functional digits clumsily scrambled to lace themselves through the spaces of the Vulcan’s long, tapered fingers and clamp down firmly.

Something in that igniting spark of touch lent to a piercing ache in his chest that was the ghost of pining left on the field of a ruined planet, the screaming caution not to leave, a sudden and vivid rush of the night spent together knotted-up inside long limbs and hard breathing – it was sight without seeing and only feeling. The rapid succession of emotions felt to such high tiers they serve as a hallmark to navigate memory, and in so many memories that were false and manipulated, it was always a sense of feeling, something in the gut, that was a mile marker for truth.

𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 ; James loved him. He loved him in a way that felt irrevocable.

He wanted to say that. But he didn’t.

Instead he took in a very sharp breath and leveled his eyes to fall on Spock’s, “– 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒑𝒐𝒄𝒌 ,” he couldn’t hide the warmth that layered around his words like honey, “ 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰’𝒎 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒊𝒆 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆 .”

There was a smile there that walked somewhere between cheshire and wolf, trying to mask the subtext of solemness that was inherent to his sentiment.

“ 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒖𝒙𝒖𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓; 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝑰 [ 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 ] 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒖𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 ,” it was worth mentioning the lazarus-like vigor of James B. Barnes’ charm.

Even in his own depreciation, he still had time to flirt with his Vulcan.

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝’𝚍 𝚠/ @fasciinating 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

#✩ 𝙵𝙰𝚂𝙲𝙸𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 :#✩ 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙲𝙺 :#✩ 𝙲𝙾𝙾𝚁𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚂 : 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁 𝚃𝚁𝙴𝙺 𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴 #“𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 10 － 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑎𝑙 𝑤𝑎𝑟“

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dustedmagazine · 10 months

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Henry Threadgill — The Other One (Pi)

The Other One by Henry Threadgill

Over the last five decades, Henry Threadgill has been creating a singular body of work, as both a distinguished reed players and an inimitable ensemble leader. Early on, Threadgill cultivated his sense of ensemble arranging and playing as member of AACM in the trio Air and in groups lead by Muhal Richard Abrams, Anthony Braxton and Roscoe Mitchell. But from X-75 Volume 1, his first recording under his own name released in 1979 with a group comprised of four woodwind players, three bassists, piccolo bass and vocals, he revealed a penchant for creating improvisational frameworks around distinctive voicings. Since that time, he’s honed his approach with long-standing ensembles, each building on his ear for angular, contrapuntal themes extended through open group interplay.

First up was The Henry Threadgill Sextet (a seven-piece group designated as a sextet because he saw the two drummers as a single percussion unit) featuring his alto sax along with trumpet, the low-end double bass/cello/trombone, and a percussion duo. A foray into social dance music, his Society Situation Dance Band, went unrecorded but his next ensemble, Very Very Circus, with sax, two tubas, two electric guitars, French horn, and drums added a pulsing groove while expanding on his multifaceted ear toward hocketed lines and intricate, stratified voicings. Make a Move and Zooid pared things back a bit in the size of the ensemble while still incorporating intriguing instrumental choices like paired acoustic guitars and cellos, accordion, oud and tuba. Then, with Double Up, Threadgill mixed in paired reeds, paired pianos, cello, tuba and drums, expanded even further with 14 Or 15 Kestra: Agg. With each of these ensembles, he extended his compositional approach, diving in to the timbral and dynamic opportunities afforded by an increasingly orchestral instrumental palette. All of this doesn’t even touch on the various commissions for orchestra, string quartet, and chamber ensembles he undertook.

In May 2022, Threadgill presented one of his most ambitious projects to date at Roulette Intermedium in Brooklyn, New York. The composer prepared a three-movement composition entitled “Of Valence” for a twelve-piece ensemble made up of three saxophones, violin, viola, two cellos, tuba, percussion, piano and two bassoons. The piece, inspired by Milford Graves and his integration of the human heartbeat as a source of rhythmic understanding, is a meditation on human transience based on his observations of the exodus of people from New York City during the Covid pandemic. The performance incorporated an array of multimedia components including video, projections of paintings and photographs, electronics and recordings. Each performances was split in to two sets providing varying takes on the composition, the first set titled “One” and the second titled “The Other One.” This release, Threadgill’s eleventh for the Pi Recordings label, captures the second set of one of the performances in scintillating fidelity.

The three-movement piece begins with spare, stabbing notes and rumbling open chords on piano, intently traversing the foundational angular motifs. The reeds join in setting up the entrance of the full ensemble. Threadgill maximizes the sonic breadth provided by the full range of strings and a broadened reed section. His conducting is supported by tubist Jose Davila, cellist Christopher Hoffman, pianist David Virelles and drummer Craig Weinrib, all veterans of the leader’s groups who collectively help helm the ensemble through the intricately evolving piece. Themes are introduced, fragmented, inverted, and hocketed as sections elastically play off of each other and branch off into sub-groupings as the densities of the piece ebb and flow. Threadgill’s proclivity for utilizing underlying galvanic pulse is an anchoring element, buoyed in particular by tuba, cellos and drums as the music bobs and weaves along with the countervailing, keening melodic threads.

Threadgill’s pieces demand exacting execution, and the group fully embraces the compositional form while each displaying adroit capabilities exploring the inherent opportunities for improvisation. While Threadgill sticks to conducting here, the influence of his instrumental voice is readily apparent throughout. Milford Graves’ influence is heard most overtly at the start of the second movement where violinist Sarah Caswell, violist Stephanie Griffin and cellist Mariel Roberts each play their parts while listening to a playback of their own heartbeats as recorded previously by a cardiologist. The result is that the pulse of each individual players’ lines intertwine, mutably moving in and out of synch while maintaining an unwavering, galvanizing flow. One third of the way through the 16-minute section, lissome sax lines are introduced segueing to the entrance of the full ensemble. While density builds, there is a transparency to the orchestration as lines and instruments come to the fore and then recede. Midway through, sizzling transducer-activated cymbals play off of abraded cello overtones setting the stage for a freely lyrical tenor solo which wends to a closing section with percolating pizzicato strings and pattering percussion.

The final movement kicks off with a short interlude for strings and drums, leading in to a section of abstracted melody, with alto and bassoon lines snaking around the ensemble voicings. Interludes for solos are woven through as the pacing constantly morphs. Here, sections are clear successors to the approaches that Threadgill worked through with Zooid and Double Up, inheriting the underlying coursing flow and arcing lyricism but shading and extending it with timbral orchestration, the bassoons being a particularly astute addition. In the final section, intertwined piano and tuba and the shifting shuffle of cellos and drums set the stage for an all-in re-statement of one of the central themes, leading to the finale of the piece for the full ensemble, crescendoing to dramatic intensity. Listeners have benefited from Pi Recordings’ dedication to Threadgill’s evolving and burgeoning oeuvre. The release of The Other One is a significant addition to these efforts and essential listening for those interested in Threadgill’s music.

Michael Rosenstein

#henry threadgill #the other one #pi #michael rosenstein #albumreview #dusted magazine #jazz #AACM #air #improvisation #composition

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gorematchala · 1 year

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Playing PLA again I'm reminded of the prerelease era when we were seeing leaks of the new pokemon, particularly the regional starters, and my slow acceptance of what has become one of my favorite pokemon, Hisuian Samurott. Samurott itself being one of my least favorite. A lot of what I love about the Hisuian version is how little they changed, which served to confirm all the problems I had with the original design so I had grounds to tell gen 5 stans I told them so

My problems with Samurott were many. Primarily that its built like a mic stand. It has 4 big chunky legs splayed out at a weird angle, and a long thin neck supporting an obnoxiously huge *thing*. Having not been in on the ground floor of gen 5 I saw the design separate from the Pokémon's name and assumed that the head thing was supposed to be a ship mast or something and that the beard was like an old timey ship captain beard. Realizing that it was meant to be a samurai I had questions like "huh?" And "what?"

It has swords hidden in its arm guards which protrude at an angle that would be impossible for its three fingered fat fuck flipper hands to reach, and it would have to fight on 3 legs because its back legs arent long or thick enough to support its gigantic upper half, but it has two swords?? It also has weird lines on its chest that I think are supposed to be muscles even though they dont look like muscles. It doesn't look powerful, or sturdy, or agile. I can't envision in my head how it would look in a fight. It's just kind of a mess.

HISUIAN Samurott shows up and says your daughter calls me daddy too. My only criticism of the this design is that the shape of its beard makes no sense, but I can overlook that because this guy is Water EVIL type. Its a ronin. It's a Bad Dude.

What they did is make the whole thing thinner overall, which does a lot on its own. They shrunk the helmet, they made the shape of the armor panels more interesting, they turned its feet backwards which makes it look more like a sea lions rear flipper feet and makes the whole Pokémon look sturdier. The horn and its swords are now wavy flamberge style blades which IS dumber, but dont forget that he is a BAD GUY. And you know he's a bad dude because there's what looks like an arrow stuck in its helmet, which I assume is a reference to a story about a samurai that I'm not familiar with.

They also removed the weird chest muscles and changed its eye shape. A recurring design element I hate in gen 5 is the anime eyes they put on everything. Terrakion, Shamin Sky, Virizion, and original Samurott all have just like anime human eyes and its weird. And I know what youre thinking but theres something different about Voltorb or Shiftry. Gurdurr has gen 1 Pokémon eyes, Terrakion has a human face stamped on a cow body. Hisuian samurott has a more angular cool eye shape, and the bright red accents contrasting with its dark blue and black is much more visually impressive than the originals ocean blue, tan, black, and orange.

Hisuian Samurott looks proud and strong and if it slapped my girls ass at the ancient japanese bar thats his girl now. And you can't fuck with a move called Ceasless Edge. Especially because at the end of the day it is just Samurott plus edge. But the result is a Pokémon I like vs one that I don't

#pokemon #samurott #pokemon legends arceus #character design #analysis #long post

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andrew37109 · 2 years

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Airport.

In the bar painted yellow sits a man in a grey shirt. Above him are strange triangular lights. They dissipate thin angular lines on the walls.

A woman walks past. She speaks a language you do not know to some companions. She stops momentarily to put something in the bin. The wrapper falls from the overflowing can. But she does not notice. She is already three steps away. Moments later the attendant arrives on a motorised scooter which trails an even bigger trash can. He scoffs at the mess and cleans up. No one else seems to notice. Maybe no one else has noticed…

The man at the bar has made a friend. Though from this distance it could be an enemy. Conversation takes place. Pleasantries… most people gaze at their phones, their fifth limbs. I do the same. I content myself with writing this nonsense, supercilious to these other humans. Are they real? Do they think as I do about what they see around them?

I read somewhere a theory that only some people are awake to reality. Only some people are embodied characters, truly possessed by a soul. The rest are NPC’s of a sort. Perhaps the former are the artists. Perhaps that is pretentious. Or we are all awake. All one in the same. Ignorant in different realities.

Next to me sits a woman. She sits for a while not doing much. She raises her boot onto her knee, scrolling the endless streams of the online world. And there, in the gap between boot and Jean, is a tattoo. It’s a clam shell. Beautiful. Evidence that she is indeed a customised playable character. A few metres across from us two older companions sit. They share chocolates and laugh a little. An anecdote from a life I’ll never know. Even if I were to approach, to ask what they were just discussing, it would make no sense to me. Even if it was in English.

Now there is a boy, straight ahead. He is plugged in fully. Headphones glued. Laptop on knees. Fingers tapping. Maybe he is creating. Maybe he is doing what I’m doing. I think the beauty is I don’t need to know. His jumper is oddly cream coloured. For some reason that bothers me. His eyes flutter. It’s not my style I suppose…

The player lobby grows.

One man sits at a pedal powered electric port. He types while eating an apple. Points for style. In the forefront a well dressed Asian man pours over something on his device. Emails perhaps from his expression. But that could be just his face. I wonder who he is. How are the family who await his return with loving anticipation… or dread.

The grey shirted man at the yellow bar has made another friend. Maybe he is a player. Or perhaps he is a quest giver…

A pretty NPC walks past. Bright coloured jumper in a dreary airport lounge. A spark of colour in our grey non social environment. Strange. So many people. So little conversation. Not so strange… I look up.

Blue eyes. Piercing. A wonderful sign of life. A smile. Slight. Eyes dart away. We may be discovered. What a rush.

Weirder is the attendants. Players in jobs in the background of the pre game player lobby. The ones who keep the lights on and the coffees pouring. Some are friendly. Some are just getting on with it.

It’s late nights working in the lobby.

For a moment I stop. And when I do I hear a man sneeze, like the way you impersonate an elephant for a child.

Time to board.

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pefa-blog · 2 years

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Chapter 8: Sky path

Landing noiselessly in a bare three-by-three meters room, made from bare concrete slabs, Chuu glanced around. Completely empty sans a bland postament and a sign above it, dimly lit by a lone wall lamp. A rupor in one of the corners looked like a relic of the previous decades, big and angular. Coming from a crouch, she noticed a single digital watch on the platform.

A solitary route, then, Chuu nodded to herself. Good.

“The Sky Path. Long road and patient enduring lays ahead of you,” she read off of the tableau, her eyebrows flying high at the brevity and lack of instructions. She put the bracelet on her wrist, over the glove. It counted down the remaining time, but had nothing else of interest.

A nondescript door opened loudly, revealing a path in what previously looked like a solid wall. From it, notably stale air slowly filled the room.

Chuu left the room with the silent rupor behind, and began making her way down the hall, trying to hear any noise from the tower.

It was, unsurprisingly, silent.

Concrete structures were nice this way.

This route was a much-needed change of pace, far from any imminent headaches or worries as long as she focused on her task and her task only. Girls and Hisoka moved to the background, unreachable, silent and completely out of her hands. Whether they were fine (hopefully, girls) or not (she could dream, Hisoka), was impossible for her to know now.

Given how spread out were the entrances they found, chances that others were also on solitary routes were high. That included Hisoka - Chuu made sure to keep track of the direction he wandered off. Unless there were merging routes further down the line, they wouldn’t encounter him.

And afterwards, if they were lucky, Hisoka would ignore them as he did up to this point, for the rest of the exam. If he was also inclined to act professional - Chuu snorted - he would include her in that list.

As she neared a dead end of the long hall, a door opened, leading her to a waide staircase that went on and on, before obscuring after an especialy abrupt turn. The path looked like someone just threw sharp and curved turns at random. Which probably was almost true - this was a prison-made-frequent-exam-ground. This staircase was likely an afterthought, accommodating various obstacles and trap rooms on other paths.

Chuu listened again, flooding her ears with nen, a trick she picked up long ago, from but there was still no sign of other participants. As it dissipated, her senses returned to normal and she was reminded once again of the stale air. Chuu frowned at that, but continued on.

She knew Hisoka's standards well enough by now, from all the commissions they ran for him. Starting with search for new possible opponents from more closed-off circles and unknown communities (even if he rarely followed up on the information they provided, despite paying for it a special price - doubled, for him), to finding the fruits that he left for later, for a rare check-up on their progress.

Chuu was also familiar with his standards because she used herself as a gauge more often than not. He loved suggesting a fight to her every single time he contacted them. Being the most combat-oriented out of the three of them, she carried the brunt of his attention. Yves was a pretty decent fighter too! But, uh, Chuu had to admit that their leader was nowhere close.

They sometimes joked about Go Won stealthily assassinating him, but all of them knew that would never happen.

Regardless, he was tolerable as long as they weren’t meeting in person. He was one of their regular customers, after all.

She felt confident in her assertions regarding Hisoka’s targets. HeeJin - pass, sweet fortunate girl. HyunJin - who knows, Chuu didn’t actually notice anything special about her, sans higher endurance, physical strength, appetite and shortened recovery period. That all looked uncomfortably familiar, but nothing exceptional either, not yet, at least.

Choerry... Only God knew what she was and what she could do.

Earlier, when threatened with failure at cooking stage, Chuu had to shield both HyunJin and HeeJin from a certain death. Choerry, hopefully unknown to herself, oozed nen so potent and malicious, the closest unlucky examinee to their group keeled dead there and then. A couple of others were stuck gasping for air in frozen panic, but ultimately lived... albeit none of them walked out of the airship to make another attempt at a second phase. No doubt, they were physically scarred.

It wasn’t as bad, per say, as Hisoka’s bloodlust, but not that much better either.

Either a solid mediocrity in terms of fighting abilities with short temper... or someone gave her some stellar education and the girl was much more dangerous than Chuu first assumed.

She really, really hoped Choerry was just unaware of her actions at that time.

If not... Well. Chuu probably should warn Go Won and Yves that she might have to resort to an emergency exit, huh?..

She stopped.

Hm. Not a minute passed, tete-a-tete with herself, and her mind began filling the space between her steps on its own volition.

When did she become such a worrywart?

That was rhetoric.

Chuu inwardly sighed and continued walking.

She preferred to have company on missions, whether friendly or not, for this exact reason. Chuu obviously could keep track of Yves and Go Won from anywhere (she brushed over their tags again, on the other side of the world, calm, confident, bored, not physically active), but this exam proved already that her need for a company was worse than she assumed.

...On the second thought, maybe the solitary route wasn’t all that great for her.

A stair gave out from under her foot.

Thank God! - flashed in her head as Chuu lunged forward, pushing off of a step over, as the next one already started to careen to one side.

The spikes beneath those steps pointed at her invitingly for a split second, before she was gone.

Even without nen, Chuu ran faster than most could track, leaving steps to fall far, far behind her, breezing through the never-ending staircase.

The tower was known to be deadly for an average wanna-be Hunter, sometimes even more than the other phases. Chuu was curious to see what level Judging Committee deemed as an entry-level.

She already heard about the Trick Tower from Yves when she had her exam. She landed on a path of two, that, a quarter away from the finish line, stated that only one goes further. Her co-examinee was so determined to force Yves to forfeit her chance, that he never stepped out of that room again.

The staircase ended, turning into a long and twisty hall, but Chuu kept her speed. Her hope was that the next room had better air, because at this point it was turning a little bit into annoyance.

Involuntarily, her mind made a guess on how HeeJin and HyunJin would fare here. She didn’t ask for it and while the answer wasn’t a definite death, this thought stirred her carefully pushed-out fear.

Okay, so, admittedly, HeeJin was in more danger here. HyunJin was tenacious. She completed all of the previous phases on her own, not much to be worrying about past the general what-ifs and Hisoka.

But that didn’t mean that HeeJin was helpless, far from it - if there was a fight, she would have a rather good chance to win against random examinee. Chuu haven't seen her sable in action, but the way HeeJin maneuvered around the great stamp during the second phase, spoke of great balance and dodging skills. A bit slow for her taste, but everybody starts somewhere.

Chuu saw how the girl led it to a rock and leapt on top of it, pushing off of the mossy surface, leaving the boar to barrel right into it. The impact against fortified snout did no damage, but the momentarily pause from it let letting HeeJin land a solid hit with the scabbard.

And that was after the marathon earlier! HeeJin looked dead when Chuu and Choerry caught up with them before the cooking phase, for goodness sake!

At the first glance, she would have never labeled the definitely pampered girl as “determined” or “resilient”, but Chuu was proved delightfully wrong.

Well... It was not completely unexpected. HeeJin had a good reason to persist, after all.

A sudden need for a document from a well-raised, well-fed, well-cuddled (have you seen that flawless scarless skin and sheer quality of that waist-low hair?) girl who had shaky knowledge of the basic basics of cooking? Yeah.

Chuu tsked. She won’t be prying, since she was in a similar position once. The difference was that none of them sought legal sources or extra comfort. And also were a trio of professionals who didn't need anything, really, but that’s beside the point.

However, she still wished Choerry would poke HeeJin just as she was poking Chuu at first. Alas, it looked like the purplehead wasn’t as nosy with those two. Unfortunate, but understandable.

On this note, she ceased being annoying towards Chuu after swamp altogether, now that she thought about it. Was that a permanent thing or were they just taking a break?

Either way it was nice, even if it was fleeting.

...She. Looped back to these thoughts again.

This was precisely why Chuu wasn’t keen on the whole “get new friends, its healthy for you” idea. The ones who weren’t on her skill level were too worrisome, haunting her with the worst scenarios of what could happen to them. The other ones, who could stand their ground? Her trust in the wrong person could put all of them in danger. And the stronger the person was, the more likely they were to become a problem.

Chuu grimaced. It was so hypocritical of Yves and Go Won to tell her to “get new friends” while doing none of that during their exams!

She took a sharp turn and saw that the hall morphed back into stairs.

That went upward.

“Ah,” thought Chuu. “‘Long road’.”

Air continued to be stale as she entered the next hall, the door opening when Chuu was right in front of it and closing immediately as she passed. If anything, it became even heavier. The tendency was uninspiring and she mentally labeled air “oxygen-deprived”, since “stale” description didn't describe it properly.

But it wasn't the only annoying thing here.

Chuu was the first to admit that she was bad with distances and measurements outside of nen application, but if she had to guess, the stairs led her to almost the same level that she started on.

The new hall was wide and lined from wall to wall with the pressure plates on the floor, each having a pattern on it. Chuu could barely see the door on the opposite end of it.

She scratched her temple. This one she could just ignore, but if mental exercise and low oxygen air was where this all was heading to, this route was about to be changed from “bothersome” to “bullshit”.

“Congratulations,” said Chuu to nobody in particular. “You are promoted”.

Rupor on the ceiling, pointing towards a long, slowly descending in a barely-noticeable curve ramp, stayed silent. She had a sneaking suspicion it went around the whole tower.

How wonderful.

As time passed, Chuu had come to several conclusions. First, she had to begrudgingly admit that low oxygen was a decent hindrance. Even to her. Strong and resilient she might be, there was nothing she could do to avoid being affected. Chuu pushed off of the platform she was on with a bit more force than necessary, leaving a footprint in the cracked concrete. It wasn’t detrimental to her, but it was annoying nonetheless, being sluggish and slightly disoriented for seemingly no reason.

Credit where it’s due, it was a decent handicap for examinee of almost any level.

Second conclusion - “traps” on her path could be generally broken down in two types.

There was a general transitional type with some traps sprinkled over it for flavor: falling stairs, dropping ceiling, slowly pushing together walls, hidden pressure plates in thin hallways, triggering anything from darts to electrocution, depending on the noticeability of it, etcetera. It forced the examinee to be constantly on alert, battling the spinning head and decreased patience. Having gone through many tests and training grounds in her youth, Chuu intellectually respected the thoughtfulness of how well it all worked together.

She just wished someone else got it.

Passageways were long, as a rule, going in every direction, including straight upwards, halls and stairs and ramps. Their sole purpose was to waste her time and grate on her nerves.

The second type of obstacle, though, was uncomparingly worse in her personal opinion. As Chuu only encountered reactionary traps, she assumed she got this in the bag.

Until she walked into one of those "stuck until you solve the puzzle" rooms for the first time as a naive little creature, and emerged as a beast.

The room greeted her with a large tableau on the wall and a horizontal panel with nine on nine depressions placed in a grid under it. In the corner, close to the tablet, stood a barrel full of colored rocks with slightly varied pictograms drawn on them.

Air, unsurprisingly enouh, was the same as it was before.

Upon closer inspection, tableau was a series of thin slabs placed one after another. The top one had a three by three matrix of symbols with a row of four question marks placed vertically to the right of it.

Realization dawned on her.

Who was responsible for designing this path?!

Chuu messaged Go Won in hopes for some cheating but there was no reply. She paid attention to her hatsu and it seemed that both the princess and their leader were patiently stealthing in Zetsu for whatever reason. Negotiation failed or was that already a follow-up?...

Whatever. Chuu resigned herself to being stuck here for a while, considering the number of tablets underneath the top one.

Huffing, she turned the barrel over, scattering the stones on the floor. Kicking some of them out of the way, Chuu placed a make-shift stool in front of the tableau. Pouting at the puzzle, she took out a small promotional notepad, somewhat ready to tackle the obstacle.

She was done! Done done done done done done! With the puzzle, her route, the tower, other examinees, with herself, with the fucking air, Chuu was done!

She didn’t care about the examiners and their opinions, about the sadistic architect of the trial, she was done with this bullshit of a puzzle and God help her if they put another one in front of her! Chuu would punch every encountered door into debris, she was heading to the base of the tower and she was racing.

The observers better open the doors according to her speed or start ordering new ones now.

An hour! A full hour passed in that goddamn room! At some point she had to meditate to calm herself down because her head was starting to spin and there was no vents leading into that room. Chuu went through so many different variants, she was this close to tearing the room apart!

She was leaving this path behind her as fast as possible and nobody could stop her.

After hours of running and crawling through hallways covered in dust from what seemed years of disuse, feeling much calmer, Chuu stared at the hatch in the floor. This was new.

Chuu pushed it open and stared down in the abyss. Rough in-built ladder went down, disappearing somewhere deep, where even nen-enhanced eyesight couldn’t reach.

Chuu jumped in, grabbing metal handles, methodically climbing down and further away from the entrance. Lights lit up only when she was rather close, lighting up just enough to get to the next one, so there was no tell how of far the shaft went. She contemplated prying one of the handles off and throwing it down to have at least an estimate. On one side, it didn't matter, on the other, it was some destruction and Chuu would greatly appreciate some destress, but also examiners might not approve...

She grabbed the handle above her and tore it out of concrete, bending it under the force.

Its clanging went on and on and on...

Hah. Its fall lasted so long, Chuu got absolutely nothing from it!

Except some petty satisfaction. Which was a win in her books.

To be fair, the tunnel in and of itself was great - Chuu was beginning to feel she made almost no progress vertical-wise and, unless there was a second tunnel she would have to climb up, this helped her by leaps and bounds!

After ten or so minutes of climbing, Chuu scratched her nose.

How fast she could climb at her fastest?

Was it faster than gravity or?..

Chuu let go, falling freely for a couple seconds, before catching handles again with both her hands and feet. She let go again. And again...

In two minutes she reached the floor. Dusting off her dress, she patted herself on the shoulder, both mentally and physically, - climbing would’ve taken ages!

On the side of the shaft a door opened and she stepped through into, oooh, something new! A maze!

Most of her way down was spent in either that puzzle room or on stairs and halls. Given how many of the noticeable doors ignored her, she suspected that she got the longest route of them all distance-wise.

Chuu wouldn’t be surprised if her path went through at least half of the halls in the tower.

She rushed through the traps: another pressure plates on the floor puzzle, one puzzle that had the floor fall underneath her, one wall-climbing that, by her shaky estimation, went back up somewhere around a quarter or a fifth of the previous ladder and another two goddamn pattern puzzle rooms. Linking all of them were long halls and staircases that Chuu fondly regarded as time-suckers and just sprinted through. Crawling tunnels made sprinting troublesome, but she went as fast as possible in those too. Oxygen-deficient air was no longer so grating for her, serving instead as a reminder to end this quicker.

Still, the hours ticked by. If Chuu assumed that restrooms were spread roughly six to seven hours of estimated successful progress away from each other, she had to be getting close to the bottom of the tower.

She arrived at a square room that looked like an arena next. On the opposite side of the room, there were draped silhouettes in tiny cells, five in total, thick bars separating them from the main room.

Please be what Chuu thought it was.

For the first time in her descend, a rupor turned on, with click that made her wince.

“To proceed, win three rounds. Prisoners are deciding on victory conditions, you pick the opponent before the rule reveal.”

Chuu squinted, trying to discern shapes behind the bars. She picked the burliest, pointing a finger at them. “The first door on the right from the entrance.”

“Please challenge me to a fight”, she thought. “Please challenge to a fight.”

Bars from the selected cell slowly moved up and a two-meter tall figure quietly approached her. Slow steps, each made with ease and confidence in themself.

“I challenge you to a fight!" boomed masculine voice as he threw off a hood, revealing a weathered tattooed face. A crooked smirk, dripping with superiority, split his face. "To the death!”

Chuu grinned.

“Second to pass - applicant ten! Time elapsed: nine hours, forty minutes!” Announcement was loud enough to be heard through the rumble of the door and Chuu let out a small victorious yelp.

She stepped into a huge round room with a almost six meter tall ceiling and dozens upon dozens of doors on the perimeter. The room was brightly lit by sparse lamps in the walls and four raised bowls with flame in the center, making it almost well-lit. The best part of the room was in its air - a normal blessed air that wasn’t tampered with in any way. Bless!

Across the room from her, was Hisoka, now staring directly at her. Two blood streaks from his wounds stood out on his top, stark contrast with icy-blue color of his suit.

There was only Hisoka.

Oh no.

As the door went back down behind her motionless form, Chuu rankled through her memory. Did wounds make him more excited. Did it affect him outside of battle. When was he ever interested in acting professional.

Tense seconds passed with neither of them moving.

In silence, extremely slowly, Chuu walked to the side and sat against the wall, not breaking eye contact with Hisoka for a split second. Her biggest interest was whether he would want to fight right now more or to keep them as their informants. It was a heavier, less funny thought now, when it grew into a very real concern.

He smiled and waved at her.

Chuu made a small wave in return.

Hisoka broke the eye contact and pulled out a deck of cards, shuffling them. Chuu waited, ready.

In a second, he began building a tower, playing by himself.

After two minutes of watching his peacefulness, Chuu tore her gaze away and took out her phone, automatically opening Yves’ dialogue. Partially to ask for guidance, partially as a distraction.

Alas, no matter how big the room was, being one on one with Hisoka was an uncomfortable experience. She hoped more people would come in soon.

Over sixty-two hours left until the end of the third phase.

-Extra-

Previous day, 7th of January

Application Pestercard

[embroideringCutie] opened a temporary dialog with [vanillaMiracle] at 01:40

[EC]: WHY DIDNTYIU REMIND ME ABOUT HIM

[EC]: HE IS HERE

[VM]: Who?

[EC]: HYSKOA

[EC]: HISKKA

[EC]: THE PSYCHTIC GERDENER

[VM]: I’m sure I warned you

[VM]: Wait a moment, Ill ask DT

[VM]: She says i told you after my exam

[EC]: HE IS RIGHT HERE OH GOD V VM HE IS NEN WINKING AT ME

[VM]: He is not, he wouldnt be too obvious

[EC]: HE TOOK OUT HISCARDS

[VM]: Siiiiiiiiiiiiii

[VM]: iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

[VM]: iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

[EC]: VM!!!

[VM]: iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

[VM]: Just move further away, there has to be a lot of participants at this point

[EC]: Wonnilla

[EC]: he is 44th

[VM]: Suiting

[EC]: there arent nearly enough people here!

[EC]: ????

[EC]: nmd

[EC]: returning to the topic

[EC]: WHY DIDN’T YOU REPEAT YUOR WARNING

[VM]: I thought it wasn’t needed, miss how-dare-you-doubt-my-memory

[VM]: Just censor Hisoka out. Go say hello to someone, get to know someone passable, forget about him

[VM]: It is too early here

[VM]: Annoy someone disposable

[VM]: OR a better idea

[VM]: You can make some friends for a change? Hmm?

[VM]: Remember that DT explicitly asked you to?

[EC]: friends, sure

[EC]: like you did? :I

[VM]: He ruined that possibility for me!

[VM]: And FORGET about him already

[EC]: unnie, its impossible

[EC]: no one is able to forget about him!

[VM]: Except you, apparently

[EC]: (╥﹏╥)

[EC]: theres just a lot on my mind,

[EC]: Wo-nni-lla

[EC]: I know you are tying to fall back asleep! :<

[EC]: get back here and keep me company!

[EC]: welp, you are asleep

[EC]: Im

[EC]: so

[EC]: boooooooooooored

[EC]: ugh

[EC]: this is a circus of fashion disasters

[EC]: and not only in fashion

[EC]: I look around and might as well see zombies, they look HOPELESS VP

[EC]: HOPELESS

[EC]: wastes back home showed more promise then they do!

[ EC]: when are you going to wake up again :C

[EC]: it HAS to be one of the dullest halls ive EVER been stuck in. We are just standing in big dark dull room underground and everyone is SO grumpy

[EC]: okay fine got it Ill patiently wait for your princess sleep to end

[EC]: :D!!

[EC]: morniiiing!!!!

[VM]: I can keep you company until we need to get going

[VM]: But don’t expect any excitement. If you forgot, we’re in the same timezone

[EC]: one weirdo here offered me to drink some canned juice he brought. Is he stupid? Stranger danger aside, who would take a drink from a stranger at the HUNTER EXAM?!

[VM]: Ah, him. Joy. If you could kill him off subtly without any examiners noticing, youll do a favor to future generations

[EC]: I mean I did obviously, got curious what was in i

[EC]: ??????

[EC]: wow

[EC]: good morning, you are clearly still asleep this is hunter exam killing is allowed

[VM]: Yes, but having a good impression would be nice, E C

[EC]: huh?

[VM]: You told me to play nice the previous year, remember?

[EC]: oh, right

[EC]: !!!!!

[EC]: THERE IS A CUTE GIRL INCOMING

[EC]: MY AGE NOT FASHIOM DISASTER PIGTALES SISTER GOTTA GO BYEE

[embroideringCutie] left the dialog

[VM]: Have fun, EC

[vanillaMiracle] closed the dialog with [embroideringCutie] at 04:21

Dialog is being deleted.. .

Previous chapter | All chapters | Next chapter

#hxh x loona #hxh #loona #loona au #wabrw #chapter

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casspurrjoybell-31 · 4 months

Text

The Consort's Fate - Chapter 3 - Part 2

*Warning Adult Content*

Finn

I'm told the renovated, Secondary fortress is much different than the underground layer it used to be.

Only three years ago, the entire Secondary population lived within the confines of the mountain.

They were barricaded within, with rocks as their walls and dirt as their flooring.

Mr. Primary has yet to allow me to visit.

'It's now a monument of war' he explains. 'Out of respect, it should remain unbothered. Besides, the demons of war still reside in there, the souls of the damned trapped and ready to prey on all who dare enter.'

Glass vines hang suspended from the ceiling.

Glittering lights serve as their leaves, shimmering overhead to create a soft pathway of illumination through the hallways.

Douglas' footsteps click across the marbled floor.

It's been recently waxed and my fair complexion bounces back to greet me in the reflection.

I try to imagine a dirt floor as we travel deeper into the fortress.

Mr. Primary and his staff have quite the penchant for the finer things.

Envisioning them in a dingy, dirty fortress seems unreal.

Another world entirely.

Many tell me it is a gift I am rid of my memories.

Still, often times I find myself wishing I could find my way back to them.

All I get are bits and pieces from Mr. Primary, coupled with the hushed rumors of the staff 'which they don't think I'm able to hear'.

The details never align.

According to Mr. Primary and his Secondary warrior, Tegan, the war almost killed me.

Near the end, an enemy and prisoner of war injected me with a venomous poison just before making his escape.

The venom traveled to my brain, successfully wiping away my memories before putting me into a coma.

He claims I was a hero, though and that my sacrifices helped end the war.

"Here we are, Mr. Secondary."

Douglas ushers me into Mr. Primary's chambers, bidding me goodbye with a parting bow.

He takes his place outside the door, positioned alongside Mr. Primary's personal guards until I make my return.

I walk along the familiar route to Mr. Primary's meeting room.

The vibrant, clear light of the hallway is replaced with a dim, crimson hue.

It bounces against the grey walls and highlights the abstract artwork hanging from the walls.

They're all angular bodies of glass, with varying shades of sand swept across their surfaces.

Every piece is frozen in time.

The same artwork lines the walls of my chamber as well, yet it can be found nowhere else in the fortress.

Just our chambers.

I was not consulted with décor choices but even if I was, my preferences would inevitably be denied.

The purpose for the matching display is more than preference.

It is a silent statement.

Mr. Primary expectantly waits for me at the head of his mahogany table.

He is flanked on either side by Tegan and Leo, the man in charge of public relations with the human population.

They glance up as I make my entrance.

None of their expressions give away the purpose behind the summon but as I near Leo and Tegan, I sense a hint of excitement.

"Finn," Mr. Primary addresses me as I take my seat beside him.

My name is whispered with a tone laced with optimism and pride, a dangerous combination.

His piercing blue eyes study every inch of my face.

He does this often, studying me, searching for the answers to a question that's yet to be unveiled.

"Mr. Primary," I say.

I use his formal title to keep distance between us.

Just like my preference for Douglas to address me as Finn, Mr. Primary prefers I use his informal name as well.

Reyo.

Given our surrounding company, though, he doesn't correct it.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Secondary," Leo greets with a nod.

Tegan throws him a warning glance as a flash of irritation passes over Mr. Primary's face.

Even if he publicly speaks of us as equals, I know Mr. Primary's true view on humans.

It is detestable.

Is that the cause for such an unfavorable reaction?

"You as well, Leo," I say in returned greeting, purposely pushing the envelope of Mr. Primary's irritation.

I tap my slender fingers against the surface.

"Now, what's all this about?"

It's not often that I'm included in meetings with Tegan and certainly not with Leo.

Mr. Primary straightens and a genuine smile stretches across his thin lips.

"For three years, Finn, I have asked you to be our nation's second King. To stand beside me as my equal and build an empire with me. An empire in which the Secondary Era will thrive for centuries to come."

By now, I know any offer or deal that is posed by Mr. Primary comes with hefty strings attached.

He does not give charity, especially at his own expense.

Still, the prospect of more freedom pulls at my deeper desires.

Despite my best efforts to keep a neutral reaction, I curiously raise a brow.

Mr. Primary's eyes gleam.

He knows he has my attention.

"I've designed a tour of sorts," Mr. Primary continues.

"You'll be taken to the largest towns and markets all across the country. You'll be able to see the land, to meet the people and to get a taste of that freedom you so desire."

He makes a sweeping gesture to Leo.

"Leo will be making public addresses at every stop, building rapport and camaraderie amongst our citizens."

His hand turns towards Tegan.

"And Tegan will be traveling one step ahead throughout the tour. She'll assess any security pitfalls and mitigate the risks prior to our arrival. As you know, Finn, you are still a major target after the war. There are still vultures out there who would try to steal you. Torture you."

His gaze sharpens.

He wants me to hear his words and feel their weight.

I give a nod of understanding.

There's a mixture of emotions emitting from both Leo and Tegan but I hold Mr. Primary's attention to keep from any distraction with the conversation at hand.

Mr. Primary reaches over and pulls my hand into his. His thumb traces over my knuckles.

"Your role shall be the one that has been waiting for your acceptance for years. To agree to be my King. The other proper ruler to this nation. You say the word, Finn and Tegan will leave tomorrow. Say the word and the country is yours. Do you accept?"

I think of the raindrop.

The flicker of lighting.

The looming gray clouds.

'Fate itself is ready for a change.'

"Yes," I say with finality.

"I accept."

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raybyanothername · 10 months

Text

A Week in Odora - Day One - Part Two

It was 7 a.m. when the sheriff walked into his office to find a blonde woman wearing green suspenders and plaid capris sitting in his chair with her feet propped up on the desk.

“Hello, Sheriff!” Eleanora smiled big, cheeks pink from the effort. She’d come in early to catch Emmett Jones offhanded before word could spread that she was here. Given the narrowed eyes he was leveling on her, she had succeeded.

“Who are you?” The sheriff’s hands moved to his hips and his eyes scrunched up into a glare.

Eleanora’s cheeks officially hurt, “Name’s Bond. Eleanora Bond.”

His hand twitched towards his gun, but he didn’t touch it. Eleanora’s smile softened. Here she was sitting in his chair, in his locked office, and he didn’t pull a gun. She appreciated that sort of restraint in law enforcement.

“I’d like an honest answer.” He forced a smile. A very tense smile. Even his molars were showing. He had very white teeth.

“Who’s your dentist?” Eleanora asked.

His eyes fluttered for a second before closing. He took a breath. The worry lines on his forehead smoothed out, “Ma’am.”

“Eleanora Bond is my real name, Sheriff Jones.” She swung her feet off his desk and stood. She gave him her card, “I’m here on behalf of the Davies family to investigate the death of Oriana.”

Watching a six-foot-two-inches former defensive tackle scrunch up his nose at her pink card was the highlight of Eleanora’s day. Nothing would top it, she was sure.

“And why is a P.I. from Nashville looking into a death in Odora?” Eyebrows were raised, eyebrows were lowered. The sheriff couldn’t seem to decide what to do with them. “A death that only occurred two days ago at that.”

“Three, technically,” Eleanora sat on the front edge of his desk. “She was found the day before yesterday, but she was murdered Tuesday night. It’s Friday.” She held up three fingers and wiggled them.

The sheriff took another breath, huffing out a sigh like it physically pained him. “Ms. Bond – “

“I have at thing for brunettes,” Eleanora interrupted him again. Her lips spread wide again. “That’s why I’m here.” She continued to grin at the confusion on his face. “My girl, Sera, she’s Domi’s best friend.”

One eye twitched at Sera’s name. His lips pursed. “So… you’re one of those…uh…” Eleanora raised one of her brows as she waited from him to finish that sentence.

“Lesbians, dad.” A voice cut through the air with sarcastic glee. It was quickly followed by the appearance of a teenage boy with floppy red hair and an even floppier baseball cap. “They’re called lesbians, and don’t be an ass.”

Eleanora perked up as the kid lifted an arm to rest on his father’s shoulder. The sheriff’s shoulders lowered. The teen was shorter than his father and had a bit of baby face, but Eleanora could see Emmett’s angular jaw line and crooked nose in the boy.

“Right,” the sheriff cleared his throat, “Sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose that makes sense. Domi probably doesn’t have much confidence in me – given our history.”

“I think she just doesn’t like you,” the kid drawled, grinning wider than even Eleanora at this point. “That’s what mom says. Said you got all weird about her when you were kids and she decked you.”

Eleanora watched the sheriff take a breath, long and slow, before kicking his son out of the room. She waited till he turned back around to speak, “I like him.”

“I suppose someone has to…” the sheriff mumbled under his breath, but his eyes crinkled as he said it. Eleanora dropped from his desk. He startled back a step, “Ms. Bond – “

“Eleanora is fine, Sheriff.” She smiled at him, patted his shoulder on her way to the door. “I just came by to introduce myself. I know how small towns can be about new people.”

She winked at the teenager pouting at the deputy’s desk. The kid perked up and Eleanora felt his satisfaction trailing after her as she left the office. It was a bubbly bit of emotion that buoyed her through the Davies house until she got to the sanctuary of her room.

It had been 36 hours since she’d last slept. She’d wrapped up a stake out just before she got the call from Sera.

“Nap time.” Eleanora hung her shirt and pants up before she dropped back onto the bed – stockings have the good sense not to wrinkle.

Eleanora pressed her fingers into the felted fiber of the blanket beneath her. The blanket scratched at her skin as Eleanora rubbed her arms back and forth. The back of her arms grew redder with each pass.

Her eyes focused in on the ceiling above here. Her pupils spun and her arms paused as she began to pick out the individual strokes in the white paint.

A faint voice needled at the edge of her conscious mind, but it faded as the paint strokes began to glow across the ceiling. They danced across her vision. Shifting like fault lines cracking over the plaster.

Eleanora didn’t shift an inch until a familiar beeping drew her up. She stretched her arms up – ignored the cracking of her joints as they protested – and stood.

Emmett Jones was officially surprising.

He’d texted Eleanora. He and his deputy would be chatting with Oriana’s boyfriend that afternoon. Eleanora glanced up to the corner of her phone. 1 p.m. stared back at her.

When she sent her agreement to attend the sheriff responded promptly with an address. Eleanora was not going to pass up on the good will, even if it did interrupt her nap.

-.-.-

The next part is up on my patreon. You can also support me over on ko-fi

#ray writes #original fiction #horror #psychological fiction #mystery #murder mystery #thriller #celestials #supernatural creatures #magic #a week in odora

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emmjacksoncharacterillustration · 10 months

Text

The feedback of my concepts!

General feedback:

Consistently, I was told people liked the ps5 game style, which I was really happy to hear since it was one of my favourite elements. I also consistently got told to remove the “Reese” from the composition, which I totally agree. It was put there after a misunderstanding of instructions about putting a “name” on the poster - i didn’t know that a title counted, so needed to incorporate her name somewhere.

*in order of how they appear in the post*

Poster one:

Feedback I was really confused to get was “first poster unclear what grey silhouette is…lost title in first…experiment with perspective”. I disagree with almost all of the above (apart from not knowing what the grey mechas actually were, because, fair enough there wasn’t a lot of detail added to them for the sake of keeping the composition a composition instead of an illustration), and here’s why:

- I made the decision to wrap the text behind the character in the first poster because I wanted to involve the text in the setting rather than slapping it on where it fits. The way I’ve done it doesn’t cover up enough of the letters to make it illegible.

- as to experimenting with perspective, this entire concept is built around perspective. The road leads to a one point perspective, which is followed by the building in the background, the powerlines, the second mecha and Reese’s sword behind her. Maybe this feedback was meant for another poster? But that’s unclear and I don’t know who wrote this feedback to ask them.

I also got feedback on this poster to make the mechas more “menacing” - maybe I could do this by exaggerating the scale more and using sharper lines and shapes to communicate that shape physiology.

Poster Two:

Weirdly, this was a lot of people’s favourite one, yet this is my least favourite. I feel like the composition is more boring compared to the other compositions with mechas in them. From a story point of view though, I understand where they’re coming from. The setting is best illustrated in the last poster - the camp, the burning city, you get the sense it’s an apocalypse without needing colour, but the mechas are such a massive part of the story that I feel they’re essential to be included.

I got feedback on this one to “create better illusion/ field of depth (thinner lines in the background)” which I absolutely agree with, and didn’t think about when I was drawing the composition. When I was drawing it was brothers by the lack of separation between the foreground and the horizon, but couldn’t seem to illustrate the divide properly - but this person is right! Line variation would have totally helped and is something I’ll bring forward into my final illustration.

Poster Three:

I got feedback to “make mechas more leaned forward as if they’re pressed against the ceiling because they’re too tall….add angular shapes to mechas”. I think the idea of having them pressed against the ceiling is a really good idea, and would help to portray a better sense of scale. Also, like I said in the last poster, I agree the mechas need more sharp angles to make them look like baddies.

I also got more feedback to “improve the perspective on this one”, but again, I feel like it had good perspective. Other than lowering the roof so the one point perspective is more clear, i feel like perspective isn’t that bad in this one.

In conclusion, I will be taking the following feedback forward into the redesign:

- Remove the “Reese” name from the comp

- Pay more deliberate attention to line weight in connection with establishing a foreground and a background.

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designstudioasa · 1 year

Photo

Office Space Design Principles Crucial to Stylish Spaces | Studio AsA

Depending on your business’s type, size, and nature, offices are entirely personal. No two workplaces are alike, and each has specific needs to fit your staff and operations. Your office’s layout and design directly impact your bottom line. Your staff members must be kept inspired and provided with all they require to perform their jobs effectively.

You need room for cooperation, privacy, and focus, but the fundamental principles of workplace architecture and layout remain constant. How you organize your space, the colour of your interior, how well your technology works, and how you use light are all factors. These principles drive your workspace’s functioning and your employees’ productivity.

Space

Understanding your available area will help you plan, design, and distribute it effectively. This space includes the walls, ceilings, floor, and columns of the room or structure. In interior design, it is essential to balance positive and negative spaces.

An area that is furnished or decorated makes a positive space; in contrast, an area that is left empty makes a negative space. The balance of the overall room can be thrown off by an overly cluttered workplace or a minimally designed workspace. As a result, your interior space planning must consider equilibrium in a room for a more appealing and contrasting effect.

Form

The form can be categorized as geometric or natural and relates to the contour of any three-dimensional items present in the space and the shape of those objects. Square shapes and strong lines are characteristics of geometric forms. Their angular form exudes strength and is frequently found in man-made constructions such as furniture.

Yet, excessive usage of geometric elements might give the impression that the workplace is rigid and that employees’ creativity and productivity are constrained. Instead, more organic materials like plants tend to exhibit natural shapes. Their rounded look suggests a sense of softness, unlike geometric structures.

So, using circular forms can complement more angular shapes to even out the space and give it a friendlier feel.

Theme & Color Scheme

Although space management may be more crucial than colour, colour is one of the fundamentals of workplace design. There is evidence that colour affects both the productivity of your employees and their mental wellness. Warm hues like red, orange, and yellow might make your employees feel at ease, energised, or enraged.

The most common colour scheme in the office is composed of cool hues like blue, green, and tan that can soothe your team members. Your staff will be physically affected by colours. Use caution while using the harsh hues of yellow and white, which might strain the eyes and give you headaches.

Colours also influence customer and client perception of your business. Employing colourful and pastel hues in an accounting firm’s office could leave clients feeling disengaged. Additionally, colour has the ability to expand a space when employed properly.

Resource Management

Your staff require the proper equipment, supplies, and technology to accomplish their duties properly. Your team may waste time waiting for sluggish devices to load or for experts to solve malfunctions if you have outdated technology. Modern technology should boost the productivity of your company’s everyday operations when possible.

Even though it could take some time to teach your team to use the new technology, doing so will be worth it in the long run. If possible, encourage movement across your office by utilising mobile technologies. Depending on their needs, your staff should be allowed to set up workstations in quiet areas, break rooms, or meeting rooms.

Lighting

Office layout and design must consider light. Nothing motivates or increases productivity more than working in a dim, unwelcoming environment. A fantastic method to raise staff morale is to make the most of natural light. It will be easier for the eyes and head to function under natural light than harsh artificial light.

It may also give the impression that your room is much bigger than it really is. Using cool colours like blue and green can help your employees feel much more relaxed. Creating quiet areas with this colour scheme and lighting gives your employees a moment of relaxation during the workday, even if this isn’t the style you want for the entire business.

Using natural light to its fullest potential will also help you save money by lowering energy usage. In conjunction with natural light, workstation and technology arrangement must be considered. For these windows, ensure you have the appropriate shutters or coverings in case your team decides they don’t like the natural light.

The Bottom Line

While planning and organising your office, there are numerous factors to consider. Space management, colour, technology, and lighting are excellent starting points. Design your workspace around these workplace factors to ensure you have considered everything in your environment. Your workplace should increase profitability while retaining daily employee motivation, productivity, and efficiency.

#architecture #architectureblog #blog #studioasa

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codesandprograms · 2 years

Text

How to hire an AngularJs developer in 2022: A step-by-step guide for recruiters

Choosing an AngularJS framework is the first and most important step in developing a high-quality, cutting-edge online application. Your app's functionality is defined by the framework you use, which also enables you to add more features. AngularJS might be exactly what you need in this situation.

HackerRank 2020 research- AngularJS is the most well-known framework and has held the top spot for more than three years

You might need to spend a lot of time, money, and effort finding the finest AngularJS development company if you want to get the most out of AngularJS.

A competent AngularJS developer may make a huge difference for your product. You must be aware of where to look. Consequently, we've put up a list of helpful hints for hiring AngularJS developers for your next app project.

Who is an AngularJS Developer?

An AngularJS developer handles the creation of single-page applications, enterprise web applications, progressive applications, server-side rendered applications, graphics-rich websites, and mobile applications. They are in charge of creating a simple and user-friendly website.

The AngularJs developer's job responsibility-

creating versatile and adaptive web applications

conducting product development analysis

delivering complete front-end applications

cooperating with back-end developers to build RESTfulAPI

building infrastructure for front-end applications and assets

configuring, building, and testing scripts for a continuous integration environment

writing non-blocking code using advanced techniques like multi-threading

using Angular command-line interface (CLI) that enables software developers to code and configure web applications

communicating with external web services

helping in coordinating the workflow between graphic designers and HTML coders

8 Efficient Ways on How to Hire Remote AngularJs developer

You can boost CX and ROI by using Angular to design the front end of your website, but only if you interact with a skilled and certified AngularJS developer to build it.

Ask the AngularJs developer whether he knows how to combine Angular with other technologies effectively, if he can minimize code and save time and money, and if he has previous experience working on projects of a similar kind.

Have a look at what things to consider while hiring an AngularJs developer-

1. Project Overview

Finding the best fit for your project becomes tough without a clear project description once you discover the need to recruit a remote AngularJs developer. You get a far better understanding of what developer expertise you want in the candidates by defining all of the project's important components.

2. Create the list of demands

When you have finished writing your project description, you will know what skills your next remote AngularJs developer needs to possess to finish the job.

You must make a thorough list of the important skills you need in remote AngularJs developers to make your requirements for the project clear. With this list, you can quickly eliminate unwanted prospects without wasting time interviewing people who don’t suit you.

3. Understanding JavaScript

JavaScript is one of the most important tools for an Angular developer. The implementation of functionality is entirely up to JavaScript. So, if you want to build a dynamic website with plenty of features, audio, video, and animation, having Java skills is a necessity.

4. Expertise in testing and debugging

Developers need to be able to identify codes and take swift corrective action. It is also advantageous if the angular developer is familiar with testing tools like Jasmine, Karma, and Protractor.

5. Examine the demand for developer talent.

You will have a better sense of how many remote AngularJs developers you will need once you have finished generating your list of needs. The faster the project can be completed, the more remote Angular engineers you recruit.

6. Choose the hiring strategy

You'll be able to estimate how many remote angular devs you'll need to finish the project based on your need. If you require a larger group of remote developers, outsourcing may be the best employment strategy for you. There are other ways also such as finding the developers using the existing HR team or Contacting a vendor.

7. Top AngularJS interview questions to ask

Here are the few interview questions for Angularjs developers that you may ask while interviewing-

Give an example of a simple HTML document that contains header information and page content.

What is a CSS box model? Can you write a simple code snippet to explain this?

How do I change the style of an HTML element in JavaScript?

How does one implement the lazy loading of modules?

How does one ensure the security of your Angular app?

Can you elaborate on using HTTP interceptors?

8. Technical Skills to look out for in a remote Angular developer

If you’re looking to hire a top remote Angular developer, look for most of the following expertise:

A complete understanding of Angular, preferably in which version you want to work

HTML and CSS are basic skills to help you find software solutions and tweaks, so you have a good coding experience.

Understanding of Angular’s recommended languages, core JavaScript, and TypeScript.

Ability to create complete modules and components and understanding of the web services used in the system

Experience with NodePackage Manager (npm) used to install Angular and other web development packages

Understand the Angular command line interface that enables software developers to efficiently program and configure their apps

Contact Reactive Extensions for JavaScript (RxJS), a reactive programming library

Conclusion

The process of recruiting a remote Angular developer can be difficult because they are always in demand. A defined strategy is necessary to find the ideal remote AngularJs developer for the team.

Remember that the hiring process is frequently a time-consuming and expensive multi-step procedure when you start it. Therefore, you should avoid hiring the wrong developer with the right formal qualifications but lacking soft skills if you require a competent remote Angular developer.

Ask them great AngularJs interview questions to test their knowledge.

Additionally, if the hiring process becomes too complicated for you, seek assistance or select a different hiring strategy.

Additionally, you may find us on LinkedIn to get better insights on web development-related updates.

#AngularJS #AngularJS Interview questions #Top Angular companies

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