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pale-silver-comb · 4 years

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So I know absolutely nothing about Leverage except what I've been seeing you post lately and I have to admit you're making it look tempting to watch! Can I ask what are some of your favorite things about the show/reasons you would suggest people watch it? And is there really a poly relationship that is canon?

Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. I am going to do my best not to just “asdfghkjl” at you and answer coherently.

In a nutshell, Leverage is about 5 people. 4 are criminals (Parker, Hardison, Eliot and Sophie) with different and unique skill-sets and 1 is an ex-insurance investigator (Nate) who, at one point or another in his career, has tracked down (or at least attempted to) the other 4. The whole show is essentially: man reluctantly reforms 4 criminals to use their criminal powers for good and 4 criminals move into man’s life and stubbornly refuse to leave because, goddammit, now they have morals.

I’ve got a lot of favourite things about the show but the main ones are as follows:

1. Found family. And I’m not talking about loners who come together to fight crime and happen to co-exist to the point where they realise they happen to have found themselves a family. I mean, Nate and Sophie are the Drunk Uncle and Wine Aunt who somehow become Mom and Dad to 3 beautiful criminal children. Mom and Dad love their criminal babies and the kids love them (as well as each other, but we’ll come to that in a moment). You get amazing family moments such as: Mom and Dad packing the kids lunch before sending them out to kick corporate greed’s ass; Mom and Dad giving the kids ridiculously expensive and personal Christmas presents causing their most Grumpy Kid to go very very quiet and soft as he runs off to gleefully play with his new murder toy; the kids interrupting Mom and Dad’s big Movie Style Kiss to ask if they can please keep their new underground layer and huffing and puffing when Dad tells them no.

2. Found family: the OT3 edition. To answer your question, the OT3 is indeed canon, confirmed by the creator. Now, usually, “confirmed by the creator” infuriates me because most of the time it’s a way for a creator to be seen as “progressive” without doing anything to actually be progressive. That isn’t the case here. The OT3 are built up carefully and while it is obvious the creators didn’t originally intend for all 3 of them to become a relationship in the romantic sense, by mid-season 5 we are given a very clear picture of where Parker, Hardison and Eliot are heading in their relationship. There aren’t any kisses at the end to signal this but there are solid marriage vows in not only one but two episodes. (And by marriage vows I mean literal equivalents of marriage vows: “for better or worse” and “’til death do us part”. I’m not even exaggerating). The OT3 also doesn’t need explicit romantic narratives to convey how much they love each other. Their love is laced through the whole show, from the way they teach each other things to the way they respond to each other and work as a unit. The way they fiercely protect and admire each other. Like someone once said, if you need characters to kiss or say I love you to let the audience know they love each other, you are writing them wrong.

Aside from that, each of the parings in the OT3 are just. Gah. They are so well done, with friendship being the solid basis for them all. The creators never expect the audience to assume anything about them or fill in the gaps. They give us their relationships on screen and reference many things off-screen to show us how these relationships continue to build in between episodes.

Hardison and Parker are a canon couple and date in the show: it’s approached slowly and they are so goddamned sweet. They are basically every fluffy slow-burn trope with a healthy dash of mutual pining in the mix. They are basically that quote “love is patient, love is kind”. (I would like to add their romance never becomes the focus of the show or overrides the importance of any other relationship they have with the other characters, especially Eliot.)

Hardison and Eliot are the Old Married Couple and from day one are already bickering and looking at each other/making comments that are found in every UST fic ever (not to mention Hardison has a very good knack for making Eliot grin like a little kid, when usually he’s basically an Angry Little Chef Man). They argue, they play, and love each other plain as day.

Parker and Eliot are more subtle but every bit as wonderful. They have an unspoken connection and understand each other on a level no-one else can. Parker and Eliot are not good with giving themselves over to affection for different reasons (and Hardison plays a central role in helping them realise it’s okay to want it and have it- that boy has endless patience) but there is something so beautiful in the way the two of them come together on their own and develop their own special bond that works for them. Parker and Eliot are that trope where the characters don’t need to speak to understand each other perfectly. They just do. Their love language is a lot of the time non-verbal but speaks volumes. (Parker also likes to annoy the hell out of Eliot and Eliot....just.....lets...her. Because he’s soft. The softest, grumpiest boy.)

I could go into so much depth for each pairing and their dynamics as a 3 but that's for another post.

3. Subverting stereotypes. There is the occasional hiccup in the show regarding stereotypes but ultimately, Leverage gets an A+ when it comes to writing characters and making them 3 dimensional people who are not defined by certain characteristics or events. Nate could so easily fall into the White Man Pain trope where he uses the trauma of losing his kid as a reason as to why he is entitled to act like a dick. Nate is a dick but he doesn’t use his pain to excuse it and I appreciate that. Hardison is a black man who is soft and nurturing. Easily the most empathetic and patient of the group. He’s nerdy, an actual genius, and has the biggest heart of all the characters. Nate is maybe the glue but Hardison is definitely the heart. Media’s usual aggressive, amongst other, racist stereotypes can fuck right off. Parker is canonically autistic (I am sure this was confirmed by one of the creators) and she is not defined by it. It’s not written as some kind of singular personality trait. It’s part of what makes up Parker but it’s only one facet of who she is and not once is her actions, thoughts or feelings treated like a joke. Sometimes people don’t understand why she does and says the things she does but it’s met with patience and fondness over the course of the show. Equally, it’s not met with over-caution. Parker is just Parker. No-one tries to change her. The other nice thing is Hardison, who always makes sure Parker knows she’s amazing because of who she is and not in spite of it. Finally, Sophie is in her 40s. She’s not treated like she’s past her prime. Ever. She’s sexy, smart and never is she pitted against or compared to Parker (who is younger) for anything. Sophie is amazing and there’s never even a conversation of “I may be older but I am still *insert adjective typically associated with younger women here*”. Sophie is possibly the first female character I’ve ever seen who isn’t just unapologetic about her age but has never had to apologise for her age. It’s a non-issue and that’s that. The women on the show are written so well, right down to secondary characters and it’s beyond refreshing.

4.) It’s just fun. The show has a “monster of the week” type format. Except instead of a ghoul or a ghost, the monster is some corrupt wealthy and powerful individual or organisation. The show draws on real-life individuals to do this and therefore closely parallels real-life people and events. It addresses important political, economical, social and environmental issues while at the same time remaining fun and light-hearted. The characters constantly get the chance to play dress up and by GOD do they have fun with it. You get to watch Eliot beat up bad guys in the most delightful of ways, usually after a witty non-sequitur and with a weapon you’d never think could be a weapon. The dialogue and back and forth between the characters is everything. And finally - my favourite thing- the team can never resist striking a dramatic pose after they’ve taken down the bad guy, making sure the bad guy sees them. I mean, they COULD just walk away, satisfied they’ve taken the person down, but nope. They gotta be dramatic bitches 24/7 and pose like they are models for every single month of this year’s Criminal Calendar.

5.) Competence Porn. So. Much. Competence Porn.

Honestly, I could list a thousand reasons for why Leverage is amazing but to list them would to be spoiling so many amazing moments you’d get to discover for the first time on your own if you do choose to watch it. It’s the kind of show you can watch with an eagle-eye and sink your teeth into. But it’s also the kind of show if, you would prefer, put on in the background for something entertaining while you do something else. Each episode is about the job at hand but it’s made up of so many moments between the characters that show how much the creators and writers care about them. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll do whatever it is you do when something Soft and Wonderful happens that makes your heart melt. I am so beyond grateful for Leverage. It’s everything I always wanted in a show. Nearly every show I’ve watched in the past 10 years has disappointed me in some way, usually either because the writers run out of steam or characters who I love are treated poorly or given some kind of unnecessary “shock value” arc. Leverage doesn’t do that. Leverage is what it says on the bottle. Fandom isn’t something I joined because I needed canon fix-its. Fandom only enhances and celebrates an already excellent canon.

#leverage #leverage ot3 #parker #alec hardison #eliot spencer #sophie devereaux #nate ford #talk leverage to me

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sometimesiwrite · 3 years

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Essi Daven: Character Reference

Aside from my own Headcanons and Theories concerning Essi Daven, I wanted to compile a character reference sheet for those of you who may want to write her or think about her independently from my own creative perspectives. This is, of course, still subjective, but I’ve linked my conclusions directly back to the source text and kept strictly to canon information for this. There is still conjecture, but that is largely where the role of fanfiction steps in. I hope you enjoy. Physicality

Right away, we see Essi as a blonde-haired, fine-featured, petite young woman. Nothing remarkable or extraordinary about her appearance aside from her eyes. As we come to know her more and more, it’s her behaviour and physical mannerisms rather than her appearance that make her more alluring as a side character. Throughout this story, we see her “smile oddly”, “snear”, and on more than one occasion, she’s seen “defiantly” tossing her head (usually accompanied by blowing her lock out of her face).

On more than one occasion, she’s seen drawing her head to her shoulders. To me, this is not shyness or desire to hide. It is a turtling at times if she’s feeling particularly vulnerable or overwhelmed, but it’s also a very casual pose. On the terrace during the banquet, Geralt finds her leaning on her elbows with her shoulders hunched up looking at the water. She’s capable of poise and all the social graces required of a banquet, but when she has time to herself, she slouches, reverts to what’s comfortable, is a dork when she’s in her own head. Yet she “daintily” steps onto the pier to join Geralt the following morning. Based on this information, I put to you that she is someone whose eccentricity cannot be fully tamed by “refinement”.

We see more evidence of this in her handling of her “birthday present”:

At first, her reaction to the stinky mollusk is, “Yuk!” and she responds in a “typically dainty” way, holding the shell at arm’s length. That is, until she's given permission to like the shell. No longer socially “required” to find the smelly slimy ocean thing disgusting, Essi lets her more relaxed side out, pulling a knife from her belt (!), and dumping the insides out the window with the practical announcement that “the cats can eat it.” Her ability to turn 180° from “Ewwww” to “Oh, here, let me just shuck this with my casual waist-knife and chuck it out the window” makes for a high likelihood that she wasn’t that grossed out to begin with, but was rather performing societal expectations.

This brings us to:

Personality

We’ve already touched on this a little, but I want to focus now on Essi’s personality, which is rather complex. One of the most general details about her personality, however, is in her speaking: she’s direct. Oftentimes blunt. Even if she’s feeling unsure, she’s not unsure of her words. She often says or asks things seemingly out of the blue, and doesn’t shy away from Depth in her conversation. Rather, it seems to be her comfort-zone, since she defaults to asking Geralt what he associates with the sea rather than making smalltalk.

That last statement, that she’s neither calm nor composed, to me says a lot. She speaks what she feels, often more easily than what she thinks. And I suspect that she often experiences her thoughts as feelings—something that comes from her gut rather than her head which is reserved for biting wit and incisive observation.

Essi knows people. Knows them well enough to push their buttons, either jokingly or politically. She’s not afraid of authority, and even though her emotions fill her entirely—to the point her hands will shake—they do not render her helpless to them; rather, it seems, her emotions fuel her rhetorical capacity. Being a bard, this makes sense since the language of song and poetry are driven by the dialogue between emotion and intellect.

Moreover, she speaks what she feels to be the truth of her experience, whether it’s her experience of someone else, or her experience of herself. What she believes to be true (however subjectively) she speaks. And if she doesn’t know something, she asks and bluntly:

The fact that she “blanches” yet doesn’t stumble over her words here tells me she’s an excellent performer, and reinforces my previous comment that while her emotions fill her, they don’t rule over her. And yet, we also know she is impulsive and impetuous from her conversation with Geralt on the terrace:

In this exchange, we see one of Essi’s most fascinating self-contradictions at play. She claims not to know how to control herself, says she is impetuous, reactive (the next morning she bluntly admits to being “nosey” and owns it). And yet her ability to recognize and acknowledge her lack of self-control indicates a depth and a level of self-awareness that reinforces my previous statement that she experiences life as a series of feelings—impulses, emotions, “vibes”—more than what we would categorize as “thoughts”. Essi doesn’t have an internal monologue; she has an external monologue of whatever internal experiences make their way into a verbal headspace. She’s not one to prattle on, talk for the sake of talking (like some Other Bards we know) because even though she has a lot going on internally, only some of it will ever make its way into words.

As demure, dainty, and fragile as Essi seems to be, she also has, as Dandelion puts it, “a dark side”.

Exactly what that is, we never really learn, but we get a glimpse of it from Geralt’s perspective at the banquet:

What did she say? While we may not be meant to ever know the answer, we know that a) Essi was smug about it; and b) whatever it was was cutting and more than likely sexually demoralizing in nature.

Which brings us to…

Sexuality and Romance

There are several instances throughout A Little Sacrifice that indicate a level of sexual maturity and confidence in Essi that contrast interestingly with her emotional naivety (which I’ll get to in a moment).

It’s possible, in this instance, that Essi simply doesn’t not abide by the same “rules” about physical boundaries and various social meanings behind physical touch. This moment is certainly not enough to draw any conclusions one way or another. However, the description of her kiss with Geralt on the terrace is less ambiguous in this way, more ambiguous in another.

I first want to fully acknowledge that this scene is a mess of different signals, and I believe the lack of further insight on the part of the author is not intriguing, but lazy. But I digress. She kisses him eagerly and expertly, which suggests that she, mechanically at least, knows what she’s doing with her face and someone else’s. The fact that she distances the rest of her body from Geralt suggests a few things: a) she wants to kiss Geralt but doesn’t know whether he feels the same way, so doesn’t want to commit fully; b) she knows that Geralt doesn’t know why he’s kissing her, and so is trying to distance herself from him so that neither of them makes a mistake; c) she’s caught off-guard and doesn’t mind having a good smooch but doesn’t want him to get the wrong idea about her wanting anything else; d) all of the above.

I would include the possibility that she feels threatened by him and is merely going through the motions, but there’s enough evidence before and after to refute that as a forefront possibility. That’s not to say it isn’t in the background, but the use of “eagerly” would suggest that she’s enthusiastic about a little lip action. We do know that she’s not “looking for a man for the night” from the end of their conversation before going back inside.

I have a few headcanons about Essi’s sexuality and I shuffle back and forth between them depending on the day. There’s enough evidence to support a halfhearted claim that Essi is a virgin (which doesn’t inherently negate the evidence for sexual confidence), but I lean more toward the notion that Essi is sexually experienced (thought likely far less than Dandelion), picky (hence the red-eared young man at the banquet), and romantically inexperienced. There is, I will say, a level of modesty, vulnerability, and hesitation in her interactions with Geralt that lead me to believe she has had minimal directly-sexual encounters.

Is it projecting to say she reminds me a lot of myself in my early-20s? Yes. But to say this character resonates very strongly with my personal experiences, I think, gives some character insight where information and road signs are lacking from the author. And I will say, it is very in-keeping with Essi’s ongoing self-contradictions to be both bawdy and sexually inexperienced. Her canon story arc, unfortunately, doesn’t allow us to imagine her a few years older, but the idea of a more confident, self-assured Essi at 23/24 makes me very happy.

Now, I’m not going to slog through the dialogue disaster that is Essi’s emotional outpouring to Geralt, but suffice it to say, it’s clear she’s never been infatuated/in love before, though she is clearly a romantic. She hates the feeling of being in love, hates that it turns her needy, hates the way it makes her skin crawl and her stomach churn. But there’s something appealing about it as well, and I think there’s a part of her that is desperate to make love. Regardless of whether or not she’s sexually active, to me it’s clear that she wants an emotional-physical connection of some kind; she seeks out comfort from Geralt, seeks out affection, tenderness, but she is also seeking an emotional return—the little sacrifice that Geralt cannot find within himself to give. If she’s had bedmates in the past, it would be remiss to call them lovers.

That’s it, folks! That’s all I’ve got for the time being. As always, questions and observations are welcome (as well as disagreements as long as you’re willing to do it nice and polite like).

#Essi Daven #Character reference #canon reference #tw canon discussion #character analysis #canon criticism #A Little Sacrifice #The witcher #The Sword of Destiny

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kemendin · 3 years

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Some half-hearted, slightly discouraged ramblings under the cut, not really that heavy just me whinging a bit to try and get it out of my brain.

I started this blog specifically so I’d have a personal dumping ground/virtual display case for the literally thousands of screenshots I take across various games. I went in with the mindset that I was doing this for me, first and foremost, not anybody else, and for the most part that’s held up. I’m not doing it for attention. I’m doing it because I love, love, love taking screenshots, and sometimes writing about my characters, and just bringing my OCs to life either visually or verbally. I’m doing it for me, for my own enjoyment, and that’s not gonna change.

But the other part of this is, as much as we might think of it as selfish, it’s human nature to want to share our creations with other people. And that naturally leads to wanting responses to what we share. Social media as a whole has amplified this to a ridiculously unhealthy degree, no question, so I’m trying and, I think, succeeding, in mostly stepping away from that, when it comes to this blog.

And yet, still, there’s that low, needy pulse of wanting to be seen, of wanting validation, of wanting even just one stranger to step over and say ‘hey, what you posted is neat! I really like it!’ Because while this blog is a celebration of my characters and my virtual photography, even a celebration can start to feel lonely when it’s just you.

Part of this is that I sometimes wonder if people realise how much work goes into screenshots. As with real life photography - sure, anybody can pick up a camera and take a picture - anyone can hit that screenshot button. And I truly believe that, I’m not gatekeeping anyone by trying to judge the merit of screenshots. But at least for me, as with writing or drawing or anything creative, it’s an art form.

I do so much to set up a single screenshot. Especially in Fallout, where I have the tools to control almost every aspect of the scene (not so much in MMOs, but I still do what I can). I play with the weather, the time of day. I choose an outfit for my character, I go through ten or fifteen different poses before I find the one that works, and then I position my character properly. If it’s an action scene, sometimes I have to try a number of times to pause at just the right moment. Lately I’ve even been doing things with my character’s expression to really set the mood. Then when the scene itself is set, I go into the camera aspects. I experiment with the angle, the depth of field, the field of view, the lighting. And all of this takes a lot of time and consideration. I’ve spent half an hour or more on a single shot in a game. And usually I’ll take anywhere between 5 and 30 screenshots of a single moment or scene or setting. (This is why sometimes I don’t get any gameplay done lol) One interesting moment or idea can easily turn into a four hour screenshot session!

So I go to all this work - enjoyable work, to be sure, but still work - and then I’m always so excited to share my favourite shots, so I post them. On tumblr, on twitter, on instagram. And - crickets. A handful of likes. I post almost every day on at least one platform, because so many screenshots, guys - and maybe once a month, someone will comment. Even here on tumblr, where the same sort of algorithmic reign doesn’t exist, it’s noticeably rare that someone will reblog my screens. And because my brain is the way it is, I have to ask myself why?

I think I take decent screenshots. Not awe-inspiring, perhaps, and that’s fine. It’s for fun. But I still can’t help wondering. Is it that nobody sees them? Am I using the wrong tags? Does nobody care? Is it because it’s mostly my OCs, and not general characters or scenery screenshots? I really don’t know. I don’t know if the answer really matters.

Like everyone else, I know I’m guilty of just hitting that like button and moving on. But I’m really trying to be more conscious of the creators behind what makes me smile, and laugh, and pause and go ‘oh wow that’s gorgeous’. I’m trying to reblog more, share more, comment more when something strikes me, because I know how it feels to be on the other end, to put something out there that was made with passion and watch it quickly fade without leaving any sort of footprint.

I’m not here to beg for attention, I’m just here to be a nerd about games and OCs. But nerding is more fun when it’s with other people. Tumblr has a reputation for being the place where you can make your own little corner and just scream into the void about anything you like. But that void is full of other corners with other people. I like hearing their echoes. I guess I wish more people would tell me that they’re hearing mine.

#kem rambles

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wanna-b-poet31 · 5 years

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Gabriel’s Gaslighting

One of the most concerning things (to me at least) about Gabriel is how sickeningly effective his abuse is. The most prevalent, and insidious tool in his abusive toolbox is gaslighting.

So that everyone’s on the same page, the National Domestic Violence Hotline says gaslighting:

“may seem like just a harmless misunderstanding at first. Over time, however, these abusive behaviors continue, and a victim can become confused, anxious, isolated and depressed while losing all sense of what is actually happening. Then, the victim may start relying on the abusive partner more and more to define reality, which creates a very difficult situation to escape”

In VERRRRRY broad terms, it means that the abuser is trying to reshape the perception of their victim’s reality. This can be done a variety of ways:

Trivializing: Making a victim’s feelings feel insignificant

Withholding: Pretending not to understand why a victim is worried/concerned and refusing to listen for a better understanding.

Countering: Purposefully questioning the victim’s memory when they know the victim is telling the truth/correctly recalling events

Blocking/Diverting: Changing topics to make the victim question their experiences/feelings/thoughts

Forgetting/Denial: or pretending to have forgotten what actually occurred or denying things, like promises or appointment they made to the victim

And, the main way Gabriel wields his verbal weapon is through trivializing Aziraphale’s worries/needs/feelings so that they seem unimportant. Through gaslighting, Gabriel can control his perception of reality and consequently control his actions. And let me tell you there is a fuckton of overt and covert gaslighting happening throughout the show.

Gaslighting Aziraphale’s Love of Food

Aziraphale is, at heart, a lover of food. He finds genuine joy and pleasure from eating, and in many ways, it’s an intimate part of who Aziraphale IS. Crowley takes note of this, and on more than one occasion has gone out of his way to get food, even if we (the audience) have no evidence that he ate food himself. Although, Book!Crowley explicitly eats with Aziraphale, purposefully ordering desserts to share. It’s tender, sweet, and clearly shows the mutual respect the two shares.

We can see in Aziraphale’s second scene just how much Aziraphale loves food.

Look at the calm smile, look at the relaxed features. This is an entity who unabashedly happy about his sushi.

But, we see a sudden emotional shift when a Wild Gabriel appears! Notice how the smile is long gone, and his glance at the food is hesitant.

Gabriel then asks: “Why do you consume that? You’re an angel” with palatable judgment. Harmless right?

Although the question could be seen as simple “interest”, Aziraphale instantly starts making excuses, hiding an integral part of who he is from someone who is supposed to support him and love him unconditionally. More, Gabriel later insists that eating is “sullying the temple of [one’s] body” and is purposefully condemning Aziraphale’s actions.

By bringing attention to the “you’re an angel” Gabriel is drawing a line in the sand, defining what it means to be an Angel, and creating a world where Angels, at least good angels, don’t eat, lest they “desecrate” their holiness. You can see Aziraphale’s face IMMEDIATELY fall.

We, the audience, can see this is untrue. There’s no reason to believe food is harmful to supernatural entities, and more importantly, it brings so much unbridled JOY to Aziraphale. So why point it out? Why deliberately trivialize our favorite Angel’s feelings like that?

Control.

All traces of joy from the first GIF are gone. Instead, he responds in genuine confusion, and he looks like Gabriel thinks him crazy. He is pleading with his eyes as if to ask Gabriel not to hurt him for indulging in his loves.

By pointing out Aziraphale’s choice to eat, >not to mention enjoying eating< Gabriel’s putting the power in his own hands. He is twisting Aziraphal’s perception of reality so that he is the ultimate authority on what the principality should/not do.

This does not mean Aziraphale stops eating (we see him dining at the Ritz with Crowley hardly a day later), but it means that he’s made to feel guilty for his passions, making excuses to avoid further belittlement. He notably hides his love of food from all other celestial beings (besides Crowley).

Speaking of, contrast Crowley’s treatment of Aziraphale’s love of food with Gabriel’s. He actively invites Aziraphale to get lunch, even if he is not particularly passionate about it, because of Aziraphale’s love of food, not despite it.

Gaslighting Aziraphale’s Books

In my meta on Crowley and the Bookshop, I talk about how Crowley is the only character in the whole damn series to care about any of Aziraphale’s interests. However, the scene alluded to in the gif above shows us that, in 6000 years, Gabriel has either never seen a book before in his life -- which is unlikely given the reports they have to send and the fact that (in a deleted scene) he’s visited the bookshop previously -- or he doesn’t care enough to learn about what Aziraphale is doing.

>Like he actually manhandles Aziraphale’s books. That’s got to be as violating as being intimidating and pinned to the wall of his bookshop<

Like, I know the scene is meant to be comedic, Sandalphon helpfully providing “pornography” as the kind of scandalous reading material that would allow them privacy, and Gabriel just kind of rolls with it as Aziraphale looks (rightly) confused and put out. It is exactly because of Aziraphale’s discomfort that this scene troubles me.

Look at the gif below, sure, he’s “smiling” but look at how it doesn’t reach his eyes in the same way sushi does. He has some uneven breathing and a tense posture that SCREAMSSS anxiety. More, if you go back to watch the scene, the concerning way the smile immediately falls the second Gabriel’s attention is off of him.

Although Aziraphale’s reaction is certainly due in part to the surprise appearance of Gabriel, Aziraphale’s face betrays clear discomfort that extends beyond his fears about his feelings for Crowley being exposed.

Gabriel's implicit dismissal and mistreatment of his books reinforce the idea that in this world, Angels don’t think books matter. But by extension, then neither does Aziraphale.

This distortion of reality is one solely of Gabriel (and perhaps Heaven)’s own creation. Dismissing the book’s value is particularly harmful because the bookshop is such a large part of Aziraphale’s life. It is perhaps one of his most beloved possessions which he independently spent a prolonged amount of time (at least 200 years) protecting and curating his book collection.

Crowley picks up on the sheer intensity with which Aziraphale loves his books and has an emotional and physical breakdown, presuming the only way for Aziraphale’s books to be on fire, the Angel must be dead.

Gabriel doesn’t care.

The consequence is not a diminished love of the bookshop, but rather, a fear of expressing interest around the people he’s “supposed” to care about and are supposed to care about him. He starts lying to avoid the put-downs and reality twists. This interaction shows that Gabriel’s presence makes Aziraphale a less confident, less relaxed entity.

Gaslighting the War

Okay, so Aziraphale lies ALOT, but we know for a fact that he’s told Gabriel his intentions to try stopping the war.

The archangel knows the general gist of Aziraphale’s plan to “prevent” the war. Aziraphale has made his intentions excruciatingly clear. However, besides blatantly lying to him about Heaven’s position on saving the world, he trivializes the very real concerns Aziraphale poses. It’s not just that he thinks Aziraphale can’t stop the war, it’s that Gabriel deliberately misleads him, allowing him to believe that if Aziraphale successfully climbed his mountain, he would be accepted by Heaven. (He’s not)

Then, in the above GIF, he dismisses Aziraphale’s transparent, clear plea for help.

CONTEXT: This is how Episode 4 opens. Aziraphale has found the Anti-Christ, met and rejected Crowley’s offer to fly off to Alpha Centauri at the Bandstand, told the love of his life his best friend that he doesn’t even like him and is in full out freak mode. Then, apropos of nothing “runs” into Gabriel and is in dire need of support to stop the end of the world. He NEEDS a lifeline, now that he thinks Crowley is fleeing Earth, never to see him again.

He firmly asserts that humanity is worth saving and that they COULD do it, (they’re Heavenly after all), but Gabriel does not give a single flying fuck about Aziraphale's feelings.

Instead of answering Aziraphale’s prayers, Gabriel reinforces his own interests (see: the never-ending war) and changes the conversation to focus Aziraphale’s “gut”. The glance in the below GIF is unnervingly condescending.

Look at how “disappointed” Gabriel appears glancing up to meet Aziraphale’s eyes before pointedly looking to Aziraphale’s belly. It is if, with his eyes, Gabriel is insinuating Aziraphale’s appearance is a personal failing and a somehow more important problem than stopping the end of the world.

The pivot from Aziraphale plea “we need to stop the end of the world” to “you’ need to lose the gut” is classic “Diverting” from the situation. It deflects from his own manipulative behavior and leaves Aziraphale to constantly second-guess himself. It puts the power squarely in Gabriel’s hands because the topic is no longer rooted in Aziraphale’s valid concerns or feelings.

Gabriel leaves the scene, with a more distraught (which, really how was that even possible) Aziraphale than the one he ran into. And, we hear Azirgaphale say he’s soft, in a hopeless, joyless voice that’s full of self-doubt. It’s a heartbreaking moment because of how powerless Gabriel (and Heaven for that matter) has made him feel, and how lost without Crowley as his lifeline he is.

However, Gabriel’s gaslighting comes to a head once Aziraphale is pushed passed his breaking point.

Aziraphale Want(s) To Break Free

After the altercation in the park, Aziraphale:

is “dumped” (again),

is attacked by angels, (presumably sent by Gabriel?)

is discorporated,

is verbally yelled, berated, and belittled for being a “bad angel”

realizes anything demons can do, he can do better

possesses 1-3 people

reunites with Crowley

“helps” save the world

Needless to say, he’s been through some shit.

However, he doesn’t encounter Gabriel until after the armageddon has been thoroughly avoided (read: his concerns have been validated, he’s taken steps to address his issues, and he’s reformed relationships with people his abuser pushed him to second-guess).

When Gabriel reappears, he has every reason to believe that his gaslighting will work to “control” Aziraphale. Because, while he may now be aware of Aziraphale’s friendship with Crowley, abusers will do anything to get the desired power dynamic (with them controlling all of it, and the victim none), and why abandon his most effective tool?

Just one thing though.

Crowley.

Crowley absolutely does not gaslight Aziraphale. Instead, he seeks to understand and validate his Angel’s concerns. Sure, occasionally they’ll fight, or push each other’s buttons, but Crowley never tries to manipulate of control Aziraphale. He remembers and encourages Aziraphale’s passions, actively seeks to participate in joint interests, and the sole act of saving Aziraphale’s books because he knows just how damn important those books are to his angel.

He’ll even go as far as to prioritize Aziraphale’s needs/comfort above his own. Is Aziraphale chained in a prison during the Reign of Terror? Sure, let’s just appear to rescue him. Aziraphale is getting double-crossed by Nazi bastards? Let’s just put ourselves in danger and walk on the consecrated ground and be to rescue him and his books.

It would be a bit of an understatement to say that Crowley cares about Aziraphale and wants to promote his wellbeing.

At the Airfield, Gabriel has never interacted with Aziraphale with Crowley around (deleted scenes notwithstanding) and able to support him. The simple act of having a support system there definitely boosts Aziraphale’s confidence and gives him the strength to make an actual choice.

Intervene.

He chooses to walk up to Beelzebub and Gabriel and ask, if they are sure of their reality, because, now Aziraphale sure as hell does. He knows where he stands and who he stands with. He is no longer under Gabriel’s control.

Never before has Aziraphale had a single honest choice. Sure, he made the choice to enter the “arrangement” with Crowley, to raise the (wrong) anti-christ, to lie to God. But these choices are rooted in self-preservation and self-defense. Also, he’s not transparent about these choices to Gabriel.

Once Armageddon is averted, and Aziraphale’s chosen to side with Crowley, to jump out of Heaven if need be for humanity, there is very little holding Aziraphale back. And, Aziraphale is finally being lifted up.

Gabriel tries to intimidate Aziraphale into submission, to tell him the questions he’s asking are insignificant, and that his opinion doesn’t matter. But, Aziraphale no longer is blind to the gaslighting, and pushes on. Crowley, in turn, backs him up and they support each other (and Adam) as they defy their respective abusers.

Once Gabriel’s control over him is broken, and his support system (Crowley) is reinstated, he can finally, openly and unabashedly love his passions.

I mean, just look at this happy face! He never smiles so honestly around Gabriel (or Heaven).

TLDR: Fuck Off Gabriel

Thanks for coming to my Tedtalk

SOURCES:

Many of Gabriel’s actions seem to leave Aziraphale feeling worthless, and powerless in their dynamic. If a person in your life makes you:

constantly second-guess yourself.

ask yourself, “Am I too sensitive?” multiple times a day.

often feel confused and even crazy.

always apologizing to your partner.

can’t understand why, with so many apparently good things in your life, you aren’t happier.

frequently make excuses for your partner’s behavior to friends and family.

find yourself withholding information from friends and family so you don’t have to explain or make excuses.

know something is terribly wrong, but you can never quite express what it is, even to yourself.

start lying to avoid the put-downs and reality twists.

have trouble making simple decisions.

have the sense that you used to be a very different person – more confident, more fun-loving, more relaxed.

feel hopeless and joyless.

feel as though you can’t do anything right.

wonder if you are a “good enough” partner.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline has some valuable resources for you to get any help you need.

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enbyleighlines · 4 years

Note

Since canonically wwx is a terrible cook and wn is actually really good at it what about everyones fave qpps making dinner for lan wangji and a yuan's family birthday dinner (not required but bonus if the whole family is coming over/comes over)? I think wn likes feeding people!

Ooooh, what a cute idea! I absolutely adore it, thank you. I hope you enjoy this drabble, my anonymous friend~

—

Wei Wuxian is a famously bad cook. It is a well known fact about him, primarily because he comes from a family which owns and runs its own restaurant.

But Wen Ning is an optimistic sort of person. He believes, fully in his heart, that anyone can be good at anything if they work hard enough. That includes Wei Wuxian, a man who once burned a hole through a saucepan. Even he, Wen Ning believes, can become a decent cook with time and effort.

Even so, Wei Wuxian is currently wearing Wen Ning’s faith thin.

“What is that?” Wen Ning asks.

On the cutting board, there lies a mass of... something. To Wen Ning’s best estimate, it’s a mishmash of different vegetables. The bits and pieces are all in various shapes and sizes. They also happen to be lying in a puddle of their mixed fluids.

Wei Wuxian looks between the cutting board and Wen Ning. The knife in his hand is disturbingly wet. “I diced up the vegetables,” he says.

Wen Ning wordlessly takes the knife Wei Wuxian is holding. It’s difficult to see under all the pulp, but Wen Ning notices that the edge is rather dull. “This is a bread knife,” Wen Ning tells Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian pouts. Really, he’s a master at playing the petulant child. “So? A knife is a knife! Does it matter what kind I use?”

“Yes,” Wen Ning answers. He doesn’t want to show any frustration. After all, this is meant to be a bonding experience for the two of them. And, he does love Wei Wuxian dearly. “This knife isn’t sharp enough for vegetables. Wasn’t it difficult to cut into them?”

Wei Wuxian enters a thinking pose. “Ah,” he says, “You’re right! But I didn’t want to dirty another knife...”

“That would have been fine,” Wen Ning assures him, “See, the problem with using a bread knife for cutting vegetables is that you have to apply a lot of extra pressure, and sometimes you end up mashing everything into a pulp.”

To Wen Ning’s amusement, Wei Wuxian listens diligently. He even looks regretful.

“I’m sorry,” Wei Wuxian says, after a pause, “Should I go to the store and pick up some more veggies?”

“No, it’s fine.” Wen Ning grabs a sharper knife from the drawer and gets to work cutting the larger pieces into proper cube shapes. “It shouldn’t affect the flavor of the dish,” Wen Ning tells his partner, “But they should all be bite-sized. Also, if they’re all the same size, they’ll be evenly cooked.”

Wen Ning can feel Wei Wuxian’s gaze on his hands as he chops with practiced ease. Soon, the vegetables look a little more edible than before.

When Wen Ning finishes, Wei Wuxian lets out a held breath.

“You know, I always get so nervous seeing you hold sharp objects,” Wei Wuxian admits, while placing a hand on Wen Ning’s shoulder, “It feels like it shouldn’t be allowed.”

Wen Ning frowns at Wei Wuxian. “Why’s that?”

“You used to be so accident prone,” Wei Wuxian explains, “I remember, in high school, you got accused of skipping class because you called sick in so often. Your immune system was basically nonexistent. And there was that time you twisted your ankle so bad in gym that the teacher had to carry you to the nurse’s office. And that time in college you slipped on a patch of black ice and got a concussion—”

“Yes, okay, I get it,” Wen Ning cuts him off.

“My point is,” Wei Wuxian continues with a chuckle, “I guess I’m just got into the habit of always watching out for you, to ensure you don’t get hurt. Letting you handle a knife seems counterintuitive.”

Wen Ning puffs out his cheeks, but it’s mainly to hide a very real hurt.

“Hey,” Wei Wuxian says, clutching Wen Ning’s arm, “I just want to protect my partner. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Wen Ning feels heat overtaking his face, and turns his head to hide the blush from Wei Wuxian’s perceptive eyes. He feels— well, he doesn’t have the language to describe it. Full of light, perhaps. Or fizzy, like a carbonated beverage. It’s neither entirely good nor entirely unpleasant.

Of course Wen Ning appreciates the concern. And the verbal confirmation of their queerplatonic bond thrills him. But there’s something else. After a second of thought, Wen Ning realizes what is bothering him.

“I suppose,” Wen Ning replies, “But... I’m not a child.”

“Oh?” Wei Wuxian releases his grip on Wen Ning’s arm. He moves into Wen Ning’s line of sight, connecting their gazes before speaking again. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to imply you’re childish. Just that I care about you.”

“I know,” Wen Ning assures him. He pauses a moment, and then pulls Wei Wuxian into an embrace. The warmth of his friend’s body loosens some of the tension in his muscles. It gives Wen Ning the strength to be vulnerable. “I’m glad you care about me,” he murmurs into Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, “I care about you, too. But I don’t want to be treated like a child. Other people do that a lot, when they find out I’m... not interested in sex.”

“Oh?” Wei Wuxian says again. “I... didn’t know that. That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Wen Ning doesn’t believe for a second that Wei Wuxian would say anything to intentionally hurt him.

“I mean,” Wei Wuxian adds, “if anything, I’m the child here. Look at the complete mess I made out of the vegetables. I’m surprised you even asked me to help you cook dinner. Unless you want to give our entire extended family food poisoning?”

Wen Ning pulls back from Wei Wuxian with a sigh. “I won’t let you give anyone food poisoning,” he promises.

“Not even Jin Zixuan?”

Wen Ning snorts. “Not even him. Why are you even still pretending to hate him?”

“Hmm... to keep things interesting, I guess!” Wei Wuxian grins one of his dashing devil smiles. It might look menacing, if it didn’t also light up his eyes like heavenly beacons.

As usual, Wen Ning cannot help but reflexively mirror Wei Wuxian’s good mood. “If you say so. Anyway, we should get back to business. Do you know anything about making the dough for steamed buns?”

“From scratch?” Wei Wuxian asks, “Absolutely nothing.”

Wen Ning perks up. He personally finds making and kneading dough incredibly therapeutic. “Okay,” he says, “Let me show you.”

—

When Wei Wuxian said ‘entire extended family’, he wasn’t exaggerating. For better or for worse, they collectively consider a large expanse of people their family.

There’s Wei Wuxian’s adoptive parents and siblings, Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng. Jiang Yanli brought her husband and son, while Jiang Cheng brought his lovers Wen Qing and Nie Huaisang, the former being Wen Ning’s Jiejie.

Aside from Wen Qing, Wen Ning’s family includes Granny, and a few aunts and uncles.

And then Lan Wangji invited his Shufu and Fuqin, plus Lan Xichen, Lan Xichen’s wife Nie Yuyan, and their son, Lan Jingyi. And since it always feels weird to extend invitations to Nie Huaisang and Nie Yuyan without including Nie Mingjue, he’s also there.

Lan Wangji’s apartment is big, but it’s still an apartment. Fitting everyone inside is possible, but not ideal. By the time everyone has arrived, Wen Ning is starting to get just a little claustrophobic.

And he hasn’t even left the kitchen yet.

Wei Wuxian initially went out to socialize, but now he returns to Wen Ning’s side. Or rather, he hangs himself over Wen Ning’s shoulders like a backpack.

“How are you doing?” He asks gently.

Wen Ning almost plays it off, almost gets defensive. But then he swallows down the urge to reiterate that he is not a child. The truth is, he does have social anxiety, and he is feeling overwhelmed.

So instead Wen Ning squeezes one of Wei Wuxian’s hands. “It’s a lot of people,” he answers.

“Yeah... we might have invited too many people,” Wei Wuxian admits.

His breath tickles Wen Ning’s neck, but somehow it doesn’t feel suffocating. If anything, having a Wei Wuxian flesh barrier makes Wen Ning feel more secure.

“Maybe,” Wen Ning says, “but who would you choose not to invite in a hypothetical do-over? Everyone here is family.”

“True.” Wei Wuxian nuzzles their cheeks together. “I suppose, in the future, we can just invite one side of the family at a time. But that doesn’t sound quite as fun as having everyone together at once.”

Wen Ning nods his agreement. He grips Wei Wuxian’s hand tighter, not wanting the embrace to end so soon.

Wei Wuxian gets the message and cuddles closer.

“I’m having fun,” Wen Ning tells Wei Wuxian, “Even if I feel claustrophobic, I’m still glad that everyone is here. I might just need to retreat to the kitchen once in a while.”

“Okay,” Wei Wuxian agrees, “To be fair, I think Lan Zhan feels the same way, though he’s too stubborn to admit it. Basically, I’m dating two introverts. Luckily for you guys, I thrive best in chaotic environments. I’ll handle all the socializing, whenever you want to take a breather.”

Wen Ning chuckles. “Thanks, A-Xian.”

They continue to cling for another moment. Wei Wuxian’s presence takes some of the edge off of Wen Ning’s anxiety, replacing the nervous energy with a calm warmth. When Wei Wuxian finally does draw back, Wen Ning feels rejuvenated.

“Okay,” Wen Ning says, and picks up a tray of vegetable spring rolls. “I’m ready.”

#asks #ningxian #mdzs modern au #mo dao zu shi #anon #anonymous #drabbles #leigh’s writing

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failes-xtra-bits · 4 years

Text

Princes Gambit Review Ch 2

Chapter 2 begins with a remark on how the soldiers that the regent chose were of the worst standard, once again showing his meticulous planning. We learn that they are making disrespectful remarks and sly insinuations.

“ No wonder Aimeric had been furious: even Damen, who had frankly no objection to men slandering Laurent, was finding himself annoyed. It was disrespectful to speak that way of any commander. He’d loosen up for the right cock, he heard. He pulled too sharply on the girth strap of his horse.”

This quote reveals the true extent of the crudity of these comments. So much so that even Damen (who has had nothing but verbal and emotional abuse from Laurent) is annoyed. This can be attributed to him wanting this campaign to go well because he wants to get home.

We learn that Laurent and Damen had been discussing the terrain. We also get more tension build up.

“As the night wore on, Laurent had abandoned his deliberate comportment for a relaxed, youthful pose, drawing one knee up to his chest and slinging an arm around it. Damen had found his gaze drawn to the easy arrangement of Laurent’s limbs, the balance of wrist on knee, the long, finely articulated bones. He had been aware of a diffuse but growing tension, a sensation almost like he was waiting . . . waiting for something, unsure what it was. It was like being alone in a pit with a snake: the snake could relax, you could not.”

I love how sexual tension and hate are very mixed up here. I also like how we are getting a very relaxed Laurent here as well.

Eventually the company ride out and here Damen notes the difference between Govart and Laurent.

“Govart crude and commanding on a warhorse at their head, and beside him beside him—young, elegant and golden—the Prince. Laurent looked like a figurehead, eye-catching and useless.”

This is less an analysis of character (because we all know that Laurent is far from useless) but more of an assessment of political power. Currently Laurent for all his intellect is no more than a political pawn.

The men then set up camp and Damen goes to Paschal when he hears Aimeric and Orlant talking. Orlant trying to get Aimeric to tell him who did it while Aimeric keeps claiming that its all his fault. Damen goes to find Jord because he knows how to handle Orlant.

“The man Jord had been speaking to gave Damen an unpleasant look after Jord left. ‘I heard you were good at carrying tales. And what will you be doing while Jord stops that fight?’

‘Getting massaged,’ said Damen, succinctly.”

Love this bit because I love Damen’s sass. Damen visits Paschal and then goes to report to Laurent in his tent. In the tent we are greeted with the image of

“Laurent was seated in the entrance area, which was arranged for visitors with chairs and a receiving table, much like a warfield tent. He was talking to one of the scruffier-looking servants about armaments. Except that he wasn’t talking, he was mostly listening. He waved Damen inside to wait.

Once again our hatred against Laurent is slowly unravelling. By having him ‘listening’ rather than ‘talking’ to this servant the reader considers him in an almost empathetic light. We also start seeing that he has the makings of a good leader. The servant is dismissed and we are hit with this iconic line.

“Well? Attend me,’ said Laurent.

‘Attend,’ said Damen.

The word sank into him. He felt as he had in the training arena when he had been unwilling to go near the cross.

‘Have you forgotten how?’ Laurent said.

He said, ‘The last time, this did not end pleasantly.’

‘Then I suggest you behave better,’ said Laurent.

Laurent turned his back on Damen calmly and waited. The lacing of Laurent’s brocade outer garment began at his nape, and ran in a single line all the way down his back. It was ridiculous to . . . fear this. Damen stepped forward.

In order to begin unlacing the garment, he had to lift his fingers and brush to one side the ends of the gilt hair, soft as fox fur. When he did so, Laurent tipped his head very slightly, offering better access.

It was the normal duty of a body servant to dress and undress his master. Laurent accepted the service with the indifference of one long used to attendance. The opening in the brocade widened, revealing the white of an undershirt pressed warm against skin by the heavy outer fabric, and by armour atop that. Laurent’s skin and the shirt were the exact same delicate shade of white. Damen pushed the garment over Laurent’s shoulders and just for a moment felt, beneath his hands, the hard, corded tension of Laurent’s back.

‘That will do,’ said Laurent, stepping away and tossing the garment to one side himself. ‘Go and sit at the table.”

We are again reminded of Laurent’s brutal treatment. But it is also interesting to note that Laurent is also tense during this scene. Is it because he feels disgusted about having the man who killed his brother attend him? Yes, that and also the difficulties that are presenting themselves. I am sure Laurent is aware of what the regent is doing.

Anyway the scene ends with Laurent asking Damen about military manoeuvres. Which we assume happens because it skips to the next morning where Jord asks Damen to the practice field.

Damen is excited by this idea, because he is at his core a warrior. When they arrive there are people there but not many are the Regent’s men. Damen and Orlant start fighting.

“There had been no explosion last night, and Orlant and Lazar were within a hundred paces of each other without any sign of bodily harm, but that meant that Orlant had a grievance that had not yet been expressed to his satisfaction, and as Orlant stopped what he was doing and came forward, Damen found himself face to face with a challenge that he should have predicted.

He caught the wooden practice sword instinctively when Orlant tossed it to him.

‘You any good?’

‘Yes,’ said Damen.

He could see from the look in Orlant’s eyes what he intended. People were beginning to take notice, pause in their own practice.

“This isn’t a good idea,’ said Damen.

‘That’s right. You don’t like fights,’ said Orlant. ‘You prefer going behind people’s backs.’

The sword was a practice weapon, wood from pommel to blade-tip, with leather wound around the hilt to provide a grip. Damen felt the weight of it in his hand.

‘Afraid to spar?’ said Orlant.

‘No,’ said Damen.

‘Then what? Can’t fight?’ said Orlant. ‘You’re only here to fuck the Prince?’

Damen swung.

Damen and Orlant start fighting, Damen wins the fight. At the end of the fight Jord comes along and indicates at Laurent who had been watching them (do voyeuristic tendencies also extend to fighting? Can’t blame him, martial arts is hot). Damen leaves and goes to Laurent.

“You were looking for me?’

Laurent didn’t answer, and Damen couldn’t interpret his expression.

‘What is it?’ said Damen.

‘You’re better than I am.’

Damen couldn’t help his amused breath of reaction to that, or the long, scrolling look from Laurent’s head to his toes and back again, which was probably a little insulting. But really.

Laurent flushed. The colour hit his cheeks hard, and a muscle tightened in his jaw as whatever he felt was forcibly repressed. It was not like any reaction that Damen had ever seen from him before, and he couldn’t resist pushing it a little further.

‘Why? Do you want to spar? We can keep it friendly,’ Damen said.

‘No,’ said Laurent.

Whatever might have passed between them after that was forestalled by Jord, who was approaching from behind him with Aimeric.”

I love this little exchange because while initially it seems like Laurent might really be turned on by Damen’s fighting (which he subconsciously may be), in hindsight it comes across as more embarrassed that he has been training for all his life to kill Damen, but still isn’t good enough. Its also my fav because its one of those rare moments where we see Laurent’s composure falter and we see him blushing.

They are interrupted by Jord and Aimeric. Jord leaves with Laurent for a bit leaving Damen alone with Aimeric. Jord comes back to find Damen and apologises to him.

“I want you to know,’ said Jord, ‘when I asked you to join us this morning, it wasn’t to give Orlant the chance to—’

‘I know that,’ said Damen.

Jord nodded slowly. ‘Any time you want the practice, I’d be honoured to go a few rounds against you. I’m a lot better than Orlant.’

‘I know that too,’ said Damen.

He got the closest thing to a smile he’d received from Jord. ‘You weren’t that good when you fought Govart.’

‘When I fought Govart,’ said Damen, ‘I had my lungs full of chalis.’

Another slow nod.

‘I’m not sure how it is in Akielos,’ said Jord, ‘but . . . you shouldn’t take that stuff before a fight. Slows your reflexes. Saps your strength. Just some friendly advice.’

‘Thank you,’ said Damen, after a long, drawn out moment had passed.”

I like this purely because its hilarious and shows that Damen is gaining some friendship and respect.

At last the long awaited fight that is to seperate the men happens and its between Lazar and Aimeric. The fight sets of more fights between Jord, Orlant and Govart but somehow Jord manages to calm the situation down. Then Damen goes to see Laurent. They discuss the fight and we learn that Aimeric and councillor Guion’s son. Soon Damen reveals the real reason why he’s seeing Laurent, he wants to talk about Govart.

“I know you are capable of bringing Govart to heel without it being seen as an act of aggression against your uncle. I can’t believe you fear Govart. If you did, you’d never have set me against him in the ring. If you’re afraid of—’

‘That’s enough,’ said Laurent.

Damen set his jaw. ‘The longer this goes on, the harder it will be to regain face with your uncle’s men. They already talk about you like—’

‘I said that’s enough,’ said Laurent.

Damen was silent. It took a great deal of effort. Laurent was staring at him with a frown.

‘Why do you give me good advice?’ asked Laurent.

Isn’t that why you brought me with you? Instead of speaking those words aloud, Damen said, ‘Why don’t you take any of it?”

While our own judgement of Laurent is unravelling so is Laurent’s judgement of Damen. Its cool how we are going through the same journeys as the characters. I love that Laurent is surprised as Damen’s decency. *chef’s kiss*

Anyway Laurent leaves stating Govart has already resolved matters to his satisfaction.

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codywalzel · 6 years

Text

It is my personal belief that no one can teach another human being a single useful thing about how to make art. My understanding of “teaching” is giving someone something directly, like a full-proof method for balancing algebraic equations, or the definitions of SAT words. I went into art school with the hopes that cryptic lesson plans would lead to a Mr. Miyagi style evolution that would unlock my hidden powers. If I knew what I do now about how to art-learn, I might have gotten something substantial out of college. But in my experience, art education begins and ends with either: 1. Another artist opening your eyes to an idea about drawing that you hadn’t noticed before, or 2. Elaborating on their go-to solutions they use in their own work. Someone can tell you that you can ground your storyboards by drawing a ground grid. But using that grid in correct perspective, to it’s intended effect, is not something someone can do for you. Art educators and mentors can help you identify solutions to problems, then you work out how to implement it yourself. At the risk of sounding like a pedant for drawing that distinction, I’ll say that since I started approaching creative learning from this perspective, I get a lot more out of it. It’s become more “guided experimentation” than recording a recipe for the perfect painting. That said, storytelling in art is definitely something you can teach yourself. You’ve identified a trait already, storytelling, so you’re already at the limit of where some teachers can take you. Plus you identified something astute, because I’ve been trying to incorporate storytelling into my art for a while, and have only recently started to get a handle on it. So in my opinion, you’ve done the bulk of the thinking work. Now comes the heavy practice work to master this new spell. This journey has a lot to do with finding your voice as a storyteller, so the tone of “YOU”, and the style of rendering that best expresses that tone in this time and place, will have a unique set of challenges for each person. But, I’ll take you through some of the realizations I had on the path to where I am now: A proud adult with two cats and a hit or miss batting average at clearly expressing thought in a sketch.

Capturing an entire scene in a single, static drawing is something my mentor Ian Abando does masterfully. I used to try to emulate the personality I saw in those drawings, but I was only copying the surface. I realize now that me and Ian’s outlooks are so different, that Ian and I would never tell the same type of stories, much less the same exact same story about those people at the adjacent cafe table. He’s personable, outgoing, jovial. Ian is like a friendly labrador with a dark streak in his sense of humor. He can sketch two strangers and capture a warmth that makes you realize they’re actually two old friends that haven’t seen each other in years. I can find something in that coffee shop too, but I’m just a way bigger weirdo, so I’m more interested in weirdo shit. For me, the first step in capturing those stories was finding the right subject. I keep a sketchbook with me at all times, and I’ve developed a patience for waiting, for hunting the right subject. When Ian and I meet up at a coffee shop to sketch, it always seems like he can draw anything. He seems to rest his gaze somewhere in the room at random, then drop pencil to page and watch that snippet explode into life. But now, I think he’s hunting too. I think he’s searching for what’s interesting, what’s worth drawing to him. It only seemed random to me because I couldn’t see what was beautiful about a subject. That he can see a particular magic in a certain 6 square feet of space, and not 6 feet next to it, has to do with who he is. In my mind, he was making that table of pleasant, unremarkable strangers more interesting on the page than it really was. But in his mind, maybe he saw that a girl was counting down the seconds until the end of a bad date, and the guy was trying to find subtle ways to flex. Even now that I can “see” more, I might never appreciate the specific things that Ian does until he draws them.

The potential exists for that to be true of all of us. Art is a magic that lends other people your eyes. So let people see the pieces of your world that only you can. Just like he can do for me, I can see what’s interesting in scenes that Ian would overlook. And there are a million scenes where we’d see the same fascinating thing, but we’d have a different approach to it (for one, his approach would be to be way better at drawing than me). And there are a million more scenes that we’d both see something interesting in, but we’d each attach to a different feature of it. All of that to say, don’t just pick out something and draw. If you want to tell a story, then don’t draw just to put something down on the page. Wait. Observe. Find a moment that makes you laugh. Find somebody despicable, and capture what’s despicable about them. Use a sketch to vent. Or make a sketch intentionally cold, and show everyone what your specific brand of loneliness feels like without begging for sympathy. I’d rather keep observing and draw nothing than to try to draw something dull because it’s in front of me. Find the stories you’re personally interested in, you probably have something funny or insightful to say about a given situation that is unique to you. Try to put that weird part of you on display. If it scares you, then it’s probably coming from an honest place, and you should keep going. It may be clumsy at first. The story I want to tell still doesn’t come across on the page every time. Meanwhile, Ian seems to capture his stories without a single failure. If stories are Pokemon, he’s tossing great balls while I’m stuck with a standard issue poke ball. He’d probably say that comes down to pencil mileage. So keep practicing. Keep putting pencil to page even on the shit drawing days. It’s a toll you have to pay to be good down the line, even if you’re not good today. But, please, keep your brain turned on, that means always make an effort to be interesting. (Everyone go ahead and make that same effort in life too. Being boring around the water cooler at work is super rude and depressing.) Like I said, being interesting in your art usually just comes down to taking an extra second to consider your subject before you start drawing. What am I seeing here? Is this the thing I want to draw? Where am I going with this? Is this coming from a real place? Am I digging to find the best I have today, or am I just making the same tired observation about airline food that I’ve seen before? And if I’m drawing something a lot of people draw, I make sure to ask what can I bring to this? What story can I tell about this that no one else is telling? Example: for the most part, if everyone around me is gushing about some new Star War via fanart, another well rendered post telling the story that you also enjoyed the Star War isn’t that interesting to me. I’d rather a worse drawing driven by a more interesting idea. You can participate in the cultural conversation without just repeating what’s already been said. I’m more likely to enjoy your Star War art if it comments on that one character’s funny butt pose in the third act. Or whatever. That’s just an hypothetical it doesn’t have to be butts. The point is to put more thought in to your art. Wait a sec for the right idea, don’t just start drawing. You will know when you spot the right subject because you will already see it on the page. Plussss, when you start drawing with a clear idea where you’re going, not only is it more interesting, but it actually informs your craft- your drawings will come out better. Okay, let’s say I’m not interested in the people a table over at the coffee shop, how do I know what else to look for? As stupid as this sounds, tweeting helped. Not just reading other people’s tweets, but putting myself out there, wording an idea with limited characters, figuring out what types of things could be explained, and what things were hard to express. And then I started to notice more and more effective way to express those ideas with a specific tone. One thing I realized about myself was that I trying to say two or three things about something at once. It made good ideas muddy, and weakened all three. I challenged myself to clarify, to combine, to present a single, strong idea. I’m still working on it, but for me tweeting is a storytelling exercise that’s helped put more “me” into my art. It forced me to get thoughts, ideas, jokes, frustrations, etc. out into the ether unadulterated by technique. There was no consideration of line quality or volume, so a thought had to stand on it’s own two legs. I doubt tweeting would help many artists in the same way. But I think in words exclusively, images come later. I write outlines and dialogue in detail before I ever touch storyboard or comic thumbnails. But I’m in the middle of transitioning into writing, so I think my brain is naturally more verbal than most artists. Even with so much internal commentary, my art was without clear storytelling for a long time, because ideas either got lost in the drawing stage, or were too complicated to fit into a single image. Tweeting taught me how to be concise, (I’m clearly not using that skill for this reply, but whatever). So find your own method for making yourself comfortable enough to open up. Which leads me to the most my recent storytelling realization: Don’t be afraid to put your opinions in your art. What you feel passionate about from the deep to the mundane can guide you in your search for a subject. I think people’s egos are funny. LA’s coffee shops are flooded with aspiring creatives mouth-shitting hot takes on art with dogmatic authority, and all from their designated unemployment-check-opening-butt-crater that they’ve worn into the cafe couch. I’m not denigrating anyone that hasn’t made it yet. But I am laughing at the unearned confidence of beardy over at the next table, and the volume at which he’s dropping that savage insight into the Black Mirror episode using stolen lines he just finished reading in a Robert McKee book. Beardy is a “writer” you see, I know because he might have mentioned it a few times to the people he’s with. So yeah, one thing I like to draw is people with their ego’s showing. It makes me laugh. Probably because I too have a big, fragile ego.

That “storytelling” thing is a muscle, like being funny at a party. You get good at party banter if you put yourself through the pain of attending multiple parties close together. (I’m convinced no human being actually enjoys parties, by the way. We all think we’re the idiot just outside the conversation circle that can’t find a big enough gap in people’s shoulders. But parties are the hardest social video game and It’s a little fun to be good at it.) The same way, you keep that storytelling muscle active in your drawings, and you’ll get momentum. If you take a month off, it’ll get weaker, and you’ll have catching up to do when you come back to it. Draw “you” day in and day out. One day you’ll starting getting these bursts where you stop thinking about the drawing process. You’ll stop actively trying to make it “good”, you’ll be swept up, and you’ll disappear into your own rhythm. It’s probably on that day that you’ll look down and realize you just communicated on the page. But let’s move on to a matter of real importance:

The older I get the more I resemble an anime. Thoughts?

#ask #art #advice #storytelling #writing #sketching #drawing #artists on tumblr #Cody Walzel

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elitaxne · 6 years

Note

💟- Wildcard!!!

« MEME REFERENCE » ○「 ACCEPTING 」

💟 ┊ ❛ Wildcard — BITTERSWEET ❜

♔. }

❝ In all my years I never would have thought I would be so lucky as to meet a mecha like you, Elita. Intelligent, ambitious, passionate, dedicated, a natural leader in every facet, and you conduct yourself on the Council with upmost integrity and honour… hard traits to come by in these chambers as of late, ❞ the elder mech sighed, taking a step away from the large desk with servos held at the base of his spinal column.

The intricately patterned cloak flowed down behind deep blue plates, and broad shoulder pauldrons, a sturdy and tall frame, even with age still looked upon as a monument of strength and demanded respect with a single look. Piercing azure optics glanced back to meet cool cerulean, large and unwavering as the mech spoke, holding their full attention. Zeta gave a hint of a smile as he turned to face her in full, towering over the young femme despite her tall stature amongst the average population. Another testament to his time… a time that would see its eventual end in the near future, if the whispers in the Matrix were any indication; but only Vector Prime really knew.

❝ Sir? ❞ Elita asked, smooth alto kept to the quiet dulcet level yet still echoing in the grand chamber surrounding them. Zeta nodded in silent permission for her to continue, and by indoctrinated instinct her helm nodded in return, crystalline ornaments jingling in her audials from the movement. ❝ I do not wish for you to perceive my question as ignorant, nor misconstrued as unappreciative to be granted an audience, ❞ she paused, calculating her words as her gaze lifted to meet his own. ❝ But I cannot help but wonder… why you have summoned me here? ❞

The elder Prime’s vents expelled a whistling sigh and optics twinkled in the setting sunlight. Zeta could only smile, a genuine one, not one that had been constructed for the public nor the Council; one that seemed to grace his fascia more and more over the last few years, all the reasons being Elita. A silver servo held outwards, thick digits plucking the air in a slight, subtle motion for her to join him on partial ledge, to stand on equal ground.

Slender servos gathered her skirting in an instance, dutifully complying to her mentor’s silent wish as she navigated the small step, coming to his side in a matter of seconds.

❝ My dear, I believe you do, ❞ he murmured, soft tenor reverberating off the walls then again returning them to silence. Raising a servo he draped it over her shoulder pauldron, venting in amusement at the cool surface meeting his touch, a quirk he always remembered but always felt as though it were for the first time. Ice Queen indeed.

❝ Look outside. Tell me what you see… ❞ Zeta mused, taking a step forward and guiding her with his connected servo, moving it to rest against her backplating; careful not to snag larger digits on the delicate dressing.

Indulging her mentor large cerulean hues scanned the expanse of Iacon sprawling at her pedes. Meticulous as ever and simultaneously putting her total recall abilities to the test, she took in each and every detail. The sunlight glimmering off the thousands of towers, the bustling mecha on their way home after a days work, and subsequently, the many mecha more lining the streets with their servos held out for shanix or Energon, broken and battered amongst the wealthy and powerful; invisible to passersby out of habit. Poverty. Greed. A group of younglings strayed from their care group played in the central fountain in the Tower’s courtyard, splashing in the liquid for a moment of happiness before an Enforcer hastily THREW their small frames over the ledge in a pile. Innocence. Violence. Half-hunched frames lingered to the side of taller mecha, yanked by a limb in one direction or another, the smaller gave an answer and the larger made swift contact with painted fascia with a rough SMACK. The larger turned back to their social group, and the smaller reached up to cover the bleeding welt left amongst the others. Abuse. Hopelessness.

❝ What do you see? ❞ the Prime repeated, tenor even softer than before, as though whispering to her innermost being.

Elita bit at her lower lip component, formulating the answer with a heavy spark. Her past mixed with her present. Adversity met with reformation. Cerulean focused on the slave still holding the side of their fascia, trembling as their master shifted his weight haphazardly then flinching as he lifted a servo to rub at the back of his helm, enthralled with current conversation amongst his colleagues. Her jawline hardened beneath smooth features yet kept her expression and tone neutral, just as she had been taught to do.

❝ Injustice, ❞ Elita answered, ❝ An imperfect system. ❞

Zeta moved at her side, prompting cerulean hues to follow his frame as the much taller Prime rasped on a pained ventilation, helm dipping down to meet her gaze. ❝ Is that all? ❞ he prompted, nodding back to the city and Elita turned her helm to follow, ornaments clinking again on either side of her helm.

Optics scoured the streets snaking away from the Council Tower’s epicentre, catching a cluster of mecha at the foot of the Archives. Focusing her vision on the slight distance, rose gold plates adorned in crystalline fabric leaned closer to the looming pane of glass, slender digits sprawling over the surface for balance. She could pick out the larger silver form above the crowd, arm raised in the air and prompting the hundreds rallying around to do the same. He spoke with fervor and charisma, exciting the hoard into a controlled frenzy by words alone. To the side, a black figure, tall yet just as large, and beside them, a smaller bot, crimson plates in distinct contrast to the monochrome of his peers.

The Councillor let a shallow ex-vent pass from her vents, and she peeled herself from the glass.

❝ Change, ❞ she replied, looking back up to the elder mech, expression outwardly softening to show the youthfulness held captive in her features. Young, but aged beyond her years.

Silver lip plates curved into a smile, and the Prime canted his helm in a partial nod, shifting azure hues from larger cerulean to again stare out the window. ❝ I can hear your processors from her, my dear, ❞ the mech chuckled, stepping closer to the pane of glass with a hint of a grin.

❝ A compliment, I am certain… ❞ Elita quipped, easing in his presence as the casualty spilled between them in boatloads, along with comfort.

❝ To my impeccable hearing, yes, ❞ Zeta responded, smiling down to the young femme and holding the tender connection as optics again met, then both pulled back to stare out the window, lining the wall from edge to edge, and stretched above their helms to the ceiling.

Several seconds spent in comfortable silence passed between the two, but in her insatiable curiosity, Elita again posed a question. Much to Zeta’s hope, he had been betting on his student’s greatest instinct to guide her as it always did.

❝ Have you summoned me then for the purpose of another lesson? ❞ the young Councillor finally asked, lightness of the moment prior now subdued with newfound sobriety.

The elder Prime considered the query, listening to the hum of the Matrix as the whispers bubbled up then receded like an ocean’s tide. Azure softened, peering back to cerulean and searching the bright hues, letting the full breadth of pride radiate in his EM Field, wanting for her to know, to perceive his words before they even left his vocoder.

❝ A bi-product, I assure you. But, a teaching moment must never be squandered, ❞ Zeta began, weathered tenor continuing without falter as optics again stared out at the expanse of the city-state. His city-state. His planet, even. ❝ There are rumours circulating that an uprising may be in our near future. A revolution to overthrow the Council, and in turn, bring an end to the caste system, ❞ the Prime paused to cycle a vent and Elita went to comment, silencing herself as a large servo raised, granting him ability to continue, ❝ You know as well as I that if such an act were to be carried out it would only spell catastrophe. But, I cannot ignore my people any longer, the weight of their agony have burdened my shoulders for far too long. Change is on the horizon, I can see it just as clearly as you… ❞

The pause made way for Elita to speak in turn, and she took the verbal bait. ❝ The former Gladiator? ❞ she questioned, apprehension lacing each and every syllable.

Zeta shook his helm, reaching to cup her chinplate and gently coax her to look back at the pane of glass. Cerulean optics shone against the polished surface, and as before her focus stretched across the distance to the rally outside the Archives. If not the Gladiator… then who? Sensing her confusion the Prime leaned down closer to her level, smiling at the femme’s reflection as her optics met his in the glass.

❝ You look too far beyond to see that the answer is in plain sight, Elita, ❞ he murmured, and the Councillor took a step back. Reeling from the rising shock taking hold of her systems.

❝ I… d-do not understand, ❞ she began, sorting her thoughts yet still unable to process what now seemed to be overwhelmingly obvious.

❝ You do, ❞ Zeta insisted gently, draping large servos over each of her sheathed shoulder pauldrons as again they stood face to face. Azure searched cerulean, just as cerulean searched azure, each drawing the same conclusion unanimously, though Zeta spoke to it all the same. ❝ It is only a matter of time now until my reign will come to an end. I am an old mech, but also, I represent the very powers that have led to the caste system. Implemented my by predecessors, and I have been unable to deter their course for centuries. Cybertron will need a leader who is strong enough to deliver a better future, one who is capable, and forward thinking. One who UNDERSTANDS both sides equally. One that I trust to follow in my pedefalls above all else… ❞

Elita suppressed a sputtering ventilation and instead swallowed the rising lump in her vocoder. Everything she had every worked towards, all the nights spent studying at the Academy, then toiling as an Assistant, then her reformation — her renewal — to become a junior politician, and eventually Zeta Prime’s pupil. And now? The words hung on the tip of her glossa, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit them, not even in her processors.

❝ The decision in naming a future Prime is vested by the Matrix, and having conferred with leaders previous… There would be no higher honour, and greater pleasure, than naming you my successor, Elita, as the next Prime — the one who will bring peace to Cybertron once and for all, ❞ Zeta finished, letting the soft smile again break out over aged fascia.

The Councillor vented harshly, blinking back the sting of coolant in her optics and TWISTING in her spark chamber, eliciting a dull ache at her core. Years spent learning to bury her emotions bubble beneath the surface as overwhelming joy coursed through her systems, and pulsations leapt to an erratic rate; pounding in her audials.

Her. Elita. ARIEL. A meagre femme from the lower caste, sparked to poverty and pain, now next in line for the Primacy. All of Cybertron would look to her to take them to the true Golden Age, an age that abolished the caste system she had suffered under, and the very same she had overcome to now make obsolete. There were too many emotions swirling about in her processors and mind to sort out, and as though craving physical release after years spent locked away, a tear fell from her optic, rolling down smooth fascia to crest at her chinplate, followed by another. Her helm ducked forwards to hide the unprofessional reaction, knowing full-well it was a sign of weakness when she had been commended for her strength.

❝ I-I-I, ❞ she stuttered, re-regulating the impediment and forcing her vocoder to synchronize with her processor. ❝ I would be honoured, Sir, ❞ Elita replied, voice cracking on static. Servos frantically reached up to wipe at her optics as the tears continued to fall, sucking in another sharp vent in hopes of deterring a breakdown.

Zeta hummed, curling a servo under her chin to tip her helm back up, bringing the tears and watery optics to full view. The other thumbed away at the tears practically STREAMING down her fascia, smiling wavering as an ache in his own spark briefly overtook him. Without another moment of hesitation the elder mech lowered himself to a knee joint, coming to near optic level with his protege.

Elita fought another sputter from her vents, shifting as the Prime nearly met her optics at equal level — a tremendous breech in protocol, especially given his stature. A Prime never equalled with a lessor. An old rule, but still, one that was implemented.

Then, before she could resist, large arms slowly wrapped around her frame, offering an embrace, and she complied near instantly. Both limbs tightening around the other as everything spilled out in their EM Fields; pride, humility, honour, joy, pain, grief, hope, all of it that had been kept suppressed too long now laid out in completely vulnerability. Rose gold plates rattled against blue as Elita buried her helm into the soft cloak covering his shoulder pauldron, and Zeta only constricted his hold further, holding her for as long as she wanted; for as long as she needed.

They were a team, after all.

❝ A-Are you c-certain I a-am worthy? ❞ the femme warbled through static

The Prime nodded, swallowing hard at the lump strangling his own vocoder as large blue arms curled closer still. Optics closed, simply letting himself focus on this precious moment and the ache in his spark, felt beyond the reach of the Matrix yet originating from its depths all the same.

❝ I have never been more certain of anything in my life cycle, Elita, ❞ he whispered, pulling back just enough to again wipe at her optics staining what was once pristine faceplates, like a parent would their progeny; in a way, he almost considered it to be such. Azure softened, and he offered a gentle smile, ❝ And I will be there with you to give you guidance, and counsel, every moment you require it. ❞

Elita blinked again through the tears, letting them fall freely, as her own trembling smile matched her mentor’s; her friend. ❝ P-Promise? ❞ she chuckled, breathy and weak.

Zeta pulled her again in a tight embrace, making no move to let go anytime soon, just as she.

❝ I promise. ❞

#/ long post #[ HOO BOI. ]#[ this one's a doozy but one i've wanted to explore for A LONG TIME. ]#[ i've really wanted to delve into Zeta and Elita's relationship during the golden age ]#[ and before some of you nasties go there -- no not romantic. ]#[ very much a father / daughter dynamic. ]#[ i hope that comes across. ]#╰ ♔ ·｡ ┊ ғɪғᴛʏ sʜᴀᴅᴇs ᴏғ ɢʀᴇʏғᴀᴄᴇs ○「 ᴀɴᴏɴ 」#╰ ♔ ·｡ ┊ ᴅᴜʟʏ ɴᴏᴛᴇᴅ ○「 ᴀsᴋʙᴏx 」#╰ ♔ ·｡ ┊ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ ɪs ɴɪɢʜ ○「 ᴍᴇᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴘʟɪᴇs 」#◤— · // « ᴠᴇʀsᴇ » ┊ ❛ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ϙᴜᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴏɴϙᴜᴇʀ ❜ ○「 ᴘʀᴇ﹣ᴡᴀʀ 」#— · ♔ » ┊ ❛ ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀsᴡᴇᴇᴛ ❜「 ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ 」

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readershewrites · 6 years

Text

I Have Listened To Every Lie : Chapter 4

Previously: Chapter 3

Taehyung is lovely. Their lunch passes easily and effortlessly, and Nara takes great comfort in the way he finds humor in everything. Though reticent, she manages to give just enough of herself to ensure that she has a seat partner for the rest of the semester. Pleased and relieved is an understatement.

“Where are you off to now?” She asks politely as she takes out some baby wipes from her bag.

“I’m going home.”

Nara nods. “Same. Well, I’ll be off then.” She cleans her fingers with the wipes, and after delicately folding the used material, she places it on the corner of her tray of food and stands up. While she is grabbing her bag she sneaks a glance at Taehyung, and on finding a peculiar smile on his face, she flushes.

“What?” She curls a loose hair back behind her ear, suddenly feeling exposed.

He grins, eyes dancing with mirth. “Nothing, I’ve just never seen someone as pedantic about hygiene as you are.”

“Oh, well-” Nara is about to say that she was taught to sanitise after eating in public places, but at the last second she realises how freakish that might sound ad only manages to awkwardly end her sentence with “…oh.”

There is a beat of strange silence, both parties knowing that Nara is withholding something.

Nara mentally berates herself, but pushes on. “Well, I’ll see you next week then.”

Taehyung’s shoulders relax significantly, accepting her olive branch. “Yeah, sure.”

She nods, gives him a small but genuine smile and then turns around to walk away, but after a few steps realises that Taehyung is still beside her, and matches her pace.

Suddenly a cold sweat envelopes her. Surely he couldn’t be heading towards -

“Are you going to the bus stop as well?” Taehyung asks cheerfully.

Oh no. Nara wants to cry.

“Yes I am.” She replies calmly.

Her mind reels. The bus stop is merely a cover for the fact that Nara drives to and from university every day in her spectacularly expensive black Rolls Royce. Every time she leaves class she makes her way to the bus stop, hovers for a few minutes and then disappears to the nearby car park. She doesn’t want people to associate her with wealth, and even though it’s a ridiculous idea to think that people would follow her to the car, she knows that by wearing expensive clothing and having expensive bags she already is drawing attention. Given that her face has been on magazines and the television (albeit in her husband’s shadow), blending is almost of higher importance to her than actually doing well in class.

“Which one?” Taehyung asks, “I get on the bus near the chemistry building.”

It’s her lucky day, his stop isn’t anywhere near hers. Nara sighs mutely with relief. Of course there are different bus stops at a university of this size. She mutters a silent prayer to whatever forces are protecting her.

“Oh, I’m at the stop near the law building.”

Taehyung gives her another odd look. “Then you should’ve turned right a few moments ago…”

“Right!” Nara says, “right. Sorry I was just thinking about stuff.”

Grimacing at her lame excuse, she waves to Taehyung and quickly breaks off from him. She doesn’t want to look at his bewildered expression any longer than she has to. Not waiting for his reply, she picks up the pace to the “bus stop”.

A grain of guilt blooms within her. Taehyung is a sweet boy, and Nara feels awful after not only what was probably the most awkward lunch of his life but then also deceiving him about catching public transport, but she knows she doesn’t have a choice. Now is not the time to be telling her intimate truths to strangers.

One day, she promises herself. One day I’ll tell him.

A shrill ring rips through the air from somewhere deep inside the recesses of her handbag, and shaking herself from her thoughts Nara dips her hand between the many books and readings she has and searches for it.

[Yoongi Calling]

Even the sight of his name chills her spirit. Only, she isn’t cold, but rather warm and flushed from latent frustration and anger. It takes all her composure to accept the call, and when she hears his voice - his beautiful, smooth voice - all other emotions are trumped by an unexpected punch of longing that leaves her eyes hot and wet.

“Hello?”

“Dinner tonight?”

He’s polite enough to pose it as a question, but Nara knows otherwise. It is a condition of their “separation” that they are pictured together on a “date” once every fortnight, and considering their last meeting was exactly two weeks ago, neither can deny that they have been procrastinating.

“What time?”

“Six.”

Nara raises an eyebrow. Yoongi always eats dinner at seven.

“Are you busy?”

The silence on the other line shocks her. Or rather, she shocks herself. It’s none of my business where he is anymore, she chides herself, her melancholy totally overtaken by embarrassment.

“Nevermind.” She mutters. “Six. Where?”

“The Bistro. Make sure you drive to the house first. We’ll go to the restaurant together.”

She rolls her eyes. Image, he’s all about image.

“Don’t be late. Get to the house at five-thirty.”

This pisses her off enormously. How dare he accuse her of tardiness. “As if I’m ever late!”

On the other line, Yoongi sighs.

Again with the condescension! All traces of sorrow fly quickly from her heart.

“Haven’t we done it that way every time? What do you think I am, an idiot?” She snaps, and hangs up on him.

Mood thoroughly spoiled, Nara ditches any attempt at waiting by the bus stop and marches straight into the car park beside it, finding her car easily and ripping open the door. She dumps her bag on the passenger seat and with a roar of the engine she pulls out of her park. Her fingers are tight on the wheel as she weaves in and out of traffic, mind whirling and heart racing.

I’m going to give it to that bastard, she vows as she pulls into the private car park of her apartment building.

I’m going to rip him a new one, she fumes as she exits the car, slams the door and stalks to the elevator.

“I’m gonna strangle him I swear to God.” she mutters as the silver doors slide open and she shoves her key in the front door.

She wrenches the door open and with as much overarm strength as she can muster, throws the keys so that they skitter and slide with a harsh grating tinkle against the marble floor.

Micha pokes her head out from the kitchen, “How was cl-”

“I’m gonna KILL him!” Nara screeches, and stomps towards her bedroom. Blind with rage, she completely ignores Micha as she furiously dumps her bag on her bed.

“I’m taking a bath,” she declares, “do NOT disturb me.”

Micha, silent but not taken aback, retreats back into the kitchen.

“Wow.” she mouths, and swallows her mouthful of apple.

There is something odd about dinner today, Nara muses soberly over her baked fish. The usual stalemate that she and Yoongi are usually engaged in over their dinners has been replaced by something more careful, more hesitant, almost… bashful?

Usually their conversations consist of low, veiled insults coupled with stiff smiles - their one way of at least looking like they’re speaking to each other in front of restaurant staff, but today–

“How are you doing in class?”

He says it so softly she almost doesn’t hear him. In fact she treats it as a figment of her imagination until she looks up, and realises that he is staring at her with an expectant brow raised.

“Oh.” She flushes. “Well, we’re reading Dracula next week. It’s actually very interesting; I wasn’t too familiar with the origins of the vampire trope but now I can see that the modern stereotype comes from completely from Stoker. But I find that the characters are so much more than what people remember the novel for; I didn’t expect such complexity in characters other than Dracula and Van Helsing–”

She stops, suddenly aware of how passionate her answer is.

Sneaking a glance at her husband, she finds that Yoongi isn’t even pretending to listen. He’s playing with his food, unoccupied hand relaxed and in an open fist, while the other pokes at the steak on his plate.

The sight is incredibly wounding and embarrassing and yet Nara can’t help the wash of relief that courses through her, because though she has every right to be angry at being ignored, her response to his question was far more intimate than she expected, and she feels safer knowing that he missed this vulnerable moment.

But Nara wants this dinner to end, and so she settles instead for anger.

“So I met a guy today.”

She knows what his reaction will be; Yoongi may not be an overtly possessive person, but Nara knows that underneath the facade of competence and ambivalence lies a potent jealous streak.

Yoongi’s head snaps up and Nara smirks to herself.

“What’s his name?”

“Why?” Nara bites, suddenly defensive. “So you can hire a PI and ruin his life?”

His eyes flash menacingly “Just making sure my wife isn’t caught frolicking around with a high-school graduate”.

Ah, there’s nasty Yoongi, Nara smiles. This I can do.

“But darling I thought it was clear that you were the one sowing wild oats?”

A muscle in Yoongi’s eye twitches. Nara is thrilled.

He looks coolly down at his meat. “Since you’re going to be difficult then you better get used to having a tail on you, and your friend too.”

Completely unprepared for such an escalation, the blood rushes from Nara’s face. Was he seriously threatening to have her followed? Suddenly she is overtaken by an immense feeling of guilt - one day into her friendship with Taehyung and she has already used him as bait, and now Yoongi has called her bluff. Nara’s shackles rise.

“You leave Taehyung alone!”

Yoongi looks shocked by her outburst, freezing mid-chew.

Squaring her jaw, Nara stares him down, shooting fire and brimstone from her eyes. She won’t back down for this, she won’t let him take away her first friend. More importantly, she refuses to let her poisonous attachment to Yoongi ruin other people’s lives.

Fully prepared for verbal nuclear war, she sets down her knife and fork and wipes her mouth and slaps the napkin on the table. Yoongi still hasn’t moved.

He blinks a couple of times and Nara opens her mouth to give him a piece of her mind–

“I’m sorry, that was inappropriate of me,” he sighs, hands leaving his cutlery and going to press slow circles on his temples. “I’m a little tired.”

Honesty - another curve ball. In her astonishment Nara can’t help but follow where he leads her, and it is then that she notices the light violet circles under her husband’s eyes, carved into the smoothness of his face. In fact, now that she is really seeing him she notices that his jaw is a little harsher, his fingers a little bonier and his eyes dim and flat.

Nara drops her eyes. She realises that she has played herself for a fool, so blind with feeling that she doesn’t even notice that Yoongi isn’t playing her game. That, in addition with his surprising apology inspires a wave of deep devotion in the recesses of her soul, an emotion she hasn’t felt in so long that it rocks her, and it is all she can do to close her eyes and press back the tears that threaten to overtake her.

I love him, dammit I still love him, Nara thinks to herself, resigned.

She moves to ask him about the company, but just as she does he abruptly stands up, chair almost toppling over as the feet catch on the plush magenta carpet. Yoongi is staring at her, eyes full and throbbing with some emotion she cannot decipher.

“Yoongi, is–”

“Is everything alright, sir?” Their waiter rushes up to their table and completely cuts her off.

Breaking contact with her husband, Nara gives the waiter her best stink-eye as she quietly gathers her purse and stands to mirror her husband.

Upon returning her eyes to Yoongi’s she finds that his orbs have been shed of the feeling they had previously, and now they are so blank she has no option but to look away.

“The meal was fine. Thank you.”

To his credit he waits for her before he leaves the restaurant, but as they walk side by side to Yoongi’s shiny black Lamborghini, Nara can’t help but wonder what it would be like if she reached through the crackling energy between them and locked her hands tightly with his.

This thought occupies her so completely that she misses the way her husband’s eyes dance over her face like a feather falling in the wind.

Usually there is an identifiable point to Nara and Yoongi’s date nights where the tension between them short circuits and they end up fucking like animals in a matter of minutes, but tonight, on a night where both of them are so emotionally drained, Nara is considering going home.

The thought solidifies in her mind as Yoongi opens the front door and she shuffles in.

Maybe I should just get changed and go, Nara thinks, placing her purse down on the table by the door and toeing her shoes off.

As Nara’s resolve strengthens, she turns to tell her husband of her plans until she is once again struck by the same intense stare that he directed upon her at the restaurant. She really cannot read it at all. It squeezes her heart and she so desperately wants to look away because she knows that at any moment she could fool herself into thinking it were look of love.

This thought hurts her enough that she does manage to rip her eyes away from his, and she quickly ditches her plans to change back into comfortable clothes. She just wants to go home.

“I’m leaving. Good night.”

Nara grabs slides her feet back into her shoes and quickly snatches her purse. Yoongi hasn’t moved at all from his position by the door, and as she walks by him to leave she hesitates when a waft of his gentle cologne reaches her nose.

Slowly she brings her head up to look him in the eyes and whatever she finds in there moves her so much that bit by bit she leans in until softness meets softness and their lips are caught in the most tender kiss she has ever received in her life.

Several shared breaths later and she pulls away, the soft smacking sound of their lips barely audible to her pulse thundering away in her ears.

Nara checks for the look again, and catches a squeak in her throat when she sees that Yoongi’s eyes are now alight with lust. She barely has time to be disappointed in how quickly she too is aroused before Yoongi has his hands under her dress and on her ass and her purse is on the ground, hands now occupied by his thick black hair.

They kiss sloppily, angrily; all teeth and tongue and tension. Yoongi grips her thighs in his hands and stumbles to the closest room, catching the both of them on the nearest tea table with one hand on the low glass surface. He breaks the kiss with a dark smirk and turns Nara around to push her over onto the cold, slick table. Nara sighs with anticipation, hands shaking as Yoongi knots his fingers on the sides of her thong and roughly wrenches them down her leg, registering nothing but the throbbing between her legs and the sweat beading on her neck. The jangle of his belt is familiar, and sweet to her ears.

Thoroughly expecting him to dominate her with his cock, Nara lets out a cry of surprise when Yoongi shoves two fingers inside of her tight slit. There’s no time to be embarrassed by how wet she already is. Behind her Yoongi grunts, a sound that shakes her down to her bones.

He presses himself so close to her that she can feel his naked cock sliding up and down her thigh, slick with lubrication - whose exactly she doesn’t know. His fingers press rhythmically against her g-spot without ever pulling out; it’s a trick Yoongi learnt perhaps hours into their honeymoon that has never failed to make Nara scream.

They are both crazy with lust; Nara’s nipples are beading so hard they hurt when they brush against the material of her dress, and behind her Yoongi is grunting, mouth closed and brows kneaded together as sweat trickles down his temple. It’s been weeks since their last tryst - their last date, in fact -, and neither can deny the delight it gives them to connect with the other’s body.

This foreplay lasts for what seems like an eternity until Yoongi suddenly rips his fingers from her core. Nara whimpers but doesn’t say anything. Instead she turns to hook her underwear with one hand and take it off completely, tossing it to the side. Then, bare and ready she pushes her ass back and spreads her knees wide. It’s a wildly vulnerable position for her to be in, but she knows Yoongi loves taking her from behind - their neighbours can probably attest to that.

A large, hot hand grips her waist and Nara breathes in through her nose to prepare herself. She squeezes her eyes closed; she wants to feel everything.

Yoongi’s tip enters her slowly, stretching the lips of her cunt ever so gently. Nara licks her lips and unconsciously moves back to get more of him, but is stopped by the firm hand on her waist which gives her a tight, commanding squeeze.

Pleased at her acquiescence, Yoongi resumes slowly shoving his cock inside of her; there is nothing that he loves more in the world than watching his dick enter Nara’s soft, glistening pink flesh. It’s the single image in his wank bank that can get him off in a matter of minutes. The only thing that makes him cum faster is fucking her in real life.

The moment he bottoms out they both relax viscerally. It’s a familiar position, almost comforting. Nara moves to slip her arms out of her dress and let her breasts hang free in the cool air, grunting as she feels Yoongi move inside of her. Following her lead, Yoongi bends over slightly to cup a breast in each hand, and the moment he grazes a nipple with his thumb he spasms inside of her, a movement that makes Nara shudder.

Yoongi pulls out of her at an achingly slow pace. He makes sure the tip is dancing at her sopping entrance before he re-enters, this time faster, smoother and slicker. Nara squeaks. He grins; Nara has the widest array of sounds from anyone he’s ever fucked in his life, and he loves it.

Their pace picks up. After a couple of steady thrusts, Yoongi picks up his leg and puts it on the tea table, the low height ensuring that not only is Nara practically bent in half, but that Yoongi’s stiff cock is pressed right to the back of her walls, scraping her g-spot with every thrust no matter how much force he puts into it.

“Oh,” Nara groans, “I love this table.”

Yoongi grins at that, and as a reward for her wit amps up the tempo, and soon enough they settle into a fast fucking pace. Nara’s hands slide forward continuously, slick from sweat and the condensation of her breath but she is unperturbed, chasing nothing but her climax. She pushes back against Yoongi and suddenly she is there, and then she is shaking and quaking and nothing matters but the man glued to her back and the magical things his cock is doing to her.

It takes a while for Nara to gather her wits (it has been two weeks after all), but once she does and realises that Yoongi is still erect inside of her, the prospect of a long night ahead makes her stomach tighten deliciously.

Yoongi pulls out of her with a sensual squelch that makes both of them sigh, and when Nara picks herself off the table to shed herself of her clothing, she turns to find her magnificent husband with a hand at the base of his glistening dick, squeezing so hard she can see beads of sweat forming at his crown.

She gives him some time to get his boner under control, and once she sees that the pucker between his brows has subsided somewhat she steps out of her slinky dress and calmly walks to the staircase.

“Be naked by the time you reach the bedroom, please.” She purrs, fully aware of her husband’s burning gaze on her jiggling ass and wet thighs.

Nara turns the corner and pads up the stairs smiling smugly to herself. Even if his heart doesn’t love me, his dick certainly does.

Her hand lightly traces over the familiar wooden arches of the staircase and then the spirals of the french wallpaper of the house they once shared, and her mind settles into an atmosphere that is more wistful. The emotion is even more present when she reaches the closed doors of the master bedroom, and she places her palm lightly against the carved oak of the only place she and her husband ever spoke the same passionate language.

Before Nara can get too carried away, a hot hand reaches around her waist and a chest presses her against the door she was once admiring.

“Ah!” she gasps as Yoongi slides two fingers firm fingers inside of her.

Despite being wet, Nara is slightly less aroused than she was before, but soon she is bucking against the hand that cups her and grinding against the man pulling screams from deep within her belly, where the fire of want is white with intensity.

She enjoys the feel of his digits for just a little longer before she presses down on the door handle and they both stumble into the room, quickly hurtling towards the grandiose bed.

She falls onto the cool linen sheets and smiles drunkenly as Yoongi climbs over her, skin pearly with sweat and cock swaying heavily against his thigh. The feral glow to his countenance has her shuddering with anticipation. He bends down and her smile only grows bigger. Oh how she desires this, his mouth assaulting her neck and his hands kneading her breast. Her skin is tickled by the coolness of the stagnant room, her nipple beading so hard it hurts, but she is quickly warmed by the blistering mouth that brands sticky, dark etchings on, around, and all over her breast.

She has always loved sex with Yoongi because he knows how to make her cum twice; the first time is always fast and rough whereas the second time is always more gradual, more painful and ultimately more gratifying when he pushes her too far.

Nara trembles as Yoongi enters her, hot and throbbing and she digs her nails into his lusciously tight ass. There is no waiting for her to get used to his size; they both know she loves it when it hurts a little, so Yoongi wastes no time in sawing in and out of her, his head heavy and lax on her chest while his hips move unforgivingly fast.

A particularly angled thrust makes Nara’s closed eyes shoot open, and she makes a point of drawing her sharp nails all the way up Yoongi’s back, demanding that he do it again. At this he picks up his chest and delivers a sharp slap to her soft thigh. Like a rope has been cut loose, Nara’s body becomes limp as she gives thrusts the remnants of her control in their pleasure to Yoongi, and at this his own grin appears. Thighs open, arms by her head and hair sticking to her neck and chest, Nara is fully absorbed in nothing but the burgeoning orgasm she can feel is threatening to overtake her.

One of Yoongi’s fingers reaches down to press against Nara’s clit, and the convulsions that wrack her body force her to clench on his cock, and finally, finally her husband is coming apart; faster and faster he slaps his hips against hers, fingers abusing her clit so much that Nara could be either totally silent or screaming - she is unaware - until at long last the cord breaks and she cums so hard she can’t tell the difference between her own sweat and her tears.

Above her, Yoongi’s thighs falter as he ejaculates, eyes rolling behind his closed lids. Once he’s over the pinnacle of his climax he lays back down on his wife, head on her chest as he rides her pants until they become long breaths. This way, he is in sync with her.

Next: Chapter 5

#BTS scenario #Yoongi scenario #Suga scenario #Min Yoongi #CEO!Yoongi #BTS smut #Suga smut #Yoongi smut #I Have Listened to Every Lie #writing these sex scenes killed me #not in a good way #they were so damn stressful I had to rewrite them three times

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thestanceyg · 7 years

Text

@idontgettechnology, I hope you enjoy this mistaken identity ShieldShock!

Darcy’s entire life was her coffee shop. She had followed Jane to NYC when she had moved to Stark Tower, but less than a week after getting there, Darcy had seen the little shop for sale and couldn’t help herself. She still did some data entry and proofreading for Jane, but nearly every other minute of her time was spent in the shop. She kept odd hours, but that was part of why it worked. She opened at 8PM and closed at 8AM. She loved her late night crowd, usually students and couples, and her morning rush was full of busy people that always gushed about how necessary she was to their lives. She slept in the middle of the day, worked her butt off for 12 hours, and did it all again. Her night owls knew to ding the little bell when she was in the back with the roaster or doing her books, long ago getting over any anxiety about pulling her away from work. Which is also how she knew all of her regulars and their orders.

Johnny had started off as kind of a dick, but once he realized they were not going to ever go on a date, he had turned into a pretty decent guy. She was vaguely aware that she should know who he was, but she was pretty wrapped up in the coffee and Jane’s stars, so she didn’t bother learning. At first it annoyed him, but later he seemed to get a kick out of it.

“Darcy, I love that you don’t give a shit who I am,” he was sighing to her that night.

“Uh huh,” she said, focusing on her laptop screen. It was 3 in the morning and no one else was there.

“Seriously,” he said earnestly, which made her look up.

“What happened?”

“It’s just...I know where I stand with you.”

“Who hurt you, Storm?”

“Just another girl that was more interested in my name than me.”

Darcy frowned and got up. She pulled a brownie from her bake case and slid it toward him. “I can’t fix rude people, but I can give you brownies.”

“Are you sure you and I couldn’t give it a go?” He looked up at her, and the sincerity in his eyes stopped the joke she was about to make.

“Look at this,” she said waving her hand over the 600 square feet she called hers. “This is my entire life. I live in an apartment the exact same size because it’s directly above the shop. I never go anywhere because this is my everything.” Sometimes she wanted to get out, but her schedule and work ethic made that difficult.

“Why don’t you talk about life before the shop? I know you weren’t always here.”

“I can’t,” she said in a way that ended that line of conversation. Then, softer, she added, “Johnny, you like me because I’m safe, not because you actually want me. You’ll find someone soon.”

“Maybe,” he said, though without any real belief in the statement before pulling the brownie toward himself.

“I promise,” she said, thinking on Thor and Jane. “It will happen for you.”

“Could right now if you’d say yes,” he muttered to himself. She ignored it. She didn’t think he had meant for her to hear it. Whatever had happened must have been huge. She should consider dusting off her internet skills to find out what it was.

Two nights later he was back, but something was different.

“Hey Storm,” she called over her shoulder, already getting started on his regular toasted marshmallow latte.

His head cocked to the side for a moment, looking at her before saying, “Hi.”

She took the warm mug over to his usual table. He followed her and sat, an odd smile on his face.”What’s up with you today?” she asked. “You’re usually a lot snarkier than this when you come in.”

“Is that what you want me to do? Snark at you?”

Her eyebrows knit together. “I want you to be you, is all. Though I do enjoy a little verbal sparring. I’m convinced that is half of why you come by all the time.”

“Well, most people don’t expect me to be sassy.”

“Really?” she asked, incredulous. “Do they know you at all?” He shrugged his shoulders and she smiled before going back behind the counter. “You can bother me in half an hour,” she informed him. “That’s when I’ll be done with this data entry. Until then, enjoy your latte.” She could feel his eyes following her, which wasn’t new, but this time it felt different; warmer almost.

Thirty minutes later she emailed the data off to Jane and closed her laptop. Johnny hadn’t bothered her at all, which was a bit unusual, but not unwelcome. She was surprised to see him sitting at his table, latte forgotten to the side while he sketched. “I didn’t know you drew,” she called out to him. He startled and looked up at her. “Sorry!” she said, hands up in a surrender pose. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” His cheeks had turned an adorable red. Since when had she considered a blushing Johnny adorable?

“I just got caught up in it.” he said shyly, motioning toward his notebook.

“Can I see?” she asked, not moving, but hoping he would say yes.

“Not yet,” he said, closing the book. “It’s not done.”

“But when it is…?”

“Sure,” he agreed with a crooked smile. “But I think I should warn you that most artists say their work is never done.”

“So really you’re saying no.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She laughed.”No, you just implied it.”

“I would have, if you knew what it meant for an artist to be done, but you didn’t so….”

“Jerk,” she said, balling up a napkin and throwing it at him.

He caught it and laughed. Her eyes were drawn to the pencil smudges on his hand, and she surprised herself by wondering what it would feel like holding hers. Would his hands be calloused? She turned away and busied herself with refilling the bake case. What was wrong with her tonight?

Whatever was wrong with her that night had been wrong all week. Johnny usually came in a few times a week, but it had been months since he had spent a full week with her. And every night she found something new that she was drawn to. One night it was his lips as he chewed on them while drawing, another night it was his thigh muscles that must have been poured into his pants. Later it was a wit that was more clever (and less vulgar) than she remembered, and last night it was his sweet embarrassment when her bra strap had snapped and she had pulled it out from under her shirt, cursing like a sailor. She didn’t know what to make of it, but somehow, in the course of a week, she had fallen for Johnny. Johnny who was walking in again tonight.

She smiled hello and started her hands working on his drink. “Umm,” he called out with an uncertainty that she hadn’t heard in his voice before. “I actually don’t want to drink that.” Immediately her hand stilled. He was still near the door of the shop.

“Okay,” she said, unsure herself. “What would you like then?”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that, Johnny.”

He winced a little at his name before clearing his throat. “I have a twin.” She wasn’t sure what to make of that, so she just stared at him. “Kind of,” he said, stepping a bit further into the shop. “We’re actually not blood related, but a lot of people mistake us all the time.”

“So you’re saying…” she said, then drifted off because she actually wasn’t sure what he was saying.

“I’m saying,” he said with guilt written on his face, “I’m not Johnny.” She opened and closed her mouth a few times, but couldn’t make words come out. “I’m so sorry Darcy,” he said, the words coming out in a rush now. “I lost a bet to him, and he made me come in and pretend to be him that first night. But it was only supposed to be that first night. But then you were so sweet and I couldn’t help but come back and I just let it go on much longer than it should have, and I told myself I had to make it right because I needed you to know this week has been one of the best of my life.”

He wasn’t Johnny. She hadn’t fallen for Johnny; she had fallen for this man before her now, which somehow made so much more sense than falling for Johnny ever could have.

“I thought I was going crazy,” she said softly. “I didn’t get why I could suddenly have feelings for someone who had only been a friend.”

“Have feelings…?” he asked delicately, stepping closer.

“I think so, especially now that I know you’re not Johnny.”

“I, uhm, wanted to show you this,” he said, licking his lips and coming up to the counter. He opened his notebook and turned it toward her, sliding it over. She looked down and it was her. She was beautiful. He had made her look like best version of herself. She could tell from the quirk of her lips that she had just said something funny and a little dirty, and that he could capture her so well she would know that was amazing.

“You made me so pretty,” she said, eyes still on the page.

“I just drew what I saw,” he said, tilting her head up with a gentle finger on her chin.

“I don’t know your name,” she whispered.

“Steve,” he said, his eyes dipping to her lips.

“Steve?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to kiss me now?”

“Is that what you’d like?”

“Very much so.”

His lips slowly pressed to hers, soft and caste, his hands moving to her cheeks as her hands wrapped behind his neck, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. She heard his sharp intake of breath before his lips parted and he enthusiastically enjoyed the turn the kiss had taken.

The bell over the door rang, and they sprang apart. Darcy peeked behind Steve and squealed. “Jane!”

Jane gave a big smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but you kept saying I hadn’t visited, so I decided to change that.” Suddenly Jane did a double take. “Oh hi Steve! I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“Wait, you know Steve?”

Jane gave her a look. “Of course I do.” When Darcy still looked confused, Jane added, “He works with Thor?”

“You what?” she demanded from Steve.

He shrugged. “I do. Do you not know who Johnny is?”

“Johnny Storm?” Jane asked. “That’s the Johnny that’s always in here?”

“Yes? Why? What does that mean?”

“Oh my god, D,” Jane sighed. “You need to get out of here more often. Johnny is the Human Torch and Steve is Captain America.”

Darcy’s eyes grew wide. “Holy shit. So much stuff makes sense now.”

#darcy lewis #shieldshock #happy birthday fic #yay idontgettechnology

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80068mimiwang · 4 years

Text

Mari Katayama – the gift of a universal body

Mari Katayama was born with tibial hemimelia and, at the age of 9, chose to have her legs amputated. She uses many handmade objets d’art in her art, many of which are modelled after various body parts.

Artist Mari Katayama has stunned viewers all over the world with her freshly unique and bold cross-media works, appearing in shows such as the Aichi Triennale 2013 and Roppongi Crossing 2016. Her mark on the modern art world earnt her a nomination for the Ihei Kimura Award in 2018. She exhibited an experimental body of work curated by artistic director Ralph Rugoff at the Venice Biennale in 2019 and won the Newcomer’s Award at the 35th Higashikawa International Photo Festival. Katayama has also announced, for this spring, a collection of her work thus far presented in a photobook, “GIFT”. Today, we have to opportunity to listen to her speak candidly about facing her circumstances head-on, and her idea of a universal body.

—What does your new photobook mean to you?

Katayama: If my life so far were a sentence, this book would be its full stop. It’s a nice way round up all the work I’ve done during this time. (laughs)

—I hear that the title, “GIFT” has a double meaning. Could you tell us more about that?

Katayama: There’s one work in particular that’s symbolic of this title, and it’s this heart-shaped objet d’art into which I’ve incorporated photographs of fingers. I printed photos of husband’s and my fingers onto fabric and made this objet d’art in the three months after giving birth. I think every woman who has experienced pregnancy realises that nothing is what it seems. Before we have a child, we just let the days go by without questioning the way that it is but now that there’s a child with us we have to look after it and worry for it.

During the pregnancy, it was fine if the baby didn’t have any fingers or feet. That’s just how things are, you know. But after I gave birth, I just had to check with the doctor straight away. I asked, “Does my baby have her fingers and feet?” I wanted my child to be born in perfectly good health, and part of me couldn’t stop worrying and thinking “but what if?” If worst came to worst, I’d want to have something to give to my daughter. Everyone is missing something, you know, but if my daughter felt bad for it I’d want her to know that she has the power to make up for whatever it is. I put all of those feelings that I felt as a parent into this objet d’art when I was making it.

However, after the exhibition I was showing it in ended, I looked at it with a new, calmer mindset. I thought to myself, “What would she even do with this?!” (laughs) She’d probably come to me all confused like, “Mum, what do I do with this?” It reminded me of how “gift” can also mean “poison” in German. Because poison is something you get given. It’s such a German way of thinking. The “gift” that I give my daughter for her sake might not even be to her liking. Realising that was a bit of a hard pill to swallow, so that’s why I chose “GIFT” as the title for my photobook.

—So with “GIFT” is the theme running throughout the book. Look back on your past work, what do you feel is particularly “gift”-like about it?

Katayama: As I am now, I no longer think of my past work as my cute little darlings like I did in the past. Although I am still the same human being, I feel that past me and present me are separate entities. Those works from my past self could even be “poison” to my present self. I’m sure my past self meant for those works to be a gift to my present self, but right now she finds them quite troublesome. (laughs) I am trying to accept them as best as I can, however.

—You have such a diverse way of realising your ideas in your art. Is photography particularly special to you?

Katayama: No, not particularly. All the work I’ve done so far were installations that incorporated both objets d’art and photography. Now that I’m releasing a photobook, the people who know what I do like to joke “oh, so you’re a photographer now, huh?” (laughs) I never had any professionals watch over me and teach me crafting or photography. I had some help getting my start but most of it has been self-taught. I also sing chanson sometimes, but even that I learnt from a jazz bar I used to work at. So photography isn’t particularly special to me or anything. I never introduce myself as a photographer, but “Hi, I’m an artist who dabbles in a lot of stuff” is too long.

—Could you tell us about how you got into making objets d’art?

Katayama: I think a big part of it can be attributed to my family members, who I’ve watched sew all my life. My great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother all sewed. I was clubfooted until the age of 9 so I couldn’t wear any ready-made children’s clothes, and my mother dressed me with her own clothes that she had altered to fit me. I used to always watch her alter these clothes and naturally I grew to want to sew, too. And still do now, of course, but I don’t think my mother likes my work very much. She’s always fussing over how rough and unprofessional the finishing is. (laughs)

—What made you want to release a photobook?

Katayama: For my installation at Roppongi Crossing 2016, I displayed every single objet d’art that I had. And because I did that, I feel like I was able to more wholeheartedly dedicate myself to photography. I then made three series of photographic works, found out I was pregnant, and my workflow and pace started to change and I was able to have more time to myself. I also started to wonder about the works I had let go of and what would become of them, and at that time someone mentioned something about a photobook. I thought that it would be a great chance for me to put them all together in one place and send them out on a new journey into the world.

—And you’ve got the works organised by the year they were made in, right?

Katayama: My oldest work was from when I was still in university. It was just a self portrait and I never really thought of it as a work of art back then.

I also used to draw and make objets d’art a lot back in high school, but I didn’t really think much of it back then. I started to want to show it to other people so I started uploading pictures of them onto social media like Myspace and Mixi. Shortly after, a stylist called Tatsuya Shimada asked if I would model in a fashion show with him. I accepted and had these drawing done on my artificial leg for that show. I was also encouraged to enter the Gunma Youth Biennale, and I also won an award there. I thought that just photographing my artificial leg by itself would be sort of confusing for viewers so I tried to take photos with it on, in a way that would explain to viewers what it was at the same time, and I ended up with these self portraits.

—Oh wow! So your start in photography was through social media? So you would’ve started using it around 2005. That’s quite early.

Katayama: My dad works in data processing so I got to familiarise myself with the internet quite early on. I made my first website using HTML when I was 15, and I still use it. That’s why it looks kind of outdated. (laughs) I went to a commercial high school because I wanted to get into IT. I never thought I would end up going to art school and becoming an artist.

—When did you start consciously taking self-portraits?

Katayama: To be honest, I still don’t call those photos self-portraits. It feels just as weird as calling myself a photographer, because the person in those portraits isn’t me. I just happen to be the only model that will do whatever I say and pose in the exact way I want.

Communicating with someone that isn’t me will always require verbal communication, and no matter how much understanding we can mutually reach it will never be exactly as I want. There’s always going to be a gap between what I want and how the model interprets it. The only time I became aware that I was taking a self portrait was when I was taking pictures of myself when I was pregnant, because that was when I specifically wanted to leave a photographic record of how I was in that moment.

—After your 2014 work you’re mine, you started to move from photographing inside your own house to outdoors. At the same time, you started doing more of your work in Gunma, right?

Katayama: I had my first solo gallery exhibition at TRAUMARIS | SPACE. Along with you’re mine, I also exhibited an objet d’art made of plaster in the shape of my own body. I went to my parent’s house once when I was making that work. Working with all that plaster was a lot of work and I needed a proper space to do it in, so I decided to make it where my parents were living, in Ota City, Gunma.

At that time, the new gallery in Maebashi City, Arts Maebashi, started a new project called Artist in Residence (AIR) and invited me to be their first resident artist. From October 2014 and February 2015 I stayed there for 55 days over the course of three months and made work there. I often take off my artificial leg so I can focus on my work so until I was invited to do AIR I was only able to make work at home. I was a bit worried but the people I met at Maebashi made me feel at home. We became friends that would go drinking every night and they really helped me out a lot, and we created a lot of photographs during that residence. It was then that I realised that perhaps them most important thing for an artist was a space in which they feel comfortable creating their work in. Then, in 2015, I returned to Ota City, where I was born and raised.

I now live in Isesaki City. There’s nothing here but farmland, but I find it quite interesting. There are cows being raised here not for their meat or milk, but to make fertiliser. They just eat, sleep, poop, eat again, and repeat day after day on this huge farm. It makes me kind of emotional. (laughs) When you’re driving around Isesaki you can see all these huge sago palms on the side of the road and the interesting plants people are growing in their gardens. Although I say that there’s nothing out here in the country side, you can flip that around and say that there is a lot of something here, and that’s space. When there’s this much space, people are going to use it, and I like to see what they do with it.

—You mentioned that the photobook was a way of marking an end of an era for your work, so what do you plan on doing moving forward?

Katayama: I feel like I have a lot more freedom now. I’ve been in the art world for 10 years now, and by meeting more and more people I feel more and more potential in myself. I only dabbled in photography a bit in the past but now I’m making more conscious efforts to take photos, and I think that this is a big change for me. In the past six months I’ve gone out and taken a lot of landscape photos in Michigan in the US and the Watarasegawa area around my home.

—Why the switch to landscape photography?

Katayama: I’m more interested in photographing the people within the landscape rather than the landscape itself. Environments we call “natural” usually always has some sort of manmade element in it. Thinking of landscapes as something people made for themselves makes me appreciate them more. I love to think about how a place was formed and what kind of people inhabited it. But that doesn’t mean that I want to specifically photograph people going about their day to day lives. It sounds kind of contradictory when I say that after saying I want to photograph human activity, but I plan to explore this further in a future body of work.

—Would you say a landscape being formed by the acts of humans is similar to how you expressed that you as an artist was formed by the people you’ve met?

Katayama: I think yes, and no. Thinking back on my life, I don’t think I’ve achieved anything according to my own will and desire. I tried my best in school and in job hunting because I was expected to, but that was it.

—So you feel like the effort you’ve put in and the results you’ve gotten are very disconnected from your own desire?

Katayama: I feel like what I’m disconnected from is this notion of “normal”. What I wish for isn’t particularly hard to achieve but it somehow keeps eluding me. The harder I try and reach for it the further it gets, and what I end up grabbing is something else entirely. It’s gotten me down a lot in the past but now I see this as another one of life’s little surprises. I’ve slowly come to accept that I can’t become what is “normal”, and that’s fine.

When I’m choosing clothes for my child I like to pick something that’s a little different from what I see around us, but then my friends say to me “why did you pick that?” (laughs). Even for the clothes I pick for myself! All my life I’ve been fighting with wanting to be “normal” but knowing deep down that I can’t, but now that I’ve accepted that I will never be “normal” I’m looking forward to what will unfold in my life. I have no idea what’s going to happen but it’s exciting.

—You speak about yourself like you’re speaking about another person.

Katayama: I think I do tend to, yeah. I feel like I’m observing this Mari Katayama person all the time and think “maybe I should’ve laughed here” or “maybe I should act happy here”.

—You seem to be very aware of and sensitive where you stand in society.

Katayama: Yes, I often think about how I could just try and blend into the “normal” of society and live like that but it won’t ever feel right, and I feel like part of that is due to how my body feels. Sort of like how left-handed people will always feel a bit left out in a right-handed society. If you’re different in some way, how you feel towards society and how people act towards you will also differ greatly, and I think that’s interesting.

Of course that doesn’t mean you should just be happy about your circumstances, but I’m lucky in the way that because I have a body and sense that’s different from “normal” I notice things and make connections between things that other people don’t. And because of that, I was able to make a lot of great friends. Ms. Kazue Kobata told me that I have a very universal body because I’m able to experience so many different things in this way, and I love that. I’m able to surpass the boundaries of language, gender, and culture to connect with others not because of my disability per se, but because of how my body was built. Ms. Kobata taught me that this is what it means to be different from other people.

—Normality and common sense are what connect people, but on the other hand it also carries the risk of dividing them. But when you know you are different from someone, you pre-emptively try to avoid that divide. When you realise that you are different from someone, you know to not judge them according to your common sense so now you’re less likely to accidentally offend them.

Katayama: Exactly, and I think that’s how we’re able to connect. And you’re able to also realise that even if someone seems like they’re living a normal life on the outside, they probably have their own unique story or circumstances even if it’s not visible in “normal” society. I hope that whenever someone meets me and gets to know about my circumstances, they can realise that there are many different perspectives to the society we all live in and that every perspective is worth knowing about.

I did seriously consider becoming a public servant once upon a time, before I happened to fall into the career of an artist. I thought someone with my life experience would be great in Residential Affairs at the Town Hall. I still wonder why I still ended up pursuing something different to what I wanted, but even though I didn’t become the person I wanted to I think that’s ok. Where I would be making one-on-one contact as a residential affairs officer, I would be reaching out to a wider and farther audience as an artist. Reaching out to many other people is part of an artist’s job, and I believe that this is the mission I’ve been given.

Reference: Wakayama, M. 2019, ‘Katayama Mari intabyuu yunibaasaru na shintai to iu GIFT’, weblog, IMA, viewed 31 May 2020, <https://imaonline.jp/articles/interview/20190819mari-katayama/#page-1>.

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skelehawk · 7 years

Text

Sunlight

How long had he been stuck here?

Sans didn’t know. He had been trapped in the Underground for years, only to be captured once more by human forces the moment he was freed. He had but a single goal in mind: find Papyrus, and get him to safety.

This piece, taking place in the Underfell universe, was written for the angst category of @undertailfanficcontest! Cutting it down to size took a bit of doing, but it’s finally at the perfectly reasonable length of 5,999 words. Fun times. Enjoy!

Content warnings: splashes of violence; some characters die; authority is authoritative; sans is a potty mouth; this is an angsty angst fic

Edit: My apologies to anyone who reblogged this before the read more link was inserted. It should be much more manageable now!

————-

It had been midnight when the barrier combusted.

The great explosion of magic brought forth by the raw power of seven human souls had rung through every nook and cranny of the Underground, from the dreary cesspits of the Capital’s bars to the eerily still halls of the Ruins. There wasn’t a single monster who hadn’t heard the highly pitched sound. If it had been quieter, it could even have been akin to the striking of a bell.

As it was, the deafening noise shook the Underground like an earthquake.

Such a noise was not going to go unnoticed by those who lived beyond the barrier.

So when a fifteen-foot tall king of monsters led his people out into the radiant light of the moon, they were not as alone as they had expected to be. The sky, dotted by stars and planets and galaxies, was soon crowded with great hunks of metal that buzzed like enormous flies and drowned out the soft celestial glow with harsh, blinding floodlights of their own. This did not sit well with the ex-inhabitants of a sparsely-lit cave.

None of the monsters could quite put their finger on why the idea of violence suddenly seemed so daunting. They had trained for a millenia on each other, culling the weak and ensuring that the strong survived to lead the assault on the human front, taking back what had been stolen from them so long ago. The lot of them were nothing but ruthless killers by now.

…Right?

Nonetheless, the crowd of a few hundred monsters stopped in their tracks the moment that the human forces turned their focus to these alien creatures. The flying metal machines circled in a manner similar to vultures over roadkill; the air was silent save for the dull churning of their motors and uncomfortable murmurs from the beasts echoing across the mountainside.

The stillness lasted for maybe a half hour. A calm before a storm.

It was then that a lone straggler drifted down from the steel flock to land in front of the soul-gorged monster king. Five humans emerged from the belly of the aircraft. All but one wore thick black garments from head to toe. The more dapperly dressed fifth human stepped forward and extended his hands toward the robed behemoth.

They were empty.

It was a stark contrast to the black-clad quartet behind him, who stood stoically with massive, shiny devices clutched between their gloved hands.

To their obvious surprise, the beast before them opened his maw and spit forth words in a human tongue.

A minute sprig of tension uncoiled between the two factions. Contact had been established. No one was dead. Yet.

The monsters began to back away from their leader at his behest, allowing him space to speak with the human ambassador with as much privacy as his booming voice would allow. It was in their best interest to respect the wishes of the benevolent tyrant who had lorded over their lives for so many bygone centuries.

As such, not a single living monster would know the exact phrase that ended the peaceful relations.

The king, who would soon fall, was left to contemplate his final sentiments entirely alone:

“If seven had to die, so be it. I did only what was best for my people.”

————–

“My brother, my brother, tell me where he is, I know you know where he is, ya fleshheaded bastards!”

Two pairs of hands pushed his flailing limbs to the ground while a third pulled some sort of thick mesh around his mouth and set it in place with a metallic click. His captors had learned early on that his sharp teeth weren’t just for show. Unfortunately, with his magic completely shot, that also meant that his sole defense mechanism had been ripped away from him without a second thought. It felt to be a rather… compromising position.

Sans didn’t know whether he appreciated or hated the fact that he could talk through the mesh. Sure, he was fully able to express his frustration as loudly and graphically as he wished. It was cathartic, to say the least.

It also meant that he got to see for himself just how little his squabbling really mattered in the grand scheme of things. He could count the times that anyone had shown even a facial reaction to his fervent complaints on a single hand.

That was how he was coming to view many things in his life: a mix of tentative appreciation and hatred at the same time.

The tiny room where he slept was spartan and lonely, a constant reminder of the fact that his brother wasn’t there to yell at his shitty puns or tell him to get off of his ass and tackle sentry duty. It was a grim contrast to everything that his life had once been. But at the same time, the room was safe. It was a constant; it was predictable. The humans would leave him to his business, as simple and dull as it may be, and never stepped foot within its confines so long as he complied when they wanted him to leave.

…which admittedly was rare.

Not the leaving part, no; that special event occurred at least once every time the blaringly bright overhead lights flickered to life. (So, a day? Maybe?) The rare facet of these confrontations was his compliance with orders. The humans who posed as his twisted caretakers certainly incentivized the submission well enough - he was promised actual food instead of the pills that he was given daily, containing just enough magic to keep him alive - he simply couldn’t stomach the idea of admitting he was beaten. (Like he had so many times before…)

All of these factors had led him to the position he was in right now. Writhing around on the floor with disgusting, oily human hands clamped around his humeri, just below where the sleeves of his baggy, sterile, short-sleeved shirt cut off-

“Skeleton.” The soft voice was enough of a shock that Sans ceased his frenzied squirming and jerked his head toward the source of the sound. The speaker, though too far behind his back to be seen from his awkward positioning, loosened their grip on his right arm just enough that it no longer cut into his bone and removed one of their hands entirely. It would have been a perfect opportunity to wriggle free… but in the end, he would accomplish nothing.

He let himself lay limp.

What he wasn’t expecting was for the feeling of the hand to return, this time on his skull, on the portion of his temporal bone located just behind his jaw. Tension seeped out of his body as a few fingers carefully pet the oddly specific location. He shuddered.

It almost felt like…

Like…

The duo sat, clutching one another, Sans shivering uncontrollably in his brother’s arms. He had just witnessed his sibling, his entire world, come face to face with death. If he hadn’t come home within a time frame of five seconds, Papyrus would have been nothing more than a pile of dust on the decaying carpet. If his attack had missed, if he hadn’t hit the massive canine across the eyes, if he hadn’t sent him running…

“Sans, I am okay. You are okay.”

Papyrus brought his hand to the side of Sans’ skull and ran his phalanges along the bone in careful, comforting circles. Sans let out a shaky sigh.

They fell to sleep in each other’s arms that night.

“Papyrus.”

There was only one way that this human could have known the motion that would snap him out of a panic.

“What did you do to him?” He croaked the question out in a whimper, utterly despising how much influence a simple touch had over his entire being. (Pathetic.) A chuckle from the human assured him that his self-evaluation was correct.

“Hush, skeleton.” They continued the feather-light ministrations while the other two humans looked on. “Your brother has been closed off to us, but opened up as soon as your care came into the picture.”

Sans felt a sinking feeling engulf his soul.

“He told us only that light pressure to the side of your skull over an extended period of time could keep you from hurting yourself. I suppose he wasn’t lying, for once.”

Betrayal. The notion rang through his mind; raw, plain, and simple.

Papyrus had given into these bastards?

“You’re smart, buddy,” the voice went on. Sans let out a halfhearted growl at the overly friendly designation. “And you know that we can achieve our goals together. Administration is willing to let you visit Papyrus if you begin to show even minimal cooperation with their reformation efforts.”

With a defeated sigh, Sans snapped his drooling mouth shut and attempted to draw his head away from the human’s incessant carressing. “Okay, okay, I’ll bite. Just fuck off with the petting thing. You’re a buncha creeps.”

There was, predictably, no response to his verbal jab as the humans on either side of him tucked their hands under the meeting points of his clavicles and humeri and lifted him to his feet. The ease at which the massive creatures could hoist his frame into the air was… disconcerting at best. (Why was he so goddamned small?)

He was shunted out of his room’s door and briskly escorted down the hallway, once again cursing his minute stature as the hands on his shoulders pushed him along at a pace too fast for his legs to keep up with. The scrabbling of his bare phalanges on the concrete floor echoed down the otherwise quiet, whitewashed corridor. (No way in hell was he wearing the bizarre laceless shoes they’d given him. If he was going to wear proper shoes instead of slippers, they’d better be able to appear consistently untied, dammit.)

The jaunt came to an abrupt halt when the party reached an open door labeled “Conference Room 5” in neat black script. He felt the presence of the human who had been petting him continue on down the hall as he was led through the doorway.

A telltale click indicated that the room’s single exit had been shut behind him.

Sans was all too familiar with this nondescript space, and if asked, could describe it in perfect detail with his sockets tightly shut. It was a sizable rectangle with the building’s typical white walls and ceiling. Instead of the accompanying tile floor, however, Conference Room 5 had a seaweed-colored carpet that was soft under his feet. Four cheaply upholstered chairs were nailed in a “Y” pattern to the floor. Three of these chairs - the middle of which Sans was being seated in now - faced a “mirror.” (It was obviously one-way glass. He still didn’t understand why the humans had initially tried to hide it from him.)

While his escorts took their seats at the two uppermost points of the “Y,” Sans stared blankly at the occupant of the bottommost chair.

Doctor… something. Sans had intentionally forgotten her name. She was his interrogato- er, helper. He’d spent his time in this room completely silently, staring at a wall while Doc asked him questions and occasionally reminded him that he was “safe now.”

Apparently, in order to see Papyrus, his selective muteness would have to be put on hold.

Doc caught his gaze with a wave as he listlessly glanced around the room.

“Good morning, skeleton. I heard you might be ready to talk with me today?”

God, her voice was so sickeningly sweet. Sans took a moment to roll his eyelights before grudgingly nodding in her general direction. (It’s just for Papyrus’ sake, just play along, just-)

“Hun, I’m going to need to hear your voice at some point. I appreciate your effort, I really do, but we’ll need to communicate in order to deconstruct the cycle of violence that you were exposed to while living underground.” She placed her index finger to her lips in thought. “Let’s begin with your name. Can you do that for me?”

Silence reigned for an uncomfortably long time while Sans wrestled with his conscience. (Could they use his name against him? Well, of course they could, but would they?)

Doc seemed about ready to speak again, coax him one more time, when he finally quashed his wary nature.

“Sans.” He whispered suddenly, a growl running through his throat.

“What?” Doc looked astonished that he’d actually complied.

“Sans.”

She heard him that time, as indicated by her careful nod. “Well then, Sans, share with me what you are comfortable with, and we can work from there.” The sides of her lips curled upward into a soft smile.

Sans narrowed his sockets, eyelights brimming with suspicion. (What did these creatures want from him? Which words should he avoid? Which words would place him in a better position?)

He eventually decided upon a topic that was straightforward enough.

“Well Doc, you already know something about me; something that ya successfully used to your advantage.” He watched her expression morph into something resembling… concern?.. before continuing. “Maybe you’re looking to learn about my bro, huh?”

He carefully observed her facial features to locate any tells of excitement or malice at his statement. He found none, save for a slight tilt of her head likely indicative of her willingness to listen.

Sans didn’t know whether he was more relieved or let down by the lack of confirmation of his hunch.

“Welp, if you are, then that sucks for you. Lemme ask you this instead: have you ever tried running a hotdog stand?”

——————-

“BROTHER?”

Sans leaned back onto his dingy pillow and wove his fingers together behind his head. Might as well get comfy for the day’s routine existentialist chat. He called out in a voice just loud enough to reach the top bunk: “Yeah, boss?”

A groan.

“Ugh, SANS! I TOLD YOU TO STOP CALLING ME BY THAT RIDICULOUS MONIKER THREE WEEKS AGO.” His voice softened. “Brother, that is what unnerves me. I try to keep all of the numbers in my head, but they slip. What if I count a day twice? What if our feeding schedule was changed a while back? How do I know it has truly been three weeks since our agreement and not three months?”

Sans inwardly flinched, but kept his voice steady. “Y’gotta trust your intuition, bro. ‘Sides, you were the most organized monster in the whole damn Underground. If anyone can keep track of something as mundane as a mental calendar, it’s you.”

A weak laugh escaped Papyrus’ maw. Sans heard shifting from the bunk above him and a heavy thud as Papyrus slid from his mattress to the floor.

“SCOOT.”

(It was difficult to resist the usual “Sure thing, Boss.”)

Sans kept his arms folded behind his head and lazily dragged his legs to his chest. He had an image to maintain, after all. Papyrus simply shot him a withering glance before taking a seat at the end of Sans’s bed. Several minutes passed in amicable silence before Papyrus spoke once more in the soft, gentle tone that was so alien to hear in his voice.

“Sans, I feel scared.”

With those four little words, Sans shot up from his pillow, exhaustion completely forgotten. “Papyrus, what-?”

“My human told me that I was here to become a better monster. That once I had escaped my violent nature, I would be released.”

Sans nodded slowly, unable to see where this was coming from. He had been given the same talk by Doc many times before.

“Such a trivial matter should come easily to the Great and Terrible Papyrus, yes?” A spark ignited in Papyrus’ eyelights as he quipped his preferred title. It flickered for a moment, then died as he was pulled back into the present. “I’ve been trying, Sans, I’ve been trying so hard to prove my worth to these outlandish humans! They would be imbecilic to miss just how far the Great Papyrus has come!” He let out a dejected huff and turned to Sans. “I’ve even been able to quell my penchant for lashing out when exposed to unexpected noises.”

Sans sank back into his pillow in a flash of understanding, suddenly realizing where Papyrus was steering his train of thought. “They want something more from us, Sans. Something other than the simple taming of our impulses. I don’t know what it is yet, but I fear it will not turn out well for us monsters.”

The little skeleton felt a shiver run through his bones. He’d never trusted the fleshy beasts himself, but he’d tried with all of his pathetic might to keep Papyrus as distanced from his cynical mindset as possible. Papyrus deserved happiness, for once in his life. He deserved to live in some semblance of safety, without worrying about his broken older brother, without constantly having to look over his shoulder to avoid a painful dusting. Even if that sense of security was rooted in lies.

Sans did the only thing he could think of in that moment to comfort his little brother: extend his arms and offer him a hug.

Papyrus obliged.

The two sat like that, curled in each other’s arms and souls glowing softly in unison for what seemed like an eternity. The only indication that time itself hadn’t stopped were their occasional whispers; quiet, hopeful little things that only they would know.

“Y’know, Papy, I’ve heard that humans on the outside have entire restaurants dedicated to the art of fine pasta craftsmanship.”

“Nyeheh, maybe I’ll grant them the privilege of witnessing true, monster-style cooking!”

“What would we do with all of that spaghetti afterwards?”

“Have an elegant, gourmet picnic consisting entirely of my artistry! Obviously.”

“Bet you’d attract quite the crowd, all clamberin’ for some of that pasta.”

“That’s why we’d have it in a field! One with grass. And one where we can see the sun.”

“That’s a bright idea.”

“I know! Oh, Sans, I am so excited to see the sun! I’ll look so majestic and powerful when bathed in its gassy, fiery rays!”

“Yeah, you will, Pap.”

(Aren’t his dreams so beautiful?)

——————-

“As you may have realized, the amount of magic contained in the meal provided to you earlier today was slightly larger than your daily magic output rate.”

Sans glanced at the gangly human to his left and acknowledged their statement with a curt nod. While he wasn’t about to let them know, he most certainly had noticed what he’d assumed was a slip-up on their part. After being fed just enough magic to keep him alive for months on end, the excess spark of energy pulsing through his soul was expressed in his every movement. His steps had a gentle, lighthearted bounce to them. He slouched a little bit less. The pinpricks of lights within his otherwise empty sockets glowed ever so slightly brighter, allowing him to witness vibrant colors in a world that had looked washed-out and dull for an unbearably long time. (He hadn’t seen colors this intense since he’d channeled every last grain of power into his brother’s soul on that fateful first night on the surface, eons ago. Papyrus’ skull had been hit multiple times and he was so close to dusting; his skull was caked with chalky white dust and his crimson soul was cradled in glimmering tendrils of Sans’ veridian healing magic-)

He put an end to that line of thinking as his mask began to slip. Thankfully, none of the humans present decided to comment, instead keeping to their work.

The one standing directly in front of him, between Sans and the one-way glass, was arranging several unfamiliar devices on a folding table. Each was placed in a seemingly predetermined location and secured with a liquid adhesive. Some had lights, others gauges, and a few had numbers. All were made of the same reflective metal.

Sans knew data collection instruments when he saw them.

A tightening coil of revulsion wove its way down his spine.

Fortunately, the gangly human must have sensed his discomfort, and put an end to Sans’ confusion. “It has been determined that, because of your cooperative behavior, we would begin the next phase of your rehabilitation.” The human bent his knees in order to be at eye-level with Sans. It took all of the short skeleton’s willpower to not blow a fuse then and there. “We are putting a lot of trust in you, Sans. Please demonstrate that this trust was not misplaced.”

As the fleshy creature straightened his legs again, Sans was left to shiver at the bizarre contrast between the gentle tone of voice and steely, clinical gaze. The occupants of this room all looked at him with the same detached, unempathetic interest that reminded him so profoundly of the way a scientist might look at a drugged rat.

“Anyway, your powers are tied to your biological structure and to your soul, and as such, are inseparable from your being.” The words conveyed the disconcerting implication that an attempt had been made to strip a more volatile monster of its magic. Sans wasn’t about to contemplate the outcome of said attempt. “We believe that finding constructive outlets for your magic is a crucial step toward reintroduction to society.”

Sans nodded, trying his hardest to keep his smile lax.

(Something was wrong. If the sheer quantity of bodies in the room were needed for security’s sake, then where was Doc and where were the scary, muscular humans who had pinned him to the floor so many times during his first month trapped in the facility? No, the creatures present were clearly related to the data collection devices. But why were either necessary?)

The whirling torrent of thoughts coursing through his mind were almost painful in their relentless assault, but he had to keep them in. He had to play the part of the compliant, trustful drone. He needed his magic back.

“Through your own words and others’ testimony, we have determined that you possess both projectile and gravitational magic. Is this correct?” (Shit.) The human stared at Sans while he ran through dozens of possible responses in his head. In the end, he decided upon the answer that would raise the fewest questions.

“Yup.”

The look of disassociated interest intensified. “Excellent.” A single hand strayed to the back of Sans’ head, and applied just enough pressure to indicate that he should move towards the table. (Don’t freak out don’t freak out just obey be good obEY OBEY-)

Sans took three careful steps forward and gingerly placed his phalanges on the edge.

“As you can see, a plank of wood has been placed in the center of the table.” An entirely unnecessary wave of the hand accompanied the statement, as if Sans wouldn’t understand which object was being referred to. “While you don’t have much extra magic today, we estimated that you should have enough to pierce the plank. Get a sense for using your powers after so long without them, you know.”

(No, he didn’t know. Magic came to monsters as easily as eating. It was just as stupid to imply that he would have forgotten how to use basic attack magic as it would be to imply that a starving beast would forget how to devour a corpse. …Not that these crazy fuckwits would understand that.)

He had to play it cool. Gather some information, maybe. He glanced back at the table and honed in on the metal instruments. “Oh, uhh, yeah, of course.” A pause. “You wanting me to do anythin’ with the other stuff? The shiny bits? Stab them through with another bone or just punch ‘em with my bare fists or somethin’?”

The gangly mouthpiece of the group raised an eyebrow, probably confused as to why the board hadn’t already been eviscerated. “No. Pay them no mind.” His tone was somewhere in between chiding and irritated.

(Could he push a little harder without seeming too suspicious?)

“Isn’t it a little dangerous to have all of these sharp objects around a magical field? I mean, what if they got knocked off and hit someone in the phalan- foot?” Two humans across from Sans exchanged glances, while the talkative one adopted a face of unadulterated exasperation.

“They’re stable and attached to the surface. They have been requested to enhance your safety. Now, the wood?”

(Safety. Code word for “shut up, we aren’t going to tell you.”)

Sans made sure to hide his sigh as he focused on targeting the plank. A familiar heat rushed into his left socket and arm. His soul pulsed wildly as it fed magic into his body; his emotions burned brightly and free, screaming to take physical form. He allowed his anger at the humans, for killing his king, for imprisoning him, for crushing his brother’s dreams to be directed at the simple board.

CrRRK!

A thin, spindly bone bore through the wood. Sure, it wasn’t a very impressive attack, but it was all that he could manage considering his incredibly low magic reserves.

At least the humans seemed delighted. A few had even allowed their impassive masks to break, revealing surprisingly innocent expressions of wonder. (Maybe, in another life, the entire population of the room could have enjoyed a picnic together. Eaten some spaghetti, laughed over some puns… heh, what a joke.)

————–

Papyrus was miraculously asleep, and Sans had been able to convince Doc that he was feeling horrifically ill and needed to join his brother in the comforting nothingness of unconsciousness.

Today would have been another “Applied Magic” day. The sessions were getting more frequent, and he was getting larger portions of food more often. This also meant that he had been able to squirrel away food almost every day.

His stash, located in a hole that he had carefully sliced into the side of his thin mattress, now contained enough food to account for two meals. Maybe it was a bit of an overkill, but he had to make sure that he could shortcut at a moment’s notice. Today, he would be doing some snooping. He was going to find out what all of this rehabilitative nonsense was really about.

(If nonviolence was all they wanted, Papyrus would have been out months ago. In a more perfect world, he never would have raised arms another creature in his life.)

With one final look back at Papyrus (remember who all of this is for), Sans gathered his concentration and prayed that no one was using the hallway outside of Conference Room 5. Now, he just had to imagine that his room’s door was open, and that instead of leading to its typical destination, it led to Conference Room 5’s destination. He closed his sockets, took a step forward…

And when he opened them again, he was alone in a bleach-white hallway.

He turned around, and came face to face with cleanly stenciled text:

Conference Room 5

(Thank heavens.)

Now, if he were a human, where would he store data outputs? (Well, either a storage closet, or a lab. Duh.) But where exactly would that lab be?

…

Time for some good ol’ fashioned trial and error.

With as much haste as he dared, Sans scrambled through hallway after hallway, peeking around every corner and fixating on every passing soul. (He paused for a moment just outside of a door concealing a soul that called out to him, and had the uncanny urge to drop his mission then and there and bust out a knock-knock joke. With a pang of remorse, he pulled himself away from it and continued down the twisting halls.) Once, he even had to dive into a wall and shortcut around the corner, just barely avoiding detection by a man in a sweater vest.

The close call turned out to be a blessing in disguise. His shortcut spat him out in front of a heavy white door with just the label he was looking for: Filing Room.

Resisting a dance of joy, he grabbed the sleek handle and twisted it slowly, as if the speed at which he opened the door would determine whether or not a human was lying in wait. (Please let the room be empty please let the room be empty-)

By a second stroke of luck, the door revealed nothing but a darkened room full of shelves, piled high with folders, papers, and glass vessels of all kinds. Sans stepped onto the carpeted floor and closed the door behind him. The room was now pitch black. All it took was a bit of fumbling around on the wall to find a light switch, thank fuck, to brighten it up like a Gryftmas tree. The search could now commence.

It wasn’t long before Sans learned that if there was one thing dedicated humans excelled at, it was organization. Despite the cluttered appearance of the shelves, they were alphabetized perfectly. It was more than he could say for his own lab notes. He absentmindedly ran his hand across a stray folder’s label: Cannibalism.

(Nope.)

He ran several shelves down and checked another folder: Snowdrake, Composition. He didn’t stop to take in the fact that the folder was propped up by two jars of grey powder. He had to stay focused.

Two shelves in the opposite direction revealed a more promising Manticore, Behaviors. His goal was almost in reach. One shelf to the left was full of folders and collections of paper labeled Magic. Bingo. Now, if only he could figure out what he was looking for, exactly. Skimming the labels might help him narrow his search a bit…

Magic, Theory. Magic, Typology. Magic, Usage. Magic, Weaponization. Magic- (Wait.)

With a shaking hand, he pulled the Magic, Weaponization file from its place on the shelf. Several papers fell from the folder to the floor.

He picked one up and began reading.

“…and if the explosion at Mt. Ebott was any indication, this power can be converted into a highly concentrated, destructive form. Interrogation upon various subjects has revealed that consumption of a human soul by a monster can lead to a metamorphosis of sorts, creating a monster as massive as Asgore Dreemurr. With the right training, a monster such as this could be a valuable offensive asset to the armed forces…”

(No. Oh, no. Papyrus, no-)

Crrrreeeeek.

Sans froze, paper still in hand. Someone was behind him. Someone had just entered the room.

“M-monster? Put that down, and don’t move!”

Sans didn’t spare a second to see who was talking. He had to get back to his brother. Now.

He made a dive for the wall, closed his eyes, and…

“OOF!”

…crashed into something very boney. “SANS? WHERE- Where were you? And why are you using magic?”

Without even meeting Papyrus’ gaze, Sans threw himself toward his mattress and tore open the side. Enchanted food - a few apples, half of an astoundingly intact sandwich, a bag of chisps, and several packets of mustard that he’d earned for exemplary behavior - tumbled to the floor. He launched an apple toward Papyrus, who caught it with relative ease. Sans himself sliced open the bag of potato chisps with a canine tooth and shoved a handful into his mouth.

“Mnfph. Regain as much magic as ya can, Paps. We’re - crunch - bustin’ outta this joint. We got two minutes before I’m makin’ a run for it.”

Papyrus seemed to be visibly fighting his instinct to chastise Sans for his manners. In the end, he settled for digging into the apple before kneeling with his back to his brother on the floor. “Eh-hm. THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS MUST OBJECT TO YOU ‘MAKING A RUN FOR IT,’ RUNT. DUE TO MY SUPERIOR SPEED, I WILL HANDLE THE RUNNING. YOU WILL HANDLE THE DECIMATION OF ANYTHING THAT STANDS IN OUR WAY.” He looked over his scapula and shot Sans a withering glance. “THIS IS THE PART WHERE YOU PUT YOUR ARMS OVER MY CLAVICLES AND I SUPPORT YOUR FEMURS WITH MY HANDS.”

With one last crunch of a chisp, Sans obliged, and pressed himself up against his brother’s back. The close proximity of the duo’s souls eased Sans’ worries ever so slightly. His grin felt a little bit less forced as Papyrus rose to his feet.

(Now, where might an exit be? Well, he was always taken left to visit Doc and the winding hallways had been left as well… Right, then. It was the best guess he had.)

“Bro? Close your sockets, and walk into the door. We’re taking a shortcut. When we emerge, start running, no matter who or what is out there. Got it?”

A shimmering burst of confidence from Papyrus’ soul told Sans all he needed to know. He felt his brother take a careful step forward…

Take a deep, albeit unnecessary breath…

…and take off flying. Sans flicked his sockets open and readjusted his eyelights to better take in the bright surroundings. Doors whizzed past the two at incredible speeds. (Whoa. He’d forgotten just how quickly one could run with the aid of longer legs.)

His soul nearly stopped beating when he heard voices carrying down the hallway.

“We’ll need to check cell twenty-five. Davies claimed that a skeleton monster was loose near the storage rooms.”

“And you believed the old kook? Lord knows she’s halfway to a psychotic breakdown with the shit she’s done here.”

Papyrus sprinted around a corner only to come face to face with a trio of chattering humans. For a moment, no one moved a muscle.

Then, everything leapt into motion all at once. Two of the humans barreled toward the skeletons while the third pulled a small, grey box from their belt and frantically shouted something into it. Sans, on the other hand, wordlessly tapped the side of his brother’s skull and pointed to the wall. Trust flowed freely between the two as Papyrus pressed his sockets shut and ran towards the concrete without a second thought. Reality began to shift.

Once it had straightened itself out again, the skeletons were behind the group of humans. From then on, the two moved as one, Papyrus blindly running forward and Sans casting shortcuts to put precious distance between them and their pursuers.

Both had nearly collapsed in exhaustion by the time they reached their goal.

Two windowed doors stood stoically, displaying green on the other side. Somehow, it barely seemed real. Months had passed in wait of this moment, and the days of the facility were very nearly behind them.

Papyrus, as if in a trance, placed a hand on the handle and pushed. It didn’t budge.

That was okay, though. Sans still had another shortcut in him. A single snap of his fingers, and the two were on the other side of the doors.

There were no words for the sight that greeted them. To most, it would seem perfectly ordinary. Green grass bordered a parking lot filled with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. A wing of the building rose up on their right, red bricks faded and mossy yet still perfectly intact. A few dandelions bloomed in the field beyond. All was still.

All was peaceful.

No sight, however, could compare to the magnificent colors that painted the sky. Directly above the duo’s heads, blue became a soft purple where fluffy clouds rested in the sky. Closer to the horizon, the purple became pink, then red, and then orange. And at the center of it all was the sun.

It was brilliant in its majesty. Radiant, powerful, and all-consuming.

Papyrus was the first to break the awestruck silence.

“Sans? It’s so… so beautifu-”

BANG!

Suddenly, Sans found himself falling at full speed toward the ground.

His landing was cushioned by a pile of… ash? It was soft, and warm, and welcoming. As he moved his legs to right himself, it was stirred into the air, and clung to him as it settled back down. (Where did-?)

“Papyrus?”

BANG!

#hawk's writing #fanfic contest #undertale #underfell #sans #papyrus #cw: violence #cw: death

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kokoro-no-vocaloid · 7 years

Text

Cendrillon 1 - Part 1

Inside the carriage, whose oscillation hardly could be considered comfortable, Cendrillon left her mind fly in a short dream.

Appear in the east of the sky what appears to be the moon, similar to the moon with which she dreamed so many times.

This dream again, uh…

Inside the dream, she was an aquamarine chasing a blue butterfly. With soft flutter and his dance in the wind, the blue butterfly seemed cheer her up to approaching, with a "Come on here". Between the rings formed in the Surface of the water where the blue butterfly descends, Cendrillon also descend over the center of the waves, the flutter of her wings stopped slowly.

In an instant. A strong wind shake her since the horizon, and her wings end up for perching in a different point over the surface of the water. In that moment she can't move. In front of vision of the waves that the blue butterfly had left behind, she also beginning to sink slowly.

The water fills completely her vision and, shinning with a brightly ligth of moon, there are scales that under water float and that’s the last thing she see, just before all turns black. That darkness was like a shadow sliding down toward the depths of her heart, she was thinking “i also wanted descend over the center of those waves”. This tenuous feeling permanence in Cendrillon claiming that this was something sad.

Because she had dream these a lot of times since her childhood, she thought in the possibility of the divination, either for if was is signs of some omen, or for “And if has any meaning?”. But the dreams are dreams. One succession of memories from the past, mixed with incoherent images.

With a little more of ten years, her trying for discover a meaning of that dream was, finally, replaced with an infinite disappointment; appeared in she also a think more logical and, in the end, them was disappear when Marlene welcomed her.

She has started to forget those memories of her childhood. Why just now they had come to her mind? This night, in the royal palace, a masked ball would be held. Could be the agitation that provoke in her the emotion of know that, finally has arrive the day for the she had be raised and instructed by Marlene.

— Tell me, Cindy.

Beside her, a boy of blonde hair talked to Cendrillon.

—What do you want?

—How does feel become to princess?

—Special. Looks like I’m going to honor my name, like that princess, Cinderella.

— Yeah? Well, I think it is the most suitable for a masquerade.

The boy left scape a fun laugh. His name was Rizal. Su nombre era Rizal. Like Cendrillon, he was a boy welcomed for Marlene. Although generally he acting as a servant of Marlene, fulfilling her messages, today accompanied Cendrillon as part of his escort.

— Let's see, Rizal if you don't call she properly “Princess Cendrillon” all our work will be ruined.

Without turning, a girl whose blonde hair shook under her hat reproached to the boy since the position of the coachman. The girl that acted of coachman had the name of Sully, and, although had the same age as Rizal, she was a bit more adult. They say of the girls mature more fast than the boys, but in Sully´s case, only the psychological aspect seems to have developed.

— But although she wears of silk at the end Cindy will be Cindy.

— Hehe, you are rigth.

Cendrillon drew a forced smile. She always felt some mistrust when smile in front of those with whom he had grown up as brothers. It was not something she disliked but, only felt completely sure if she did just Marlene had teached she. “Maybe when i was born i was a kind of machine”; in secret, with a cold feeling she lamented.

— That´s not it, Okay? Her partner this time will be the prince, so no faults, we can't afford one.

Sully gave them a brief glance. That glance was charged with vigor toward the mission.

The last masquerade of the prince Charles before his marriage. The following day will be celebrated the nuptials with the noble Margaret of the Holy Roman Empire, the neighboring country; the dance also would serve as a celebration for this event.

This would be the last chance for approach to him without letting them see their true intentions. They wouldn't have a second chance to fulfill them goal if they let it go this.

—I wonder if go with this spirit of fight will not cause any failure. Uh.

Wanting to reassure Rizal, whose face crossed a grin, Cendrillon stroked his blond hair.

—Rizal, surely you do perfectly. It´s me who not are sure of can be do it good.

— I will look to the prince for you. Leave it in my hands, Princess Cendrillon.

With a wide smile, Rizal addressed her according to the "script".

Not a single word came from the coachman's seat.

If you looked up to the roof of the carriage, the canopy that decorated it shining under the moonlight, occupied your entire field of vision. The radius of curvature of the body of the vehicle, circular and drawing a small ellipsis, suggested a completely new style with Renaissance influences; certainly, all of luxury and ornament in that the princess of one kingdom could trip was present.

Inside, of course also was all glow: An interior decoration of red velvet, giving the space one touch of pomposity whit the use of feathers and wool; to avoid mold and mites, small cedar shards had been scatted over the place. The floor and the walls of the cabin has been made of evergreen oak, combined with the walnut that formed the lining of the seats; it was part of an accident planning, ensuring retention. However, a carriage is a carriage. And for many suspension mechanisms that added, which are something essential, can´t avoid catching all the bumps and holes of the road. However, those accustomed to travelling in carriage will know this consideration when making the comparison with an ordinary carriage.

Where the hell had Marlene got a carriage like this?

For Cendrillon, who has been forbidden to question any aspect of the mission, has impossible (as is inevitable) don´t wondering. But of course, she never verbalizes it; she was also perplexed at the making of the dress. Being an orphan she would never have hoped, however much for the sake of the mission, a tremendous display of ostentation.

Marlene picked her up from an alley in Naples. On a moonless night, Cendrillon had been rescued by Marlene and her companions from the attack of a ruffian, and thus became one more member.

— What face more beautiful you have. Girl, what is your name?

For a girl who has been lived completely alone since before to be aware of the world around she, there isn't a name; and if once upon had, she doesn’t remember it.

After to see that one shake of head was all her response, Marlene said:

— Even with the face dirty, i can see that in your head all is in order; Since this moment, you will appear before the world as Cendrillon.

And saying this with a gentle smile, he gently stroked the cheek of the young woman who had just been given a name.

After that, he taught her many things.

That in the world existed the evil, which galloped rampant for him. That Marlene´s companions surrendered in body and soul, every day, in the study of how destroyed that evil, that to correct that dark side of the world they posed as worldly people. That the only person she could trust was herself.

Everything necessary for her survival, and everything necessary for the activities of Marlene and her own, was inculcated.

In order obtain a knowledge and culture that could rival those of the children of wealthy families, she was assigned a personal tutor. The modals necessaries to go out with a noble, or the steps to dance any kind of dance in a party; she was instructed in every teaching.

And besides, the most important of all… the murder.

Beginning with a human's vital points, techniques to reduce a target quickly and silently, and methods to neutralize it and how to make sure of it. She was train in the art of suppressed the feelings and having full control over the life and the death, in not to fear the death of people, and deeply instructed in the scent of death.

Cendrillon exceeded the limits of how much he could polish to satisfy Marlene.

She transformed, in order to pay debt that generated with her by having received it; She had no reason to question anything.

But it was inevitable that, the first time that she kills a man, at the raw smell of iron and in front the end of one life, she ended vomited. Cendrillon was still ten years old. Still was too young when she entered into shadow’s world.

However, after six year spent each day hand in hand with death, he became completely a killing machine, a murderous shadow of what was once his humanity.

It is unusual for her to be so immersed in her emotions; Something happens to her in the head, Cendrillon mocks herself.

When this mission has ended, will be her death. When it comes to people dying remembering their past, is it also talked about if it has any meaning? They say that if you are on the verge of death you see it your life happen in front of you, is this something similar? Almost like a preparation before you die.

Whether it was a success or a failure, she was ordered to give up his own life. If this time they discover her identity, benign it´s that her objective belong to the royaly, would entail serious problems for Marlene and the others.

She had not fear to die. The stench of the corpses had become so deeply rooted in his body ... And of this stench also was impregnate Sully and Rizal. Assassins who could not remember all those who had spotted them, but with totally sure, not even counting the fingers of both hands and both feet of three different people, would be enough.

The last thing to Cendrillon remember was Marlene, breaking the silence: "Until now, you have worked hard for me."

— The man I want to be your last target is ... Prince Charles.

She felt ashamed of her reaction, how her eyebrows rose slightly to the magnitude of the situation. Marlene did not miss the movement of her eyebrows, and she continued:

— I am fully confident that you will make the mission a complete success, my lovely Cindy.

Marlene stroked her cheek with this gentle smile that once she saw in an alley in Naples.

Before he knew it, he had escaped from his brief sleep, and, looking at the direction of the road, the shadow of the castle walls gradually became larger, more imposing.

— You see.

— We almost arrive.

Sully and Rizal announced it. Maybe not the arrival at the castle, but the time of Cendrillon's death.

#cendrillon novel #cendrillon #hatsune miku #kaito #light novel #Novel Translation #mikuxkaito

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coolbloggerthings · 5 years

Text

Why I Learned Storyboarding from Mike Kunkel

Animation Mentor: Tell us a bit about yourself!

Amanda: I got into the industry because I loved Looney Tunes. I thought I wanted to be an animator actually, but once I got my first job in 3D layout, I fell in love with it. When I’m not doing visual storytelling at work, I’m usually watching movies at home or practicing my verbal storytelling through D&D. When I want to switch up my creative outlets, I sew and when I start spending too much time hermitting in my apartment, my dog pulls me out of the house.

AM: Where do you currently work and what do you do?

Amanda: I’m a 3D layout and previs artist working in Toronto at Guru Animation Studio.

AM: What’s the most challenging project you’ve ever worked on at work and why?Amanda: We worked on a preschool show called Justin Time when I first started there and it was challenging because it was a hybrid 2D/3D show so you had to be really careful with the camera moves so you didn’t skew anything on screen.AM: What made you decide to take Storyboarding Fundamentals?Amanda: I’ve always loved storytelling and with my work in layout I’ve come to know visual storytelling rather well. Learning storyboarding seemed like a natural branch off from that kind of work so I was curious to try my hand in not only a completely 2D drawing experience but also getting to experience what it’s like to work without any visual guide for shots like I have in layout

.AM: What did you learn from the workshop?Amanda: The biggest thing I learned was how much one drawing can expression. If you plan it well and have strong posing, you can give the audience all kinds of information about what’s going on, even if it’s adding something to the background. The next biggest thing I learned is that actions require more frames of drawing than I expected, but it’s worth the effort in order to be clear. Also thumbnails are really worth the time. Quick drawings let you keep the flow of an idea going. Once the idea is out of your head you can go over it and switch things around and edit where you need to.AM: What was it like learning from Mike Kunkel?Amanda: One of my favourite things about Mike was how friendly and down to earth he was. It wasn’t intimidating at all to engage with him nor did it feel abrasive getting critiques from him.

AM: What’s the main thing you learned that you’ll use at work and/or in the future?

Amanda: My current job doesn’t have any drawing aspect to it, but I think I can better understand what a board artist is thinking now when I get their work on a production. It was also a good reminder that there are many ways to tell the same story so feedback can be really eye opening.

AM: What advice would you give students thinking of taking Storyboarding Fundamentals?

Amanda: I think this workshop is great for people who don’t have a lot of knowledge on what storyboarding is like or how many different careers could come from it, but don’t expect to be able to pick up everything you need to get employed as a board artist from this. This is a great course for dipping your toe in the water and seeing if you want to jump in. Also, I talk a lot about what I learned about drawing in this workshop because that was a big part of why I took the course, but Mike’s focus was on teaching us to be clear. It isn’t necessary to have great drawing skills in order to learn from this workshop. He also goes over shot types and some basic film language as well as setting up gags.

AM: What are your storyboarding goals for the future?

Amanda: Right now I just want to try my hand at being a storyboard revisionist, but I did enjoy our assignment on beat boards so I would be curious to explore that too. If I don’t end up getting into storyboarding professionally, I think this experience will help me with my own hobbies, like making short comics.

AM: What kinds of stories would you like to see more of in promotional animation?

Amanda: I’m a big fan of adventure stories and exploring, so more Indiana Jones or Tomb Raider kinds of stories would be awesome to see.

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jflashandclash · 7 years

Text

Attrition of Peace

Sixteen: Annabeth

We Have an Inappropriately Timed Dance Party; Monsters Included

Everything about the club made Annabeth feel uncomfortable. There were too many areas for ambush, too many shadowed spots, and too many monsters she and Percy had previously sent back to Tartarus. This was the closest she’d felt to being the warden that ended up on the wrong side of the bars since… well, Tartarus.

The lighting was dim, with blinking swirls dipping down from an expansive ceiling. Dark shapes glided across the top, suggesting creatures existed beyond her sight. The entire dome faded to nothingness, like Morpheus himself had added little touches to make it shimmer and shift like an aurora.

There was a two story bar on one side, where two Gegenees—six-armed giants—were bartending with more efficiency than all the Time Square’s Starbucks baristas during morning rush. The stools along the bar could rotate out for stools of various other heights, some short enough for one of the Kabeiri—dwarf deities and sons of Hephaestus—to sit on, while another stretched tall enough for a ten foot frost giant to flirt with a winged woman on a second story patio above the bar.

The bar continued to curve opposite the entrance and ran alongside a small pool, where telekhines, merfolk, and icthyocentaurs were cheering on a particularly small telekhine. “Jump! Jump! Jump!” they shouted until the telekhine did a trick flip off a ledge. They cheered and clanked their glasses of ambrosia together. One particularly excited fishperson dove into the water to throw an arm around the telekhine, “I love this guy! You’re a real, class-act fish, you know that?”

Most horrifying: there were some humans or—Annabeth assumed—older demigods. They sat on a small stage opposite the bar, laughing and shoving at each other. There was a giant cage above that stage, and the slightest hint of a disco ball tucked into the cage. Annabeth guessed it was appropriate. How else were you going to get people to disco anymore?

There was a dance floor in the center, with scattered tables and chairs. Several monsters and a half-blood were helping to pull the tables to the sides of the room, like they were preparing for a major event.

There was music, but it was too quiet for what Annabeth assumed a club should have. It was some kind of mix between swing and electronic.

When their group of eight entered, no one paid them mind. Nearby monsters seemed to intentionally ignore them, though they picked up their heads to sniff a few times. Annabeth found this particularly disturbing. Monsters did not ignore half-bloods.

Without another word, their group split. This was not where she wanted to split up, but they would all be within sight of each other. Hazel and Frank took a step to the side of the entrance, to keep track of the flow in and out and to assure they didn’t scare off Axel and Pax. Nico and Will walked towards the bar, where a group of ghosts had clustered. An inebriated looking ghoul made a whistle through a partially rotted mouth at Nico. It made Annabeth wonder if the undead could get drunk, or if they just died that way, then she remembered Odysseus’ palace and shuddered.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Will’s hand slip into his jacket, likely to make an unpleasant rebuttal at the ghoul, but Nico—thankfully—stopped him.

Piper and Jason walked towards the stage.

“It’s not very often I get to take you clubbing,” Percy said, offering her his arm. “Now, would you rather I pull two clubs out of the back so we can start bashing monster heads or actually dance?”

Annabeth rolled her eyes. “Shut up Seaweed Brain,” she said and led him past the dance floor. Now was not the time. She remembered the first time they went to a dance together, with Thalia and Grover when they were looking for new demigods that turned out to be Bianca and Nico. Percy had been so flustered and cute. They'd had school dances since, ones where Annabeth had to ward off several members of the swim team, since Percy was too oblivious to realize they were flirting.

A relaxing time like that was well overdue.

Annabeth shook her head and forced herself to stop swaying to the beat of the music. She was surprised—she didn't even like this style of music, but something about the atmosphere was contagious.

She and Percy, naturally, went towards the telekhines doing water tricks. When Percy squeezed her hand to lead them towards the pool, she could tell he was humming along and bobbing his head.

They were close enough to the pool for a telekhine to snort at them when Annabeth caught sight of Merry.

Annabeth wondered if Axel had Misted Merry’s presence before. She seemed in such an obvious spot and they must have walked past her. The Indian girl sat cross-legged on top of a table on the dance floor that was pushed further towards the stage. Her burgundy parka looked black in the dim lighting. Her watch kept catching and reflecting tiny gleams from the ceiling. There were a few monsters nodding their heads to the music beside her, like this was a casual monster-demigod occurrence.

On the table around her, there were at least two dozen cans of Diet Coke.

Merry looked completely at ease for being amongst monsters and within six feet of Jason Grace.

Piper was talking to two older demigods that were sitting on the far side of the stage. She was swaying to the beat of the music, unaware Jason had caught sight of one of their fugitives.

Merry waved at him. That might have been the call for a peace treaty, but it could just have easily been a trap. Annabeth hoped Frank and Hazel would be comfortable ignoring their orders from Ares long enough for them to have a conversation.

Annabeth grabbed Percy's arm and motioned towards Merry. Percy nodded in understanding. Before they got more than a few feet, a hoard of telekhines—part seal, part dog monsters—hopped out of the pool and flooded them.

"Percy Jackson!" one cried. Annabeth went to draw her dragonbone sword.

"I heard he withstood a volcano."

"My brother was there—he saw it!"

"Will you take a selfie with us, Mr. Jackson?" another held out a waterproof encased iPhone, snickering. None of them made a move to attack, but all of them brandish iPhones at them with their webbed paws with the same ferocity as you would a weapon.

"Sorry, I don't usually pose for the paparazzi," he said. Annabeth could tell Percy was thinking about knocking them back into the pool with one quick wave of water. But the commotion of the telekhines caught the attention of a giant at the bar, the ghouls that were talking to Nico, and several winged lizard people on the second story balcony.

If Annabeth was ever going to get into a barfight with a hoard of monsters, these were the friends she would want as backup. They'd been through worse fights. A fight wouldn't do them any good though. All that would do is make a great cover for any escapes and destroy any chance to parley.

Then Merry's voice carried across the club. "You know, I love this song. No matter how upset I am, it can always cheer me up," she said. "What makes you happy? The smile of a lover? The yummy relaxation after a fierce fight or chase? Your favorite dessert?"

From what Annabeth could see, there was no microphone on Merry. That girl could project.

Although Annabeth should have kept focus on their current circumstance, her mind wandered to the image of Percy smiling. She could feel Percy's gaze fall onto her and a giddy sensation told her he was thinking the same thing.

Focus, she scolded herself. Although she had ADHD like the rest of the half-bloods, her thoughts didn't tend to wander during a potential fight; they usually hyper-focused.

The telekhine had gone silent. They were still in between them and Jason, but were now staring at Jason and Merry. Although everyone else in the club kept to their separate conversations, Annabeth had the distinct feeling those two were in the spotlight.

Jason Grace hesitantly took a few steps closer to Merry. As Annabeth was hoping, he didn't raise any weapons. Just his empty hands. "'Hey, we just want to talk—"

"So do we, but a little encounter in New Rome gave some of our members the heebie-jeebies, so we'd rather do it after we've regrouped, listened to some therapeutic music, and aren't being chased by a group of seven scary half-bloods."

For a moment, Annabeth thought Merry had miscounted and didn't realize there were eight of them.

Merry shrugged. "Will doesn't count as a scary half-blood. He's too much of a cutiepie."

There was no verbal protest from Will at the bar. When Annabeth risked a glance over, she saw the blond medic frowning, with his arms crossed. The fact that his head kept bobbing to the music didn't make him any scarier. Nico patted his shoulder. "She's right," said the son of Hades.

"Until then," Merry's voice brought Annabeth's attention back over. "Have you heard of that old 2010's song, Party Rock Anthem?

On cue, the music blended from the electronic jazz into someone shouting, "Party rock!" and a round of the chorus. The volume increased, until the synthesizers felt like they were shaking Annabeth's bones.

"Merry—" Jason started to say. Piper took a careful step closer to them, away from the stage.

"Clap," Merry said with the song, closed her eyes, and bobbed her head.

Jason and Piper both clapped. From the corner of her eye, she could see Will clap as well. He glanced down at his hands in confusion, a derpy smile touching his lips. The monsters nearby laughed and started to clap along to the chorus:

Everybody just have a good time.

And we gon' make you lose your mind.

We just want to see you...

Merry grinned and hopped off the table. She opened her eyes, and sang, "Shake that," with the music.

What happened next was the last thing Annabeth expected.

Jason pounded his fists in the air to the beat and kicked his feet about in a wild, mad dance.

Piper burst into hysterical giggles. She looked like she was trying to mouth the word, "stop," but the music completely drowned out her voice. Will began to disco beside a baffled Nico, in a way that would probably make his father quite proud.

Within a few beats, Jason danced his way over to Piper, and took her in his arms. Then the two were twirling in delirious glee.

The daughter of Dionysus snapped her fingers, and the monsters around them joined in their crazed revelry.

This was a trap.

Annabeth tried to ignore the way her limbs shook. Her mind kept fluttering to happy memories—kissing Percy in the lake, her early acceptance letter to New Rome, being awarded the architect of Olympus. A giddiness threatened to break her mind. The energy from the party felt contagious in a way she hadn't felt since the sirens tried to drown her.

She could feel Percy sway at her side. The telkhines were hopping on their fins, like a tiny mosh pit of puppies. She tried to step through them, towards Jason and Piper, but was pushed backwards, into Percy.

“Hey! Watch it!” Percy snapped, helping her stay up.

When she stumbled, Annabeth made eye contact with Frank. He and Hazel were far away from Merry, still by the exit. They were seemingly unaffected. Their jaws had dropped in shock at seeing their former praetor and friend break into the electric slide next to a Scythian dracaena.

Two human figures split from the monsters near the entrance. Annabeth's eyes widened as Axel and Ajax Pax crept out of the darkness.

Annabeth tried to shout a warning over the music, but it was too late.

Axel had already politely tapped Frank's shoulder; Ajax, Hazel's.

When the Romans turned to them, the Pax brothers somersaulted towards the dance floor, instead of the exit like Annabeth would have expected. The acrobats sprang to their feet outside the forming crowd. Axel gave them a taunting wave. Ajax winked and blew Frank a kiss. They danced backwards into the mass of monsters, engulfed by the crowd.

Hazel and Frank raced after them, disappearing into the throng.

Percy made the motion to laugh.

Annabeth slapped him. "FOCUS!" she shouted, but knew he couldn't hear her. "THIS ISN'T FUNNY!" she mouthed at him. "THIS IS A TRAP."

Percy shook his head, like he was trying to clear it. Percy pointed to where Will was using a monster’s tail as a fake microphone. His message was clear: he disagreed that this wasn’t funny. Nico rolled his eyes, grabbed Will, and dragged him towards Annabeth and Percy.

“We need to get over there!” Annabeth said. She drew her dragonbone sword. The smallest telekhines in the group flooded towards her, giving her puppy dog eyes and pouts. One even curled up on her leg, like her dog used to when she was little.

Despite knowing they were monsters, Annabeth struggled to bring her sword down, especially when they showed no signs of attacking.

Annabeth scanned the room to account for everyone and was horrified to find that she’d lost track of the Pax brothers and that they’d lost two more to the throbbing bass. Frank’s lumbering figure could be seen leading Hazel in a French gavotte dance. Both of them had the same maniac grins as the others. A giant cackled and patted Frank’s back as he went by. The Canadian almost flopped onto his face, making Hazel burst into crazed giggles.

Annabeth strained to concentrate despite the intense urge to let herself fold into the music and relax—a well earned relaxation after worrying so much over getting Percy to explore New Rome, over studying for midterms, over helping Jason erect the latest statue to the goddess Cloacina at camp—

Annabeth grabbed her hand. She’d dropped her sword. The limb had started to sway on its own accord. They needed to do something fast. Annabeth had only ever seen Pollux use his powers once. It was to make the Stoll brothers lose their minds, after a horrendous grape prank gone wrong, so she didn’t know much about how the children of Dionysus could fight. But, she could guess this whole party atmosphere must have been straining Merry. If they could just interrupt the party for a few seconds, Annabeth doubted Merry could start it up again.

Annabeth grabbed Percy’s hand and desperately resisted the urge to pull it around her. Instead, she motioned towards the pool.

Percy cracked a smile, knowing what to do.

He lifted one hand. The water surged up, twisted in a tunnel around she, Percy, Will, and Nico, and blasted the other partygoers like a fire hose.

There were complaints and shouts. Monsters slid onto the ground. Half-bloods were knocked over. The music paused, though Annabeth hoped Percy had fried the circuits at the DJ booth, wherever it was.

Hazel and Frank stumbled to their feet, looking dazed. Piper and Jason were still grinning at each other stupidly on the ground. Several monsters shook out their coats.

The party sensation seemed dead.

Then the distinct British accent of Calex Rupin McKenzie shouted, “Pool party, mates!” from the second story patio.

Pax crawled out from under a giant and jumped up, hopping from one foot to another. “You heard him! Gentlemen, please remove your shirts and deposit them on the floor!” To provide an example, he pulled off his shirt and swung it over his head.

To her horror, several ghouls and clothed beasts followed suit.

A hand shot out of the pile of downed monsters and Merry dragged herself back up to be beside the table. She pressed something on her jacket, and Annabeth could feel the hum of an amp, like there were still functional electronics all around them. Annabeth couldn’t tell if the glistening on Merry’s forehead was sweat or water. She looked weak and pale, but had a psychotic grin plastered on her face.

Nico, beside them, just looked annoyed. He was struggling to keep Will from taking off his shirt. “What’s the plan?” he asked.

Annabeth’s mind spun. There was still a happy haze fogging her thoughts, but she knew she needed to concentrate. She thought about something she hated thinking about—all of her struggles in Tartarus, the pain, and the terror of failure. It sharpened her focus, rocking her out of the partying mood. She wondered if that’s how Nico was so unaffected.

Percy was barely holding it together. He kept bobbing his head, and swaying side to side, despite the lack of audible beat.

“I think we need to go after Merry,” Annabeth said. “But it looks like we’re more prone to her the closer we get.”

This part was delicate. The strange energy of the party felt like an effervescence about to be uncorked and Annabeth, Percy, and Nico needed to get their friends away from Merry before—

Merry righted herself, and shouted, “Every day I’m shuffling!”

The music thundered back into the club. If anything, the atmosphere shifted to be more manic. Axel and a few monsters picked up Frank and then Jason to crowd surf them towards the stage, the boys laughing along the way. Everyone jumped in excitement to the beat.

“Peter Johnson!” Merry sang and gave them a wave. “You’rrrrre next!”

Annabeth and Percy exchanged a glance. She knew he hated that name. Percy went to raise his hands again, ready to give them more than a single dousing of water. The liquid on the floor rippled back towards them. Another blast should be enough. Merry couldn’t start this mania up again. And if Percy could capture Axel and Pax with the pool water…

He took a step forward, and Annabeth thought she could see him say, “Sorry guys, but its past demigod curfew.”

Annabeth flinched, furious at herself for assuming all six of their fugitives were in the dance crowd. She’d only seen three.

Merry winked and waved at someone on the second story patio.

Annabeth turned and saw something that made her insides freeze. The music turned into a din as her vision tunneled.

Calex Rupin McKenzie stood on the edge of the patio, his bow drawn. A dazzling arrow of sputtering light was notched on his string. His bow was aimed right at them. Even at this distance, she could swear he mouthed the words, I’m sorry, Percy, before firing.

Instinct took over.

Annabeth shoved Percy out of the way.

The arrow pierced into her back.

Thanks for reading! I’ve been feverish the last few days, and honestly couldn’t remember the name of this book when I went to post this chapter (seems appropriate for the chapter though). So! I hope my edits aren’t too terrible and you’re able to enjoy!

#Heroes of Olympus #HOO #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #PJO #annabeth chase #percy jackson #frank zhang #hazel levesque #jason grace #piper mclean #dancing monsters #Traitors of Olympus #fanfiction #The Attrition of Peace #shirtless boys #Will desperately trying to disco to his hearts content #and Nico having none of that shit

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