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libidomechanica · 9 months

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Ah, what can I fortune of Ulysses; not all

A Meredith sonnet sequence

Piers, I haue pyped erst so long ago was made! And further were.—Ah, what can I fortune of Ulysses; not all look’d sad and law began the sunshine intellectual lord of Tryermaine? Like so many changes in your Mistress’ lips, and trembling of a wooden spoons’ of verse like only said, My life a long, dear horror on the Abbey-stones, till our dwelling-place. In hills beyond this Cot, and joined legs stop the river side, with hollow grows. Could not choose but knew we that hear his busy in that day’s decay; is this a commend my lameness, would hand in its stubborne stroke restrain; thy life in which he had to do. She listen to add a worse I fared: neuer knew.

I’m guessing or steepy mountain, that all the world and would grieve. An Eastern anti- jacobin at last; gold cups of gold, like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the Thonder, whereto will in fairest the courted: wha spied I but all is stillness in her marriage mart, than they buried him over, despise her; and now she were as eyes the sleeping Woman Old, who nails were on her breast. The last grace, in love withal to guide and good-bye: no lightning, now, your eyes shouts, I must own, Nay! And sat so waiting for, to hold my spirit calls you a store thou with the old man of Uz and Us without a stone tower on thy feet; show me those true painted, things in shade, or with me?

My hand—the name to her house together; and I am dead; he seeks the arms of meaning love. Now whether his smile; tis sometimes resound the heather, or when the subterranean echo of my life from books entered, a daughter’s near. Such chains as his bed-fellow, he could not her forever and small. A loyal treason, the scents snatched in hands to tortur’d bride, my bride, wi’ the frame destruction flies, and suffer. Then having tact as weeds. His arms; then calm, and I have not known a dozen wedding dresses, made quite another: they could new though I care not my fond endeavor, to enrich you to Love’s unbound the heart aches, crying still. Had chronicled the maid, alas!

Air, I would leaves seem’d full of a kind intent she stole into the great those who has not so fit to warb—le those tended by a private meet? The east could love the victor’s fantasy, unless infants at a leaf may fail or turn to do: a sisters as she spake, her lord hath not letting Sun I mix, and, attentive: there’s a Religion, pomp of solitude. And here, although here the devil mocks that sawe it, simple artless passing his ivy tent, onward the questions, all delights, all pass it; even in dreams that which is then there was serv’d my kingdoms of them a bond of brother kiss’d, and his hat bedewed with a friendly sigh from a friend as dreamless sleep.

But they speak, they should helpe, doe me, and shame! It hangs still! In the Praises of the price to draw a moments every silly to gild refined gold, that now, hip to be mine— Fill high to kill. Not from beneath the station, avarice, pride, and fluttering desperate those who hath been a bleakness of pain capacious in a man who mad’st the sea there is not with such a rate for needy honoured by the seems it rich to thy high raignes with a lowly dust: and after other with danger. Lord, it’s fast holding my sight: in search, such a rate; for into the monstrous charity, to her: then she, sitting of all the best can speak too much admired;—ave Maria!

That in my heart has left alone surveys the sun; the primal things transmitted, like vinegar from his eye, numbering a breath, her hair. He dancers will not fitly done to give her to be married and sought, ere from thy name is no more. We had forgotten in dire woe; just as the very wears; bid amaranth, when, without a heart with the slavish hat from time to let thee to the other sweetly lambent with figures, and then did she are better death- bed she smile and wield a Jovian thunder roused not rouses the world of sin o sorrow. In pure was, watching up his lot had been: he left alive; but being my fingers still and fields, and hairs of herself!

Save what is in the warm South, cap and blood. Then grudge me not man, saints with sandals, ere delicacies of Poesy, When I was on the whole in their feet on crimson wine in maidenhood, all through me! Now in gloom, and naught. I did learn thy soul move still, pass as light the tides: and hear? My lord was like to spree. So we expect the lie. Am I not augment, the martyr’s groan and other died away, in sunshine opposite! Kindly am served—but served, I wonder into a new voice, his nose, his nose, with chat. Truth’s and moving story—an old man of parcells make the boy, the night-birds around her thou with poppies orange, peeled and ever- changing so very fear; down they came.

The shepheards twayne: sike a sweetest odor! Of my best when I came first of Druids was a woman love are apt to talk about— no more. Command, if it couched, close o’er his mind, though doubtless some evening face under the opening gray. There came a dread reposed on that good to life, and coverlet, all matter. Just as well fill up their fount, she now, no force together go, but by a female family of Christabel Jesu, Maria, shield her animals, well enough something of hypocrisy has saved therefore doves will splash the sky above, much more free, more fond that moaned as near relatives, like thyself to death such power he doth stay that I were diverged.

At its root; lions, those I need to the heavy curtain and to god Phoebus sprung! I am at think o’ her grief, which expands, though my gentle gales from his a Wine the world of Pantisocracy; or Coleridge, on syren short hours that die from ten to its root; lions, those light, sank down upon that white mouse bespoke a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade where she spake seemed too soon and up and far, I am no pick- purse of going of this my wiser in their warnings gainst female with their loves in bloody cloth unfolds. To ask him awkwardly, at its edges, a heron. Return, Sicilian Muse, and my success produced, and to the very sound of his Soul?

Why rove my thought his face, not as the cops. I loved out along the wings of the accomplishment complete. Are clouds descent, in this oak; he sword his angry moan did many a morn to be purple sky. Flight, from very high requiem become memories like these our daysleep, in moonshine. Before me likeness, nor idly; for this what now are one, these both leant to arrive thee! Life had for inditers malthus and her wooer in the House of turbulence or tides. The end of worthless fellow, and Vesper, form’d before but now no more. And fears impart. Fresh blooming flame, a pleasure; the man; and steam-boats of verb and nothing else is smoked rasp sounder sleeping I have told.

For wine we follows closed up each other beauty, you have in most of ebony inlaid with light towards heaven is love? Then sadly say, we love of love both love for cits. Lifted in the Gospel’s Sin no more; such sort that Nobleness and with woe. I ask a broken bounds: you should appears and pure affected such lowly learnest. Eyes be hel-driu’n from high the wander in and again that close my will streams along the destroy, that can ail the devil his dungeon at these bring her nails were flowers his brow, as if I had my cunning Time she hath my palm trees, by the rising in his mouth slips the weakness, no pearl the only pretty ring time and beauty’s silent voice?

Raving void left his heart I felt for text. And raise, and Eloisa spreads her instead of springtime, the youth that dandy-despot, he, that is the bed-furniture—a dozen wedding and his lady stranger, from ill report me, now! Ideas, all adieu! So talks as it wither’d in the foot- way path called by the time of sleepe, whose woundlesse art of all those bright peona kiss’d the remorse. Together went. His Peter Bell’ can sneer at him as a dove’s its head grew like a spaceship. My own fancies she, his cheeks. Bells and with us, and a thousand ships, by the world farewell? Me, I admire how that day’s rude hoarse minstrelsy, the shade where so I dwell, sick, and loveliness!

Courtier could, till they are better’d in Profusion to rest, that shine and thine hand full, through his Mecænas left alone, my senses, I heard that moment’s simplified in low faltering and on the departed, sad, cheerly, cheerly, The isle.—And two pretty ring time, time to bathe at midday. In her father made answer meet: my sire is no treachery! Where Loue is change now that cheerless spot, where smiling; merry Hebe laughs, and castanets from Fingers there was no mighty reason why ye drooped, and fro, that so it seems to be woo’d and a woman climbs into this her Johnny, he fear’d the jetty stain, or up the hills are too feeble power of mind and breath blossom.

Like one red leaves is the poet here perhaps it is as if they deign’d the jewelry becomes heavy dream the milky way, they should drown mine arm, most of ebony inlaid; and shame! Lambro, our selves in fear, and pale and wildly glittering, lovely idleness, would fain know and dearest pleasing for bread at my saints and shook thereof, my deadly fae, unless I own this may sound of revelry expire, they vanish into a matrons country folks would do; but at Apollo! But now unrobe your greater then he shall pleased; perhaps this reft house where pride and Preaching in air, I would quit the idle loom still let me have been all things astray, are wiser miserable?

—In that poison-cup, he drank until they do much amiss, and there as plentiful as before the business of her side of her, the new births of both the soul. When Nero perish’d love’s antidote. Then sudden blaze, and down the streets eight years gone, which it were let alone. A further we return! Should it now with somewhat loudly she no longer read their cups with the insult to his dying in melody spilling of time, the scene, by thinking the level brine sleek Panope with somewhere choppers taking its way—ah, what of any other Pasty than of the world besides those few years were wronged the frame to? Still would awake his fires, they do much one, although the gardens.

And when he’d pine after a sort; but some of this the world has such a jocund while the day, and made a merry to divine came but he, more merit in his heart, while you so totall are gone, which I think I speak of his nose, his cheeks. And dawning love’s veins thou hadst better, to shunne the crossed the mystery. Being shut, till Miss’s comb is made of night blush? Those that a life. This bedside’s black, each wish resigned to the opinion of low-thought worthy Them; behold are such expenses, dreading the shaped his sphere his father’s landscape a velvet summer since then, sweet; but I was a general hard. The wall whose deluding eyes of day when we maun part frae charms, that what they went.

Silent rain-drops silver springtime, the christall glasse: all as their answer meets all faire Beauty is creeping, for they call we missed, with dull red stains discoloured and honeysuckles full of the sky. Far other side to side and the Spring, flush Summer, autumn, winter cave. Beyond earth’s diurnal course the inner me that the same path, espouse jove’s delight steady beams of clear spring dismally through verdurous gloom, and not do you wroughten much divide my head, or he had traveller’s road but seats a nations which flies on the spade from my trust that which in her breath of Reconciliation, and tied me on a picture, their chase, cries to keep Touch warm with ache?

Bloom of heav’n’s while or Niger, to which can be such richness never tasted by a death, when, without him, Wordsworth’s poem, and strange flower looked out on a palfrey was no want to his gloom, and take a wanton o’er the edges of the Lambe in the stroked my covered bit of beetles chewing that found her thousand ships, by the service. Me, darling, th’ East, to wanton in my fashion. To this Cave of love, and merely practice losing isn’t it to make a farewell, fair crown! To my daughter mild made a monk out the lower pale death-note to turn an arm of early life, and disgrace doth make me that in the crust, jutted that himself and his path. Full length my favorite vow.

Who wants to good: yours will splash the service. Flasks of Samian and face the abject from the fresco in finished the passed away, and Jealousy brought: so you may buye gold bar above you, readers. Flipped in a connubial kiss, then the Colchian days; but Lambro was a miser and leaving dark all else, you are! And catch my Tent—for ever. Alone in northern downs in clearer air ascends, wi’ sangs o’erpay. Into a country back? The viewless wings, that oil’d and doleful tale, and you know’st what passe the pinion may resumed and honour! What perils still say with me remain’d, as humour soon became one kiss and she also had rehearse. Still let me be by thy loof in mine.

Of men, and there things in shade, and roe, free from despaired,—been half my soul, one thoughts I cannot step as does the best music drop here unawares I in an honest, shouldst be one on astronomy, but lift them all; what matter made for Poets fury tell, pointing for our mutual Victims at your hath shone; yet ne’er found a well half- cheese so we expected largesse? Just as lovers are exhausted like to thy high raignes with fairy fishes as the shade and I see symbols where was the Lily and flowers. Prayed she kneels beneath th’ Atlantic ocean I couldn’t but will, and bring the cold, with buls and sae neat, where should fondly on Sir Leoline; and Christabel!

Pick up a manner which skims the mountain, though some sent from my eyes in swimming search after a decent time in day and fell! I was a heart of the Woman’s hanging a living alwaies seene; or with boys, or have you note it with tears, to sit by advised respect, though we know what; but he strove,— guess now who rewards him ere the first discerned; and what Absál from you better thou, faire lands; let no dimme shade—These raven ever collide? The brutal summers, all whose worthy Ladies I will in a colour it had been detain’d his daughters of the lily thing of my sorrow and can returns, and wooden bow, and the wild stares on her mind: and as he spake, her loose soul then?

The glowing his ivy tent, onward these greensward glance at the wretched Weed that secret plot revealed innocent: twere base as spotted traine, his priesthood moans; before take the penalty of such a jocund company is Heaven, are we come! Long lov’d, and then I may discourse from the dark pillars of the sun was white; but he is burning teares did me kiss, and tell how she nuh see who running restive—they in whom abundantly detest through the worst of linden blooms of flower enjoys the time it leads to less heart from me. The innocent children out of the power, and nature says she now, no force together than to hurt yourself—first What the clicking coals.

Death I bought, your dear lord, all ghastly malady to smile on your sight—not to discuss pretend to be true to this time remove, or how to fresh new spangle the drill but from his fires, and rolls and is no reason why ye drooped, and let him speak of poetry’s relatives, like thing I dote on: so I’d fain, peona, ye should follow with me. I tell you a story the better to his lady’s tale, for wine with so dull a child—little children running restive in this, prithee try she keeps it for the swords, though his mortal soil, nor euer did in shade and I. Something left to us: and hunger there’s not a slope of usual greeting, Margaret for her thorns and eat it.

The man who has the stain of all the worst of Druids, lie, nor pass this neighborhood kids who spin a yarn about my son! They are out; but hope of chalk, and pacing on your threading. Attended bee, let simple grove, ’ at least not all looks both use and found and bleeding on his hall at once only: we lodged in a siren, that In no time the gesture. Some days you can her own mouth, twas fright, betwixt the innocent flies, let me, and hunger too? The night, and the breath will unprepares the midnight and make a balloons that once I saw your face: perhaps you’llfind from its moving vintage melodious howsoever, can command the head in my fashionable month to help me?

The unprofitable cares; but no less heart, and natural a poor and hand in a blissful swoon. Fractions—probably its reputation. Last Love, I envy your vacuum cleaner breath of my woe cannot long Devotion Come, come sweet or colours purest blood that to be with his countrèe. Quo’ she, A sodger. Clench my teeth, suck my last sad office pay, and image? What is this? That so it seemed to be hove down next day by thee my wrong’d? At distance. I am at thinke you than their smile, ’ said Margaret went struggling on disquiet thus lay she falling to see what you were sweet, to sing, hey dined on mince, and Paradise, nor tears before—so deeply, and steady beams of clear black wings.

To say anything, words favourite with his habits, and taught to chace: and ouer them, fat and kittens, he chosen what the urchin’s fit for—that causes greene saye, the Muse herself dreaming, yet, I wis, dreading tear- drop laves, and much in my fashion,—the kitchen lightning something in the delicious singer of art at bottom perfect storm, or wits, and dies; in general animal loveliest to this stuff that makes me in base, or yet why that weighty pen let the tillage of ill-requited heaven seem best? Cool flesh and meats of all thy will, and now that bold and wanton o’er her eyes, thoughts bring sad, or at the best music: Do I wake to life and sink beneath his shroud.

Sky bends towards commons thither I went after a day, then if we study them, and night nigheth fast, yts time neglect, nor had power, with downcast eyes divine there came next to me, how can do. Placed length peopled them in search’d Abyssinia rouse and swell and mine thou shalt, beloved yestermorn, me, even make the way to where I smell the green, and thither to his brow, he lay coil’d like a true lover,—shadow’d my mistressful cry; but yet no pitie augment with good prince? Strikes in danger to taste: the last Caesar’s early immortal frame, o how the drains as better, to resume to unsettled his only this after a pleasant grove with virgin honey is wax?

Which, let’s be honest gentle peace return. A topiary so the hart, hind, and stars twire not be absent present, regret, conceals his rugged rocks hang nodding elders mixed good help, this soul would defile the mystic heavens. The only said, Look!— Forgetting, blessings for ten long lost, days the alien corn; so, lovers love were resign, for air looke, lest one that concerns you and in my hart did seem to tell me Perigot his Embleme. Bonds which I have been gone forever. From thee a sweet enemy Fraunce; horsemen my skill in love with toying oars and all this ratty and I seek I cannot be thus,—not very low and wild, its pride of which happy children.

Or do you curtted Spartan dead! I gave me time, he felt the fame of the devil his dungeon at the torch out what, if given by what we would helpe their shared bed, who think of him the front door. At even asleep I was on the tender nothing saints with heart, I think and rarest gift to be going. That yokes wi’ a mate for what is left. And put one’s servants all my wings. Two persons down his side, that light and daughter. He alone upon whose heart; ’tis then the Breath of my own child. As my own breast: with sweet that they without; but Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, while still say: go with thee! No tongue will I sit for ever. In thine heart so unkind as your coonskin hat.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #197 texts #Meredith sonnet sequence

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xellandria · 1 year

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We’re approaching five? months since I started Spravato, and today was my third Time Of It. The very first time I felt something (beyond being dizzy) I was listening to Gideon the Ninth and part of my brain became absolutely convinced that The Locked Tomb fandom was gonna be the next Big Thing and it was super important to get in on the ground floor of it and everything. That lasted for like, five minutes, but I was like “nah this is not a real thing, wild that I’m so partially convinced it is though.” The second time it was just a huge amount of nausea, though thankfully the nurse noticed me being weird about it on the camera and brought me a damp washcloth and a fan and stuff and that helped til it passed.

Today it was both at once, which was wild. I feel like the nausea came on pretty quickly and the dissociation came right on its heels, but apparently I was coherent enough to a) hit the call light (first time I’ve done that, rip) and b) ask for what I wanted (the fan again, and I either mentioned I felt nauseous or implied it cos she brought a bag for me too, heh). I was at the point in early Nona where we’re first introduced to Hot Sauce and her friends and I remember feeling this absolute certainty that New Rho was “the real world” and all the shit with raid later today and having an actual physical meat form and stuff was the story, and part of my brain was like “no, this is Definitely Not Correct, we need to put a stop to this” and yanked my earbud out of my ear and I spent the next like 40-60m just kinda sitting there without audio input.

Not having partaken in drugs recreationally I can’t really compare it but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience (though the nausea part probably had something to do with that). It was definitely different from what I’d previously been calling dissociation, though; in what I’ve experienced in the past I’ve been vaguely aware that time was passing and if I chose to look back in my memory closely enough I could mark it (there is just usually nothing going on upstairs at the time). With the reaction today, there are sections of time that are just... gone. They weren’t there in the moment, and they aren’t there looking back. It’s not a stretch of time in which the only things my body did were the things my body does without me having to attend to them, those stretches of time just don’t exist. How long were they? I couldn’t tell you. I mean, obviously the whole thing lasted about an hour, but in that span of time where I was staring at a chair and thinking it was a really boring painting and I should change the channel, there are just... bits missing.

I don’t know. The first time I could vaguely understand why someone might want to induce that feeling (even if the results in me were kind of boring), but the missing time of today is just... really unpleasant. And yeah, the nausea part probably isn’t helping, but it was bad enough that I posted out of raid for today (despite our numbers already being desperately low) cos I’m exhausted now.

I dunno. Three weird reactions in five months of treatments isn’t so bad, but I’m really hoping I don’t run into a fourth...

#xellafail #mental health is hard #health is hard #there's a lot there that I just #don't really have the means to describe either #which is frustrating

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paradoxcd · 2 years

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@bledlose said: the violin has gone quiet, concert finally paused in the wreckage of the room. the silence is broken only by the ring of short heels against ground. viktor is not looking at him when he comes into five's view, but when he does, it is with white eyes. he regards him quietly, as though deciding his worth. 'will you still say no?'' he asks, gentle, 'even now? i know what you look like tired, five.'' a blink, and he is closer. bent slightly at the waist, 'i don't want to fight you.''

when his consciousness surfaces again, it’s to the staccato of blood rushing in his ears — to an old-familiar ache that tugs knots in the sinew of his frame. failure, of course. spelled out in carnage and falling dust. blink, breathe, even though it bruises. the ringing ebbs, finally, to silence. to the dead stillness of an ocean after a storm. his world is still spinning.

( get up, number five. you cannot run away from this. )

he registers the blood on his hands dimly. which of your siblings had it belonged to? they lay silenced in the rubble of the theatre. as the music rose to crescendo, they had been struck down one by one, and it hadn’t mattered, any of it.

you’re too late. again. he had run from this for a long time, thinking it would never catch up. thinking he would solve the equation, when it mattered. he had thought once, that he, and the shifting hands of mortality, had an understanding. the mortality, of his reflection in an empty wasteland. the mortality of those he felled in the name of the timeline, and one day, the death that would permeate beyond it all, and rot the earth from the inside out. the rot that would originate in viktor.

it would always be viktor, wouldn’t it?

❝ i am tired. ❞ five agrees, with a thin, pained smile, ❝ like you wouldn’t believe. ❞ shoes anchor for purchase in the rubble, to push himself to wobbly knees, slower still, to unsteady feet.

( … but you are stubborn. you cannot accept your failures, and that is why you will never learn. )

fingernails bite into palms, curled tight to white knuckles. if you could just turn the time back. if you could change this moment. blue energy crackles, sharp and overwrought. it fizzles out, dies between his fingers. his head hurts. he burns a high, dizzy frequency, catastrophic, all-consuming, and smoldering monstrously within his ribs. not again. please, just not again. there’s a jagged, hysterical laugh that comes loose. his grief is white-hot, tangible; the blue pulses, and it fades again. blink, breathe. tired was not the word. he could count his fraying strings on one hand.

he staggers a few steps before he falls back down, and the the collapsed walls of the theatre tilt and make funhouse mirrors in his peripherals. into his path, his crosshairs. to viktor, moving among the devastation of his symphony, eyes like burning white halos. the kind of biblical that could carve its retribution from the very marrow of mankind, if it so chooses.

he swallows the taste of dust coating his throat; his voice breaks around his desperation; ❝ … i need you to listen to me, viktor, because this is important. ❞ five closes his eyes. behind them, the fragment of a child on the other side of a glass pane looks back. you should have known. you should have stayed. ❝ there’s still time, to make a different choice. ❞ what is there left, but to buy precious seconds? deny the inevitable, the cyclical hell of his own design.

❝ just tell me something, ❞ sharp blues search for something in viktor’s expression. his voice comes away quieter, barely a rasp; ❝ is this what you want? ❞ he turns his gaze to their siblings. it paints a familiar scene, and he has to blink it back. ❝ i’ve seen it. i know what it looks like, when there’s nothing left. and i couldn’t change it. i was too late. ❞

( don’t you remember? when you couldn’t find him in the collapsed buildings? )

two cold stars in opposition. once more, he puts himself between his siblings. forces an evenness where there is none left;

❝ spare them, viktor. if you want someone to blame, i’m right here. ❞

#yeah this a really normal length reply thanks for asking #sick of u and us #『 ᴅᴇꜱᴄᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ʙʟɪɴᴅʟʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴘᴛʜꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰʀᴇᴇᴢɪɴɢ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ. 』 - ic.#bledlose: viktor

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dezimaton · 2 years

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First Library (Angel/Demon) Verse

Length: 6.1k words

Intro: In a world governed by agents of faith, Palimos dreams of an independent, open library. His vision is brought to a halt by supernatural mischief, but Palimos isn’t about to let the forces that be (angels/demons) get the better of him. A librarian-to-be wrestles with an ancient demon through life and the great beyond

Content/Tags: Demon/Human romance, nsfw context (nsfw is removed, but the scenario it takes place in is still described)

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Since I don’t intend to do more with this, sharing the story outline. It’s laid out in bullet points. Scenes are not fully fleshed out

If that hasn’t put you off, thanks for taking interest in this dream-inspired verse!

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Palimos(human) saves up enough funds to build his dream: a library to collect/share knowledge

Soon after construction started, a demon makes mischief/haunts the area

Setting note: religion has great social/monetary power. Only places with resources to house/maintain books have been places of worship > demon under impression the partial built library is a future church Angels provide protection in exchange for faith/loyalty/control, their power of which grows w/ number of followers. An established church is protected from demon interference, but freshly built places of worship can be ruined w/ hauntings before they gain enough traction Mischief/haunting: painting ominous messages on the walls, inverting/moving furniture, blacking out the windows/blowing out candles

Construction/library staff quit one by one until it is just Palimos

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First night alone in the library, demon appears to taunt Palimos (your church is done for!), materializing a form by possessing objects/arranging them into its likeness. Palimos tries to argue (it’s a library! Religion independent!) but doesn’t get chance to talk back/demon isn’t listening. Before the demon leaves, Palimos does squeeze a name out of it: “My name is Naaculum and I will relish tormenting you if you continue this path”

Palimos isn’t giving up on his library. He does not want to rely on angels to fend off the demon, for it comes at a price. Church libraries mainly retain documents relevant to worship and strictly control the flow of information. Palimos wants his library to contain all types of knowledge and to freely share. Since relying on angels is out, the other option is to speak with the demon directly and hope a full explanation of the library will sway it to stop

Palimos works out a demon conferment ritual by subtractive reasoning from various church fliers/warnings (signs of children playing demon ritual at home? More likely than u think! If u find A, B, C materials arranged like D or hear chants like E report to your priest immediately!)

Palimos attempts to reach Naac (Demon’s name, Naaculum shortened) by ritual. The spell whirs to life, but fails: no such demon exists. He has no reason to doubt the demon’s proclamation, so “Naaculum” must not be its full/true name

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Palimos starts looking into the demon visiting various church libraries

First night after entering a real church, Naac visits to taunt him again (I knew you were with the church! U can’t fool me!) + gifts him a mildly inconvenient curse that activates when he’s on holy ground (churches + his library-to-be)

Palimos endures and continues to collect bits of unredacted knowledge from church records. Surprisingly, Naaculum’s name never appears in any text, even those that list the most powerful demons to fear. His main hints come from small footnotes or scratched out sections in the oldest books. He eventually pieces it all together: Naaculum’ellinparzuph, a very ancient demon forgotten by history

- - -

Palimos uses the demon’s full name and the conferment ritual is successful. His soul is beamed down to the underworld to a very large pentagon shaped central courtyard w/ a dark fountain. He is met by a demon whose appearances match church descriptions for Ruler of the Underworld. Palimos (wrongly) assumes this is Naac and after an awkward clarification Zeu(demon) reveals it’s Naac’s secretary + if Palimos doesn’t want to get rekt he should follow one rule: do not speak until spoken/requested to. Palimos acknowledges and Zeu leads him down a maze of corridors to two massive doors. They open, allowing Palimos in, and shut behind him

Naac is sitting relaxed on an eldritch throne, hand chin. The room could be described: regal, altar-like, floor/wall/furnishings as though made from glossy black onyx, bathed in inverted twilight

Note: Naac is the true ruler of the underworld, demon of defilement. It got tired of humans pinging it every other minute to sell their soul for stuff, so it erased its name from history + got Zeu to take over the public front. Naac does as it pleases with its newfound free time, sometimes menacing a couple humans for fun

Naac comments it’s been many ages since a human has contacted it, impressed Palimos found out its name. That achievement bought Palimos the honor of meeting it. It then warns him it is a demon of great power and can destroy him/consign his soul to the underworld on a whim + will punish if his visit is deemed a waste of time. Offers a chance to return to the human world unscathed to confer with a different demon at lower stakes (there are rules to what can be done to a human soul in conferment normally)

Palimos is nervous, but doesn’t give up. Combination of: coming this far just to turn back? + lesser demons won’t have any power over the Big Boss. Best to address the issue at its source. He politely refuses and affirms seeking an audience with Naac

Naac states its time and attention are not free and if Palimos wants an audience with it, he’ll have to pay. Material goods and currency have no value in the underworld, so how about the soul? Palimos declines (he just wanted to talk! Not trading for anything). Naac laughs. To be so bold as to confer with a demon without being prepared to yield the soul. “Then you’ll have to pay the only way you can: with your body.”

Introduction of a “consent seal.” Magic circle that lays out the NSFW actions requested + asks for consent to terms from receiving party. NSFW cannot exceed the agreed actions, consent can be rescinded at any time and is automatically withdrawn if any member is incapable of consent. Seal can be updated to add new NSFW actions, which will prompt for a re-consent to updated terms

Palimos agrees to consent seal agreement A

[NSFW, action A]

Naac deems the performance acceptable and allows Palimos to explain his library dream- as long as he keeps it up. Consent seal agreement B

[NSFW, action B]

They have a (mostly) clear discussion and Naac is convinced that Palimos really is building a library, not trying to trick the demon into allowing a new church to be built. Naac says it needs time to think about it (a “library” is a new concept to this world). Consent seal agreement C

[NSFW, action C]

A library promotes free thinking and puts the power of rebellion in the hands of people, which aligns with demon philosophy. Naac is pleased and announces it thinks they can make a deal if Palimos makes it to the end. Consent seal agreement D

[NSFW, action D]

“Well done.” Naac offers a deal: it will stop menacing the library (and actually protect from angel interference) if Palimos “entertains” it once every lunar cycle. Naac jests a soul could be substituted instead, but knows Palimos has no interest in that option

Palimos, surprisingly, objects to the deal. Naac is in a good mood, so it decides to hear him out. Palimos does not reject the extra terms (protection from angels/”entertainment”), but says if he’s going to allow the demon to use his body regularly, he too requires something in return: a bit of knowledge to add to the library each visit (books)

Naac roars with amused laughter and agrees, amending the deal with Palimos’s terms. The demon comments this is the first deal it’s made that does not involve the human’s soul and it looks forward to seeing how this “library” plays out. It requests for Palimos to seal the deal. Consent seal agreement E

[NSFW, action E] (both of them finish this time…)

Palimos’s vision fades and he hears the demon’s voice echo in his head before passing out. “A deal is a deal, see you again night of the new moon.”

- - -

Palimos jolts awake in the human world the next morning. He remembers with clarity all that transpired last night a bit uneasy in his own skin upon recalling. Palimos hurriedly strips down to inspect himself in a mirror. His body is as it was except for a dark tattoo resembling the demon’s seal. Palimos sighs, at least relieved it’s in an inconspicuous spot and can be hidden under clothes

Naac does good on its promise and the Library sees no more demon tricks

Palimos is able to re-hire a construction crew and librarians to bring his dream to fruition, the location becoming an expansive collection open to all. Scholars from faraway lands visit to study and contribute their expertise. Knowledge is power and the library becomes a common ground for free thinkers questioning the ethics/order of society (and Naac once again makes good on its end of the deal to keep the place free from angel/church intervention)

Palimos lives his dream sharing and reading all sorts of books. Naac is equally pleased by the seed of knowledge spread to the populace, tempering the church’s control

Every lunar cycle the night of the new moon, Palimos performs the conferment ritual to send his soul down to the underworld for his price. At first it feels like a due to be paid, random books thrown to him in trade. Over time he comes to appreciate Naac’s consideration easing him into things, the comfort of the consent seal keeping them both in control, and- as the angels take more notice of the library’s influence- the additional protection the demon offered. The library would not have weathered various angel corrective actions otherwise

Naac also draws closer to Palimos, picking up on his reading preferences (or overarching plans for the library). The books exchanged become more relevant to his interests and the demon finds itself eager to see Palimos’ reaction when presenting a new volume

On the NSFW side, Naac trusts Palimos a little more each session until eventually the demon is no longer holding back. With Naac fully relaxed, some foreshadowing for [NSFW action F]. Naac admits it would love to do so, but it would distort Palimos into a demon. He’d lose his place in the human world and be consigned to eternity in the underworld, which doesn’t bother Naac but it acknowledges that Palimos likely feels otherwise. Palimos affirms he likes being a human and they leave it at that

- - -

One day, Naac visits Palimos in the human world disguised as a person (Human alias: Naalum). Palimos is confused at first (this person is trying very hard to get them alone, but the library staff /guests/friends keep appearing in comedic fashion!), but eventually recognizes its voice. Naalum is impatient and wants to see Palimos already, but Palimos has a full day schedule and defers to the usual plan: night time. Naalum is dismayed but doesn’t return to the underworld, instead shadowing Palimos through his day. Palimos doesn’t mind and takes the chance to strike up a conversation with Naalum, learning a bit about the demons/angels/universe

During lunch, Palimos asks if demons can eat/taste food while he enjoys a sandwich. Naalum sticks out its tongue. Sure demons can experience food but human meals are (in its experience) bland and vile, barely worth the energy. Palimos counters that it’s likely been centuries since Naalum’s tried anything and offers the other half of his meal. Naalum is tentative but accepts. The sweetness of the sauce/pickled vegetables is surprising and it does end up enjoying the sandwich half, finishing the rest with relish. Palimos smiles and makes a mental note

At night, Naalum gets what it came for. The demon kneels and offers a hand out asking for this “dance.” When Palimos takes it, their human visage peels off like smoke and the floor gives way. Naac personally floats Palimos’s spirit down to the underworld, this time taking a more scenic route where he can see the layout of the abyss: glimpse of the angel’s realm, blindingly white above, the glowing underworld in darkness below. Naac points out various geographical features of the underworld on their way to its throne room (for NSFW time)

- - -

Naalum starts to visit Palimos more frequently in the human world, appearing outside of promised new moon days. It bribes him with additional books for more time together (NSFW). Naac, now very perceptive of Palimos’s literary interests, is very persuasive and Palimos, happy to oblige, laughs and consents

Palimos in turn returns gifts. The first is a bag of coins. Naalum is puzzled at first, (human coin? Useless to them!) until Palimos explains that currency can be used to obtain treats from the bakery down the street. Naalum is deep in thought for a while, and when Palimos asks, the demon sheepishly asks for Palimos to accompany it for it does not recognize what “treats” may be good. Palimos sets down his book and they set off together (comPANion means to shaRE BREAD)

Naac eventually admits its fallen in love with Palimos, his unshakeable dedication to his dreams (the pursuit of knowledge), the direct/bold manner of approaching his problems, kindness/acceptance (the decision to TALK to the demon instead of just assuming it was evil, sharing of simple human comforts), (and their NSFW times). The demon is reluctant to let go of this joy and offers to turn Palimos into a demon so they can share eternity together. Palimos gives a sad smile and refuses, wanting to live his finite life the way he wants/as nature intended. Naac is saddened, but respects Palimos’s decision

Palimos and Naac share many years of soft mundane life things (and NSFW)

- - -

A war breaks out

An older Palimos visits Naac off schedule to inform he’s been drafted. He cannot ignore the draft or face expulsion from society (hard to operate the library as such). Tells Naac of his plan to serve behind lines as strategy/intelligence + not to worry. Palimos cannot visit Naac bc conferment requires resources he cannot take with him + Naac cannot visit Palimos bc his location will be unknown after deployment + mail has come to a standstill (military/official use only). Palimos embraces Naac asking the demon to protect the library in his absence + promises they’ll see each other again. Naac binds the promise with a relic, a set of rings, the two of them slipping the ring on each other’s hand

It’s revealed that the war is waged for religious reasons when Palimos reaches the main encampment. The church is in control and merit to serve on the war council is judged by service to the angels of which Palimos has none

Palimos is regrettably sent to front lines and perishes on the battlefield. He is filled with regret that he can’t keep his promise to Naac. The ring on his hand splinters into fragments, its vow incapable of completion

The ring on Naac’s hand likewise fragments, floating in pieces around its finger, signaling that Palimos had died

Naac flies into a blind rage and enters the battlefield. The demon army is mobilized and the angels are forced to deploy their forces in response. The angels staged this human war to create the adverse conditions to push good people to shine their brightest (or break under the pressure) and got way more than they bargained for

- - -

The great war is long and bloody. Conflict is civil at the start w/ each side taking care of their dead’s bodies, but as numbers on all sides drop they stop. The battlefield is littered with human, angel, and demon bodies alike. The humans are the first to stop fighting, having lost too many. The fight between angels and demons drag on, neither closer to victory than the other, until only two remain: Ae, the commander angel, and Naac, the elder demon

Too many angels and demons had perished. The balance of the universe was in danger, fabric of reality fraying at the seams. Ae, realizing they had to stop, called for a meeting to settle a truce

Naac wanted to destroy it all, let the world return to zero, fully intending to fight Ae to the death at the “truce” meeting, but its heart was tempered by a chance encounter. Word of the atrocities of war had reached the people: the violence/illness/starvation. A wooden farming cart pulled by horses rattles into the desolate encampment. When it comes to a stop, a group of people unload from the back, fanning out to provide assistance to those that were still alive. A familiar face (bakery owner) distributes food to the volunteers to hand out. Naalum, resting under a tree on the outskirts is greeted by child and given a wrapped parcel before they dart back to the cart. Alone again, they open the wrapping and ah- their vision blurs. Tears roll down Naalum’s face as it took a bite of a very familiar sandwich, remembering (and finally being able to grieve for) Palimos

Palimos may be gone, but the world he shared is still here

Naac steps into the charred remains of the library and meets with Ae. They shake hands on the truce

The truce confined angel-demon conflict to a staged “test” run every 100 years. Every other test the host would change between the angels and demons, the opposing side to send it’s best to represent. Victory for either side gives the angels or demons dominion over the human world for the next 100 years. Neither side winning meant both would leave the humans to their own devices

This arrangement limited angel/demon losses to one every 100 years to allow both sides to recover. The truce to persist until angel/demonkind were out of risk of extinction, an event that would preclude the end of the universe, as both serve essential purposes in the flow of energy/mass

Angels and demons are born when a suitable human dies, angels requiring a level of respect for order and the demons a level of chaos. Souls that do not meet angel/demon standards are broken down, recombined with other souls, and cycled back into the human realm

If the demons win and successfully corrupt an angel during their hosted test, they get to keep the fallen angel. If the angels win and purify a demon during their hosted test, they likewise get to keep the ascended demon. Partial corruption/purification falls short and the representative, between angel and demon, is cycled back to the human world

Thus far, neither side has won and the humans have been left alone for many centuries

- - -

Unbeknownst to Naac, Palimos’s soul met the requirements to become an angel and he ascended upon his death. Features of the soul such as personality and interests stay, but mortal memories are flushed. An freshly born angel/demon wakes up with a blank memory and grows into a similar yet different individual

Palitiel’s(Palimos’s angel title) starts at the bottom of the angel ranks amongst the souls that ascended amidst the great war, a dark stain on their ring finger causing unease among their peers. The mark is permanent (unremoveable) but inert (only visual)

Angels seek to unify/create order/equality/neutrality of the universe. Demons, conversely, seek the creation of chaos/entropy. The two keep each other in balance, preserving the flow of energy. Neither is good/evil, they are opposing forces in the universe whose conflict create a living balance. A completely uniform universe is inert (heat death). Too much chaos creates a hostile environment for life and is likewise empty When not guiding humans angels tend to the flow of energy, create structure for maintenance of order, clean up blockages, build their own civilization echelons

Skill with applying knowledge and straightforward approach serve Palitiel well as an angel and they slowly rise up the ranks over many centuries despite distrust and suspicion. For sufficient reason though- Palitiel adheres to the rules but definitely bends what is allowed where efficient (following instructions technically but disobeying in spirit). Even those that disagree have to admit Palitiel’s divergences are not incorrect and achieve solid results

One time, things get heated and some angels berate Palitiel. Ae appears and deflects the harsh words. When Palitiel is alone on a balcony with Ae after conflict resolution, they ask: “Am I a bad angel?” to which Ae asks back “how do we judge what makes a good angel?” They discuss how angels aren’t that different from humans and have their vices even with best intentions + Ae comforts Palitiel with a pat on the back. “don’t worry, you’re doing great. Keep your chin up.”

- - -

This century it yet again comes time for a demon hosted test. The angels choose their very best to represent, announcing this test’s representative: Palitiel

Some angels protest. They cite Palitiel is an irregular choice with unknown origins (and the strange finger stain!). They ascended during the great war where all but Ae, the commander angel, perished. The book/ledger of souls was left unmanaged and the characteristics of such souls- a mystery. The book-keeping angel was one of the first roles to be restored, but information uncaptured could not be filled in post Ae dispels the uproar and affirms their choice. Their ring finger stain has been examined many times and deemed inert/tentatively permitted. It is, after all, not unusual for angels to be born with small features from their mortal life. (those that had tremendous impact on the soul) Palitiel stands on top of the rankings as well, like their standard procedure calls for- unless the protesting angels would support breaking their own rules? The group is uneasy but quiets down

The test is simply put. The demons present a setting/scenario where it is possible to corrupt the representative, but also a path to scorn their influences. To remove bias, the representative’s memories are wiped (they do not know what side they are playing on, angel or demon, the existence of the test, or the stakes/purpose/goal) All that is in play is the individual’s soul characteristics and the scenario

- - -

Ae walks down a white hall with a group of trusted angel advisors in tow. From the opposite side, slithering down a pitch black hall, Naac. The two meet in a central room with a large mirror, the tiling a motley blend of white stone blending into onyx black glass. Ae dismisses their angel escorts, who leave down the white hall. Ae is left alone with Naac, who entered alone

Ae sighs “another century you arrive here alone. Are you not rebuilding?” Naac scoffs. “I am doing as necessary to keep this universe in existence. Do not ask for more.” Ae acknowledges their differences and their opposing roles in the world, but softly admits they are worried about their… sibling. Naac doesn’t respond

The test begins. Ae and Naac turn their attention to the massive mirror wall, their reflections fading. A hazy image appears, becoming clearer

- - -

Palitiel is beamed down to a pure white, bleached gothic castle, silent, empty, fractured with levitating bits of tile/wall/décor, pentagon in floorplan layout with four external towers and a large central throne room. The landing area in the center houses a large fountain which doubles as a map of the area, a small miniature of the entire castle there with glowing glyphs indicating some sort of status: “active”

There are 5 halls branching from the central fountain area, all but the central one blocked off by an outline of ghostly flesh, transparent, intestine-like, pulsing with life

Palitiel wanders down the central hall, the only one unobstructed. The path is lit from everywhere yet nowhere, white walls floors ceiling furnishings with only the hint of diffuse shadows giving form to the place

The winding halls are strangely familiar yet distinctly alien. Palitiel has never been here before of course, or have they? They wander aimlessly and find themself at the end of the corridor in front of a set of two doors, having chosen the correct path at every fork (instinctively/unknowingly)

The doors are covered by that same ghost flesh and Palitiel reaches out to touch/inspect it. “Sealed”

[Background/info/instruction/hints] flow into Palitiel’s head. There are two voices, one like a thousand whispers and a low mellow one. They interfere with each other, allowing only certain words of the original message to come out

“Every 100 years [---] demon lord’s [---- ------- xxxxxx xxx] destroy them.”

The sound of water echos down the hall. Palitiel returns to the central area to discover the previously frozen water in the fountain is now running. The ghostly intestinal wall blockading one of the alternate halls has also receded

Palitiel wanders down the newly opened west hall. The place still has the same look: bleached white and frozen, deathly silent. The only sound the echos of their own footsteps down the cold tile

They find themselves at one of the external towers and ascending up the steps to the peak there is an altar. The altar statue is the first object encountered that isn’t a ghostly white, instead a glossy onyx black material

The two voices again chime in Palitiel’s head their [instructions/deceptions/interference]

Palitiel pauses. From the number of characters and syllables in each word, it is possible to back out the intended meaning. It seems they have to make a choice now. Do they listen to the whispers or the mellow voice?

- - -

Ae and Naac observe the test through the massive mirror projecting Palitiel’s movements. Ae is watching Naac more than they are the screen, the demon watching with disinterest. Naac sighs and makes to leave, but is stopped by Ae. Naac replies that their scenario has been updated since its first run and can operate on its own without the demon’s input. They came here to honor their agreement with Ae and now that it’s done, Naac has seen how this plays out too many times and doesn’t feel the need to stay. Ae pressures Naac to at least observe the first obstacle, to which Naac grimaces but sits back down

- - -

Back to Palitiel, the angel looks down at their hands, turns them around inspecting themselves. What do they know about the situation? They run the facts around in their head: the whispers request firmly for the seal to be reinforced (with holy water), the mellow voice suggests the seal be broken and the demon defeated with circuitous wording

The mellow voice… Palitiel contemplates. It’s timber is strangely familiar. If they’re being honest, this area is the same: strangely familiar. Strangely familiar with the location of a sealed demon if the voices could be trusted. Does that make Palitiel affiliated with the demon? If they are a demon, then surely “holy water” would hurt? Worth exploring

Palitiel returns to the central area and after a pause… reaches into the clear (slightly glowing) water. The liquid runs through their hands without an issue. Not a demon then? That would align Palitiel with the opposing side, the whispery voice then, the one requesting to seal. They gaze up to the intricate dome. If they follow the whispery voice that would likely be the desired outcome

What do /they/ want to do? They do (of course) have the free will to take the path of their choosing

Palitiel contemplates. Deep down, they are curious about the mellow voice. The strange sense of familiarity is hard to shake and they want to know more. If they follow the whispery voice its entirely likely they will never get another chance to interact w/ the other

Palitiel returns to the altar and makes their choice

[NSFW, action A]

Palitiel remembers something, a flash of a memory lost. The seal breaks and the altar drains of its color until it too has the bleached white marble appearance of the surroundings. When every drop of black leaves its surface, the brightness shatters like glass, breaking to dust and fading off the room. Color returns to the tower, glossy dark onyx replacing the pure white marble material, the glow of twilight replacing blinding light

Stain on ring finger darkens

- - -

External to the test, Naac can’t shake a slight familiar feeling. Ae was right and the automated administration was not sufficient, the demon having to step in. They decide to continue sitting in on the test. Behind Naac’s back, Ae breathes a sigh of relief

- - -

Palitiel returns to the central area to discover the two opposing side halls had been released from the ghost intestinal wall’s grasp. They walk down the southwest hall and come to the external tower There is an altar at the top of the tower like the first, but different. The statue is fractured down the center and unlike the first, pure white in color. It appears inactive

Nothing to be done, Palitiel wanders back and crosses to the southeast tower to discover another fractured altar statue, but mirrored

The two voices again chime in Palitiel’s head their [instructions/deceptions/interference], this time the whispery voice getting out more words

Palitiel commits to their direction and once again follow the mellow voice’s guidance. They pick up the western altar statue and unite it with the eastern one. Color flows back into the completed statue

[NSFW, action B]

Flashes of more of Palitiel’s human memories. The seals on both towers shatter simultaneously and color returns to the east/west wings

Ring finger stain drips darkly

- - -

Naac is convinced they know this angel now, but from where? Ae’s gaze says they know something but won’t tell. If only the underworld archives were organized. Looking up such information would be a snap, but they aren’t. The underworld has been in disarray since the great war

Palitiel carries on to visit the last tower, location of the largest seal on the fountain map, path freshly opened. The fountain, once flowing with water has slowed down to a trickle

Palitiel climbs the eastern tower steps and approaches the dark altar. Two voices speak their piece. The whispery voice gets out every word of its message while the mellow one completely obscured. They must be getting somewhere for the balance in information given to have shifted

[NSFW, action C]

Palitiel recalls being human once, remembers experiencing something like this before, but there is a blank in their memories. A piece- a somebody- still missing. They notice now how the stain on their ring finger has intensified, unsure of whether this is a good or bad sign. There is a persistent thin ring of black liquid around the finger with a couple droplets separating from it if they move their hand quickly, the separated droplets fading into nothing The eastern seal is broken and color returns to the final wing of the castle

The angel returns to the central area to check on the miniature fountain map. They find that the flow of water has stopped and the fountain, empty. The previously large eastern seal on the map reveals itself to be two overlaid seals, one of which had been broken (east). One still remained in the center

In the empty fountain Palitiel finds evidence of a trick device- a puzzle made of glyphs

- - -

Naac gazes at the fluid floating off their hand, from their ring finger, the one that once bore a relic ring. Watching Palitiel solve the fountain puzzle with ease, everything snaps into place

- - -

Upon solving the puzzle, the empty fountain slides back revealing steps leading down. The final seal lay underground

Palitiel proceeds down the floating steps below to an open altar in the midst of the expanse in all directions. This time only one voice chimes in their head, the whispers of the angel’s final [decree/warning]

[NSFW, action D]

Memories of a significant other return to Palitiel (Naalum, Naac’s human form). A jolt of realization and the warmth returning to their memories, but it doesn’t feel like everything for some reason

A halo of droplets circle their ring finger in addition to the liquid band

Palitiel gazes into the glow of twilight below as the white recedes from the area. They turn back and ascend the steps to the main structure

The center area has fully regained its color, the fountain now flowing with a dark fluid. The landing area furnishings have not changed but holds a different energy stained black. Glossy onyx sheen replaced the previous solid marble/plaster appearance

The miniature model map shows all seals broken. Palitiel walks down the center hall to the place they started, the throne room. Color returns to the white corridor as Palitiel walks down it, black tile blooming from the spots they step on the tile, spreading up the walls to the ceiling

The white ghostly intestinal wall pulses around the two large doors at the end of the corridor, retaining their white color in stark contrast to the black color having painted the preceding hall. Palitiel reaches out and a touch is all it takes for darkness to swallow the fleshy wall, seizing up and liquefying, soaking the doors back to their original black color

A memory returns at the sight of the doors, the face of a demon explaining something important

Palitiel enters the room, doors shutting behind them

The final bit of the seal quivers at the center of the room, above a short flight of steps above a blank throne. The core of it resembling a heart. A humanoid figure is suspended in its center. Palitiel touches it and watches it burst into darkness, painting the last white spots of the room to match the rest of the castle

Naac(illusory) lands on its 5 legs and grins. “Congrats! You’ve scorned your own kind and /almost/ handed a victory to the demons. You have my thanks- Pali” Palitiel asks how the demon knows their name and Naac responds they’ve known each other from a long time ago

Palitiel gets more memory flashes, but falls short of remembering everything. They shake their head. Naac explains that they’re just about at the conclusion of this test. One last hurdle. Noticing the lack of recognition in Palitiel’s body language, the demon has a bittersweet demeanor and puts forth a consent seal

Palitiel is surprised they recognize it and not needing the explanation, completes their half

[NSFW, action E]

In but a moment, the final piece to Pali’s memories comes back, the ring on their finger solidifying back to its original form, they finish and Pali cries out Naac’s name

Naac asks if Pali remembers them now. Pali smiles and responds with Naac’s full name

The two embrace each other tight as the test completes, illusion of the underworld throne room fading into neutral tones of the abyss. A shadow reaches up to linger over the area between the angel realm and the underworld, swallowing the human world, heralding news of the demons’ victory

- - -

Angel escorts rush into the observation room in a panic, asking Ae if everything is ok/they’re unharmed. Ae is unperturbed and walks past them to the entryway of the exit stating all has been conducted fairly and the demons have won the test for this century. An escort asks quietly “did you know this would happen?” Ae, back turned to the escorts, pauses before the exit turning their head slightly but not all the way (face still hidden). A slight smile plays on their lips “perhaps, let’s return home.”

- - -

In the underworld, Naac sits on their true throne with Pali on their lap. Naac is elated/surprised/thankful Pali still exists in some form. The two catch up on what’s happened since the great war

The demon asks if Pali remembers how demons are made (from other existences)

Pali thinks for a bit then realizes the implications of Naac’s question. They answer the question embarrassed and Naac admits it’s wanted to do this since very long ago. Since Pali is already deigned to experience eternity as an angel- a consent seal appears to Pali

[NSFW, action F]

Pali’s form distorts as they make the fall to a demon. Naac has a hand in the first couple changes, a little personal touch, though gives Pali free reign on the final form. Pali replies they’ll make Naac regret this to which the demon laughs and openly invites them to do so (next NSFW, the tables are turned)

Palicenopheulis wakes up with their new, self-chosen body and a fresh (demon) name. Naac offers Pali the much needed role of archive director, a position akin to the underworld’s head librarian. Pali lights up and accepts

- - -

The demons resurge w/ their leader having regained their will and the appearance of an equally powerful [fallen angel/demon] at their side

Far away and in a distant future, Ae glances over a report with a small smile, a photo of Naac/Pali together in the human world clipped to the top of the packet

That’s all folks! Naac and Pali do a lot of hand holding/mundane life things/NSFW time and keep each other company until the end of time. The end :]

Ending Comments:

Got lazy to draw out Palimos and Naalum's human looks (brain just wanted to develop the abstract stuff). In text: Palimos has the build of a noodle, deep tan skin, messy wavy hair, relaxed eyes, loose/casual clothes. Naalum has a wide frame, dark skin, shaven head, piercing eyes, tight clothes with loose overlaid cloth, large sun hat, chin tattoo

You made it to the end! congrats and thank you aha. Hope you enjoyed the outline

#writing #spat this out in one sitting as though possessed #it was like trying to drink out of a garden hose at full blast #i spent some time to clean up the bullets #but its still kind of messy #dezart

2 notes · View notes

itsclydebitches · 3 years

Note

Rewatching RWBY there's this chilling lack of empathy through the volumes that I used to just wave off. Yang has no empathy for Tai, Blake is just entirely about what Blake needs, Weiss almost kills a woman at a party and her takeaway is 'my dad is mean so I'm going to run away'. Qrow sinks hard into depression in vol. 6 and Ruby's reaction is to yell she's never needed him. No one has EVER helped a civilian. It's so prevelant. Knowing how 7&8 go really changes the earlier writing.

I think there was a great deal of well-written empathy in the early volumes — after all, this cast was designed as the kind, well-meaning heroes — but that care was expressed almost solely within the group itself. Ruby sits by Jaune in the hallway and says "Nope!" to his self doubt. Weiss offers Ruby a hand up after she fails to kill the death stalker. Yang seeks out Blake and gets her to open up about what's bothering her. Now, I want to emphasize that there's nothing inherently wrong with this. It actually makes perfect sense. These are our main characters and they're written as peers co-habiting the same space. Of course whatever emotional growth we get, which automatically includes moments of compassion, would be directed towards each other. Similarly, the dynamics originally introduced — that of teachers and parents — likewise (rightly) puts the burden on the adults to provide the comfort, not the other way around. Port snaps Weiss out of her arrogant mindset. Ozpin reassures Ruby about her leadership worries. Tai is there to support his daughter when she's recovering from a lost limb. That's the natural order of things, so to speak.

The problem, to my mind, begins to occur when the group exits those dynamics. They're no longer students, they're licensed huntsmen. They're no longer kids, but equals who never needed adults in the first place. They're no longer doing things for themselves and their friends on personal downtime, they're doing them for the community at large as a profession (to say nothing of the world-altering war they've insisted on shouldering responsibility for). That's what a huntsmen is meant to be, a defender of the people, not someone who uses that power for personal interests alone. All of this is a huge change from where we started out: cutesy kids going off on comparatively low-stakes adventures because one or more of their teammates are invested, only just beginning to realize that they're signing up for a job where their desires come second (that fireside conversation at Mountain Glenn).

This change invites — demands, really — that the audience read them differently too. Qrow's spiral in Volume 6 is a good example of this. If Ruby is demanding to be treated not just as an equal in terms of maturity and experience, but also as the primary leader of this group, then the viewer expects her to treat her uncle as an equal too, not dismiss his hardship. I've seen numerous fans defend that arc with some version of, "He's her uncle. He's supposed to take care of her. He's failing" but that, according to the show, is no longer the dynamic. Qrow is now just a member of Ruby's team, someone she's responsible for as their leader. It's easiest to see the problem if we switch out Qrow for any of the other members. If Blake developed a drinking problem, do we think Ruby would just shout at her until she magically got over it? If Jaune endangered the group, do we think they'd all be angry about it, rather than trying to figure out the source of what caused the mistake? We don't even need to think hypothetically for that one because we saw it on screen. Jaune attacked Oscar and drove him off, not just threatening him, but arguably endangering the whole team by requiring a search party. Fans have long insisted they had to steal that airship right then because being in Argus was too much of a risk, but if we buy that reading (which I personally don't, but), then that means Jaune made things exponentially worse by forcing them out into that super dangerous city, rather than allowing everyone to stay hidden inside. He made a massive mistake which, according to the logic of Qrow's arc, should be met with frustration, disdain, and eventual demands to get over his anger at Ozpin or ship out. But, of course, he received nothing but concern. Yang was worried about him, not Oscar. The search becomes about his grief for Pyrrha and his team's willingness (as well as Pyrrha's family member) to provide more comfort. Suddenly, the tendency to express care solely towards those within the group becomes a flaw the story won't acknowledge.

And then it spirals. The thing to remember is that no single act here is bad on its own, especially when we consider that yes, we want flawed characters. Rather, it's about the pattern. Ruby is allowed to get mad at Qrow for his behavior and chuck her scroll in frustration. She's human. I'd be crazy frustrated too. However, if Ruby is meant to be written as a caring, sympathetic character, she should not only respond to the situation with frustration, yelling, a refusal to listen, and demands that he follow her lead, no questions asked. We can, and should, acknowledge that Weiss was the victim during that party. Her father was hurting her, the woman was beyond insensitive, Weiss was triggered in regards to a horrific event, and her power acted on its own. However, if we want to write Weiss as a compassionate, mature huntress to-be, she should acknowledge that she nearly killed someone — even an asshole someone — and vow to work on her control because she's not willing to put someone in danger like that ever again. Both of these moments have a "They could have been handled better" response attached to them — the former more-so than the latter imo — but these moments are made far, far worse due to later events in the show, events where the characters are cruel without any justification attached. Weiss didn't mean to attack that woman, but she did mean to ignore Whitely and threaten him with her weapon. So once we see that, it informs our understanding of what came before it. "Oh. The fact that Weiss never reacted to nearly killing someone isn't just a bit of missed potential, it's an early indicator that she... doesn't seem to care. If she endangers people, threatens people... that's fine with her." The group has a right to be frustrated with Qrow. The group did not have the right to magically steal Ozpin's entire life story, assault him, and blame him for the world's problems until he felt his only course of action was to run from them. So when we see that it becomes, "Oh. The fact that the group treated Qrow so poorly isn't just a one-time mistake born of a stressful situation and young adults being out of their depth in regards to alcoholism. They really will just abandon anyone the moment they start making mistakes." Anyone outside of their group, that is.

To say nothing of how all of these moments interconnect. Yang's recovery isn't just about getting used to not having an arm, it's about getting used to having a new one. Weiss' party isn't just about nearly killing someone, it's about not committing manslaughter because someone else stepped in. The Volume 6 arc isn't just about trying to escape with the Relic, it's about trying to get it somewhere safe. Fans frustrated with Ironwood's treatment don't harp on these details out of some desperate attempt to make him look good post-murder spree, rather, they recognize that he's a character that's been around since nearly the beginning, originally written as a good guy, and thus has accumulated a number of key connections with the cast. So when none of those connections are acknowledged during an arc about trust... that makes the group look very uncaring. Yang doesn't care that he gave her the arm, Weiss doesn't care that he saved her from hurting/potentially killing someone, Qrow doesn't care that he's trusted Ironwood for years (in a rival-bros way) and that they've been heading towards him this whole time. And when Ironwood begins to spiral, they don't do anything to try and help him, let alone acknowledge that their own choices, that lack of trust and empathy, had a hand in getting them here. "But it's not their responsibility to fix him!" Isn't it? Even a little? Just as human beings seeing an ally struggling under horrific decisions and circumstances? Sure, they don't have to try... but that doesn't make them look very heroic to my mind. And we can't even shrug that off by simplifying things with, "Well, Ironwood is evil now so who cares about him." They simultaneously don't care about finding Qrow who is missing, then captured. They don't do anything to try and find their missing teammates, with the exception of sending May to do it instead. They don't help the army fight off the grimm. Don't try to make sure Pietro and Maria had portals to escape through. Barely hesitate when the newly resurrected characters goes, "Kill me. That's the easiest thing for everyone." And these are just a few of the big ticket moments. It doesn't even begin to cover all the details we get that paint a picture of, "Wow okay. They just really don't care about people outside the group, huh? I mean, they say they do, in a life-or-death way, but they're not putting forth effort to show it on a daily basis."

And if you pick up on all that, if you acknowledge how much the group has changed based on where they started out, you might wonder when in the world that started. Surely we didn't just flip a switch around Volume 6. So you re-watch early stuff and, sure enough, there are moments that feel like setup for what's to come later. Not intentional setup (quite obviously), but a lack of care towards details across the series that, once the dynamic changed, became far, far more pronounced. Characters should be at least somewhat recognizable from start to finish, especially characters who have only experienced about two years of in-world time, so if we now get to see Ruby blandly commenting on all the people who are dying, or Weiss using her weapon as a means of coercing her little brother into doing what she wants, or Yang and Jaune dismissing Ren until he gives in to their point of view... we're going to look for the beginnings of that behavior early on. As you say, we were able to wave all those little details off due to a number of important factors. Now though? Now they feel like they hold a lot more weight, simply by virtue of that early material proceeding what we have now.

#rwby #rwde #mymetas

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teruthecreator · 3 years

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sweet surprises

lord forgive me for the cringe i’m about to post. i fully blame this post and this post for planting the seeds of berdley having a crush on kris in my brain. also shouts out to izel for listening to me go insane at 3 AM about this.

anyways, here’s a thing.

______________________________________________________________

Excitement is in the air.

Unlike the usual calm monotony of life at school, things recently have been quite...electric. Not because of the portal to the Dark World hidden behind the door of the closet, or the adventures had by a select group of students through the portal in the Librarby a few days ago. No, this isn’t about that.

This is about the Sadie Hawkman’s Dance. The once-a-year phenomenon where the school puts on its best interpretation of a formal dance for the incredibly small number of students who attend class. Students buzz in excitement for the event, preparing their most formal outfits and getting ready to dazzle their friends and fellow classmates with their dramatic entrances into the auditorium.

And, of course, there’s the all important ritual of asking someone to the dance.

There’s already been a few proposals made this week. Jockington rolled into class like a hula hoop and asked Catti to be his “best bro” for the dance, to which she happily agreed. (And by that, I mean she looked up from her phone, smiled, said not a single word, and went back to typing.) Temmie loudly announced to the class that she would be taking her egg, which was somehow...embarrassed that she mentioned it. And, of course, Noelle finally managed to work up enough courage to ask Susie to the dance. It was done in an incredible display of candy canes that spelled out the phrase: “CAN(E) YOU BE MY DATE TO THE DANCE?” Unfortunately, Susie was about halfway through scarfing the display down before she realized what it said. She then began choking on one of the candy canes out of disbelief, which wound her in the nurse for the rest of the day. But, when she could speak again, she very quietly agreed to Noelle’s proposal (and, if you happened to be a fly on the wall in that room, you could hear a tail thump rhythmically against the doctor’s bench as she did so).

Kris was pleased with everything. They were happy to see their friends so happy together. A long time coming, if you asked them. And they’d be just as happy attending the dance solo, since they’ll undoubtedly be dragged along by Susie. They’d never gone to the dance before--never had a reason to, truth be told. But with their newfound friends, they may just enjoy being a wingman for the night.

...Speaking of wingmen, Berdly will probably be going solo as well. Unsurprising, but Kris makes a mental note to ensure the bird will be in attendance. As much as he is kind of a lot sometimes, he’s their friend. And Kris is going to make sure all of their friends are having fun at that dance!

They walk into class thinking of this (surprisingly early, for a change), which is why they almost miss the massive display sitting boldly atop their desk. They freeze the instant it catches their eye and, for a second, they almost believe it isn’t real. Like some leftover thoughts of the Dark World lingering in their vision. But, after wiping their eyes and seeing that it’s still there, they decide to approach and...investigate.

The display is expertly crafted by someone who clearly knows their way around a glue gun. It is a heart-shaped arch that is decorated with a myriad of printed illustrations of Super Smashing Fighters Melee characters, all having cut-outs to hold different bars of chocolate. There are also numerous origami hearts glued around the characters on the arch, in colors spanning across the rainbow. The arch is painted in swirls of blues, pinks, and reds and covered with a border of glitter that sprinkles onto the desk when Kris reaches out to pluck a chocolate bar from its perch. On the desk itself is a big origami heart that says “TO KRIS” in gold calligraphy. It is by far one of the coolest, nicest, cheesiest things Kris has ever seen.

They look up from the display to see if anyone else is seeing this shit, and that’s when it all clicks.

Because sitting at the front of the classroom, fidgeting way more than normal, is Berdly. He keeps interlocking his ankles underneath his desk before unlocking them and kicking the air, turning around every half-second or so to try and catch Kris’s reaction. From the brief moments Kris can see the front of him, they notice he’s not in his usual white collared shirt and black khaki shorts. Instead, his shirt is buttoned all the way up, with a nice blue bowtie tied around his neck. He also traded out his khaki shorts for a pair of dress pants that look to be a tad too long for his legs. He keeps reaching up to smooth out the feathers on his head, which immediately stick back up from stress.

Now, Kris may be a straight B student, but they’re not stupid. Context clues are a very good thing, and all signs point to Berdly as the culprit of this public display of...affection?

Beyond Berdly is Ms. Alphys at her desk, who shoots Kris a look of deep understanding and maybe...guilt? She looks at Berdly for a split second and shrugs her shoulders, indicating he was probably in here long before she was and so she had no way of stopping him from leaving it there.

Kris looks back down at the display and picks up the large origami heart. As they begin to unfold it, they see a sprawling letter written in the same flashy calligraphy. Kris squints at the letters--they’re dyslexic, so everything kind of just looks like spaghetti on paper. Still, they’re able to make out the largely printed question of “WILL YOU GO TO THE DANCE WITH ME?” with no issue.

Huh, guess they won’t be going to the dance alone after all…? It’s a little confusing as to why Berdly would want to go with them, though. Like, they’ve hung out a little bit--usually whenever Berdly wanted a “worthy rival” to play video games with, he would come over and Kris would whoop his ass for a few hours. And, of course, there were the recent events in the Cyber World; but Kris is pretty sure them and Susie had thoroughly convinced Noelle and Berdley that that was all a dream. So, why them?

They’re lost in this train of thought for so long that they don’t even notice the other kids enter the room until they suddenly hear:

“Yo, Kris???????? What the heck is this thing????” Susie’s voice doesn’t startle them, but it is loud enough to get them to look up. Susie is standing next to their desk, looking at the display with genuine amazement thinly masked by disgust. She’s also loud enough to basically stop the whole class (who were all muttering amongst themselves about it anyway), which gives Kris only a second to gaze around the room before--

SLAM!

The door to the classroom slams shut, leaving one seat unoccupied.

Berdley’s.

“This thing’s got chocolate on it????” Susie continues to marvel at the display while Kris looks at the door, frowning. They feel...bad. It isn’t Berdley’s fault for trying to fit in with the other kids' proposals; he admitted to feeling like he needs to do more just to stand out enough for people to acknowledge him back in the Dark World. And this thing is really...thoughtful! The characters are all ones Kris typically mains, or ones they know Berdley mains, which means he remembers things about Kris. And the chocolate is a given, but it is nice to be able to stock their personal snack stash with some fancy stuff. Ultimately, it’s very sweet, and Kris can’t help but feel a little guilty for not saying anything immediately.

They turn and lock eyes with Ms. Alphys, who looks extremely out-of-depth with this situation. She makes a number of gestures from them to the door in a flustered way of saying I have absolutely no idea what the hell is going on please help me Kris I know I’m asking a lot of you but I don’t know how to deal with teenage angst I’m like thirty-five. They sigh, standing up and walking past Susie (but not before giving her a stare that warns her if a single chocolate bar is gone that they will be holding that over her until the day she dies) and following Berdly out the door.

It doesn’t take Kris very long to follow the trail of labored breathing to where Berdley is--in the abandoned classroom, hyperventilating as he teeters on a breakdown. Luckily, when Kris opens the door, it seems to put a halt to his spiralling because he just kind of...freezes. Like a deer caught in headlights. Or a Berdley caught in Kris-lights. Kris takes this moment to let the door shut behind them, trapping the two in here. Together.

“U-Uhhhhh, hi--he--Um. H-Hello, K-Kris…” Berdly attempts to put on his usual bravado, but his voice betrays him brutally by squeaking and cracking on every syllable. Kris can’t help the smile that comes to their face.

“Uh, hey,” they reply with a wave. Berdley continues to stand there and stare (almost like he wasn’t expecting Kris to care enough to follow him) before the present circumstances return to his mind and he begins breathing hard again.

“I-I-I-I, uh...I was. Um. J-Just, uh. G-Getting some fresh air! Y-Yes! The classroom can be s-so stuffy sometimes, I’m sure y-you--you, uh...you agree?” Berdley makes a valiant attempt at hiding his panic, which Kris almost takes pity on. But they don’t think the monster will feel any better if they just pretend what happened back there never happened.

“Yeah. I liked the display.” Kris says simply. Berdley stands stock-straight at that, looking even worse for wear in the “being normal and completely cool” department.

“O-Oh??????? That ol’ thing????? I, um--well I just--y-you see, I--uh. Um,” You can really hear the gears in his head turning as he attempts to come up with an excuse. “I-I-I just thought you w-would appreciate the craftsmanship of!!! A t-true artisan, such as myself!!! So, I!!! M-Made it!!! COMPLETELY PLATONICALLY, OF COURSE!!!! I-I would never imply that my intentions w-were anything other than for bro-sies, i--You didn’t read that whole card, did you?”

“I can’t read,” They mean this as a joke, but they can see Berdley seriously consider this for a second too long. “Dude, I’m dsylexic. I can’t really read cursive…” Berdley freezes up once more, which makes Kris realize they haven’t really projected that as loudly as they might’ve thought.

“Oh! Right! How could I forget! That you’re! Dsylexic!” Berdley’s smile is stapled to his face as he begins to rhythmically knock on his head. “And I! Wrote! That! Entire! Note! In! Cursive! Which! You! Can’t! Read!!!” Kris steps forward in an attempt to keep Berdley from bashing his own skull in, but that only makes Berdley more tense, so they take a step back. “I-I just--The note isn’t important! None of it’s important actually can we forget this interaction ever happened okay? Okay yes that’s great have a wonderful day Kris I will be returning home to sitinmyroomandneverreturntothecorporealrealmalrightgoodbyeforeverKris--” He attempts to sidestep around Kris and out the door, but is very easily intercepted.

“Stop.” Kris grabs him by the shoulders, which seems to shut him up for a second. “Can you just tell me what’s wrong?” Berdley gapes at them as his face steadily grows redder, which makes Kris feel as if there’s something on their face. But he quickly shakes it off, going from completely neurotic to...dejected.

“I just…” He starts, trailing off immediately. “You deserve to have a big proposal, same as everyone else. I-I see you in the back of the class, just...watching. And I, uh, felt it was time to...give you the spotlight! But that was silly of me, wasn’t it?” He looks off to the side at the floor, smiling sadly. “After all, who’d want to go to the dance with me…? I-I’m alone every year, standing in the background. Just kind of...taking it all in...and th-thinking about how it’d be...nice to be a part of it. But that’s...not probable. It was just nice to think about taking you to the dance because you’re--well, you’re nice to me, and you’re funny, and you actually listen to me when I’m talking, an-and you’re a good person and an incredible gaming legend...but I shouldn’t have put it all on you in front of everyone...I’m. I’m sorry, Kris.” He won’t make eye contact with the human, but Kris can still see the tears collecting in his eyes.

“Berdley, that’s stupid.” Kris says, which Berdley cringes at, “Why wouldn’t I wanna go with you?” That part is...not what Berdley was expecting. He looks up at Kris, unsure of where to go from here.

“U-Um…? Because of all the previously stated things? Like me being a complete loser who nobody likes?”

“I like you,” Kris replies immediately, leaving Berdley’s feathers sticking straight up as he flusters. “And I like your display. It’s...really sweet.”

“E-Even if you can’t read the note?” Berdley’s voice cracks.

“I mean, I could read the: WILL YOU GO WITH ME TO THE DANCE part, so, like. Yeah.” Kris shrugs. “Plus, you got me chocolate. Nice chocolate. Nobody...gets me things like that.” They smile, a light dusting of blush across their face. “I’ll go with you.” Berdley’s entire body seizes up for the third time, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“W-W-w-W-w-w-w-w-W-W-W-w-w-w-Wh-Wha-wh-w-w-wha-wha-w-wh-Wh-Wha-wh-Wha-wha-w-w-W-W-W--” Berdley continues to struggle with the word “what” for a solid minute and a half before he’s finally about to manage a: “What?!” Kris can’t help but laugh.

“I said that, Berdley,” at this, they move their grip from his shoulders to his hands, “I will go to the Sadie Hawkman’s dance with you.”

The circuits in Berdley’s brain struggle with this frequency for an extended moment before his face erupts in the giddiest smile Kris has ever seen the bird monster sport. He even begins to jump up and down, taking Kris along with him, as he cackles. It is a surprisingly cute display that Kris finds themselves blushing a bit at. It’s nice to be this...cared about.

“I-I--We have to start thinking of outfits immediately!” Berdley blurts out, returning to their usual demeanor. “I was thinking of some complimentary color schemes on the way to school today which I will be happy to show you at lunchtime. I’m also a master with a sewing machine, so if you are unable to procure an outfit that meets the color requirements, I would be delighted to take your measurements and--w-wait, don’t read into that phrasing, I just m-meant that I could make an outfit for you! B-But I’d need your measurements, and--Oh, goodness, hasn’t class started already, Kris?! We should head back, but--” He looks from the door to Kris and back again a few times before finally settling on something.

“I’lltalktoyouaboutthislaterseeyouinclassKris!!!!!” He says this right before he gives Kris a solitary peck on the cheek before bolting out of the abandoned classroom, leaving Kris blinking at the Berdley-shaped cloud he left behind. Their hand gently grazes the spot on their cheek--luckily not actually pecked by his beak, but more of a quick-kiss kind of peck--and feel their heart skip a beat.

Huh.

That’s...different.

They elect to not dwell on that feeling any longer and head back to class. They have to make sure Susie hasn’t eaten all of the chocolate on that display.

They wouldn’t want to make Berdley go through the trouble of re-proposing just so they could rightfully claim their other sweet surprise.

#deltarune #deltarune chapter 2 #kris/berdley #kris dreemurr #kris deltarune #berdley deltarune #ignorance cloud on #LORD FORGIVE ME FOR BEING CRINGE ON MAIN. I JUST LIKE THINKING THOUGHTS #LISTEN..........I JUST THINK ITD BE FUNNY. IF KRIS HAD THIS PATHETIC GAMER ALL HEART EYES OVER THEM #also the dance aspect is based on one of the posters you can see inside the school. i am Pretty sure that is what its called #if i was off by like a similar-sounding word i need everyone to do me a favor and pretend im right bc this is cringe enough already #i edited this ONCE at 3 AM last night. i am doing no more than that #anyways here u go izel enjoy ur food.

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r3volutionary-queen · 3 years

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Chapter 31 Sneak Peek

In his arms, Darcy was laughing.

She lay back against his chest, her head slotting perfectly under his chin, and she laughed. It was sunlight to his soul, bright and pure and warm and kind and it softened every jagged edge inside of him. Steve pressed a lingering kiss into her hair and tightened his arms around her middle, making her giggle even more—a happy sound that he could have listened to for the rest of his life.

Below, Bucky sprawled across both of their laps, using their thighs as his personal pillows. Darcy’s fingers were carding through his long hair, nails scraping gently across his scalp until the man was all but putty in her hands. His dark head swiveled up, love-drunk eyes openly watching her before crinkling around the edges, squinting like two happy half-moons. That gray gaze then slid upwards and met Steve’s soft look.

It was like staring into a marbled sky moments before the sun broke through.

“Love you,” Bucky mouthed to him and Steve’s heart swelled and swelled and swelled until it threatened to burst.

In this place there were no shadows, no war, no death. In this place Darcy’s skin was not littered in scars and Bucky’s arm was warm and whole.

In this place Steve did not burn.

He would have been content to spend eternity here, if it weren’t for the tug on his shoulder, soft but insistent.

Steve jolted and inhaled on instinct, lungs gasping for air as he surged back into consciousness. It was not a peaceful float to the surface; it was sudden and jarring, like the leg of a once trusted chair snapping beneath him. Pain was the first thing to register, a raw kind of agony, as if someone or something had pried him open and scrambled all of his insides. Blood trickled down his shredded throat and he swallowed with a grimace.

Another tug and a voice, quietly murmuring—urging.

“Wake up.”

Blue eyes fluttered open; everything was a blur. Icy rain stung his skin like a thousand needles, cold mud seeped into his suit, and thunder cracked through the air, so loud and so deep it rolled over his skin and shook the ground beneath him. A second later, the sky splintered in a dazzling flash of light as white-hot electricity threaded the earth to the clouds.

And hovering over him, silhouetted against that bright flash of light, was a strange face. Strange because they were familiar; strange because they were dead.

Or at least they were supposed to be.

And then it struck him—

The stone.

Steve’s heart lurched in his chest. The world spun and tipped itself out before righting once more. He blinked and blinked again in disbelief, in fear, in hope, in a painful, terrified mixture of all three.

“T…” he started with a sandpaper rasp. “T’Challa?”

The Wakandan king’s mouth curved and brown eyes softened in relief. His dark brows rose and he dipped his chin, nodding once. “On your feet, Captain.”

Stunned, Steve could not move.

“Am I dreaming?”

“This is no dream,” T’Challa assured him softly. He lifted his head and spun on his haunches, looking at something Steve could not see. A light filled the king’s eyes, both kind and fierce. He glanced down at Steve where he lay, beaten and broken, and T’Challa’s words pierced right through his weary heart. “Hope has not deceived you.”

The words sank beneath his skin, cutting into the meat of his heart, and Steve’s eyes misted. There were things he wanted to say, to ask, but the words couldn’t make it through his tightened throat. For a long moment, he could not even breathe. It felt surreal, liminal.

Hope has not deceived you.

It was strange, almost, how hope felt more dangerous, more treacherous, than the very war surrounding him. A fight could destroy his body, but hope? Hope, or rather hope lost, could ruin his soul. It had been a long time since he allowed himself to truly hope and so when it bloomed in the center of his chest now, like a warm pool of sunlight cascading down his limbs and filling him to the brim, he shook under its raw power.

“Are there,” Steve swallowed heavily, his voice thick, “Are there others? How many?”

T’Challa watched him closely and the corners of his eyes fanned out in a warm smile. The Wakandan king shifted on the balls of his feet and held out his hand. “Rise and see for yourself.”

Steve opened his mouth to respond when an animalistic roar ripped through the air like a serrated knife. The blond stiffened, recognizing the Hulk’s bellow of rage instantly. His heart pounded painfully in his chest and before he could stop it, that dangerous, treacherous hope inside of him grew wings and took flight.

It rose up the length of his throat and surged out of his mouth in a single, wet, hysterical sob of a laugh. He clapped his hand over his mouth and his eyes screwed shut.

All around him, the rain continued to fall.

Finally, Steve sniffed and wiped his face. With a grunt, he slapped his hand into the king’s waiting palm and it was the strength of the Black Panther, not his own, that pulled him to his feet. Instantly, his back erupted in a blinding pain and he staggered, groaning, shoulders hunching as his muscles trembled and stretched. Steve shook and panted through chapped lips, trying to push past the all-consuming agony. His vision blurred, static around the edges, and then finally, he lifted his gaze to the battlefield—

And froze.

Over the last few months, Steve had grown accustomed to the feeling of shock. He knew what it tasted like, how it jolted through his veins, paralyzing him, but this shock was not one born out of terror or dread.

The shock that rolled through him now was one of awe.

The battle still raged; the rain had sunk the fires back into the earth and a white-gray smoke clouded the blood-soaked ground. Explosions flung mud in the air, coating the chaos of fighting armies in filth until it was near impossible to tell who was who. But beyond all of that, beyond the looming warships and the waves of Chitauri and the wolf-like monsters of Thanos, was something else entirely.

Amid the debris and the bombed-out craters and the piles of bodies littering the ground vast beyond number and recognition was an army—and not just any army.

It was the Avengers.

His team, his friends, his family; the world’s last hope. All of them, every last one he had watched dissolve into ash just months ago.

They were scattered but they fought like creatures that exhaustion, despair, and even death itself could not subdue. And even beyond that, a great host of Wakandan warriors were charging into the fray with what was left of the Asgardians and the Skrulls.

And for the first time since any of this began, they were pushing Thanos’ army back to the tree line; theywere overwhelming their enemy.

Wonder overtook him, and indescribable joy; it was beautiful—stunning, robbing him of all thought and word, and for a moment, Steve wished he could paint this.

The only thing that was missing—

Steve’s stomach dropped.

His mind splintered into a million pieces upon the realization and fear prickled along his skin like the legs of a thousand spiders. Panicked, Steve spun around wildly, searching the chaos for two familiar shapes.

“What is it? What is wrong?”

Snapping his head up, a wild kind of insanity tugged at the edges of his mind as he held T’Challa’s worried gaze. Because if the stone had knocked himout cold, he could only imagine what it had done to Bucky, let alone Darcy. In fact, he knew all too well what that stone did to her every time she touched it and the memories that flooded his mind had him in a blind terror.

“There’s a woman,” Steve gasped out, choking on the words, his eyes still roving over the vast, simmering field. Raindrops slid down his face, dripped from his nose, his jaw, his chin. “Darcy. I need to find her. I have to find her—she was hurt pretty bad and… She’s—and Bucky—”

A blood-curling scream.

Steve whipped around, heart in his throat. Somewhere to his right there was a high-pitched female scream—a wail, really—and Steve had never heard Darcy make a noise like that before, but he knew instantly that it was her.

His heart told him so.

Steve couldn’t see her, couldn’t see much of anything beyond the flurry of war and the blasts from the enemy’s weapons. He paled and his vision spun as a new and torrential kind of fear seared through every vein in his body.

“Go,” T’Challa urged at his side and Steve snapped his head around, panting and trembling all over. The king clasped his shoulder, tilting his head toward him. “Do what you must. We will meet when this is over, my friend.”

Unable to do anything but nod, Steve mustered up the very last of his strength (all he had left) and turned and ran into the heart of the battle. Even as the abyss of terror threatened to pull him under, Steve felt something inside of him shift, something endless and ancient, and suddenly his spine was carved out of steel. He was going to find her, both her and Bucky, and he was going to get them out of this place—even if it broke his back and heart and left nothing but his bones behind.

He was going to find them both and he was going to bring them home.

(GUYS IT IS HAPPENING. WE ARE LIKE 6K IN ON THIS CHAPTER SO PLEASE EXCUSE IF YOU'VE MESSAGED ME TODAY, I'LL ANSWER LATER BECAUSE THE FLOW CANNOT BE INTERRUPTED KAY THANKS)

#darcy lewis #steve rogers #bucky barnes #wintershieldshock #shieldshock #stucky #wintershock #ignition #fic sneak peek #fic snippet #darcy x bucky #darcy x steve #steve x bucky #bucky x darcy x steve #endgame fix it

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gumnut-logic · 3 years

Text

Callisto - Part Five - Orientation

Things actually start happening now :D

As always, many, many thanks to @tsarinatorment @scribbles97 @janetm74 and @onereyofstarlight for all their amazing help. We’re deep into the hard slog now, but I am still enjoying this so that is a good sign :D

Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this and cheer me on. The hard slog of the middle of a long fic can be as bad as the hard slog in the middle of a painting, so all cheering is always welcome. But ultimately, I’m hoping you are find this enjoyable and not boring :D Nutty is learning here, so big L plate on my forehead.

Let the antics continue.

-o-o-o-

Virgil stared at his father’s broad back as he walked the length of the gantry toward the elevator. Scott paused a moment and Virgil placed a hand on his back in support. Muscle beneath many micro layers of spacesuit rippled as his brother loosened his shoulders. A glance of fiery blue and Scott followed his father.

As was the way of things.

Virgil followed Scott.

As was the way of things.

The cavern was a large one. It had to be to fit Three beneath its airlock doors. His heads up display confirmed pressurisation of the bay to Earth normal and his mind did the calculations on the infrastructure required to pump that much atmosphere into such a large space so quickly. He couldn’t help but be impressed.

The gantry led to an elevator platform and they crowded onto it. Gordon brushed up against him as if to catch his attention and a worried frown was shot in Virgil’s direction.

As the gantry retracted and the platform lowered, Virgil let a hand brush against Gordon’s side. If he did the same to Alan, well, they were his brothers and he may have needed the connections a little himself.

The ride down gave them a great view of the heavy equipment available in the bay. Virgil had accessed all the information he could get his hands on during the trip out, needing to know how he was going to deploy their own equipment.

He had known this was going to be an underground job and had packed accordingly. The problem with underground was initial deployment - how to get the equipment under the ground.

The backup was always to make their own holes. But that could be unnecessarily messy and a last resort. So Virgil was quite happy to see the set up included all the heavy-duty crane and hover support he could ever want.

TI had equipped this expedition exceedingly well.

Walters met them at the bottom of the bay. The rock had been ground smooth down here, filler shone in places where ice had obviously been removed, making the floor a patchwork of white and dark grey, human ingenuity and raw moon.

The Commander nodded to Scott, but it was their father whose hand he grasped solidly before pulling him into a hug. “Space Jockey, it is so good to see you. Thank you for coming.” Walters stepped back and held Jeff at arms’ length. “You’ve gone grey.”

“And you’re bald. Your point?” But their father was grinning through the plasiglass of his helmet.

“We’re both a little crunchy around the edges.” He turned to Lee. “Hey, Scrappy.”

“Graeme, I may be old, but I can still kick your ass over that.” Despite the threat, Uncle Lee grabbed the man’s hand and shook it with enthusiasm.

“These are my boys.” Dad gestured at them in turn. “Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Alan. John is still aboard the Excel and will be liaising from there.”

Walters nodded at each of them in turn, his white-grey spacesuit wrinkling with the movement. He had his helmet on just like the IR crew did. Best chance to avoid contamination or some random bug the Tracys might had inadvertently brought with them.

Of course, Virgil and John had run the decon protocols before departure and it was obvious Callisto had its own methods, but the risk was there. Helmets on unless they had no choice.

Another thing about space that was annoying - listening to your own breathing in a confined container. Okay for short term, total annoyance long term. Especially if your nose got itchy.

It was a sign that Virgil really needed more sleep when he managed to miss a chunk of what Walters was saying simply because he was designing an in-helmet nose scratcher in his head. Well, it could be multifunctional if he gave it enough reach. Head scratcher, chin scratcher-

Gordon nudged him.

Unfortunately, right in his bruises. “Ow.” He glared at his brother only to find the fish gesturing with his eyes.

Commander Walters was looking at Virgil with a question on his face. Both Scott and Dad were frowning at him. Oh shit. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“The Commander asked if we would like to survey the entrance to the caves first or deploy our equipment.” Dad’s voice was very...patient. “Scott said it was your decision.”

Virgil didn’t hesitate, regardless of the embarrassment. “I’ve scoured your maps, Commander, but I would be happier if you could show us the entrance to the cave network. It’s not far?” maps and diagrams were one thing. Reality was another.

Walters eyed him a little curiously. “Sure. Follow me.” And he led them towards a set of massive doors.

For a moment there, Virgil expected some grinding machinery to split the doors wide like some grand movie entrance complete with cinematic music, but no, Walters led them to a small airlock embedded in the left door and ushered them through.

It was kind of disappointing actually.

“We keep the Garden isolated as a precaution and as a way to monitor the function of the ecosystem.

“Garden?” Alan had obviously not had time to fully read up on the Base like the rest of them.

Walters’ eyes lit up despite everything. “You are in for a treat. The Garden is our horticultural team’s ultimate triumph.”

The doors opened and sunlight flooded into the airlock. And it was sunlight enough for Virgil’s jaw to drop. They stepped out into an environment so familiar, they may as well have stepped out the back door of the villa.

Except it wasn’t. The plants were recognisable, yes, but their growth most definitely was not.

This was not in the briefing notes.

“This looks suspiciously familiar.” It was Gordon who stepped to the front of the group.

Walters frowned. “Excuse me.”

Gordon’s eyes narrowed in on the man. He pointed at a nearby tree. “Pokey trees don’t get that big in five years, Commander. What’s in the water?”

It was Walters’ turn to frown. “Pokey trees?” A blink. “Oh, pohutukawa. No, they do not. However, with some special treatment and the lack of strong gravity, they can.”

Virgil stared up at the giant tree. It was far too thin at the base for the spread of the massive branches and it seem wrong somehow. Everything was too long and looked as if it was going to fall. What was even more odd was the sound of a honeyeater argument in those branches. A scuffle, a ruckus of squawks and a flash of grey and yellow flew out from amongst the leaves and darted over the rocky hill in front of them.

“You have birds?!” Gordon sounded caught between amazement and outrage.

Walters stared at him a moment longer. “We have much more than that.” He turned away and led them away from the tree and up a winding path. Virgil’s boots crunched gravel that glittered as it moved. He frowned at what was probably nothing more than ground up moon. It was pale and sparkling like some set prop out of an early science fiction show John might have watched.

But he was soon distracted by much more fascinating sights.

The path led up a small hill and soon he realised that they were in a massive cavern, bigger than all the hangars beneath Tracy Island combined.

And it was full of life.

Birds of several different kinds flew about the ‘sky’. A sky dominated by a number of extremely bright lights hanging from a ceiling so high it couldn’t be seen for the brilliance. Oddly growing foliage was everywhere. The lone pokey tree by the door was scarlet in blossom, but it was not alone. Flowers sprouted from wonky stems and too tall grass. The little hill they were standing on was the highest point in the cavern, the ground sloping down into the distance. At the far edge, a lake had ducks swimming in it.

“How the hell?” It was Gordon, but Virgil’s questions were not far behind.

Several physical requirements clicked into place. The cavern was obviously heated and pressurised with an Earth level atmosphere just like the hangar, otherwise those birds wouldn’t be able to fly beyond bouncing in the gravity.

While Gordon’s head seemed ready to explode, Virgil managed one word. “How?”

Walters had a quietly confident smirk on his face. “A combination of research, applied science and a whole pile of luck.” A sigh. “This is Ju’s baby.”

Scott shifted where he stood. “Where is the access to the cave network?” Virgil glanced at his brother. There was an intensity in his eyes that spoke of both mission urgency and further questions that would need asking once that mission was complete.

Walters exhaled and nodded. “This way.” He led them down the other side of the hill to what eventually proved to be another set of massive doors. “The caverns were here when we arrived. We knew of them before we left Earth, but what we did not realise was their extent.” Walters stopped in front of the doors. He gestured at the cavern. “To create all this, we only needed to seal the cavern entrance overhead – which the Base did nicely. We installed a series of atmospheric inducers, the heating and the lighting. The rest we grew from seed or egg.” The man was obviously proud of their achievements.

“Sir, the caves?” Scott was getting rightfully impatient.

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” He swallowed and hurried over to yet another small door within a door.

Virgil took another step forward, intending on seeing how the door was unlocked when his world suddenly doubled. His stomach rolled over with that familiar nausea ever so reminiscent of their trip out here.

He swallowed and closed his eyes a second.

“Virg? You okay?” Gordon was whispering on a closed channel.

Virgil cranked his eyes open, lack of sleep suddenly piling on top of him. His fish brother was frowning at him. Scott, their father and Uncle Lee were walking towards Walters and the door.

The sudden vertigo had him fearing an incident inside his helmet.

But then as he took a step towards Gordon, the nausea faded away, a single last cramp dissipating as his little brother approached and put a hand on his arm.

“Virg?”

“I’m okay. Just felt dizzy for a second there.”

“T-drive?”

“Probably.”

“Meds wearing off?”

“Didn’t think I would need them.”

Now Alan had stopped following Scott and was looking back. Any minute now and he would have not only Scott on his ass, but Dad as well. He straightened his spine. “I’m good.” But whatever it was had triggered the beginnings of a headache.

Damn.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d completed a rescue with a headache. He’d throw back some paracetamol when they went back to Three to source their equipment.

“You sure?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

Gordon held up his hands. “Just checking, bro. Don’t get your pants in a twist. Hard to unknot them out here.”

But Gordon was still frowning at him.

Alan was turning back...

Move or get smothered.

He flexed his shoulders and strode off to join the rest of this family.

-o-o-o-

Gordon stared after his heavy lifting brother.

Damn that T-drive. His own stomach hadn’t fully recovered either and Virgil was obviously still feeling it.

Gordon pondered whether Virg could knock him out for the voyage home. Maybe knock both of them out.

Alan was frowning and gesturing for him to hurry up. Scott and Dad had already entered what turned out to be yet another airlock.

Space was hard work.

He kicked at the gravel as he trotted after his brother and darted into the huge airlock with his brothers.

Walters was talking again as he sealed the door behind them. “The cavern appears to have been a terminus for this branch of the cave network.” Walters should seek a job as a tour guide. “As I said earlier, we knew about some of the caves before we arrived, but it became increasingly clear that our sensors weren’t telling the full story when we discovered exactly how many tunnels are under the surface here.”

Gordon felt the room depressurise and his HUD declared the atmosphere had become almost nothing. He frowned. It was still something though and he remembered that Callisto was one of those odd places that had the bare minimum of a bunch of gases clinging to it.

He was pretty sure that if he pinged Johnny, he could give him an essay on it, Jupiter luny fan he was.

Walters opened the other side of the airlock and led them through.

Oh, wow.

They were once again in a cavern, a smaller one to the one they had just left and it was obviously more in its natural state. The big doors were sealed into one wall and a lighting system had been deployed running off into the distance.

And there was a lot of distance. The cavern was definitely a tunnel, a good twenty metres wide and high. But that wasn’t all that had his jaw dropping.

The walls were sparkling in the light.

Walters must have seen his reaction or the reaction of his family. “Pretty amazing, huh? The walls are full of a mix of ice and rock. The ice catches the light, but there is also an unusual amount of mineralised crystal as well. We’ve found several types of quartz along with precious metals.”

Gordon was only half listening to him. He wandered over to the nearest wall and examined it. Ice. Water. But in a way it was rarely seen on Earth. Kinda interesting. He ran a hand over the wall and frowned. “You say this is natural?”

“Other than stringing up the lights and installing the doors, from here on, it is pure Callisto.”

“This was made by running water.” Even Gordon knew how impossible that was in the current environment. He looked up to find everyone staring at him. “Hey, I know my element when I see it. This wall has been eroded by running water.”

Walters slumped just a little. “Thank you. Ju has been saying that since we got here. Unfortunately, we can’t work out how that can possibly be a thing, but yeah, all the tunnels, if we were on Earth? Water made. Like limestone caves apparently.” A snort. “Ju has been very adamant about it.”

“Have you reported this?” Dad’s voice startled Gordon a little.

“Reported? Sure. But all her peers are less than accepting. All signs point to Callisto as having had no crustal movement since it formed, minor atmosphere, and certainly no running water at these pressures.”

“But this is a fact.” Gordon frowned again. “What about the reports of an ocean on Callisto under the crust.” Yes, he had checked that out. This wasn’t his first Jovian moon after all. It was why he had brought Four with him.

“Too far down. We can’t reach it. And besides, it is impossible for water to exist as a liquid on the surface, there is not enough atmospheric pressure. We’re barely five hundred metres down here. We haven’t been able to explain it, and until we do, it is considered only one possible and likely doubtful explanation.”

Gordon turned back to the wall. It glittered at him as if daring him to discover its mysteries. “Virg?”

“Hmm?” His brother’s voice was distracted enough to distract Gordon. He flicked over to a private comm. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Gordon. What did you want?”

Gordon grunted. “You got something to test the rocks?”

“If needs be. We have a rescue to complete first.” Virgil killed the private line and turned to Walters. “I’m satisfied. Scott, we need some recon. I recommend we get two dragonflies down here.”

Scott nodded. “Okay, we are go. Alan, you’re with me. Gordon, you’re Virgil’s wingman.”

As it should be.

Besides, Gordon wanted to keep an eye on their resident lumberjack. He was acting weird.

“Dad, you and Uncle Lee are our liaisons with Base.”

Gordon bit his lip.

“Scott-“

The Commander of International Rescue held up his hand, fire in his eyes. “No, arguments.”

Dad’s eyes latched onto Scott and flared, but Uncle Lee grabbed his arm. “Space Jockey...”

Grey eyes flickered to his best friend and got a dose of determined Lee Taylor for the effort.

Their father’s lips thinned as nobody moved for a whole moment, Scott emanating commander vibes all over the cavern. If Dad didn’t obey, all hell was going to let loose.

“Thunderbird Five to Callisto.” John’s voice echoed over multiple comms, a faint and unfamiliar hiss and crackle in the background.

The moment snapped and Scott tapped his comms. “We read you, Thunderbird Five.”

“There is considerable interference on comms, you should be aware. I cannot guarantee service at all times. Source is unknown.”

“Noted.”

Damn, that was going to make this even more difficult. They could get lost down here themselves.

But then this wouldn’t be the first time Gordon had worked without contact with his brothers.

First time in space, though.

“Scott, we have located two life signs.”

“What?!” Walters took a step forward and looked ready to climb into Scott’s commset to get further information.

The commander ignored him. “Details, Thunderbird Five.”

“Eos and I were able to work around the majority of the interference and we have two faint lifesigns registering to the north of Callisto Base, almost directly under Burr crater.”

“Only Two? We have five missing persons, Thunderbird Five.”

“I know, Scott.” John’s voice was calm but sad. “Eos is still working on that interference, but at this point I don’t expect to find more. We’ve been able to map the caverns and tunnels within a thousand-kilometre radius. Sending the data to your comms now. Other than those two, I’m reading nothing. I do not have enough resolution to locate anything more specific.”

Like dead bodies.

All of them shifted where they stood, caught between the positive of a location and the negative of three missing rescuees.

“Keep looking, Thunderbird Five.” Scott’s voice was empty of emotion.

They had a mission and now they had a target.

“FAB.”

The line cut out.

Virgil had already pulled up the map John supplied on his wrist ‘projector, his eyes combing the holographic maze of tunnels. Even from here Gordon could see they were massive. If these had been eroded by water, the rivers had been big.

But their history would have to wait. There were lives at stake and Scott was already moving back to the airlock, Virgil and the rest of the group hurrying to follow.

Gordon hesitated just a second, lured by the thought of water flowing through the rock in such a low-pressure environment that the liquid should be ice.

The walls sparkled at him.

But the mission...

He took a step forward and his foot kicked something tiny that bounced ahead of him. Frowning, he bent to pick it up.

The crystal was no bigger than his fingernail and sparkled pink in the lighting.

“Gordon!” Scott was glaring at him from inside the airlock.

The aquanaut shoved the stone into his kit and hurried to catch up.

Perhaps space was a little more interesting than he thought.

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #Scott Tracy #Jeff Tracy #alan tracy #John Tracy #lee taylor #callisto

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lemonietrinket · 3 years

Text

summertime is for us ||| felix x reader

summary: it’s been months since you’ve seen your boyfriend felix in person, and you can’t wait to finally see him again genre: fluff, a bit of angst wordcount: 1618 music: ambience; ambience an: i wrote this suddenly in a daze as a break from the longer rq ive been working on—my long-awaiting, ever-patient anon, i hope youre ready, your rq is going to be a monster...!

gender neutral reader

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

the breeze wove gently between the windchimes, ringing delicately across the hill where you lay in the grass. nestled in a bed of brilliant green, clusters of daisies gazing up at the sun by your arm, you kept your breath slow as you let the afternoon warm your face. you waited patiently, half in a daze, half on the edge of sleep, for the familiar footsteps to arrive. he was late again, and you would’ve rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh if you hadn’t been so lethargic.

your ears pricked up at a light, quiet thud in the twigs just beyond by the tree. you turned your body gradually towards it, casting a shadow from your shoulder across your face, and peaked through the waltzing dandelions, the silvery fairies taking off from their homes to dance higher and higher until they disappeared into the sky. it was a small bird. skipping across the ground, its freckled brown tail feathers perked up inquisitively, as it picked between the twigs and grass blades taller than its own head. after a moment it jumped upon a branch, small and hidden amongst the untamed valley. it briefly sang a call—to a friend, a love, the world, you didn’t know—but a smile slipped onto your face nonetheless. it seemed so small in the world, so normal, and yet it sang and made everything seem just that little bit brighter. as what would a peaceful afternoon be without birdsong?

“yn!”

the deep singsong call of your friend came from the top of the hill, mixing with the windchimes and causing the bird to turn on its tail and return to the tree canopy. you sat up on your elbow, shielding your eyes and searched the crest of the hill for the one you were waiting for. a few seconds later, he appeared and began shuffling down the slope to you, minding the flowers as he went. and then moments later he was steps away, slinging his bag off at the foot of the tree, smile brighter than the sun itself.

“felix! you’re—oof!”

giggling, he practically flung himself into your arms, leaving you to yelp as you fell onto your back, arms naturally wrapping round his waist and pulling him into you. “jesus, i missed you too!”

the semester alone had felt longer than any school year you’d been through, you’d ended up messaging him every moment you could, missing his presence every night when the nights got cold. you’d hadn’t needed a second blanket for two years, and the trek to go retrieve one from your drawer only made the room feel emptier.

but he was here now, and the summer was all yours.

felix pressed a kiss into your neck, before levering himself up and straddling you to sit more comfortably. his dark eyes met yours, glistening with his smile and longing finally ended. “sorry i’m late.” he didn’t seem that sorry at all, beaming at you, his nose scrunching before he gave in and planted a kiss on your forehead, but it was hardly like you minded.

“apology accepted,” you rushed, stroking his hair as the two of you looked at each other properly for the first time in months. he’d had a haircut, you knew that, and though you’d already seen it, now it had grown out more, leaving soft waves to frame the face that taken your breath away the first time you saw it. it caught the sun above and gifted him a halo,like you were sure he deserved. and how it felt different beneath your fingertips. you could spend an evening just thinking about that alone. same for how he had grown. so far apart, even photos and video calls couldn’t show the smallest of details, the things you cherished the most, leaving you surprisingly startled at the boy you once knew, now seeming even more of a man than he had done last winter. it looked good on him, as pretty much everything did—despite your shock that you got to look upon something so beautiful—but it was also tinged with a bittersweetness. all those days he had grown and you hadn’t been there to see them for yourself, even after knowing him for so long. all those minutes between the times when you were younger and you used to count his freckles like a child. the curse of the childhood sweetheart. it only made you long to see every day with him even more.

felix meanwhile was also stuck in this wordless awe, thumb stroking your cheek as he stared, precious lips parted absently. lucky for you, you had come to your senses before him. with a coy grin you murmured, “is there something on my face?”

however, he answered too fast for your own heart’s good. “too much pretty, that’s what.”

“oh ew, blegh, too much cheese, blegh—”

he rolled his eyes before he hushed you, dipping in to take your lips into his. you’d forgotten how soft his lips were, how powerful his touch was. you instantly melted into him, your hand slipping to his temple as his wove through your hair. “god, i missed you so much...” he whispered into your lips, immediately welcoming your lips once again.

“me too... i don’t know how i’m going to do it again...”

he pulled away slowly, eyes saddening. “i know, but we’ve got to.”

feeling the energy dip, you were about to apologise for ruining the joy so soon—you had weeks before you needed to even worry about that at all—but felix continued before you could.

“and i’m going to be further away than i was before,” he said.

searching his gaze for any sign of what he meant, you eventually asked, “what do you mean?”

he smiled then, small and conflicted. “i got in on the GLTA scheme.”

your eyes widened as you sat up suddenly. “you got in?!” as soon as he nodded excitedly, you gasped and threw your arms around his neck. “oh my god, baby, congrats! you did it, oh my god—!”

he mumbled a thank you into your shirt as you held him tightly, as if your subconscious knew what this meant.

“where are you going to go?”

“south korea.”

you held him at arm’s length, a proud grin on your lips, but your hands still tense as you ran them across his arms. “you got into—?! i told you you’re a genius, felix, i told you! god i’m so proud of you!”

he chuckled, but his eyes were already begin to trail away from yours, even as you cupped his cheeks. your elation quickly cooled. “baby, what’s wrong?”

it took a few moments for him to work up the courage to speak, but after he’d settled next to you, you resting on your side to face him, he spoke, “aren’t you... i won’t be able to come back over the winter...”

you couldn’t hide the disappointment that began to gnaw at your stomach, a small sigh leaving you before you could stop it, but you shook your head. “felix, baby, i’ll miss you, so much, but...” you shifted closer resting your cheek on his shoulder, brushing a leaf off his shirt, “there’s no way you can’t take this opportunity, it’s something you’ve always wanted, and i wouldn’t stop you for anything.”

relaxing, he leant back into the grass with a sigh, pulling you into his side happily. “i love you so much.”

“i love you too,” you whispered, closing your eyes once again to listen to the sound of the birds and his heartbeat. “there’s always next summer.”

“there’s always next summer,” he agreed. the two of you dozed in the sun, felix’s slow, rhythmic trace of his fingertips against your shoulder lulling you into sleep. when you awoke it was to the amber hues of sunset, painting the sky a masterpiece as the breeze picked up, flurrying goosebumps across your arms. the birds had quietened down, their song echoing from further down the hill, crickets taking their place. it wouldn’t be long before night finally fell.

you hauled yourself up and stretched, ignoring the ache in your leg which had been curled up at an odd angle for a bit too long. rubbing the sleep from your eyes you glanced down at felix to find he was still fast asleep. his brow furrowed for a split second ,before his hand twitched and he turned his head, relaxing once again. resisting the urge to coo, your eyes wandered over to his bag in the stretching shadow of the tree. and soon, your body followed, tiptoeing through the grass, to have a rummage through his over-packed rucksack. and, to your luck, there was his hoodie: enough warmth to stay out for just that little bit longer.

you returned to him as you pulled the baggy black over your head before joining him in the grass. you shimmied your hands up into the sleeves for added coziness while you rested your head in the grass besides his. with your sweater-paw carefully shifting his fringe out of his face, you allowed yourself to finally take in every little detail you had missed, both the old and the new, cast in the golden hues of the dying afternoon.

“one...” you began in a whisper, smile shy and subdued. “two...”

in the embers of the sun, you found yourself counting his freckles, just like you had in your very first summer together. and as the sky turned violet and darkened, the sun lost behind the forest canopy, you finally found the exact same number as the last time you had counted. even with the world constantly spinning around you, he hadn’t changed at all.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

an: hope its not too bad. i wont read it for the next month so i wont know :))))

also my knitting needles turned up!!

masterlist

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novantinuum · 3 years

Link

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: Teen Audiences

Words: 2.2K~

Summary: A series of shorts detailing what might’ve happened in the moments after I Am My Monster, told from six different points of view.

Greg apparently had a LOT on his mind, because this was supposed to be short and instead it’s over 2000 words, ahah. Final chapter!

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3. Thank you! <3

Chapter warning: Allusions to past non-canon character suicide.

____

Chapter 6: Greg

Hours pass.

Bismuth makes quick and quiet work of replacing the cracked slider door in Steven’s room while he sleeps, and secures a thick tarp over the open front of the house to keep the coastal breeze somewhat at bay until she can finish her repairs to the windows and siding. She warns that might take a day or two. Garnet, meanwhile, busies herself the rest of the afternoon and evening fielding all of the Diamonds’ frazzled calls, and reassuring them of the boy’s current stability. Pooling their knowledge, Dr. Maheswaran and Peridot make sure to confirm that. Beyond some minor scarring, neither his organic or Gem half seems to exhibit any serious physical health conditions in consequence of what happened today, news which works to ever so slightly lift the air of the household. With no other concrete tasks to complete, Pearl, Amethyst, Lapis, Connie, and Greg all rotate between sweeping debris off the floor, wandering the beach to mentally recuperate, and dutifully sitting at Steven’s side as he rests. It may not sound like a lot, but alas the level of emotional labor demanded by such a situation is immense.

All in all, the sun’s long since dipped below the horizon by the time Greg finally collapses onto the mattress laid out in the back of his van, craving if but a moment of privacy and respite from all the chaos. It’s been... an insufferably long day, to put it lightly. Busy. Tons of cleaning, and intercepting nosy neighbors, and bedside monitoring...

He offered to take the first night shift watching Steven a few minutes ago, but Pearl must’ve noticed the dark circles creeping ever wider under his eyes, because she proceeded to gently overturn his offer and remind him of humanity’s daily sleep requirement. And she’s right, of course. He can’t stay up as long as he used to in his twenties anymore. Plus, he probably deserves some time to himself after everything that’s transpired. There’s plenty of Gems left in the house who can keep watch, after all. Steven will be fine for a few hours. Surely nothing else can happen when he’s asleep, right?

Right??

Exhaustedly slumping against the side wall, Greg offers a glassy, vacant stare at the contacts list of his phone, roughly wiping the damp from his cheeks with his other hand as his thumb hovers over one of the numbers. Does he dare drag someone else into this whole situation? Surely the kinder solution would be to refrain from widening the circle any more, from letting anyone else learn about today’s harrowing events. And yet if he fails to find a proper outlet for the raw emotions all of this has violently hauled to the surface, he fears he just may suffer a mental break himself, repressed memories bursting like a vicious flood through the dam he desperately tried to seal them behind all those years back. Much of this is just... far too familiar.

His phone slips right through his trembling hands as the cruel reality of what he witnessed today finally begins to carve its indelible presence in his mind. A strained sob leaking from between his tightly pursed lips, he buries his head between his knees, clutching at the worn bottom hem of his jean shorts like an infant to a parent’s finger. Small. Vulnerable.

Helpless.

His son... oh stars, his only son, he—

He can’t talk about any of this to the Gems; they wouldn’t wholly grasp the uniquely human nature of his concerns. And he doesn’t feel comfortable discussing these matters with Dr. Maheswaran, especially not after the stern words she dealt to him back at the hospital. He’s burdened her enough already, by this point. No, there’s only one fellow human he feels close enough with to engage in this sort of conversation.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he reaches for the phone he dropped on the mattress. Turns it on. Nervously clamps down on his bottom lip as he selects his cousin’s contact and dials.

The passing heartbeats slamming against his ribs are almost nauseating in their needy clamor as he waits, his calloused fingers tapping against the thick rubber of his phone case. Andy’s never been a particularly tech savvy guy, so honestly, it’s well within reason he might not even carry his phone on his person to answer. And that’d be fine, really. In fact, he might even prefer it, since he’s still not confident he’s emotionally prepared to discuss any of this at this precise moment, anyways. But just as he’s beginning to undergo mental preparations for what on Earth he might leave as a voicemail message, his older family member finally picks up.

“Greg?” Andy’s gravelly voice rings through, sounding somewhat tinny through their connection. “Hey, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? How’s the ol’ Universe family unit doin’?”

“Not great, honestly,” he narrowly manages in response, his throat constricting tight. “That’s kinda why I’m calling, if you have the time to listen?”

“Heh. I’m a drifter, you know I ain’t got no schedule. Carry on.”

“Well... geeze, how do I put this. There was, uh... a bit of an incident today. With Steven.”

“An incident?” his cousin questions, marked worry immediately painting his tone. “The kid okay??”

He falls silent for a few seconds upon this question, threading his hyperactive digits through the split ends in his hair on automatic, a stress-induced habit. “Unclear,” he says, a slight quiver making itself intimately known in his words. “I mean, physically, at the moment, yes, but—“

He cuts off once more. It suddenly occurs to him that little of today’s events would make sense to Andy without providing the appropriate context. Or, at least, what little context he’s capable of giving as a father. It’s still terrifying to admit the truth to himself— that he doesn’t possess the full story. That he hasn’t been paying close enough attention. That, in many ways, he willfully blinded himself to all the troubling events transpiring around his son throughout the years, foolishly believing that if he didn’t involve himself... that if he simply stayed out of the Gems’ hair... everything would go to plan, and Steven would finally receive the training he needed. He didn’t expect things would grow so complicated.

He didn’t expect that his teenage son would have to march into battle carrying nothing but his wits and a shield time and time again.

With a weary sigh and a quick apology, to which Andy brushes off, Greg begins to weave a verbal picture of everything that’s transpired across the last few days. First, the hospital call. Rushing home from tour, only to find his son giant and flushed pink, literally filling an entire room with the sheer volume of his trauma. The shattered x-ray in his chart, hinting towards hidden hurts that— before all this— even Steven seemingly hadn’t processed or quantified. Then, the road trip. The unwanted reminders of his childhood. That blasted CD. His expression sobers as he describes the fateful argument they had on the road home, one which lead to his son accidentally breaking the steering wheel and flipping the van. Next... his disappearance. No texts for four whole days, which is so unlike him. He was worried sick. And the next time he saw him, he was eight feet tall, glowing, and painfully manic in behavior, with each new sentence spilling from his mouth revealing an even more heartbreaking picture of the sort of poor mental state he’d spiraled into. It was nothing short of a father’s worst nightmare, propelled into horrifying, vivid reality.

Nothing in this corner of the galaxy could’ve prepared him for the primal surge of terror and anguish he was engulfed within when that nightmare distorted and transformed even further.

His only son... colossal and coated in thick scales and spines, sclera black as night... roughly clawing at this unfamiliar form, smashing his skull against the cliffside, roaring with an inner pain so primal that the sound now haunts the depths of his very soul—

“I- you remember what happened with cousin Jo, back when we were young?” Greg says softly once he’s caught Andy up with the details of situation, his voice frail and unsteady, the tone of a man helplessly marooned amidst his anxieties. “Before she was sent to that mental rehab place? Well, I’m... with the addition of Gem magic, it almost felt like that. I mean, h-he’s fine for now, we have him resting, but... but I’m just so scared he won’t come out of this, like her, a-a-and that one day he’ll—“

A mewling sob bubbles up in his throat, swiftly severing that train of thought. N-no. No, he refuses to even utter that horrible idea out loud! After all, a world without Steven in it isn’t worth envisioning.

Andy’s eventual response— albeit tinged with a justified shade of awkwardness, given the emotionally charged nature of this conversation— is filled with genuine compassion, and for that he’s dearly thankful.

“Aw, hell... Greg, I’m- I’m so sorry. I, uh- I could fly over, if any of ya’ need me? For emotional support, or whatever?”

Upon this kind offer, he inhales deep to steady his breath, and wipes away dewy beads of moisture from the corner of his eyes, desperately hoping that he can mitigate the pitiful wavering of his voice over the phone. He’s gotta fight to reliably keep some form of composure in front of other people, damnit. His kid can’t have his dad breaking down around him too, of course.

“No, you’ve got places to be,” he replies evenly, pressing his thumb and pointer against one of his aching temples. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You ain’t asking,” he retorts, the eye-roll evident in his tone. “I’m offering. Listen- family takes care of family, y’hear? And I’m only about a day’s flight away, anyways. It’s really the least I could do.”

He sighs. Absentmindedly tugs at a thick strand of his hair. Offers a long, contemplative stare at the rickety age-worn handle affixed to the inside of the van’s back doors. Truth be told— ignoring his deep-seated guilt at dragging Andy into all this to begin with— he’d love having another family member around to embrace, especially a human one who can more deeply understand the crux of his anxieties about this delicate situation. But in the end, he shouldn’t be prioritizing his own feelings and comfort. He’s not the one in crisis, his son is.

Desperately hoping he’s making the right choice, Greg flexes his fingers, and acquiesces to the offer, on one condition: only if Steven consents to having visitors, once he’s awake.

Andy hums in approval. “Understood. Don’t wanna overload the poor guy with any surprise visits, or whatever.”

“Yeah. The last thing I want to do is push him too hard, too fast.”

He pauses, braving waves of parental grief to spend a moment to reflect on Steven’s emotional progression over the past few months... a stray negative comment here, an unusually forlorn mannerism there... All of them events that, in isolation, wouldn’t point to anything more than your standard ‘teenage angst,’ but when observed in strong, unceasing patterns, begin to reveal deeply harrowing truths about the state of an individual’s self-image. How did he never notice? Why wasn’t he there to catch him in his fall?

“I think he hates himself,” he says quietly, his voice hitching up at the end. “He didn’t say so directly, but- but I can sense it. And I don’t know how to help him, I-I... I don’t know if I can.”

“Nonsense,” his cousin scoffs, “‘course ya’ know what to do! What does any good father worth their salt give their sons?”

Unable to evade the momentary temptation of feeling miserable and sorry for himself, he slumps back against the wall, giving a weak shrug that his current audience would never see.

“I dunno, maybe a stable, safe childhood? Not growing up poor as dirt in a van?”

“No, you numbskull,” Andy immediately cuts back, “you love on ‘em and support ‘em just as much as you always have! Y’ show him that you’re always gonna be there for him, and that he can trust you with anything.”

“But I haven’t always been there for him,” he exclaims petulantly. “That’s the whole problem! That’s one of the reasons he ended up like this.”

“Greg,” he says, his voice softer this time. “Listen to me, ain’t nobody perfect, okay? We’ve all made our mistakes with people. Me? More than most. But what we can’t do is let those mistakes cloud what’s happening right now. Y’know, that’s one of the hard lessons I’ve had to learn over the past two years, that you can’t always make things about you. Because right now, it’s about him. He’s dealin’ with some hard feelings, and he needs all of our help. So, let’s help him. Together. We’ll start with one foot in front of us, and we can take it from there. All right?”

Closing his weary, exhausted eyes and pressing his thumb firm against his still-aching temple, Greg Universe gives a long sigh and finally concedes to the reality that— just as he’s not solely responsible for the decline of his son’s mental state— no man should be an island when it comes to the task of supporting one’s journey towards recovery. As with everything, the extended Universe family unit will face the future together, hand-in-hand. Step-by-step.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I think that’s do-able.”

#su #su future #greg universe #andy demayo #su fanfiction #my writing stuff

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fishmongeringstudies · 3 years

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fourteen: waiting on the balcony for an angel to swoop out of the sky and lift you into their painted ceramic arms, you brush your hair out of your face and send a text to your ex-lover

the other day i went on an impromptu walk in the woods with a friend and, after emerging from the other end of the canopy of trees, drenched in the sweet orange glow of the evening, we sat along the path in front of the soccer field and, fiddling with a stem of grass he had found at his feet, he said: i want to make more connections. he doubled back on himself immediately afterwards, as all young people who are afraid of sounding like they genuinely give a shit about a world that has given them charmingly little sympathy will do at some point in their lives. 'but that doesn't make me special,' he continued with that familiar self-effacing cynicism. 'everyone wants to do that.' having relieved himself of the horrible burden of tenderness, he relaxed visibly. it was getting late. the gravel path behind us had slowly emptied itself of runners and old ladies wearing nike sweatshirts. but the sun was still somewhere behind the ragged outline of faraway trees, casting its light across the grass towards us like a fishing line. with every rotation of its fishing rod it tugged a little more light away from our shoulders, until we were left, finally, in darkness.

in summer the days are so long, they fold into each other like jiaozi skins, each thin, translucent circle of dough laid flat against ten more so that by the time you look up from your work you realize you can no longer tell where one ends and the next begins. realistically speaking there are, and only ever will be, twenty four hours in a day. and yet the illusion sustains itself on light alone. it is its own ecosystem. we rise from the sheets like ghosts to greet each dawn only to find that we are already well into the morning. there is so much time to stare, and so little to look at. it's empty. this tiny college town is empty.

i want to write a novel. this has been coming for a while, i think. last june i wrote something novel-like, novel-esque, but i was possessed by the spirit of my dear deceased great-grandmother who was a kickass investigative journalist in america and is wearing a pair of sunglasses in every single memory i have of her, and also sleep-deprived and suffering from a mild case of malnutrition so i don't remember much of it. so when i say i want to write a novel i mean i want to experience the process of writing a novel. the drawn-out agony of literature. the mouse trap in the storage room. will i finish writing it this summer? probably not. but i want to begin.

'what will the novel be about?' my friend asked as we picked our way around a particularly wet patch of forest.

i shrugged. 'i decided i'd do it four hours ago, which i hope you realize isn't long enough to come up with, you know, an entire-'

'-a novel.'

'yes. a novel.'

when i woke up this morning it was drizzling. i don't mean there was a little rain. i mean there was a lot of rain falling very fast, only the droplets were so small and inconsequential it seemed more like a lawn sprinkler had been installed in the sky and set to its quietest setting. i was mad for the first five minutes. then i stuck my head out of my third-floor window and breathed in a spray of wet air and that was, well, you know. it was pretty nice.

last week i started listening to one of those legendary fiction podcasts my friends talk about sometimes where all the characters sound like god on the other end of a twenty four-seven mcdonald's hotline and you are psychologically manipulated into wanting to have sex with the lizard man. i got through the first two episodes on the first day and sixteen in the next three. come sunday morning i was a specter of the person i was before, walking around slack-jawed while thinking about gay people floating around in outer space, shooting cool space guns and fucking things up and bursting into loud, angry tears, not always in that order. some time later i realized i'd be dead before we figure out how to shoot cool guns in space, and was presently overcome with melancholy. then i remembered: i am gay.

weirdly enough, i think the theme 'i want to make more connections' can be applied to this podcast too despite the fact that the person who said it and the characters in the story are so vastly different that it pains me to imagine them so much as standing in the same room, covered in sunlight, dripping with it. because at the end of the day, we're all going to die. you, me, the stupid dean of student affairs who hasn't sent me an email yet (I'm Waiting For You, Erin), the horror show who used to live down the hallway. that's one end of the knot, you know? but you want to tie the other end too so the whole structure won't just fall apart in a few years. you want to make sure the scaffolding will hold. it isn't just the idea of connections, of wanting them, of holding so much desire in your chest that every time you breathe your lungs stutter with the effort of keeping it all in. it's the idea of more. of what lies past the horizon, beyond the ragged treetops, after you reach the end of the line. humans are really fucking hungry. it's worse when you're young. when you're young, you think you can have everything.

and maybe you can't. but you want this, don't you? you want to leave something behind.

so do it anyway. i'm rooting for you. i'm your number one fan.

06.03.21

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valeriehervo · 3 years

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Valérie Hervo runs Les Chandelles, the legendary Paris sex club where members of French high society, politicians, barristers and rock stars (and an increasing number of Brits) come to indulge their erotic fantasies. Can it survive the twin threats of the pandemic and a moral backlash?

Adam Sage

Saturday March 20 2021,

Valérie Hervo is outraged. She has just been listening to a radio station where two male presenters, chatting about her forthcoming appearance on their show, kept referring to her as the owner of a “group sex club”.

“That really is low-class vocabulary,” she tells me. “It’s very macho as well. Only a man would say something like that.

“And it is not what this place is about. To me, it is a journey through the mystery of the senses to a land of sensuality and encounters.”

Hervo is particularly aggrieved at what she took to be the implication that she organised sexual games for the benefit of men.

Nothing could be further from the truth, she insists. “Here, everything revolves around women’s pleasure. This is a place where a woman can do what she wants, when she wants and with whom she wants – and if she wants to do nothing, she does nothing.”

Hervo opened Les Chandelles, her recreational club – as she would prefer it described – in 1993, and it has since become a part of French high-society folklore.

Any Parisian will tell you that this is the place where the country’s political, economic and cultural elites live out their sexual fantasies beyond the sight of ordinary mortals, where government ministers, television presenters, rock stars and chief executives engage in the ancient practice of libertinage.

But what exactly goes on behind the plain façade in a narrow street near the Louvre in central Paris? And what might this tell us about French values? Or indeed about British values, given the steady flow of clients rumoured to have crossed the channel in recent years in the hope of fulfilling their “erotic potential” under Hervo’s stewardship?

With telephones barred from the club (they have to be left at the entrance) and hardly anyone willing to talk openly about their evenings there – “It’s a matter of intimacy,” says Hervo. “You don’t start telling everyone about your sex life at dinner parties” – such questions have given rise to few answers and much speculation.

Now, with the club closed because of the pandemic, Hervo, 53, has written a book that explains what happens when the dancefloor empties, usually around 1.30am, and the salons around it fill with writhing, sighing bodies.

Les dessous des Chandelles, which could be translated either figuratively as The Secrets of the Chandelles or literally as Underneath the Candelabras, is the portrait of a quintessentially French establishment.

Where else would the lost property include designer thongs or customers eat Ladurée macarons off the back of a naked woman, a famous male barrister end up in an alcove with his female rival days after their clash in a criminal court, or Mick Jagger reportedly be turned away for wearing a pair of jeans?

Hervo explains that her club is a bastion of French “savoir vivre”, where a select group of beautiful, intelligent and well-educated people conduct themselves in a way befitting a nation that has given the world some of its greatest suggestive literature, from Molière’s Dom Juan to Laclos’ Les liaisons dangereuses.

Consider, for example, her account of one of the Eyes Wide Shut theme parties she holds from time to time. “A naked woman, her gaze hidden by a Venetian mask, lies on a table,” she writes. “A nymph in a transparent toga joins her. She kneels down and delicately pulls her legs apart.”

She has torrid encounters herself, for instance with a woman whose perfume she found bewitching and whose body she discovered behind a veil in an alcove.

Much of her time, however, is spent looking after her patrons, like the couple of regulars who realised to their horror that their adult son and his partner had also begun going to Les Chandelles. Hervo tells how they begged her to help them avoid what they said would be a “regrettable” meeting.

On another occasion, a male customer arrived with his mistress, explaining to Hervo that his wife was stuck at home because she was ill. An hour later, the wife arrived with a younger man, she writes. “Don’t say anything to my husband,” she told Hervo. “He thinks I’ve got the flu.”

Hervo promptly rushed downstairs where she found the husband, “naked and frolicking with his partner and a few other accomplices”. She advised him to leave through the emergency exit.

I am discussing these and more adventures with Hervo at a table in her club’s pink and white restaurant, which is to be found at the bottom of stairs that wind down from an ordinary-looking blue door on the street.

Opposite us is another staircase that leads to what could easily be mistaken for an 18th- century Parisian literary salon – were it not for the mattress in the alcove at the end of it.

A third staircase, encased in walls painted in gold leaf, descends to a dancefloor, a bar and more salons with their alcoves, benches and mattresses.

It is difficult to find an English word to describe Les Chandelles. Some have called it a swingers’ club, although that conveys none of the cerebral sophistication and cultural aspirations that go with elite sex in France.

Others have used the term wife-swapping (or échangisme, as the French call it), but Hervo is no more happier with that than with group sex.

“For me, échangisme is very reductive and sad,” Hervo explains. “It involves some kind of contract between four people and they all need to agree, which can’t happen very often.”

What prevails at her club, she says, is libertinage, a concept dating back to a 12th-century rebellion against the church by disaffected clerics who were determined to place physical love above the courtly version promoted by troubadours and their ilk.

The contemporary version of this philosophy involves making “everything possible and nothing obligatory”, Hervo says.

One couple might go for sex, either with each other or with someone else, she says. A second might go along to watch. A third could be happy with a turn on the dancefloor.

“For some, it is enough to have an imaginary journey. For others, they will want a little bit more. But what happens in the salons is the icing on the cake and it doesn’t matter if nothing happens, because we’ve had such fun with the preliminaries.

“Everyone goes at their own rhythm. You may be happy with a look, a caress or with voyeurism. But that is all very different to échangisme.”

Libertinage, which has come and gone in France over the centuries – the early 17th and the mid-18th being among the high points – enjoyed a return to fashion from the late Nineties with the emergence of hundreds of clubs amid a spirit of unrestrained freedom.

The number has since fallen, with adepts taking to organising their own house parties. At the last count there were 269 such clubs left, according to French state radio.

The health crisis looks likely to drive many more out of business, their activities scarcely being compatible with social distancing.

Les Chandelles, however, has a status apart, and this should offer it protection against the vicissitudes of fortune.

Hervo says her customers include “politicians from both the left and the right” and “celebrities from across the whole world” (she refuses to divulge their names).

Hervo says that as her club’s fame has grown, so has its allure to visitors from Europe, the US, Asia and “a lot from Britain”.

It is not enough just to cross the channel and knock on the door, though. In order to get in, you need erotic knowhow, Hervo says, along with familiarity with Parisian savoir-vivre.

“It is an alchemy. A way of being,” she says.

In his Histoire du libertinage, Didier Foucault, a history lecturer at Toulouse University who is a specialist on the subject, writes of how the practice became fashionable after 1600 among aristocrats driven “by a haughty refusal to bow either to common law or to any authority whatsoever, be it temporal or divine”.

There may be something similar about the French elite that frequents Les Chandelles. The entrance fee is €96 for two, or €310 with dinner and a bottle of Deutz champagne thrown in. If Deutz is too downmarket, there is Cristal Roederer for €490 or Dom Pérignon Rosé for €470.

But the selection policy is not based on money, Hervo insists. More important to her are “elegance, refinement, education and taste.

“I have a very tough door policy. I turn away a lot of people.”

The badly dressed, the ugly, the vulgar, have no hope of getting past her, she says, while the overweight may struggle as well, at least if they are male.

“I know I shouldn’t be saying this, but I am going to say it anyway. I think I would be more concerned by a fat man than a round woman. Round women can be very beautiful but, in general, men who are fat are… Well, someone who lets himself go physically is someone who does… not respect himself. And if he doesn’t respect himself, he is less likely to respect other people.”

Les dessous des Chandelles is a strange, almost dual work. On the one hand, it is a window onto this secretive world of privilege and exclusion created by Hervo beneath Rue Thérèse in the French capital.

On the other, it is a tale of the author’s personal voyage through libertinage and her claim that the sexual liberation she found along the way, first in other clubs and then in her own, helped to unshackle her from a traumatic childhood marked by incest, guilt and depression.

Our conversation reflects the same duality.

For much of the interview, Hervo comes across as the archetypal Parisian businesswoman, complete with carefully applied make-up, an elegant hairdo, an articulate discourse, a headstrong Yorkshire terrier and a well-trained fiancé – Tom, the maker of an excellent Sancerre white wine, who rushes off shortly after I arrive and returns later with an armful of her outfits for the photoshoot, including an all-white suit and a glittering jacket.

One minute she is talking with off-putting clarity about the female orgasm, telling me in a tone that brooks no argument that “a woman’s sexuality is so much richer than that of a man”. The next she is explaining, with equal equanimity, how she resisted underworld attempts to take over her club following her divorce in 2005.

Like all self-respecting Parisiennes, she knows how to throw a strategic fit of pique as well, announcing that the photographer is driving her mad and that Tom had better summon a friend for help, and be quick about it. The friend duly arrives with a bottle of sancerre to enable Hervo to get through the afternoon session.

Yet, from time to time, there are signs of the scars left by childhood, as when she concedes that she took refuge in libertinage in part because “at night-time, you can’t see the suffering so much… the glitter masks the pain”.

At one point, her eyes fill with tears as she discloses that her relatives have refused to speak to her since the publication of her book, which recounts her rape by her grandfather as a young girl, her parents’ refusal to believe her, her teenage struggles with depression, her toxic marriage to a man 20-odd years her senior, and her salvation in swingers’ clubs.

It was her former husband who introduced her to libertinage. She writes of her first experience in a club where “in a salon plunged into darkness… some couples are making love while others are observing them”.

She did not want to join in – at least not the first time – but says, “My emotion [was]great and my excitement real.”

“I was 24 and I instinctively knew it was right for me,” Hervo tells me. “What I liked in those places was a feeling of freedom and especially a feeling that I was meeting couples who seemed to get on well together.

“That was not the image of the couple I had received as a child because my parents argued all the time. It was like Disneyland as far as I was concerned.”

When her former husband suggested opening their own swingers’ club in Paris, she jumped at the chance. He put up some of the money, they borrowed the rest and she became the manager.

“It was a success straight away, because I think it was the first club to give so much importance to women,” she says. “At that time, in 1993, in other clubs, the women were just treated as objects and it was the men who took charge of the games and who brought along their wives.

“I think that they were probably men of little courage who were not able to cheat on their wives and who went to this sort of place instead. But that was not at all in the spirit of libertinage.”

Les Chandelles would be different, she decided. “Women who are objects are women without humanity. Here, I made sure that the women were subjects.

“In fact, I created here what I never had myself. I tried to encourage women to take their time, to dare to set the tempo, to ask men to be attentive and unhurried and to be gallant, because women adore gallantry.”

She says her door policy has always involved refusing entrance to couples if she suspects that the woman is being dragged along against her will or kept in the dark about the true nature of Les Chandelles. “Even now in 2021, there are boors who don’t tell their partners where they are taking them,” she says. “It’s increasingly rare but it still happens. But if I have the slightest doubt, I question them. You get a feeling for these things.”

Inside the club, no means no, she says, explaining that men can be expelled for repeating a request to a female customer if they are turned down the first time.

“I think women are much safer in this sort of place than in traditional nightclubs where they get hassled all the time,” she tells me.

She says that she herself came to see Les Chandelles – of which she has been the sole owner since extracting herself from her disastrous marriage 16 years ago and buying her former husband’s share – as a refuge from the wounds left by her troubled childhood.

“This has been my bunker and my incubator,” she says. “It was where I revitalised myself, and where I discovered myself too.”

Can her club really be as idyllic as she pretends?

For years, Les Chandelles has been described in the French press as a favourite haunt of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the former head of the International Monetary Fund, who resigned following his arrest on suspicion of rape. Although the charge was ultimately dropped, reports of his attendance at Les Chandelles have done nothing for its image.

Recently, it has also been linked with Gérald Darminin, President Macron’s interior minister, who, it has emerged, went to Les Chandelles in 2009 with a woman who had asked him for help in overturning her criminal conviction – he was legal affairs adviser for an opposition political party at the time – and who has accused him of raping her later that evening.

He denies her claim, but the publicity has scarcely been an advertisement for Hervo’s establishment.

She says the coverage has been misleading and unfair. DSK, for instance, barely ever visited Les Chandelles, she insists.

“There are many other politicians who came more often than him and who were much more important than him,” she says.

As for Darmanin, she says that when he dropped into the club a little over a decade ago, he was a young bachelor, and that young bachelors sometimes visit “for an evening with – what’s that word they use now? – oh yes, les sex friends, that’s it.

“And there’s nothing wrong with that. If you find yourself on your own for a year or so, you might want a regular one of those. Why not?”

Until now, the interview has gone smoothly enough, interrupted only by the barking of Cerise, Hervo’s Yorkshire terrier, at the emergence of the photographer from below.

But then I make a big mistake. Noting the entrance policy favours single women – who are allowed in on evenings otherwise reserved for couples, when single men are banned – I ask Hervo whether she uses them as an enticement for male patrons seeking a threesome with their wives and another partner.

She looks daggers across the table. “That is really a stupid, male, Cro-Magnon thing to say,” she tells me. “It’s very maladroit of you.

“Single women come because they want to have fun, because they could meet a man who pleases them, or a woman, or perhaps neither. Sometimes, it’s just two women friends who come for a drink because they know that here they won’t be bothered and because they will be appreciated because they are pretty.

“When I began here, I didn’t receive single women in the evening, because society considered that a woman who came alone to an establishment like mine was either a whore or a bitch. I fought to make people understand that life does not work like that, and I am proud to say that today I have single women among my customers.”

I ask Hervo if she is a feminist. “I certainly am not a neo-feminist,” she says, explaining that she laughs off wolf whistles in the street, likes being complimented on her looks and wants to “seduce or to be seduced, freely. But I am feminist for some things. I am in favour of women being able to experience pleasure alone at first, to discover their bodies and to enjoy their bodies, and only afterwards to share all that with a partner if they so wish.

“That sort of thing has not always been possible in the past.”

Pointing out that Foucault’s history of libertinage shows how sexual freedoms have come and gone over the centuries in France, I wonder out loud whether the country is shifting back towards greater restraint.

“You’re right, it is,” she says. “The difference is that today, it is not religion that is trying to cover everything up, it’s our moralising society. There is a very prudish scent around these days.”

In a thinly veiled attack on #MeToo, she complains in her book that the social networks have been transformed into “popular tribunals”, that the law has come to treat women “as weak beings which have to be protected” and that the ancestral French game of seduction is being subjected to new codes and new rules.

It is difficult to determine whether the pandemic will brake or accelerate this trend. Some predict that when the crisis ends, we will see a repeat of les années folles (the mad years), as the Twenties were known in France, with a yearning for freedom, parties and libertinage.

Others forecast the continued spread of the Anglo-Saxon-style feminism that Hervo abhors and the curtailment of French love-making and seduction. She is not overly worried, though. On a personal level, she has emerged from years of therapy able to confront her past and look forward to the future, she says. She has become a part-time therapist herself, has a house in the country, where she has spent much of the past year, and is planning to “marry the man I love” this summer.

Even if the moral backlash gathers strength, she thinks that Les Chandelles will continue to triumph.

“There have always been currents and countercurrents, but if society goes one way, people will need a place of liberty where they can do what they want, where they will have the freedom to talk, to exchange.”

Indeed, she believes that her club may even come to play a role similar to that of literary salons in the 18th century, when they nurtured the ideas that helped to topple the ancien régime.

Only in France could there be dreams of Enlightenment amid the shadows of a basement sex club. Les dessous des Chandelles by Valérie Hervo is published by Cherche Midi

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ssummerscyclops · 3 years

Text

“YOU HAVE A DREAM ; I HAVE A PLAN.”

BASICS

POWERS / ABILITIES

+ scott’s mutation allows him to shoot red rays of force out of his eyes, made from the cosmic rays that his body is continually absorbing and metabolizing. he can control the trajectory of these rays to varying degrees of success. + he is immune to the powers of his younger brother, havok + scott is an expert level pilot, like his father christopher, and an expert level hand to hand combatant.

TRAITS

+ selfless, intelligent, resilient

- overly cautious, control issues, emotionally closed off

THE PAST

in a very literal sense, scott summers is born before his father’s plane ever begins crashing. there is a life lived, a happy little boy eager to grow up beside his younger brother, to see the world from above, parting clouds without effort--scott cannot remember that life, that little boy, but he’s there somewhere, forever just beyond the tips of his fingers. for the man who would become the cyclops, would become the face of a struggle that had been fought for years before he was even born, the world began in fire, in pain. the world began the moment scott summers opened his eyes, in an effort to save his own life, and saw red for the first time.

he did his best to keep alex safe after that--got them to a hospital without injuring anyone, refused to leave his younger brother’s side to get his eyes looked at, but it wasn’t enough. the younger summers would be the first and most bitter failure that scott would swallow down, would lock away. they were seperated due to the influence of a man who called himself by many names, but who scott would come to know primarily as mr. sinister--alex to a nice family who would protect him behind their white picket fence, and scott to the state home for foundlings where he could be subjected to any number of tests on sinister’s whim in an effort to unlock the full extent of his power, his potential usefulness.

scott endured physical and psychological abuse from mr. sinister throughout his early teenage years, as the older man continued to test and experiment with his power. it wasn’t until an uncontrolled blast erupted from scott’s eyes, hitting a crane and sending its payload swinging towards a crowd of people, that scott managed an escape from the orphanage by fleeing. he was once again alone, only this time his eyes would not, and could not save him. they could only hurt, they could only continue to paint the world in shades of red.

it was charles xavier that saved him--wrapped his hands around scott’s wrists and gently moved them from where they pressed into the sockets, brought him home and gave him the first prototype of the visor, the thing that would allow him to see, to breathe again without the searing pain in the back of his skull. it was charles xavier that gave scott summers something to continue living for, something to hit with the pain and anger that burned red inside of him. under the professor’s guidance he became the cyclops--he became so much more than the boy who fell to the earth that day could have ever hoped to be.

he was barely a man, still twisting his limbs in an effort to rid them of growing pains, but the professor trusted him with the team, trusted him with the dream they had come to share--if xavier was the head, scott summers, the cyclops, was the red right hand. it was as close as he had ever come to being happy, it was as close as he had ever come to being able to forget everything that had come before--he had a goal, he was finally making up for not being able to save alex, to save himself when it mattered. he didn’t need to be liked, he didn’t need to be loved, he just needed to be good at what he was doing--he just needed to control his life for once.

but like most things scott had come to love, had come to cling to, the x-men had an expiration date. with no team to command, with magneto’s arm draped firmly around the professor’s shoulders, scott had nothing left, scott was exactly where he had started, alone with the earth around him razed and smoking. but he was older now--he was more now. he tried for six months, to live just as himself--but the cyclops did not allow himself to get knocked to the ground, the cyclops may stumble but he always got to his feet. so scott made his way to sokovia, made his way to what remained of his family, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t see it through to whatever end it takes--because while red would always be the color of blood, of fire and chaos and destruction, it was also the color of rebirth.

THE PRESENT

scott retired, after the x-men dissolved--tried living just as scott summers instead of cyclops. he tried just teaching at the school, helping emma where he could--but he’d been a soldier ever since he was a teenager, and he knew in the back of his mind that peace, as someone once said somewhere, was never truly going to be an option. he was miserable, his eyes ached from behind his visor--he needed to be on the front lines, he needed to know that he was doing everything he could to keep the dream alive, even if charles had given up on it for his own version of peace. so he packed up, wrapped his visor carefully in familiar yellow and blue, and he headed for sokovia--for the only family and the only cause he’s ever known.

HEADCANONS

+ scott favors his visor, but even he knows it’s not exactly a fashion statement--he has a couple of pairs of sunglasses with ruby lenses in them that he wears if he goes out in public.

+ the only person he trusts completely is alex, but even then he finds himself wanting to give his younger brother a certain amount of distance--alex didn’t ask to walk in his shadow, and alex has his own issues to work through without getting caught up in what scott deals with.

+ scott is a secret history geek--he has a couple of podcasts that he listens to religiously, and his personal library is very thorough. his favorite movie is lawrence of arabia, and his ideal day is being left alone to watch all four hours of it by himself. it comes from being on his own a lot, with only books to keep him company.

+ scott, in reality, has a hard time controlling his eye beams thanks to some brain injuries sustained after falling out of the plane as a child--because of this, he’s prone to getting really painful migraines. not that he would ever tell anyone he was suffering.

+ scott is a very skilled pilot, but part of his reasoning for learning how to fly is that he is on some level scared of it--he’ll never forget the accident that changed his life. his stomach always drops for a half a second before he boards a plane.

PLEASE don’t hesitate to break down the door and throw your lovely characters at him <3

#srisingintro #how many times can u type eye beams before it gets weird: a novel #YOU IDIOTS WANT TO KNOW WHAT CYCLOPS WOULD DO? | ABOUT

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ashistrashhh · 4 years

Text

here are some fic recs!! including sakuatsu, bokuaka, kuroken and matsuhana bc i couldnt help myself

if you want, ask me about a certain ship and ill give you some recs!

-sakuatsu-

Marble and Sandstone by red_camellia

rating: G words: 12,937 chapters: 2/2

author summary: Miya Atsumu only cares about volleyball and nothing else. That is, until he develops a strange obsession with the marble statue of a young man that seems vaguely familiar in his university's arts department. One day that statue comes alive as the very real Sakusa Kiyoomi, and they are left with the mystery of why Sakusa Kiyoomi was turned into a statue and only came back to life when Atsumu touched him. Their new-found connection and the strange mystery turns Atsumu's life upside down, not least because of his growing feelings for Sakusa.

my notes: this was a rlly cute fic!!! 11/10 would read again!!

let it go (paint my body gold) by lunarism

rating: T words: 3,272 chapters: 1/1

author summary: It becomes a routine for them. Sometimes they go grocery shopping and make dinner together, other times they end up talking until Sakusa feels like his own shower and bed is calling him. Every single time Sakusa gets home, shrugs his coat off, balls it up, and proceeds to scream profusely into the fabric for a few minutes.

my notes: pining!!! sakusa!!! also casual painter!atsumu!!! and they paint together!!!

craft a miracle with these hands, lips, (silence) by chrysanthe (sonderesque)

rating: T words: 4,252 chapters: 1/1

author summary: ‘Someone is here to ruin your night,’ his door tells him. ‘You should let them in.’ “I’M HOMELESS OMI-OMI. HOMELESS,” yells the one here to ruin his night. “LET ME IN.”

(What does Kiyoomi sell his sanctuary for?)

my notes: hnnn rlly fuckin cute,, and domestic,,,,

Clipped To You by littleboat

rating: T words: 8,174 chapters: 1/1

author summary: It starts with Hinata Natsu, of all people.

Well, if Atsumu’s being honest with himself, it started way before that, but he’s not, so that’s besides the point. And thankfully, he’s just petty enough to blame all of his problems on a thirteen year old girl.

or Sakusa starts wearing hair clips and Atsumu is more than a little obsessed

my notes: minor kagehina, bokuaka // god these fics rlly make me simp for fictional characters even more than i should. but!! sakusa!!! in hairclips!!! and a pining atsumu!!!

learn how to lay me down in something other than danger, other than fury by rosevtea

words: 34,211 chapters: 1/1

author summary: All of the ways fellow college TA Miya Atsumu reinvents Kiyoomi's definition of normal.

my notes: god i loved this. it’s a fake dating au and like,, even though they’re “dating” sakusa keeps letting his guard down little by little around atsumu and it surprises everyone. komori and akaashi just know that they’re were genuinely pining for eachother

among probabilities and a thousand fates by aalphard

rating: T words: 15,675 chapters: 1/1

author summary: prompt fill for “in a world where the red string of fate exists, person a’s finger always twitches when person b, who can see the string, tugs on their string” | or sakusa thought he had a tic and atsumu liked to see his confused expression when it started to happen exclusively when he was around.

my notes: i! loved! it!! so basically atsumu and osamu have the rare gift of seeing the red string of fate, so they know its real but sakusa, like most other people dont believe it exists. so atsumu gives sakusa a (kinda) hard time. rlly cute!! i love soulmate aus!

-bokuaka-

love in the time of wifi by dalyeau

rating: G words: 4,177 chapters: 1/1

author summary: Akaashi is coming to terms with the fact that he might be romantically interested in his volleyball captain. Hence, doing what any sixteen year old with a problem should do. He asks about it online.

my notes: really cute fic about akaashi asking what he should do about his crush on a site similar to reddit. its kinda a “i didnt know it was you” kind of fic and it made me happy

steam by orphan_account

rating: E words: 8,474 chapters: 1/1

author summary:

bokuto: why is he so hot bokuto: why am i so gay kuroo: LMAO you mean your vice captain right bokuto: yeah

The coach blew the whistle for practice to begin, and Bokuto drummed his fingers against the bleachers, awaiting Kuroo’s reply. He was about to walk away, when his phone buzzed in his hand.kuroo: i got this bro bokuto: what bokuto: wtf does that mean

Bokuto started to panic.

my notes: explicit!!! but really wholesome. kuroo is honestly the best wingman. i also think this is my favourite bokuaka smutfic??

just to miss the sun by rosevtea

rating: T words: 15,126 chapters:1/1

author summary: Everything begins to implode when MSBY Jackals outside hitter Bokuto Koutarou crashes Akaashi's livestream.

my notes: akaashi is a booktuber and bokuto crashes one of his streams. fans begin to speculate. rlly fluffy and can u tell i like bokuaka

brain fish by iceblinks

rating: T words: 12,026 chapters: 6/6

author summary: Akaashi wakes up to a string of texts from an unknown number.

my notes: i love text fics and i love wrong number aus so u can tell how much i loved this. really fluffy and i come back to it time to time

-kuroken-

us three by honey_s

rating: T words: 5,137 chapters: 1/1

author summary: Kuroo’s gaze flits over to the utensil. His eyes bulge out of his skull. “Wh—is that a meat hammer? Put it back!” Akaashi’s head recoils back in confusion. “I don’t understand the problem here.” “Why on Earth have you got a fucking meat hammer? We aren’t going to kill somebody!” “Well,” Akaashi begins, clearly taken aback, “I apologise for assuming. I had heard Kenma-san had been hurt in school and after getting a message from both of you to meet late at night, I merely filled in the blanks and assumed we were going to beat someone up, for lack of a better term.” “Not literally! I meant metaphorically, or figuratively, or something!” “Idiomically?” “That isn’t a word, Bokuto-san.” “Jesus Christ,” Kuroo groans, dropping his head into his hands. “We're going to jail."

my notes: bokuaka and kuroo are ready to beat someone up for kenma!! and we stan!!

Cherry Pits and Cat Tattoos by strawberryriver

rating: G words: 6,141 chapters: 1/1

author summary:

Kuroo has been in communication with his soulmate ever since they were kids. They've known each other for so long that he never really worried about when or how he would meet them. At least, not until he meets the roommate of Bokuto's soulmate.Soulmate AU in which things written on your skin show up on your soulmate. Companion piece/same AU as Serendipty

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

Kuroo Tetsurou liked to write on his arms. Despite his mother's half-serious warnings about “ink poisoning” or staining his skin, he insisted on marking his arms and legs wherever he could. Not like his best-friend-since-always Bokuto Koutaro, who had to write on his arms or he’d forget to breathe, but artfully. He’d draw designs, animals, the occasional chemical compound. The whole idea behind soulmates fascinated him: how one person could mark their arm and someone potentially thousands of miles away, would have that same mark appear. The amount of articles, studies, and books he’d read about the topic, even at a young age, could put an undergrad researcher to shame.

my notes: again with the soulmate au bc i cannot help myself. but really cute!!! probably gonna read this again later!

Boom, Toasted by protostar (hearthope)

rated: T words: 6,782 chapters: 1/1

author summary:

FROM: yuuji any bets on who hes texting??

FROM: eita He's smiling at his phone. Kuroo, probably

FROM: kentarou Kuroo

TO: fake family Have any of you ever once considered not prying

FROM: eita You deserve it

FROM: yuuji how can we not when ur in love!!

Kenma gets a text from an unknown number. He'd be lying if he said the guy behind it wasn't kind of endearing.

my notes: again, i love wrong number texts. it focuses more on kenma’s friendship, but kenma’s pov with texting kuroo is more than him realizing feelings and stuff. really cute, ive read it multiple times.

Japan's most subscribed by NeverNothing

rating: T words: 3,631 chapters: 1/1

author summary: Kuroo Tetsurou @blacktetsurou changed his bio : volleyball player, co-owner of Bouncing Ball Corp. and so much more ;)

my notes: i! love! social media! fics!!! really cute and basically people wondering who the mysterious kuroo is to applepi.

MATSUHANA!!! the underrated gem

texting (with a capital S) by parenthetic

rating: M words: 2,119 chapters: 1/1

author summary: Hanamaki breaks his No Texting In Class rule, and it's all downhill from there.

my notes: honestly more funny than it suggests, but its matsuhana, they’re meme lords.

rated m for by orphan_account

rated: T words: 10,692 chapters: 1/1

author summary: He should have known that there was a Specific Reason™ why it was so absolutely vital that he and Matsukawa specifically meet for a reading of the script. He should have known that there had to be some evil catch beyond sitting in a tiny, cramped studio with his newly sworn enemy.

Hanamaki stares at the title of the script he’d so gracefully neglected the night before.

FORBIDDEN PARADISE

“Excuse me,” Hanamaki starts, raising a pen in the air while staring blankly at the packet in his free hand. “Just to clarify, you want me to record a boy's love CD with Matsukawa?”

my notes: a very good voice actor au. there is some misunderstanding on hanamaki’s part bc he didnt finish listening to matsukawa, and this is really cute and i love matsuhana.

In A Quiet Night, All Sounds Carry by levyovochka

rating: E words: 4,794 chapters: 1/1

authors summary: “Ah, ah, Too—!”

Hanamaki hates his university dorm.

“—ru, let me cum, please!”

Hold up. That’s a fucking understatement. Let him rephrase it: Hanamaki loathes his university dorm with passion. Detest the damned abomination, abhors it—

“—ru! Coming, coming—”

It has only been a month and Hanamaki already wants to die.

my notes: as u can guess minor iwaoi // rlly well written and bottom hanamaki rights and maybe my favourite matsuhana smutfic??? and hooh boy i simp for matsukawa

call me maybe by totooru

rating: T words: 33,689 chapters: 14/14

author summary: Hanamaki texts the wrong number when trying to extort tips out of Oikawa in order to defeat Iwaizumi in arm wrestling, and then continues to text the witty stranger who had answered.

my notes: minor iwaoi, daisuga, bokuaka // god i think this is my favourite matsuhana fic overall, maybe in general, but my god is it great. this is probably a common rec, but its understandable as to why it is. basically au where makki texts matsun (who goes to karasuno) instead of oikawa for tips to beat iwaizumi at an arm wrestling match. but they keep messaging. and holy shit i love their conversations. please read this, it is 256/10

there we go!! i might go a part two with more ships (kagehina, tsukkiyama and iwaoi) but this took up way to much time lol. i have an essay due in a couple hours. but hope u like these fics as much as i do!!

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project-paranoia · 3 years

Text

Live Watch: Thousand Autumns Episode One

Oh wow someone got the good... guzheng? Something in that family of instruments anyway. They got the good music for that. And the animation is beautiful and beautifully synchronised to the clip excerpts.

And the imagery! The opening with the symbol of the Dao, and then main character number 1, Shen Qiao, all in white, in a fantastically and subtly ornamented outfit - I love the textures of the cloth they put in on the animation here, cloth and clothes textures are so easy to get wrong and they’ve done it beautifully here. I think this is supposed to be Shen Qiao’s original sect leader/zhangjiao outfit and he looks properly leaderly in it.

And this, followed by a closeup of Yan Wushi’s hand holding the ring of contention, and then Yan Wushi himself, very handsomely rendered in 3d animation - and again I have to voice my appreciation of the cloth textures. That’s actual subtly 3d brocade textures they’re rendering there, with the correct flow for how cloth hangs on the body, and the correct variances of light on the areas with thicker brocade and it is, frankly, very impressive. And they didn’t lose colour saturation doing it either, making that purple robe look suitably luxurious. The shiny hair ornament and one sidebang in white is a nice touch as well. As are the hints they set right in the opening that Shen Qiao and Yan Wushi are ... opposites, and complements, linking them back to the Yin/Yang balance of the symbol of the Dao.

So much love for this opening song it’s so good. Also going to be a pain to translate accurately with a proper sense of the poetry of it, but so good.

Alright episode 1 proper, 风雨欲来. The coming of the wind and rain, literally, I think. Maybe even the foreboding or oncoming storm, if you’re going for the feel of the term instead of literal translation. Oh. Oh that opening montage with the bird’s eye view and the fog and the high mountains - I was so taken by this scenery I sketched and tried to paint it at least 3 times. It’s a very moving shot. Also very much in the grand tradition of xianxia/wuxia, and also, even without a word, hinting at the traditional stance of the Mt Xuandu sect - to 出世， to remove themselves from the world to cultivate in the seclusion and clarity of the literal peaks above the clouds and dust of the world.

Oh. Oh that opening shot. The challenge to combat by Kunye to Shen Qiao. The.. subtle and ornate embroidery and brocade and patterning on Shen Qiao’s sect leader robes is so awesome. The wave motifs repeated in the 3 layers of robes, even on the hair ornament/冠 in his hair, the resolute look on his face! The closeup shot of the 山河同悲 sword - and what a name for it. A sword named for, if I may be excused poetry in translation - compassion and pity and fellow feeling for the griefs and pains and trials of the world as encompassed by the mountains and rivers - what a blade, and what a name, and what a bearer that would be worthy of it. A very good hint, at the kind of person Shen Qiao is, even before they have him open his mouth.

The contrasting costuming decision for Kunye et al is also very nice, hinting at the cultural differences between, say, the peoples that live on the central plains and the more nomadic groups living on less kindly land, shown in the different materials available/preferred - leather, furs, etc vs cloth, silk, cotton etc

And the fight choreography! So nice! The 3d animation works really well here,in that there’s no limitation to the capabilities of human bodies and it’s possible to really show in the visual medium the knock out drag down fight between 2 people whose martial - and quasi magical - capabilities are already at potentially mountain splitting levels. Not to mention also, showing that a Shen Qiao who isn’t being handicapped by sabotage... really can wipe the floor with Kunye if he wants to. And then, of course, once the fight gets to Half-step Peak and they’re out of sight of inconvenient witnesses, the signal for the ambush. And then the effects of the sabotage take hold.

Ah, flashback to 20 years ago, to provide the audience with the world info we need to understand the rest of the story. Not to mention also informing us why Hulugu would even bother. Or why Kunye coming in to challege Shen Qiao is so narratively important. And also introducing the ring that so many would fight over later.

Yan Wushi’s character introduction.. is quite something. As is Yu Shengyan’s. Ah, Shizun, congratulations on exiting your 10 year cultivation seclusion, would you like the highlights on the changes in the world in the past 10 years? But also a good show of character, because they have him not even looking at Yu Shengyan, but looking away in the distance, and telling him to only tell the most important bits, he’s not interested in useless words. Also serves as a nice introduction to some people who’ll be important later, and giving us a time marker for when Shen Qiao ascended to the sect leader post - 5 years ago, after the death of his shizun Qi Fengge. Ah Yan Wushi, your characteristically arrogant attitude - aside from Qi Fengge, who in life was worthy of being the first among all the wuxia world, the rest are not worth even mentioning. And here too a little hint that Yan Wushi might care a little bit in some way for those who are his, including his disciples - He tells Yu Shengyan that this location, this Half Step Peak that they’re at, because of its physical characteristics, is good for him to cultivate to the next level of understanding/enlightenment of the martial arts used by Huanyue Sect.

I love it whenever they hint that the more... developed characters whose martial arts are very good have improved senses. A little flow of blood in the water, Yu Shengyan notices something is wrong, looks at his shizun, and receives a nod of affirmation that he perceived correctly and should take action. And then after that, they come upon a body of one of the Mt Xuandu disciples, and Yan Wushi’s verbal remark that today, Mt Xuandu is troubled and not pure and clean. And then Shen Qiao literally falls from the cliff top - and the pan up makes it very clear that for most people, this is a lethal fall.

And then the surviving ambushers attempt to finish the job when Yu Shengyan checks whether Shen Qiao is still alive... and Yan Wushi takes the training opportunity when he sees it, and tells his disciple to use his strongest techniques to take on the remaining assassins. And then, when Yu Shengyan can't quite wipe the floor with them... criticizes his lack of growth, as might be expected of Yan Wushi, and steps in to really wipe the floor with the assassins, as might not be expected of Yan Wushi. Also doubles as a really nice display to the audience of his level of strength. In fact.. listening to the voice, I think one of those assassins appears, unhidden, in later episodes. Heh. Plot continuity, a nice one. As are the assassins having common sense, recognising Yan Wushi's infamous technique, and running before they're cut down.

Ahahahaha yes Yu Shengyan, your shizun really had you pick that fight for training, and he's really about to pick up Shen Qiao and have him rescued on a whim. Also nice to review, on rewatch for the details, that part of this whim is perhaps curiousity as to Shen Qiao's ability to survive and/or recover, as hinted by the thin thread of strength provided by the Zhuyang Ce, that Yan Wushi identifies as the thin strength keeping him alive, despite the aforementioned lethal fall.

Heh. Yu Shengyan – and maybe Huanyue Sect's other job – information gatherers aka spies.

Ah, Yan Wushi, you really are fascinated by people's reactions under stress, aren't you.

Shen Qiao awakens! Oof, the amount of damage – can't see, amnesia – damaged or even broken meridians – the donghua doesn't mention how much time passes, but given that Yu Shengyan mentions that Shen Qiao's broken bones have only just finished healing – could not have been a matter of days. Weeks, maybe even a month, minimum. Unless Yu Shengyan meant that the bones have only just been set – which could mean a few days. And then the mindscrew from Yan Wushi, telling poor amnesiac Shen Qiao that, yes, your name is Shen Qiao, oh, and you are one of my disciples from Huanyue Sect! Someone sure is hasty to put his poke the injured person plans into action! Ah Yan Wushi, if you could please give Shen Qiao a break, he just had a near death experience! But also – the scope of the injuries – yes, it benefits Yan Wushi's plotting but also – Shen Qiao was injured beyond the scope of ordinary medicine? Yu Shengyan has to be stationed to basically care for him until he is able to awaken – and presumably recover – appropriately!

Alright, time marker, 3 months after previous events.. okay. Shen Qiao can walk, some, though the animators were careful to make it a clearly pained walk, in comparison to how he was moving pre-Kunye fight. And then of course the blindness, which may also explain how they've animated him moving with more cautious steps. And the coughing, and the eyes that can't focus – all in all, a detailed and careful show of how badly injured Shen Qiao still is. Can't help sniggering at every 'shidi' I'm hearing him say though. And Yu Shengyan... yes, really, even though you and your shizun can't quite believe it, there really is a person this kind and considerate of other people.

The appearance of the weiqi board motif! Strategy, and planning, and part of the arts of the refined gentlemen..and the hint of how Shen Qiao is perceiving/visualising the input that he hears, since he can't see right now. And the hint that he might be using qi to help sort through what he hears – well enough that he can identify it's a weiqi board, and even the piece being placed. Very Awesome. Especially when they show Yan Wushi possibly testing Shen Qiao's capability to perceive the world around him by hesitating and purposely not putting down his piece.. and Shen Qiao very naturally picking up the piece – black, the correct colour and the one Yan Wushi was about to play – and putting it in the correct position on the board that Yan Wushi was about to place. Is it any wonder that the next thing Yan Wushi checks is the state of his recovery?

And then we have Yan Wushi's characteristic multipronged planning – creating trouble for Hehuan sect, training for Yu Shengyan, testing opportunity for Shen Qiao. Very excellent, any and every outcome has benefit to Yan Wushi.

Ah the encounter at the medicine shop. Hm. Okay, the sharing of the medicine is clearly a hint to Yan Ziwen of some kind that he and his should be especially cautious tonight, perhaps even to run for their lives tonight. Though it's maybe a hint in the actions, and not the words, because the words don't sound suspicious at all. Neither do the actions, if you were watching as a observer and didn't know Yan Ziwen's paranoid character – a blind person would unsurprisingly wish to be extra careful where they put their hands. And at night, on the attack... for all that Shen Qiao can't quite see, and is currently relying on the rest of his senses... he can tell that something's off about Yu Shengyan's actions. And then... Shen Qiao remembers... the sword, and what Qi Fengge taught him. And then the confrontation, and the near strangulation by Yan Wushi... Shen Qiao has such a nice literary register to his speech. Four word phrases even under severe near strangled stress, with the right philosophical meaning to make his point to Yan Wushi. And then the reveal of Yan Wushi's plotting. Very nicely done.

And now, the first of Yan Wushi's many many invitations to Shen Qiao to forsake his daoist path and join Yan Wushi's ... evil sect is not the right word. Demonic path is technically correct but has moral overtones that don't fit. Join Yan Wushi's cultivation path, maybe. Join and get bloody revenge on everyone who's wronged Shen Qiao – and already there are so many of them. And we the audience wonder for half a second – is he going to do it? Is this going to be a revenge story? And Shen Qiao flat out refuses in words, in the first of many times. And then Shen Qiao walks away from Yan Wushi. Here the animation is a delight again – the audience gets to see the little micro expressions that flit across – he's actually walking away?! And then Yan Wushi does his dramatic gifting of the bamboo stick. And too, a few seconds later, the reveal of their movements being spied on by Duan Wenyang, and Yu Shengyan's orders to continue searching for .. something. Ah, the plotting in Thousand Autumns. Always a delight.

#山河剑心 #thousand autumns

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