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#this was such a fun little piece to work on and I love it very much
atrueneutral · 22 hours
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Imagine if Raphael was on the Material Plane in human form when he happens to cross paths with his little mouse (who he is infatuated with) and then, for one reason or another, someone mistakenly assumes that Tav is his spouse and refers to Tav as such ("Oh, apologizes, sir! I didn't realize your spouse would be joining you!"). How do you think he'd react? Do you think he'd go deer in headlights for a second? Would he just roll with it? Would he clear up the confusion?
Okay, I kiiiiind of tweaked this a smidge…
“That particular piece of armor will run you six-thousand gold.”
Tav balked at the price, and she over-dramatically cleaned out her ear with the tip of her pinky finger. “Sorry - I want to make sure I heard you correctly. You did say six hundred-”
“I said six thousand gold, yes. That’s exactly what I said,'' the dwarven armorsmith staunchly affirmed. His bushy mustache that she originally found fun suddenly became stupid, as did the squat face that hadn’t once smiled since her arrival into his stupid shop. “You can’t pull a fast one on me, lass.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, saer!” She performed offense with a hand to her chest and a face of aghastness. “How dare you accuse me of trying to trick you into giving me a fair deal on a piece of armor!”
“It’ll be the full price or nothing,” he gruffly replied.
The bell posted above the shop door jingled, and Tav could hear bootsteps sauntering up behind her as her brain worked to think of a way to attain the breastplate she wanted. She needed a plan that didn’t involve stealing, murder, or, more importantly, spending six-thousand of her hard-found and hard-earned (and sometimes-but-rarely hard-pilfered) gold...
She wanted this new breastplate, and–
The dwarf looked past her to the only other customer in the shop, and his eyebrows raised. “Lord Raphael! What an honor! How may I be of service?”
Lord Raphael?
Tav frowned and turned to see if it was who she thought (hoped) it was…
Her face lit up. 
It was!
Her solution - her knight in patterned doublet - was here! Her walking, handsome, charming bag of six-thousand gold!
Raphael seemed a tad befuddled by her enthusiastic reaction to his entrance, but that didn’t stop him from smirking at her. “Korrilla said she saw you nearby, and I thought I would see how-”
“-your wife was doing?” Tav finished. She pretended to be deeply touched as she strode up to him. “Oh, husband!”
His nose scrunched with more befuddlement. “Hus-”
Tav placed her hand against the side of his face and silenced him with a kiss. It was their first kiss, but because it needed to be between a husband and wife who were ardently and so-very-passionately in love with one another, Tav’s tongue ended up gliding over his lips in invitation after a handful of seconds. Surprisingly, Raphael accepted with a hum. His tongue entered her mouth and his tongue swirled around hers as he grabbed her hip.
As it turned out, Tav quite liked kissing him. So much so that she almost forgot she was standing in a shop and was well on her way of forgetting that she was only kissing Raphael because she wanted him to be her devilish coin purse.
Tav woozily broke the kiss, feeling weak in the knees.
“This is your wife, Lord Raphael?” the shop-owner asked with astonishment.
Tav, still against Raphael with her hip captured by his hand, stared at her ‘spouse’ with an expression that said: please say yes.
Looking past the lust in his eyes, the cambion stared back at her. His expression said: you’re up to something.
“I’ll pay you back,” Tav sang, grazing her thumb across his cheek with a smile. “After all, I did give you that wonderful… hat. The one that looks so nice and so perfect on your head. The hat that is better than alllllll the other hats in existence…”
“Did you not get something in return, Little Mouse?”
Tav twisted to give the shop-owner a heartened look. “Don’t you adore the pet name?”
The dwarf’s eyes narrowed.
“What is it that you want, wife?” Raphael asked with a tilt of his head. “A new deal will need to be struck.”
There were oftentimes instances where Tav’s mouth ran before logic and reason had the chance to catch up.
This was one such instance.
“I will clean the House, husband,” she replied, giving just as much bite to the fake title as he did to hers. “Naked.”
The offer threw kindling onto the fire in his brown eyes.
“For eight hours!” her logic and reason was quick to add. Tav tossed another glance behind her to the dwarf. “I’m so sorry you have to hear all of this. We like to have fun, my husband and I.”
Raphael’s hand squeezed her hip to draw her attention back to him.
“And what are you asking for in return?”
“Nothing, really…” She personified innocence and combed through his hair as if to put a stray lock back behind his ear. “Just a measly piece of armor… that I won’t be wearing… when I’m naked...”
She could tell Raphael was thinking of her naked.
And she could tell he liked what he was seeing.
“Very well, wife.” The grip at her hip jostled her, and he pulled her closer. His mouth lowered to her ear and his voice lowered in a way that melted her insides. “But you will be coming ‘home’ with me after this purchase, and I expect you naked once we’re in the door.”
She didn’t mean to moan, but it happened at the same moment her brain malfunctioned. Tav forgot she was standing in a shop, and she forgot about the breastplate; she was too busy imagining herself standing in a certain House with Raphael’s eyes on her naked body.
“Ahem,” announced the dwarf, bringing her back to reality. “My lord, with all due respect…”
Raphael breezed around her and landed at the shorter than average counter - leaving Tav gaping like a goldfish in the background.
“My wife requests the ‘measly piece of armor’,” Raphael said sarcastically.
Tav came back to earth. 
“The breastplate,” she corrected, her back to them.
“Yes, the measly breastplate,” Raphael additionally corrected.
“Of course, my lord. The cost comes to four-thousand gold.”
At that, Tav spun around - indignant.
“Hey! You said six-thousand, ‘take it or leave it’!”
The dwarf did not pay her any mind, and neither did Raphael.
“Four-thousand is an agreeable sum… yet I would like to offer you more,” the cambion said smoothly. “How about I pay you one-thousand now, and, say in three day’s time you come to Sharess’ Caress to see if we can’t work out a better deal?”
Tav was livid to see the shop-owner considering the offer.
“I accept, Lord Raphael. One-thousand gold for now.”
Tav returned to being a goldfish - sputtering nonsensically, enraged as Raphael snapped his fingers and handed over a pouch full of coin.
“For your wife,” the dwarf said, handing her new measly breastplate over to her ‘husband’.
“Ha! He’s not my husband!” Tav declared, needing to spread the foolishness she felt onto the shop-owner.
Raphael chuckled as he moseyed over to her with the armor in hand.
Tav glowered at him. “Smooth-talking bastard…”
He stopped before her, snapped again, and the breastplate disappeared. “The breastplate is yours - once the House is clean and tidied, dearest wife.”
He held out his hand to her. 
“I regret giving you your hat,” she said, taking his offered palm.
“We’ll see if you feel the same - after your eight hours.”
Raphael smiled as heat swam in her core, and he teleported them to his House of Hope with a burst.
In the ‘door’ where they stood, his smile became exceedingly devilish.
“Now, my little mouse of a wife… strip.”
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Heaven and Hell, especially winners and sinners, have two very conflicting and entirely wrong views of Lucifer and I really enjoy it
Heaven would be absolutely terrified of him, he has not step foot there since the early days of creation they only have two frames of reference, the top dog of hell that the higher ups are always whispering about rebellion from, and the statues, reverence and stories glorifying the Archangels as impossibly ancient even more powerful, oldest of God’s children, practically deities in their own right etc etc and whatever few pieces including the Morningstar remain
Hell is just like “that’s our little big guy” we have not seen an ounce of respect for him even from the older members who knew him before he fell apart, given what he’s like seeing him in person more probably doesn’t help
But like, sinners see maybe one(1) Goetia in their entire afterlife, they don’t know bible lore and even if they did they don’t know which parts are accurate, Lucifer is just an overlord+ to them
The realm wide argument where both parties are wrong is just so fun to me, it’s purposeful propaganda versus uneducated misinformation
He just wants to make ducks and love his wife, he told God to His face to fuck off, murder and gore still make him a bit queasy, he’s the second oldest thing Ever, he’s just some queer AuDHD kid who grew up in a strict religious household with more kids than it could handle, he painted the dawn’s colours upon the sky and invented the math that makes stars work, his back hurts
Hes the devil from the bible
I lov him so very much
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marchsfreakshow · 1 day
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Gotta Dance! [Peter Maximoff]
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Fluff//drabble
You like to dance to yourself to whatever cassette you had in your walkman, and when a silver haired friend of yours finds you, he decides to just have a bit of fun.
Omg okay I finished 3 xmen movies with Maximoff in em, and gah I understand why people love him now. Heres a fic.
I made it decently time accurate I think so tell me if there are any inaccuracies.
No one's perspective
⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷
Peter was always one to dance if he had a chance, especially to his own music taste. Classical or fancy music was always too slow.
So why on earth was he staring at you through a window? Watching you move around the empty hall, at 1am in the dark. Music in your headphones, blasting at a volume that could've burst anyone's eardrums. Yet, he couldn't tell the song playing in your ears. All he could tell was that he liked the way you moved. Swift movements, like an audience being danced around, walking around your footsteps. You were in your own mind, not particularly caring if anyone else was awake. If someone was, it was probably Charles, attempting some work.
A new pair of footsteps once you were done. Now, catching your breath, you were sat in one of the corners, admiring the hall around you. The rest of your music went on, and you didn't hear the steps until they stopped next to you. A hand pulling your headphones off your head. Your reaction was quick, and you grabbed his wrist tightly. "Hey! Calm, just noticed you were alone. That's all." That voice was so familiar to you. So close to your memory.
You let go of his wrist slowly but kept your eyes on the dark figure standing beside you. "What you are doing up at 1 in the morning then?" You questioned, trying to piece together a puzzle. The answer? Who was it smooth-talking their way into your tired mind? Then a glimmer of the moonlight hit mystery figure's hair. A silver shimmer. Of fucking course. Peter Maximoff. The one person who you particularly did not hope saw you dance just now.
"Fast body fast brain. Can never usually slow down enough to get enough sleep."
An eyebrow raised then crossed arms. "You sure about that Silver? Every time I go to talk to you, you're snoring the whole school down."
"Silver? Very creative."
"Silver Sliver. Like a silver snake who slivers around whenever he gets a chance." A cocky grin as you reminded Peter of why you nicknamed him 'silver sliver' a nickname always on the tip of your tongue. But also now ignoring the sneaky jab about how much he actually slept.
He hummed and nodded towards your own Walkman. "Who are you listening to?"
"This new singer I found called Taco. He's literally called Taco it's so funny." You rambled, rewinding it to the previous song and putting the headphones on him.
Puttin' On The Ritz.
It was smooth, almost buttery to you, but Maximoff simply stood there and nodded along. "Too slow for you Silver?" A chuckle escaped you, leaning your elbow on the radiator.
"Not at all." He grinned. Not that you could see how he grinned. But the way he spoke made you think he was planning something. Hands grabbing yours, pulling you away from your safe little corner. A groan was heard along with a small fit of giggles. What on earth had you dragged yourself into?
In the silence, the faint tune of the song was heard, and he started to dance, holding your hands, and whipping you around. Even in the musk of the night both of you held eye contact with each other, feeling oh so fancy with a song about The Ritz. What an odd feeling to have with your best friend. Sensing comfort when he held you close, exaggerating his steps, exaggerating his facial expressions even though you couldn't see them that well. That damn speedster.
Minutes went by fast. Both of you stood wherever as the new song could faintly be heard. "You're a good dancer." You noted with a smile, still holding hands and reluctant to let go.
"yeah. I think you're pretty good too." Cocky as ever. Feeling like he was on top of the world or something. "So..." Maximoff started, you hummed and tilted your head to the side slightly.
"Can I get you a drink or something?"
"...Sure." a little laugh. "Preferably when it's daytime."
A shared nod before the speedster brought you close again and danced with you.
⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷
Tagging those who might enjoy this: @babygorewhore @silverzoomies @taintandviolent @slutforgarlogan @slvt4jamesmarch @coentinim @fear-is-truth
(other mutuals let me know if you would like a tag 💜)
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kaiserin-erzsebet · 21 hours
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I would love to hear what you have to say about fashion history aestheticizing history! I no longer work in the industry, but my last long-term job was in film/television costuming, specifically 20th century vintage, and we were also involved in the vintage fashion market, and some of her way people really into vintage fashion and how they approach history in a romanticized way based on aesthetics alone is genuinely alarming in a way that is ignorant at best and reactionary at worst - I know everyone rightfully complains about how Gatsby parties miss the point, but I also remember reading about a racist vintage party with a 1930s Shanghai theme where people were encouraged to dress up as white and Japanese colonizers, and recently, I saw something about a Fall of the Weimar Republic party that really made me wonder if anyone involved knew what that entailed beyond glamorous 1930s aesthetics.
Gladly. Though may I start by saying the concept of a "Fall of the Weimar Republic party" makes me as a historian of the German speaking world feel more than a little sick to my stomach.
I think it's very necessary to caveat a bit by saying that I'm not going to say that fashion history is bad. I respect it greatly as a discipline. Nor am I above history bounding. I own corsets (one of them even has steel boning.) I have scrolled wistfully through the American Duchess website before remembering that a graduate student stipend does not allow for period accurate Edwardian leather boots. I'm not going to say that I have the high ground to be the fun police. I don't.
My issue is really the popularity of it over other ways to engage with the past. It feels as though the history content creation sphere that isn't men telling you numbers about world wars is heavily skewed towards discussions of clothing and aesthetics. And most of them are about the upper class and what they would wear at a particular time.
And this wouldn't be an issue if it was an entry point to understanding history more broadly, but at least from my observations it doesn't seem to be. The only piece of historical misinformation I see routinely corrected in comment sections is when someone suggests that women in the past didn't love their corsets. And believe me, that is not the only piece of misinformation out there by a long shot.
My concern is that the aesthetic and vintage clothing has become a surface level way to engage with the past in the same way that military bros do with the specs of tanks. It becomes trivia about what hem lines or silhouettes identify an era. It's not the patterns of consumption or the labor conditions that create those garments.
The fact is that this is more often than not (and I can think of creators who go out of their way to not do this) the fashion of a privileged class that we still have. So, this aesthetic version of the past is the idealized version of the leisure class. So, whose lives are we imagining when the majority of the history content online is about fashion?
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checanty · 1 year
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Eight of Wands (reversal) (created for the Wrymwood Corrupted Tarot) Prints | Twitter | Instagram | Portfolio
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marcmorrigan · 2 months
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they dont know how long it takes / waiting for a love like this
every time we say goodbye / i wish we had one more kiss
ill wait for you, i promise you, i will
OCs: maive (she/her) | rauel (he/him)
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If they didn't want people sleeping during the day they wouldn't have made beds so comfortable
#hi I just woke up and my blankets are so soft and it's the perfect temperature as well and I have so much work that needs to be done#it's a cruel world#I've also lost all concept of time and barely know what day it is but whatever#maybe.... another 20 minutes... what's the worst that could happen#sorry for rambling just woke up with very strong feelings about how comfortable I'm feeling rn#also unrelated to anything I think modern oil paintings are really interesting especially ones that are more realistic and focus on everyda#scenes or still lives#personally I always associate oil painting with very classical art and that comparison brings a whole new layer of appreciation to the#piece like yea you've painted your McDonald's happy meal and hundreds of years ago somebody painted this bowl of fruit#and the medium in which you did it stayed the same the whole time#it's similar to how I feel about (modern) art in museums in that because it's placed in museums it gives it the feeling of an important#art piece and something that you should study intently#love modern art btw don't think it has only value if it's placed in an museum I just think it's interesting how much impact the surrounding#have on what we consider art#which is a fun thing to try out like for example if I say my IKEA chair is art that gives it a different value#making me study it more closely and in the process I'll realise yes it is art to me the way the pieces fit together#how the form was designed etc and it works for everything and makes your day much more fun#ramble over if someone's still reading this here's a fun little guy: 🐕 and sorry for taking up so much space on the dashboard#I'm going to go back to sleep now (bed is still veryyyy comfortable)#delete later
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ectonurites · 8 months
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i simply love. silly little plays...
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rogueshadeaux · 25 days
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Chapter Thirty-Three — Shadow Play
“I see the mark on each affront to God, now. The Mark of the Beast. It burns in their chests like the pits of hell, it’s on their hands anytime they use their powers. They’re all branded. All marked, even me. But I see it now, I see why God has made me what I am.”
7k word count | 2 spacers provided as pause points | TRIGGER WARNINGS: a lot of words, possible claustrophobia [they are UNDERGROUND please remember that!], human experimentation, military mention. ONE imbedded link.
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Our footsteps echoed back a thousand times as we walked along the crescent-shaped dais on the other side of the room, Dad the first to step up onto it. “How far back do you think this goes?” He asked, shining a light down the rounded archway of the hall he was standing in front of. ADVANCED SYSTEMS. The last words of his sentence reverberated in the chasm, Brent joining him to look down it. 
“Hey!” He hollered, his voice overlapping Dad’s as the single syllable hopped around again and again. Brent turned back to face everyone, motioning down the hall. “It’s gotta be long.”
“Has to be some sort of tech lab,” Dad muttered in agreement. 
Brent smirked at the thought. “Think we have enough time to go look? Maybe they have, like, ray guns back there,”
“If we’re talkin’ Vermaak,” Zeke started, looking over my head at Dad, “We should probably start here. Advanced systems has gotta mean power transfer device, right?” 
Dad, though, wasn’t listening, not really; his phone’s flashlight had traveled along with his stare, looking across the dais to the hall on the other side, brow furrowed. His eyes narrowed a bit like he was trying to decipher something in the shadows, and he stayed quiet long enough for me to share a worried glance with Brent. “Dad?” I eventually asked. 
“Hmm?”
“You okay?”
He blinked hard, coming back down to earth from wherever his head had dragged him as he looked over at me, then to the other men. “Y-yeah, sorry,” he stammered, giving the hall at the other end one last look before turning fully to Advanced Systems. “We should see what’s down there.”
 Everything looked insane, so futuristic, and I felt bad for laughing at Bertrand when he said he was amazed by what he saw because I couldn’t help but agree. This place was amazing. 
Dad blew past the unmarked doors in the hall, moving deeper into the hall as he sensed something I only caught onto the further we traveled; there was something at the end of the hall echoing our footsteps back just a little too loudly, the sound coming back like an irregular heartbeat as it tried to match the loud drumming in my ears. Zeke stayed behind Brent and I as Dad held up a hand, light sweeping the rounded ceiling and noting the strange change: “It’s getting taller.”
“The entrance was wider too,” Brent muttered, shining his own against the wall. “Means there’s something at the end, doesn’t it?” 
“Probably.” Dad agreed. 
And they were right; as the ceiling widened like a maw, it spit us out into a rounded room littered in broken glass and severed wire, the walls lined with pods built into the walls. It looked like the shattered glass came from there, rained down by nearly a hundred of something escaping. A raised platform stood in the middle of the room, the perimeter circled by computers while the center held some excavated hole, something ripped up out of the ground and the concrete remains left strewn among the glass. 
And hanging from the ceiling were two cuffs, and a thick dangled wire with its copper ends sticking out. 
“Jesus,” Zeke muttered, shining his light behind him at one of the pods. They also had wires dangling from their enclosure, the ends looking like the pasties of EKG machines and some still holding catheters for veins. Zeke came to the conclusion I did, first to verbalize it: “They look like experiment pods.”
“Think this is where the Vermaak were?” Dad asked, stepping up to the platform. The computers stood on metal podiums with no visible wires, some with broken screens. “Wish Eugene was down here…”
“Could be,” Zeke hummed, messing around with the electrodes. 
Brent followed Dad up onto the platform as I slowly walked around it, shining my light at the base. There was no gap or welding or something that connected the platform to the floor; the ends simply bent out like the platform had been molded from the ground on a pottery wheel, no actual bolts in sight. It was so sleek, so unnaturally smooth and perfect.
There was a flash on the side and I glanced over to see Brent taking pictures of the pit, probably just as much for his own files as Dad’s. ‘Course. But the shine was enough to distract me, and I didn’t know there was something in my path until I could feel it under my ankle boot.
I lifted my foot to peel off the little thing off of it — it looked like a tag? Like the sort of paper tags I’d put on my gymnastics bag before going to a meet. It was in near-perfect condition, having been untouched since it was dropped.
Date and time of capture. Circumstances. Weapons, physical conditions, name rank, all duplicated three times on a page that signified needing to be cut. I flipped the page over, the sections on the back more for the holder than whoever the form was supposed to be attached to, the top titled ENEMY PRISONER OF WAR (EPW) CAPTURE TAG (PART A). “I found something,” I announced. “I think it’s some sorta…some sorta army thing?” 
Dad’s head snapped up. “What?” 
I didn’t bother answering, instead following the rounded edge of the platform again to where he stood and handed him the page. He breezed over the front before flipping it to the warnings on the back, huffing. “‘DA Form 5976,’” he muttered, looking over his shoulder at Zeke. “Direct Action form. The military raided this place."
“Oh yeah, more than likely,” Zeke agreed. “New Marais was under martial law for a bit as they dug around for information on the Beast and the First Sons. Guess they got here first.” 
Dad made some sort of dissatisfied noise in his throat, flashlight going from the form back to the computers — and then to the divot in the floor. “If this is where the Vermaak were…that had to be where the power transfer device was. They came in here with the intention of detaining anyone they found.”
Zeke left where he stood to join Dad on the platform, his light adding to the one shining down into the pit. “Guess now would be a good time to tell you they didn’t get the original device, huh?” 
Dad perked up, looking at Zeke. “Really?”
“Yeah. Bertrand tried shipping out the device, the original one meant for one-on-one transfer, when I was spyin’ on the Militia for Cole. He was trying to get it outta there before Cole got to it. You know the whole story about that gang fight at Fort Philippe?”
“Yeah,”
Zeke nodded once. “It was for that. We captured the place from the Militia, got the device, and Cole used it right there with Kuo. It exploded after.”
“What happened to it after?” I asked. Sure, it exploded, but it had to go somewhere, right?
Zeke shrugged. “It was basically scrap. Even if they got it, they wouldn’t have found anything useful in it.”
Dad’s brow furrowed. “So they never actually got the power transfer device?” He asked Zeke. 
“If it’s what was in this hole? No. Most the military coulda done was download whatever was on the computers.”
“And probably wipe them,” Dad added, more a complaint than an observation. “I’m surprised they didn’t rip these things out of the ground.”
Brent stared thoughtfully at the computer we were standing in front of, finger tracing the pole of steel that was holding it up. “We could.” 
I blinked. “What?”
Brent looked up, glancing between Dad and I. “You can recover deleted stuff from computers, right? Even if you’ve done everything to scrub it off. If we take the computer up to Dr. Sims, maybe he can find something.”
Dad rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the pedestal and the defunct computer on top of it. “We’d have to find its hard drive,” he eventually mumbled before looking back up at Brent. “We can’t just take the monitor, that’s useless.” 
“Wouldn’t the army take the hard drive?” I asked. It seemed illogical that they’d sweep the First Sons base and leave behind something so crucial. 
Brent’s eyes traveled down the metal pole, all the way to the floor and along it. “Maybe they didn’t know where to look,” he muttered, following some line we couldn’t see. His eyes raised to follow the wall and I saw all green was gone, replaced with a silver that reflected the light like…well, steel. He tracked whatever he saw to the wall next to the atrium’s entrance, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Hold this,” Brent asked Dad, not even looking at him as he passed over his phone and causing Dad to almost drop it on the ground. Brent stalked over to the wall and ran his hand along it, looking for some bump in the smooth texture and cursing under his breath when he couldn’t find it. “There’s something…under this…” Brent growled under his breath, sounding sure. “But the wall isn’t steel. I don’t see any…any bolts either.” 
“Think it’s welded straight on?” Zeke asked. 
Brent shrugged. “No idea. Either way it’s way too smooth to get through, unless I…”
Brent stared thoughtfully at the wall for a beat before bringing up his fist and turning it to steel, some extra metal shavings layering against the ridges of his knuckles as he reared his fist back and slammed it against the wall. 
Whatever metal was there instantly gave away, revealing a hidden server farm sitting stagnant behind it, all ziptied servos wires and electrical tape. “Oh, shit,” Zeke muttered as Brent moved to grip the second panel and rip it off, more of the server bank being revealed. He looked over to Dad. “That’s gotta be for every pod in here and these computers."
Dad nodded slightly. “Alright. Okay, Zeke, you’re our best bet for this, so salvage what you think might be useful,” 
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Thirty minutes later, Zeke was zipping up the sling backpack and Dad sighed, turning to look back in the room. He looked absolutely displeased at how much nothing there was in this room. “The ice Conduit, Kuo — you said she was activated down here, too?”
Zeke nodded. “She came outta here cold as a corpse. Said they injected her with something to get her goin’.”
Dad mulled over those words. “We should try Bio-Science, then.” he decided unilaterally, voice making it very clear that this wasn’t up for discussion. “Whatever activated her here had to be made there.”
It was unsettling how loudly our footsteps echoed back at us as we walked out of the hall and back into the atrium, across the floor to the space where the Bio-Science hall stood. Dad was leading the pack, steps sure the entire way to the hallway before he faltered, staring down the hall with reservation. 
“You okay?” Brent asked. 
It took Dad a moment to even register that Brent spoke, glancing back at us. “Yeah, yeah, I just…” he drew off, attention going back to the hall. “You ever get a really weird feeling, like something’s wrong?”
“It’s probably the shitty horror movie lighting,” Zeke joked. 
“Not like that,” he chastised. “I mean, there’s just…there’s something wrong here. In this hall. I don’t know what it is or…”
He drew off, growling under his breath as he failed to translate just how wrong it felt to him. I could sort of relate; I’d get a bad feeling in situations that did turn out to be bad, and there was whatever that gut feeling was when the ice soldiers appeared on the Sound. Maybe Dad was getting that weird sixth sense right now too? “Do you want to leave?” I asked. 
“No,” Dad answered almost immediately. He flexed his shoulders, and that unsureness left him. “Come on,” He decided, “Let’s go see what we can find.”
Our footsteps rang out sharply like slamming gavels as we walked into the wing. God, how huge was this place? The hallway seemed to go on forever, large spaces in-between the labeled and rounded doors. And those labels didn't exactly help. Once we passed the basic ones that said things like 'Laboratory Supplies' or 'Restroom', the placards began to list off actual project names: Project Emerald, Project Mirage, Project Fracture.
I wasn't feeling very hopeful about much, especially when Dad just blew past the doors to keep walking down the hall. “There's...a lot of rooms to go through,” I mumbled, shining my phone light at another door that said 'Project Helix'.
“I know,” Dad replied. “Try to remember all the names. Let's get to the end of the hall, see if there's anything there,”
The end of the hall came swiftly after that conversation, the placard reading 'Project Metamorphosis'. The door…it was scratched to hell and back, chipped away like someone took an axe to its front and failed to take it down. Dad’s hand traced the edge of the door, that pensive look still on his face. He stayed unspeaking for so long that I finally cracked, saying, “Dad? Are you okay?” 
Dad nodded. “This is it,” he said with so much assurance. His phone light traveled around, inspecting the weirdly shaped door. 
“You sure?” Zeke asked. 
Dad nodded slowly. “Yeah, I…” his brows came together, like he was confused by his own knowledge. “I’m sure. Let’s go.”
“Looks like someone else tried getting in, too,” Brent pointed out. “Think the military tried taking down the door with no luck?”
No one answered. If that was true, it meant we probably wouldn’t have a chance to get in, either. 
Dad stepped up to the door and tried opening it. Tried. He pushed against the door, he fit his hands in the linear grooves to try and pull. Brent put his hand against the door only to flinch away at the attempt to drain it, and I crouched, running my hand along where the door met the floor — or, more accurately, where the recess was. “It lowers,” I said, looking up at them two. “Goes down, like a car window,” 
“Without electricity, it’s basically useless,” Zeke said as Dad got to my level, looking at the recess. “Delsin, I know you’re intent on this, but it doesn’t look like we can get in—”
“No.” Dad snapped a bit. “This…there’s something in this room. I need to see it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before turning his head to look at Brent. "Well, any advice from the architect?"
Brent huffed, humored at the recognition but unable to answer. “Couldn't tell you. Haven't really looked into how to tear down buildings, yet. I don’t even know what kind of metal this is.” He hit the metal with his knuckle, the metallic ping that reverberated back high in pitch. 
Zeke’s eyes narrowed at the sound, and before long he was digging in his pockets for something, pulling out his keys. He held a little flashlight-shaped thing on it up to the door, sliding it around its face. “It’s not magnetic,” he declared, shoving his keys — with the magnet on them, apparently — back into his pocket. 
“So then, what’s that mean?” Dad asked. 
Brent was the one to speak next. “Means it’s probably titanium,” he said, pushing his own hand against the door. “Which means it’s strong.” 
“So we’re not gonna be able to get in?” I asked, standing. 
Dad’s face darkened. “No. We’re getting in.” He said, determined. “How do you break titanium?” 
“You don’t,” Brent said, almost sounding offended at the idea. “Do you know how strong it is?” 
“There’s…” I drew off, unsure how to ask what I wanted to. “There’s rankings or classes or something for metal strength, right? Are there any stronger metals?” 
“Steel,” Zeke hummed, looking over at Brent. 
Brent shook his head. “I don’t know if it’d be enough,” he admitted. 
“It's worth a shot,” Dad said, standing straight. “We throw enough steel at this door and it’s bound to break,” 
“Yeah, and it could also take down the entire hall.” Brent stressed. “We have no idea what’s load-bearing in here and what’s not. Most doors are connected to one—” 
“The door sinks into the ground,” I interrupted. Not only that, but this one was round. Didn't load bearing walls have to be vertical? “What’s the likelihood of it being one if it does that?”
Brent’s words faltered as he looked down at the rubber flaps on the door’s edge. “I…” he drew off, thinking hard. “Less…less likely, but still—”
Dad seemed to think that was enough. “Then we just aim for the door,” he decided. “And try not to bring anything else down.” 
Brent’s eyebrow cocked. “‘We?’” 
Dad nodded, saying, “We should use our powers together. Steel and concrete.”
“What about Jean?” 
Dad’s eyes broke from Brent’s to glance my way, and he dedicated all of seven milliseconds to the thought before saying, “Jean, you and Zeke move back, be ready to help if something happens.”
I tried not to let the request get to me. My water probably couldn’t help here, anyways. 
Dad and Brent passed me their phones and Zeke pulled me a good eight feet back as they both positioned themselves in front of the door, Dad hovering over Brent’s shoulder. I hadn’t realized they were nearly the same height before now. “You prep, I’ll add, we both throw. Okay?” He asked Brent, who nodded. 
The steel Brent produced caught the light from the phones, little beams bouncing around and the very large and very threatening looking beams Brent was making grew over his shoulder like some magical spear being materialized from thin air. I guess, in a way, it was. But what was different this time was Dad putting his concrete-laden hand through the shrapnel cloud to reach for the bars and touch them, the black rock on his arms sloughing off and onto the steel to make a jagged battering ram. 
“Now!” Dad yelled, moving to cross his arms over his face. Brent’s arms flinched as Dad threw his out and the battering ram went flying, the sound it made as it slammed into the titanium door something unpleasant I could feel in my bones as it screeched in protest, making me cringe so hard I accidentally bit my cheek. The door jolted hard, but stayed standing. 
“Again!” Dad yelled over the echoes of the grinding metal. Brent built up another large spear, Dad touching it with his gravely grace before they both threw it at the door a second time. This impact came with sparks and a divot in its center that exposed a way darker metal beyond the painted surface, a bullet hole in the kevlar the First Sons gave the door. “Come on, almost,” Dad encouraged. 
They ran the same race, Brent putting his entire upper body into this next throw, and the way the entire hall shook as the battering ram made impact with the door frightened me so badly that my water was reacting before I even saw the shrapnel, phones falling to the ground to instead let my hands shoot out to weave a wall of water between them and the wall they took down. The remains of the bent circular door shot back, taking out multiple desks in the room behind it and careening into a wall as my water caught whatever rubble it tried to throw back at the two men. The shaking stopped and the horrible sounds died off soon after, and within a beat, everyone breathed. 
And then immediately groaned as the broken door slowly fell forward, revealing the hallway it couldn’t fit through. “God, it's neverendin', isn't it?” Zeke muttered, glancing at me. All I could do was sigh in return.
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I let my water fall and we all entered the lab dedicated to whatever Project Metamorphosis was, shining our flashlights around the room. God, even the furniture was white, pure metal desks laid in rows in the center — well, minus the ones Brent and Dad sent flying — with standing laboratory tables lining the walls, the expo marker on the white boards posted on the wall above them faded out but still legible.
Zeke beelined it towards some leftover lab equipment while Dad moved to shift through the contents of the first desk. Brent and I glanced at each other and simultaneously shrugged, moving to the edge of the room and exploring on our own.
With no luck at my station, I moved back towards Brent, him not even looking up as I moved. “This is insane,” Brent murmured, looking down at some files. “It looks like they were trying to do something with inactivated Conduits,”
“What, like what the DUP did?” I asked, looking around his shoulder at the document. Or, trying to — the font was so small that it looked like gibberish to me.
Brent shook his head. “No, different than that. Not sure how, though...” His flashlight left the laboratory counter to shine on the board screwed to the wall — which we only then realized wasn't a board at all, but one of those x-ray lightboxes. There were still some x-rays attached to it, but Brent's phone light wasn't hitting the picture right to make it show.
“Here, hold this,” he said, passing me his phone so quickly that I almost dropped it on the ground. After throwing a quick glare my way, Brent leaned forward, ripping the x-ray from off of the board and holding it in his hands, elevated a bit. “Okay, shine the flashlight under it,” he requested.
I did — and immediately cringed after. God...what happened to this person? Their jaw simply wasn’t there anymore, shatterings of bone protruding out of the open orifice in ribbons. I've seen brain x-rays before in health class, and while you're not supposed to see every nook and cranny, it's also not supposed to be foggy white, almost like it was riddled with infection or melted to mush. “Jeez,” I murmured, shining the light farther down the x-ray. It stopped just after the clavicle — not that that was one anymore, either. It was riddled with extra growth, as if wrapped up in solid tumors. “What the hell happened to them?”
Brent opened his mouth to retort when Dad, in the center of the room, called out, “Found some stuff on the Ray Sphere!” looking up at Zeke.
Zeke turned, in the midst of wrapping a stoppered glass vial with his sock while handlessly shoving his foot back into the tennis shoe. “What's it say?” He asked, taking off the sling bag so he could store the vial away.
“A lot of big words I don't know,” Dad started, holding up the rather thick file as Zeke and Brent's light landed on Dad's form, illuminating his tall shadow against the wall. “But it has a beginning note — apparently, the Ray Sphere can corrupt a person's powers?”
Zeke's head tilted to the side as he slipped the sling bag back on, looking at Dad curiously. ""Corrupt?'” he repeated. “Corrupt how?”
Dad looked back down at the file, phone light traveling across it in tandem with his eyes. “Says it makes a person's power stronger, but more volatile. Harder to control.” He looked up at Zeke. “Were Cole's power like that?”
Zeke shook his head, almost seeming offended at the accusation. “No, he was in control of what he could do.”
“And his power didn't affect his daily life? He wasn't having issues with—” Dad looked down at the file in his hands, “—his 'enhanced capabilities exceeding the threshold of practical applicability in routine activities, leading to the unintended manifestation of his powers in a potentially disruptive or uncontrolled manner?'”
“What does that even mean?” Brent scoffed.
Zeke's eyes, though, went wide. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Then repeated it, louder. “Son of a bitch!” With a foot stomp, like he just made the world's biggest breakthrough.
Dad glanced back up, eyebrow quirking. “So is...that a yes?”
Zeke nodded fervently. “Cole couldn't do anything with electronics 'cause his power would short circuit the wires. He couldn't sit in a car or hold a gun 'cause he'd make 'em explode. You're telling me that's why he couldn't do that? The Ray Sphere corrupted him?”
Dad looked back down at the document. “More like made him too powerful for his own good. Which I mean, did help with the Beast, but he would have had a horrible time trying to live in the Age of Technology.”
Zeke nodded. “Yeah, you've got that right. Had to create a double insulated phone pouch just so he could call me whenever we were off doing stuff,”
“These powers,” I interjected. “The, uh, corruption. Would it be enough to turn someone into a monster?”
Dad looked over at me like I was insane — but Zeke just nodded sagely. “Guess that would make sense. Bertrand, his power was...well, it was somethin'. He could turn himself and other people into these things, buncha fucked up looking creatures.”
Brent held up the x-ray, and we both immediately shined our phone's flashlight behind it to brighten up the image of the jawless person. “Like this?” Brent and I asked in unison.
“Jesus Christ,” Dad muttered, looking at the image as Zeke nodded.
“Exactly like that. Well, one of them, at least.” He replied.
Dad looked equal parts confused and bewildered. “So there was a Conduit that could turn just anyone into monsters?” He asked Zeke.
Brent let the x-ray fall, turning back to the table. “Not just anyone,” he said, grabbing his own stack of documents. “People with inactivated Conduit genes,”
“That's somehow worse,” Dad's murmur echoed easily to us. He raised his voice. “But if someone's able to manipulate a Conduit like that, we need those notes. Anything that can affect their powers is close enough to what's going on with your sister.”
We nodded, Zeke motioning for us all to come here as he took the sling bag off once again for us all to put our found documents in. As I worked on rolling up the x-ray and slipping my hair tie around it so it would fit easily, Brent muttered, “You don't think you're gonna turn into one of those, right?”
I could feel the blood leave my face as I thought of the possibility. “Oh God, I hope not?” I said. “I mean, the notes said it was nearly instantaneous, right?”
He nodded. “They did, they did. Just wondering, 'cause it seems like it would be a great cosmetic improvement for you,”
My smack against his head rang out loudly through the room and into the adjacent hallway, his yelp bouncing around just as vibrantly. Asshole. 
As Dad tried to find a way to fit the large x-ray into Zeke's bag, I watched Brent turn, shining his flashlight across the room and to the gap in the wall where the vast hallway stood. “What do you think is back there?” He asked me.
“I don't know,” I shrugged. “Probably more human rights violations.”
“Was there anything else over by that x-ray viewing box?” Dad asked us. We both sorta shrugged, giving him some noncommittal sounds that had him huffing hard. “Alright, I'll go double check. Do me a favor? Go check out the desk we flung next to the hall.”
We nodded, separating from the group as Zeke moved to fiddle with the other desk that was thrown to the side when Brent and Dad broke in. Brent put the flashlight on me like a spotlight as I tried to shift through the contents of the desk despite the weird angle it was at, pulling out nothing but useless to-do notes and nicotine gum foils.
“Anything good?” Brent asked me.
I scoffed, “Unless you wanna count old McDonald's receipts as loot, then no,”
I sat back on my heels and looked up just in time to see Zeke straighten, holding his hand up triumphantly like he had found gold — but whatever was in his hands was too small to see. “Got something!” He declared. “Some sorta recording chip.“
Dad turned to look over his shoulder. “Any idea what's on it?” He asked.
“Not yet,” Zeke hummed. He grabbed at a little pouch on the strap of his sling bag and there was a quick snap as he unbuttoned something. “But luckily, I brought Cole's old phone. I had tinkered with it a bit way back when — gave it a chip reader.”
Dad's eyebrow raised, and he 100% looked like he was not buying whatever Zeke was saying. “And you're sure a 25 year old piece of technology will work?”
Zeke snorted. “I modified a Nokia. I'll die before this thing does.”
Dad began walking over to Zeke as he fiddled with the old phone and the chip reader. The beam of light above me slowly started to move, and I glanced up to see Brent's attention — and inadvertently his phone — begin pointing towards the hallway again. “C'mon,” he finally said as I rose to my feet. “Let's go check out what's back there,”
Brent was already walking away by the time I called out to Dad to tell him what we were doing. “Okay, just shout if you find something, alright?” he requested as I jogged to catch up to Brent.
The hall was squared, which was different from the others — it felt like a normal hallway. Brent flashed the light everywhere; the high ceiling, the floor, where they met. He had this studious look on his face that left me wondering if he was taking notes for his own build down the line, or if he was critiquing the place and thinking of how he could have done it better. “Wonder if every other room is this big,” he hummed, light jolting to shine behind us. I couldn't blame him; I wasn't really a fan of treading through the dark underground, either. It felt like there was always something breathing over my shoulder. This entire place was freaky enough even without the fact that it was entirely powered down.
“Well, it's going to be a very long night if they all are,” I murmured back.
We turned forward simultaneously, just in time to see the light of the phone catch in the reflective surface of a pane of glass. It was as long as Brent was tall, following the curve of the wall in a slope. “What the hell...” Brent muttered.
The closer we got, the more I realized it wasn't a window, but a door, some large and super thick plexiglass thing that had five separate locking mechanisms on the outside. None of them had a keyhole though. There was a screen the size of a small television on the side, and a laminated piece of paper above it haphazardly taped to the wall like it was an afterthought, the 'TEST SUBJECT 0409' in giant bold.
There was nothing else about the corpse in the viewing room. No name, no demographics, no gender. Just a set of numbers the First Sons only bothered to throw on the wall after the fact. Barely cared about, barely human.
“What the fuck…” Brent drew off as he looked into the chamber. I couldn’t say much, I was too shocked. 
The glass was iced at the edges, patterned spreads of white frost that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. There wasn’t a bed in the room, no sink or anything. There was barely something that constituted a toilet — but it was all frosted over. The corpse in the corner of the small observation room was curled in on herself, arms wrapped around her knees as if she was trying to keep every little bit of warmth she had left contained to her core until the very end. She was perfectly preserved. That’s what was worse; I could see her frosted eyebrows still screwed close together, how she seemed to have froze in the middle of chattering her teeth. The folds of the thin scrubs she was in were stiff with icicles, her lips softly blue. 
“They froze her?” I whispered, the reminder of that feeling making shivers run down my spine.
Brent moved his phone’s flashlight around, up and down, trying to get a good look inside the chamber. “Look, see that?” he asked, pointing to the corner of the room. I looked up where he was pointing; it was one of those old flip signs, the kind they’d have at super old airports that would flip to say if a place was boarding or whatever. The white on it was damaged from the frost, but the dark black lettering showed through with ease; PRESERVATION ENGAGED.
“Do you think it was something to keep her body…” I drew off, unsure of how to even say what was going on, “...mummified?” 
Brent flashed his light around the room once more before letting it settle on the 5 locks. “That, or keep her from squealing.” he sighed hard, turning. “C’mon, let’s look at the others.”
I threw one last look at 0409 before letting my eyes fall to my feet, following Brent. 
There was a cshchsk that echoed into the hallway from the main room of the lab, like a walkie talkie was receiving interference, and then that same sickeningly sweet voice from the other dead drops came back, the voice of the Bertrand guy. 
“At first, I questioned His choices,” Bertrand’s voice echoed down the hall, the gross drawl of his accent making another shiver go down my spine after the one wracked up it by the cold hallway. There was another testing room, this time a man in it, hands frozen to the wall as he died trying to claw through the frost. I couldn’t help but hold my arms close to my core and Brent noticed, dragging me along. “Why would God turn me into such a monster when all I’ve done is follow His word? I never strayed far from His grace,”
Brent scoffed. “Isn’t this the same dickwad that was a fascist?”
I shook my head in disbelief at this asshole’s words, looking into the next testing chamber — and pausing when I did. In this chamber, there was definitely…someone, but I couldn’t see them well. Not when they were buried under the frost like that. But there was something off about the lump in the frost that I couldn’t put my finger on, like they were misshapen in a way. 
I mean, of course, that could have been a side effect of being frozen alive. 
“I prayed for days after I used the Ray Sphere to ask God why. Why turn me into this beast, this monster?” He asked no one. I’m pretty sure it was just to hear himself talk. “Why would He damn one of His most loyal soldiers to be a demon for the rest of his life? But I don’t believe that’s it anymore, no. I think I finally see what He has planned for me.”
Brent stopped dead in his tracks, making me run into his side. “Wh–, dude!” I snipped, rubbing where the bridge of my nose hit his hard bicep and blinking back the tears from the impact. 
Brent didn’t react. He didn’t even really care. He was too busy staring wide eyed into the next testing chamber, face a bit paled even in the dim light of my phone’s flashlight. I followed his stare, my own eyes widening as I looked at what was in the room. 
There was a human…I think. It was definitely the remains of one, at least. Their skin was leathery, grayed out in the way you only expected corpses to be. But the color darkened to match the texture the further it crawled down their arms, the skin growing and hardening to become these scythes of a pollex crab claw. It looked shelled, too, just like a crab’s would be. There was still a face to the person, still a mostly human body…but those claws…
“I understand what the auras I see are now. Marks of the Beast, of the devil’s influence. I’m branded with my own, and that’s why the Lord has made me what I am. I must atone for my sins.” Bertrand’s voice said from the other room as both Brent and I looked at each other and then rushed to look in the next cell. This one had the same claws and grayed skin, but there was more. Jagged frills of shell climbed up their — its — arms, clubbed claws where its feet used to be. It laid curled, back to us, so I couldn’t see its face — but I could see how its back seemed larger than humanly possible, like there was an extra set of muscles along its spine. 
“What the fuck?” Brent murmured again, more aghast this time. 
“I see the mark on each affront to God, now. The Mark of the Beast. It burns in their chests like the pits of hell, it’s on their hands anytime they use their powers. They’re all branded. All marked, even me. But I see it now, I see why God has made me what I am.”
 I followed Brent as he walked briskly down the hall, glancing into each chamber before quickly moving on. God, they were all the same; the huge claws long enough for them to use as crutches, the bent backs. At some point we got to see the horrors of that x-ray in all their fucked up glory; black bled through their abdomen and up their spines like something was poisoning them from the inside, their jaw shattered by the force of those thick appendages that jutted out of their jaws like tentacles. I guess the only solace I could cling on to when looking at these monstrosities is that they looked tranquil, curled up in the frost. Hopefully the people they once were passed peacefully. 
“He is giving me a chance to repent. To be more. His son was betrayed by one of his own, yet through that betrayal, we received salvation for our sins. That sacrifice is what He is expecting of me now.” Bertrand said, sounding so sure of himself. “I’m to be His sword and His might. I’m to cure the world of these demons by turning them into such and exposing them to the world.”
Brent’s steps slowed as the phone’s flashlight moved to face forward again and started traveling up, higher and higher as it caught the red and black exoskeleton of whatever that was in front of us. The chamber was at the end of the hallway and double the size of the others with the little crab-guys — but it needed to be to hold that creature. It was doubled over, reinforced arms being used as forelegs as it glared forward, three eyes on each side of its elongated head. It looked like something out of a horror movie, especially with its mouth open like a lotus, three long pincers coming together over a row of razor-sharp teeth. You could barely see the skin of the human it used to be under the exoskeleton of its hard shell, just as grayed and veined as the other crab-guys only an evolved form. Was this the end stage? Two segment claws as long as my arm and knees facing the wrong way?
“I’m meant to be the cure to the monster Kessler saw in his visions, the Beast that will burn the world to the ground,” Bertrand affirmed to himself. “I’ve done it, and watched them be hunted like the vermin they are. I’ve built the Militia to help track them down. These Conduits are not human, and they won’t be when I’m done with them. We are in the end times, and I am one of the disciples God intends to help salvage the world.”
Brent and I stepped closer to the frosted glass, standing on either side to get a look at just how tall, how wide this thing was. It had blades that ran up its elbows like knives, one elbow nudge away from spearing through someone. “Let them devour New Marais like a swarm of locusts. Let them see the monsters that are hiding among the meek, and let me be their savior. Let me lead them away.”
As I was looking at the jaw ripped open with tendrils of tissue holding the bones together, a volt of electricity shot up my spine when I realized the thing was staring back at me, blinking ice off of its translucent eyelid. 
“Let them ravage the world and get rid of the sinners, and may God help those that fight against them.”
“Jean,” Brent warned when he saw the head of the creature, the ‘Ravager,’ snap sideways to look at him.
We both took a half step back as the Ravager’s elbows flexed and it stood straighter, looking down at us from behind the glass. The three pincers on its mouth flexed open so it could give off a garbled scream that even the thick glass couldn’t keep silent, making me flinch and move to cover my ears. Its limbs moved lazily as it awoke from whatever hibernation the frost had it in before its super thick and long claws slammed into the concrete ground, shattering it with each rake. 
It was trying to dig its way out. 
“Run,” Brent said as Dad’s voice yelled something from the lab. “Go, run!”
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rubberbandballqueen · 8 months
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hmm i have like, 500-600 taiwan dollars leftover in a tin from the last time i visited relatives... i wonder what would happen if i just handed it to my little cousins like. "yep. here is gift. have fun."
#i heard them trying to sound out 'eidelweiss' on the piano so i've also been thinking of giving them this little music box i bought#a while back that plays eidelweiss. put it in little box with money and letter that is like. 'hello. cousin cares about you.'#'but cousin is awkward and has bad hearing and speaking skills. anyway here's some money and a music box for you.'#i checked n it's like the equivalent of almost 20 usd so like. that's an appropriate gift for nine-year-olds i think#today at work i was cutting glow sticks in half for our craft and i was not wearing any gloves so i got minor chemical burns <3#like part of the skin on my thumb n pointer finger got bleached so i went around n showed alllll the kids#like. 'hey. check out my chemical burn. this is why we wouldn't let you guys cut open the glow sticks yourselves.'#'because it will do This to you if you touch them too long. this is why we had you wash your hands when you finished.'#n some of them were like 'just wash it off' n i was like. 'it is a chemical burn. it is on my skin.'#at least i Think it was a chemical burn but i mean it was very minor (makes sense bc it's just glow sticks) so the skin's flaked off by now#similar happens when i touch my hair bleach w/o gloves so i'm Pretty Sure it was chemical burns#we had a table of kids who were speaking cn to each other so at some point i pieced together they didn't seem to pay attn. bc low en skills#anyway i broke my own rule abt no phones at work to look up 'chemical burns' in cn for them bc although they know i speak Some cn#(by giving them minor instructions for the glow stick craft) i was like. 'chemical burns... how to say....'#apparently they are mostly from taiwan which is fun i love it when i Don't receive microaggressions for writing in traditional c':#today's my only camp shift for the week tho... one of my coworkers died last week so i told my boss i could pick up his camp shifts#if no one else had but apparently i'd go over hours this week... feelsbad man. it's summer + we're always understaffed#so there's gonna be a point when the front desk worker is gonna be covering the camps for a little bit which is. i feel bad ahaha#the worm speaks
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skribignominious · 4 months
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Yesterday's draw!
I actually really like how this one came out, it's a massive improvement from some slightly older figure draws.. Might post my first gestures later for the hell of it. This is me drawing with an old soft pastel and my red pen.
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mooodyblue · 1 year
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y'all i have to say thank you for always requesting all these age regression pieces like i have genuinely never felt so comfortable actually writing abt this :( i can't tell y'all how much it's been helping me cope !! seriously!!!
like i've been making pinterest boards for these fics and it's been such a great stress reliever. i appreciate all of y'all so much for reading and always enjoying them 🫶🏼
that being said im close hitting 500 followers...... perhaps a celebration is in the works? 🤨 if i can come up with something
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inkskinned · 6 months
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the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.
three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.
two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.
their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.
one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.
i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.
i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.
and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?
you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.
a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.
someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.
#writeblr#warm up#this is longer than i wanted i really considered removing that part about myself and what i went thru#but i think it really fucking bothers me that EVERY time i talk about being an artist#ppl assume i just like. had the skill and ability to drop everything and pay for grad school.#like sir i grew up poor. my house wasn't a safe space. i gave up a FREE RIDE TO LAW SCHOOL. for THIS. bc i chose it.#was it fucking hard? was i choosing the hard thing?? yes.#but we need to stop seeing artists as lazy layabouts that can ''afford'' to just ''sit around and create''#when MANY - if not MOST - of us are NOT like that. we have to work our fucking ASSES off. hard work. long and hard work#part of valuing artists is recognizing the amount we sacrifice to make our art. bc it doesn't just#like HAPPEN to us. also btw it rarely has anything to do with true talent.#speaking as someone with a chronic condition i hate when ppl are like u have it easy. like actively as i'm writing this my hands r#ACTIVELY hurting me. i haven't been posting bc my left hand was curled in a claw for the last week#this isn't fucking luck. after a certain point it's not even TALENT. it's dedication & sacrifice.#''u get to flounce around and do nothing with ur life'' is a narrative that is a direct result of capitalism#imagine if we said that about literally any other profession.#''oh so u give up 10 yrs of ur life to be a doctor? u sacrifice having a social life and u get SUPER in debt?#u need to work countless hours and it will often be thankless? well i wish i was that lucky''#we should be applying that logic to landlords ONLY#''oh ur mom and dad gave u the money to buy a house? and all u did was paint it white and rent it? huh.''
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cosmosis · 10 months
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based on this image from @fr3akingtf0utrn
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MOVED TO @seratopia
miguel o’hara x reader (fluff) - office life
how miguel o’hara slowly makes you fall for him check out my miguel o’hara masterlist here!
Miguel O’Hara doesn’t fall in love with just anyone.
But... every time he sees you around the office, his hands almost inch towards you like a moth would a light. Something ignites in him that he can’t explain, but he can’t help but want so much more of you. 
He likes to give you bagels and coffee during your breaks. (haha) Your work almost seems to magically disappear, and you’re a lot of the time left to finish up the easy stuff. Somehow, he’s even managed to sit with you for lunch, the rest of the spider-people in the cafeteria staring at the two of you while you eat. 
The entire building, all of the spider-people seem to know the happenings between you and Miguel, and they love it. It’s become somewhat a staple gossip within the workplace.  
Anyone bold enough would pass by Miguel in the hallways and say, “We’re rootin for you, boss!” In which Miguel wouldn’t know how to feel, whether it’d be angry or happy. 
As of now, the two of you have been flirting around, evidently more than just coworkers. He’s yours, and you are his. To you, though, he’s the absolute sweetest. He takes work off your plate, he’s kind, and he adores you. 
You’ve noticed Miguel getting a bit touchy lately, which you aren’t necessarily complaining about. Whether it’d be on your arm, a gentle hand on your neck to guide you through a crowd, or just being generally close to you, Miguel has been making his advances on you after Lyla spilled how it should be fine to do. 
His touch makes you shiver a little; he’s extra warm and so very gentle. You almost always lean into his touch, and Miguel loves it too, he just doesn’t admit it upfront. 
“You did great today, Miguel.“ You say. 
Both you and Miguel just headed back to Nueva York from a mission, taking out another stray anomaly that wouldn’t come without a fight.
 Miguel’s stomach flutters a little. Rarely, he ever gets praised by anyone. He’s the boss, the CEO; most of the time, he feels like it’s expected of him to do the best job. But, praise tastes much more sweeter when it comes from you. 
“You did well yourself, sweetie.“
Miguel’s mask dissolves away, leaving behind his pretty face. You don’t think you’d ever get tired of it. He gives you this look of adoration, one that the rest of the office has never, ever seen in person. 
You’re in Miguel’s office, well, more like your shared office. Miguel insisted that you’d move into his office, claiming, “I don’t want to go through the entire building just to find you for something.” which is code for, “I can’t live a day without being near you.” 
So now, you have your own desk and work area. You’re both alone, no one to bother, (except maybe Lyla, but she knows better.)
You’re at your desk, and Miguel steps up behind you. His big hand slithers to your lower back, running his fingers against the curve of your spine. He’s warm, you can still feel the heat radiating off of him from the previous mission. 
You feel him lean in, discreetly nosing his face into the top of your head. You lean in back, bumping your upper back into his chest. 
“Is this okay?“ Miguel mumbles, serious heat trailing up to his neck and ears. 
You nod. “Yes.”
And it was sealed from there. 
Now, Miguel rubs your back too often. His hand fits into place with your back like a puzzle piece, Miguel always finding some kind of way to lay his hand where it belongs. You love it. 
In the office? Yes.
During lunch? Yes.
Even on missions, he pulls you by your lower back to usher you away from a hit, and you both play around with that. He’s all fun and games when on missions, flirting, teasing, kissing. 
Now, it almost feels wrong when he isn’t touching you. 
. . .
“Hey, girl, look at this!“ 
Lyla pops in, automatically pulling up an internet article on your desk screen. It’s a web article; “The Science Behind Courtship in Male Spiders”
“Lyla, what does this have to do with anything?“ You ask.
Instead, she just scrolls into the article, highlighting a quote; male spiders give “back rubs” to seduce their mates. 
You raise your eyebrow. 
“You wanna know why Miguel’s been rubbing you so much? It’s cause of that!“ Lyla exclaims, as if she’s discovered this new scientific theory. 
“I guess you’re kinda right on that.“ You mutter. But, the more you start to think about it, the more it makes sense.  
Now every time Miguel palms your back, you think about the article. 
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© 𝒄𝒐𝒔𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒔.
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cutielando · 18 days
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sleepy ~ lando norris
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Summary: Lando’s girlfriend has become notorious around the paddock for falling asleep anywhere.
Words: 1.0k+
Other works: my masterlist
♡♡♡♡♡
You had a very good relationship with your sleep schedule. 
That was primarily due to the fact that with Lando’s schedule, having to fly all around the world almost every week, the constant time zone changes. You had to get some sleep any free chance you would get, no matter where.
Which is something Lando, his team and the fans around the world have grown to love. Every time the fans would see you in the paddock, they knew that pictures of you sleeping in a clearly uncomfortable position somewhere in the McLaren garage would surf the internet.
It was everyone’s favorite moment from the whole weekend.
“Y/N, it’s nice to see you again!” Zak greeted you once you had arrived in the garage with Lando for his home race.
“I couldn’t possibly miss this one” you said, hugging the older man and then stepping back to stand beside Lando again.
“We’re very glad to have you here. How’d you sleep last night?” he jokingly asked, making Lando chuckle from beside you.
It became a cute joke within the team, seeing as you managed to fall asleep every time, no matter how well rested you might be.
“Pretty good, but I can’t guarantee that you won’t find me passed out again” you laughed, knowing that it didn’t really bother anyone truly.
Lando talked for a little bit with Zak before leading you to his driver’s room.
When you opened the door, you noticed a new blanket and pillow that hadn’t been there before, which made you look back at Lando, raising your eyebrow.
“Where did those come from?” you asked as you picked up the blanket, immediately savoring the fluffy feeling against your fingers.
“Figured I would buy you a blanket for when you want to nap God knows where, just to make sure you’re comfy and won’t get cold” he explained, shrugging like it was not a big deal.
You pouted, the small gesture warming your heart.
“That’s so sweet, thank you baby” you put down the blanket and gave Lando a hug, pecking his lips before you let him get ready.
You walked around the garage silently, not wanting to get in anybody’s way. The race was about to begin and there was a lot going around, the place being as noisy as a garage could get before lights out.
And yet still, you find your eyes dropping down, sleep slowly threatening to blindside you and make you fall asleep.
But you had vowed to yourself that you wouldn’t fall asleep here, not at Silverstone.
It would prove to be harder than you had originally thought.
“Hey” Lando found you just moments before he had to get in the car, clutching his helmet in his hands.
“Be safe, okay? Come back to me in one piece and don’t forget to have fun” you said, helping fix the balaclava on his head.
He nodded, puckering his lips for his good luck kiss. Once you gave it to him, he put on his helmet and disappeared in the car, leaving you alone with his engineers.
“Hey Y/N” Jon said as he came to stand beside you, watching Lando now driving away from the garage.
“Hey Jon, how are you?” you tried to pay attention to everything he was telling you, but it was getting harder and harder to concentrate.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” Jon chuckled once he saw how much you were struggling not to pass out.
You nodded. “I did, it’s just something about the atmosphere at the races that lulls me right back to sleep. But I promised myself I wouldn’t fall asleep at this one” you explained, stifling a yawn.
Jon nodded, making small talk for a little longer.
Once the race itself started, you were bundled up in your new blanket from Lando, a pair of McLaren earphones on your ears and sitting beside Cisca, Lando’s mother.
You were trying very hard to follow the race, but the tiredness was creeping in more and more, until you found yourself resting your head against the wall behind you, letting yourself drift to a deep sleep.
When Cisca noticed that you were more quiet than usual, she looked over and saw how peacefully you were sleeping, albeit with your head in a very uncomfortable position.
Smiling fondly to herself, she slowly took your head in her hands and moved you so you were laying with your head in her lap. She absentmindedly weaved her hands through your hair while intently watching the race on the screens.
It wasn’t until the last 3 laps that you woke up, silently kicking yourself for falling asleep.
You looked confusedly around you, noticing Cisca above you smiling.
“Good morning, sunshine. Just in time for the last laps of the race” she explained, helping you settle back into a sitting position.
“I was out for that long?” you moaned, cursing to yourself that you missed the entire race because you were sleeping.
“Don’t beat yourself up dear, the important thing is that you’re here with us” she comforted you, rubbing your arm while averting her attention back to the screen.
You watched the screen intently, cheering and screaming once Lando had crossed the checkered flag in P2.
Both Cisca and Adam gave you tight hugs, congratulating the entire team alongside you.
You walked out of the garage with the two of them, your blanket still wrapped tightly around you as you walked towards the podium, your hands linked with Lando’s mother.
Lando parked his car in front of the number 2 sign, jumping out of the car and running over to where you were waiting for him by the barriers.
“I’m so proud of you!” you squealed as soon as he was within arms length, hugging him close.
“Did you sleep through the race?” he asked as he pulled up his visor, his eyes twinkling.
You smiled sheepishly, making him laugh loudly inside of his helmet.
“My sleepy girl” he mumbled, giving you a squeeze before moving on to hug his parents.
The next day after the race, photos of you sleeping in Cisca’s lap circulated on the internet, making you and your boyfriend laugh. 
Laugh because your habit had turned your relationship into a three-person relationship.
You, Lando and your sleep.
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marcmorrigan · 11 months
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i want to keep drawing... but my tablet pen is dead and i havent slept yet... so i SHOULD take a break and get in bed probably... but i WANT to keep working on that ryou and marik piece... waaaAAAAAAHHH. is how i feel about the situation
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