#anyway- the reference was referencing and it felt magic

[polar-equinoxx]

PINING‼️‼️

[cuppajj]

PLEASE tell me you're as disappointed as I am that there are ZERO Greek mythology references in this episode. All we got was Pavlova being Eros, which was visible from a mile away (and Eternal Sugar sends him to do a lot of her dirty work, which is what Aphrodite often did to Eros, so that's cool ig). What else is there? The ionic columns? Sugar's and the NPC's Hellenistic attire? That's all they gave us? Her area of Beast-Yeast is more like Alice in Wonderland than it is Mount Olympus. Would it have killed them to give us sugar satyrs? Sugar nymphs? Taffy harpies? A jello cyclops? Apparently it would, so they gave us these silly little ice cream doodad looking guys and these dumb candy caterpillars and a fucking sugar rainbow merry-go-round. Not even the upcoming Beast raid boss looks Greek, it's just a weird heart thing! Why not a gorgon with licorice snakes for hair, with each strand being a different color and flavor? Why not a Nemean lion with an impenetrable chocolate hide, so Hollyberry can take the role of Heracles, which she fits into a lot anyway? (They could've fit that into the little window between their first departure from the garden back into Beast-Yeast proper and Wildberry's sacrifice or something idk.) They didn't even reference the Lotus Eaters really, everyone was mostly able and willing to get up and leave after eating and drinking and resting! Nor was there a Hades and Persephone moment, with Sugar offering Holly a magical fruit that she would take and eat, not knowing it would shackle her to Sugar and the realm permanently. Holly didn't accidentally allow herself to be tricked into damning herself in her moment of weakness and doubt, she just got her shield destroyed and herself shoved into a mimic chest. Once again Devsisters takes the path of least resistance. Mystic Flour's and Burning Spice's areas were so fun, they took us somewhere new and different ("China" and "India"), now we're back to Christianity Part 2. We already had Christian symbolism with Shadow Milk, I don't want it again, I wanted Ancient Greece goddamn it (and I know it's TECHNICALLY still accurate because Greece is Christian and has been for millennia, but when I say Ancient Greece I mean the Greece that tended to hearths inside of all of its homes in honor of Hestia and never laid a hand on eagles because they were a symbol of Zeus, ykwim?)

I think a couple other Greek mythology references were present: the labyrinth referenced Theseus, and Hollyberry being locked in the box referenced Sisyphus trapping Thanatos in a box too if I’m not mistaken?

Other than that yeah not much. I was hoping we’d have more references the whole way through, and the examples you gave are really cool ideas! Still unsure why we got ice cream and candy enemies on rainbows instead of leaning more into mythical creatures. I know it emphasizes the sugary sweet paradise Sugar has but they didn’t go all in on the Hellenistic references 🥹

I can roll w the christian themes here because of the loose garden of Eden references, and as a fan of renaissance art there were a lot of Christian themes (ie. Putto, angels being depicted in classical Greek myths, etc) in them. If anything that’s what ES’s aesthetic might be going for, less pure greek mythology and more renaissance depictions of it. I’m more ehhh about the lack of rep, I wanted more lmao

Overall the ep felt like a lot and nothing happened at the same time… but I would love to see if the next chapter does more. Not disappointed with what we got though, just would’ve loved to see them lean in further. But that’s what fanon is for lol

[yuurei20]

Hello! Just want to start this off by saying that I love your blog and I find your posts very informative. I’m a sucker for character analysis and you manage to do it very well.

I had a question about the language aspect of Twisted Wonderland. I saw a screenshot of the novel and in it, it talked about how the Yuuya felt that their words were being translated automatically. Is this a novel only thing? Does the language aspect get explored further past that one page in the novels? Why are their words getting translated and yet other phrases in other languages are not(Rook’s French)? What are your thoughts about this and do you know of any popular discourse surrounding this topic?

My apologies if this is something you’ve talked about before.

Hello hello! Thank you for this question, you are too kind!! m(_ _)m

(For everyone's reference, here is the paragraph in question!)

1. Is this a novel only thing? Thus far this explanation of how Yuuya is able to communicate in Twisted Wonderland has appeared only in the novel, with no mention to similar systems at work in the game or manga!

Yuuya is even capable of reading his textbooks! While it is all vocabulary with which he is unfamiliar he is still able to comprehend the words on the pages, which he possibly wouldn't be able to do without the translation taking place.

(An example might be someone who only speaks French being able to read text written in Japanese but still struggling with unfamiliar magic terms that they wouldn't have understood in their native language anyway.)

2. Does the language aspect get explored further past that one page in the novels?

This aspect has yet to be explored, referenced or even mentioned beyond the one paragraph listed above!

And this lack of an explanation is fascinating 📝 There is no line by Crowley of "Yes there is a translation spell on the island," or "Everyone who arrives through their respective gate is blessed by the Dark Mirror with the ability to understand and be understood," or anything at all!

We are not even given a hint that Crowley--or anyone--knows it is happening. All we have is the one thought from the perspective of a confused Yuuya trying to make sense of his situation.

3. Why are their words getting translated and yet other phrases in other languages are not(Rook’s French)?

We do not know! 🥳 And Rook is not alone, with other characters occasionally using untranslated English-language words both in the game and novel (novel-Ace says "Thank you" in English, novel-Sam says "Hey," etc.)

Is it possible that the system does not replace words that the listener recognizes? Is Rook actually speaking French 100% of the time, but as the prefect recognizes words such as "oui" and beauté," they are not being filtered?

4. What are your thoughts about this and do you know of any popular discourse surrounding this topic?

I found this thread on twstsoku where someone suggests that the cast all understands one another and it is only Yuuya who is having what he says and hears translated for him in real time.

Ideas from other commenters are:

1. "Hypothetically, for example: If Esperanto, which is based on Latin, were used as the common language, and the translation magic worked depending on the native language's distance from it:

German speakers, Japanese speakers → translation needed (as determined by the magic)

Italian speakers → translation not very necessary (as determined by the magic)

French speakers → grammatically, translation is almost unnecessary (as determined by the magic), but their speech is the hardest to understand.

Something like that? Just an example, though."

2. "Wasn't there a part in Ruggie's birthday outfit story where he said he memorized greetings in 10 different languages?"

And I found a similar thread from 2021 (before the novel was released) on this topic, where commenters were discussing whether or not Twst's common language is meant to be English:

1. "OP here, I personally don’t think it’s a common language with the real world, so I hadn’t considered it much.

But if it’s English, that means Twisted Wonderland has a geography and history similar to the real world, with just different country names, etc. I won’t go into too much detail, but English is a branch of the Germanic languages within the Indo-European family, and it contains a lot of words derived from neighboring Western European countries. So, it wouldn’t be English as we know it today unless they followed the same geographical and historical path.

Alternatively, it could be a wholly fantastical world without a history of its own, which just popped into existence one day.

Personally, I’d feel a bit disappointed with both ideas—either that Twisted Wonderland is exactly the same as the real world or that it just popped up suddenly. I’d prefer to think of it as a world with a different language."

2. "If we’re talking about the development of language, it’s not a coincidence that there’s food in Twisted Wonderland identical to what exists in the real world. If Twisted Wonderland is a mirror of our world, it wouldn’t be surprising if they walked a similar historical path."

3. "That’s true! When you think about the design of their clothes, smartphones, and other scientific equipment, it makes sense. So either they followed a similar history, or we’re not meant to think too deeply about it as a fantasy world—those seem like the two options. Hmm, tough choice."

4. "If there were translation magic, there would be no need to study animal linguistics."

5. "Azul’s contract → written in English Words Rook sometimes uses → in French In Ghost Marriage, the opening of Rook’s poem is “I love you” → in Japanese The prefect understands the language → So, is there translation magic? Epel’s dialect isn’t understood → So, there isn’t translation magic?

It’s turning into a bit of a chaotic language situation."

6. "In the beans event, there’s a part where Jamil’s bento is brought up and some says 'that's what they're called in other places,' so it seems pretty decided that there are different languages across regions. But maybe we’re not supposed to think too deeply about it."

--

These are all fascinating points! ^^ Epel is a particular outlier ashis original dialect is, by design, almost incomprehensible (on JP), but maybe whatever translation is going on just does not have his particular village's speech patterns loaded into it? 🧐

Or maybe as a "mirror" to the real world, everyone actually is using Japanese with the occasional English and French outliers, but the language itself is mirrored--they're speaking backwards--and the filter is merely putting words front-to-back for the prefect to understand? ^^ So many possibilities!

[sabulana]

working on WIP #4 and thought I'd share my favourite exchange I've written so far...

(for reference, Charles is in an enchanted sleep during this conversation...)

Crystal arrived later than usual the next day, and she carried a heavy bag full of books. She dropped the bag on the desk in front of Edwin, but kept her hand on it until he met her eyes. “This is not me pushing you into it,” she said. “But these will be helpful for you anyway. If not with Charles, then with whoever else you choose.” “Crystal?” Edwin frowned in confusion. “Just… don’t ever talk to me about any of this, okay? Some things I don’t need to know about my friends.” Crystal stepped back, taking one of the books of magic off the desk instead, and went to sit on the floor beside Charles. Edwin opened the bag and pulled out the first book. The cover showed a tasteful photo of two men, apparently naked, in a suggestive pose, and the title… “Crystal! he choked. “Do not mention it,” Crystal said, not looking at him. “I mean that literally. You’re like a very old-fashioned, stuck up brother to me, and I absolutely do not need to know anything at all about your sex life, but I will do my part to make sure you enjoy it, since Charles is the only non-creep you’ve attracted and that boy is still adjusting to the fact that it’s okay to like girls and boys.” Edwin looked at the other books. All referenced homosexual sex and relationships, with varying degress of explicitness in the titles. To his surprise, he felt tears pricking at his eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He put them aside for now, as they wouldn’t help with finding an alternative way to wake Charles, and went back to the grimoire he had previously been reading. After a moment though, he couldn’t help but question one of the volumes. “Was the …bondage manual really necessary?” Crystal smirked. “You’ve been so deeply repressed for so long, I’d be surprised if you don’t have some fucked up kinks. Figured I’d give you a starting point for when you’ve got that all figured out.” “You’ll never know for sure,” Edwin promised. “I’d better not.”

[lexisbethrothed]

The Last Unicorn: The Darkest Fairytale about the Most Kid Friendly Creature on Earth

Before My Little Pony, Barbie, Lisa Frank stickers, and the booming unicorn trend of the 2010s, there was a darker tale of the unicorn, which no one could possibly imagine. Peter S. Beagle wrote the Last Unicorn, of which he also oversaw the filming and animation of his work. To this day, he had produced multiple sequels and inspired works of fairy tales. However, I personally felt drawn to this one.

There is a great melancholy to it, an iconic impact, similar to the tales we know from the Grimm brothers and Hans Christian Anderson. It reminds me of the Grimm version of The Little Mermaid, a tragic tale of a hopeless romantic that never got the guy and dissolved into sea foam.

Except, you could say Beagle's story had both the sadness of the original but the triumph of Disney's version.

Like my three part essay of Jack and the cuckoo clock heart, this one will have separate parts as well. I am still deciding if I settle with three—oh well, we will have to see.

I will study the three iterations (the original book, the film, and the vision comic) and deliberate from there. STAY TUNED AND MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD.

I was probably too you to understand the significance of this film, but I recognized the melancholic aspect to it immediately. From the choice of tones, colors, and story. There was only one "comedic" moment and wasn't even the butterfly's nonsensical ramblings. Tell me why did the magic tree do him like that😅.

But I digress. The Last Unicorn is truly an interesting story because, to this day, it is still talked about in video essays, reddit threads, and comment sections under the posted clips of the movie.

It is unique because we usually don't associate unicorns with a tale that would mostly suit an elf story. They are always magical happy creatures, or in recent media, either aggressive animals or pests (in the movie Onward). But they were never depicted like a tragic figure.

I assume that there will be readers who may not have seen this and are interested in checking it out. Please check out the movie on YouTube. It is entirely free!

Now, to my actual content, I noticed differences in the book, the film, and the visual novel.

First, the film, of which is much more familiar to most, and the visual novel (which references the book directly). In the first two parts, I will be referencing the film and visual novel. By the last part, I might mention more of the original book.

Just a few notes ahead:

The Unicorn and Amalthea are two different versions of the same character. I will refer to her original form as a capitalized Unicorn and for her human form as Amalthea

Film: Butterfly serves as a catalyst for the Unicorn to search for the others.

Visual Novel: The Unicorn meets the butterfly after she leaves the forest. However, it still serves as a messenger.

I did prefer the film's plot structure with this. It just made more sense for the Unicorn to ponder a little more about what the hunters said in the beginning of the story and have a catalyst come to push her to a quest. The butterfly (molded after Beagle in the film) did just that. He gave her an omen, a thought that may be closer to truth than just a bothering comment. She needed multiple information for her to just up and leave her forest.

The visual novel portrayed the inner monologuing of the Unicorn, which immediately prompted her to wander off to find more of her kind. It was the butterfly's role to intensify her search as they may be in danger. It's just that the timing was off in the original tale. Why would she leave with one instance, right?

Anyway, I did find this a good choice.

Film: Mommy Fortuna's carnival featured a few illusions as well as two actual ancient creatures: Celaeno, the Harpy, and the Unicorn.

Visual Novel: There were two more— a spider who believes she is Arachne, and Elli, which is just Mommy Fortuna, in disguise.

The Last Unicorn also has another reoccurring theme: profound and deep statements, stories, and passages. The spider is sold on the master's illusion. She truly believes she is Arachne, and when the Unicorn was freed and attempted to free the others, the spider begs to stay deluded. Mommy Fortuna's disguise as Elli might just be another way to generate more income.

Film: A unicorn turning into a human was introduced to us directly through Schmendrick turning the Unicorn into Amalthea

Visual Novel: Schmendrick introduces this spell long before Amalthea—in a form of a story

Schmendrick talks so much more in the visual novel, a lot more stories. The film did mention that he was older than he seems, but the visual novel really hammered this home through his vast knowledge.

He told a story where a great wizard, Nikos, turned a unicorn into a male whilst saving it from three hunters. The unicorn was on the lap of a virgin maiden at the time. When it turned into a man, he eventually decided to live with the maiden, for quite a long time too. Though married, they did not have children. The Unicorn commented that the wizard likely trapped the unicorn in a "burning building," which would have been worse than death by the Red Bull.

Film: Schmendrick has two tones, his self-boasting and his caring and understanding tone brought from his actual age

Visual novel: He was surprisingly also juvenile—like a sassy Young Sheldon

It was just funny to me that this moment was so different from the film. He was much more gentle to Molly but also so Schmendrick of him to also be forbidding (almost scolding) Molly to join them in such a boastful tone when referring to himself. It was even funnier when I read the visual novel, hands on his hips like a sassy little nephew saying, "She's not here for you girl".

Film: Molly was visibly middle-aged, sassy, and emotional.

Visual Novel: Molly looked a tad bit youthful, probably to visualize some purity in her heart?

Well, Molly was just as direct as she was in the movie, but looked a little more youthful. I just might analyze this with character tropes in terms of design, Like how heroes have capes, villains have green eyes, or how wizards have pointy hats. But that's another topic. Anyway, I think her appearance in the novel just subtly hints her personality and her pure heart? As told in the novel as well, the only people who see these magical creatures are magicians, other magical creatures, animals, and virgins. Obviously, I don't think Molly is a virgin (I don't mean it in a bad way, but she also kind of hints this), but other than purity, maybe her pure belief that unicorns exist? Similar to the concept of the Rise of the Guardians, when belief enables children to see the Guardians.

Just a thought. There is a lot of food-for-thought in this story.

(There are mooooreee comparisons, it's just that this is getting too long, let's save it for the next post;))

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Honey Lemon Crescendo

Pairings: Trey Clover/Vampire MC

Summary: The gods should have made you better, so that they could love you. 

The days you pray for the abolishment of your abhorrent form are rare in the centuries you have lived since your family's death, and your turning. Sharpened claws and teeth, the hellfire of your gaze are concealed for your own convenience, you tell yourself, especially as you enroll into NRC. The tonic of human affairs rarely interested you, yet when you find the truly curious case of Trey Clover, someone who is made only of that plain sort, you cannot help but to promise yourself one conversation, some several hours of the thousand thousand you have lived to taste what it is like to be treated, and be human again. But you're a fool, and a hypocrite‒ you find yourself breaking that promise over, and over, and over. Your fragile resolve frays at every sunbeam smile, every ringing laughter of his. 

MC is a vampire, unique magic is telepathy, being able to unconsciously hear everyone's thoughts 

Notes: Once again I am alive lol. Barely. Just finished my first semester in my Master’s program so I’ve been experiencing a bit a burn out, so I apologize if this isn’t my best work. Also, every time I'm like "hm is this too much trauma?" But then I remember the child murder, kidnapping, and child endangerment that's canon in twst and I'm like ooh wait right nvm I’m good. Fits within the canon. Anyways, I would have liked to explore the concept of BPD and its allegorical connections to Vampirism more in depth, especially due to the social sigma associated with it‒ but I feel that it would be waaaay too long for a one-shot if I did so. 

Also, all stand alone quotes that are in italics represent inner thoughts (with some exceptions depending on your personal interpretations)

TW: References to depression, references to religious trauma, exorcism, and cults; references to child abuse; survivors guilt; referenced to verbal abuse; anxiety; panic attacks; slight mentions of eating disorders/disordered eating (suppressing appetite); BPD 

GN Terms for MC

AO3 Link Here

Masterlist

------------------------------

“There is no sin within this child. Only the devil which lives within them.” 

Those were the words that had prevented your burning during the trial, among other things. 

Perhaps it was also the way you would keep your claws obscured under thickset leather gloves, conceal your crimson gaze under obsidian shades, or the terror that seized you every night that left you so evidently unraveled in all of your unforgiving guilt and abhorrence for your new form. The pity that could be provoked by the wetness and flush of a child’s face was something many adults in the future instructed was a bias you should have been more grateful for‒ as it triumphed over whatever horrors people held when you spoke a decibel too loudly to show your sharpening fangs, moved too swiftly to confirm the power that swelled within you like simmering, spoiled blood‒ pungent, and nauseating.

It reminds you of the smell at the state of decomposition you found your family in when you returned home from a several day trip with your cello instructor‒ and the smell of its mouth when its sharpened teeth lurched towards your neck, before you felt the metallic taste drip cold into your gasping mouth. 

It was first the elongated fangs. Then came the claws, the lack of reflection, the original color of your eyes draining, replaced with a bright vermillion. The enhanced senses and physical power were less noticeable‒ but the subtle power that swelled in your hands when you broke skin and meat with your own grip upon your arm did not go unnoticed by the Supreme Leader who examined your body and soul during your trial. 

“This thing should be useful to me, I hope. I was right to send that “Cello Instructor” with them to take care of business here. I’ll continue my divine plan as usual.”

The words themselves terrified you. Should you run? Hide? Die? Where would you go‒ with your small feet and hands? What could you do? The more oppressive horror lay in the confirmation of the whorling suspicion inside of your small, ten-year old mind that your new form allowed for telepathy‒ the exact “usefulness” the Supreme Leader had suspected lapped inside of you. You were absolutely sure of it, days later, when you read the color of the townspeople faces‒ their leering eyes and curled lips, squeezing their children close behind them‒ back towards your home, set ablaze by their torches and oil. The scramble of noise wasn't needed to confirm their disgust of you, but it came anyway. 

“Hideous.”

“Demon. Probably killed that poor family.”

“That disguising appearance‒ must be the child of the devil.”

“Murderer. Things like you deserved to be burned. Supreme leader is truly a blessing to take care of such vile things.”

You cowered at their stares‒ but you remember considering it distantly for a moment, even in the midst of your situation. That night you had been found by shaking candlelight, your mouth drenched with blood and fear, palming numbly at your family's cold bodies. You couldn't blame them, you supposed. The townspeople feared you. You feared you. Stay with me . The Supreme Leader told you. And you did. 

He defended you during your trial with a kind smile, tying the rope around your wrists loosely with gentle hands, spoke softly of good deeds, good gods, all forgiving and loving. When he convinced the council to graciously join his family , you didn’t run. 

“Don’t you want to be loved by god?”

You shakily rolled the breath that seized in your lungs, your small hands clutched in a prayer against the heartbeat that thundered against your bones. 

“How pitiful child, that you choke on your sorrow. You, abhorrent creature, abomination of god‒ let me love you .” 

“Let me be your god.”

He held a copy of Dissertations Upon the Apparitions of Angels, Daemons, and Vampires of Wonderland in his hands‒ he pressed a finger onto each part of your body, comparing it with his‒ what made him human, and what made you not. He gifted you your own room‒ different from all the other children, deep at the belly of the earth. The cobblestone walls reached high into the heavens where you could not see, even with your enhanced vision‒ the light falling just where your vision could reach. One of his attendants presented him with a pair of cuffs, made specially for your size. The ones they had did not yet fit you. However, he placed them on the ground‒ crescent smile and blackened eyes. You would not escape. 

You kept your secrets for a while‒ despite the unquenchable jealousy, festering sin, and violence that sprouted abundantly in the minds of his chosen advisors, who pinched your skin and snaked their cold hands under your shirt. In your ever dwindling, coastal town‒ you'd seen denial was the first reaction to loss. You'd felt a modicum of humanity in your ruthless rejection, letting the inner noise of others curdle in your mind. 

Their words on the surface stuck of cheap, saccharine perfume, ones you recognized in the town's alleys and such. Yet you swallowed your nausea down, digesting their words one by one. You still had faith then, capable of religion . So easy to fool back then‒ you think now‒ children rarely doubt the material world. Why would people hurt you on purpose?

You were still a child then‒ an infant in vampiric years.

“ Don’t you want to be loved by god?” 

“To be useful to god?” 

"Useful to me?"

“They’ve done so much for you.” 

“I’ve done so much for you.” 

“Don’t you want to repay that?”

You revealed it all, in your childish trust, and his soft hands. You thought perhaps, that adults, despite their true intentions, would help you somehow. Belief in good will. Faith. It grips you with force. 

It wasn’t all violence at first. But you began to fear the day where their actions would finally twist into something reflective of their actual intentions. That day came rather quickly, or so you think. Time did not matter in the small confines of your chambers below ground. The bloodletting, lashings, the vivisections were then all to vanquish the spirits that germinated inside your sinking flesh, possessing you to reveal such “impure things” in front of the people. Purification , he called it, no matter how many times you dried your throat from apologies, or promised you would do better next time. Next time I will speak your truth. God’s truth . You say the way their desires for a monster began to shape every laceration, every break of the bone. 

Still, you couldn’t be their monster, nor a human. It seemed that the seeds of sacrilege had been sown firmly into you, and flourished each passing decade in its grotesque power. 

The gods should have made you better, so that they could love you. 

You’d beg through a dried throat and spinning vision for forgiveness and to appeal your usefulness‒ you knew the moment the priest resumed his kind smile, gentle hands, and his flowery voice‒ that he had found a use for you. Work for me , he said‒  and you obliged. He held your hand again, with a firm grip, and brought you to trials, his grand meetings with thousands of his followers‒ and you’d do his bidding, pointing a shaking finger at “non-believers” and spies‒ watching closely, where the supreme leader’s eyes leered and narrowed in order to anticipate your next move of survival . By then, you had learned to tune out a significant portion of the noise of people, to live in ignorant bliss for the few hours he would spend mending your gashing wounds, let you fiddle around with your cello that had survived the angry mob that burned down your family’s bakery, and home. Soft touches, sweet voice, he spoke. 

"Good child, one of god, of forgiveness, of love. "

And you could tell he had meant it‒ knowing that when he lied to you‒ he always clasped his hands unconsciously in prayer. If there were opposing intentions twisting below his perfumed words that you had somehow failed to pick up with your trained senses‒ you couldn’t be bothered to unravel them. It was just nice. To be held again‒ forgiven . By someone at least, if not yourself. You were good. You were good again. 

Decades pass‒ the people and the landscape move and breathe. It was only a matter of time your hometown would dwindle into a ghost city, being built on scrappy mines and poor fishermen, controlled by a con-man and his desperate believers. Even with nothing to lose, the remaining residents exiled you. Perhaps it was their humanity that they grasped onto with that final action. 

You stand against the passing aches after aches‒ drinking it all from your chalice‒ vessels gilded with gold and hammered with human desire, sitting high to the heavens on altars to hold the blood and wine offered to the gods. You’d been hollowed much like that grail, gouged from the sharpened image of your still, immutable face against the shifting harmony of the world you could not enter. You have no reflection, no face, no name people would call out to take shape as your own, no proof of your corporeal form but your own, cold touch. And the hunger. The hunger seized you at every moment‒ aching through the gums of your fangs, and pounding your heart with the lifeblood that chased it. You were at least alive in your 

You'd fashion something from the use you'd have to other people. A frankenstein skin stretched over your bones. You still feel the Supreme Leader’s gaze hollowing your senses. 

"It's like they're reading my thoughts."

"Those sunglasses and gloves, what are you trying to stand out? So annoying."

"Why don't you read the atmosphere for once?"

"Arrogant asshole."

"What are you, pretending to be all high and mighty."

"Liar."

The noise never stops completely. But you've learned to shut the world out, better now with the advancements on potions and ear plugs‒ courtesy of the Night Raven College’s curriculum‒ hands free to grasp at every opportunity to prove you had existed in some way‒ a being that was real enough to feel the light of gods' love and forgiveness. Useful. Good. 

“How did you know I used browned butter?”

Light‒ feather soft, honey sweet music that streams into your mind. 

You always sat alone in the end. There was a composition to everything, as you saw it. And you had perfected the score of distance‒ being able to orchestrate a friendly, carefree facade, an absolutely stupid and undoubtedly shallow passion, pruning the space between you and the world. A gothic mirror to parody themselves, so they could not truly look at your monstrous, yet absent form‒ something you were sure would absolutely rupture the thick skin you've fashioned together out of pieces of the real people unlike yourself. You'd break apart into nothing but dust. 

It was like the volume, moods, and rhythms created in the scores you played‒ you charged the room with boisterous laughter and directed the eyes at that, instead of your fervent efforts in composing the most fantastic detachment. In the end, you were almost giddy to see that no one saved you a seat, or spared you a glance when you slipped outside for a cigarette wedged hungrily between your fingers. The nicotine was enough to starve off the ache beginning to turn swiftly to nausea between your wobbling footsteps, and you were glad, you think, to have served your use in the social spiral to be afforded a moment of peace. 

Or, you thought. 

“Huh?”

“You forgot your prize.” The boy in front of you thrusts a frosted cupcake towards you, prompting you to switch the cigarette to your other hand to receive it. In the subtle moonlight, you see the sugar melted into the cream glitter a bit when you inspect the pastry. 

He adjusts the hat on top of his green head of hair as he continues. “The competition to see who could guess all the ingredients in the cake correctly‒ you won, it was perfect, actually.” 

You stare at him dumbly and you find yourself scooting over to make space for him. His eyebrows are tilted in a way that made his face a little sorry, a little roguish‒ a combination you found curious raised above those soft honey lemon eyes that hung like that summer fruit above the lush curve of his lashes. 

“So‒ how did you know? I’m curious.” 

You exhale the rest of the smoke resting in your lungs. “I…used to know people who were bakers. Their secret ingredient in their famous brownies was browned butter. I’ve eaten so many trays I’ve come to know the taste. The rest is just luck.”

He laughs. Not like you had seen out of the corner of your eye when he had been talking to all those people, but a loose, genuine chuckle. “I’d hardly call it luck‒ you got the measurements down pretty close. Impressive, if you ask me. May I ask‒ are you a baker?” 

“I…” You find yourself smiling through the cigarette pushed to your lips, careful not to show your teeth. “I used to be. I used to spend a lot of time there, they must have rubbed off me.”

How long has it been since you’ve thought about them? You could remember the distinct nutty smell from the pounds of brown butter your sister was in charge of making‒ the click click click of your mother’s footsteps as she worked from the counter to the rack of trays, preparing the bread dough for proofing. Your father in the background, fiddling with the radio, beaming when he heard a recording of your cello performance on the morning radio. Warmth, sunlight. The beat of your heart, and the heat of your blood. 

“You’ll have to give me the recipe then. I’ve been looking for a good brownie recipe.” 

A moment to contemplate if you should end this conversation here. Something switches inside of you, perhaps a remnant of that warmth you remembered. 

“You have something to write with?” 

His face flowers gently into a brightened expression before he pulls out a small notebook from his breast pocket. 

“...Thank you.”

You hum apathetically to work through the dreadful loom of warmth you feel when you hand the paper back to him with the recipes you’ve committed to memory from your laborious days at your family’s seaside bakery. The smoke still hanging in the air shifts sharply when you stand, and you flick the cindering cigarette to the pavement to stomp it out. You can tell there is more he wants to say that sits bubbly on his tongue, but you turn towards the door leading back to the Heartslabyul dorm before the words can take form through his smile. 

There’s a moment that you stand by the door where you reflect on what you saw of him while he was inside, mingling with other humans. 

“You should loosen your shoulders more when you smile, like that." Under his hat, you see his eyebrows raise up in slight surprise. Surprise isn't enough, you decide, and add, "If you want to convince people." 

You hope those words leave him a bit cold, a bit cruel that he doesn’t come seeking after you anytime soon, feeling the scramble of thoughts threatening to pool into your ears through the plugs. It’s all noise to you. You step inside once more‒ feeling a little less sick, a little less raw to be able to orchestrate again. 

Trey finds your handwriting as pretty as you were in the noise of the room, inspecting all the curls and loops of each word. It takes him a moment before he notices what you left behind. 

“They forgot their prize…” 

------------------------------

The next time you meet him is during band practice. Or, more precisely, hear him would be a better descriptor. 

"Have you seen (Name)?"

The thick walls of the storage room muffles his voice, but you still hear it loud and clear as you lean against the door, cello in hand. 

"I just saw them a minute ago. I think they went to run a few errands or something since the school festival is soon." Carter replies. 

"Ah it seems like I'm on a wild goose chase. I'm starting to wonder if such a person even exists…" 

“They’re everywhere and nowhere all the time.” Carter chuckles. "I didn't even know you two were like that."

"Hm. I guess. We only really talked once." He hums. 

"But I'd like to get to know them better ."

The sharp inhale you suck in makes an audible sound when you hear those words brush the back of your neck. You press the palm of your hands flat against your ears in panic to prevent any sound‒ voices, noise, the world‒ all of it, from entering your mind. 

Quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet‒ 

You time his steps, the pleasantries he's likely throwing at the rest of the members, the time it takes for him to get far from your radius of power. Slowly, you release your hands from your head, and take a few moments to gather yourself before exiting the room. 

Carter is the first to notice you. "Eh? (Name)? Since when were you there?" 

"Since 10 minutes ago, dear. I told you we were going to take a break from group practice today and do individual practice today didn't I? We've been rehearsing so much for the festival I figured we could take a break for today."

"Really?? How did I miss this? I totally just sent Trey to the wrong place." 

Lilia continues to tune his bass. "You were on your phone when (Name) briefed us on the schedule 3 weeks ago, Carter." 

"I wanted to do a group rehearsal today! I feel like I finally got the hang of the last couple measures this time!" Kalim interjects. 

"Don't pout, my dear president." The hand you place on his head is as gentle as ever. "You can practice without a vocalist for today, can't you? I have a lot to catch up on the Monstero Lounge gig I have coming up." 

You bid your fellow members goodbye, dragging the instrument all the way to one of the empty classrooms. 

Finally, a moment of peace. 

You shuffle through your folder, fishing out the piece you had picked to play for a talent night that Azul had insisted you come and play at, excitedly chattering about how it was going to be brilliant for business. 

Chopin's Cello Sonata in G Minor, Largo . 

The cello sonata was one of the composer's last pieces. It was spectacular to you. A final, dazzling eruption before dwindling to the mere echoes of what had once been there‒ a fantastical piece with a pressure combed through every measure that would well an incomprehensible rawness that began at your chest, and would weave through the fibers of your throat that clenched in its emptiness. 

But perhaps it was not so incomprehensible‒ humans in your life had been much the same. The ones you held dearly would rupture from this world, leaving you empty, aching with the sharpened, receding fragments. 

When you slip off your gloves to press your bare fingers against the strings, you try not to let this thought consume you. 

"But I'd like to get to know them better."

Bitterly, it seeps. 

You know it's wrong‒ the piece is supposed to be for a simple, ten minute performance‒ a monotonous activity of human affairs that you would be pleased to check hastily off the list with a presentable smile and lightness. However, the decades you have lived until this day weigh upon you at once, spinning your hands in such a way that threads your grief heavily into the mellow air. The murky rust of the setting sun swells with the florid volume of your own misery, and the silence of the world that ripostes it. 

The song falls softly, a slow stroke that gradually quiets until there is nothing. A diminuendo‒ to shatter, to finish. There's a small comfort, that unlike living things, the scores that stood on the iron music stand could be revived time after time, on trembling strings and resin scented maple. But, not much. 

The flesh at the back of your eyelids are sparked with purple and blue stars as you squeeze your eyes shut, head leaning against the body of the cello to steady your breaths. It may have been the dizziness steadily climbing from the ache of your empty stomach to your head, but you felt like you were swaying in that concoction of color and bursting light. 

"Don’t you want to be loved by god?”

You're afraid that if you open your eyes, the world may still be there. The noise, it will still exist, and reel you in‒ tangling you among its grotesque allure until the moment you reach towards it. Then, it will furl inwards, somewhere far from where you could detect it. The air feels sharp in your lungs‒ you feel like if you take too much in, you’d burst. The bow splinters in your hand, drawing blood. 

"Pretty ."

A voice strikes through your bleakness, a gentle, but clear sound. 

Trey stands at the center of your view. His face holds a glossy look for a moment, before he shakes his head and apologizes. 

"Sorry‒ I just‒ I just heard you in the hallway, I thought you sounded really…" He laughs, shifting his gaze to the side. " Pretty ." 

You look down at your instrument, and notice your bare hands, you remember you don't have your sunglasses on either. The cello echoes when you lean it against the desk, turn away from him to slip on your gloves and glasses. 

You clear your throat, feeling each word stumble in staccato breaths.  "Ah. Well. Um. Thank you. It's all, rather, very wrong though."

"Wrong? But it was incredible." 

"Pretty."

"Pretty."

"Pretty."

The thoughts that enter his mind that churn into yours are ignored best you can before you swivel, veiling yourself in your disguise once more. "Perhaps wrong is not the best term. It's not tasteful for the audience, I suppose. There was no control."

"Control?" He parrots. 

"Yes, you know." You wave your hand in flutter movements. "If someone like me performed like I just did‒ ha! I’d become the laughing stock of the entire school. " You clasp your hands together. "Now, darling. I must get going. Did you want to marvel at my music some more, or is there anything else you needed?"

You work quickly to gather your things, expecting Trey to leave after you've dismissed him. But when you drag your cello case around to leave, you see him still standing in the doorway, leaping towards your hand that rests on the cello case. 

"Can I help you? It seems heavy."

"I'm alright. I've dragged this thing around this school, I am perfectly capable‒" When you go to lift the full weight of the instrument however, a dizziness digs into your temples, nausea quickly following suit. 

"Oh‒ are you alright? Are you not feeling well? Let me at least help you with your instrument back to your dorm."

You stare at him, feeling your power rise within you, waiting for his thoughts to flood through your system‒ a confirmation to your suspicions you filter every person through, to pick them apart. 

“You’re hurt.” He goes to examine your hand, you pull back. 

"They don't look so well. Maybe they need something to eat? I should whip them up something after I help them carry this back to their dorm. Hm. Yeah. That sounds good. Something hearty."

Those words are inspected with great skepticism in your mind before the dizziness takes over, muddling your brain to a jumbled mess. Whatever, you think. He seems harmless enough. 

“Fine” As soon as that curt response slips from your lips, you cringe internally. You clear your throat, attempting to redeem yourself. “I’ll take up your offer if that's alright with you. Pretty boy .”

He seems to hold the air in his throat when you give him that name, before he releases it in a puff of laughter. "Pft. Alright, yeah. Let's get you back to your room before you spout any more nonsense."

"Me?"

You're a bit taken back from his internal response. But you trail behind him, the weight of the nausea lifting slightly off your steps. 

------------------------------

"What kind of cocoa powder did you use?"

"I think…just the regular brand stuff."

"Use Dutch processed next time. If you activate it correctly, the alkalizing process gives the batter a richer color and flavor."

He had somehow used his devilish charm to string you into this, you tell yourself, sipping on the tea you brewed for the both of you. But it would be rude to kick him out of your quarters without a proper thanks. You're no longer human, but you'd at least act civilized. 

The tea has run a bit cold from the two whole hours he's managed to rope you into a conversation on baking techniques‒ slipping out the same notepad and pen he pulled out that night you met, and a box of various pastries and baked goods that he seemingly prepared out of nowhere. Truthfully, you weren't supposed to eat human food without proper sustenance from blood‒ however the look he gave you had absolutely pleaded that you do. So, how could you refuse? 

You clear your throat to break through your endless flood of doubts and excuses. "I heard you were looking for me during band practice. Now that you've wormed your way into my life by bribing me with sweets‒ what did you want from me?"

"Oh!" He pulls another, smaller box from the bag you saw him rummaging through for the sweets laid out before the two of you. "Ah‒ I forgot about this. It might be a bit melted since there's ermine cream on the top."

The simple white box is opened, revealing a similar cupcake that you (purposefully) forgot the night you met him. 

"It's not the same thing‒ it might be better actually‒ I used buttercream last time but it's pretty heavy so I substituted with ermine cream this time." He remains composed but you can tell something is bubbling below it. "Tell me what you think." 

" I'm so excited to see what they think…I worked hard on this recipe since it seems it wasn't up to their tastes last time."

You make a face when you hear his thoughts, wondering how absolutely normal someone can be. “You mean to say you came all the way here to deliver me…this cup cake?” 

"Yes I mean‒ I don't mean to pressure you into eating it, obviously." His eyebrows bunch upwards in his usual sorry expression. "I just. Wanted to hear your thoughts. Since I haven't met someone this knowledgeable on baking techniques at this school."

People usually had ulterior motives when approaching others with gifts, kindness, words slathered in polite niceties and compliments. You eye him suspiciously as he calmly sips his tea, scribbling away in his little notepad.

Drawing a little closer to him, you lean against the table, feeling the heat of your crimson eyes when you concentrate your magic to wade through the noise‒ pulling the thread of his thoughts from it all. It requires a bit of power through your ear plugs and rising nausea, but you manage to unravel it. 

" I'd really like to get to know them better. Friends, maybe . Cater says I should get out there more, this is what he meant, right? "

It was impossible to ignore the truth of the matter‒ that the person sitting in front of you is so absolutely unbearably bare, plain. You'd thought you'd seen clarity before, in how salient the cruelty of people was, but you had been wrong. No doubt this was true clarity‒ the candor of normal, mundane life that you normally blocked out with the rest of the noise of the world. The tonic of human lives rarely interested you, but it seemed like all this person was, and it seeped deeply into his treatment of you. Normal, bare, plain. 

Human . 

It was so baffling you could not suppress the smile that spread on your lips. 

Ah, maybe just for today, you think. Just this one conversation. Just one moment, and I'll forget the taste of human life again. 

"Hm, alright. Just this once, pretty boy ."

The sugary cream melts instantly in your tongue, and the airy sponge is sweet when you swallow your determination to forget this honey sweetness he brings. A hint of vanilla, cinnamon, sugar, spice, and everything nice. You let it settle deep in the dark of your belly, feeling the warmth still lacing through your blood from the tea you've sipped with him slowly cool under your flesh. You devour it all, with his words and smile, hiding it deep inside so you can’t remember its sweetness. 

But the honey you've added at his request still runs golden sweet on your tongue. You roll it through your mouth, trying to extinguish the taste, but it spreads further, coating your throat as you swallow it. Unlike the contents of the cupcake, it runs raw against your flesh, and you must wait until it seeps deeply into the fibers of your throat before it dissolves. 

The hours pass as you talk with him, but the sweetness does not fade. 

------------------------------

"You alright?" 

The silvery tone of your voice breaks through Trey's thoughts. He had been lagging behind the Heartstlabyul group to take a break from all of the frenzy of today. The responsibility, the pressure. You'd been with them a moment ago, mingling as you always did, but now you've slowed your footsteps to match the slight drag of his own‒ something he's sure you've noticed. Heat tingles at his cheeks‒ he doesn't know whether it's from the way you've broken his image so swiftly with your keen eyes, or if it's from, simply, your thoughtfulness. For him, of all people. For him. 

"Yeah, fine. Just tired. Today has been such a long day with these underclassmen." 

His laughter rings clearly, even though the obstruction of your ear. With each note emanated from his lips, you feel it slipping through the cracks of the foundation of your feeble resolve, crumbling so endearingly that you smile sincerely when he speaks. It had been disgust, revolt at first, feeling the distance between your world and his inching closer and closer‒ but before you could notice the absence of nausea stinging through your chest and stomach, you felt the feather-lightness of your own smile chiming with his own, completely eclipsing the discomfort you had felt previously in the proximity to other lives. To him. 

"You need to relax more. Stop fussing over these no good children." You massage his shoulders in a playful manner. 

He feigns pain then quirks that smile on his face‒ you know the one, the one where he bunches his eyebrows and laughs with the back of his throat. In that moment, you're as confident as ever, charging him with laughter‒ letting your inhibitions lose. Control didn’t matter, for a moment. The world doesn’t seem so sharp at that moment, like you were going to tip over the edge. 

When the pads of his fingers brush against your fingers, all that sense you had withers so easily in your chest. Through his shoulders, you can feel the vibration of the hum he emits in agreement, a musical accompaniment to the warmth that radiates from his hands. 

"Maybe. They're good kids. You're right‒ maybe I do need to relax." You retract your hands from him, allowing him to toss his head over his shoulder. "Any tips?"

The seconds you weigh out whether to lie or not seem to shorten with every moment you spend with him. "I guess…music. I like to sing some of the warm-up pieces I used to know.” 

"Warm up for what?"

"Ah for the…church choir." 

Liar . 

He makes a face, an airy laugh escapes your nose. "What?" You ask. 

"...you just don’t look like a religious person.”

You look down at your feet, a slight smile as a comfort to him. “I haven’t been in a while. I don’t think I’ve had faith in anything in a long time.” A quiet lull in your words. 

Your stomach turns. It's always a look of pity, or some casted look that drags you as some pathetic creature, cold and inhuman. The words die in your throat, you quiet your breaths, feeling then stick to the prickly flesh of your lungs and throat. 

“I get it.” 

But the look Trey gives you as he digests your words is a sadness as sincere and clear as water. It was not such a clawing, dried look that transformed you into something you didn't want to be. Instead, he swallows your words whole, as they were, his gaze reaching far beyond the pain. His sound‒ clear as a summer's day, dotted prettily with the honey lemon droplets of his gaze‒ finds you. 

“I got you.” 

A tranquil, silvery symphony‒ each sweetened thread weaving itself magnificent, deep within your nerves. It takes everything to pull yourself from it.

"Now, I have the perfect blend of tea for you then, darling. It goes wonderfully with those lemon shortbread cookies you made yesterday‒ absolutely divine."

Quick to shake the feeling off, you mask the dread of warmth with your usual stupid passion and fire that carves an expression of slight surprise into Trey's face, just for a moment. But it surprised you, instead, to see that it dissolved completely, and replaced with an elated burst of laughter. It takes him a moment to gather himself, and many more for you to do the same with the words he says. 

"You're actually a really good person, (Name)." 

The feeling returns, swiftly. 

You don’t want to breach into the borders of his mind, but you found yourself reaching for the silvery thread of his sound from the noise, picking apart the gray mess of things to find that glimmering thing. Your mind had learned the scent, the exact hue and melody of his inner voice to be able to pluck it so naturally from everything else, and you were growing fearful that you had committed yet another thing to memory that would eventually be lost to time. But the words that you hear from him‒ you think it will consume you for the rest of your eternity. 

"God. You're wonderful."

It nearly chokes you to hear such clarity in that declaration. Foolish . You think. Only a fool would say such a thing. You fix the shades slipping down your face, turning your energy to block out any sound and voice.

"You flatter me, my dearest." 

Lucid, pure. His voice. His laughter. It wasn't just noise to you anymore. You think of what chord his voice would be, how it would sing against your fingers on your cello. Or perhaps a heavenly instrument would be more befitting. 

"But you've got me all wrong."

You smile. Perhaps you were the fool. 

A few weeks later, he admits: "Truthfully, I tried to avoid you best I could before we officially met. Because of your blase attitude and the rumors about you‒ I thought I wouldn't mesh well with people like you."

"Is that so?" A wolfish smile curves onto your lips, eyes turning crescent. You fiddle with the flier for the monstero lounge show coming up, debating whether or not you should have really accepted Azul’s request. "It seems most people think I'm that way." 

"Yeah. But I'd like to think you opened up to me a bit, and I discovered something about you that made me want to talk to you. You're real strange, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm the weirdo? I'm not the one whose hobby is brushing their teeth."

"Dental health is important." He states matter-of-factly, before his hardened look is broken with a breathy laughter. "But really. I would have liked to be friends earlier in my life if I had just known you were the way you actually are."

You remember his words, turning your eyes downwards. "I'd really like to get to know them better."

Hesitation curdles in your mind, but the words come instantaneous, eager to his statement. "Which is?" Perhaps too eager, you shrink. 

He hums, thinks for a minute. "Just‒ kind ." He says. "I never noticed before, but you're always making sure people are included, checking on people. It's like a sixth sense‒ you can easily pick up what people are thinking, but also feeling. Like a guardian angel or sorts."

You stare at him with a blank look, a breath in your lungs that doesn't make it past your parted lips. Then, gaze downwards, again. 

"I wish more people would know how much good you have."

It takes great effort not letting his words sink deeply into your heart, constricting it. Sometimes, when you replay the scene in your head at night‒ an inevitable occurrence when he's on your mind‒ you try your hardest not to let it well something inside you so floridly that it bleeds heavily in your chest, and sprouts the salt in your eyes. But, it does. Idiot , you think, if only you knew what I really was.

You make a noise, unclear yourself as to your response to his statement, crushing the flier in your hand. Attempting to redeem yourself, you casually begin rolling the balled up paper in your hands, giving Trey an exasperated expression. 

“What’s that?” He points to the paper. 

“Oh‒ nothing. An Azul thing. Or a Monstero Lounge thing. Whatever, I’m probably going to bail on it anyways.”

“An Azul thing?” The hint of disappointment in his tone confuses you. “Oh! the Monstero Lounge show that’s coming up? I’ve been looking forward to it‒ you’re bailing? Don’t let Carter hear you say that‒ he’s been talking about wanting to be in it for weeks.”

A smile quirks on your face. “Has he now?” 

Trey nods. “Why are you bailing? I thought you had a real passion for playing?”

“Performance is another matter. You know, the difference between baking for yourself, and baking for other people.” Trey nods in understanding. “Besides, what makes you say that?” You make a face which fails to fully contain the disgust towards yourself. Passion. It curdles on your tongue. 

“How do I put it…You…” He pauses, thinking. In a moment, his words flood forth. “Your expression seems heavier when you’re playing. But, maybe a good kind of heavy. You always seem light and bubbly, but now that I think about it, you never talk about yourself.” 

“I don’t.” You confirm, a sweet smile. 

“You don’t.” An averted gaze. “I never asked.”

“How unusual of you‒ mother of Heartslabyul.” 

“So,” His gaze pulls you in. “What’s your favorite color?” 

You take a moment to reply, a bit surprised that he would actually follow through with his words. You’re reminded of the reason why you were so taken with him in the beginning‒ despite his sheepish deflection of compliments, despite the playful smirk that curved on his face‒ his words always matched his actions, his gaze, his expression. 

“Yellow. A lemony, summery yellow. Reminds me of the flowers my sister used to grow.”

“You just have one sister?”

“One and only. My older sister.”

“I’m envious. I’ve always wondered what it was like being the younger sibling.” 

You chuckle, searching the vast landscape of memories stored inside you. “You know‒ teasing, fighting, hand-me-down clothes, the like. But I love her, especially when she makes her brioche bread.” 

“You’re close with her?”

Time, space‒ the difference between you and the world, him. It comes in waves as always, flooding you, and your hands which search for distant memories. You’re not sure if it was his ignorance towards your nature, or plainly his presence that seemed to pull your discorporated humanity closer to you once more. 

“Very. She’s my rock. She was the first to encourage me to pursue music.” 

“Do you play other instruments?”

“Of course. Cello, piano, guitar, accordion, harp, violin, flute…” You trail on. 

The conversation goes on, until the two of you notice you’ve been walking around the campus, completely separated from the others. You laugh about it. 

When you separate, you watch him walk across the hills, his form roaring against the sunset. There’s a twinge in your stomach, which you swallow with great effort. The distance between you and him seemed like it didn’t matter for the vivid moments you spent conversing with him‒ but now with his back towards you, as he headed towards the light‒ the feeling wades back. You search through the flood as you always do, but you cloud your own vision when you look back to the things you said, the faces you made, the memories you shared. Blackened, like yourself. The sun hisses against your skin. At times like this, you’re reminded of your stunted development‒ you had forgotten what the sun does to creatures of the night. 

It scorches your retinas as you look at the heart of the sun, but you let it‒ reminded of the sweetness of his honey lemon eyes. 

Bitterly, it seeps.

------------------------------

Every time Trey stands by your door, for some reason, his nerves rise to the surface, tingling at his feet and the hand that raps at wood. He doesn't understand why his body gets this fussy every time‒ he's seen you a dozen times before. That crooked, fanged smile; the delightful way your hands move in conversation, the charming little way you hum when pouring him tea (2 sugars, a touch of cinnamon, just the way he likes it)‒  these are all things he's almost gotten used to that he doesn't feel near faint when you grace him with such pleasures. 

" Pretty boy ."

He remembers the nickname you call him, along the standard " darling "s and " my dear "s you seem to call everyone else. Just for him, you've fashioned something that can instantly unravel him, much like now, as he waits in front of your door with fresh pastries. He feels special when you call him that‒ but it feels good, unlike the times he tries to undermine himself under a barrage of flattening statements that stomp out every potential for expectations . Like he could make a difference, a change in anyone or anything. He’s just a normal guy. Nothing more. Riddle was a vivid reminder of that.

Except when he’s with you‒ it feels extraordinary. 

The millions of things that seem to arise out of conversation‒ the sheer possibility of what wonderful things he can share with you beats like thunder in his chest, reaching the tips of his ears where they flush. That fullness he felt before returns‒ the only way to alleviate it it seems is to converse and spend time with you. He hopes the redness at least dies down when he's around you, all his senses seem to fly out the window when you're by his side. 

We're just studying together. That's all. He tells himself. 

He secretly holds his breath when you open the door with the creak‒ but he releases it when his lips part in surprise at your state.

"O-oh. Hello, Trey." Rather than your usual, slurry, elegant demeanor, your voice scrapes against your throat‒ the sound coming small and frail, something Trey had never associated with you before. Elegant, honey-like, and sure of yourself‒ it was never like this. Diminuendo , he remembers from you, and his favorite piece that you play. Like you'd depart from him, where he could not follow.

You fix your glasses, feeling them slipping on your nose, before you run your hand through your knotted hair. The cigarette wedged between your fingers weaves smoke between the two of you, mixing with the smell of alcohol on your breath. "I'm afraid something came up, darling. I have to cancel today, I'm sorry I didn't ring you in advance." You go to close the very small gap you've allowed yourself to open‒ Trey stops you before you can. The bold move surprises even himself. 

"...You're sick? In that case I could‒"

" D-don't touch me." A crackle in your voice, fear striking your expression. "A-apologies. No. It's fine. You musnt do anything for me." 

"But I want to?" 

The prickly air that had been kindling on the inside of your lungs flares all at once at that moment, puncturing something inside.

"You don't know what you want." You spit.

" Oh‒ what?" 

"I said you don't know what you want. But allow me to make it easier for you. You don't want this. So go away‒ get out of my sight ."

Hellfire. It stains you. 

"I‒" He swallows the lump in his throat. "I-I don't understand?" 

"I said . Get away from me, Trey ." His name comes cold on your tongue. He feels it coil around his spine. 

What are you saying? 

"But‒"

You launch the door open, almost breaking it off the hinges. The crimson of your eyes glow in your power as you bare your fangs, clawing the wood of the door with your sheer grip. A lurching feeling wells inside you, as you grow in size, in power, in sharpness. All the qualities that separate you, from him. 

"I SAID GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME."

You don't recognize your voice. Trey's feet crumble from underneath him as you tower over his form. With the fear that seeps into his eyes, you decide it's enough, and shut the door with a slam. 

You swallow the breaths that come faster than you can handle, looking down at the chips of wood that embed into your nails and fingers, beginning to bleed. You lean on your table, raising one hand to grasp at the root of your hair, catching a glimpse of the crimson glow that emanates off your eyes. The hair that falls in front of your face cages you in that bloody vision‒ red, and violent. 

This is what you are, it's what you've always been and always will be. A monster . Fanged, clawed, hideous‒ thick, violent strokes of inky black on one of those books the priest used to carry around with him. Swirling into a void so corroded of color‒ the truest black‒ immortalizing your revolting form, permanently baring your fangs, carrying hellfire in your eyes and throat that you’d swing senseless with an animal violence. Fixed in that abstracted abyss, forever‒ eternal as you are. How pitiful that you choke on your own sorrow. 

You fall into a rage, your body dragging itself by the spine‒ swinging your hands and legs throughout the room. A sound tears from your throat, far from a human cry. Music scores from missed practices fly, used plates and cups tumble to the ground, chipping. Your ashtray falls heavy on the grand piano that sits at the center of your room, slamming down the heavy lid, reverberating the strings, hammering into the air a chaotic symphony of ash and disorder. 

For a moment you think to pick everything up, tidy yourself up and make amends with Trey‒ but you know the drill by now. In a week, you'd come to terms with yourself again‒ all the things you make and destroy‒ and sever yourself from this place, and its people. In just seven days you'd swallow the bitterness of your own self as you always had, clean your mess, throw the pieces you'd broken away. It ends all the same. 

Before you know it, you have a half empty bottle in hand, the days old wine weighing heavily in your palm. You twist your body furiously in attempt to rupture the surfaces of rage you have rising like fire inside of you, to at least reach to the gnawing feeling inside your chest. But it grows even restless, even hungrier‒ eating away at the breath in your lungs and the beat of your heart when you come face to face with your reflection. Nothing. 

What sort of monster doesn't have a face? 

You couldn't have even be given that, to be remembered and touched‒ even if it was fear and abhorrence‒ to exist as a creature who is seen, and heard on their own. You were merely an image created by others. 

Control‒ you never had any of it, ever since your mouth was held open by its hinges and forced to down that creature's blood. It was laughable to even call yourself a musician, a conductor, a person. There was not a moment in your life where you had genuinely orchestrated the fullness of musicality, or anything. When you plucked on the strings of your cello‒ it was always just that. Noise. There was nothing inside of you that could transfigure that dead noise from the strings into something meaningful, something that could exist in the realm of adoration. Loved . 

Don't you want to be loved?

How could you be? You're just‒ this . 

Crumbling to the ground, you sob, remembering the fear laid plain on Trey's face. 

Surely‒ he’s gone. If you had ever held him in that way, at least. Arm’s length, prickled air‒ you had been weaving this inevitable goodbye yourself. Regret curdles heavily in your stomach as you bring your knees to your face on the floor.

I was doing so good. I was good again‒ I am good. You clench your jaw, imagining those portraits of violence from the Supreme Leader’s book. A realization‒ fuck . Nausea rises to your throat. 

You want to sleep. Or drink. Or smoke. Something to sedate you out of this emptiness clawing itself all over your insides. 

A knock startles you out of your daze. You assume the door is broken by the sound of the rusty hinges creaking open, the light of the hallway pouring behind you. A silhouette‒ but you don’t want to be found, or seen. You stay quiet, hoping he just leaves. Forever, maybe. 

“(Name)?” 

His footsteps creak against the floorboards, inching closer and closer. You wish you had the energy to tell him to leave again. Instead, you bury your face in your hands. 

You hear him shuffle a bit, close to you on the floor. 

His breath tickles the hairs on your arm, his voice reaching far into your head, the vibration from his throat rippling to your empty chest. “I’m not leaving.” 

With some kind of divine courage, you speak. “Why won’t you?” 

He shuffles closer, lacing his fingers through your tangled hair. “Because it seems I like you too much.” 

“You’re a fool.”

You were the fool. 

“Birds of a feather flock together.” He says, matter of factly. “Because you’re an idiot if you think I’m just going to leave you here. You…” 

You feel him swallow, pausing his hands to hold your head at the crook of your neck. “You’re special to me.” 

“I’ve got you.” 

It feels like you're being enveloped completely by him‒ his smell, his sound. It smells faintly of candied violet, vanilla, and your honey lemon blend of tea. Trey thinks it complements well with your smell. Old books, and well-read letters tucked preciously into cookie tins. Faintly, iron. 

In a shaky voice, you apologize. Over and over. "I-im so sorry.There's something wrong with me." He rubs your shoulder, measuring his movements carefully so as not to overwhelm you. "I'm sorry I'm this way. I-I didn't mean to yell. I didn't mean to send you away. I want you here. I-I'm sorry. I lied. I’m a liar.” 

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay. We all have our things‒ we’re human, right?” 

You cry harder. "No, you don't understand."

"Are you fae?" He asks, looking at your pointed ears and teeth he'd seen in the students in Diasmonia. "There's nothing wrong with that. You're still‒"

Wonderful . 

He chooses his words with care in your state. “- my friend.” 

You swallow the bitter taste in your mouth. "N-no. I'm nothing of the sort. I-I…" Everything is so unbearable‒ you're unbearable . Your fangs pierce into your lips when you bite down, suppressing the wailing pressure that threatens to leak from deep inside your throat. It burns all the way down when you swallow it, only leaving you with a portion of your dwindling volume. 

" I'm a monster ." You spit, looking directly into Trey's eyes‒ like you did moments before‒ hellfire stirring within them. The palms of your hands face him, framed with the sharpened claws of your hands that spot with blood from the splitters still embedded within them. Slowly, you furl them onto yourself, drawing red upon your palms when they ball into fists. "A vampire‒ like the ones you know from books and stories. That's me ."

That is all I am. 

Your vision blurs, and you tuck your limbs into yourself as if you brace for impact. 

Instead, softness‒ honey lemon eyes, sweetness, golden. 

"You're hurt."

You make a sound through your sobs when he takes your hands. Impossibly soft, feathery under your own, he picks the sharpness out of them. The blood is wiped away with his handkerchief, staining the light clover green fabric with blots of red. Now it's dirty , you think. I’ve poisoned it.

"You're not a monster." He says, unfurling your hand further, prying apart your sharpened fingers from your palm. They twitch at his words.

"I tried to hurt you‒ send you away.” You feel like your throat is going to collapse. 

He’s quiet for a moment, you can see him roll his saliva through his mouth, and the doubt and anxiety which passes across the movements of his downwards eyes. A barbed look‒ you feel it prickle familiarly against yourself‒ so you ever so slightly inch your pinky towards his hand that rests near your own, making a small gesture with your pinky to intertwine it with his‒ I’ve got you .

A heavy breath pushes past his lips. “People do that all the time. I get it‒ I mean‒ I know how it feels to be anticipating the color and tone of people’s faces. I grew up doing the same. From a certain point‒ you can kind of sense when people begin to tear themselves away from you‒ like you thought they would do eventually‒ it’s kind of a relief, isn’t it? To confirm that the distance you were placing between people at least did something .” 

You nod, giving him a small quirk on the lips to agree. He continues. “I’m really just a normal guy‒ you know? I don’t really have the power to change things, or have an effect on people. Like you do.” 

“Me?” 

He hums, rounding his expression with a small curve on his lips. “You light up the room. You charge everyone with a certain energy. A je ne sais quoi .” He jokes‒ you laugh. “It’s probably a lot of pressure, a lot of fear. But you face it. I like that about you.” 

“ I’m not like you .” You hear from him. You want to remind him‒ you're a fool. 

“You-” You gulp. “You do that for me too. You light up my day. But‒ I don’t know. I feel bad feeling these things. It’s like I can’t wait, you know?” 

Trey scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “Can’t wait for what?”

“I can’t wait. For the moment you‒ or people‒ leave, like you said. I’m always anticipating it. I digest people inside of me‒ pick them apart. I’m really not a good person. Sometimes there’s just something inside of me that switches when I’m faced with anything pointing to people confirming my suspicions‒ like I’m always tipping off the edge. I don’t know‒ people are…” A baited breath. “Bad. And I’m something a lot worse.” 

Trey takes your hand again, drawing circles with his thumb. 

“I don’t know who I am. I have no reflection, no substance, no form‒ nothing . All I know is that I’ve been emptied to carry this filth that terrorizes me‒ and whenever I lash out at it, I end up hurting other people.” The afternoon light that weaves in between the curtains illuminates a streak of dust and smoke in the room. “My story ends all the same. Like any good fabled monster.” 

“What if this time it ends differently?” 

A weary smile wobbles onto your lips. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” You stand, dust yourself off, and offer a hand to him. He accepts. 

“It will.” His assertiveness almost surprises himself, but he reminds himself why‒ it’s you . 

“Why‒ aren’t you certain?” Bitterness seeps your tongue.

“You’re the reason for it. You’re all that.” 

There’s a feeling that wells inside you that replaces the tension that slips from your shoulders‒ something a tinge sour, sweet, and warm. You don’t search for the underlying tones and clandestine beats of his words. Clear as day‒ you accept this feeling. Hesitantly, you lean against him, soaking with the feeling that seems to also radiate from him. 

“You’ll stay today?” 

Trey feels you relax against him.

“For as long as you'll have me.”

He doesn’t let you go.

------------------------------

"I've never seen snow before I came here." You watch the soft speckles of white float gently down from the skies. "I'll never get tired of this scene."

Trey slows his pace a bit, so you can linger on the white landscape. "Really? Not even in the Queendom of Roses?" 

You nod. "The island I lived on before I was exiled was exceptionally warm. I wasn’t allowed‒ ” 

Quickly, you shift your words. Control.

“-I wasn’t much of an outside kid, on account of the whole sun thing before potions could handle it. And after I had left I hopped from one island to another‒ most of them were too warm to have snowy weather. And when I visited the main island it was always during the warmer seasons.”

You remember the supreme suggesting warm climates‒ quiet, sunny peaks in the outlands, away from people. Those suggestions grew on you with time. You liked warmer climates anyways, . The room you had at the temple had always been cold and damp, the only light that would peek through snuck in through the stone that had eroded over years of negligence. You shiver. 

"I don't like the cold, too much. But the snow is beautiful." 

You suddenly feel wool, warmth on your neck. Trey fixes his scarf on you, you almost jump away, but after the initial moment of surprise, you relax into his scent that has melted into the wool. Lavender . He always smells like sweet floral, you note. It reminds you of the patches of grass and wildflower that would sprout sparingly in the parts of your room where the sun would kiss‒ the dew that would form on them like opals would be sweet like the fragments of light that wove in soft petals on the hard stone flooring. When you touched that light refracting in honeyed rays in those small drops of water the morning chill brought, you could remember a fraction of your humanity. Summer like a warm blanket and the crickets that chirped outside while you and your sister sat beside the window sill, giggling at the lantern light. The verdant coolness that swept the bakery while you helped your papa prepare the bread rolls for proofing. Silly, small things. It could make you cry, even now, as Trey diligently wraps the scarf around your neck. 

“...You were exiled?” He chooses his tone, his words very carefully, softness like velvet honey. 

You smile, a shape meant to comfort him. “I was. My hometown was very poor. People needed something to believe in, and they already had their hero.” Supreme leader, in his gilded cloak. "You're going to catch a cold‒ and this scarf‒ it's from your siblings, is it not? I feel bad, you shouldn't give stuff so easily to people." Despite your words, dive your nose deeper into the yarn, threading your claws carefully within the chunky pattern. 

"I’m warm enough‒ besides, you wear things like this well.” He finishes fussing with the scarf. The warmth that had welled into the wool from his skin melts into you like cotton candy‒ sweet and soft. “And you’re cold, aren’t you? If I catch a cold I’ll just have you take care of me.”

You press your cold fingers onto his bare neck to hide the rosy heat coloring your cheeks. With a shiver and a smile, he yells "Hey!" while laughing. 

"Well I guess I have no choice then.” 

A moment of silence after your laughter dies down‒ Trey hardens his expression. “You’re still shivering. The blood supplements haven’t helped?” 

A sigh pushes through your nose. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t feel too keen on asking hospitals for donations either. I’ll be fine, pretty boy.” A curt smile curves onto your lips to reassure him. 

Trey makes a face. “What if you get sick again?”

The smile you wear tightens. “I’ll be fine .” 

“It’s worrying.” 

“I don’t need it.” 

The silence of the snowfall roars against your ears when he says‒ “What if you fed off of me?” 

The dense crunch of your footsteps packing the snow stops as your chest rises and falls with a thickened rhythm.  

“Don’t joke about such things.” 

“I wasn’t.”

"Then don’t say stuff like that. I said I don’t need it." 

"But you do! Look at you! You're emaciated‒ a few days ago you were barely standing!"

"That's‒"

"It’s not healthy, you know. You need blood to survive."

“It’s scary to see you like that.” 

You’re genuinely taken back from his internal voice, a slight treble which rings against your ears. “I don’t understand. Why would you be scared?” 

His answer is instantaneous, exasperated. “Because you’re my friend.” 

You bite the words climbing your throat. As much as it pained you to see Trey like this, you could not swallow that thought threatening to simmer through your lips, a burning notion that had engraved itself into every piece of yourself. 

I don't need you I don't need you I don't need you I don't need you I don't need I don't need‒ 

"Why won't you accept this offer? Accept me?" It chokes you to hear him like this‒ but the familiar nausea that seizes your throat overpowers it. 

Because I could never make up for it. Make up for it being me that you choose. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You won’t.”

“ Fuck‒ yes I will!” You hiss. Quieter, you muster. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I will. I’m made that way.” 

His silence drives a hot coal down your throat‒ prompting you to push down that blackness that gnaws at you. 

“Sorry‒ I‒” A release in the tension of your shoulders. “I apologize. I was just…overwhelmed. It’s a serious proposition‒ you really shouldn’t take it so lightly. I haven’t interacted so much with my own kind but from what I heard, it would be almost a lifelong commitment. At least for you that is. When you die, I will..." You attempt to swallow the tightness in your throat- a hunger. "I will not forgive myself." 

“I’m sorry‒ I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. We should talk about it more‒ alright?” He rubs circles with his thumb across your skin, and you feel the ridges of his fingers drawing shapes. “But if it’s regret you worry about‒ know that I would never regret spending my life with you. At any capacity.” 

There were stories you heard of centuries after you were reborn as a vampire about beautiful things spun by poets and artists. To reach to the monster‒ approaching it with gentle softness rather than stakes and silver. Risking sharpened teeth with lethal maws, defying the hardwired fear and repulsion against something that has tremendous capacity for violence. Saintly, divine touch. You had deemed it one of the most beautiful things‒ sublime, and completely unfathomable to you. 

But when Trey reaches to you in that moment‒ in your moments‒ you think‒ this is what it is. This is what it must feel like to be touched by something beautiful. This is what it must feel like to be touched by god. You almost understand the Supreme Leader, in a way. You understand faith ‒ it’s a terrible thing. 

He cools the tindering hellfire in yourself with his touch. It burns as a searing stake through your chest. 

He doesn’t let go as you walk through the ashen landscape.

------------------------------

He makes you promise you’ll talk about it. And you do‒ hesitantly accepting his proposition with a box in hand. 

“I think it’s a good time to give you this.” 

The smell of oak flushes his nose when Trey draws closer to inspect the intricate honeysuckles that weave through the wood. 

It’s an old, tattered thing‒ something given to you when you were young by your parents. The flowers were meant to be a gesture of nostalgia and deep affection‒ and you manage to remember the fragments of your mother’s many sayings‒ something about always been meant to be with you, how she felt a strange sense of reunification when she had bore you and your sister. 

A bitter taste spreads on your tongue when you move the box towards Trey, and the contents inside clack against the wood. How furious she would be if she knew what you had done.

"What is it?"

“ Insurance .” you answer, quickly. 

He gives you a confused look before taking the box into his hands, opening the rusted latch on it. You only hear the eroded hinges creak as he cracks open the chest, the speckles of rust falling onto the table. 

You made sure there would be enough to pack the box‒ but it seems that there is still some air when they rattle against the walls of the box. Sharpened to perfection‒ you hope they won’t wear down too much from this motion. 

After a minute, there’s the same sound again, then the closing of the box before it’s shoved towards you‒ back fully in your vision once more. 

“I don’t need this.” Strained, his voice comes thickly between his constricting throat ‒ a similar feeling proceeding to his chest, flaring at the ends of his fingers which tuck tightly into his palms. 

The face he makes worries you. 

For him, of course, but for yourself as well. You're afraid you're going to break right then and there, throat etched in silent shame‒ but you pull yourself together with a sharp, willow breath sucked into your lungs. You feel the air settle cold on your tongue, and it almost shakes. 

"It's just insurance ." You say, opening the box. A wooden stake is rolled across the table to him. He averts his eyes as if it burns him. "If the time ever comes‒"

"If it comes?" The voice pounding heavily at the back of his throat raised with his breaths. He parrots your words angrily. " If the time comes? Then what‒ I have to kill you? I have to be the one?"

"I would like it to be you, yes."

He gathered his eyebrows further into the center of his forehead. "Me?"

"Only you. It could only be."

You hear his shaky breath. No‒ you feel it press deeply into your bones, a vibration that makes its way from the tremble of his fingers, through the table, into your own flesh, far inside you that its precise throb stretches the growing cracks he's made in your resolve. 

"I can't."

"You must ." You feel your claws scratching against the leather of your gloves. "To protect yourself."

He feels terribly selfish, childlike for the quiet volume of his voice. "From who?” 

You feel the hungry thing inside of you flourish at your own words. “From me.” 

He calls out to your name. “I don’t think I could ever be afraid of someone who is so afraid of themselves.” 

You have no response to that. 

An inhale‒ before he continues. “You’re the reason to the certainty in my words‒ that’s not really something I had before. Nothing feels normal with you‒ but it’s the good kind. You‒” despite the situation, he laughs, cracking the expression you love. “-you really don’t know what you do to me, do you?” 

A sharp finger presses against your palm to confirm this is truly‒ really‒ actually real. You doubt yourself, telling yourself that you somehow tricked him into thinking you were this good. It must have been all those pet names‒ the saccharine composition that had somehow trapped him into your siren spell. 

He faces you with all his sincerity‒ revealing the sharpened claws of your hands when he slips the leather off of them. He holds them softly, hoping if his words don’t reach you‒ at least this language that you had both curated against each other, might. You feel that it does, unable to find a trace of deceit, doubt, or anything besides the honey lemon hue that basks you in all its sweetness.

For the first time in centuries‒ you feel the blood inside you churn warmly in your cheeks, your eyes avoiding his gaze.

“I suppose I didn’t.” 

So of course, when he first allows you access to his blood‒ the first action you do is to cover his eyes above all else. He makes a small noise when your cold fingers fall softly on his eyelids. 

Without even thinking, he reaches towards your hand‒ he sees the crimson light that weaves through your hands that eclipse into pitch darkness when he lays his hand on top of yours. In the darkness, his voice seems louder when he calls out to you. 

"Can you move your hand?" 

The fibers of his neck tickle against your stiffened breath. 

"Not yet."

He feels your teeth open his flesh, his skin parting like a ripened fruit. The curve of your soft lips that cup warmly around the wound, leaning deep into his scent‒ to dive further into the sweetness of his blood. He groans as a moment of pain passes, but his sound relaxes‒ slurry‒ in his throat when he feels sweet pleasure, thick as honey, feathering from where he feels you feeding. His breath quickens, and you feel the warmth of his exhales. As close as a lover’s breath. 

He lets out a shameless sound of pleasure‒ a whisper you drink in with his sweet ambrosia. 

"Ah, this isn't so bad."

He feels the fingers you keep firmly on top of his eyes twitch. 

"Sorry. 'M sorry." You mumble against his skin. His senses feel so jumbled, flooding as thick and raw syrupy mountains. He blindly accepts them‒ unlike your words, which he makes sure to affirm should not be so. I am not sorry, he thinks. You do not have to be either . There’s a tremble in your lips when he slips those words into the air, humming sweetly against his skin. 

He doesn't trust his voice, but the heaviness that clouds his mind barely filters his thoughts. 

"A-are you done already?" 

"Mhm. Sorry, are you alright?" 

"I'm fine. I just need a minute." His chest slowly rises and falls. He notices he's gripping your hand. "Can you move your hand now?"

"Let me see you. I want to see you."

"Just a moment." Even in the sensory deprivation, your voice feels particularly far off. "Not yet."

Trey closes his eyes, waiting for the tight pleasure that still prickles under his skin to pass. When he opens his eyes again, he finds your hand gone, the sun seeping through his fingers. You're facing away from him, sitting at the edge of the bed, bloody handkerchief in hand, unnervingly quiet. 

"I'm sorry if I caused you any pain. I'll go get bandages and some pain killers for you."

You turn a bit towards him, but he doesn't see your face. He grabs your hand before you could walk away‒ calling your name.

A beat of silence. "Yes?"

"..."

It seems his senses have returned to him when he confirms the weight of your trembling hand‒ how it feels a fraction of a degree warmer than before. 

"Why can't you look at me?"

" Why won’t you show me your face? 

Your expression? 

You? 

Are you smiling? Are you mad? 

Why can't you show me? 

Am I‒ "

"No ." Your back gives out as you press all your force into that word, making the bed creak when you fall into it. "No. It's not you. It's not you. I just‒" A breath. "I don't want you to look at me. While I’m like this. It is a mercy. ”

Waves of scrambled noise crash through you. You want to squeeze your hands over your ears, shut your eyes until all you can feel is the vast darkness, and your fading form within it. You’d congeal with that void, rot until there is truly nothing left of anything you had‒ to to the dust as dead and far as the remains of your home. 

"I don't want to just look at you. I want to see you."

You don't trust your voice, so you shake your head. When you swallow the lump lodged in your throat, it tangles in your shaky breath when you feel his hands wrap around yours. 

"I want to see you." He repeats. 

The noise parts with the lightness of his voice. Slowly, you turn towards him. Instantly, his hands are molded to the curve of your shape, as if they were forged by the decaying whispers of your labyrinth heart. In secret, they were cast by your hearth, and now they are cooled, and formed around the salt and tears that etch florid down your face. These hands are made for you, you think. Only the starlight has come this close to your monstrous form. Only the starlight. 

"I'm sorry‒ I shouldn't be so‒ this right now. But I just can't‒ I'm so sorry." The apologies bubble from your trembling lips, as you try to form a coherent thought. But the softness of which he touches the cruel sharpness of your form‒ it wells a crescendo symphony of desire that you withheld, lurching upon you all at once. 

He pulls you in, tighter. 

This was home. You had always stood at the edge of it, drawing a line before the entrance to remind yourself‒ you had not been welcomed yet. But he had always welcomed you. It felt as if some speck of his soul had always done so, with the relief you feel when you step within it. The room inside your heart when you merge your warmth with his does not feel so full‒ nor so empty. It is filled with potential. Future. Something that had risen from him, infinitely. 

"Don't‒" you place your fingers over your mouth. "Not while I taste like this." 

He breaks your lips with his words. “Trust me?”

The warmth that folds over you feels like a prayer. Have faith . When you open your mouth, flesh is at your mercy, but you do not bite down as you expected the thirst inside you would have. Stars, the world stripped of its layers until it was only you, and him. For once infinity does not seem so much of a curse. 

You must be intoxicated by the sweetness of his blood. Bittersweet‒ it seeps.

"I'm not…" You gulp down the swaying warmth. "I'm not supposed to like you." 

"But…?" His smile curves so high the whites of his eyes are almost completely eclipsed by his honey lemon hue. 

You intwine your hand with his. Another prayer. "Foolishly, I do."

“It isn’t foolish at the slightest.” 

“It’s alright.” You smile. “I’d like to be the fool for once.” 

------------------------------

You fidget with your suit steps away from the spotlight, holding your cello with your other hand. 

“Stop fidgeting.” Trey instructs you, flattening the creases you’ve made to your suit jacket. He smiles. “It’s just nerves, they’ll pass when you get up there‒ you’ve told me so before..” 

“I don’t‒ I don’t know if I’ll be able to play it right. I haven’t been this nervous in ages.” You still straighten the tie around your neck. “Maybe I should tell Azul‒”

The cloth is straightened again, before he glides his hands to your shoulders, bringing you an inch closer to feel the warmth that radiates off his skin. “You’re going to be amazing.” 

Your eyebrows crease. “How can you be so certain?”

“You’re all that.” 

His hand guides you towards the curtains, lingering when his fingers reach yours before you step into the spotlight. Azul finishes your introduction as you look towards the audience, searching for a familiar face. You find his eyes, and there is no need for any magic, any power‒ for you to find the faith in his eyes. You let it guide your bow, and the strings vibrate like golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, marrying sweetly‒ your internal harmony guided by his sweetness. 

The music swells, breaks, heaves‒ before it dies out once more. The lounge fills with the sound of applause, and you sheepishly smile again the few whistles and whoops your club-mates send your way. Each and every thread of sound resonates within your body, vibrating with color. 

Once you get off the stage into the crowd, you see Trey march towards you, before almost knocking you down with the force of his embrace. You allow a bit of your power to spin him off his feet, before you separate‒ wanting to see the look on his face. 

"Will you come with me?" You pull his hand away from the crowd, breathless in your excitement. 

"Where?" He asks, similar in his bursting fruition. 

"Out there. Here. Over there. Wherever."

He smiles, the warmth moves the beat of your heart to the tip of your fingers, back into his palm when you lace your other hand with his. You think‒ I'd be a follower, a devotee, a dog for this. Have faith. I've got you. It’s terrifying, and it shakes you with excitement. 

"I can't wait."

------------------------------

Notes:

The book I mentioned the priest had is based on the real Dissertations Upon the Apparitions of Angels, Daemons, and Ghosts, and Concerning the Vampires of Hungary, Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia that 18th-century Benedictine monk and distinguished biblical scholar Antoine Augustin Calmet wrote. It was actually a large source of inspiration to Bram Stoker's dracula. Basically a collection of reports and examinations of vampire/monster attacks emerging in eastern Europe during the late 17th to early 18th century. The accounts of the undead rising and infecting whole villages, reaping of their health and blood that were recorded in this compendium of monster attacks formed a lot of the imagery and characterizations associated with vampires. 

Historically, bloodletting was a popular method during the 19th century to cure medical conditions, especially psychological‒ as it was based on the concept of humors. Fun fact, this is why there is a distinction between surgeons (“barbers”) and physicians, and is why the striped barber sign is red and white‒ red symbolizing blood and white the bandages. This method was used from everything from hysteria, insanity, and heartbreak, to things like scurvy and epilepsy. 

Bloodletting, transfusions, and vivisections (experimental surgery) both appear in Dracula because they were the hot new science of the Victorian era. Stoker's father was actually a physician so a lot the medical cures and information in the narrative frame the work very closely to the social, religious, and medical attitudes during the period. 

Though Victorians still believed the world of humors (ie blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm, or more commonly known by their four counterparts: sanguine, choleric, melancholic, and phlegmatic)- the era began to see a rise of Heroic medicine which sought to shock the body of its ills (ie bloodletting, drinking blood, etc etc)

During the New England vampire panic of the 19th century Victorian era, it was believed that consumption (Tuberculosis) had a strong connection with vampires and the “rise of the dead”, because of the seemingly unexplained rapid spread of this disease that would “consume” its victim and its family at an alarming rate (this was mostly just due to general hygiene issues and the cures for TB being syrups and elixirs of like literally just morphine and cocaine). TB victims usually had pale, emaciating skin, and in combination with how to identify a suspected vampiric corpse (ie grown fingernails = sharp claws; plump skin = immortality/fast healing); the common cures to TB other than those concoctions during the period such as bloodletting, blood drinking, and the “climate cure” (spending a lot of time outside in sunny, warm climates = aversion to the sun); as well as the spread of TB (highly infection, if one person got it in the home, it would spread rapidly to other members of the family = seems like that originally infected person was “consuming” the rest of the family members) kind of makeup the symptoms, physical aesthetic, and indicators of vampires we know today. Pre-Christian notions believed that a body could be “infected” by evil spirits, the concept of evil, etc.. if not buried properly, which translated into the Christian context as demonic or satanic influences entering the body. And because Churches were often the ones dealing with burials, and setting the precedent for burial rituals‒ they had a lot of influences in setting the precedent for burial rituals, how dead bodies should be handled, etc

Because of the strong religious influences during this Victorian romantic period, and the seeming “failings” of empirical science and thought‒ a lot of people turned to the church 

Historically, during the New England vampire panic in the 19th century Victorian era, it was believed that consumption (Tuberculosis) had a strong connection with vampires and the “rise of the dead” because it would “consume” the entire family, beginning with one of the family members, then spreading to everyone else because it was highly infectious. This is why things like pale skin, and vampires needing to feed off of blood is a thing because it is connected to the symptoms and infection of TB (blood drinking was also a cure at some point??)

Everytime I'm like "should I add this ultra specific detail with an irl artist's name??? Does it make sense with the twst universe?? Ah whatever‒"

Anyway I choose Chopin for a lot of reasons. The primary reason was that his music moves me deeply (please listen to the piece if you haven't heard it before). He also suffered from TB (aka consumption), and most likely suffered through a chronic version of it his whole life, which caused a lot of suffering and medical complications through his youth, and into adulthood when rising to fame as a composer. This cello piece was the only sonata that wasn't on the piano, and was played at his very last public concert in Paris. He also had kind of a miserable love life because of his weak health (a condition he could not fix), I thought it would be an interesting connection with MC along with the emotional value the song has on its own. 

BPD is very misrepresented and incredibly stigmatized in media especially but also the mental health and treatment spheres in general so I did a lot of not only personal introspection but also research on it as well. I thought vampirism would be a good metaphor for BPD because I imagine the concept of eternity and also having to physically drain someone of their life source would cause a lot of attachment and abandonment issues in addition to the feelings of shame and guilt that often come with having BPD (“why am I this way?”). The monstrous appearance described and often visualized in Dracula/vampire related films and media, as well as the myth that vampires don’t have a reflection also not only conceptualizes BPD and its affect on self image, but also visually narrates the aspects of mentioned shame, guilt, and self hatred that come with BPD and the emotional regulation issues that affect relationships. Anyways I not only wanted to do BPD justice because I feel like its very rarely represented in media accurately and with a happy ending, but I also wanted to explore 

I didn’t want to go too in-depth with the cult stuff because I feel that could veer off track. I drew from my own experiences (I have a close family member in a cult), as well as some research + some inspiration from a game series called Faith: The Unholy Trinity. But of course the central ideas of isolation, salvation (under a specific pretense), and dependency are there.

[rosanna-writer]

You All Over Me

Summary: Amarantha's scent is still clinging to Rhys during his last conversation with Feyre on the balcony Under the Mountain, sending his newly Made Alpha into a rut. Warnings: dubious consent, referenced sexual assault Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~3k

Some dialogue is taken directly from A Court of Thorns and Roses.

This fic contains references to Rhys's canon sexual assault by Amarantha, and for magical omegaverse reasons, consent for the sex he has with Feyre is dubious for both of them.

You can find the fic under the cut or Read on AO3.

I should have gone straight home. After Amarantha's death, I had no allies to confer with, and I'd sent Nuala and Cerridwen back to the Night Court at the first opportunity. There was nothing left for me here.

Nothing left other than Feyre.

I'd slipped into the shadows once she'd been Made, unable to bear the sight of her in Tamlin's arms. She deserved to rest—I could feel the heavy weight of her exhaustion as if it were my own—but at my core, I was a selfish bastard. She'd fucked Tamlin, so I'd woken her up and called her to me. If she asked, I'd lie and tell her it was just to say goodbye, not the truth that I'd done it just because I could.

Even squinting in the sunlight and moving unsteadily in her new body, Feyre was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I leaned against the balcony railing, marveling at the way the light made her hair look golden while I gave her a moment to adjust. It had taken me some time, too.

"What's that smell?" she said eventually.

I cocked my head. "What smell?" There wasn't anything out here other than me.

Feyre lowered her hand from her face and stepped closer. I stilled. Her nostrils flared as she scented me, and then the realization hit me with all the force of a punch to the gut.

I'd serviced Amarantha just before the start of the final trial. There hadn't been time to bathe after.

I opened my mouth to strike before Feyre could—to tell her that was a bold question when she'd come up here still reeking of Tamlin's arousal. But I closed it as Feyre lifted her wrist and skimmed it across my cheek and down my neck.

Alpha. My Alpha.

Feyre couldn't have known what she was doing, but that didn't matter in the face of magic and deep-seated instinct. A wave of knee-wobbling relief crashed through me anyway. Fifty years of horror were over—my Alpha was here to protect me, already chasing away that bitch's scent and replacing it with her own. My eyes fluttered shut.

"You reek," Feyre muttered darkly, moving her wrist up to rub her scent glands against my hair. "This is worse than the Wyrm shit. Did— Did something happen while I was asleep?"

Her thoughts were spiraling as she tried to understand what was happening—I could feel her fear that it hadn't all ended when Amarantha died, that there was some new threat making itself known. An Alpha's urge to protect thrummed under all of it, even if Feyre didn't realize what it was.

Before I could stop myself, I was grabbing her hand, holding her wrist in place so I could keep brushing it against the sensitive skin on the side of my neck. Partially my instinct to reassure her that I was alright, but also…because I felt dirty and used when I smelled like Amarantha. Soiled, all the way down to my soul.

Feyre couldn't know. At least not yet. If Feyre learned it was another female she was smelling on me—and not just any female, but my rapist—that might be enough to send her into a rut. And she didn't need that happening before someone calmly explained all the new sensations and instincts she was feeling in her new fae body.

I turned my head, rubbing my nose along the inside of her wrist and breathing in lilac and pear and Alpha. "Nothing's wrong," I said into her skin. "All is well."

Feyre didn't yank back her arm the way I expected she would. No, she stepped closer, lifting her other wrist to spread her scent even further, her skin hot against my other cheek. Though it was utterly foolish when she'd just walked into hell and died for another male, I found myself imagining what it would be like for her to knot me in a nest drenched in that scent.

Mostly to herself, she whispered, "I could've sworn… It felt like you needed me."

It took every ounce of self-control not to tell her that I did. A few more seconds of her marking me with her scent, and I probably would have been a slick-coated mess babbling about needing to be protected and bred full. I forced myself to drop her wrist and stepped to the side, putting some distance between us.

"I just wanted to say goodbye," I said, forcing myself to smirk, to make the disdain in my voice evident, "before your beloved whisks you away forever."

Feyre's hand still hung in the air, and she curled her tattooed fingers into a fist. For a moment, I thought she might strike me—I probably deserved it. But she just balled her hands at her sides, as if it were a struggle not to reach out and touch me again.

I rustled my wings, a vain attempt at airing the balcony out faster. A mistake. It drew Feyre's attention to them, and I resisted the urge to spread them wide and preen for her. To coax my Alpha into staying.

"Not forever. Don't you get a week every month?" Her voice was ice-cold, but it didn't matter. She was thinking so loudly she might as well have shouted don't go yet at me, the words laced with need. I stayed in place.

"How could I forget?"

For a moment, she just stared at me, nostrils flaring again. I let her. "Why?" she said eventually.

I understood what she was asking. And for once, I could give her the truth.

"Because when the legends get written, I didn’t want to be remembered for standing on the sidelines. I want my future offspring to know that I was there, and that I fought against her at the end, even if I couldn’t do anything useful. Because I didn’t want you to fight alone. Or die alone."

"Thank you," she said tightly. I prayed she wouldn't cry—I wouldn't be able to keep my composure if she did.

Feyre closed her eyes, taking a slow, deep breath as if to steady herself. That should have been my cue to leave. I'd made myself understood; we wouldn't be parting as enemies. With any luck, someone would take her aside and explain what was happening, and I'd get back on suppressants before we saw each other again.

"I don't understand," Feyre whispered, speaking mostly to herself again. "Your scent, when nothing's covering it up…There's nothing like it. Is this something you're doing to me? Tamlin didn't— It's not like that with him."

There was nothing I could say to that. I started to winnow, but just as I began to fade into the shadows, Feyre's hand shot out and gripped my wrist, vice-like.

Mother above, she was strong—she'd nearly shattered my bones.

"No," she growled. "Not without me."

I couldn't hold back a shudder, and it was no small miracle that I hadn't whimpered, too. I was utterly powerless when she commanded me like that.

"Alpha, please. Let me take you home," I said, already thinking about the nest I'd make for her, how I could best show her that she could do whatever she wanted with me, that I'd take whatever she decided to give me and thank her for it, that I'd be the perfect little Omega for her…

"Anywhere, as long as you stay with me. Call in the bargain if you have to."

I barely had the presence of mind to bring us to the moonstone palace instead of straight to Velaris. We landed on another balcony, but I hardly had the chance to take in the sight of the home I'd spent decades thinking I'd never see again.

Feyre yanked my arm and pulled me against her. I melted into the heat of her body as she rubbed her cheek against my neck, marking me even more thoroughly. She let out another growl, this one of satisfaction.

"Mine," she said. "You're supposed to smell like mine. What the hell are you doing to me, Rhys? I don't feel talons in my mind."

Cauldron boil and fry me—so much for avoiding a rut.

Feyre deserved for this to happen more gently, but I was afraid there wouldn't be time for that. I pressed my way into her mind, then deposited the basic information on faerie mating bonds and our kind's secondary genders—all of it, at once. I felt her go stiff against me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"You're my—"

"I'm sorry."

She pulled me even closer, burying her face in the crook of my neck, just inches from the gland she could sink her teeth into and claim me as hers. I felt her breath hitch. There was no telltale wetness from tears, but she was spent and overwhelmed all the same.

There was a deliberate shuffling of feet in the distance, footsteps from someone who was doing their best to make themselves known. As one, Feyre and I whipped our heads in the direction of the sound.

Mor.

I nearly sobbed with relief at the sight of my cousin; she looked just as she had the day I'd left for Amarantha's damned party. But before I could say anything, a tendril of darkness leaked from Feyre—Feyre—and slammed into Mor with brutal force, shoving her to the other side of the room.

Well, then. I supposed it was clear what power Feyre had gotten from me.

"She's my mate," I said by way of explanation.

Mor blanched. "Welcome home" was all she managed to say before winnowing away.

Feyre was trembling against me—from anger or fear or need, I wasn't sure. At some point, her hands had fisted in my jacket. I felt an urge to twine an arm around her waist or stroke her hair, but I wasn't sure that would be welcome.

"That was my cousin. You have nothing to fear from her," I said, not quite able to bring myself to say directly that Mor wasn't going to fuck me.

Feyre sighed, so I must have gotten the message across. Her fingers dipped under the hem of my shirt, and the heat of her hands on my bare skin might as well have been a brand.

"This had better not be another mind-trick," she said. The note of command in her voice made my knees go weak. If I hadn't been leaning against her, I might have fallen to the floor.

I felt like I might vomit. After everything I'd done to her Under the Mountain, of course Feyre didn't trust me, which was bad enough on its own, but there was nothing quite as earth-shattering as knowing my Alpha was displeased with me. I wanted to die.

"It's not, Alpha. I swear it."

Feyre shifted, pressing herself flush against me. She'd gotten hard; her cock was straining against my thigh. "How the hell does anyone survive a…a rut? It's like I'll explode if I don't fuck you."

"Give me your knot, and it'll pass more quickly. Let me help you. Please," I said, voice tight as I felt slick begin to run down my thigh.

Feyre let out a noise that was half-growl, half-whine. She writhed against me, desperate for contact or pressure or anything, and her thoughts were rapidly becoming incoherent. I placed a hand on her arm and winnowed us to a bedroom, locking the door shut.

Half a thought, and magic had our clothes off, folded neatly in the far corner of the room. I pulled away from Feyre, and she snarled at the lack of contact, even as I knelt on the bed and pressed my face into the mattress.

"All yours," I said.

All at once, parts of me were cracking open while others were stitching themselves back together. Fifty years of bending over just like this and saying those words…it changed everything to finally mean them.

I heard a footstep behind me, and for a horrible moment, I was sure Feyre hated me so strongly that she'd walk away during a rut. But then the mattress dipped.

"You're so wet," she breathed, her tone almost…awestruck.

I'd made sure she knew the basics, but there was still so much I'd have to guide her through. Thank the Mother I wasn't in heat. I spread my legs a bit wider, tipping my ass up in invitation and stretching my wings wide so she could settle right between them.

"More than enough for your knot. Take me. As fast and deep as you need to, Alpha."

Feyre slid right into me, burying herself to the hilt on the very first stroke. The stretch alone was bliss, but she sighed the word Omega as relief and rightness and homecoming and sated hunger all flooded the bond. I didn't know which feelings were mine and which were hers.

That's when I knew—not just knew, but believed—that I was finally free from Under the Mountain.

The pace she set was nothing short of punishing. I didn't mind. All I wanted was to give everything to my Alpha, so I drove my hips back and took her deeper. Feyre was murmuring a steady litany of words I couldn't follow beyond mine and mate, which was all I needed as the first wave of pleasure started to build.

Her knot began to swell, and I keened. She wasn't even locked inside me yet, and I was already more deliciously full than I'd ever been in my life. Slick coated my thighs. The wave crested and crashed and I lost myself in the feeling of complete surrender to my Alpha. No beginning, no ending, just climax and the scent of lilac and pear and her.

I barely had time to catch my breath before Feyre growled, and her teeth sunk into my shoulder as she filled me with her seed. The stretch around her knot, the bite of her teeth—shockwaves of pleasure-pain made my vision go white.

When I came back to myself, her knot was firmly inside me, holding us together. Unused to the sensation, she wiggled her hips, and I felt even the slightest movements against my ass.

"That's it, Alpha," I managed to say, my voice so ragged it was nearly unrecognizable. "It's perfect. Your knot feels perfect inside of me."

Still beyond words, Feyre purred. It was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard, and even if she went back to hating me for the rest of eternity, just knowing I'd pleased her this one time would be all I needed to survive it.

For once, I was enough.

I hid my wings and shifted us both over to our sides, hoping it was more comfortable for her as she adjusted. Feyre ran her nose along my neck and banded an arm around my chest. I closed my eyes and did my best to commit the feeling of utter safety and peace to memory. She'd be gone in a week, and I doubted she'd ever knot me again.

But Feyre didn't move, even as her knot faded. Other than a halfhearted movement of my hand to magic away the mess we'd made and cover us with the duvet, I stayed perfectly still. I wasn't stupid enough to break the moment.

"I can't go back," Feyre said. Her voice was small, all the power and command of an Alpha in a rut just…gone.

"We made it out. She's dead, and it's over."

"I can't go back home. Not after this, not now that I know…everything."

Tamlin was an Alpha—perhaps as a human, Feyre had been someone he could protect like an Omega, but now, she was a force to be reckoned with. Whatever they shared had been doomed once she'd been Made.

The least I could do was give her the space she needed to grieve it.

"Take a week to gather your thoughts, then. If you'd rather not be accused of disloyalty, I'll take the blame and play the dark lord who stole you away at the very first opportunity."

Feyre sat up, pulling the sheets with to cover her chest as she stared at me through eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I would have thought you'd be eager to rub it all in Tamlin's face."

"I have no desire to cause you more distress than I already have."

"Because we're…"

Her inability to say it aloud made my gut twist, another reminder that she didn't want me. I sat up, waving a hand towards the dresser in the corner of the room; several more blankets floated in my direction, and I set to work arranging them into a nest.

"Because I'm many things, but a sadist isn't one of them."

Feyre just sat there and blinked as if that were some sort of shocking revelation. She was still clutching the blanket, so I summoned a robe for her to slip on.

But when she stood, it was my discarded shirt that she donned instead.

The nest was hardly my best work; I wouldn't blame Feyre if she wanted nothing to do with it—at the very least, she was probably more interested in a bath or finding something to eat. I bundled myself up at the center of it and left room for her anyway.

I fully intended to be there a while. My family could wait; I wanted to see them, but not until I'd gotten a chance to get my head on straight after the whirlwind that had been the past day.

And in truth, I didn't want to leave the nest until Feyre's scent had faded from the sheets completely.

She was still watching me, wary as always. It was easy to forget that Feyre didn't already know her way around, and I started to tell her she was here as an honored guest, not a prisoner. But then her eyes slid to the empty space at my side.

"It's yours, too," I said.

Feyre squeezed in next to me, drawing her knees up to her chest. We were silent for a long moment, and she stared at the wall with a too-blank expression I'd seen on warriors just after devastating battles. There was nothing to say, not with our wounds still so raw.

Then Feyre tipped her head to the side and rested it on my shoulder.

I let myself hope.

[thewaltcrew]

Imagineer Rolly Crump (February 27, 1930 – March 12, 2023) in "Disneyland's 10th Anniversary" from the anthology series Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color, aired January 3, 1965

Roland "Rolly" Crump started his career at Disney as an animator in his 20s. The man who ran the animation department at the time of Crump's hiring reportedly told him years later that "what you showed us was the worst portfolio of anyone ever hired in animation."

His first three years as at WED Enterprises provided little interaction with Walt.

Crump: All I did was absorb. I watched how everyone reacted to Walt, and the strengths and the weaknesses of the different guys. I studied Walt Disney and what it was like to work with him, but I wasn't participating until after three years. That's when I started talking. I learned that if you show something to Walt, it has to be something he hasn't seen before.

He called the period working with Walt "the happiest time of my life."

Crump: It was a great job. You were thrilled to do what you were doing. I was, anyway.

Rolly Crump's strange, bold, chaotic, and graphic style stands out strongly among his Imagineering peers. With his distinct touch, Crump was able to create some of the most visually memorable iconography for Disneyland, including the façade of It's a Small World (based on Mary Blair's styling) and the tiki god and goddess statues in the Enchanted Tiki Room.

Always a man who was protective of artist identity and integrity, he would often refer to rides by their primary visionary. The Haunted Mansion was Yale Gracey's ride, It's a Small World was Mary Blair's.

Crump: I was given the job of kind of supervising It's a Small World. I knew it was only going to work if everything looked like Mary Blair. As far as I was concerned, this is a Mary Blair ride.

And had the Museum of the Weird been built, it would've been Rolly Crump's.

It started out with Crump creating drawings and concepts for the Haunted Mansion. All the strange objects he describes in the "10th Anniversary" episode are all ideas and visuals he came up with. His peers told him his ideas would be "too weird" for Walt but after a presentation to the boss, Crump found Walt sitting in his office chair the next morning.

Crump: The first thing he said to me was, "You son of a bitch. All that stuff you showed me yesterday? I couldn't sleep."

Crump: The next day, what happened was Walt came in and said, "OK, we're going to do a Museum of the Weird, that's where we're going to use all that funny stuff you showed me yesterday." All he had to do was go home and spend some time with himself and he'd come up with everything. He was a delight to work with... You never felt like you worked for Walt. You felt like you worked with Walt because that's the way he made you feel. He encouraged your creativity. He was part of the magic. He was part of everything we did.

Unfortunately, the project died with Walt. After his unexpected passing, the project was dropped.

Crump: Management didn't like it. Walt passed, and he took the museum with him. No one else wanted to fool with it.

But the Museum of the Weird lives on. Marvel created a comic book based on the attraction called Seekers of the Weird. The fortune teller character Crump designed, Madame Zarkov, is referenced in Big Thunder Mountain Railroad and was written into the the elaborate Easter egg SEA (the Society of Explorers and Adventurers, a fictional secret society incorporated in many Disney attractions to tie their lore). And the window on Main Street USA that honors Crump for his work features three of his most famous pieces: the Tower of the Four Winds from It's a Small World (built for the 1964 World's Fair and unfortunately torn down because it was too big to move to Disneyland), Maui from the Enchanted Tiki Room, and the coffin clock.

video source [x] photo sources [x][x] research source [x][x][x]

[revserrayyu]

2.7 Penacony thoughts [part 2]

**Spoiler warning** for everything up until Sunday returns to the stage at the Grand Theater. At the time of writing this, I’ve already finished all of the 2.7 story and may reference events that happen a bit later, so just be wary of that.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t feel like it’s been all that long since we’ve last seen of Yukong, but I’m still so happy and relieved to see her again! I probably mentioned it before but I adore Dawn’s performance as Yukong so much.. her voice is gorgeous.

Thank god Fugue does remember her too. I was a bit worried when we were all out shopping and no gift was mentioned for Yukong. Fugue did say some shopping was done beforehand so I’m gonna blissfully assume a gift for our ace pilot was bought offscreen.

Man, I can’t imagine how she must’ve felt upon hearing the news that Tingyun is okay and to come meet her. Probably had to be the biggest relief in the world along with the most bizarre sense of wonder, like we did a full sky burial for this girl and grieved over her, what do you mean she’s alive and how?? True emotional whiplash. Anyways, we once again give our thanks to Ruan Mei.

I can easily imagine a young Tingyun asking Yukong to arm wrestle and having the latter win each and every time. Maybe it even continued when she got a bit older and Yukong still managed to win then too. But Yeah, Fugue’s new body and the never healing scars, both physical and mental, is definitely something to get used to.

I’d normally have such great faith in Bailu to be able to heal anything, as well as Lingsha now that she’s around the Luofu too, but if they couldn’t heal Jiaoqiu’s eyes or even help Feixiao’s moon rage then I think it’s safe to have a little doubt that our healers could magically fix anyone. I’d love if that were the case though.

Fugue’s hesitance to return home is a surprise but honestly I can’t blame her. Who would want to return to a place where they got taken control over and practically died? And if the suspect is still wandering around the other Xianzhou ships, then I still wouldn’t feel all that safe either, regardless on how far away these ships are from each other.

I do love that her decision isn’t made entirely out of fear though, like she mainly wants to use her new second life as a hidden ace up the Alliance’s sleeve to get a slight advantage over the enemy in any way possible.

I’m pleased that Yukong eventually agrees to this sort of plan too. While they both think they’ve already endured enough pain from these wars and stay out of the upcoming fights, they much rather put a stop to them all if possible.

Eventually the conversation takes a lighter and much appreciated turn as the ladies go up to the front of the ship to see one random Tingyun clone in complete awe of the sky when Fugue reminisces about one of her first flights with Yukong and sweet lord.. my heart!! Look at how dang cute she is! And how Yukong remains stunningly gorgeous as always! We didn’t need further confirmation that it was young Tingyun in Yukong’s splash art but I’m so happy this exists because it’s such a wholesome scene! I’d love it if we could get artwork referencing everyone’s splash arts like this one day.

I’m happy that Tingyun managed to find a way to keep traveling the skies even without becoming a pilot or fighter and getting over her fears to become completely fascinated by flying. Talk about being adaptable.

Fugue about to enter her revenge arc and I’m here for it. You go girl! Go team up with Feixiao! She wants to go rampage after what happened to Jiaoqiu too!

So we then flip over to the siblings and they chat for a bit. Sunday still has the intellitron disguise active since he doesn’t want to pit Robin at risk by being seen with him as a fugitive, but she starts putting the pieces together a little bit regardless. You can hide your face, sir, but your ideals and emotions are a bit harder to mask.

I think it’s sweet that Sunday’s wish right now isn’t to have a meaningful conversation with Robin (though it kind of is anyway), but rather just to be in her presence for a little while longer before he’s set to leave Penacony for good.

How they’re both not even trying to be subtle by giving each other advice or reassurance so this goodbye doesn’t hurt as much.. aaahh.

Robin is so precious, believing in him so strongly. I get why Sunday chooses to stay incognito during this conversation but ohhh what I wouldn’t give for these siblings to just hug and cry endlessly as they start the next chapter of their lives on different paths!

Of course this darn dove had to make a return once more.

First off, she’s beautiful! Secondly, is that bird with the blue wing supposed to resemble Sunday and this is Robin learning to let him go?? Someone hold me I may be the one who is about to cry!

The way she knew the entire time that it was him!! Oh my god sweetie, props to you for not breaking down during that whole scene because who knows when you’ll both be able to see each other again! She handled all that emotion so well. She’s strong indeed because I’m feeling close to shambles and that’s not even my brother who left.

Huzzah, more Welt lore! And not that he did all that much this patch, but I’m debating on using that free five star selector for him since he’s the only standard banner character I’m still missing.. or I could just get E2 Bronya so I don’t have to worry about building up a whole new unit. We’ll see.

Welt is so perceptive because I truly thought Wonweek was just a regular pepeshi. I didn’t even begin to imagine the small dude would’ve also been you know who under another disguise.

I shall save the grand performance for the next and final post.

[wherewhereare]

@formerdetective 's View on the TIWTTFL bonus songs “Obsessed,” “Getting Warmer,” and “Splash” as a Trilogy (Part 3 of 3 parts)

1.1.1  Splash (Part 3 of a 3 part trilogy)

Credit: @formerdective.  Direct extract from her blog. Everything is [sic]

So my interpretation of the song comes in the context of all the other things we know. Splash was July, then I’m pretty sure Getting Warmer was in early September, and then Make Me Like You, Misery were September 22 & 23, and Truth was October 23. Also in mid and late September, Blake and Gwen both said some pretty cool/magical things were happening in their lives during interviews. 

So anyway that’s kind of where I’m coming from with this analysis. To me, the emotional vibe is the most like Getting Warmer. I recommend listening to that right before this for more of Gwen’s mental state. BTW oh my God this is so long because this song is soooo heavy. so be prepared.

Splash

I’m awakening like a rosebud flowering

So, I have no idea if Gwen meant to be this deep or if she just described what she felt like, but I was getting some like, modern art symbolism vibes so I googled rose bud flowering, and this came up: 

Rose Bud Flower Meaning… The Rosebud means anticipation and the opening of the heart and spirit to treasured dreams and fulfillment of desires. Rosebuds are also a symbol of new love and an invitation to friendship, courting and romance. Rosebud flower is in harmony with the heart of chakra.

This is exactly what I think this song is about. And remember what Gwen said on Facebook, that it was a cleansing song, and she did a lot of soul searching while listening to it and when she got back from Montana (and listening to it for her whole vacation) “her life changed forever.” 

I think the whole song is about how she’s really healed enough that now she’s thinking more about the excitement of Blake and a new relationship than all the anger she was feeling before. In other words, she was ready to take a chance and be with him. 

Look at me, I’m turning on, busting like a neon

Just like flowering, she’s turning on… she’s ready. And busting like a neon, well, that’s just a blatant reference to her fave Blake Shelton song. 

Flickering on again, lightning in the dark

Her interest in romance and any kind of sexual relationship had been gone for a long time…like longer than just the few months since her separation, I think it’s safe to assume. But now she’s starting to come back to life “flickering on again” means maybe she’s not TOTALLY there but it’s happening. Same with flowering above, actually, she’s not completely blossomed but she’s getting there.

And I love “lightning in the dark” because literally he was this burst of light in her darkest time. 

You’re helping me forget/What is this?

She literally was not expecting him at all and is completely blindsided by the fact that she’s gone from being at her absolute worst, emotionally/mentally, to falling in love all of a sudden. like literally what is this?

Gonna break out my cocoon

And as a result, he’s helping her come out of her shell and become the person she wants to be instead of the ghost-like person she had been feeling like for such a long time (again longer than just her separation). And not just him, but songwriting and the voice and plenty of things, this was SO important for her. She referenced it so many times and even named her LLC this. That’s how important it was to her that she was finally coming back to life. And understandably. ugh. my baby.

I’m gonna take a risk, skinny dip

So, I can’t decide if this is an allusion to something that actually happened or they talked about, or it’s just an example of something that’s both sexy and risky. Or maybe he goes along with the water theme…that maybe is it. She’s diving in in the most vulnerable way possible (naked). 

Cause I see you’re on the loose

So, it’s no secret one of my favorite things in Shefani Science is their obvious crushes on each other in season 7. They have always been drawn to each other and enamored with each other, and Gwen especially has always seemed quite taken with him.

So just imagine. This guy you’ve always had feelings for, like maybe innocent jr. high style ones, Maybe “sigh if only” ones, maybe “wow I like him so much” ones, who knows but whichever, you had feelings for this guy, and you kind of felt like he was into you too, but regardless nothing was ever gonna happen because for better or (literally) for worse, you were both unavailable. And then all of a sudden you find out this guy is not only going through exactly what you went through, so you have tons in common and are bonding even more than before, but that shared experience means he is available. 

He’s not married anymore, which means if she wants to take a chance with him, she has the opportunity to do that. He’s there, he’s willing, it’s up to her to take the chance. 

Gonna lasso you, gonna lasso you

And that’s what she wants to do. I love love love this cowboy reference so much, in case there was any question about who she was singing about. She’s gonna snatch him and pull him into her. Hot. 

Gonna get some pleasure, together

This one is probably self-explanatory… but also in addition to being like… sexy fun times pleasure, the together is important. It’s not like Gwen is looking for someone to take her mind off things. Blake accidentally took her mind off things because he’s what she’s thinking about now. In Obsessed she refers to him as a distraction, but she’s really trying to convince herself that’s what’s up. And now she’s accepting that’s not what this is. It’s a real thing. 

Must be a sign/All the energy’s pulling me right back to you

So, I’m not positive when she wrote this, but it has to have been sometime in July… my guess is the back half of July. And up until that point, they’ve been spending a bunch of time together. I personally think they’ve already made out, maybe done some heavy petting or whatever…  (because of obsessed and CHTF) and now she wants more. There’s some kind of cosmic, magnetic energy that’s telling her she belongs with him, she can’t get enough of him, she wants to be with him (both literally and figuratively). It’s not just a fun distraction… the universe or at least her brain is telling her to keep up what they’re doing. 

Tonight, gonna bottle you up and wear it like perfume

So now she’s ready. She wants him with her from now on. And she wants him to be close to her, like perfume is something that you absorb through your skin and then it lingers. That’s what she wants from him. She wants him to stay. And I think there’s some sexual implications as well. She wants him on her skin. 

Alright, we going in, it’s what we’re supposed to do/ Tonight, open wide

Open wide could mean a bunch of different things. Open wide, like here I come or open wide like give yourself to me…like open arms. And open wide like, again…let’s go for it! 

Splash, I’m diving in/Diving in, I’m diving in

So, she’s going for it. She’s not wading in, testing the waters anymore, she’s just gonna take a chance and do it. Headfirst. She’s going for it. And it doesn’t even have to be pretty. She expects the “splash”, you know? But she’s ready to move on. 

I think the whole skinny dip, splash, diving…all this aquatic symbolism is important because it’s cleansing. Kind of like baptism, water has always had that feeling of rebirth. Starting fresh. And she’s ready to get going with cleansing herself of the old mess and starting fresh with something new, because that’s “what she’s supposed to do.” Literally she feels like it is not even really a choice, it’s what’s happening.

I’m re-surfacing, a brand new oxygen/Look at me, I’m letting go

And then when she dives in, she’ll come up and the air is fresher. Diving in with Blake is going to be so good for her not only because she likes him so much but also because it’s time to move on. 

A rising Kundalini

So, Kundalini, in this context, is referring to a coiled energy that lies dormant at your base, beneath the root chakra (the trust chakra, FYI). Kundalini is released during a really intense event (often associated with sex but not necessary) and when it rises it travels up through all the chakras (they run along the central nervous system, basically) and when it is risen your kundalini awakens and you reach full enlightenment. It’s an incredibly spiritual experience, that sort of helps bond you with the universe. Basically, this line is super intense. She feels like Blake and her have something literally spiritual. 

I’m breathing you, breathing me

This is about togetherness, I think, and it goes along with the idea of yoga/meditation/kundalini. But breathing is crucial you know? And also, basic. He’s a part of her now.

Going with the flow

Another water reference. This is natural, what’s happening between them. It’s supposed to happen and she’s rolling with it. 

Damn anon I did not mean to get this intense but that’s how we do…

[theadventurerslog]

Discworld | Part 8

Time to continue my exploration and gathering information on what it takes to be a hero. Next up I went to the Inn to see what was happening there now.

Inn:

New stuff outside!

We've got an inn/bar-keeper, a sailor, Gaspode the Wonder Dog who talks and his wooden man, I mean totally normally man and not a weird puppet? at all.

Gaspode was basically using the wooden man as a ventriloquist dummy and every time I tried to talk to the sailor Gaspode would take over there, too. I tried giving Gaspode the bone, but he just spat it out when I tried talking to the sailor and I lost it. I reloaded then left for now but would be back.

Street: Toy Shop: the toy bin had new toys: this time a dinosaur! Otherwise things were unchanged.

Dino.

I didn't find much else of interest in the Street areas, although the fishmonger was back and no longer being tormented, I mean loved on, by the toilet octopus.

Shades: Hovel: Found a knife in a bag of thief's tools.

House of Negotiable Affection: I chatted with one of the ladies there and found out a hero should have camel-flage (possibly a kind of perfume according to her?)

My last location in the city was the newly opened Sybil Ramkin's Dragon Sanctuary for swamp dragons which are far less dangerous than the current full dragon terrorizing the city. Swamp dragons are mostly a terror to themselves with their tendency to explode very easily.

I met her at the door after knocking but she told me to come round the back as she's feeding her darlings.

So to the dragon pens!

And this has gotta be a Monkey Island reference. "That's the second largest woman I've ever seen!"

Monkey Island: "That's the second biggest monkey head I've ever seen!"

Unless they're both referencing something else.

There were a few things to do here. I scooped up a nail and a leash. She seemed fine with me just taking the leash... Of course I had to examine all the dragons it would let me.

There was also a blue rosette and ribbon, but I couldn't grab it without Sybil chatting at me. It was a reward for one of her prize winning dragons. The dunnyking, er, custard king, was calling his custard blue ribbon custard, the best custard. So I figured there's a connection there.

I chatted with Sybil and discovered she WAS the woman at the barber's from early in the game as I wondered. I also learned of the swamp dragons' drive to eat anything that will help work their digestion up for flames but will often overdo it and explode. One of them sadly exploded during the conversation.

I moved on and decided to deal with the areas outside the city next.

I went to the woods only to find the barber still there still waiting on the girl ever coming to meet him. I didn't get anything else though. I next went to the Edge of the World, or rather I tried to but then things took a little diversion.

As Rincewind started to enter the water a big monster showed up.

By its many eyes and tentacles I can only assume it's meant to be a Thing from the Dungeon DImensions, which I'm not sure the game has mentioned yet or I may have forgotten. It's possible one of the wizards referred to it before. Either way, things weren't looking good for our wizard here until a giant hand suddenly came down and scooped him away leaving him in a tight place.

Then I was shown a scene of the gods in Dunmanifestin. The gods were arguing about cheating and trying to swap dice. The God, Offler seems to be planning another meeting with one of his monks. This was all, I assume, meant to be in reference to some events in the first books, but it felt like it came from nowhere in this game and would probably confuse players who hadn't read The Colour of Magic... I guess it's a note that the gods are watching and life on the Disc is all a game to them. Certainly, Rincewind's fate is.

Anyway, after a bit of back and forth it had turned out Lady Luck (I assume her) had whisked away Rincewind and stashed him in her bosom... She released him again and placed him back on the Disc.

Then I was back to my own devices and continued on my way to the Edge of the World where I found nothing new.

After all of that diversion and potential foreshadowing, there's really nothing to do but carry on business as usual. I moved onto the mountain pass, but found nothing there either, so I continued on to Nanny Ogg's place. She's home now and was knitting.

By examining a very long winding string of wool, Rincewind started following it until finding a hatch that led out back where I found a mallet and a sheep!

Aside from getting the mallet and appreciating the sheep I wasn't sure what else to do here, so I made note of Her Wooliness and took off again.

Cue another wander and fiddling with items while I tried to figure out what to do next and what I might have missed.

I went again to the inn, and tried the bone again, but still resulted in Gaspode spitting it back out with no further hints. So, I left and went to the dungeon to see if I could get another bone. That wasn't a problem and while I was there I took another look at the mouse-hole. Just like way back when I was trying to get an imp, I tied the twine to the worm and set the worm on the hole. A rat came out and Rincewind caught it.

Examining and using it revealed it had a zipper on its back and was actually just a rat costume for... an imp! Or possibly the same imp! So I've got the imp back for the camera.

I realized I forgot to go to the brotherhood's hideout when I was doing my city sweep, so I went there, did the usual password at the door and got handed a custard tart. I will never be free of custard.

Back at Nanny Ogg's I took a photo of the sheep.

I went back to Sybil's and this time figured out how to get the blue rosette by knocking at the front door to summon Sybil then leaving her without saying anything to go back to the pens and snag the ribbon before she came back. I've had that framed octopus picture for ages. I was able to put the sheep picture in it instead... I look forward to seeing what that'll be used for. I went again to the toy shop thinking maybe I could somehow glue the blue ribbon? Get it to stick to the custard tart container? I dunno. That didn't work but I realized, sticky! I needed something sticky to keep Gaspode from spitting out the bone. And so I glued up the bone. That would hopefully solve my problem with Gaspode.

Yeah, the gluey bone kept Gaspode from spitting it back out, so I was able to talk to the sailor without interference this time. He wanted some milk but I was able to get some from the barkeep then he talked.

He told me some tales about Amazon women, but also, importantly the topic of his tattoo came up. However, he won't say where he got it until his parrot, Polly, is found. He gave me a whistle to summon the parrot.

The only place I've seen birds is at the edge of the world, so I went back there again and with the whistle was able to summon Polly. He stayed in the air and like a stereotypical parrot, he did the ol' Polly want a cracker. I didn't have crackers, but I had a firecracker... I launched it at him knocking him into the water, but still out of reach. He's fine just a bit stunned. I tried the butterfly net and Rincewind did do an animation with it reaching out, but it couldn't reach.

I hit a point of just trying stuff on stuff. I thought maybe the snake might be involved somehow? Since it's long? Turned out I could stiffen it with starch and make it longer with the fertilizer for an extremely long stiff snake with magic markings and even with a knob on the end.

It didn't work for extending the butterfly net, but a knob on the end brings a wizard's staff to mind and Windle still had one, so I went back to UU. And swapped his staff again.

I got an extending stick which I could attach to my butterfly net and I caught the parrot at last.

Triumphant, I brought him back to the sailor only to discover that I had dropped his whistle. Now, something had gone by when I was catching Polly and I guess that must have been the whistle and I didn't realize. That was his handcrafted Hublander whistle from his mother, so now he was too distraught to talk still and I had to go back and find the whistle that was swept over the edge of the world.

At first I thought with the fork there looking like part of a slingshot maybe I'd need to launch something. Like maybe one of the birds had scooped the whistle or caught a fish that caught the whistle as the game had made a point that the birds catch fish going over the edge.

With that in mind I thought of the rubber belt as part of the dunnyking's machine. I was able to use the knife to cut away the belt and get it. Unfortunately, that wasn't the answer.

I needed to use the magic hat with the endless ribbons. That led to a ribbon rope going over the edge that I was able to use to climb down.

Part way down I had another run-in with Death who's just watching as usual as it's not time yet, but he dropped some more foreshadowing for seeing Rincewind again in the Square...

Then I climbed further down to end up on the shell of the Great A'Tuin itself, the world turtle.

The whistle was just lying on the shell and I was able to grab it. I didn't see anything else but hopefully didn't miss anything. I left anyway.

After all that, I was able to finally find out how to get a tattoo: go to the barber. That's it. I suspected it'd be him.

Except, he's still waiting for the girl. I stopped by his shop just in case and it was a good thing I did as I had missed a pair of scissors and an appointment book with nice big pages. I brought the book to the milkmaid/actress to get her to sign it which she did.

I then went to see the barber in the woods who was too busy thinking about her to come back, but with the signed appointment book was convinced she would come in for an appointment, so he went back.

Finally, I thought. Before I went back, since I had to pass through the City Gate anyway, I talked to Nobby again now I had collected a bunch of information about what a hero needs. I was able to try different combos of things to get the odds again and confirm what I learned.

Trying everything resulted in odds too high. It's gotta be exactly 1 million. The combination I'll need is:

Magic Talisman

Mustache

Birthmark

Magic Book

Camo-flage

Sword that goes ting

Six items again. I'm hoping the dragon summoning book counts as the magic book, though, so that I only need to find five items and I was well on the way for the birthmark as that's what the tattoo would cover.

So, I moved on to the barber and talked with him. He went into somewhat graphic detail about giving a tattoo and Rincewind chickened out. However, he offered another suggestion: a temporary transfer fake tattoo. His son gets them with bubblegum. His son is the lovable street starfish. And so this all continues...

I went to talk to the street urchin, but he wouldn't just give me one because he's collecting them.

So I needed to figure out some way to get it from him while he's holding it up being all taunting. Or I need to do something to him before that stage. I don't know, but the steps to get this tattoo feel never-ending and that's just one of the items.

I also talked to the old folks again while I was in the square in case they had anything helpful. I had the option to ask about the magic talisman that I must not have checked back on with them. They suggested the "Eye of Offler" in the secret temple of Offler. Only the bravest, most fantastic adventurer could stand a chance of finding out where the temple is. I figured on that braggart in the Broken Drum.

So, my next steps will be to take a last look at my current stuff with this street urchin and then if nothing works there, start pursuing the Temple of Offler in hopes that maybe I'll find something helpful along the way.

Hopefully next time will come much progress on getting these items.

Argh!!!

[pretensesoup]

Queer Book Reviews: Oak King Holly King

As I've gone along as a writer, I've started to meet some other writers. This is because writers are communal birds, like parakeets. Anyway, one of the writers I've met a bit is Sebastian Nothwell, who wrote Oak King Holly King. I was on his podcast Write Here Write Queer, and he was on my podcast, Ask a Medievalist. I hope this background doesn't make things weird for any of us.

All right, historicals. I will say that I have been a...I don't know, historian isn't the right word, but I do a history podcast and I care a lot about language, and I tend to be bitchy about this. One of my favorite novelists tended to use the word demimonde in her work set during the (British) Regency. The problem is, that word was coined by Dumas in the 1850s. Similarly, you wouldn't use "quiz" in 1819 to mean question someone about something, because it didn't have that meaning until much later. If it's 1815 in London, what is a weekend? Not all of Saturday and Sunday, that's for sure. And of course, let's not get into an extended discussion of corsets versus stays, when tight-lacing became possible, and the absolute absurdity of someone telling someone else they look fat while they're wearing a robe a la francaise...

Anyway, the point is, historicals are easy to mess up. Research is hard, and people don't like to do it. It's much easier to write essentially modern characters stuffed into hoop skirts and breeches and hope for the best. And that stuff does sell! Some authors have entire careers on that! Indeed, it can be very entertaining when done well.

Oak King Holly King is an antidote to those who play loosey-goosey with history. Nothwell is well aware of the history of his period (1844) and uses it to his advantage; his characters live within a literary and political landscape that stretches back as far as the Peasants' Revolt of 1381. It's delightful. The 1840s is a great time period where you get the really gritty Dickensonian London before all of the advancements (like gas lamps and Oscar Wilde) that make the end of the century feel so modern.

The other half of OKHK takes place in the fae realm. The fae are a weird, dangerous bunch, full of their own motives for doing things and violence.

The plot of the book is that Shrike, who is fae, has a situation that he needs help, and magic guides him to Wren, who is an extremely bored clerk. And then they have some adventures.

The book had a good ending that felt very inevitable. The language was very pretty. The audiobook was good, too. And the cover is gorgeous.

What I really liked about this book was the way it referenced and to some extent followed the structure of the story Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. We have an opening that puts Shrike in danger. Various adventures solved by magic wherein both characters can show their mettle. And finally a finish that requires Shrike to be brave as someone tries to cut off his head (with a scythe rather than a sword, but come on). In the meantime, Wren has become obsessed with a recently published modern English translation of the story and created an illuminated version. I don't want to delve too much into the particulars, because spoilers, but it's nicely laid out, and I appreciate that it not only has significant references to the Peasants' Revolt, but draws some inspiration from another great medieval story.

You don't have to know anything about that to read it though.

[sorasan000]

On the page that lists the lyrics of "Green Eyes" there's a small scroll on the side that lists 4 things:

Eucaly, short of eucalyptus

Grapes

Mimosa

Acorn

Eucalyptus is very likely in reference to how Green Magic manifested for Ellroy. It has a purifying, cleansing effect that clears away negative energy in the space it's burned in. It can extract gold from the soil but because gold is poisonous for the plant, it tries to get rid of it through its leaves. It's used as natural medicine as well.

Grapes is very likely in reference to one of Aasop's fables The Fox and The Grapes.

The fable was recently used in ch.30 - The Secret Garden Part 2 to describe how Ellroy views romantic love. Rudolf perceived Ellroy as scornfully looking down on it because it was out of his reach, which he argued came from not having a full grasp on what it entailed. Just like the fox told himself that those grapes that looked ripe and juicy were probably sour anyway and gave up after attempting to get them again and again and failing.

In Ellroy's case, whenever he felt that feeling, he plucked it and stomped over it. So it was correct that he probably didn't have much experience with it even before becoming a black wizard. Unfortunately, as a black wizard he couldn't dive deeper into it, either.

The next two items, mimosa and acorn, have not been referenced as of chapter 30.

[janzoo]

Some notes on Ancients and Greek mythology - spoilers within for Final Fantasy XIV, especially Shadowbringers and Endwalker. This isn’t necessarily new information, but I haven’t seen anything about it here on Tumblr yet. Let’s have a lil fun with (mostly) Greek mythology under the readmore -

Hi folks! While trying to figure out an Azem for my WoL, I found some info that I’d like to share. Not all Ancients take their name directly from Greek mythology, if at all. And of those that do, matching the character’s gender to their namesake’s doesn’t seem to matter, either. So for those of you like me who are figuring out an Azem or other Ancient OCs, relax! Ancients’ names aren’t as strict as we might think.

While “Hythlodaeus” is a name in the ancient Greek language, it doesn’t come from mythos. In fact, it comes from a satirical novel called “Utopia” that was published in 1516; it roughly translates as “speaker/distributor of nonsense”.

Mitron’s real name is Artemis. Mitron is male, but Artemis was a goddess.

“Venat” is a reference to a character from Final Fantasy XII of the same name, and comes from Latin “to hunt”. (Some think that the katakana for her name, which spells out in romaji as “vēnesu”, is supposed to be “Venus”. It’s more likely that it’s supposed to spell “Veneth”, but there’s no way to write “th” sounds in katakana. The same mix-up happened with Aerith in FFVII.)

So yeah, if you want to branch out from Greek mythology, or play with gender, or whatever, cool! Not that you weren’t cool to do so anyway - this is all just for funsies in the end. In the meantime, I’ve put together a few lesser known names and figures from (mainly Greek) mythology that could also prove interesting names/inspirations for Ancients. These are very much simplified versions of the myths. Please don’t be an ass if there’s “wrong” info, the myths vary a lot and I’m doing this in my own spare time for fun and because I’m hyperfocusing/infodumping about some special interests.

Tiresias/Teiresias: One day, Tiresias found a couple of snakes mating, and beat them to death with a stick. This angered Hera, and she turned him into a woman. Tiresias then lived for several years as a woman, including getting married and having children. She then found some mating snakes again, and either beat them to death again or didn’t - either way she became a man again. He then became an oracle - the “how” varies between stories but the version I was told was that Zeus and Hera were arguing over who has better orgasms. Zeus argued that it’s women, and Hera vice versa. They decided to ask Tiresias, since he’d experienced both. He said it’s women. Hera became pissed at him again and blinded him. Zeus felt bad about this and gave Tiresias the gift of prophecy as a sort of consolation. Some myths say that this gift worked by allowing Tiresias to understand birdsong. (Between the gift of prophecy and the gender “fluidity”, Tiresias sounds like a prime candidate for Urianger’s Ancient imo.)

Sibyl: Technically a title denoting a prophetess, but we’re making it a name now. I’m referring specifically to the story of the Cumaean Sibyl. Apollo came to her, offering a wish in exchange for her virginity. She held up a handful of sand and asked for as many years as grains of sand she held. However, she later reneged on her part of the deal, refusing to sleep with Apollo. He granted her the extended life she wanted, but did not preserve her age or body. Sibyl shrank with age until she was no more than sand herself, kept in a jar. She was still conscious and had a voice. She’s referenced to at the beginning of T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Waste Land” like so (translated from Latin and Greek): For once I myself saw with my own eyes the Sibyl of Cumae hanging in a jar, and when the boys said, "Sibyl, what do you want?" she replied "I want to die."

Hecate: Greek goddess of magic/witchcraft, transitions, and crossroads. (Many sources also say necromancy, creatures of the night, and ghosts.) I don’t have a specific story for her, I just think she’s cool.

Deimos and Phobos: Sons of Ares, god of war, though they’re more metaphors than proper gods. “Deimos” means “dread” and “phobos” means “fear”. They accompanied their father into war; thus, when Ares descended onto the battlefield, he brought dread and fear with him.

Ma’at/Maat: Let’s dip into ancient Egypt! Ma’at was the goddess of harmony, truth, and justice, said to balance the stars and the seasons. Most notable was her feather, the Feather of Truth, which was used to weigh the hearts of the dead. If the dead person’s heart was lighter than or equal to the weight of her feather, they were deemed worthy of proceeding into the afterlife proper. (The Feather made a cameo in Marvel’s “Moon Knight” lol)

Bast/Bastet/Ailuros (Greek): The Egyptian goddess with the cat head. You’ve probably at least heard of her. Defender of kings and goddess of pregnancy/childbirth. Sometimes depicted as the gentler aspect of the more aggressive lioness-headed goddess Sekhmet. Honestly, I’m mainly listing her because a) she has a cool Greek name if you want to stick with that, and 2) it could be a fun option if you want to be really on-the-nose with the Ancient of a Miqo’te lol.

My hyperfocus seems to have about run its course, so I’m finishing the post here. The point is that if/when you’re making an Ancient OC, you’re not bound to ancient Greece, or matching gender for gender. Thanks for reading. :D

[diezmil10000]

i don't feel like there's much to say about my art improvement this year. however, in 2023, i wrote a long retrospective about my art in which i mentioned my goals for 2024, so let's see if i achieved all of them ^w^

"so for 2024 i want to study some stuff i feel i'm still lacking in. i think i've always had a good eye for composition, but i've never actually pushed it in my finished illustrations - they depend a lot on the poses because i've always been prioritising drawing over everything else. that needs to change this year."

this was actually one of the first things i did in 2024. just around this time of last year, i was in the process of making 7 fullbody illustrations for class, depicting my ocs from a visual novel i still haven't finished. i never shared them outside of artfight (😂) because i get shy talking about my ocs in public, but they are still fire and almost no one reads these posts anyway so...

i had to use so many references for these pictures, from magazine covers to fashion to layout design. i think this was the first time i was actually putting into practise all the knowledge i had learned in my degree, as up to that point i was getting through it kinda passively.

overall, my 2024 was filled with great compositions. who could have known that paying attention to it would lead to better illustrations, right? here are some other highlights i'm still very proud of:

that leblise piece is probably my favorite piece of art i ever did period. so simple yet so delicious and full of symbolism. the aqours fanart is based on an S shape, from "sunshine", and i felt so smart for coming up with it even though it's really simple. and then there's kanadiamari as always - what i really like about that fanart is that i was able to put my design knowledge into good use again.

"i also want to get better at drawing characters from extreme angles. i've always felt like my poses are a bit flat and i think i can study photos taken with wide angle lenses to improve at that."

before we get into this let me remind everyone that i trace all the time. sometimes i wake up and forget how to draw, so i open an app called Magic Poser and play with the 3D dolls until i have a decent base for what i'm picturing in my mind. but it wasn't until last year that i started pushing the angles of those scenes so that i could get the best of them.

of course, you need to have good skills in order for your traced pieces not to look like shit. i can work with anime models with innacurate anatomy precisely because i already know where the muscles sit on the body. the suselle artwork is more referenced than traced, in the sense that i first sketched the pose, then re-created it in 3D, then traced it and then re-sketched it. the things i do for yuri orz.

okay this was kind of a tangent. i did improve on this particular point but the reason isn't that i got better at perspective, i just made better use of the tools i have - the result is the same and it's positive, so i'll take it as an achievement!

"and of course i still want to draw faster, which is something i've always struggled with. […] i'm still too slow for the kind of artstyle i want to achieve, which includes having a looser lineart and less details in irrelevant areas of the drawings. i think that overdoing the lineart actually hurts my illustrations, because everything ends up pulling the viewer's attention with the same energy. i also think messy artstyles are neat."

this is a tricky subject. in my 2023 post i showed some examples of what i wanted to keep doing in terms of lineart, and while i certainly got better at not overdoing it, i'm still far from that goal. definitely something i need to keep an eye out for, as i really like it when i manage to get loose with my art.

not much to say here except that i'm sorry i never posted these farcille sketches. they are 12 in total and the rest of them are porn and i'm too shy to share them with the world. also those furry guys i draw a lot (twice) are me and my and my best friend's fursonas, in case anyone is curious.

"as for the stuff i like about my current artstyle, i definitely want to keep the way i color!! and by that i mean the method i have for applying filters that make my colors pop. i could maybe play more with textures too."

i actually think i went backwards here. what i do now is more visually coherent, but my 2024 doesn't shine for the way i use colors in comparison to the previous year. it probably happened because i got too comfortable with the way i post-process my illustrations nowadays, in contrast with how experimental i was when i started playing with filters. a shame, truly, but not a huge downgrade.

"i also like the way i depict intimacy, and people have praised it too. i don't think i'll ever change the content of my art, i eat breathe and speak in yuri. if anything, there are still some ways of conveying feelings that i haven't been able to draw because i lack the skill to do so, but i'll keep trying ;)"

not sure about this one either, but i know it's just because i didn't draw a lot in 2024. among finishing my degree and final thesis, organizing stuff for aqours when they came to spain and preparing for my current job, i didn't have much time for yuri brainrot. my best drawings were dunmeshi and lgts fanarts, and i'm glad i got into both of these pieces of media because they still warm my heart today :)

i'm very proud of all 3 of these artworks, especially the frebkuchen one, i cooked so much there. maybe this skill of mine (the ability to depict intimacy) is the one that's closest to mastery among the ones i have, and that's why i don't see much improvement.

overall, 2024 was a good year, but not my peak. i can't rate it just in terms of improvement, but i can't deny that i like my 2023 artworks more than my current ones either. i think i'm on the right path, and while i don't have any art resolutions for 2025 i hope i can bring better art to the world from now on.

thank you for reading until the end if you did, and i hope you have a nice year!! <3

2024 art summary!! lots of oc art this year :) i also started painting digitally and it's sooooo fun~~~

(template by PEPPERTODE on deviantart)

[diverteddreamstudios]

My friend Raolin commissioned me to draw a scene with young Prince Arctic and his mother, Queen Diamond. Based on the interactions we can see between them in Runaway, as well as Arctic's thoughts about his mother in the prologue of Darkstalker, his childhood was really terrible. Diamond would have been EXTREMELY strict with Arctic throughout his entire life, because if he messed up in some way it would reflect badly on her as the queen.

I've seen fans of the series talk about how Darkstalker had a horrible childhood, with parents who fought all the time and a father who was indifferent and cold towards him. But nobody ever seems to realize that Arctic's upbringing was a whole lot worse. At least Darkstalker had a mother who adored him, a sister he was really close with, friends at his school, and a loving soulmate (for awhile at least).

Arctic had none of that. His father is never mentioned so I assume he is dead. He had no siblings, and since Diamond never talked to anyone below the first circle, his choices of friends were probably really, really limited. In Runaway he mentioned a weapon's teacher he was close with, but to my knowledge that might have been the only kind dragon in his life. And of course, that same weapons teacher is one of the dragons he accidentally kills. That would have destroyed him- and we can see that it does. He has PTSD about animus magic for the rest of his life.

Arctic was never really shown love until he met Foeslayer. It's no wonder he fell for her so quickly. And even though he hated the Night Kingdom, going back home meant going back to Diamond, who despite her words in her letters, felt no love for him at all. He really had no choice but to stay in the Night Kingdom, where at least he had Foeslayer and Whiteout.

Anyways, I could talk about Arctic all day, he's a really well-written character and I love exploring his backstory!

Arctic ref- https://www.deviantart.com/iron-zing/art/Prince-Arctic-Reference-Sheet-720763500 Diamond ref- https://www.deviantart.com/iron-zing/art/Wings-of-Fire-Queen-Diamond-ref-775453544

The background was referenced from a photo I found on google but now i cant find it again sjadfgkasjdf if I do I'll edit this and link it here